#purple sox beats

[inthedayswhenlandswerefew]

1968 [Chapter 5: Artemis, Goddess Of The Hunt]

Series Summary: Aemond is embroiled in a fierce battle to secure the Democratic Party nomination and defeat his archnemesis, Richard Nixon, in the presidential election. You are his wife of two years and wholeheartedly indoctrinated into the Targaryen political dynasty. But you have an archnemesis of your own: Aemond’s chronically delinquent brother Aegon.

Series Warnings: Language, sexual content (18+ readers only), violence, bodily injury, character deaths, New Jersey, age-gap relationships, drinking, smoking, drugs, pregnancy and childbirth, kids with weird Greek names, historical topics including war and discrimination, math.

Word Count: 6.6k

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“So you smoked grass in college,” Aegon says, pondering you with glazed eyes as he slurps his cherry-flavored Mr. Misty. You’re in Biloxi, Mississippi where Aemond is making speeches and meeting with locals to commemorate the first summer of the beaches being desegregated after a decade of peaceful protests and violent white supremacist backlash. Route 90 runs right along the sand dunes. If you walked out of this Dairy Queen, you could look south and see the Gulf of Mexico, placid dark ripples gleaming with moonshine. “And swore, and had a boyfriend, and presumably, what, did shots? Skipped class on occasion?”

“Yeah,” you admit, smiling sheepishly, remembering. You stretch out your fingers. “I chewed gum, I talked during mass. And I loved black nail polish. The nuns would beat my knuckles with rulers, I always had bruises. I wore these flowing skirts down to my ankles and knee-high boots. My hair was a mess, long and blowing around everywhere. My friends and I would do each other’s makeup, silver glitter and purple shadow, pencil on a ridiculous amount of eyeliner and then smudge it out. If you saw a photo you wouldn’t recognize me.”

Aegon takes a drag on his Lucky Strike cigarette, weightless smoke and the tired yellowish haze of florescent lights. Buffalo Springfield’s For What It’s Worth is playing from the Zenith radio on the counter by the cash register. “I’d recognize you.”

“I used to skip this one class all the time. The professor was a demon. I could do the math, but not the way he wanted me to. Right solution, wrong steps, I don’t know. I learned it differently in high school, and I couldn’t figure out the formula he wanted me to use. So he’d mark everything a zero even if my answer was correct. I couldn’t stand that bastard. Then the nuns kept catching me sunbathing on the quad when I was supposed to be in Matrices and Vector Spaces. I racked up so many demerits they were going to revoke my weekend pass, and then I wouldn’t be able to go into the city with my friends. So I stole the demerit book and burned it up on the stove in my dorm. Almost set the whole building on fire.”

Aegon is laughing. “You did not. Not you, not perfect ever-obedient Miss America!”

“I did. I really did.” You sip your own Mr. Misty, lemon-lime. Across the restaurant, Criston and Fosco are eating banana splits—dripping chocolate syrup and melted ice cream all over their table—and passionately debating who is going to end up in the World Series; Criston favors the Cardinals and the Orioles, Fosco says the Red Sox and the Cubs. The rest of the Targaryen family is back at the hotel watching news coverage of the Republican National Convention, something you can only stomach so much of, Otto’s cynical commentary, Aemond’s remaining eye fixed fiercely on the screen as he nips at an Old Fashioned. “I was wild back then.”

“And you gave it all up to be Aemond’s first lady.”

You think back to where it started: palm trees, salt water, alligators in drainage ditches. “My father grew up in a shack outside of Tallahassee. No electricity, no running water, he dropped out of school in eighth grade to help take care of his siblings when his mom died. They moved south to live with their aunt in Tampa, and my father wound up in Tarpon Springs working as a sea sponge diver.”

Aegon’s eyebrows rise, like he thinks you’re teasing him. “Sea sponges…?”

“I’m serious! It paid better than picking oranges or sweeping up in a factory. It’s dangerous. You have to wear this heavy rubber suit and walk around on the ocean floor, sometimes 50 feet or more below the surface.”

“What do people do with sea sponges?”

“Oh right, you would be unfamiliar. You’re supposed to clean yourself with them, like a loofah. Soap? Water? Ringing any bells?”

He chuckles and rolls his eyes. “You’re a very mean person. Aren’t you supposed to be setting an example for the merciful wives and daughters of this great nation?”

“Painters and potters buy sponges too. And some women use them as contraceptives. You can soak them in lemon juice and then shove them up there and it kills sperm.”

“I suddenly have great appreciation for the sea sponge industry. God bless the sea sponges.”

“So my father spent a few years diving, and he fell in love with a girl who worked at one of the shops he sold sponges to. That was my mother. They got married when he had absolutely nothing, and by their fifth anniversary he had his own fleet of boats, a gift shop, and a processing and shipping facility, all of which they owned jointly. They just opened the Spongeorama Sponge Factory this past April, a cute little tourist trap. But my point is that they were partners from the start. My father listens to my mother, and she works alongside him, and it was never like what I’ve seen from my friends’ parents: dad at the office 80 hours a week, mom at home strung out on Valium, just these…deeply separate, cold planets locked in orbit but never touching each other. I knew I didn’t want that. I wanted a husband who was building something I could be a part of. I wanted a man who respected me.”

Aegon watches you as he lights a fresh cigarette, not saying what you imagine he wants to: And how is that working out? He puffs on his Lucky Strike a few times and then offers it to you. You aren’t supposed to smoke, not even tobacco—it’s not ladylike, it’s masculine, it’s subversive—but you take it and hold it between your index and middle fingers, inhaling an ashy bitterness that blood learns to crave. The bracelets on your wrist jangle, thin silver chains that match the diamonds in your ears. Your dress is mint green, your hair in your signature Brigitte Bardot-inspired updo. Aegon is wearing a black t-shirt with The Who stamped across the front. When you pass the cigarette back to him, Aegon asks: “What music did you listen to? The Stones, The Animals?”

“Yeah. And Hendrix, The Kinks, Aretha Franklin…”

“Phil Ochs?”

“I love him. He’s got a song about Mississippi, you know.”

“Oh, I’m aware. It’s one of my favorites.”

“And I’m currently getting a little obsessed with Loretta Lynn. She’s so angry!”

“She’s sanctimonious, that’s what she is. Always bitching about men.”

“Six kids and an alcoholic husband will do that to someone.”

Aegon winces, and then you realize what you’ve said. Loretta Lynn sounds a lot like Mimi. He finishes his Mr. Misty and then fidgets restlessly with his white cardboard cup, spinning it around by the straw. You feel bad, though you shouldn’t. You wouldn’t have a month ago.

“Aegon,” you say gently, and he reluctantly looks up at you, sunburned cheeks, blonde hair shagging over his eyes. “Why do you ignore your children? They’re interesting, they’re fun. Violeta invited me to help her make cakes with her Easy-Bake Oven last week. And Cosmo…he’s so clever. But it’s like he doesn’t know who you are. He might actually think Fosco’s his dad.”

Aegon takes one last drag off his cigarette and discards the end of it in his Mr. Misty cup. Now he’s fiddling with it again, avoiding your gaze. “I don’t have much to offer them.”

“I think you do.”

“No you don’t.”

“I do,” you insist. “You can be kind of nice sometimes.”

He frowns, staring out the window. You know he can’t see anything but darkness and streetlights. “I should have been the one to go to Vietnam. If somebody had to get shot at so Aemond could be president, I was the right choice. No one would miss me. No one would mourn me. Daeron didn’t deserve that. But I was too old, so Otto and my father got him to enlist. Now he’s in the jungle and my mother has nightmares about Western Union telegrams. If I was the son over there, I think she’d sleep easier.”

I’m glad you’re still here, you think. Instead you say: “Your children need you.”

“No they don’t. Between me and Mimi, they’re better off as orphans. Helaena and Fosco can be their parents. Maybe they’ll have a fighting chance.”

The glass door opens, and a man walks into the Dairy Queen with his two sons scampering behind him, all with sandy flip flops and carrying fishing rods. The dad is at least six feet tall and brawny, and wearing a Wallace For President baseball cap. You and Aegon both notice it, then share an amused, disparaging glance. You mouth: Imbecile bigot. The man continues to the cash register and orders two chocolate shakes and a root beer float. At their own table, Criston is mopping up melted ice cream with napkins and telling Fosco to stop being such a pig.

“Me?!” Fosco says. “You are the pig, that spot there is your ice cream, do not blame your failings on poor Fosco. I have already let you drag me to this terrible state and never once complained about the fried food or the mosquitos. And that thing out there is not a real beach. The water is still and brown, brown!”

“For once in your life, pretend you have a work ethic and help me clean up the table.”

“You are being very anti-immigrant right now, do you know that?”

Aegon begins singing, ostensibly to himself. “Here’s to the state of Mississippi, for underneath her borders, the devil draws no lines.”

“Aegon, no,” you whisper, petrified. You know this song. You know where he’s going.

He’s beaming as he continues: “If you drag her muddy rivers, nameless bodies you will find.”

Now the man in the Wallace hat is looking at Aegon. His sons are happily gulping down their chocolate shakes. Criston and Fosco, still bickering, haven’t noticed yet.

“Oh, the fat trees of the forest have hid a thousand crimes.”

“Aegon, don’t,” you plead quietly. “He’ll murder you.”

“The calendar is lyin’ when it reads the present time.”

“Hey,” calls the man in the Wallace For President hat. “You got a problem, boy?”

Aegon drums his palms on the tabletop as he sings, loudly now: “Oh, here’s to the land you’ve torn out the heart of, Mississippi find yourself another country to be part of!”

In seconds, the man has crossed the room, grabbed Aegon by the collar of his t-shirt, yanked him out of his chair and struck him across the face: closed fist, lethal intent, the sick wet sound of bones on flesh. Aegon’s nose gushes, his lip splits open, but he isn’t flinching away, he isn’t afraid. He’s yowling like a rabid animal and clawing, kicking, swinging at the giant who’s ensnared him. You are screaming as you leap to your feet, your chair falling over and clattering on the floor behind you. The man’s sons are hooting joyously. “Git him, Paw!” one of them shouts.

“Criston?!” you shriek, but he and Fosco are already here, tugging at the man’s massive arms and beating on his back, trying to untangle him from Aegon.

“Stop!” Criston roars. “You don’t want to hurt him! He’s a Targaryen!”

“A Targaryen, huh?” the man says as he steps away, wiping the blood from his knuckles on his tattered white t-shirt, stained with fish guts. “All the better. I wish that bullet they put in Aemond woulda been just another inch to the left. Directly through the aorta.”

Aegon lunges at the man again, hissing, fists swinging. Fosco yanks him back.

“Are you gonna call someone or not?!” Criston snaps at the girl behind the cash register, but she only gives him a steely glare in return. This is Wallace country. There’s a reason why it took four years after the Civil Rights Act of 1964 to finally desegregate the beaches.

“We should go,” you tell Criston softly.

“Yes, we will leave now,” Fosco says, hauling Aegon towards the front door. Then, to the cashier: “Thank you for the ice cream, but it was not very good. If you are ever in Italy, try the gelato. You will learn so much.”

“I can’t wait ‘til November,” the man gloats, ominous, threatening. His sons are standing tall and proud beside him. “When Aemond loses, you can all cart your asses back to Europe. We don’t want you here. America ain’t for people like you.”

“It literally is,” you say, unable to stop yourself. “It’s on the Statue of Liberty.”

“Yeah, where do you think your ancestors came from?!” Aegon yells at the man. “Are you a Seminole, pal? I didn’t think so—!” Fosco and Criston lug him through the doorway before more punches can be thrown.

Outside—under stars and streetlights and a full moon—Aegon burst out laughing. This is when he feels alive; this is when the blood in his veins turns to wave and riptides. You didn’t think to grab napkins from the table, so you wipe the blood off his face with your bare hand, assessing the damage. He’ll be fine; swollen and sore, but fine.

“You’re insane, you know that?” you say. “You could have been killed.”

Aegon pats your cheek twice and grins, blood on his teeth. “The world would keep spinning, little Io.” Then he starts walking back towards the White House Hotel.

~~~~~~~~~~

When the four of you arrive at your suite, Aemond, Otto, Ludwika, and Alicent are still gathered around the television. The nannies have taken the children to bed. Helaena is reading The Bell Jar in an armchair in the corner of the room. Mimi is passed out on the couch, several empty glasses on the coffee table. ABC is showing a clip they recorded earlier today of Ludwika travelling with Aemond’s retinue after he made an impassioned speech condemning the lack of recognition of the evils of slavery at Beauvoir, the historic home of former Confederate president Jefferson Davis. The reporter is asking Ludwika what she thinks makes Aemond a better presidential candidate than Eugene McCarthy, as McCarthy shares many of the same policy positions and has an additional 15 years of political experience.

“This McCarthy is not a real man,” Ludwika responds, her face stony and mistrustful. “He reminds me of the communists back in my country. Did you know he met with Che Guevara in New York City a few years ago? Why would he do such a thing?”

Now, Otto turns to her in this hotel room. “I love you.”

Ludwika takes a sip of her martini. “I want another Gucci bag.”

“Yes, yes. Tomorrow, my dear.”

“What happened to you?” Aemond asks his brother, half-exasperated and half-concerned. Criston has fetched a washcloth from the bathroom for Aegon to hold against his bleeding lip and nose. Aemond is still wearing his blue suit from a long day of campaigning, but he’s taken out his eye and put on his eyepatch. His gaze flicks from Aegon’s face to the blood still coating your left hand. On the couch, Mimi’s bare foot twitches but she doesn’t wake up.

“There was a Wallace supporter at the Dairy Queen,” you say. “Aegon felt inspired to defend you.”

Aemond chuckles. “Did you win?” he asks Aegon.

“I would have if the guy wasn’t two of me.”

On the television screen, Richard Nixon is accepting his party’s nomination for president at the Republican National Convention in Miami, Florida.

“He’s a buffoon,” Otto sneers. “So awkward and undignified. Look at him sweating! Look at those ridiculous jowls! And he comes from nothing. His family is trash.”

“Americans love a rags to riches story,” you say. And then, somewhat randomly: “He loves his wife. He proposed to Pat on their very first date, and she said no. So he drove her to dates with other men for years until she finally reconsidered. He said it was love at first sight. He’s never had a mistress. And jowls or no jowls, his family adores him.”

Aegon turns to you, still clutching the washcloth against his face. “Really?”

You nod. “That’s the sort of thing the women talk about.”

There’s a knock at the door. You all look at each other, confounded; no one has ordered room service, no one is expecting any visitors, and the nannies have keys in the event of an emergency. Fosco is closest to the door, so he opens it. A man in uniform is standing there with a golden Western Union telegram in his hands. Alicent screams and collapses. Criston bolts to her.

“It’s okay,” you say. “He’s not dead. Whatever happened, Daeron’s not dead.”

Otto crinkles his brow at you. “How do you know?”

“Because if he was killed, there would be a priest here too.” They always send a priest when the boy is dead. Aegon glances at you, eyes wet and fearful.

“Ma’am,” the soldier—a major you see now, spotting the golden oak leaves—says to Alicent as he removes his cap. “I regret to inform you that your son Daeron was missing in action for several weeks, and we’ve just received confirmation that he’s being held as a prisoner of war in Hỏa Lò Prison.”

“He’s in the Hanoi Hilton?!” Otto exclaims. “Oh, fuck those people and their swamp, how did Kennedy ever think we had something to gain from getting tangled up in that mess?”

“But he’s alive?” Aemond says. “He’s unharmed?”

“Yes sir,” the captain replies. “It is our understanding that he is in good condition. The North Vietnamese are aware that he is a very valuable prisoner, like Admiral McCain’s son John. He’ll be used in negotiations. He is of far more use to them alive than dead.”

“So we can get Daeron back,” Aegon says. “I mean, we have to be able to, right? Aemond’s running for president, he’ll probably win in November, we have millions of dollars, we can spring one man out of some third-world jail, right?”

The captain continues: “Tomorrow when your family returns to New Jersey, the Joint Chiefs of Staff will be there to discuss next steps with you. I’m afraid I’m only authorized to give you the news as it was relayed to me.” He entrusts the telegram to Otto, who rapidly opens it and stares down at the mechanical typewriter words.

“I have to pray,” Alicent says suddenly. “Helaena, will you pray with me? There’s a Greek church down the road. Holy Trinity, I think it’s called.”

Obediently, Helaena joins her mother and follows her to the doorway. Criston leaves with them. Otto gives his new wife a harsh, meaningful stare. Ludwika, an ardent yet covert atheist, sighs irritably. “Wait. I want to pray too,” she says, and vanishes with them into the hall.

As the captain departs, Mimi sits up on the couch, blinking, groggy. “What? What happened?”

“Go with Alicent,” Otto tells her. “She’s headed downstairs.”

“What? Why…?”

“Just go!” he barks.

Mimi staggers to her feet and hobbles out of the hotel room, her sundress—patterned with forget-me-nots—billowing around her. The only people left are Otto, Aemond, Fosco, Aegon, and you. The fact that you are the sole woman permitted to remain here feels intentional.

After a moment, Otto speaks. “You know, John McCain has famously refused to be released from the Hanoi Hilton until all the men imprisoned before him have been freed. He doesn’t want special treatment. And that’s a very noble thing to do, don’t you think? It has endeared him and the McCains to the public.”

Aemond and Otto are looking at each other, communicating in a silent language not of letters or accents but colors: red ambition, green hunger, grey impassionate morality. Fosco is observing them uneasily. Aemond says at last: “Daeron wants to help this family.”

“You’re not going to try to get him out.” Aegon realizes.

Aemond turns to him, businesslike, vague distant sympathy. “It’s only until November.”

“No, you know people!” Aegon explodes. “You pick up the phone, you call in every favor, you get him out of there now! You have no idea if he has another three months, you don’t know what kind of shape he’s in! They could be dislocating his arms or chopping off his fingers right now, they could be starving him, they could be beating him, you can’t just leave him there!”

“It’s not your decision. It could have been, had you accepted your role as the eldest son. But you didn’t. So it’s my job to handle these things. You don’t get to hate me for making choices you were too cowardly too take responsibility for.”

“But Daeron could die,” Aegon says, his voice going brittle.

“Any of us could die. We’re in a very dangerous line of work. Greatness killed Lincoln, Garfield, McKinley, Huey Long, Medgar Evers, John F. Kennedy, Malcolm X, Vernon Dahmer, Martin Luther King Jr., does that mean we should all give up the fight? Of course not. The work isn’t finished. We have to keep going.”

“Will you stop pretending this is about America?! This is about you wanting to be president, and everything you’ve ever done has been in pursuit of that trophy, and you keep shoving new people into the line of fire and it’s not right!”

“Aegon,” Otto says calmly. “It’s unlikely we’d be able to get him out before the election anyway. Negotiations take time. But if Aemond wins in November, he’ll be in a very advantageous position. The North Vietnamese aren’t stupid. They wouldn’t kill the brother of a U.S. president. They don’t want their vile little corner of the world flattened by nukes.”

“Still, it feels so wrong to leave a brother in peril,” Fosco says. “It is unnatural. Of course Aegon will be upset. We could at least see what a deal to get Daeron released would entail, maybe his arrival home would be a good headline—”

“And who the fuck asked you?” Otto demands, and Fosco goes quiet.

“Okay, then tell Mom,” Aegon says to Aemond. “Tell her you’re going to pretend Daeron made some self-sacrificial vow not to come home until all the other POWs can too. Tell her you’re going to let him get tortured for a few months before you take this seriously.”

Aemond replies cooly: “Why would you want to upset her? She can’t change it. You’ll only make her suffering worse.”

“What do you think?” Otto asks you, and you know that he isn’t seeking counsel. He’s summoning you like a dog to perform a trick, like an actor to recite a line. He’s waiting for you to say that it’s a smart strategy, because it is. He’s waiting for you to bend to Aemond���s will as your station requires you to, as moons are bound to their planets.

“I think it’s wrong,” you murmur; and Aemond is thunderstruck by your treason.

Without another word, you walk into the bathroom, turn on the sink, and gaze down at Aegon’s blood on your palm. For some reason, it’s very difficult to bring yourself to wash it away.

~~~~~~~~~~

It’s mid-August now, the world painted in goldenrod yellow and sky blue. The Democratic National Convention is in two weeks. You and Aemond are posing on the beach at Asteria, surrounded by an adoring gaggle of journalists who are snapping photographs and jotting down quotes on their notepads. You’re sitting demurely on a sand dune, you’re building sandcastles with the children you borrowed from Aegon and Helaena, you’re flying kites, you’re gazing confidently into the sunlit horizon where a glorious new age is surely dawning.

“Mr. Targaryen, what is it that makes your partnership so successful?” a journalist asks as flashbulbs pulse like lightning. “What do you think is the most crucial characteristic to have in a wife?”

Aemond doesn’t need to consider this before he answers. He always has his compliment picked out. “Loyalty,” your husband says. “Not just to me or to the Targaryen family, but to our shared cause. This year has been indescribably difficult for me and my wife. I announced my candidacy, we embarked on a strenuous national campaign that we’re currently only halfway through, I barely survived a brutal assassination attempt in May, in July we lost our first child to hyaline membrane disease after he was born six weeks prematurely, and at the beginning of this month we learned that my youngest brother Daeron was taken by the North Vietnamese as a prisoner of war. To find the strength not just to get out of bed in the morning, not just to be there for me and this family in our personal lives, but to tirelessly traverse the country with me inspiring Americans to believe in a better future…it’s absolutely remarkable. I’m in awe of her. And when she is the first lady of the United States, she will continue to amaze us all with her unwavering faith and dedication.”

There are whistles and cheers and strobing flashbulbs. You smile—elegant, soft, practiced—as Aemond rests a hand firmly on your waist. You lean into him, feeling out-of-place, bewildered that you’ve ever slept with him, full of dull panic that soon you’ll have to again.

“How about you, Mrs. Targaryen?” another reporter asks. “Same question, essentially. What is the trait that you most admire in your husband?”

And in the cascading clicks of photographs being captured, your mind goes entirely blank. You can think of so many other people—Aegon, Ari, Alicent, Daeron, Fosco, Cosmo—but not Aemond. It’s like you’ve blocked him out somehow, like he’s a sketch you erased. But you can’t hesitate. You can’t let the uncertainty read on your face. You begin speaking without knowing where you’re going, something that is rare for you. “Aemond is the most tenacious person I’ve ever met. When he has a goal in mind, nothing can stop him.” You pause, and there are a few awkward chuckles from the journalists. You swiftly recover. “He never stops learning. He always knows the right thing to do or say. And what he wants more than anything is to serve the American people. Aemond won’t disappoint you. He’s not capable of it. He will do whatever it takes to make this country more prosperous, more peaceful, and more free.”

There are applause and gracious thank yous, but Aemond gives you a look—just for a second, just long enough that you can catch it—that warns you to get it together. Fifteen minutes later, he and the flock of reporters are headed to one of the guest houses to conduct a long-form interview. This will be the bulk of the article; you will appear in one or two photos, you will supply a few quotes. The rest of the story is Aemond. You are an accessory, like a belt or a bracelet. He’s the person who picks you out of a drawer each morning and wears you until you go out of fashion.

Released from your obligations, you return to the main house and disappear into your upstairs bathroom. You are there for fifteen minutes and emerge rattled, routed. You pace aimlessly around your bedroom for a while, then try again; still no luck. You go back outside and stare blankly at the ocean, wondering what you’re going to do. Down on the beach, Fosco is teaching the kids how to yo-yo. Ludwika is sunbathing in a bikini.

“What’s wrong with you?”

You whirl to see Aegon, popping a Valium into his mouth and washing it down with a splash of straight rum from a coffee mug. “Huh? Nothing. I’m great.”

“No, something’s wrong. You look lost. You look like me.”

You gaze out over the ocean again, chewing your lower lip.

Aegon snickers, fascinated, sensing a scandal. “What did you do?”

Your eyes drift to him. “You can’t make fun of me.”

“Okay. I won’t.”

There is a long, heavy lull before you answer. When you speak, it’s all in a rush, like you can’t unburden yourself of the words fast enough. “I put a tampon in and I can’t get it out.”

Aegon immediately breaks his promise and cackles. “You did what?!” Then he tries to be serious. “Wait. Sorry. Uh, really?”

You’re on the verge of tears. “I’ve been bleeding since I had the baby, and I hate using tampons, I almost never do, but Aemond wanted me to wear this dress for the photoshoot and it’s super gauzy and from certain angles I felt like I could see the pad bulge when I checked in the mirror, so I put a tampon in for the first time in probably a year. I’m not even supposed to be using them for another few weeks because my uterus isn’t healed all the way or whatever. And now I can’t get it out and it’s been in there for like six hours and I’m scared I’m going to get an infection and die in the most pointless, humiliating way imaginable.”

“Okay, calm down, calm down,” Aegon says. “There’s no string?”

“No, I’ve checked multiple times. It must be a defective one and they forgot to put a string in it at the factory and I didn’t notice, or the string somehow got tucked under it, I don’t know, but I can’t get it out, it’s like…the angle isn’t right. I can just barely feel it with my fingertips, but I can’t grab it. I’m going to have to go to the hospital to get it taken out, but I’m scared word will spread and journalists will show up to get photos when I leave and then everyone will be asking me why I was at the emergency room to begin with and I’m going to have to make up something and…and…” You can’t talk anymore. There are other reasons why you don’t want to go to the hospital. You haven’t stepped foot in one since Ari died; the thought makes you feel like you are looking down to see blood on your thighs all over again, like you’ll never have enough air in your lungs.

“Did you bleed through it? Because that should help it slide out easier.”

“I don’t know,” you moan miserably. “I mean, I guess I did, because there was blood when I checked a few minutes ago. I had to stuff my underwear with toilet paper.”

“Why didn’t you just tell Aemond you couldn’t wear this dress?”

You give him an impatient glance. “I’m tired of having the same conversation.” When do you think you’ll be done bleeding? When do you think it’ll be time to start trying again?

Aegon sighs. “Do you want me to get it out for you?”

“Please stop. I’m really panicking here.”

“I’m not joking.”

You stare at him. “You can’t be serious.”

“I have fished many objects out of many orifices, you cannot shock me. I am unshockable.”

“I’d rather walk down to the sand right now and strangle myself with Fosco’s yo-yo.”

“Okay. So who are you gonna ask to drive you to the hospital?”

You hesitate.

“I’d offer to do it,” Aegon says, grinning, holding up his mug. “But I’m in no condition to drive.”

“But you are in the proper condition to extract a rogue tampon, huh?”

“Two minutes tops. That’s a guarantee. My personal best is fifteen seconds. And that was for a lost condom, much trickier to locate than a tampon.”

Perhaps paradoxically, the more you consider his offer, the more tempting it seems. No complicated trip and cover story? Over in just a few minutes? “If you ever tell anyone about this, I will never forgive you. I will hate you forever.”

Aegon taunts: “I thought you already hated me.”

You aren’t sure what you feel for him, but it’s certainly not hate. Not anymore. “Where would we do it?”

“In my office. And by that I mean my basement.”

“Your filthy, disease-ridden basement? On your shag carpet full of crabs?”

“You’re in luck,” he jokes. “My crab exterminator service just came by yesterday.”

You exhale in a low, despairing groan.

“Hey, would you rather do it on the dining room table? I’m game. Your choice.”

You watch the seagulls swooping in the afternoon air, the banners of sailboats on the glittering water. “Okay. The basement.”

You walk with Aegon to the house and—after ensuring that no one is around to notice—sneak with him down the creaking basement steps, the door locked behind you. Aegon is darting around; he sets a small trashcan by the carpet and tosses you two towels, then goes to wash his hands in his tiny bathroom, not nearly enough room for someone to stretch out across the linoleum floor.

You’re surveying the scene nervously. “I don’t want to get blood all over your stuff.”

“You’re the cleanest thing that’s ever been on that carpet. Lie down.”

You place one towel on the green shag carpet, then whisk off your panties, discard the bloody knot of toilet paper in the trashcan, and pull the skirt of your dress up around your waist so it’s out of the way. Then you sit down and drape the second towel over your thighs so you’re hidden from him, like you’re about to be examined by a doctor. Your heart is thumping, but you don’t exactly feel like you want to stop. It’s more exhilarating than fear, you think; it is forbidden, it is shameful, it is a microscopic betrayal of Aemond that he’ll never know about.

Aegon moseys out of the bathroom, flicking drops of water from his hands. He wears one of his usual counterculture uniforms: a frayed green army jacket with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows, khaki shorts, tan moccasins. He kicks them off before he kneels on the shag carpet. He checks the clock on the wall. “2:07. I promised two minutes max. Let’s see how I do. Ready?”

You rest the back of your head on your linked hands, raise your knees, take a deep and unsteady breath. “Ready.”

But he can see that you’re shaking. “Hey,” Aegon says kindly, pressing his hand down on the towel so you’re covered. “Do you want me to go to the hospital with you? I’ll try to distract people. I’ll pretend I’m having a seizure or something.”

“No, I’m okay,” you insist. “I just want it out. I want this over with.”

“Got it.” And then he begins. He stares at the wall to his left, not looking at you, navigating by feel. You feel the pressure of two fingers, a stretching that is not entirely unpleasant. He’s warm and careful, strangely unobtrusive. Still, you suck in a breath and shift on the carpet. “Shh, shh, shh,” Aegon whispers, skimming his other hand up and down the inside of your thigh, and shiver like you’ve never felt before rolls backwards up the length of your spine. “Relax. You alright?”

“Fine. Totally fine.”

“Oh yeah, it’s definitely in there,” Aegon says. His brow is creased with comprehension. “No string…you’re right, it must either be tangled up somehow or it never had one to begin with. Maybe you accidentally inserted it upside down.”

“Now you insult my intelligence. As if I’m not embarrassed enough.”

“I should have put on a record to set the mood. What gets you going, Marvin Gaye? Elvis?”

“The seductive voice of Richard Milhous Nixon. Maybe you can get him on the phone.”

Aegon laughs hysterically. His fingertips push the tampon against your cervix and you yelp. “Sorry, sorry, my mistake,” Aegon says. There are beads of sweat on his forehead, on his temples; now his eyes are squeezed shut. “I’m gonna try to wiggle it out…”

As he works, there are sensations you can’t quite explain: a very slow-building indistinct desire, a loosening, a readying, a drop in your belly when you think about the fact that he’s the one touching you. Then he happens to press in just the right spot and there is a sudden pang of real pleasure—craving, aching, a deep red flare of previously unfathomable temptation—and you instinctively reach for him. You hand meets his forearm, and for the first time since he started Aegon looks at your face, alarmed, afraid that he’s hurt you again. But once your eyes meet you’re both trapped there, and you can’t pretend you’re not, his fingers still inside you, his pulse racing, a rivulet of sweat snaking down the side of his face, his eyes an opaque murky blue like water you’re desperate to claw your way into. You know what you want to tell him, but the words are impossible. Don’t stop. Come closer.

Aegon clears his throat, forces himself to look away, and at last dislodges the tampon. It appears dark and bloody in his grasp. “No string,” he confirms, holding it up and turning it so you can see. “Factory reject.”

“Just like you.”

He glances at the clock. “2:09. I delivered precisely what was promised.” He chucks the tampon into the trashcan and then grins as he helps pull you upright with his clean hand. “So do you like to cuddle afterwards, or…?”

You’re giggling, covering your flushed face. “Shut up.”

“Personally, I enjoy being ridden into the ground and then called a good boy.”

“Go away.” You nod to where he disposed of the tampon and say before stopping to think: “You’re not going to keep that under your ashtray too?”

Aegon freezes and blinks at you. He smiles slowly, cautiously. “No, I think that would be a little unorthodox, even for me.” He pitches you a clean washcloth from the bathroom closet. “That should get you upstairs.”

“Thanks.” You shove it between your legs and rise to your feet, smoothing the skirt of your dress. “I owe you something. I’m not sure what, but I’ll figure it out.”

“Hey,” Aegon says, and waits for you to turn to him. “Maybe I’m not that bad.”

“Maybe,” you agree thoughtfully.

Just before you hurry upstairs, you steal a glimpse of Aegon in the bathroom, the door kicked only half-closed. He has turned on the water, but he’s not using it yet. Aegon is staring down at the blood on his hand, half-dried scarlet impermanent ink.

~~~~~~~~~~

Hi, it’s me again. I’m in solitary confinement. There’s a guy in the cell next to mine; we talk to each other with a modified version of Morse code. Tap tap tap on the wall, he taps back, etcetera etcetera, you get the idea. You’re not going to believe this, but he says his name is John McCain. Well, actually, he told me his name is Jobm McCbin, but I think that’s because I translated the taps wrong. I might be in the Hanoi Hilton, but at least they have me in the VIP section! Hahaha.

Every few hours the guards show up to do a very impressive magic trick: they wave their batons like wands, I turn black and blue. Sometimes one of my teeth even disappears. Isn’t that something? Houdini would love it. There’s a rat that I’m making friends with. I give her nibbles of my stale bread, she gives me someone to talk to. She’s good company. I’ve named her Tessarion.

Allow me to make something absolutely fucking clear.

I would very much like to be rescued.

[of-many-aus]

Rainy Baseball Days

Summary: you and jake watch some baseball together

Warnings: none

A/N: idea given by @clancycucumber230- thank you so much!!

Take Me Out to the Ball Game Masterlist

･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ.

“You’re home early.” You didn’t even try to hide the surprise in your tone as you froze in the doorway of the kitchen.

Jake shrugged, glancing over his shoulder from where he sat on the couch, “Practice got rained out.”

You glanced down at the mug in your hand before turning on your heel and entering the kitchen area once more.

When you emerged a few moments later, you now had a mug in each hand.

“Here,” You murmured, gingerly sinking down onto the cushion beside him and offering one of the steaming cups.

His green eyes flickered down, widening the slightest bit at your outstretched arm, “Thanks,” He breathed out, gently taking the bright purple pottery piece that you made years ago with Nat, out of your hand.

You hummed, settling back into the couch and allowing your gaze to travel to the television, pleasantly surprised to see that the Red Sox vs Yankees game was already on.

“Oh, sorry,” Jake fumbled around to find the remote, “What do you want to watch-“

“This.” You interrupted him, eyes still glued to the screen, “I was actually on my way out to turn it on.”

The blond’s eyes lit up at your words, letting them linger on you for a moment as you stared intently at the screen, soaking up the game and completely oblivious to his stare. He bit back a smile as he too turned his attention back to the closeup of the Yankees batter winding up for the pitch.

“Come on,” You muttered, leaning forward in your seat, “Strike him out, let’s go.”

“You’re rooting for the Red Sox, Angel?” Jake's head whipped over to you in mock alarm.

A scoff left your lips. The man braced himself to be snapped at for using that ridiculous- your words, not his- nickname again.

“They’re not my main team, but they’re sure as hell better than the Yankees.”

He blinked once at you, watching as you stared intently at him, completely serious, before a grin grew on his face.

“That is definitely not true,” He argued playfully, “Yankees could beat that team any day.”

Despite yourself, the corner of your lips quirked up the slightest bit, “Like they are right now?” You motioned to the 3-1 score.

His face now held a dazzling grin, as if he was no longer able to hold it back, “It’s only the second inning, Angel, we’ve still got a ways to go.” He tried to hide his obvious delight- whether it was from being able to discuss baseball, or finally being able to talk to you, neither of you seemed to know- by raising the mug to his lips and taking a long sip, only to quickly pull it away with raised eyebrows, “Hot chocolate?” He asked.

You nodded in all seriousness, “It’s my favorite drink, and it’s cold and rainy out, so it’s perfect. Not to mention that it’s too late in the day to have coffee. You’ll never sleep.”

He hummed, taking a long sip of the chocolatey drink. Jake couldn’t even remember the last time he had this. Perhaps it was back when he was a kid and his mother would make it for him and his sisters on a cold winter night.

And then it began. The back and forth bickering that had no real venom behind it, long debates about all the different MLB teams and which one was really the best based on players and past plays.

It was by far the longest you had ever talked to Jake, and surprisingly, you didn’t hate it. Nat had never shown any interest in baseball, except for when she dragged you to Jake's game a week ago, and none of your other friends knew the first thing about it and didn’t care enough to learn or actually sit through a game with you. Talking about it with him was actually refreshing.

It wasn’t until the seventh inning that things finally quieted down between you two, hot chocolate long since finished and each team in the league thoroughly discussed, when you felt your eyelids begin to droop.

You tried to fight it- you really did- but you had a long day with your classes, and your efforts to stay awake rendered useless when you curled up farther into the seat cushion and your tired state won over.

It only took Jake a total of three minutes to look back over at you, mouth open and ready to fire a question about the play that just took place, only for it to snap shut at the sight of your relaxed- and very much asleep- form.

Your breathing had evened out and your head was lulled slightly to the side.

His smile softened as he looked at you and he moved to stand up, but you shifted in your sleep, rolling so that your face was pressed directly on his bicep.

Jake froze, breath hitching in his throat when you showed no sign of stirring from your slumber, and he allowed himself to relax.

He reached over and gently lay a throw blanket from nearby on top of you and turned his attention back to the game.

Taglist: @djs8891 @pono-pura-vida @shanimallina87 @melllinaa @callsignbirdy @fogle97 @randomfandomgirl97 @averyhotchner @blueoorchid @starswholistenanddreamsanswered @misconceptionmistress @ravenclawaddict5285 @j-brielmalfoy @waywardhunter95 @classyunknownlover @whoreforfictionalmen18

[sunjaesol]

#47 for the kiss prompts :)

47. A kiss paired with a tight hug, knocking the breath out of the person being hugged.

(all human, long distance au)

Luke's bravado would be the death of him. That his relationship was stronger than anything in the world, that thousand miles apart didn't change their dynamic, that their love was the exception, all stemmed from his unfailing confidence.

And it was true: he loved Julie to the moon and beyond and couldn't imagine a life without her, couldn't fathom a future that didn't include her. But fuck, it was hard. It was really, really hard.

Julie currently studied on the East Coast, at Berklee College of Music in Boston. Luke, meanwhile, stayed in L.A. to foster the band. Three thousand miles. Their busy schedules forced them to FaceTime at odd hours and texts often didn't go further than good morning and good night. Every day, he missed her and it ached his chest when he thought about her too long.

Despite all that, Luke was proud of her. Berklee had been her dream and she was living it out, fully and without guilt. She was training among the greatest singers in the country, finetuning her voice in pop, rock and jazz. Once in a while, she sent the boys a clip of her singing and playing piano, and it was out of this world. She had the voice of a freaking angel.

Maybe the hardest part of being together while apart, was watching her grow separately from him. Silly things, like getting a haircut or a new dress. Figuring out she liked a certain drink or dish. Exploring a different part of the city. Making a friend.

(And he knew what people at Berklee thought about their relationship. Julie told him. They thought it was crazy to stay with a high school sweetheart, or that he had to be cheating, or that she was missing out, that they were holding each other back. It almost led to a break-up a couple months back when insecurities rose and bubbled over the surface. Luke and Julie had to make an effort every single day to tune the noise out; to only focus on each other.)

The only time they saw each other was during breaks. Like now. It was the start of summer break and the couple would have a full two months together before she started her Senior Year at Berklee.

Luke paced along the arrival hall, periodically checking the time on his phone. Julie had landed about now. A small bouquet of wildflowers and dahlias laid ready in the backseat of his car, alongside a bunch of other gifts he bought for her in the last few months. Little trinkets that made him think of her.

Adrenaline surged in his body. He couldn't contain it, rocking back and forth on his heels and craning his neck as though she'd suddenly appear in the crowd.

It was silly, because they were twenty-one and twenty-two and barely adults, but Luke has lately been thinking about marrying her. Long distance did make the heart grow fonder. He loved her. And he's loved her since they were fifteen and sixteen years old. Something insane had to happen for their devotion to defer.

The doors of the arrival halls slid open and a stream of people poured out. Luke's heart skipped a beat. Holy shit. It was happening. He had no clue if these were the people from her flight, but they looked like Bostonians to him. The myriad of Red Sox hats were a clue.

(Julie had one, too. Betrayal to The Dodgers!)

Moments passed. No sight of Julie. More people popping out the doors and rushing to loved ones to hug them, or waving at taxi drivers with their names written on a card. Nerves rose up his spine. Had she missed her flight? Did he get the time wrong? Was she arriving tomorrow?

Just as disappointment sunk, a head of long, dark curls appeared around the corner. Brown skin, sunshiny eyes, a damned Red Sox hat, purple jogger set and chunky sneakers. Julie Molina through and through. His love.

"Jules!" he yelled.

Her scanning eyes found him and a brilliant smile exploded on her features. A sense of home wrapped around him before she even touched him, and it once again affirmed that no distance could ruin them.

Julie sprinted towards him and Luke spread his arms, a laugh bubbling out. The closer she got, the quicker tears began to well in his eyes. Nothing beat seeing a person in real life. Pixels didn't match up to the real thing.

Jumping into his arms, Julie knocked the breath out of him. A gust of air left him in surprise at the impact, but circled his arms around her in a snap. With her face burrowed in his neck, he heard her inhale and press a kiss on his neck.

Luke chuckled, watery, and kissed whatever skin his lips found. Home. She was home.

"I missed you so much," she whispered, pulling back to face him. Her hand caressed his cheek and kissed him on the mouth.

Luke sighed and tilted his face to deepen the kiss. Fuck, he missed this. Her legs slid down and set her feet on the floor. Their kiss didn't interrupt though, their fingers clinging, keeping each other close.

A blissful smile bloomed on his cheeks when they parted. "How was your flight?"

"Good. I was thinking about you."

"I was thinking about you, too."

Julie noted the moisture in his eyes and frowned, reaching up to wipe at the gentle skin. "You'd think we'd stop missing each other so much."

He grabbed her hand. "We won't miss each other for the entire summer."

"That's true," she replied, happy, and allowed him to lead her out of the airport, her luggage and bag in the other hand. "And after my senior year, we'll never have to miss each other again."

He raised a brow, trying not to appear like marriage bells were ringing in his head. "Never?"

Julie nodded and squeezed his hand. "Never."

send me a kiss prompt for juke

[bewitchingbaker]

☤?

The Luna's home. A bungalow styled home with light purple paint, somehow maintained through the years. A for sale rested in the yard despite, though there was a suspicious note reading 'NOT FOR SALE' in red marker.

The inside of the house was largely unfurnished, with the exception of one office. An orange swivel chair from the 70's rested in the middle of the office, next to the throwback was a small shelf of records. Naturally, a record player accompanied this shelf.

Mos Def's Black on Both Sides played on the record player, the chair moving along to the beat. Finally, the chair turned around revealing an older gentleman.

Kenneth Alonzo Luna. At first glance, he was an almost dead ringer for the baker. Though there were some small differences. His nose was a bit smaller and his deep brown eyes held that same charm that his son was known for. On top of his head was a navy blue SOX baseball cap, matching the Benny Goodman t-shirt he wore. The jeans were vintage and cuffed, giving everyone a perfect view of the clean and retro Jordan's on his feet.

"Hmm?" Mr. Luna looked up, a soft smile spreading across his face.

"I take it you're not here for the house 'cause none of those fools could see me." he laughed. His eyes looked Virote up and down, a hand on his chin.

"Hmmm, now stop me if I'm wrong but either you're friends with Jess...or Chris. My money's on Chris, though! Tell me if I'm wrong!"

[ @moonspower ]

[recentlyheardcom]

2024 MLB All Star Game: American League beat National League 5-3

ARLINGTON, Texas (AP) — Speedy Jarren Duran describes himself as a participant who retains his head down, works onerous and by no means thinks of himself as being higher than anyone else. Duran turned some heads in his first All-Star Recreation, hitting a tiebreaking two-run homer for the American League and being awarded the MVP trophy named after Boston Purple Sox legend Ted Williams. “That’s…

[gmuspmt430seb]

Scripted Superbowl Conspiracists

Everyone has seen the infamous image where a news channel put on the screen that the "Ravens vs 49ers" Superbowl will feature Reba, Post Malone, and Usher. It came out way before the semifinal games were played, leading people to think the NFL was rigged. The Superbowl logo also showed a purple and red background leaving people to believe it was rigged from the start of the season. However, after the semifinal games finished, it turned out that the Chiefs and the 49ers will be this year's Superbowl contenders. One may think this shut up the conspiracy theorists, but they simply said the "script" was only changed because the NFL caught on that people "found out" or the NFL wanted Taylor Swift to be there for the Chiefs. As we make our way out of the transition period of sports and into the modern era, fans have more access to information than ever. This may lead some to believe that they are "outsmarting" the leagues or teams when, in reality, they are building their own realities based off of the information they choose to listen to. It's hard to fault fans for believing that they are being tricked when we live in a capitalistic society that is always trying to wring money out of consumers in any way possible. Underhanded fees from phone companies, price gouging during Black Friday "deals" from the past decade, and the return of legalized sports betting may make Americans less and less comfortable with what is being sold to us. Even as far back as 1919 with the Black Sox scandal were games being rigged. No wonder people don't want to pay a record high of six thousand dollars for Superbowl tickets. Fans argue that if the NFL was truly rigged, teams with the biggest market would make it to the playoffs and Superbowl every year. We would see "America's team" the Cowboys make their way back up the ranks, the Lions would have beat the 49ers, and the Browns would find their way into a Superbowl. Is the NFL truly rigged, or are fans just upset their teams aren't doing as well and that Taylor Swift has made her way into male-dominated programming? Signs point to the latter.

[sanjosenewshq]

Gerrit Cole ties Ron Guidrys strike file for Yankees in 8-3 win over Blue Jays on historic evening The Mercury Information

TORONTO – On the evening that Aaron Choose equalized MLS and Yankee data, Gerrit Cole had a second of his personal. Whereas Choose largely overshadowed Roger Maris’ one-season house run of 61 strokes, Cole tied Ron Guidry’s one-season Yankee file of 248 within the fifth inning of Wednesday evening’s sport. “I believe it is extra particular due to what Aaron did tonight to be trustworthy,” Cole mentioned, referring to Choose’s massive evening. “He is actually, clearly a extremely particular quantity. Guidry was so good to us, so magical and he held his file for therefore lengthy. I do not suppose you’d ever dream of him, however solely to be talked about in the identical classes. Yankees legends, it is arduous for me to wrap up. my head at this level.” Nonetheless, the Yankees wanted a two-round shot on the prime of the seventh-place end to overhaul the Blue Jays after Cole superior three runs into the underside of sixth. The pitchers went on to win 8-3 at Rogers Middle. With just one extra begin earlier than qualifying, Cole raised extra questions on his capacity to deal with adversity on the hill. He was engaged on an ideal sport at that time and gave up a solo shot to guide the sixth inning to catcher Danny Janssen. He ditched one single for Whit Merryfield and walked ninth-placed Jackie Bradley Jr. Then Cole apparently refused to place them each within the scoring place. Bo Bichette selected with one to usher in Merrifield and Vladimir Guerrero Jr. He flew to the left to get Bradley to tie the match. Homer Jansen was the thirty second man, whom Cole allowed this season. Though not counting a one-time Homer with a three-stroke lead out of 19 deserted house runs that broke a tie-breaker or tied the sport or value the Yankees a lead, this clearly shook Cole and led to his dissolution. Cole allowed three runs with three strokes. He walked one and hit 4 on 6.1 innings pitched. Cole hooked up Jedi’s 1978 franchise tag to a knuckle curve ball that Rimmel Tapia was swinging on. The ace Yankees now have a one-season strike file for 2 franchises with 326 punches in 2019 for the Astros. He is only one of 5 main league bowlers to have finished so, becoming a member of Pedro Martinez (313 with the Purple Sox in 1999 and 305 with the Expos in 1997), Randy Johnson (372 with the Diamondbacks in 2001 and 308 and with the Mariners in 1993), Nolan Ryan (301 with the Rangers in 1989 and 383 with the Angels in 1973) and Rob Waddell (232 with the St. Louis Browns in 1908 and 349 with the Philadelphia Athletics in 1904). Because the world waited for Choose to tie Maris, he took his fifth straight profession to guide the sport. Choose, who walked the final 4 strokes of the win on Tuesday evening, took a 2-0 lead over Mitch White earlier than the Blue Jays beat the best 2-2. Then, White nibbled low and the choose walked six pitches. The choose ended up scoring the primary three runs within the first. It got here a couple of Josh Donaldson music. Oswald Peraza featured fellow rookie Oswaldo Cabrera, who walked behind Choose and Donaldson scored a aim within the sacrifice fly by Marwin Gonzalez. () Originally published at San Jose News HQ

[sparkle-heart-anon]

Les idées d’amour (Racetrack Higgins x Girly!Reader)

Request: Racetrack x girly reader where she makes him take. Bubble bath, do face masks, watch titanic, and let her do his makeup bx she’s sick. Sorry if this is specific hahah

A/N: Okay, so I hope I wrote what you wanted. I did get a little bit off topic, but I think it combines together well, and is overall pretty cute! 

Word count: 4,609

Love is not one grand sweeping gesture filled with romance and lights and perfection. Love is the culmination of the perfectly imperfect little moments, fragmented together to create a beautiful picture.

No one saw that better than Racetrack Higgins. Every day with you was filled with little moments of love, seen in every action.

“Anthony Higgins!” you gasped, seeing him in the doorframe, bruised and bleeding, his shirt torn and his eye swelling shut. “What on earth did you do?”

Through the pain, he gave you a sheepish grin, which quickly dissolved into a wince, before he headed inside the apartment the two of you shared.

He moved to sink down onto the couch, but before he could, you grabbed his hand to stop him. It was then you noticed the bleeding on his knuckles.

“What did you do?” you asked again, you’re voice slightly less stern this time.

“Relax, Y/N,” he said, leaning in to give you a little kiss. “I did what needed to be done.”

You lightly touched his shoulder and noticed how much he winced. You sighed, then said “I’m drawing you a bath.”

“What?”

He walked after you to the bathroom slowly, groaning in pain with every step.

“Seriously, Y/N, I’m fine. I’ll just lay down for a little bit and wake up fine.”

You maybe have been shorter than Race, and you may have been wearing the least intimidating outfit on the planet, but Race knew when he saw that look in your eye, he stood no chance of winning. “You’re taking a bath and you’re going to tell me what happened.”

He sat down on the closed toilet in the bathroom while you started running the bathwater. He watched as you rummaged through the cabinet before finding a bright pink bath bomb and some strawberry scented bubble bath. You poured in the bubble bath and dropped the bath bomb in the water before turning back to Race.

“Strip,” you told him.

“My, my, my, if you wanted me that bad, Y/N, you could have just told me.”

You rolled your eyes. “Racetrack Higgins strip and get in that bath.”

“Okay,” he sighed, before tugging his shirt off his torso. But before you could get a look -- either at his chiseled chest or the bruises that littered it, you heard a beeping coming from the kitchen.

“Shit, the cookies!” you exclaimed, running to go get them from the oven. When you returned with a washcloth to help with Race’s cuts, you saw him leaning deep down into the bath, the bubbles going up to his neck, his knees peeking out of the water.

“How are you feeling?” you asked him, kneeling down at the side of the tub and dipping the washcloth in the water.

“You should get in with me,” he smiled lopsidedly, reaching out of the water to the hem of your pink sweatshirt, motioning for you to take it off.

“Answer the questions and I’ll think about it,” you told him, bringing the cloth to the biggest cut on his forehead, filled with gravel. His eyes screwed shut in pain.

“Not great.”

“Where does it hurt?”

“Face, I guess. Chest too. But I think my lips might be broken.”

“Your lips are broken?” you asked.

“Yeah,” he laughed, before pulling you into a kiss. “Okay well, I don’t think they’re broken, but they hurt.”

“You’re black and blue and still this cheeky,” you laughed.

“You love it.”

You had finished getting the gravel from the cut on his forehead, and were now moving to his eye.

“Y/N, seriously, I’m fine. It was just a little fight.”

“Over what?” you asked, pushing back a golden lock of hair that had fallen into his eyes. “Did someone say that the Red Sox were better than the Yankees? Because they are.”

“No,” he playfully rolled his eyes. But then his tone dropped to be something more somber. “Some people were talking shit, and I just couldn’t stand for it.”

“What were they saying?”

You could see him pause, and he tried to look anywhere but at you.

“Race?”

“I don’t wanna say,” he whispered. Rarely was he ever this serious.

“Were they talking about your parents?” He shook his head. “About the guys?” He shook his head again. “About what you’re gonna do after --”

He cut you off, almost silently. “They were talking about you.”

Neither of you said anything for a long beat. “Me?” At this point you had moved down to working on the bruises on his chest, but you paused and looked him in his eyes. “What were they saying.”

You could see him grow more uncomfortable, not from the pain of his injuries, but from the pain in his words. In the words of the others.

“Disgusting things, Y/N, like awful things.”

“Like what?” your voice grew softer.

“They said what they’d do to you if they got the chance. Commenting on your skirts and your hair and everything. And it was so gross. And I had to do something!”

You watched him ball his fists again and rise in anger.

“Hey,” you whispered, placing your hand on his shoulder. “You have nothing to worry about. I’m yours.”

He gave you a long look. “That’s never what I was worried about. Of course I trust you. But you choosing them was not what they were talking about. More like you didn’t have a choice in the matter.” You could see the hurt and the anger deep in the lines of his eyes.

“Oh,” you said, suddenly wishing that you hadn’t worn that white skirt while you two were out yesterday. I need to cover up more, you thought, ashamed. “Do you want me to dress less feminine -- like more conservative and everything?”

“What?” he was taken aback. “Not unless you want to. That’s why I had to fight them. To put them in their place.” He held your hand in his, and you paused.

“I love you, Race.”

“I love you too, Y/N.”

You finished washing out his wounds, and wondered what to do next. “You should join me in the bath,” he said.

“There’s no room,” you laughed, placing a blob of bubbles on his nose.

He smirked. “We could make room. Pleeease?”

“Only because you defended my honor,” you laughed.

He watched you with bright red cheeks, completely entranced as you pulled off your pink sweatshirt, and discarded your skirt.

“What are you staring at, Higgins?” you smiled.

“Only the most beautiful creature on this planet.”

You rolled your eyes, but blushed anyway before sinking down next to him in the bath.

“Where did you get this bubble bath?” he asked, lifting a blob of bubbles in his hand. “I really like it.”

“Lush I think.”

“We should go get some more.”

“Whatever you say,” you giggled and rested your head on his chest. “Just no more fights.”

Racetrack Higgins was not someone who spent undue time on his skin. He had always had pretty much flawless skin, much to your dismay, as you seemed to always break out.

But now, the tables had turned, and while for once your skin decided to be clear, Race had a huge angry pimple right in the middle of his forehead, along with trails of acne on his cheeks.

“I don’t know how this happened?” he asked looking in the mirror, you standing next to him.

“I told you,” you said, singsong, “you need a skin care routine beyond washing your face with a bar of soap.”

He rolled his eyes. “Well I can’t show up like this to the party tomorrow.”

“Worried you’ll ruin your dashingly handsome image?” you laughed.

“Yes!” he said, turning to look at you.

“Let me see your face,” you finally said. He leaned down, and you examined the acne on his face. “Wash your face with my fancy face wash, the one in the blue tin. Then meet me in the living room. Oh! And use the white tube next to the pink lotion, that’ll help clear it up.”

While Race tried to figure that out, you rummaged around, finally pulling out the charcoal face masks you had, and the little silicone brush to brush it on. You had it ready when Race emerged from the bathroom, his face red and some of his pimples bleeding a touch. Except, of course that one stubborn on in the center of his forehead.

“Facemasks?” he asked with an amusing smile, sitting down next to you on the couch.

“You need it for your acne,” you laughed, motioning towards his face. You handed Race the charcoal face masks so he could first skeptically examine the ingredients.

“It’s not going to turn me purple or anything right?” he asked.

“Really?”

“I’m just saying if I’m going with the martian look, I at least want to know ahead of time.”

“Give me that,” you said, taking the bottle from him and squeezing some of the facemask cream onto the brush. You began to brush it onto his face. “And green is the Martian chic now -- not purple.”

“So what planet is purple?” he asked, but you shushed him.

“You’re going to mess it up!” you cried, trying to feign a serious look on your face. “Stop moving.”

Racetrack Higgins is someone who talks a lot. And if he isn’t talking, he needs to be doing something. But with you, hovering over his face, imploring him to sit still and stop talking was torture.

“I need to do something,” he finally broke this silence.

“You need to sit still,” you said, moving from his cheeks to his forehead.

He just smiled (cracking the facemask) before leaning in and kissing you. He threaded his fingers through your hair, and you eagerly kissed back. But when you pulled away after a moment, you saw that half of his face mask had come off onto your own face.

“Race!” you laughed, touching the black goo on your face. “You messed up your facemask! How are we ever going to get rid of your acne now?”

“I’d rather have acne than not being able to kiss you.”

“It’s twenty minutes.”

“That’s a lifetime for a fruit fly! Meaning that’s like impossible for me. Like, I seriously might die if I can’t kiss you for twenty minutes.”

“You’re not gonna die in twenty minutes, drama queen,” you laughed.

“I might.”

You rolled your eyes. “Do you want the face mask or not?”

He thought for a minute. “Fine. But I need one more kiss for the long wait I’ll have to struggle to endure.”

A laugh ripped from your chest, and you agreed, moving up towards him to get as close as you could, not caring if his face mask got onto yours.

He kissed you as though he truly thought his life depended on it, holding you by the small of your back so that your chest was pressed to his.

“You know,” he whispered in your ear, touching the hem of your skirt, “we could just forget the face masks.”

No matter how tempted you may have been, you laughed. “You look like an off brand phantom of the opera with half a face mask. We can do that later.”

He pretended to pout for a moment, and you gave him one more small kiss, before moving to finish putting on the facemask.

When you were done with his, he tried to help you put on yours. The key word in that sentence was “tried”.

“You complained to me about sitting still?” he laughed. “You’re impossible.”

“I realized you’re right about not being able to last twenty minutes without a kiss.”

He playfully rolled his eyes. “Nope. Sorry. Closed for business until the facemask is off. So like, thirty years.”

“Race,” you pouted, cracking your face mask in the process, which caused both of you to laugh.

“These are completely unfair standards,” he told you, pretending to act all serious. “I think I’m gonna need to talk to my lawyer. Negotiate these terms.”

“You suck,” you laughed, playfully punching his arm. But as a rebuttal, he pulled you into a hug, and pressed a kiss to your forehead, trying not to get anything in your hair.

You laid down together on the couch, and Race flipped through the channels trying to find something to watch. Eventually, you settled on some crappy Christmas movie.

“It’s like October,” he pretended to complain.

“So, pretty much Christmas season,” you told him, leaning up to look at his face. He took that as a chance to lean in and kiss you.

“It’s not really. And this is a really cheesy movie.”

“But that’s what makes it so good!”

He just laughed it off and pressed play.

And within a few minutes, you had pretty much passed out, forgetting about the face masks and the acne. Now, it became Race’s duty to prevent you from rolling over and getting facemask on the couch or on your shirt or on his shirt.

You rolled around a lot in your sleep, so this was not very easy.

The timer you had set for the facemasks went off, causing a loud beeping to fill the room. You jumped up, not sure where you were and what you were doing. You went to rub your eyes, and before Race could stop you, you realized, pulling your hand away which was now covered with black charcoal.

“Damn it,” you cursed, noticing it would probably stain your nail polish.

“At least my acne will be gone,” he smiled, pressing a kiss to your lips.

You sat at your makeup table, trying to figure out if you should match your pink outfit with pink eyeshadow, or if you should do a complementary color, like green.

“Pink or green eyeshadow, Race? What do you think?” you called to him in the other room. He was getting ready for work.

“Uhhh. . . What color are you wearing?”

“Pink dress.”

“Pink eyeshadow I think,” he said, finally walking into the bedroom, his toothbrush in his mouth.

“Thanks,” you smiled, grabbing the palette.

By the time Race had walked out of the bathroom, you had moved on to eyeliner. Slowly, you were tracing it along your lash line, before swooping out to make the wing. When you had finished one eye, you noticed Race was standing there, completely still, almost transfixed on you.

“You okay?” you asked, turning to look at him with a lopsided smile.

He paused for a moment, thinking, before turning to smile and shake his head. “Nah, I’m good.”

Quickly, he walked out of the room, and you could see the blush on his cheeks.

With your makeup only half done, you got up out of your seat and walked to the door frame, looking at Race, who was now at the kitchen counter, pouring himself a cup of coffee.

“Hey,” you smiled lopsidedly, “what was that about?”

“Um,” he paused for a moment, and you could see him studying your face. “Can you teach me how to do that?” He motioned to your face.

“Makeup?”

“The eyeliner. . .Sorry, it’s stupid, I know. And really weird.”

“No it’s not,” you smiled, and kissed his cheek. “It’s kinda hard to do, but I’d love to teach you. Besides,” you dropped your voice a little bit, “it would look really hot on you.”

A small smile appeared on his face. “You don’t think it’s weird or anything?”

“Of course not. Why would you think that?”

He paused and looked at his shoes. “I don’t know. I mean, I tried to do something like that in college, and I got a lot of shit from the guys in my frat, so. . .”

“Anthony Higgins, there is nothing you could do that I would think you’re weird for doing,” you smiled, kissing him lightly. “Except, of course, putting your milk before your cereal.”

He laughed, and wrapped his arms around your waist. “I think it would be your duty to break up with me at that point.”

“I agree.” You placed your hand on his cheek and pulled him into a kiss, which he eagerly deepened.

“Can we do the eyeliner now?” he asked hesitantly.

“Sure. Let me just finish my own first.”

You walked to your vanity, with Race in tow. Slowly and steadily, you brushed the eyeliner across your eye, and tried not to laugh as Race sat on the bed, watching you intensely.

When you were done, you got out of your chair, and motioned for Race to sit down.

“Just eyeliner?” you asked. “Because I think highlighter would also look really good.”

He thought it over for a second. “Highlighter’s the sparkly stuff, right?”

“Yeah.”

“Just eyeliner for today, if that’s okay.”

“Whatever you want,” you smiled, kissing the crown of his head, and ruffling his golden hair. “But for this you need to sit really, really still, understand?”

“I promise,” he said, raising his left hand.

“Usually, you raise your right hand for promises, but I’ll accept it.” You took out the eyeliner, and knelt down. “Close your eyes.” He scrunched them close. “Lightly, babe. Close them lightly.”

This time, he followed your instructions, and slowly you began drawing on his lash line.

“It tickles,” he smiled.

“Stop smiling,” you scolded. “You’re gonna mess it up.”

“It’s hard.”

You finished off his first eye with a sharp wing, and then moved to the other. It wasn’t perfect. It was weird trying to do eyeliner on someone else, but when he opened his eyes, it looked pretty good. And he looked hot.

“I don’t think you can wear eyeliner from now on,” you said, feigning a serious voice. Instantly his face dropped, but before the apologies could start tumbling out of his mouth, you moved to sit on his lap. “You look too hot. I don’t know how I’m going to keep my hands off you.”

He relaxed and kissed you, threading his fingers through your hair.

“You’re sure you don’t find it weird?” he asked quietly.

“Of course not,” you whispered into his ear. “But I think you’re gonna be late for work if we take any longer. And if we do anything else, we might mess up your eyeliner.”

“I wouldn’t want that, you worked so hard on it.” He paused and looked in your eyes, a small smile etched into his face. “I love you,” he whispered, kissing your forehead.

“I love you too, hottie.”

Watch how someone treats you when you’re sick, your mother always told you when you were younger. That shows how much they love you.

Waking up with a pounding headache and the feeling like you were going to puke, that thought didn’t really cross your mind. In fact, the only thought that crossed your mind before you puked all over the sheets was I feel like shit.

You hardly had time to react, before bounding out of bed, racing to the bathroom, puking in the toilet.

You must have woken Race, who was there within a few minutes, holding your hair back, and rubbing your back. When you finally stopped vomiting, you felt completely and utterly gross.

“Fuck,” you cursed quietly.

“Don’t feel well?” Race asked quietly, bringing his hand to your forehead. “You’re burning up Y/N.” He looked at your hair. Despite his best efforts, vomit was in it. “Here, let me draw you a bath.”

You were feeling pretty much out of it and could hardly think clearly, but gave him a half hearted nod of your head, before sinking down to sit down on the cool linoleum.

Race turned on the water, and added some bubble bath, like you had done for him. Once it had filled up, he helped you up and helped you strip before you sank into the water.

“I feel awful,” you murmured, moving to rest your cheek on the cool tiles, providing some much needed relief.

“I’m sorry love,” he said, moving to sit just outside of the tub so your faces were close together. “Is there anything I can get you.”

“No,” you whispered, shaking your head. “You’ve done so much, thank you.”

“Let me at least get the vomit out of your hair,” he smiled, motioning to a strand of your hair.

“Yeah, okay,” you whispered, shutting your eyes.

Race was so sweet, washing your hair with the bright pink shampoo you always used that smelled like coconuts. As he was doing that, you were about to fall asleep, your eyes closing. You felt him run his hands gently across your forehead, in part checking your temperature and in part trying to soothe you.

When he had finished rinsing your hair for you, he spoke softly, not wanting to break your half sleep. “Do you wanna stay in the bath or go to bed?”

Your head felt like it was swimming, and you hardly felt like you could stand. But the water, despite being hardly lukewarm, felt like it was burning against your already on fire skin.

“Bed,” you whispered.

“Okay.” He grabbed a fluffy towel, and helped you out of the bath, steading you. He wrapped the towel around your shoulders, and led you over to the bed. “Do you want a nightgown?”

“Sure.” You shut your eyes and thanked that the sheets felt cool. He found one of your white nightgowns and helped you get dressed.

“I’ll grab you some tylenol,” he kissed your forehead. “Try to go to sleep and get some rest. I’ll let your work know too.”

You closed your eyes, and moments that felt like an eternity later, Race returned with some tylenol. You took it, before trying to fall asleep.

Race sat down next to you, and as you were falling asleep, loosely braided your damp hair. He hated seeing you like this -- so sick. And he couldn’t do anything about it.

He called in sick to work, too, so he could be there for you. You fell asleep within a few minutes of the tylenol kicking in, and hopefully it would bring down your fever.

He decided to make some soup for you, and even though he wasn’t the best chef, he luckily didn’t burn anything. (If you were not feeling sick, you probably would have pointed out that you can’t exactly burn a liquid.)

You woke up a few hours later, feeling a bit better that your fever was down, but still nauseated. Race was reading a book next to you, and his face broke into a smile when he saw you. “How’re you feeling?” he asked.

“Bit better.” You grabbed his hand and held it, squeezing it tight. “But you shouldn’t be around me. You’ll get sick.”

“It’s a risk I’m willing to take,” he smiled. “I made soup if you want it.”

“I’d love some,” you said, scooting up on the bed to sit up. While Race was grabbing and microwaving the soup, you turned on the TV in the room, and started looking for a movie to watch. As he was walking through the door, you settled on Titanic.

“Titanic?” he teased. “Really?”

“Is that okay?”

“It’s great,” he handed you your bowl of soup. “Just a bit cliché. But it’ll be cute.”

You watched the movie together, curling into his chest.

“The soup’s lovely, babe.”

“Glad you liked it. I slaved over the hot stove for hours,” he laughed.

“Hours?” You looked at the clock. You had slept for two hours, three tops.

“Okay, maybe it came from a can, but I cooked chicken to add to it.”

“Well, I love it. And I appreciate all your hard work.”

One of the worst things you had found about being sick was how restless you got. You couldn’t do anything -- you didn’t feel well enough to do anything. But you needed to do something.

Race had seen you sick before, from the sniffles to when you had to get your appendix out a few years ago. And he knew, for some godforsaken reason, you gained so much motivation to do stuff when you had so little energy to do anything.

“Do you want to do face masks?” he asks, smiling.

“Sure.”

He got up from the bed, and rummaged around, this time grabbing some sheet masks. He always joked that you looked like a zombie with them. You thought he looked like a ghost.

You helped him put on his sheet mask, and once again he could hardly sit still. Every two seconds he had to touch it, laughing at the goo that oozed out of it.

“Shush,” you joked. “I’m trying to stare at Kate Winslet’s tits.” It was then he realized that you guys were at that part of the movie. Instantly, you could see his face turn a bright red. “You act like you’ve never seen boobs before,” you laughed, turning to kiss his cheek, forgetting about the face mask.

“I just, I mean I don’t wanna. . . Like. . .” he was getting impossibly flustered, and you thought it was cute.

“Relax, you can draw me like one of your french girls later, when I’m feeling better. Although I don’t think I’ll have The Heart of the Ocean to wear.”

He just shook his head and laughed, wrapping his shoulder around you. The timer for the face mask beeped, and you were able to preoccupy yourself by rubbing in the lotion-y stuff. But within a few minutes, Race could tell you were getting restless again.

“Can you paint my nails?” he asked.

You noticed what he was doing, and thought it was the sweetest thing ever. “Sure. What color?”

He thought it over. “What colors do you have?”

“Hmmm,” you looked over to the shelf the nail polishes were placed on. “Gold, black, deep blue, light blue, light pink, hot pink, sparkly pink.”

“Can you paint all my nails black, except do sparkly pink for my middle finger? Give it some flair?”

“Sounds cool.” You got up out of bed and grabbed the colors. He handed you his hand, placing it, and you held it, extending his (very sexy looking) fingers. As the movie continued, you slowly painted his nails, trying not to get excess polish on his skin.

“You have unfairly nice nails,” you laughed. “Like I’d kill for these nails.”

“Great,” he said absentmindedly, and you could hear his voice crack.

“Are you crying?” you asked, looking up to see tears welling in his eyes. Jack was holding on to the door, and you both knew how it would get.

“It’s just so sad. I mean, there’s room for both of them on there. Or they could switch places. . . Or. . . Just, promise me you’ll never let me drown in the Atlantic Ocean, okay?”

“I promise, love,” you kissed his cheek. “I’ll only let you drown in the Pacifc.”

“Not funny,” he pouted, giving you puppy dog eyes.

“I promise I won’t let you drown.”

He ruffled your hair with the hand that was dry, and you scolded him, worrying that he would mess up his nails. They looked so good, and it would be a shame to have to redo them.

“Thanks for making this sick day better,” you said softly as the end credits rolled to the movie.

“Of course.”

The next day, Race woke up just as sick as you were. Which, yeah, kinda sucked, but it meant that you guys could spend the day together again, watching all the cheesy movies you wanted.

You were so lucky to have Race, although he would never stop thinking about how lucky he was to have you.

[steveuschrist]

I posted 11,373 times in 2021

7 posts created (0%)

11366 posts reblogged (100%)

For every post I created, I reblogged 1623.7 posts.

I added 21 tags in 2021

#oh my god - 3 posts

#facts - 2 posts

#jojo shitpost - 2 posts

#jojo part 6 - 2 posts

#dmc - 2 posts

#stone ocean - 2 posts

#ok and? - 2 posts

#i’m a top let’s go - 2 posts

#devil may cry - 2 posts

#steve's stupidity - 2 posts

Longest Tag: 98 characters

#also funny enough i guess vergil technically could’ve had a growth spurt because he was only 19/20

My Top Posts in 2021

#5

17 questions, 17 people

Ty @bubble-beetle for tagging me, ily Lee. Not doing the reblog stuff cuz it’ll get way too long zodiac: Scorpio!  height: 5’4” (short king hours ;-;) hogwarts house: Slytherin! last thing I googled: I think it was a map for the Dragonspine crimson agates on Genshin Impact a couple nights ago song stuck in my head: Nothing right now but it was Breathe by Troy Baker yesterday lucky number: 2 dream job: Streamer, fantasy movie/novel writer, or a politician who will actually do shit for the people he represents wearing: Jeans, a Boston Red Sox t-shirt, red socks with hedgehogs on them, Boston hoodie favorite instrument: Either the violin (I played for a long time and dropped in after freshman year, I’ve been meaning to get back to it) or the bagpipes cuz they are awesome aesthetic: Uhhh idk, blues, purples, long black coats favorite song: The entire Sex, Death, and the Infinite Void album by Creeper favorite animal noise: When my cats trill at me for pets random: If you’re fed up with American politics right now and lean left, Google Socialist Alternative and read up on it!  Tagging: @owlxle @cannibalgh0st @bat-shark-repellant

2 notes • Posted 2021-01-19 23:00:24 GMT

#4

If you say anything bad about the Stone Ocean opening Jotaro will come to your house and beat you up himself sorry I don’t make the rules

6 notes • Posted 2021-11-30 00:10:44 GMT

#3

Oh yeah I finally got this out so if you’re here for wayleska/batjokes and are bored, give it a read!

15 notes • Posted 2021-06-27 18:45:55 GMT

#2

@bubble-beetle

Posting this to get on dmc tumblr tbh

48 notes • Posted 2021-07-30 06:01:09 GMT

#1

Genuinely want Vergil to be the main protag of dmc6 and it to be mostly about him rediscovering himself and learning to have a family again. Obviously it should jump between characters like 5 did, but I want Vergil to be at the center of it. And we need the triple Sparda lad hug.

83 notes • Posted 2021-08-05 03:08:25 GMT

Get your Tumblr 2021 Year in Review →

[captainneverever]

Never Have I Ever

inspired by sineala’s stories 

616, T,  1600 words

The Avengers play Never Have I Ever and it gets dirty quick. Tony has a revelation about Steve.

Steve didn't lie. 

He kind of did, at times, Tony thought, as he finished off his cup of seltzer. He knew Steve way too well. What Steve did instead of lying was avoid the question or not answer. Not exactly a lie, but not exactly the truth.

Which meant that Steve was going to be the most honest soul during this ill-advised, alcohol-drenched, late-night fueled game of Never Have I Ever. Dirty question version.

Carol helpfully handed Tony a Solo cup full of lime-flavored seltzer water. He tapped his cup against Steve’s cup of beer as they settled into the worn leather sofa and gave Steve a smile.

Steve looked great tonight, even if he was wearing one of those blue t-shirts with a white star he must have bought in bulk from somewhere, topped off with a red flannel shirt. He made basic clothes look like designer outfits straight from the runway.

Admittedly, Tony might be a little biased.

The Avengers had just thrown an old-fashioned “let’s invite all the superheroes” party at the mansion. No reason, just a high school reunion of sorts. With one of the hottest DJs around, lots of food and drink, and egos checked at the door. The night had been a blast.

All that was left behind was a collection of Avengers past and present, friends and hangers-on gathered in the library on sofas and the floor. Tony felt a nice, warm peace for once. And sitting next to his ordained spot on the sofa with Steve made it all the better.

They’d been talking for a while when Jan kicked off her high heels and mischievously asked if they had played Never Have I Ever before. Natasha had to fill Bucky in on the finer points. 

Jan winked at Tony and said, “Hmm, Never Have I Ever worn purple in my uniform.”

They all laughed. Jess toed Clint until he drank. “You have to drink the whole cup, Clint.”

“I haven’t forgotten the tunic-thing or whatever you called it,” Jan warned. 

Rhodey pondered. “Never Ever Have I not petted Goose.” No one drank, of course, at that point and Carol gave him a kiss.

All the questions were silly and fun. But it was late, they were all loaded up with good food and fun, relaxed, inhibitions were low. And they were a group of people in their 20s and 30s who had worked together for a long, long time. And because they knew each other way too well, the game quickly got dirty.

“Never Have I Ever given a guy a blowjob,” Clint stated.

Tony noted a number of people didn’t drink, including himself and Steve. He did a double-take and locked eyes with Luke, who also noticed.

He had just assumed Steve was straight. He had nursed a hopeless crush on Steve for years because Steve was just obviously straight. He could not have been this wrong about Steve. While Tony struggled with this profound existential question, Bucky snorted.

“Never Have I Ever given someone a rim job,” Jess said from under Luke’s arm.

Again Steve’s cup remained untouched.

And Steve didn’t drink at the statements of sleeping with a member of the same sex, one-night stand with members of the same sex or opposite sex, or sexting. 

Steve sexted someone. 

Tony’s traitorous thoughts spun out a thousand possibilities of what he could do with Steve now that he knew what Steve was capable of. Assuming way too much, that Steve would even want him, Tony warned himself.

“Never Have I Ever had sex in public,” Carol stated.

Steve still had an untouched, nearly full Solo cup of beer in front of him and the beginnings of a shit-eating grin that only a few had ever seen. 

Bucky giggled as he took in the puzzled looks on the others’ face. “Your turn,” Natasha prompted.

“Never Have I Ever had sex on a motorcycle,” Bucky said, his eyes locked on Steve.

“Buck, you have to be honest,” Steve said.

“Well, I haven’t. That’s a fact.”

Steve didn’t drink. And Tony had never been more turned on.

Then it was Clint’s turn. Clint stated, “Never Have I Ever had a threesome with two men.”

Most of the group drank. Except Steve.

"Oh god," Bucky gasped as he realized how shocked everyone was from Carol to Rhodey to Jan to Luke to Clint. He nearly fell over from laughing. 

Carol exchanged an incredulous look with Jess. "Steve. Seriously."

"He doesn't lie, everyone knows that," Peter said, with an odd pitch to his voice. Tony considered it had to be hard to be outed as the group’s most inexperienced person. But that was the tax for getting married young to a supermodel, Tony considered.

Bucky was now wheezing from laughing too hard.

Peter, with that same odd pitch to his voice, said, “Never Have I Ever been in an orgy.”

Most of the team drank, except for Tony, Thor, and Steve. The group looked at Steve with dropped jaws and shocked faces.

Bucky laughed again until he couldn’t any longer. “Oh, god, I think I broke something.”

“I have never heard you laugh this much,” Natasha said.

Bucky lifted up his flesh arm and dropped it again. “You guys -- Steve -- there was a war, dammit,” he squeaked out. “Look at him -- who’s gonna say no?”

“Never Ever Have I slept with a robot,” Thor said.

That netted a mixed result and Steve still didn’t drink. Tony filed that little tidbit of information away for future use. His brain was working overtime.

“Not Jim, if that’s what you were thinking,” Steve said quietly to him.

“I wasn’t thinking that at all,” Tony confessed. He was thinking of a robot suit though, a nice red and gold one that he knew Steve adored.

From there, the game devolved into the goal of asking Steve a question to make him drink. Accompanied with a bizarre soundtrack featuring Bucky Barnes, Winter Soldier, laughing his ass off each time.

“You’re going to pull something, Buck,” Steve warned.

“Only if they ask about fisting.”

Tony nearly lost it when an unbidden image of a naked Steve in his bed with those earnest blue eyes asking him about fisting. It was all too much, with Steve’s thigh rubbing against his, his shoulder nice and warm against his, that shit-eating grin and the sing-song, repeating thought in his head that Steve liked men in the way that Tony liked men. 

Tony needed air and space and to break this party up.

He clapped. “Okay, kids, let’s wrap this up,” Tony announced. “Never Have I Ever rooted for the Red Sox against the Yankees.”

No one except Steve took a drink. 

“Steve. After everything else, that’s something you haven’t done?” Jan asked.

“I’m a fan of any team that can beat the Yankees for the pennant,” Steve replied indignantly.

“See, we made Steve drink. Show is over. Time to go home.”

~~~~~

Tony was restless and went downstairs to clean up. He couldn’t shake the thoughts in his head about Steve and what Steve had done and maybe would do with Steve if Tony ever found a way to ask.

The light was on in the library. He went to investigate and found Steve in his usual seat reading. “Still up?”

“Not tired.” Steve closed his book.

“Me neither.” Tony sat down in the chair next to Steve. 

Steve didn’t lie. Tony knew that. But he had second thoughts, considering the look in Steve’s eye and Bucky rolling on the floor.  “You could have drank at any time. Or you were lying.”

“I don’t lie, Tony.” Steve shrugged. “Lying during a game isn’t worth it. One time, and it might become a habit.”

“Our teammates and friends now think you’re a sex fiend.”

Steve shifted in his chair so that he could look directly at Tony. “They can think whatever they like. Captain America doesn’t have sex or think about sex.” He tapped Tony’s knee. “Steve Rogers does.”

“So what does it take to date Steve Rogers? Set up a Tinder account? I heard he does that.” Tony felt like he was dancing on the edge of a cliff in the fog. He was either going to die from finding out that Steve wasn’t interested or wake up and find that the whole damn night was a dream. “Asking for a friend.”

Steve tipped his head to the side and had a deep, thoughtful look on his face. Tony started to settle back down, as he realized that Steve was going to let him down easy. He shouldn’t have asked. It was ridiculous. The whole night was ridiculous, and he’d be better off figuring out a way to wipe his memory. He could do that. He was Tony Stark. He could do anything.

“Your friend could just ask,” Steve replied slowly. 

Tony knew that tone in Steve’s voice, like he was bracing for bad news. He’d heard that tone in Steve’s voice several times, and he was the person causing it now. “Just ask?”

“I don’t lie, Tony.”

“Coffee? You and me?”

“Though you’d never ask,” Steve said with a grin. “Never thought until now you might be interested.”

Tony could have hit him. But then Steve might not go out with him after that. “Now.”

“I doubt there’s a place open at three in the morning.”

Tony tipped his head towards the kitchen. “The Avengers Mansion’s kitchen is always open. I don’t want to wait.”

Steve smiled. “Never Have I Ever turned Tony Stark down for coffee.”

[violasu-blog]

NumberNumber 4 Think Win Win absolutely

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[reportwire]

Houston Astros head to World Series for 3rd time in 5 years

Houston Astros head to World Series for 3rd time in 5 years

HOUSTON (AP) — Rookie Luis García confirmed the poise of an Oct ace, Yordan Alvarez stayed sizzling at the plate and the Houston Astros earned still another vacation to the Earth Collection, beating the Boston Purple Sox 5- Friday night in Recreation 6 of the AL Championship Series. The Astros sophisticated to the Planet Series for the fourth time general and the second time in a few seasons.…

[theliterateape]

Sixty Bucks a Week

By Paul Teodo and Tom Myers

THE PHONE ON THE WALL RANG. The long, knotted cord dragged on the floor as she listened carefully to the distant voice. He had collapsed. She stared out the window where he’d usually park, the space empty. It was 95°, but it wasn’t the heat. Not a heart attack, a stroke, or a seizure.

They had sent him into the yard to steam an empty barrel. It had held a toxic mix of volatile solvents. Too awkward to lift. It wasn’t his job. They had laborers for that. He ran the machine. Not a union shop. You did what you were told. He was a company guy. 

Ninety-five degrees outside—was 105° in the yard. The factory heat blistered everything nearby. Days like this he wore long underwear, something about keeping him cool, preserving his sweat. He wanted a pair for his birthday.

“A joke?” his kid asked.

“Nope,” he answered.

“Okay.” His son got him a pair, cotton.

Metal rims of the 55-gallon drum shone bright in the scorching sun. Scraping the cement he tilted the barrel upside down dragging it to the steamer.

Noxious fumes mixing in the barrel turned his stomach, making him dizzy.

The metal rim scraping on the cement.

Then it sparked.

Fumes igniting, fire chasing up his legs beneath his green baggy work pants. Flames snapping at his ankles. Long underwear ablaze. A man saw him running through the yard, silently. Another eyed him near the superintendent’s office, rolling in the sand pit, beating his legs, like a mad man.

They brought him to the company doctor, who carefully cut away his pants, the charred remains of the long underwear, told him he was lucky. The underwear helped. Protected his skin. It was not so bad, the doctor declared. Like a sunburn.

He held his screams as the doctor rubbed his legs with soothing ointment.

They sent him back to his machine, still screaming in silence, barely able to stand. He broke for lunch; his legs begged for relief. He ate the two sandwiches she had made. Asparagus and eggs. A diet. Quit the smokes a month before, weight creeping up. She told him. He drank his diet pop. He stumbled back to his machine.

Two bucks an hour. Bonus on top of straight time. Time and a half if he worked Saturday. Double time on Sunday. 

He collapsed.

It was shock. His eyes bugged out. His body twitched. He bit his tongue.

She listened intently, holding onto what little breath she could inhale as the man on the phone finished. The room spun. She closed her eyes.

They brought him to the hospital.

Where?

They told her.

She went to see him. With cookies. The hell with the diet.

He told her he’d be home in a day or two. Bad sunburn.

The doctor hard to understand. A thick accent.

His voice serious. Third degree. Skin grafts. Plastic surgery. She was able to make out. 

He was not home in a day or two.

Sixty dollars a week, for his burnt discolored leg. His disability. The mortgage ate two weeks right off. They’d starve. The company said they’d be good to him. Sixty dollars good.

Couldn’t handle his legs where the company sent him. Moved to Cook County Burn Unit. They held him up, as he tried to walk. One step, then another. His legs still screaming. In silence. Would he let them graft him?

No.

Purple legs were fine.

He was better. They let him go. Limping, wincing, oozing in silence. 

One month, two, three passed. Hands now soft, calluses no longer protecting his palms.

He worked in his garden. It began to take. Picks, spades, shovels, and hoes, occupying his time. His baby soft hands blistering. 

Sixty bucks a week. Not enough.

Sitting on a lawn chair. Wiping sweat beading on his forehead. Gazing at his garden, legs still screaming. She was doing the laundry.

The phone ringing. He stood and walked, slow, ungrafted legs beckoning him to stop, slow down.

He picked it up. ”Yes?”

They spoke, he listened. 

She would not be happy. It’d only been three months. The County said he needed five. 

The phone silent. White Sox on the radio from the yard next door, muffled in the background. They waited for his answer. Zero all, third inning, it felt like the twelfth.

Sixty bucks a week?

Or. 

Two bucks an hour and bonus on top of straight time.

“Okay,” he said. “Monday.”

She would not be happy.

Ready to leave for work. Two sandwiches staining the brown bag. A pop, that would be warm before he drank it, ripping through the paper.

She smiled and kissed him goodbye.

She was not happy. She was a good woman.

Sixty bucks a week. The company had been good to him. Sixty bucks good.

[truemedian]

The New Model Media Star Is Famous Only to You

The Media EquationWith short videos and paid newsletters, everyone from superstars to half-forgotten former athletes and even journalists can, as one tech figure put it, “monetize individuality.”

Recent videos by, from left, Gwen Jorgensen, Leonard Marshall and Terry Francona available on Cameo, a service that allows fans to buy personalized messages.Credit...CameoPublished May 24, 2020Updated May 25, 2020, 3:43 a.m. ETBack in March, I was trying to persuade my dad to stop taking the subway to work in Manhattan and join me upstate. So I paid $75 to Leonard Marshall, a retired New York Giants defensive lineman we both loved in the 1980s, to send the message.“I put a few guys in the hospital, Bob,” he told my father solemnly. “I need you to play defense in these crazy times.”It worked, and my father hasn’t been to Times Square since.I had reached Mr. Marshall through Cameo, a service that allows you to buy short videos from minor celebrities. I also used Cameo to purchase a pep talk from an Olympic triathlete for my daughter ($15), an ingratiating monologue for my new boss from a former Boston Red Sox manager ($100) and a failed Twitter joke delivered by the action star Chuck Norris ($229.99).Cameo is blowing up in this strange season because “every celebrity is really a gig economy worker,” says Steven Galanis, the company’s chief executive. They’re stuck at home, bored and sometimes hard up for cash as performances, productions and sporting events dry up. The company’s weekly bookings have grown to 70,000 from about 9,000 in early January, it says, and Mr. Galanis said he anticipated bringing in more than $100 million in bookings this year, of which the company keeps 25 percent. The company expects to sell its millionth video this week.Cameo is, on its face, a service that allows housebound idiots to blow money on silly shout-outs. Seen another way, however, it’s a new model media company, sitting at the intersection of a set of powerful trends that are accelerating in the present crisis. There’s the rise of simple, digital direct payments, which are replacing advertising as the major source of media revenue. There’s the growing power of talent, trickling down from superstars to half-forgotten former athletes and even working journalists. And there’s the old promise of the earlier internet that you could make a living if you just had “1,000 true fans" — a promise that advertising-based businesses from blogs to YouTube channels failed to deliver.In fact, in this new economy, some people may be able to make a living off just 100 true fans, as Li Jin, a former partner at the venture capital firm Andreessen Horowitz, argued recently. Ms. Jin calls this new landscape the “passion economy.” She argues that apps like Uber and DoorDash are built to erase the differences between individual drivers or food delivery people. But similar tools, she says, can be used to “monetize individuality.”Many of these trends are well developed in China, but here in the United States the passion economy covers everyone from the small merchants using Shopify to the drawing instructors of the education platform Udemy.In the mainstream heart of the media business, both artists and writers are moving quickly to find new business models as huge swaths of the media business have been wounded or shut down by the coronavirus pandemic. At Patreon, the first and broadest of the big services connecting writers and performers to audiences, the co-founder Jack Conte said he was delighted recently to see one of his favorite bands, Of Montreal, release music on the platform.“Traditional music coming to Patreon is a watershed moment,” he said.In the news business, journalists are carving out new paths on Substack, a newsletter service. Its most successful individual voices — like the China expert Bill Bishop and the liberal political writer Judd Legum — are earning well into six figures annually for sending regular newsletters to subscribers, though no individual has crossed the million-dollar mark, the company said.For some writers, Substack is a way to get their work out of the shadow of an institution. Emily Atkin felt that need intensely when a climate forum she organized last year for presidential candidates, while she was a writer for The New Republic, collapsed amid a scandal over an unrelated column about Mayor Pete Buttigieg that appeared in that publication.Image

For writers like Emily Atkin, formerly of The New Republic, Substack is a way to get their work out of the shadow of an institution.Credit...Rozette RagoNow, said Ms. Atkin, who writes a confrontational climate newsletter called Heated, she’s “shockingly hopeful.”“I don’t have any layoffs happening at my newsletter, so I’m doing better than most of the news industry,” she said.Ms. Atkin, who is 11th on Substack’s ranking of paid newsletters and was more willing than Mr. Bishop or Mr. Legum to talk in detail about the business, said she was on track to gross $175,000 this year from more than 2,500 subscribers. Out of that, she’ll pay for health care, a research assistant and a 10 percent fee to Substack, among other costs.For others, Substack is a way to carry on with work they’re passionate about when a job goes away, as Lindsay Gibbs found when the liberal news site ThinkProgress shut down last year and took her beat on sexism in sports with it.Now, she has more than 1,000 subscribers to Power Plays, paying as much as $72 a year.Both of them started with $20,000 advances from the platform.“The audience connecting directly with you and paying directly is a revolutionary change to the business model,” Substack’s chief executive, Chris Best, told me.It’s hard to imagine even the most successful writers, like Mr. Bishop and Ms. Atkin, posing a major threat to the titans of media anytime soon, especially as a few big institutions — whether in news or streaming video — dominate each market. But the two writers’ path to success points to the reality that the biggest threat to those institutions may come from their talented employees. Updated May 20, 2020 How can I protect myself while flying? If air travel is unavoidable, there are some steps you can take to protect yourself. Most important: Wash your hands often, and stop touching your face. If possible, choose a window seat. A study from Emory University found that during flu season, the safest place to sit on a plane is by a window, as people sitting in window seats had less contact with potentially sick people. Disinfect hard surfaces. When you get to your seat and your hands are clean, use disinfecting wipes to clean the hard surfaces at your seat like the head and arm rest, the seatbelt buckle, the remote, screen, seat back pocket and the tray table. If the seat is hard and nonporous or leather or pleather, you can wipe that down, too. (Using wipes on upholstered seats could lead to a wet seat and spreading of germs rather than killing them.) What are the symptoms of coronavirus? Common symptoms include fever, a dry cough, fatigue and difficulty breathing or shortness of breath. Some of these symptoms overlap with those of the flu, making detection difficult, but runny noses and stuffy sinuses are less common. The C.D.C. has also added chills, muscle pain, sore throat, headache and a new loss of the sense of taste or smell as symptoms to look out for. Most people fall ill five to seven days after exposure, but symptoms may appear in as few as two days or as many as 14 days. How many people have lost their jobs due to coronavirus in the U.S.? Over 38 million people have filed for unemployment since March. One in five who were working in February reported losing a job or being furloughed in March or the beginning of April, data from a Federal Reserve survey released on May 14 showed, and that pain was highly concentrated among low earners. Fully 39 percent of former workers living in a household earning $40,000 or less lost work, compared with 13 percent in those making more than $100,000, a Fed official said. Is ‘Covid toe’ a symptom of the disease? There is an uptick in people reporting symptoms of chilblains, which are painful red or purple lesions that typically appear in the winter on fingers or toes. The lesions are emerging as yet another symptom of infection with the new coronavirus. Chilblains are caused by inflammation in small blood vessels in reaction to cold or damp conditions, but they are usually common in the coldest winter months. Federal health officials do not include toe lesions in the list of coronavirus symptoms, but some dermatologists are pushing for a change, saying so-called Covid toe should be sufficient grounds for testing. Can I go to the park? Yes, but make sure you keep six feet of distance between you and people who don’t live in your home. Even if you just hang out in a park, rather than go for a jog or a walk, getting some fresh air, and hopefully sunshine, is a good idea. How do I take my temperature? Taking one’s temperature to look for signs of fever is not as easy as it sounds, as “normal” temperature numbers can vary, but generally, keep an eye out for a temperature of 100.5 degrees Fahrenheit or higher. If you don’t have a thermometer (they can be pricey these days), there are other ways to figure out if you have a fever, or are at risk of Covid-19 complications. Should I wear a mask? The C.D.C. has recommended that all Americans wear cloth masks if they go out in public. This is a shift in federal guidance reflecting new concerns that the coronavirus is being spread by infected people who have no symptoms. Until now, the C.D.C., like the W.H.O., has advised that ordinary people don’t need to wear masks unless they are sick and coughing. Part of the reason was to preserve medical-grade masks for health care workers who desperately need them at a time when they are in continuously short supply. Masks don’t replace hand washing and social distancing. What should I do if I feel sick? If you’ve been exposed to the coronavirus or think you have, and have a fever or symptoms like a cough or difficulty breathing, call a doctor. They should give you advice on whether you should be tested, how to get tested, and how to seek medical treatment without potentially infecting or exposing others. How do I get tested? If you’re sick and you think you’ve been exposed to the new coronavirus, the C.D.C. recommends that you call your healthcare provider and explain your symptoms and fears. They will decide if you need to be tested. Keep in mind that there’s a chance — because of a lack of testing kits or because you’re asymptomatic, for instance — you won’t be able to get tested. How can I help? Charity Navigator, which evaluates charities using a numbers-based system, has a running list of nonprofits working in communities affected by the outbreak. You can give blood through the American Red Cross, and World Central Kitchen has stepped in to distribute meals in major cities. That dynamic was on display in a confrontation between Barstool Sports and the hosts of its hit podcast, “Call Her Daddy,” as my colleague Taylor Lorenz reported last week. Media company stars, with big social media followings and more and more ways to make money, are less and less willing to act like employees. (“The ‘Call Her Daddy’ girls would be making over half a million dollars a year with me,” Mr. Galanis of Cameo said. “High Pitch Erik from ‘The Howard Stern Show’ is making low six figures.”)Substack represents a radically different alternative, in which the “media company” is a service and the journalists are in charge. It’s what one of the pioneers of the modern newsletter business, the tech analyst Ben Thompson, describes as a “faceless” publisher. And you can imagine it or its competitors offering more services, from insurance to marketing to editing, reversing the dynamic of the old top-down media company and producing something more like a talent agency, where the individual journalist is the star and the boss, and the editor is merely on call.ImageThe popularity of “Tiger King,” starring Lauren and Jeff Lowe, left, led Cameo to sign up Kelci Saffery, right, who had a lesser role in the documentary.Credit...CameoThe new passion-economy media companies are converging in some ways. The ones like Patreon and Substack, which operate primarily in the background, are now looking at careful ways to bundle their offerings, their executives said. Medium, which allows you to subscribe to its full bundle of writers, is looking for ways to foster more intimate connections between individuals and their followers, its founder, Ev Williams, said. Cameo, which has a front page in its app and website but is mostly selling one-off shout-outs, is shifting toward a model that is more like subscribing to a celebrity: For a price, you’ll be able to send direct messages that appear in a priority inbox.“We think messages back and forth is where the puck is going with Cameo,” Mr. Galanis said.Is this good news? The rise of these new companies could further shake our faltering institutions, splinter our fragmented media and cement celebrity culture. Or they could pay for a new wave of powerful independent voices and offer steady work for people doing valuable work — like journalists covering narrow, important bits of the world — who don’t have another source of income. Like the whole collision of the internet and media, it will doubtless be some of both.In Silicon Valley, where the East Coast institutions of journalism are often seen as another set of hostile gatekeepers to be disrupted, leading figures are cheering a possible challenger. Mr. Best, the Substack chief, told me that the venture capitalist Marc Andreessen, whose firm has invested in the company, said he hoped it would “do to big media companies what venture capital did to big tech companies” — that is, peel off their biggest stars with the promise of money and freedom and create new kinds of news companies.One of the things I find most heartening in these unequal times, though, is the creation of some new space for a middle class of journalists and entertainers — the idea that you can make a living, if not a killing, by working hard for a limited audience. Even people who play a modest role in a cultural phenomenon can get some of the take, which was what happened with the Netflix documentary “Tiger King.”When the documentary hit big in March, Cameo signed up 10 of its ragtag cast of, mostly, amateur zookeepers. That came just in time for Kelci Saffery, best known on the show for returning to work soon after losing a hand to a tiger. Mr. Saffery now lives in California, and lost his job at a furniture warehouse when the pandemic hit. To his shock, he has earned about $17,000, as well as a measure of recognition, even as the requests are slowing down.“Every day I’m at least getting one, and for me that still means that one person every day is thinking, ‘Hey, this would be cool,’ and to me that’s significant,” he said. As for the money, “that could send one of my children to college.” Read More Read the full article

[ledenews]

Sports Shorts - February 26, 2020

WU's Fleming, Bethany's Blango Honored

Wheeling's Liz Fleming was named the Mountain East Conference's Field Athlete of the Year at the MEC Indoor Championships after capturing both the weight throw and shot put, helping the Cardinals to a third-place team finish. She managed a 17.61-meter throw in the weight throw event and a 14.31 meter put in the shot. Bethany's Chas Blango was named the PAC Field Athlete of the Week after finishing third overall in the weight throw and 13th in the shot put at the Mount Union Raider Tune-Up. Blango's put of 12.98 meters was the fifth-best mark in the PAC this indoor season. The PAC Indoor Championships get underway Thursday at Youngstown State.

Boys and Girls Sectional Action Continues

Ohio boys' basketball sectional final matchups in divisions III and IV are set after Tuesday's night's action across the Buckeye State. Division II games take place tonight, along with girls' district action. Across the river in West Virginia, girls' sectional action continues. In Class A, top-seeded Wheeling Central raced out early and put to rest any hope of a Valley Lumberjills upset, ending the first half on a 17-0 run en route to a 68-39 win. Hannah White led the Maroon Knights with 14 and Tristen White added 12. Jamey West led the 'Jills with 12. The Knights will take on Cameron Friday in Moundsville for the sectional crown. The Dragons overcame an early 8-0 hole to defeat Madonna 42-38 in Tuesday's early game. Lily Neely paced Cameron with 16 points. In Class AA, Weir fell to No. 1 North Marion, 80-38. Sophia Mikula and Isabella Aperfine led the Red Riders with 10 apiece. In Ohio, Union Local withstood a tough test early from Buckeye Local to advance 76-52 in Division III sectional action. The Jets were led by 22 from Luke Merritt and 21 from Zach Bateman. UL hosts Morgan, a 55-45 winner against Harrison Central, on Friday in a sectional co-final. Bellaire fell to two-seed Fort Frye 63-32, while Martins Ferry took care of Sandy Valley, 41-35. The Purple Riders will now face the Cadets. On the opposite side of the bracket, Barnesville bested Coshocton 65-56 and advances to play Tuscarawas Valley, a 64-19 winner against Edison. In Division IV, Hiland hammered Conotton Valley 64-13 and Rosecrans took care of Beallsville 72-26, setting up a matchup between the number one and two seeds in Friday's sectional co-final. Shenandoah beat Steubenville Catholic 79-63 and next faces Strasburg, a 47-21 victor against River. Malvern defeated Bridgeport 77-44 and faces Tuscarawas Catholic Central, a 56-41 winner against Toronto. Finally, four seed Shadyside and six seed Frontier will face off after winning their respective games against Caldwell and Monroe. The Cougars trailed late but forced overtime and beat the Seminoles 68-65.

Hilltoppers Rise in NABC Poll

Following wins against regionally ranked Fairmont State and Frostburg State, the West Liberty men's basketball team continued to rise in the NABC Division II Top 25 poll, improving three spots to No. 13. The top five remained the same, with N.W. Missouri State, Lincoln Memorial, West Texas A&M, UC-San Diego and Florida Southern. Directly behind West Liberty at No. 14 is Jim Crutchfield's 20-4 Nova Southeastern team. The Hilltoppers are streaking, winners of 16 of their last 17 and are closing in on a record 12th national scoring title. West Liberty currently scores at 105.3 points per game, one of only two Division II teams to average in triple digits. The other? Nova Southeastern. West Liberty is currently third in the regional rankings. Indiana (Pa.), No. 7 in the NABC poll, is number one, followed by Shippensburg, West Lib, Fairmont State and Charleston.

National Arena League Moves

The Carolina Cobras were active on the transaction wire recently, adding secondary help by signing 6-foot-4 defensive back Armagedon Draughn. Draughn comes from the CFL's Montreal Alouettes, played in a preseason game with the New York Jets before being cut. He played collegiality at Albany State before transferring to Tuskegee. To make room, the Cobras released receivers Marc DesRuisseaux, Jaren Colston-Green, defensive back Timothy Keith and WR/DB Andrew Williams.

Waynesburg Ousts Bethany Women

Basketball season at Bethany College came to an early end this week as Waynesburg beat the Bison 79-65 in the quarterfinal round of the Presidents Athletic Conference tournament. The Bison were led by Cameron's Courtney Walker with 22 points and four rebounds. Haylie Glass back Walker with 14 points and Monroe Central's Allison Kuhn added nine in the loss. Waynesburg was led by Brooke Fuller's 16-point, 12-rebound effort. Former Union Local standout Alli DeLaney aided Fuller with 15 points, eight rebounds and four assists.  Waynesburg advances to play Westminster, the winner of which will face second-seed Grove City. The Bethany men finished last in the PAC standings and didn't qualify for the men's tournament.

Sports on TV

Spring training replays for both the Pittsburgh Pirates and Cleveland Indians are available tonight. The Pirates vs. Red Sox replay will be at 6 p.m. on ATTSN while Indians and Padres will air at 8 p.m. on the MLB Network. Virginia and Virginia Tech will battle at 7 p.m. on ESPN2. FSN1 features Georgetown at Marquette at 8:30 p.m. St. Joe's will travel to St. Louis on CBSSN at 9 p.m., with LSU and Florida battling at 9 p.m. on ESPN2. In the NBA, Fox Sports Ohio channels will feature the Philadelphia 76ers at the Cleveland Cavaliers at 7 p.m. ESPN's Wednesday night league doubleheader starts with Memphis at Houston at 8 p.m., followed by Boston at Utah at 10:30 p.m. Fox Sports 2 is airing CONCACAF Champions League Soccer at 8 p.m. with the Montreal Impact facing Deportivo Saprissa, followed by America vs. CS y Dcomunicaciones at 10 p.m. NBCSN is airing the Buffalo Sabres at Colorado Avalanche at 8 p.m., followed by the Pittsburgh Penguins at Los Angeles Kings at 10:30 p.m. Read the full article

[shelbymadden14]

1-200

200: My crush’s name is: chanel 💚

199: I was born in: joplin mo

198: I am really: gay

197: My cellphone company is: verizon

196: My eye color is: hazel

195: My shoe size is: 9....in men’s

194: My ring size is: depends on the finger but 8 on my ring finger

193: My height is: 5.7

192: I am allergic to: cats & mildew

191: My 1st car was: 94 camaro

190: My 1st job was: at the hit zone

189: Last book you read: love her wild

188: My bed is: big af

187: My pet: my boom baby

186: My best friend: boom baby duh

185: My favorite shampoo is: pantene

184: Xbox or ps3: ps4

183: Piggy banks are: not in my vocabulary because i’m broke

182: In my pockets: boxers on sooo no pockets

181: On my calendar: lots of appointments & hopefully a date 😏

180: Marriage is: beautiful!

179: Spongebob can: get dis

178: My mom: is a beautiful soul

177: The last three songs I bought were? upset-lauren sanderson, billies album, jocelyn flores-XXX

176: Last YouTube video watched: jeffree star 😅

175: How many cousins do you have? too many to count

174: Do you have any siblings? yes 2

173: Are your parents divorced? nope

172: Are you taller than your mom? yes

171: Do you play an instrument? drums

170: What did you do yesterday? laundry & watched true blood

[ I Believe In ]

169: Love at first sight: yes

168: Luck: yes

167: Fate: yes

166: Yourself: depends on the day

165: Aliens: yes

164: Heaven: yes

163: Hell: yes

162: God: yes

161: Horoscopes: yes

160: Soul mates: duh

159: Ghosts: oh yeah

158: Gay Marriage: nope

157: War: ehh no

156: Orbs: yesh

155: Magic: living & breathing & the way the body works is magic so yes

[ This or That ]

154: Hugs or Kisses: kisses

153: Drunk or High: high

152: Phone or Online: phone

151: Red heads or Black haired: red heads i mean cmon

150: Blondes or Brunettes: recently changed to blondes & for good reason

149: Hot or cold: hot

148: Summer or winter: summer

147: Autumn or Spring: autumn

146: Chocolate or vanilla: chocolate

145: Night or Day: day

144: Oranges or Apples: apples

143: Curly or Straight hair: curly

142: McDonalds or Burger King: mcdanks

141: White Chocolate or Milk Chocolate: milk chocolate baby

140: Mac or PC: mac

139: Flip flops or high heals: neither

138: Ugly and rich OR sweet and poor: sweet & poor

137: Coke or Pepsi: pepsi

136: Hillary or Obama: obama

135: Burried or cremated: both?

134: Singing or Dancing: dancing

133: Coach or Chanel: chanel 😅😂😏💚

132: Kat McPhee or Taylor Hicks: no

131: Small town or Big city: big city

130: Wal-Mart or Target: walmart

129: Ben Stiller or Adam Sandler: adam

128: Manicure or Pedicure: pedicure

127: East Coast or West Coast: east

126: Your Birthday or Christmas: birthday

125: Chocolate or Flowers: flowers

124: Disney or Six Flags: six flags

123: Yankees or Red Sox: cardinals

[ Here’s What I Think About ]

122: War: no

121: George Bush: who is he? jk.

120: Gay Marriage: i think it’s gay

119: The presidential election: also gay

118: Abortion: pro choice

117: MySpace: middle school

116: Reality TV: dumb

115: Parents: they are good folk

114: Back stabbers: they stab backs. hoes.

113: Ebay: i sold a bat on here once & it was so much work

112: Facebook: slowly becoming obsolete in my life

111: Work: necessary

110: My Neighbors: the one who called the cops on me? she bad

109: Gas Prices: low thank the lord. knock on wood.

108: Designer Clothes: who cares

107: College: also necessary

106: Sports: i only really care about softball

105: My family: the madden’s are wild man

104: The future: looks pretty good 😏

[ Last time I ]

103: Hugged someone: uhmmm like the end of october ;(

102: Last time you ate: at 7

101: Saw someone I haven’t seen in awhile: uhm on ft with a bud the other day

100: Cried in front of someone: in my kitchen with my momma

99: Went to a movie theater: when chanel & i went to see hustlers

98: Took a vacation: junior year of hs

97: Swam in a pool: TOO long ago ;(

96: Changed a diaper: over a year ago

95: Got my nails done: never

94: Went to a wedding: probably like 2 years ago

93: Broke a bone: 6th grade

92: Got a peircing: 3 years ago

91: Broke the law: uh i was speeding ;(

90: Texted: just a minute ago

[ MISC ]

89: Who makes you laugh the most: that’s a toss up. i surround myself with laughter

88: Something I will really miss when I leave home is: my boom boy

87: The last movie I saw: do i have to watch it to count it? coraline

86: The thing that I’m looking forward to the most: seeing my lil baby

85: The thing im not looking forward to: chelsey moving out ;(

84: People call me: shelby, shelb, shlub, bub, sheldon

83: The most difficult thing to do is: not overthink

82: I have gotten a speeding ticket: like 2 times 😅

81: My zodiac sign is: aquarius

80: The first person i talked to today was: my favorite girl, chanel.

79: First time you had a crush: uhmmm 6th grade? who knows.

78: The one person who i can’t hide things from: i would say chanel. she’s like a human lie detector.

77: Last time someone said something you were thinking: chanel & i do this shit all the time it’s freaky.

76: Right now I am talking to: like having a conversation with someone? everyone is asleep i believe

75: What are you going to do when you grow up: wait i’m not grown? crap.

74: I have/will get a job: i am a sub but i’d like to venture out a little

73: Tomorrow: i’m going to work out

72: Today: i’m about to crash

71: Next Summer: i’d like to be in a pool or in the sun a lot

70: Next Weekend: i couldn’t tell ya.

69: I have these pets: boomer & xeno

68: The worst sound in the world: my alarm

67: The person that makes me cry the most is: my dad

66: People that make you happy: my family, my baby & my friends

65: Last time I cried: uhhh couple days ago

64: My friends are: savannah, meg, aleigh, shelby, alex & lots more

63: My computer is: non existent

62: My School: nada at the moment

61: My Car: little dented 😂

60: I lose all respect for people who: beat on people mentally or physically

59: The movie I cried at was: oh shoot. i don’t do sad movies so i couldn’t tell you. but anytime an old person is sad i cry

58: Your hair color is: strawberry blonde

57: TV shows you watch: way too many to name but i’m on true blood right now

56: Favorite web site: pornhub

55: Your dream vacation: i want to go to italy

54: The worst pain I was ever in was: uhmmm i guess shoulder surgery? it wasn’t too awful

53: How do you like your steak cooked: medium rare

52: My room is: clean & gray

51: My favorite celebrity is: emma stone or jennifer lawrence 😏

50: Where would you like to be: anywhere with you 😏💚

49: Do you want children: yes!

48: Ever been in love: i am sooo yes

47: Who’s your best friend: i have three. savannah, meg & aleigh.

46: More guy friends or girl friends: girl friends

45: One thing that makes you feel great is: when boom cuddles me

44: One person that you wish you could see right now: hmmm my nanny wheeler 💕

43: Do you have a 5 year plan: yes! don’t die.

42: Have you made a list of things to do before you die: ope. no but i should

41: Have you pre-named your children: yes

40: Last person I got mad at: uhmmm i hardly get mad but probably a sibling

39: I would like to move to: springfield

38: I wish I was a professional: softball player

[ My Favorites ]

37: Candy: orbit gun

36: Vehicle: nissan xterra

35: President: i could give a shit less

34: State visited: florida

33: Cellphone provider: verizon at the moment

32: Athlete: does lauren chamberlain count even though she’s retired?

31: Actor:ryan reynolds

30: Actress: his wife 😏

29: Singer: billie duh

28: Band: oh boy. uhm. coldplay

27: Clothing store: nike outlet or ross 😂

26: Grocery store: one with groceries

25: TV show: all time favorite? probably PLL

24: Movie: matilda

23: Website: again, pornhub. jk i couldn’t tell you.

22: Animal: elephant

21: Theme park: haven’t been to many soooo idk

20: Holiday: christmas or halloween

19: Sport to watch: softball

18: Sport to play: softball

17: Magazine: i don’t read them

16: Book: favorite book would be love her wild

15: Day of the week: friday

14: Beach: cancun mexico

13: Concert attended: ive been to shitty ones so negative

12: Thing to cook: pasta

11: Food: pasta

10: Restaurant: jap steak

9: Radio station: spotify 😂

8: Yankee candle scent: linen 😂

7: Perfume: cologne/chrome azarro

6: Flower: lillies

5: Color: purple

4: Talk show host: jimmy fallon

3: Comedian: ellen

2: Dog breed: yorkie but boom is my favorite

1: Did you answer all these truthfully? yes