#I used to spend entire days just consumed by these thoughts of fending away my former best friend

[lord-radish]

There's this post I keep trying to write about listening to the mountain goats at work but it comes down to it being the only music I would feel comfortable being "caught" listening to. And that opens up a whole can of worms about where that comes from, which you wouldn't necessarily think - like usually it's like "ahaha I wouldn't be caught dead listening to this" - but it's most of my music taste and I managed to realise where it comes from.

My sister would put me down and belittle me for things like that. Like we used to play a lot of SingStar 80's, but there was one time - like legit the only time in years of us owning the game - where I went to sing "I Want to Know What Love Is" by Foreigner, and she teased me by saying "hahaha, [mallard] wants to know what love is!" and making me feel really embarrassed and shitty for just wanting to play that part of the game.

And that was how she approached pretty much anything that would make me look vulnerable. Like the reason I had never tried to play that song before is because it was something I thought she'd pick on me for, which she then eventually did. She mocked me for YouTube videos I watched sometimes, or for crying at a movie one time. She even managed to turn me saying that I was reading into some weird, gross jeer about how I said I was "breeding", like what the fuck right?

So if I'm at work by myself and I can put some music on, I put the Mountain Goats on because if someone walked in, I would feel less ashamed being caught listening to that than most of my music library. And I like the Mountain Goats, but I hate that I can't let go of that shame or insecurity because it's too much to deal with. That embarrassment is amplified by the thought of being judged as harshly as I have been for my interests and behaviours in the past.

#messyposting #there are times where I've said and done some fucked up things but my entire childhood was enveloped by being bullied #i was bullied at school and then I was bullied at home. and she would go 'i protected you from bullies!' #and to her credit she did protect me a few times. she probably protected me plenty of times I didn't know about #but it doesn't excuse the constant mockery and shame. it doesn't excuse her ruining one of my new years by choking me #it was for like two seconds but it shocked me to the point of silence. which was the point because my excitement got on her nerves #she was a closeted lesbian with undiagnosed bpd - and I'm applying that from like age 8 to her eventual 20s - but it doesn't change things #i feel sorry for her hardships but the treatment I got at home was scarring and horrible #she's not the only source of that - we have a mutual dislike of our mother's partner - but she's a huge factor in it #and she *still* makes fun of me and laughs it off as 'you'd do the same to me' #like no I fucking wouldn't. i grew up #I'm cutting her out of my life. I just am #I used to spend entire days just consumed by these thoughts of fending away my former best friend #as he tries to rationalise his way back into my life against my wishes #lately I've been thinking of telling my sister off and cutting her out of my life #refusing to let her see my home and just screaming at her to stay out of my life #literally all of this started with a Tumblr post about how the mountain goats are a good band to listen to at work. at least to yourself #it was like 'tmg are the only band I like to listen to at work' and I was gonna break down why. and then it hit me why #yeah that's the repressed shame that comes from a lifetime of bullying and being put down and othered all the time #most of all from someone at home because you have no escape

[trope-appreciation-tuesdays]

This was just supposed to be a simple dialogue prompt but somehow turned into this🤦‍♀️. I'm so sorry😂:

"[A], please just try. For me."

"I can't. I just can't, okay?"

"[A]... "

"I'm tired."

"Yeah... well so am I. And I'm trying so hard, [A]. I'm trying so hard to stay calm and not get frustrated. But it's been months, [A]. Months! And nothing's changed. All I want is for you to get better. All I'm asking is that we take that first step. Today. The two of us. Together. You and me against the world. Like we always said. That's all I'm asking. Please, [A]... You can't just stay hiding in here forever."

"It's my life. Nobody gets to tell me how I get to live it."

"And what kind of a life is this really?"

"I suppose you'd rather that I was dead? Less of a burden for you to have to carry."

It was the most words [A] had spoken to them since he'd returned home all of those months ago. Or at least, [B] would often think, since his vessel had. They were certain his soul was still out there somewhere drifting lost among the smouldering trees and blood-drenched fields.

They knew that [A] hadn't meant the things he'd said. At least not the part about [B] wishing him dead.

[B] was aware that [A] made up one half of them; perhaps even more. Likely owned their entire heart. And during the time that [A] was gone, they'd felt their absence like a missing organ. [B] wasn't sure how missing half of you made you feel heavier. But it did. By God, it did.

Of all the things that [A] had said to them since his half-kept promise before getting on that plane, of coming back to them in one piece, they knew that it was never really [A] saying them. It was this different version of him with the gaunt face and the dead eyes, that cried and screamed and thrashed around in his rare moments of sleep and never laughed or smiled or said I love you back.

[B] also knew that it wasn't true. Yes, a life without [A] would be a lot simpler, quieter, easier. A life where they weren't spending every second of every day trying to fend off the bad thoughts. Trying their best not to let themselves become entirely consumed by fear, one so strong it would often present itself as a sickness. That something would happen to [A]. That one day they would get back home and [A] wouldn't be there. That [A] was already too far gone, a lost cause. That this was all just a matter of time and this life they were once so certain was their's to have, that they were still so desperately fighting to keep hold of, clinging onto it like a crumbling cliff edge was just a losing battle. That the life they both wanted, had both vowed to have no matter what it cost them, would never be theirs. That [A], their [A], the one they once knew and loved with every bone and muscle and cell of their body was lost to them.

Because the truth was [B] was becoming so far worn down that sometimes it was so tempting to just sit themselves beside [A] on his usual spot in bed and never get back up.

But just as [A] had reverted into himself, a shell of his former self, a brittle, fragile husk of a man that they were sure would shatter completely if you weren't to handle things with enough care, so too were they aware that at some point the shift in which their sole purpose had once been to fight fiercely and unashamedly for the life they knew deserved to be theirs, had become about worrying about [A] and driving themselves sick with it.

Now it was them who was at war and they were fighting a different battle entirely. One within themselves. They were fighting to keep [A] anchored to this earth. That's how [B] liked to think of it. They daren't allow themselves to think too long about what this really meant: they were simply fighting to keep [A] alive.

Forever trying to coax those last few sips of tea and water, crumbs of bread and spoonfuls of soup down him. Forever trying to encourage him to get some sleep, or to at least try to. Forever trying to get him to at least sit up in bed. To keep him away from the alcohol beneath the kitchen sink. The pills in the bathroom cabinet. The gun that he had given them as means of protection the night before he'd left that now lay locked away and unspoken of, burried deep in the dark recesses of their attic.

And so without [A], what were they really?

That's how they knew without a shadow of doubt in their mind that without [A] there'd very much still be a burden. A great one in fact. A missing half or three quarters of themselves. It would just no longer be one for them to have to carry around on their shoulders but rather a bottomless pain, a longing, a pining, an ever expanding emptiness, a depth deeper than the ocean, carried around in their heart forever.

Knowledge of a life always dreamt of, always just within their grasp but never quite reached.

#sorry its late #i had to think about tags and then it got to be too late in the evening to post #suicidal ideation #painful powers #self deprecation #emotional whump #letting themselves go #giving up

[raewrites98]

it’s a start

“Magnus, are you almost ready?” Alec’s voice echoes from the living room.

Magnus’ grip on the sink tightens, his knuckles turning white. “Just a minute,” he replies. He takes a deep breath and looks up. Dull brown pupils stare back at him, the bruises under his eyes a true testament to how little he’s slept these past few days. He tried covering them with some makeup, but there’s only so much concealer can do. With a resigned sigh, he runs a hand through his hair one last time and straightens his collar.

Alec is standing at the front door, their coats draped over his arm as he’s looking down at his phone. He’s wearing one of Magnus’ shirts, a deep blue with silver details. “Here,” he says when Magnus walks over, handing him his coat.

“Thank you,” Magnus says. He undoes the first button on Alec’s shirt, smoothing his hands down the front with a slight smile. “Good choice.” He then feels around in the pockets of his own jacket, a frown settling on his face. “Where’s the gift? Is it still in the bedroom?”

Alec helps Magnus into his coat. “I’ve got it. I had a feeling you’d forget it.” He grins and  leans down to quickly kiss away the look of betrayal on Magnus’ face.

“How thoughtful of you.” Magnus rolls his eyes, though not without a hint of fondness. Once they are both bundled up, they head out onto the busy streets of New York. The sun has settled beyond the horizon. People huddle close together on the sidewalk as they try to fend off the sharp winter air. A light snowfall covers the rows of cars and windowsills. Magnus hides a hand in Alec’s pocket, entwining his fingers with Alec’s calloused ones.

They are on their way to the Hunter’s Moon for Maryse’s birthday. She wanted to keep the partying minimal and invited both friends and family for a few drinks at the local bar. With the events of Lilith’s downfall still fresh in everyone’s minds, Magnus thinks they could use the distraction. He knows he sure can.

It’s only been a few weeks since Magnus’ deal with Asmodeus, but his whole world has been turned upside down because of it. He feels utterly useless without his magic. It leaves his heart aching in his chest.

“God, it’s freezing,” Alec says. He hides his nose in the collar of his jacket, taking brisk strides through the white-brown sludge covering the pavement. His injuries are long gone, thanks to powerful shadowhunter runes and Catarina’s infallible healing. Though he is as good as new, Magnus can’t help but watch him like a hawk from the corner of his eye, looking for any signs of lingering discomfort. He still has dreams about finding Alec in the alley that night.

A sudden bitterness rises in Magnus’ throat. If he still had his magic, he could have spared them the walk through the biting cold. It’s another stupid example of how utterly mundane he is like this. It’s pathetic.

As if sensing his inner turmoil, Alec squeezes Magnus’ fingers. He pulls him closer. “I know,” he whispers, placing a kiss on Magnus’ head. His eyes speak volumes, but the most significant part is easy to decipher. We’ll get through this together.

Magnus swallows. He blames the wetness in his eyes on the sudden gust of wind that pulls at his scarf. He squeezes Alec’s hand in return. Thank you.

When they reach the Hunter’s Moon, Alec holds the door open for Magnus.  The rush of warm air that hits them is a welcomed change from the freezing cold. Inside, it’s as lively as ever on a Saturday night. Downworlders are stuffed in booths or leaning against the bar as they attempt to get Maia’s attention. Others are gathered around the tables scattered around the room. The scent of cigarette smoke and beer lingers in the air.

The rest of the group is easy to find. They managed to claim a table at the back of the bar, where Maryse and Izzy are laughing over their glasses of wine. Jace is at the pool table trying to convince Simon to play a round against him. Clary promptly scores a point while they aren’t looking. Luke is at the bar talking to a colleague.

“My boys,” Maryse smiles as they head over. “I’m so glad you could make it.” She pulls both of them into a hug.

“Happy birthday, mom,” Alec says. He pulls a chair out for Magnus and takes the seat next to him. He then hands her their gift. It’s a small, black box with a golden bow for decoration. Simple, but elegant.

“Oh, it’s beautiful,” Maryse beams. She pulls out the ruby inlaid necklace, admiring the way it gleams in the light. Isabelle helps fasten it around her neck.

“It was Magnus’ idea,” Alec confesses.

“I think we can all agree that rubies suit the Lightwoods quite well,” Magnus says with a smile. He chuckles at the wink Isabelle sends him.

The rest of the group joins them after their game of pool and they spend the evening chatting comfortably. Magnus watches the people around him converse, tracing the rim of his glass with a polished finger. Even when surrounded by all this happiness, he can’t help the grief that weighs heavy on his heart. The loss of his magic has left a hole inside him, aching to be filled.

Alec notices his quiet mood. He leans towards Magnus and whispers, “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine,” Magnus replies with a small, forced smile. Because Alec doesn’t look entirely convinced, he quickly gestures to Maryse and Luke in an attempt to divert Alec’s attention. “They seem to be getting along quite well.” The couple is huddled together towards the end of the table, wrapped up in some meaningful conversation.

“That’s a surprise,” Alec hums. He sips his drink, unable to repress a wince at the taste. It reminds Magnus of the first night they met, which almost makes him smile. “I hope he makes her happy.”

They watch the couple for a moment longer. Maryse laughs at something Luke says, her head tilted back and hair tumbling past her shoulders. Luke watches her with a gleam in his eyes, smiling from behind his glass. 

“I think he does,” Magnus says eventually.

“I’m going to get some more drinks.” Alec stands up, placing a hand on Magnus’ shoulder. “Do you want anything?”

“Just the usual,” Magnus says. He brushes his fingers against Alec’s hand before it disappears and watches him head towards the bar. He turns back to find Maryse watching him, a soft smile on her lips. She moves closer, so they are sitting opposite of each other.

“Thank you for the necklace,” Maryse says. “I haven’t worn jewelry this nice in years.” Her expression grows softer, sadder. She thumbs the skin of her wrist, where Magnus imagines one of her runes once were. Then she clears her throat and straightens her back. “How are you?”

“I’m wonderful,” Magnus says, the lie rolling off his tongue with well-practiced ease. It tastes bitter at the back of his throat. Or perhaps that’s the alcohol. He can’t tell anymore.

Something must show on his face though, because Maryse leans forward, her hand inches away from Magnus’ own. “Magnus,” she says, soft yet hesitant. “You don’t have to pretend with me. I understand.”

Do you? He wants to scream. Do you really understand? He doubts anyone could possibly know how devastating it feels to wake up in the morning, yearning for a part of him that no longer exists. 

Then Magnus looks up. The breath is punched from his lungs when he is met with that familiar, overwhelming grief, that all-consuming sense of loss in her eyes. He sees it in the mirror every morning.

Magnus can’t help but let his eyes wander over Maryse’s face and arms. She once wore the runes of a shadowhunter with pride, her head held high like the marks on her body meant she was invincible. That pride had been ripped from her grasp when the Clave had her deruned. Now her skin is smooth, unblemished.

She doesn’t shy away from his gaze. In fact, she gives him a small, knowing smile. It’s filled with regret and grief and acceptance, so many emotions all at once that Magnus has to look away, down at his drink where he swirls the ice around in his glass.

“So,” Maryse says. “Let me ask you again. How have you been?”

Magnus inhales slowly. For just a second, he stops pretending. His shoulders drop, and a small, bitter smile finds its way to his lips. “I’ve been better,” he says.

It’s not much, but it’s a start.

#my writing #alec lightwood #shadowhunters #malec #magnus bane #raewrites98 #fanfic #soft and sad #fluff and angst #maryse lightwood #Luke Garroway #luke x maryse #whats their shipname #consistent timeline who? dont know her #i have no idea what this is but im tired of staring at it #also lets pretend they already found clary even though i have no idea how that happened

[5hfanfiction]

Trainwreck (Chapter 4)

Trigger Warning: Violence, drug abuse

…

Camila is currently on her private jet, boredly flipping through a fashion magazine as she devours the mouth watering hamburger in front of her, made personally by her celebrity chef on board. She has on her favorite pair of Beats Headphones, which costs a fortune by the way, an oversized thrasher hoodie, ridiculously expensive white Gucci sneakers covered in diamonds, and a pair of jeans so tight that the young pop star can literally feel her balls suffocating.

Camila shifts awkwardly in her seat, subtly adjusting herself, and sighs. This day can’t possibly get any worse. First, she woke up with an excruciating hang over due to the large amount of alcohol she consumed the night before in a failed attempt to get rid of the stress of returning back to her hometown. Then, her psychotic ‘girlfriend’ came over, unannounced might she add, and gave her a long ass, completely unnecessary lecture instead of keeping her mouth shut and fucking her like she usually does.

Although it may not seem too obvious at times, Camila does care for Ariana—a little. She’s not completely heartless, at least that’s what she tells herself. What’s not to like? Ariana is beautiful, generous, and talented. And, the fact that she's amazing in bed is another plus.

But the fact of the mater is that Camila wants a girlfriend, not a second mother. She can’t handle the nagging and the constant arguing because even though she’s a year younger than the Italian singer, she absolutely hates being treated like a child.

People in her life are always controlling her. They tell her when to wake up, when to eat, when to leave her house, when to go to sleep, and the list goes on. She has enough on her plate as it is as one of the biggest celebrities in the world. And the truth is, Camila misses just being a normal kid more than anything. She misses the times when she could walk around without the fear of being recognized and trampled by fans. She misses the days when she couldn’t be forced in a relationship she doesn’t want to be in and could actually be happy with the girl she loves. But most of all, she misses the days when she could just sleep in, not having to worry about pleasing her fans, the label executives, and ugh, her mother.

Just the thought of her overbearing mother causes Camila to roll her eyes in annoyance. Why the hell is she always ten inches up my ass?!? she thinks to herself. Camila knows that her mother loves her and genuinely thinks that she does what she thinks is best, but after a certain point, the love can quickly become overwhelming.

Camila’s thoughts are interrupted when she notices her mother set the iPad that is literally always glued to her hands down on her seat. She gulps, suddenly feeling nervous, when she sees the older woman beginning to stand up.

Oh fuck, she’s coming, Camila says in her head dreadfully. Maybe if I look back down at the magazine, she’ll decide to ignore—

“Karla! Karla, can you hear me?”

Camila rolls her eyes at sound of her mother calling her by her first name. She knows that she prefers to go by Camila, but yet, every goddamn time that her mother calls her, which is annoyingly often, she always seems to forget.

“For God sakes, Mother! I can fucking hear you. I don’t even have any music playing.”

Sinu huffs, offended by the way her daughter has just spoken to her. If they weren’t currently surrounded by staff, she would take of her chancla and teach her spoiled brat a lesson.

“I would appreciate if you didn’t use that tone with me,” she snaps, pushing her glasses up her nose and smoothing down her skirt. When Sinu takes a moment to look her daughter up and down, she scrunches up her nose. From her unruly hair and the grease dripping down her chin, thanks to her delicious looking hamburger, to her outfit, her daughter looks far from the biggest pop star in the world. “And must you dress like such a hoodlum? Karla, you know how I feel about your uh… masculine tastes.”

“This 'hoodlum’ outfit costs more than your annual salary before I so kindly hired you as my manager. Don’t forget that,” Camila snaps. How long was this airplane ride anyway? If she’s forced to spend another moment with her mother, she’ll literally rip her hair out.

Sinu decides to ignore Camila’s rude comment for the sake of the staff that look like they are about to gauge their own eyes out from their incessant arguing. Instead, she grabs a couple of napkins from the small table in front of her and gently wipes the grease off of Camila’s face. When the younger girl whines and tries to pull away, Sinu grabs her by the chin and says, “Can you stay still for one second?”

Camila crosses her arms over her chest, accepting defeat. She reluctantly stays still as her mother tries tidying up her hair, but at this point, it’s a lost cause. She has Ariana to blame for that.

“How long until we land?” the younger Latina asks impatiently.

Sinu pushes up the sleeve of her expensive blazer to check the time on her clearly outdated watch. “We should be there in about fifteen minutes.”

“Thank God. I need to get off this fucking plane,” she responds dramatically, throwing her head back against the small window behind her. Camila winces and rubs the back of her head, realizing that she probably should’ve taken the hard glass behind her into account.

Perfect. Now I can add that to the list of terrible things that have happened to me today.

“Don’t worry, Karla. You’ll be home with you father soon. Meanwhile, I have to worry about flying back to L.A,” she says disdainfully. “I’m going to be stuck on this plane all day.”

Camila gasps and feels her heart stop at her mother’s words. Her palms suddenly feel sweaty and she starts finding it hard to breathe.

No. This can't be.

“Wait,” she says tentatively. “You’re not staying in Miami with me? You’re expecting me to stay with Dad by myself?”

Sinu is genuinely shocked at Camila’s reaction. This entire time, she had thought that her daughter would be relieved that she was staying across the country.

“Yes, Karla. This was the plan all along, wasn’t it?”

Suddenly, Camila feels her blood run cold. Is her mother fucking insane?!? Does she suddenly have extreme memory loss?!?

“Then why did you come on the plane in the first place?”

“Because I know how nervous you are about going to Miami. I wanted to support you.”

Camila ignores her mother’s statement, sweet as it is.

“You can't leave me alone with him, Mom.”

“Why not?”

“You know why!” she responds tearfully. “Please, I am begging you, do not leave me alone with that man!”

“That man is your father, Karla. And you will treat him as such.”

“Mami—”

“End of discussion! When you get off this plane, your spoiled ass is going straight to your father’s house!” Sinu exclaims. Her eyes are bugging out of her head at this point and her face is beet red. She takes a few moments to calm herself down before she continues with, “What is wrong with you? Why don’t you want to see him? You haven’t seen him or your sister in months.”

Camila quickly wipes at her tears and distances herself from her mother as much as she can on the small couch they are sitting on. She can’t believe her mother is actually leaving her in Miami to fend for herself. Who will protect her? Who will be there for her when she gets out of control?

“You know what? Forget it,” she responds while shaking her head. “Just get me off this stupid plane before I go fucking ballistic.”

Sinu senses that Camila still has something to say, but she decides to drop it. After the stunt her daughter pulled, the older woman knows that she can’t risk coming off as soft. She needs to stand her ground and play the role of a responsible parent that can properly discipline her kids.

It’s a few more minutes before the plane lands safety at the Miami International Airport. Camila doesn’t wait a single moment before grabbing all of her luggage, not even saying goodbye to her mother, and hopping off the plane.

Thankfully, her trusted bodyguards, Big Rob and Dwayne, are at her side. Because as soon as she makes her way to the passage that was supposed to be kept secret that leads to her black van meant to take her to her father’s house, she is suddenly surrounded by screaming fans.

And no, she’s not just surrounded by a a few dozen of them. As she struggles to make her way through the airport, hundreds of horny teenage girls and boys crowd around her, yelling her name, taking pictures, and begging for her autograph.

“Camila, I love you!”

“Camila, you’re so hot!”

“Camila, follow me on twitter!”

Although the constant praise she receives whenever she’s in public used to make Camila smile, the young pop star feels that she can no longer stand the sound of people demanding things from her. She should feel grateful for all the love the people currently blocking her van are giving her, but right now, the only true thing they’re giving her is a massive migraine.

But, the people Camila Cabello truly hates are the paparazzi. Ugh, fucking assholes.

“Hey Camila! How many whores are you gonna fuck in Miami? Is is true you’re cheating on Ariana Grande?” one of the paparazzo shout.

“Camila! How could you be dumb enough to participate in illegal street-racing? Did your father not raise you right?”

Camila grits her teeth at that last comment, resisting the urge to grab the dickhead’s camera and smash it to the ground. She’s done that in the past and she really doesn’t need to add another lawsuit to her belt, especially after the whole street-racing incident.

Overwhelmed by the feeling of bright lights flashing in her eyes, Camila reaches into the small backpack resting on her shoulders for her darkest pair of sunglasses. Ah much better, shethinks to herself as she puts them on.

After a long struggle and the help of her bodyguards, Camila is finally able to make it safely inside the van. However, before she is able to pull up her tinted window and leave the crowded airport, a letter from a fan manages to find its way inside. Without even bothering to look at it, Camila rolls her eyes and immediately tosses it out of the vehicle. She hears a few gasps from the fans, but she ignores them and immediately orders her chauffeur to get them the hell out of there.

…

“Do you need us to wait out here for you?”

“No, Dwayne. You can tell the guy driving my car to leave it here and get in the van with you guys,” Camila responds. “Besides, I’m staying with my Dad my entire time here. You can all go home.”

“Thank you, Ms. Cabello,” Dwayne and Big Rob answer simultaneously.

Camila gives them a quick nod before hopping out of the car, all of her luggage in tow. The pop star frowns as she watches the van drive off, realizing that this is it. She's really back in Miami and she's really staying with her father.

God help me.

Camila is filled with a sense of dread as as she makes her way to the porch of the house she grew up in. The house is quite small, only two stories high, and is probably the most ordinary home in Miami. The grass is green, perfectly clipped, and littered with various fruits and vegetables, planted by her father.

Camila smiles as she takes a peek of what she can see in the backyard where she spent so much time as a child. In it resides a big slide, a swing set and a barely noticeable sandbox, where she notices that the feet of a few Barbie dolls are sticking out of the sand. The young pop star chuckles. Typical Sofi.

When Camila makes her way back to the front of the house, a grimace immediately takes over her entire face. On one of the windows is a big sign reading: BLUE LIVES MATTER. It’s so typical of her father, him being a cop and a staunch republican. Ew.

A few seconds later, Camila is finally standing in front of the door of her childhood home. For the second time that day, her palms are sweaty, her mouthy is dry, and she can’t stop shaking.

Get a hold of yourself, you pussy, and open that door! she says to herself.

Ok. She’s gonna do it. She’s really gonna knock on the door. Camila takes a few deep breaths and finally:

*Knock Knock*

Ok one step down, one to go. All she needs to do now is wait for—

Camila is startled by the sound of her father roughly opening the front door. She immediately takes a few steps back to avoid another head injury.

It’s then that Alejandro Cabello emerges from the house, beer in hand and a permanent scowl etched on his face. It’s clear that he’s only just come home from work as he’s still in his uniform and has yet to take of his pants to lounge in front of the television in his boxers like he usually does. Camila gulps, intimidated by her father’s harsh stare. Damn if looks could kill…

“H-hi Dad,” she finally finds the courage to say. Her father clearly wasn’t going to be the one to start the conversation, so she figured, why not?

“What are you doing here,” Alejandro answers gruffly. If he’s tying to hide the fact that he doesn’t want to see his daughter, he’s definitely not doing a good job at at.

Camila clears her throat nervously, uncomfortable under his gaze. She hasn’t seen him in months and this is how he welcomes her?

“Um… you didn’t hear? Mom’s forcing me to stay here with you guys for a couple of months. I’m going back to high—”

“Staying here? Like hell you are,” Alejandro huffs, folding his arms across his chest causing a bit of his beer to spill over.

“What do you mean 'like hell you are?’ Where am I supposed to go?”

When her father doesn’t answer her, continuing to stare her down, Camila asks, “Look, can I come inside? I’m burning up out here.” Even at night, the Miami heat is unbearable. The young pop star feels like she’s on the verge of passing out.

Surprisingly, her father moves aside and allows his daughter to enter the home. The house looks the exact same way it did before Camila left for her world tour. While most people would find comfort in that, the young Latina doesn’t. It just shows her that absolutely nothing has changed, and that scares the crap out of her.

The kitchen is relatively clean, except for the few beer bottles that litter the counter. A quick glance at the stove tells Camila that her dad is boiling some pasta, the only food he knows how to cook. Well, that explains all of the empty takeout boxes practically spilling out of the garbage can.

Camila walks to the fridge and smiles as she observes all of the pictures stuck to it with little magnets. She sees a picture she’s never seen of Sofi in what she assumes is her first day of school and a cute old photo of her parents. However, her smile disappears when she realizes that all of the photos with her in them are gone.

She’s either been cut out of the pictures with the use of a scissor, made obvious by the jagged edges on many of the photos, or had pictures of her taken off the fridge altogether.

Camila sniffles as tears begin to sting her eyes. Coming here was a mistake; she can feel it in her bones.

Camila is startled by the sound of her father’s booming voice once again. She had not expected him to be so close.

“I don’t care where you go as long as it’s as far away from here as possible. Why don’t you go to that penthouse you wasted so much of your money on?”

Alejandro’s words sting a lot more than they should. It seems like whatever Camila does, she’s never good enough for her father.

“B-but I bought that house for you and Sofi. We were all supposed to move in months ago—

"We don't need your money,” he interrupts. “And we certainly don’t need you.”

“Dad…”

Although expected, the harsh words that stumble out of Alejandro’s mouth next rock Camila to her core.

“I need you to leave this place and never come back.”

“What? Why?”

“You go months without visiting your family and expect a warm welcome?” he responds menacingly. “Well you are not going to get one!”

“Dad, I’ve been on tour all over the world. And I’ve been recording my album—”

“I don’t give a damn about what you’ve been doing! You were here for a show just last month. But instead of coming home to see your little sister, you decided to whore yourself around at a club!”

“I…” Camila begins, realizing her mistake. 'I’m sorry.“

"Save your apologies!” he exclaims so loudly that his voice reverberates around the entire house. Camila prays that the neighbors didn’t hear that. “You’re a bad influence on Sofia and I don’t want you anywhere near her. I will not let you poison her with your lifestyle!”

“Dad, she’s my baby sister. P-please. I need to see her. I feel like she barely knows who I am.”

“Maybe that’s for the best. Do you have any idea how much of a disappointment you’ve been, Karla? Having sexual relations with women, taking drugs, spending all your money on a bunch of useless crap you don’t need! And let’s not forget about that atrocity between your legs.”

Camila knows that she’s made a lot of mistakes since she rose to fame just four years ago. She acknowledges that at most times, she’s a dick. She acknowledges that despite this, she often doesn’t feel guilty about her attitude.

But her father’s hatred towards her runs so much deeper than his disappointment for all of her mistakes. No, her father has always hated her, no matter what she’s done to make him happy. She would study her ass off and get the best grades in school, she would clean the entire house without being asked to, she would get him extravagant Father’s Day gifts, even when she had no money, just to try to make him smile. But it was never enough.

Camila knows that she’ll never win her father’s love that she so desperately craves. He will never accept her because of her sexuality and the deformity between her legs. She’s a monster in his eyes, and he’s always made that very clear.

“Dad, I know that you hate me but—”

“Oh, I more than hate you, Karla. I loathe you. I’ve loathed you since the day you were born and I’ll loathe you until the day you die. Your mother should’ve gotten that abortion when she had the chance.”

Camila’s mother gave birth to her at a young age, back when she still lived in Cuba in poverty. But Camila never considered the fact that her parents wanted to get rid of her at some point. Her parents never wanted her. No one does.

“P-please. Stop—”

“I want you out of this house. Now.”

“I’m not leaving until I see Sofi. Please, just tell me where she is!”

But before Camila has another second to think, she’s suddenly overwhelmed by the harsh pain of her father slapping her right across the face. She gasps, grasping her stinging cheek before falling to the ground.

Alejandro doesn’t stop there. He delivers a few kicks to his daughter’s stomach, ignoring the way she howls in pain, before climbing on top of her and punching her in the face a few times, leaving her bloody and bruised.

“D-Dad! Stop, please! I-I’m begging you! Stop!”

But he doesn’t stop. He stands up again, pulling his daughter’s legs apart, making room for his target. He smirks, proud of the damage he’s just done to his child, before delivering one last kick with all of his might— right to Camila’s crotch.

Camila doubles over in pain and lets out a heart wrenching cry before immediately reaching to cradle her genitals in agony. The tears don’t stop streaming down her face. She feels her heart literally break in two when she looks up to see her father staring down at her— smiling. He’s clearly satisfied with what he’s just done.

“Not so strong when your mother’s not here to defend you, are you?”

Instead of answering him, Camila let’s out another whimper of pain. Her body trembles in fear as her father leans down to take a hold of the collar of her sweatshirt, his grip suffocating.

“Now get out! You are no daughter of mine. Next time you come back here, I won’t be so easy on you,” he says as he continues tightening his hold on the pop star’s sweater. Alejandro can almost see the life draining out of Camila’s eyes as he squeezes, and for a moment, he’s tempted to squeeze even harder. But then, he decides that as a cop, it wouldn’t be wise to kill the teenager. He’ll let her go, for now.

As soon as her father loosens his grip, his breath still hot on Camila’s face, the young Latina immediately scrambles up with all the strength she has left runs out the front door. She stops and takes one last look at her small, two-story home, realizing that she’ll probably never see it again.

Tears burn her eyes when she realizes that, even worse, she’ll never see her little sister again. She’ll never get to hold her tiny hand as they walk down the street. She’ll never get to snuggle up with her on a cold winter’s night, each of them holding a large mug of hot chocolate, as they watch Disney movies together. She’ll never get to tuck her sister in her adorable princess sheets and read her her favorite bed time story after a long day of playing in the backyard. And finally, she’ll never be able to look into her beautiful brown eyes again, so similar to her own, and realize that she has a person that’s truly there for her, a person that is unaware of all the past mistakes she’s made and loves her unconditionally.

When Camila finally makes it safely to her car that someone on her team left outside for her, she locks herself inside and repeatedly pounds her head against the steering wheel before drowning herself in her own tears. She cries and cries until she has no more tears to shed and reluctantly starts her car.

When she arrives at the penthouse that she originally purchased for her father and sister, Camila is tempted to cry again until she remembers that she’s already cried herself out completely.

Camila’s Miami Penthouse

As Camila steps inside, she thinks of how luckily, she had already furnished the home as a favor to her father, so she’ll at least have some furniture to sleep on tonight. However, sleep is definitely not on Camila’s itinerary tonight.

The first thing she does when she walks in is take a seat at the bar she has installed in her living room. She reaches into her backpack that has been on her shoulders all day and extracts a large bottle of Vodka.

Perfect for numbing the pain, she thinks as she sniffles and rubs at her eyes, so sensitive from all the crying.

After taking a few swigs straight from the bottle, Camila reaches into her back pocket and takes out a small baggie filled with a white, powder-like substance.

This is a habit that Camila has developed in the last few years, overwhelmed by the amount of work she’s put in for her profession. Without an ounce of regret, Camila empties the contents onto the bar’s counter, takes out a credit card to make a few lines, and sniffs up all of the cocaine she had in her possession.

At this point, Camila can’t give a single damn about any of the consequences. If she dies, who will miss her anyway?

Her parents hate her and she’s never allowed to see her little sister again. In addition to that, she managed to betray the greatest love of her life, one of the only people in this world that truly loved her for her and not the fame or the money.

As Camila sits at the bar of her penthouse, way too spacious for one person, she realizes that she is completely and utterly alone.

…

I’m sorry for the angst guys :(

This fic is really important to me because Camila’s relationship with her father is inspired by the one that I have with my own dad (slightly exaggerated but you get my point lol). So if you guys left some feedback on my Wattpad account (@xlaurmanix) and shared this with your friends, it would mean the world to me ❤️

Thank you guys for reading, and I’ll update as soon as I can!

#UPDATE #series #AU #g!p #slash #trigger warning #camren #laurmani #alren #laurinah #angst drama #family #humour #submission #Trainwreck

[aubeewrites]

The Boy

The boy next door is being buried today.

He referred to him as the boy because it made it easier to distance himself from the situation. Like the boy hadn’t been his friend for the fifteen years. Like maybe the boy was just some stranger he read about in the paper and felt obligated to care about. His mother inadvertently destroyed the illusion not long after walking into his room that morning, reminding him they had to be leaving in just over an hour, so he best hurry up.

“I’m not going,” David grumbled from his bed, not bothering to roll over to face his mother.

“You’ve been friends with Kennedy for years now. There’s only going to be one funeral. You’ll regret it if you don’t go. It’s your last chance to say goodbye.”

Don’t remind me , he wanted to say. He wanted to say a lot of things, but he didn’t. He wanted to tell his mother it wasn’t that he didn’t want to see Kennedy. It wasn’t that he was pretending Kennedy wasn’t dead, like his mother thought. It’s that he didn’t want to see his parents, the people he thought to be responsible for his friend’s death.

“You’re going to the funeral David, and that’s final.” His mother left the room without further discussion.

He didn’t think that Kennedy’s parents killed him directly. They didn’t seem to pay enough attention to him for that. It was the neglect that inevitably caused his death. Both of his parents were always at work, so he only saw them when the school called them in because of one of Kennedy’s latest ordeals. Even then, Kennedy had told him that his parents payed more attention to the principals than him, then headed straight back to work afterwards. After many failed cries for attention, he decided to step up his game. He took to drinking excessively on weekends when he was out with his friends, and then he started to drink after school during the week, then on his lunch break, and eventually he got to the point of drinking before school and in class. Kennedy had convinced himself he didn’t have a problem, his justification being that he primarily drank wine and if he had a problem he’d be drinking stronger stuff. Even when he made a habit out of drinking and driving he didn’t believe he had a problem. Up until he died he thought he was fine.

To the best of David’s knowledge, his parents didn’t think he had a problem either. They hadn’t noticed he spent more time drunk than not.

He looked across the room at the chair which had a suit draped over it. He knew he should go to the funeral; it would be the right thing to do. Kennedy was dead, though, and it wouldn’t make any difference to him whether or not David went. He wouldn’t even know. His parents would, and David didn’t feel like doing them any favors.

Still, David found the motivation to drag himself out of his bed and towards the chair. After he changed into his funeral attire and was staring at his reflection, it all seemed more real. He was flooded with more emotions in this moment than he’d felt since he found out about his friend’s death. Up until then he had only felt anger. Anger towards Kennedy’s parents for never paying attention to him. Anger towards Kennedy for going to such lengths to get his parents attention. There was more than just anger now. Now there was sadness. There was a certain apathy he felt towards the fact that he wasn’t going to see his friend again, but it left and was replaced by an empty feeling of anguish.

Kennedy Hadley, 16, died tragically in a car accident due to impaired driving on August 28th, 2017. He was born November 8th, 2000 to Heather and Robert Ansley. He was a student at Will Rogers Secondary School entering the twelfth grade. Kennedy had a passion for helping people and wanted to practice medicine after graduating high school.

Kennedy is survived by his parents; maternal grandparents Linda and Charles Wilson; his paternal grandparents Candace and Ryan Hadley; and his childhood friend David Winston.

He was in the car when he came across Kennedy’s obituary in the paper. David tossed it aside before he read the entire thing because he knew it would just fuel his anger even more. He noticed his mother glance up from the road and give him a concerned look through the rearview mirror, which he responded to with a glare.

“Kennedy failed grade eleven bio. He never wanted to be a doctor.” It almost hurt how little his parents knew about him.

David knew his mother was concerned about him. He knew she’d probably spend weeks trying to get him to open up about how he was handling things, before his father would suggest making an appointment for him to see a therapist since his mother’s benefits would cover it. He really was okay, but his parents just had to make sure.

The thought made him wish he could switch parents with Kennedy.

It wasn’t necessarily that he wanted parents who couldn’t care less about him; the thought was quite unappealing. Having parents like that would mean you were pretty much left to fend for yourself. Sure, they made sure there was food on the table, clothes on his back, a roof over his head, and all the meaningless material objects a kid could wish for, but that was it. No structure he needed to live by, no emotional support, the only bond he had with his parents was because of his mother’s manipulative tendencies and the obligation he felt because they were blood. They hardly counted as parents at all.

Maybe if he and Kennedy were able to switch parents, Kennedy would still be alive and happy. Maybe David would be the one in the coffin.

When they arrived at the funeral the dolorous atmosphere enveloped them from the moment they stepped foot in the church. It was like a pillow trying to smother them. David had been in the building for less than a minute and he already felt like he needed to step outside for some fresh air. Or to escape, he thought as the two people he didn’t want to see walked over to greet him.

“We’re so glad you could make it.” Kennedy’s father said.

“It’s such a tragedy; he died so young.” His mother added. “I still can’t believe he was drinking and driving. Kennedy never drank, so it came as a shock to us when we read the coroner’s report.”

David wanted to scream.

He hadn’t spent a full twenty-four hours sober in over a month before he died, actually, Heather. He wanted to say. He killed himself trying to get your attention, maybe if you weren’t such a neglectful bitch you’d have noticed.

“I need some fresh air.”

In David’s mind, drinking was a more disgusting habit than smoking. That was probably because he’d never watched anyone die from lung cancer, but he watched alcohol consume his friend. He was there and watched first hand while it took over Kennedy’s life. Maybe he was partially to blame for his friend’s death, too.

On a bench not too far from the entrance to the church David sat and took out a flask from the inside pocket of his suit. The flask had previously belonged to Kennedy and was found in his car when he got in the accident. There was a small dent in it, but otherwise it was intact. He held it tightly in his hand, knowing it was all he had left of Kennedy and brought it to his lips. He wouldn’t become an alcoholic like his friend had, but he needed something to help him get through the day.

After a few minutes he went back into the church and walked up to the casket that held his friend, but froze before he got close enough to actually see him. If he actually saw his friend’s dead body that might be too much for him, but what if that was the closure he needed? There would be no denying that he lost his friend for good if he looked, but on the contrary what if he didn’t look and went crazy trying to ignore it?

He was snapped out of his thoughts by Kennedy’s parents who again tried to engage in conversation with him.

“We’re really glad you came. I know it must be hard for you.” Heather tried to sympathize.

It’s probably harder on me than it is on you. I actually cared about him. I watched this happen.

“You know, you were one of his only friends. Honestly you were the only one we liked.” Now it was his father speaking, and he didn’t sound much more intelligent than his mother.

He had plenty of friends. Not that I’d expect you to notice. If we hadn’t been friends for over a decade I doubt you’d know me.

“How are you holding up?” His mother asked.

There were so many things he wanted to say. He wanted to yell at them. He wanted to scream. He wanted to cry.

I lost my best friend because you two are unfit parents.

You’re responsible for your own son’s death; I should be asking how you’re holding up.

I hope the guilt eats away at you for the rest of your lives.

That should be you guys, dead and on display for everyone to see.

At some point David had moved closer the casket, and just as he opened his mouth to tell the two people standing before him how he believed they were the guilty ones, he caught a glimpse of his friend’s lifeless body out of the corner of his eye. He choked on his words. His breathing became uneven and noticeable to those around him.

“Are you okay?”

Kennedy’s mother sounded worried, and for a second he wondered if Kennedy had ever heard her use that tone of voice.

You killed him.

He took a deep breath in and evened out his voice, just long enough for him to speak.

“I’m sorry for your loss.”

Exhale.

The boy next door was dead.

#short story #creative writing #writing #story #aspiring author #the boy #my story #original

[hold-my-hair-back]

(Pair of your choice😉) Person A is feeling really nauseous but the event they are at has person B so excited and talkative that person A can't really find an opportunity to say any thing. Person A is nearly at their breaking point when person B notices something fishy. TOO LATE GUYSSSS. this leads to a lot of embarrassment and guilt.

Thanks, Anon! I love this request so much! I’ve decided to do my OCs. Emmett is going to be the sick one because the more stoic of the two characters and if Aiden were the one sick, he would definitely be whining about it.

 About my OCs: Emmett: 17. Tall, muscular (though these days he’s getting a little soft around his middle due to Aiden constantly baking for him). He has light brown hair and gray eyes. You will usually see him in a band t-shirt (he likes classic rock) and a leather jacket and ripped jeans. His personality is very stoic and quiet, though when he’s with Aiden, he’s a bit more cheerful. He’s very protective and kind-hearted. If you hurt someone he loves, Emmett will kill you. Aiden: 17. Aiden has blonde hair and blue eyes. He isn’t short necessarily but looks so next to Emmett. He usually dresses nicely for school and loves sweaters. However, when it’s a weekend or he’s going to bed, he likes to wear Emmett’s shirts. He is a little chubby and wears glasses. Very self-conscious of his weight, but Emmett makes him feel good about himself. Aiden is a little chatterbox too. Emmett puts up with it. Very bubbly personality.

 --------------------------------------------------------

It seemed as though the many times they had tried to do something like this in the past, something always came up. Rain, family emergencies, excessive amounts of homework, etc. So, when the forecast was predicting perfectly blue skies, everything was intact with both of their homes, and summer had finally come around, Emmett and Aiden knew it was a day to enjoy each other. Just a few days ago, Emmett had suggested doing something simple like going to the zoo. The moment the idea was out, Aiden had brightened up and bounced up and down agreeing. Since then, the blonde hadn’t stopped talking about it. He had been texting Emmett every night expressing his excitement. Emmett would be lying if he said he didn’t think it was absolutely adorable. Wednesday morning, Emmett had woken up with over a dozen text messages from Aiden. The first one starting at five o'clock in the morning. Emmett glanced and saw it was only eight and he rolled his eyes fondly. They weren’t planning on leaving until noon. Emmett sent him a message back saying he would see him in a few hours and that he was excited as well.

Only, he wasn’t.

 Emmett couldn’t quite put his finger on it, but he realized he was lacking excitement. He was lacking happiness as well too despite always looking forward to the days he could spend with Aiden. The two of them had been best friends their whole lives after all before beginning to date their freshman year of high school. Emmett was baffled that he was feeling so tired at the thought of going to the zoo. After the sending the message that was a lie, Emmett fell back against the pillows with a sigh. The movement pinpointed the exact location of his discomfort which was both helpful yet disappointing at the same time. Emmett let out a soft moan as he felt his stomach slosh queasily. This seemed strange since he didn’t often get upset stomachs, yet there was no doubt that he was nauseous.

 Since Emmett still had a few hours until it was time to pick up Aiden, he closed his eyes again, thinking maybe some more rest would help. As much as he hated doing so, he ignored the sound of his phone indicating he had a text message. He didn’t like the idea of ignoring Aiden, but he was nowhere near the mood to stare at a phone screen. The only thing he wanted to do was sleep off whatever was making his stomach do flips in hopes of having a good day at the zoo. Aiden loved animals and he deserved at least this.

 However, sleep was not coming easy. Emmett ran a hand through his sandy hair, sighing into the pillow. He didn’t feel queasy enough to vomit, but he felt bad enough to want nothing more than a day in bed. Still, no matter how sick he felt, Emmett would never cancel this date with Aiden. Not when his boyfriend had been looking forward to this so much.

 Eventually, after about twenty minutes, Emmett slowly sat up, keeping a hand on his stomach. He had fallen asleep in his t-shirt and jeans again due to passing out while texting Aiden late last night as usual. The shirt he was wearing was a faded Guns N’ Roses logo and it had fit him well for a while, but now it felt almost too tight. He frowned as he lightly palmed his stomach some more, swinging his legs over the side of the bed as he did so. The motion prompted a soft burp to escape his lips which helped lessen the pressure slightly, but not much. His stomach felt bloated and hard, and he wondered what the cause of that was. He had to be coming down with a virus or something.

 Still, remembering Aiden’s excitement, Emmett slowly stood up, keeping a hold on his stomach as though that could keep the contents from shifting too much. He burped again, this time a little louder as he shuffled over to his closet to get dressed. He slipped on a pair of jeans that he found on the floor and then rummaged through his drawers to find a t-shirt. At this point, he had leant so many to Aiden (who never returned them) he was starting to run out. He wanted something looser, something that would hopefully not add pressure onto his stomach and would make the bloating a little less obvious. He found one of his many AC/DC shirts and slipped that on before quickly returning his hand to his stomach. Rubbing it was helping slightly, but not enough to make him feel well enough to go on a date. Especially not one that involved so much walking around.

 Emmett eventually headed downstairs toward the kitchen. He hoped some food in his belly would make him feel better. He didn’t have any siblings and his mom went to work early, so he typically fended for himself for meals. Usually, he would fry up some bacon and eggs as cooking was actually relaxing for him. However, this was a morning for toast and juice.

 Not even bothering to put peanut butter on the bread, Emmett began munching on the plain toast, hoping it would help ease his stomach. He started out quickly but soon found himself slowing down halfway through the first slice. When he was finally finished with it, he knew he couldn’t force himself to eat the second one. He threw it away and focused on his juice, but he couldn’t finish that, either. Giving up entirely on the concept of consuming anything, Emmett rested his head on the table over his arms and closed his eyes.

The sound of his phone ringing jerked Emmett awake. Tiredly, he fished it out of his pocket and answered it before even checking to see who it was. “Hello?” he mumbled into the phone.

 “Emmett!” The excited voice on the other end was instantly recognizable. “You sound sleepy. Did you decide on a nap before the zoo? Oh, Emmett, I’m so excited!” Emmett was having a hard time keeping up with Aiden’s excited rambling. His stomach was feeling even worse now and despite the nap, he was more tired. “I-” Emmett was cut off as he let out a long burp into the receiver.

“Lovely,” was Aiden’s response, but not without a hint of affection. “Thank you for sharing that with me. I, of course, am used to you having the table manners of a Tasmanian Devil.”

 Before Emmett could explain that his stomach was upset, Aiden continued. “It’s been so long since I’ve been to the zoo. Emmett, this was such a good idea. Thank you.” Now Emmett knew he wouldn’t be able to back out. “I’ll leave my house now. See ya soon.” His stomach moaned as he hung up the phone as if begging him to reconsider this. Emmett only rubbed it in response, hoping that it would let up soon.

  Five minutes into the drive to the zoo, and Emmett knew this wasn’t something that was just going to fade away. Aiden was in the passenger seat happily chatting away as Emmett discreetly kept one hand on his stomach as he drove. He had the air conditioner on full blast which had helped at first but was now doing nothing. The nausea was getting significantly worse as each minute passed and he started to panic just a little bit. He doubted he would go very long without needing to throw up. Emmett shifted and belched, bringing a fist up to his mouth. It was a good thing something like that wasn’t unusual behavior for him as Aiden didn’t even look over at him when it happened. However, when another longer and louder one escaped past his lips, Aiden stopped talking and looked over at him. “Did you chug a twelve pack of soda or something, Em? You’ve been gassy all morning.”

 Emmett shook his head and opened his mouth to explain himself. He had no intention of telling Aiden he was sick, but simply wanted to say his stomach was just a little upset. However, before he could talk, the zoo entrance came into sight and Aiden was all smiles again. “There it is! We’re going to have such a good time.” Emmett wasn’t so sure about that. “Did you know giraffes are the tallest mammals on Earth? And that they don’t need to drink water as often as other animals? And that they actually have the same number of vertebrae as people but they’re just really big? And that their kick is actually powerful enough to kill predators? And that…”

 Only a half-hour into the zoo experience and Emmett was already starting to regret this. He loved his dates with Aiden more than anything and even loved how much of a chatterbox his boyfriend became while excited, but today it was too much. “Aiden-” Emmett began, deciding he needed to say something. “I don’t -- urrrrrrp.” Emmett was once again cut off by another belch. This one sounded even wetter than the last. His stomach was sloshing dangerously and his half-digested toast wasn’t settling well at all. It wanted up. Sooner rather than later. Emmett wanted to rub his belly, but he was holding hands with Aiden and the other was covering his mouth in case his belches brought up something else.

Aiden, however, didn’t seem to notice much. “Emmett, did you see the way the red pandas curled around each other while sleeping? It was so cute! It reminded me of how you hold me while we sleep whenever we’re together.” Emmett wanted to reply to the comment because it was sweet and he really did love Aiden, but another sick belch escaped him instead. They were standing at the fence to the tiger enclosure now, surrounded by other people who were taking photos of the beautiful animal. Beside him, a kid was eating a chili cheese dog and Emmett softly gagged into his hand at the sight. His stomach lurched a little as he did so and saliva was pooling into his mouth. Finding no other choice, Emmett pulled his hand away from Aiden’s to rest on his stomach. It was even more bloated now and it let out an audible noise. No. This was not happening. Not here.

“Em?” Aiden asked softly, putting a hand on his back. “You don’t look so good. Are you feeling okay?”Emmett wanted to tell Aiden he hadn’t been feeling good all day, but he didn’t dare take his hand off his mouth. Instead, he shook his head, hiccuping softly into his hand. “Oh, no,” Aiden whispered. “Let’s get you to a bathroom.”Emmett wanted to find a bathroom as quickly as possible, but he was frozen in place as he burped wetly into his hand once again. This time, he could taste the acid in the back of his throat. At this point, he could feel a few pairs of eyes on him which made it that much worse. He smelled the chili dog that was nearby and he gagged again, this time bringing up a small bit of vomit in his hand. Aiden clearly knew he had thrown up, even though none of it had spilled from his hand. “Oh, Em,” he whispered, pulling out a package of tissue from his back pocket. Thankfully, his allergies always acted up in summer so he carried them around with him always. “Wipe your hand, baby.” Emmett wanted to, but he didn’t dare pull his hand away from his mouth at this point. A loud hiccup followed by an even louder belch escaped him and more vomit was coming up, this time filling his hand and spilling from his finger tips. Emmett quickly pulled his hand away and hunched over, no longer caring that he was in front of a group of people that were all staring at him. Yes, he was humiliated, but he didn’t have much of a choice. Emmett let out an even louder, sicker belch this time, one hand resting on his knees as he stood bent over, the other rubbing at his queasy belly. A large torrent of vomit splattered onto the sidewalk, big enough for chunks to splash onto his shoes and jeans. His audience quickly reacted and he knew many hurried off to get away from him. “Don’t be embarrassed,” Aiden whispered. “You can’t help it. I’m sorry your tummy doesn’t feel good.” Aiden was behind him, rubbing his back as he gagged again, this time bringing up nothing. He gagged once more, only a trickle of bile coming out. He was sure he was empty now, but he stayed bent over just in case, letting Aiden comfort him. “I’m sorry,” Emmett whispered, wiping the back of his hand with his mouth as he spat out a large glob of phlegm. He straightened up and stretched before putting a hand to his belly that now felt less bloated and sick. “No,” Aiden corrected him quickly. “I am. I’m sorry you felt like you needed to come out here today for me. I would say you should have told me, but I know I was probably too busy with the animals to listen. Let’s get you home, Em. The animals will be here all summer.” Emmett nodded, thankful that Aiden didn’t seem to be disappointed. “I love you he whispered, voice hoarse from the vomiting. Aiden let out that cute little giggle of his. He bent down slightly and pressed a kiss to Emmett’s belly. “And I love you,” he agreed. “Now let’s get you back to bed.”

[alienloveprince-blog]

Series Existence : Writings Relevant to the Stories of Iqoras & Xian : Pokémon R / B / Y Timeline - Day Zero, Crash Landing - 7th Day, Crash Site Stabilized, Qhi Begins Scouting - 13th Day, Song Begins Terraforming Crash Site - 52nd Day, Xian Wakes Up - 130th Day, Qhi Discovers (Camp 1), Song Ventures Forth - 133rd Day, Song Reaches (Camp1), Qhi Ventures Further, Xian Ventures Forth - ~~~ Entry Xian, Just Before Discovering the New World It seems to have been a long time... *stares off into the room* *snaps out of it* Since i have met with Iqoras on our Vehicle, the Astral Transient. She has been at the controls of the direction for a long time. I am not sure if she even wants to see me right now. I have been stranded in our guest room. She put me in here.. when she decided my vision for our direction was not aligned with reality. Quarantined beyond Space and Time. Now, we wander Iqoras's mind. If she does not land soon, i am not sure if we will survive. Eventually the Astral Transient will deteriorate based on the psychology of the user. If Iqoras continues to roam, to never land and exit, she might get consumed by her own mind. I have no idea what that means for me. I have no idea how long that could be. *Day 52* It seems i am not dead yet. It also seems Iqoras has... landed... Now, to figure out where that is. Perhaps, more importantly... Why..... I haven't seen Iqoras yet. I see the protocol droids have been put to work, and it seems a few advanced androids have been activated and put to work too.. but they are not here either. It's a empty camp, and it's just like the cage she put me in. Full of food and comforts and lovely things. It seems it doesn't take long to begin creating advanced new world colonies when you have alien gear. I must still get used to this whole, larger world thing. Iqoras showed me a lot of things, but i never would have though we would end up here. The world itself looks very different. We are obviously not on a planet, and although there are obvious cycles of the celestial bodies. I am not sure what these celestial bodies are, how they are organized, or the forces keeping them in tact. This all makes me interested at least. I am going to take a while to learn about our new world and decide what to do next. *Day 133* This world, is beyond interesting. I noticed something, closer to the epicenter of this cosmic cluster... it was a bright light, but also dark as the void. I am not sure what to make of it yet, but it is very far away for now, and i do not even know if Iqoras & I can / will make it off this current piece of cluster anytime soon. I made my way into the wilds a bit, but a protocol droid stopped me before i encountered this large mouse. Which may have spared me some pain, it apparently conducts electricity in offense and defense... This mouse seems to desire to follow me, i heard that Qhi & Song both found creatures that followed them too. i suspect, they are a part of a larger intelligence. This mouse, it follows my eyes and reads my emotions. It might be like the creatures on Azeroth, that were intimately connected. I cannot see why the wildlife would be so friendly otherwise. Maybe they are just curious though, and my own mind is too far away from reality here and now. I am quite scarred from Azeroth, i won't forget that world anytime soon. I am about to leave, and i guess this mouse will accompany me. *Day 134* Journey to (Camp1) ~~~ Qhi Log. Several noticeable cycles (celestial patterns) since the initial crash. Local wildlife specimen obtained under a form of companionship it accepts. It seems to be quite aware of its environment, and it seems social and intelligent enough to assist me possibly. It seems to absorb the sunlight, and also eat some of the oddly formed plasmas around our environment. Another creature, attacked us. It seemed to not like the plant creature, i named Ursoc Claw. It just seemed fitting. We were fighting off the larger fire breathing salamander type creature when UC dived into a breathe of fire to save me. I thought for sure it would be done for. Apparently, it can take a beating from this fire. I was intrigued and i decided that's why it should be named so. It was a very protective creature. Android : Qhi. I was sent out into the world around our crash site to investigate the life forms which posed more of a obvious threat. From dangerous animals to hazardous plants. I am to scout and report, and Android Song will then begin his own scouting missions. Just before leaving, i gathered some information i might have found useful. Various probes were scattered throughout the environment of this world we landed on. So obviously other Android's must be out there besides for our Captain's Crash Site. A few other droids were up and running, but none of the advanced versions. Just protocol droids to fulfill some work Iqoras needed to tend to at her Base Camp. *Days Later* Qhi Log. First Days of Scouting Mission Resources Available - Wilds, Farmlands. Hostile Creatures - Large Mammal Rats, Large Carnivorous Birds, My friend UC and I have wandered north of our Crash Site for a while now, we have run into a few creatures that sought to harm us, however not as treacherous as that fire lizard. I have seen lovely wilds and lands that could be used to farm and harvest resources for further colonization. UC just appeared to exhibit some strange and new behavior towards the wildlife too, so that will be taken under notice. I seem to have found quite the strong companion. *DaysLater* We were dove upon by another bird that desired to poke into us i suppose. UC shot a sort of seed into the creature, and it seems that UC can absorb the energy, or strength, of those it's seeded. That could be quite... problematic if UC decides i am no longer it's friend. We also just stumbled upon a protocol droid that harvested a form of substance that could be viewed as a dense nutrient food. UC seems to like it, and needed it. We have been running through these wilds avoiding these odd birds and rats for a few days. We had one period of 8 hours of sleep with no worry or care of threat of death. The protocol droid had coordinates a bit further north, that could be a android establishment, or it could be where it landed... Unfortunately i cannot tell given it was activated after the ship began to fall apart, and those are the only coordinates i have from it. *Weeks Later* We have scouted many lands, and all around here are similar to the Crash Site, although the fauna seems to be changing as our altitude increases. We have scaled a few cliff edges, and we have hiked a few hills. UC is in need of some rest it seems. I have not yet seen another creature like it. I wonder, how the occurrences of these creatures happen. Anyways. We have reached a post from a protocol droid, it said up the hill there is a small pod zone. Androids must have set up shop and began surviving the terrain. Fortunately we can bring some trade routes and such to the Crash Site, if this is the case... I am aware of many stories of Xian & Iqoras, but i have yet to ever experience anything close to those old tales. Well, their lives.... On our way to the encampment! *Days Later* This is beautiful! After many days of hard labor wandering and fending off wildlife we have reached a relatively settled encampment. A android operated zone too ! however i cannot find the leader, mostly due to the fact the protocol droid will not let me into their domicile. This is fine, UC & I can spend some time here and learn some things from the local protocol droids. Also... Resources - More Wilds & Plains & Farmlands, & a Lake near the 1st discovered encampment. No new animal creature has appeared, but the plant life has changed a bit. After i recover need to know information from around here, UC and I will begin our mission again. *Day Later* The local Android, has raised a nice little village, a town center, a research and development lab, and it even has a museum of local things and has already begun documenting its usefulness and such! Song will be very pleased by this. Xian & Iqoras also... but i am not sure what they are up to. UC and I are about to leave town, and last evening i sent a signal to Song to make their way through the trail i laid. ~~~ Android Song Log Entries *Days After Crash Site Rejuvination* *Week or so since Qhi began Scouting* The local environment is thriving with all sorts of life. It only takes a eye to see it i suppose. I was designed to examine and interpret however. I was assigned with designing food sources, healing sources, building sources, and other sources of general colonization and to then express the best possible vision for our status on this world. Iqoras & Xian's objective has not been determined, therefore i can only act on what i know for now. I have not yet been advised by Qhi to begin my travels through their trail. I have received various transmissions however that seem to praise that weird plant dog thing, that Qhi somehow convinced its safety was assured along side that boisterous android. I have a companion myself, a odd fiery lizard came to me. I guess it enjoyed my singing when i was out near the sea south of our Crash Site. It helps me do chores, and behaves quite oddly for being a animal. Because i am so interested in it. I have not yet probed it to understand its functioning. I like the mystery, and there has been so much indexing being done at the Crash Site. The curiosity this creature gives me will keep me energized for a while. *Months Later* I just received signal from Qhi that the nearest android encampment has been discovered and linked up with our Crash Site. We are now receiving information from a entirely new region and it is amazing, the flood of new data is always pure bliss to my heart! However, now it is time for me to move on to the next zone. Maybe my lovely lizard friend will accompany me. *Days Later* @ Sign Post Outside of Next Camp I am extremely glad my lizard friend chose to stay with me. I was attacked by several creatures, only one proved any trouble though. I am not designed for defense or offense so my companion, i gave the name Xerestrasz, came to my rescue! There was just one creature, a sort of turtle that spewed water gave us trouble. However, Qhi did a good job laying out a path to walk down. On our way to this new town... I did notice that the environment changed in ways i hypothesized it would, based on the information we received from the post just before i began my venture. I guess it's time to see what is up, in this lovely town. I smell a festival! *Day Later*

[preciousrichard-blog]

Second Thoughts, Second Chances (Sniper/Spy)

Chapter 10: Petty Offenses

AO3 Link: http://archiveofourown.org/works/9419246/chapters/23469924

Rating: Teen+

Chapter Summary: There is no man or woman more deserving of pity than one that has crossed a spy. Sniper may be a hunter, but his lover is a predator, and for the first time he’ll really understand what that means.

“Don’t need it.”

Spy blinked at the Sniper who sat behind the table of his camper, cleaning the barrel of his submachine gun. “Excusez-moi?”

“I said I don’t nee-“

“I heard what you said.” Spy interjected as tension visibly took hold of him, “But this is a gift.”

“Well that’s nice of ya, but what am I gonna do with it?” Sniper frowned, peeking over the rim of his sunglasses, “Couldn’t even flay a jackrabbit with that thing.”

“I should hope not!” The spy scoffed, grimacing at the blackened fingers working a rag over the body of the firearm.

Sniper clicked his tongue and took another look at the knife Spy had brought to his table. It was a tiny, pocketable switchblade that looked very out of place in his van. As petite as it was, it gleamed with an astonishing polish. The case was silver with gold bolsters, and on the cover plates were etchings of various animals the Aussie recognized made up of dark, engraved lines against the white shine. The intricacies of the work looked so painstaking that Sniper wondered how big of a magnifying glass the artist must have needed to accomplish such a feat. When the spy’s fingers flipped a switch, the spring loaded blade shot outward from the side of the case and displayed etchings of foliage along the knife itself. But no amount of pretty art or metal would make something so small any more useful to a man who needed knives to chop saplings and skin game. The spy really had a lot to learn about the Sniper if he thought he’d like something so impractical and flashy.

“It’s a beaut,” Sniper insisted, “but you keep it. You have a use fer things like that, I don’t. I can’t fell a tree with that thing. I could barely fell a bloody petunia. ‘Sides, I’ve already got a huntin' knife.”

Spy furrowed, “I am not giving it to you to be used as a barbaric club like your kukris.”

“Then why give it to me at all?”

“Have you any idea how much-“

“Yeah yeah, probably cost ya hundreds, thousands even.” Sniper shook his head, “But it’s your style, not mine innit?”

Spy bristled, his eyes going wide with disbelief and rage. “Fine.” He spat after a silence, and before Sniper could put his gun down, the BLU spy was out the door, leaving the knife behind.

Spy stormed off, shoulders tight and nostrils flaring with indignation. He shouldn’t have expected a man who lived in the dirt to understand him or the complexities of his tokens. It wasn’t about the money, not anymore. Sniper couldn’t comprehend that his very presence was throwing the allure of wealth from its proverbial throne, but he always made it sound like that was all the spy cared about. The fool. He activated his cloaking watch as he crossed the territory between RED and BLU, ignoring the distant call of Sniper’s voice. He was anything but in the mood to hear it now. He materialized again in front of the staircase that led to the living section of the BLU base and slinked through the doors like a coiling serpent. Immediately he was greeted with the face of a blue shirted scout.

"Woah there pally, almost clipped ya- hey woah hey what's with the face? Ain't happy t'see me?"

"Out of my way, cretin." Spy hissed.

"Geez Louise, sourpuss. Who put a freakin' bee in your undies?" The young man pressed, partially blocking Spy's path.

"Scout if you do not move I will shiv you."

"Holy crap, alright already!"

Spy pushed past the runner faster than he could step aside, and practically stomped away. Scout pulled his baseball cap off and scratched at his head, watching with a perplexed expression as the other turned the corner. All the blue assassin wanted was to reach his quarters, put away the acid and tools he'd left out on his desk, and sleep off the remainder of the afternoon. He despised being confronted in this state. He'd have to make himself dinner later.

After an evening of slow boiling anger and interrogation from his teammates in the dining hall about his unbecoming mood, the spy went to bed that night more irritated than before. And if the RED sniper’s rejection of his thoughtful present wasn’t enough, he’d then been labeled Team Drama Queen by his comrades thanks to the scout’s big fat mouth. Back in his room, he stripped away his suit with a certain fury as he prepared to put such a terrible day to an end.

“I don’t need it Spy.” Spy mocked with a faux Australian accent, slipping free from his tie with a dramatic swoop of his arm.

“But Sniper mon cher it is our three month anniversary, haven’t you kept track at all?” He responded to himself in his normal, albeit irritable voice.

“Keep track? Don’t you know I’m too busy sittin’ on my behind all day to keep tabs on my relationship?” He mocked to himself again.

“Surely the gift itself must mean something, cher, I spent time, not just money!”

“Oh Spy, it means nothin’ to me! I don’t care if you made it yourself. I don’t even look closely enough to notice before I say no! I turn away the faintest hint of class because I’m so humble and practical.” Spy was violently tossing his shed garments across the room at this point, “My dirty outdoor way of life is so superior! I think spending money is a crime!” The accent Spy imitated was beginning to fall apart.

Then he was slamming his dresser drawers shut as he picked out an ensemble to wear to bed. “You didn’t even think to ask about it!” He argued to his own imaginary marksman.

“Of course not, it would have absolutely killed me to think critically!” Spy mimicked, finally dressed for bed and throwing the duvet aside to shuffle harshly into the sheets.

The hurt that came with the daunting thought that his sniper did not care as much as Spy did was a dangerous, consuming thing. It was easier for him to act angry. A man like him with a job like his could simply never afford to express that pain in any other way. Hurt would be carefully and accordingly distributed in stab wounds, bullet holes, and blood. That was the life he chose to lead, and vulnerability had no place out in the open. He admitted to being a man who held grudges, but not forever- he wasn’t such a villain. He had the decency to let it go once the offending party really got the message and acquainted themselves with the appropriate amount of regret. That night that very mindset kept him awake; allowing him little sleep as he quietly concocted a suitable vengeance for his dreadfully inconsiderate lover. Everything wrong that Spy had been forced to go through that afternoon was entirely Sniper’s fault, and hence, the gunman would just have to pay for the trouble he so thoughtlessly caused.

It was overcast the next day, appropriately gloomy for the brooding mood the spy was in. His exhaustion worked to fuel his need for payback. The RED sniper would find no rest until he’d realized his mistake and apologized. Only then would the spy relent. After all, he was a forgiving person at heart - to anyone that mattered anyway. He made no effort to interact with his team, because he would be making no effort to be a team player today. The announcer counted down as the BLUs boarded the cart. Spy knew exactly where the enemy sniper liked to hide right before the first point, and that’s where he’d start.

It was barely twenty minutes into the battle and the sniper was grumbling as he walked out of the RED respawn room. It was the second time now that the backstabbing snake got him, and a phantom pain from the sheer force of the spearing offended his back.  It seemed Spy was eager to work that morning, and the sniper was beginning to wonder if he was still miffed about yesterday’s exchange. He gripped his rifle and hurried out to his position when a quick flash of red caught his eye.

“Hey’a Snipes, thought I saw a spy ‘round here, watch yer back!” The RED scout called to him as he sprinted up behind the marksman.

“Yeah he’s bein’ a real wanka. Already got me twice.” Sniper snorted back, ducking to avoid being seen across the sightlines.

“Thrice.” The scout replied with a sudden lack of a Boston accent, and before Sniper could so much as cock a brow at the change, pain was resonating through his entire body.

The killer materialized standing over him, and life clung to the marksman’s eyes just long enough to witness a Frenchman’s self-satisfied grin.  Several more deaths, two captures, and a domination later, the sniper found himself forced to be on very high alert. It was obvious now. Spy was mad. He’d even gone as far as to bring out his Dead Ringer and Ambassador, and he never used that combination unless he was looking to be a pain in the ass. He wasn’t able to land a single real kill on the bloody ponce all day; somehow it felt like he was fending off three of him at once. Sniper hadn’t had this much trouble doing his job in what felt like years, and couldn’t peek through his scope for more than a few seconds without looking over his shoulder for a creeping, angry lover. In his pocket sat the knife that started everything. He’d put it there to give back to the Frenchman, but it was clear to him that wasn’t going to happen anymore. He sneered, he couldn’t fathom why such a stupid little trinket ticked the man off so badly. Spy often spit the dummy over little things, as the sniper more recently learned, but this was pushing it. It looked like he’d have to tough it out until the spy got over it like he always did when Sniper said the wrong things at the wrong times.

Watching from behind the doorway, the BLU spy had switched out his pocket watch for something with a bit more flexibility. The Cloak and Dagger would do nicely. He observed the paranoid sniper who obviously sensed his invisible presence nearby. His back really was Spy’s favorite. Something about the curve of his spine, the tension as he held up his gun and the lean of his body were simply enchanting. Shaking his head, the Frenchman shooed away the teasing need to slither up to those shoulders and dig his fingers into them. Now was not the time for starry-eyed reverence. No Spy, He frowned to himself, You’re angry with him! He deserves this. Well placed jabs in the back would just have to be the substitute for contact until his work was done.

With that, the blue assassin stole into the stuffy little room he’d been observing when the gunfire outside reached a crescendo. Under the cover of the racket, he snuck off not with another two-point kill, but with Sniper’s kukri instead. Nothing could make a man appreciate having an auxiliary knife in dire times more than having no knife at all. Grinning to himself as he sauntered away, the BLU spy held up the garish weapon by the handle with his thumb and forefinger to observe it. Then, he tossed it away with a look of disgust into an open barrel of a side room before alerting the BLU scout to the RED snipers position. As that business sorted itself out, the spy flicked open his disguise kit with a cocky hum to the sound of Sniper’s dying scream and selected his clueless lover’s image to wear for a while. It was time to put on a show.

The fake RED sniper now snapped at the medic beside him as he leaned painfully against the RED enemy dispenser. “Some doctor you are!”

“Was?” The RED medic asked, shock in his eyes.

“Are you goin’ bloody deaf? I called you more times than I can count! I had to come all the way down here to get any bleedin’ help!”

“Herr Sniper you are not a priority.” Medic glowered, his tone going darker with every word, “You know that. There is only one of me and I’m a busy man on the front line.”

“Yeah? Well I’ve been a bloody dead man keepin’ that blue sniper from poppin’ yer head off!” Spy’s character hissed, “Maybe if ya did yer damn job we’d be winnin’ hey?”

The medic squared up the impersonated sniper for just long enough that Spy worried he might see through the disguise. “I suggest you get comfortable on that dispenser Herr Sniper.” The doctor frowned, his cold, sinister eyes burning through the spy like acid. “Because it will be the only thing healing you today with that attitude.” Excellent.

Sniper was panting, back peddling and dodging the explosions of rockets as a lumbering BLU soldier chased him down. He leapt out of the way of his fourth shot, it’d buy him enough time to escape down an alley while he reloaded. The meaty drongo had caught him upstairs and tried to blow him to bits, but the blast knocked him from the third story instead. Now he clutched at his shoulder, his arm dislocated and his ankles definitely fractured from the fall. He called out for the team doctor, grunting with every aching step, but heard nothing in response. He wouldn’t have been in this mess if he hadn’t misplaced his knife somehow. He must have lost it sometime before that BLU scout tore his chest open with a shotgun. Try as he might, he couldn’t remember how he could have lost the thing- he never moved anywhere without it. He called for help again as he dashed across the open stretch of dirt, spotting his team ahead. The German doctor looked him dead in the eyes for a time, establishing something gritty and unwelcoming, before turning away and ignoring his plea completely.

As it turned out, Spy was taking things way more personally than Sniper anticipated. He’d now learned the spy pissed off the medic using the marksman’s own good name, costing him any assistance if things got hairy. And if the sniper had to hazard a guess, he probably stole his kukri too. The Aussie dug the heels of his hands into his eyes as he slouched against a wall by the dispenser, and he tried to ignore the sympathetic looks he was getting from the engineer hammering away at a sentry gun beside him.

“Rough day pardner?” The Texan asked.

Sniper groaned, “I’ve had better.”

“Y’know Stretch, I haven’t seen that no-good turncoat ‘round my contraptions all day.” He replied, and Snipers eyes got a little wider at the mention of the BLU spy. “I reckon he’s been hasslin’ you instead.”

“Hasslin’s an understatement.” He grumbled loudly. The opportunity to complain drew up the brunt of all of his frustration from the day, and it began escaping in his voice as he continued, “Bloody weasel has it out fer me today… That prancin’ little snot-nosed sod thinks he’s so slick. I’d like to give him a taste of his own bleedin’ medicine but he won’t just up n’ face me like a man.”

Engineer’s eyebrows arched at the sudden change of tone, but smiled at the words that formed from it. He grinned with his teeth and let out a little bellow of a chuckle. For a second it almost seemed as though the man was laughing at the sniper rather than what he said, but Sniper chalked it up to the subtle paranoia he always felt now that he was secretly involved with the enemy. Even if they never once discussed anything touching upon classified information, he doubted their allies would really consider it any less treasonous, so it was vital for him to be on his toes. Even a good a friend as Engie couldn’t be trusted with that knowledge. None of them could.

“I oughta head back.” Sniper sighed as he stood and tipped his hat. He wasn’t about to stick around and slip up with the mood he was in.

The engineer nodded at him supportively, “I’m sure you’ll work it out mister.”

When Sniper returned to his post the last thing he anticipated was a scattering of blue sticky bombs that had been shot in through the open window. The second he rushed in he heard the arrogant howl of that BLU Scottish drunkard down below and the only thing the sniper could remember was the flash of explosives. His eyes opened to quiet and the blurry floorboards of the room. He saw the cast shadows of the rubble before he felt it pressing down on his body. The bombs had toppled the tall stacks of industrial crates and supplies that had been abandoned there, and the marksman could reason they were still full containers by the way they crushed him. He thanked his physique for once, his lanky frame making it easier to wriggle free from the pile of wood and nails. But as soon as he was grateful for his genetics, they inconvenienced him yet again. He was caught in a mess of rope he wasn’t strong enough to break free from. He spat a curse, then another, there was no way to work the damn thing loose from the heap. His several clearly broken bones were also not doing anything to help. He called out, but no one answered- not even a rogue BLU willing to kill him and send him through respawn. From how the echoes of gunfire sounded, both teams were already fighting over the final point a good three hundred meters away. Damn it, damn it all. Grunting, the pain was so thorough he didn’t know which pain to focus on more. He scratched and rubbed infuriately at the dry blood caked on his face.

It was then that he had the most annoying idea he’d ever had in all his life. “I can’t believe this.” He hissed aloud as he wiggled Spy’s switchblade from his pocket and flipped it open.

The RED team lost that day after an unusually long struggle. If it hadn’t been for the knife in his pocket the sniper would have still been calling out for help in the middle of a deserted battlefield instead of sitting at his table in a warm camper. He fingered at the case, bitter at both the coincidence of the blade’s helpfulness, and the fact that Spy had indirectly saved him after a day of petty harassment. He still had yet to speak to the masked man, and frankly wouldn’t even know what to say. Caught between being the bigger man and admitting he had been too severe, and the somewhat childish desire to sock the mongrel in the teeth, he was left having to sort out what to do overnight. Maybe he had been stubborn, gifts were meant to be on the expensive side anyway. Spy was a bit like the twisting wild animals etched into the blade handle. He was a beauty of a sight to look at, but volatile and best treated very particularly like his very own species. Sniper chuckled, spies really were a species all of their own now that he thought about it. Looking closer, he came to realize every animal engraved on the silver case just so happened to be Australian. Newly intrigued, he looked harder until his eyes went wide and he was scrambling to his shelves. He threw down the album Spy had nosed through on his first visit and quickly flipped to the section of his trophies. Eyes flickering between the handle and the photos, he turned page after page.

“Fuck.” He whispered, squeezing the closed knife in his fist until his knuckles went bright.

It was a new day full of new ways for Spy to teach his red-shirted sniper a generally harmless but very valuable lesson. He felt substantially better after yesterday’s clever little games. But as long as the tall Australian remained oblivious to his own insensitivity, the BLU spy would not let him get away with turning a blind eye to devoted work. He spent extra time sharpening his balisong that morning, but every grind against the water stone only deepened his distress. He was a grown man, there was no reason he’d still be mad over something so trivial. No, he just needed to deliver a sort of justice. He was only taking what he deserved for the time and effort he’d spent. He deserved something in return, and if Sniper would not give him his gratitude, then Spy could settle for amusement.

He was poised to strike the marksman, regretfully disguised as his own RED counterpart, as grotesque as that amateur’s fashion sense was. A passing soldier was just enough distraction to quickly approach, but it apparently had not been distracting enough. The BLU spy had a lot of intricate plans that morning, but hadn’t actually planned on what happened next. He lunged right into a quick dodge. Somehow the gunman had realized he was there. Spy narrowed his eyes and sneered into the clumsy motion before righting himself and taking another swing. His disguise fizzled away with the next miss as the sniper blocked himself behind his rifle with a grunt. Spy could find no surprise in his eyes, which vexed him just long enough for the Australian to pull the gun and swing back around, smacking the stock hard against the Frenchman’s gloved knuckles and sending his knife clattering across the floor. Spy hissed angrily at the stinging in his hands, and only spared a flick of his eyes to see that his weapon was definitely out of reach.

“Spy!” The sniper snapped angrily before he recoiled from the kick that sent his body back and his rifle to the ground.

The spy stepped away as he retrieved his revolver from his pocket, pulling the hammer back as he cocked the gun up to his lover’s face. Then again his plans proved short-sighted when Sniper flung a Bowie knife in his direction, leading his eyes away for a second too long. Suddenly Spy found himself bum rushed, firing instinctively into the floor before the revolver was wrenched from his faltering hands with a forceful growl.

“Enough muckin’ about!” Sniper snapped again, flinging the weapon and struggling against Spy’s attempt to slip away. “I’ve had just about enough of your nonsense!”

Spy writhed in the marksman’s grasp, every push met with one equally as forceful. They were too close of a match unarmed. “You think this will stop me?” The spy scoffed with half a mind to laugh in the other man’s face.

“Can’t you just bloody talk to me?” Sniper huffed and struggled, denying the man any escape.

“Why? Is that something you actually need?” Spy seethed back, pulling them around by locked limbs and causing them to stumble about in a violent ballroom dance.

“Spy-“ Sniper choked as he tried his damnest to keep his footing while being strangled by his own clothing. “I’m sorry!”

Their movements slowed, and the lines of Spy’s outrage smoothed over with a wash of bewilderment. He held fast to the Aussie’s shirt, fists balled up in the fabric around his collar. He stayed that way for only a split moment, until he heard the discernible sound of Sniper swallowing the silence, accentuated with a sticky sort of sigh caught amongst his heavy breathing. As if it were a cue, the blue suited assassin bristled again and pushed forward while the sniper had his guard down. They separated, the gunman stumbling backwards in surprise.

“Sorry?” Spy frowned, offendedly brushing off his suit jacket, “Now why in the world would you be sorry?” He asked as if the other man were an idiot.

Sniper sighed and removed his hat, “Common Spy don’t be this way.”

“Oh is this not the reaction you were expecting perhaps?” Spy spat, despising everything about the position he was now in.

The sniper slipped his yellow tinted glasses from the bridge of his nose next, revealing weary, squinting eyes. “Spy I’m sorry.” He repeated.

Spy ignored the look in his eyes, his icy anger tuning out any other concerns. “Sorry for what?”

It was clearly a test, and the Aussie knew it, he knew better than to try and appeal to Spy’s overly particular expectations with wording when he was like this. He reached into his pocket instead, and waved a reassuring palm when the spy tensed at the motion. He retrieved the knife, gleaming silver, and held it up in his grip.

Spy sneered, disbelief in his eyes, “If you think I will take that thing back yo-“

“How did you remember?” Sniper interrupted.

Silence filled the air between them. Spy couldn’t quite process the words. “What?”

“The handle.” Sniper continued, softer this time, “These critters are from me album. Every one of ‘em.” He gave an imploring look but the spy said nothing. “Even the knife, those are eucalyptus trees aren’t they?”

Spy remained impassive, but mainly because he didn’t actually expect anything that was coming out of his mouth, so he wasn’t sure what to feel. “And?” He offered dispassionately.

“You memorized all of ‘em?”

“Yes, so?”

“How?”

“Unlike some people, I actually notice details.” Spy squinted, crossing his arms in front of his chest.

The marksman went silent for a moment, “It’s gorgeous Spy…”

“It only took you two days to realize.”

“When did you have time to get this done?”

“I made time Bushman.”

“You didn’t… Make this did ya?”

“Don’t be ridiculous.” Spy sneered, waiting until relief passed over the sniper’s features before continuing. “I only engraved the casing.”

“Wha- you can’t be serious.” Sniper gawked. The look Spy gave him was one of stern impatience and he knew then he was very serious indeed. “Okay, so, maybe, y’are… But – Spy I had no idea…”

“Clearly. You wanted nothing to do with it.”

Sniper went quiet, and they stood in that cramped room facing each other to the sound of the firefight down at the payload tracks. “Spy, I really am sorry…” He was firm, despite feeling the opposite. “It’s amazin’ work, really… Thank you.” His hand squeezed the handle of the blade, only underlining the solemn way he dipped his head before a breathy attempt at laughter left him. “I’m glad you ain’t a sniper with eyes n’ fingers like yours.”

The spy knew he startled the man when he stepped forward to grab him. The Aussie flinched defensively before he allowed himself to give. Ignoring the confusion in his eyes, Spy pulled him further and further until the Frenchman was backed up against the wall. “Are you threatened by me then, Bushman?” He asked the taller man, giving a stone cold look as he fingered at the Australian’s collar.

Sniper swallowed. “I reckon I ought’a be after yesterday.” He offered back in a low tone.

At last, Spy let himself smile. “Good answer.”

They kissed then, but it lacked the typical brevity and simplicity that their encounters at work always restricted them to. When their mouths met it was a swell of something unseen that dwarfed them in size. Spy dug his fingers into anything he could grab a hold of, and Sniper falteringly touched at pinstriped waist and hips. Spy should never have doubted, he should have known. All the sniper needed was a push in the right direction, and he would always provide the Frenchman with precisely what he wanted most.

They pressed closer, lips parting as the world around them faded away to the hotness of tongues. Whatever came over the marksman, it was entirely unlike him. Spy sucked in a sharp breath at the leg that squirmed up between his own. It looked as though Sniper found the experience of making amends rather thrilling – Spy would have to jot that one down.

“You’ve gotten bolder since our rendezvous.” the masked man grinned as he parted from the other, “Were your legs the gates to a whole new Sniper?”

The sniper’s eyes went wide before he turned a pleasant dusty pink. “Shut up.” Was all he muttered before going for another kiss in which they lazily watched each other with open eyes.

“This is very unprofessional.” Spy smirked, and his teasing was not lost on the other man.

“It’s compensation fer all my bloody sufferin’.” He retorted.

Spy made a self satisfied noise, and it drew the Aussie back in for more. The reserved marksman had never done something quite this reckless, and frankly the spy didn’t want to stop him just yet- it was too good a moment. It proved to be the wrong decision though, when just beyond the distraction of passionate reconciliation, Spy recognized the quickly approaching footsteps of others. His eyes snapped open as Sniper continued to indulge. It had all happened within seconds. He realized too late that the cart had passed their position, and there would be no credible way to explain why the RED sniper was still alive on what was currently BLU controlled territory - especially when Spy himself had been so focused on harassing him. Another second passed and he’d drawn the knife he’d kept concealed up his sleeve. By the third second, Sniper’s eyes were wide with agony and bewilderment, and a blade was seated deep into his back as he cried into his killer’s mouth. The masked assassin could tell that behind the shock lay the question of why, but he only answered with a  brief look of sadness before letting the man down easy to the floor and pressing a button on his watch. No more than ten seconds had passed before the BLU soldier and medic were passing by them. The soldier stopped and pointed his weapon at the glimpse of red that caught his eye, but he only paused to scoff at the lifeless form before calling his healer to proceed. When the fall of their boots became distant, the spy appeared from thin air, stepping out from his hiding place in the corner.

He stooped at his lover’s side, and grunted as he lifted the heavy body into his lap. He thanked God for the life clinging to the man’s eyes, at least Sniper had been alive long enough to see why he’d been killed so dishonorably. But Spy didn’t believe either one of them was in any way untroubled by what had just transpired. He found he’d shocked himself out of his eloquence; he said nothing. What was done had been done. Just when everything seemed to fall back into place, and just as he was relieved of his need to make the man suffer so, he now clutched his dying, smiling marksman. Wait…

“You could’a killed me all along.” Sniper wheezed, smirking despite his lungs filling with blood.

“Yes…” Spy admitted sadly, holding the man carefully in his arms.

“You…” He breathed, “Bloody mongrel.”

The man in the blue mask bowed, looking into increasingly bleary eyes that watched him as he pressed a slow and remorseful kiss to the gunman’s lips. He’d never seen the man die with a smile on his face like that. It was probably best that he met him up ahead to apologize.

#tf2 #sniperspy #sniper/spy #down undercover #fanfiction #sniper #spy #chapter 10 has killed me and its hard to type with only bones for fingers

[lamorakon-blog]

Kraikki: chapter 1

(This is my first attempt to write something in English. It is not my native language so there might be some...weird sentences in the story! That's why constructive remarks are Always welcome!)

Have you ever wondered how despair tastes? I hope not. It's something people will happily avoid and get out of their lives forever.However, there are some people who can't help but get in the way of the consuming dread that despair leaves in its wake. Julian is one of those people. When he looked around him, he saw nothing but ice. Every nook and cranny, ever corner was covered in the frigid material. Amidst of that frozen hell sat a boy. His head looked down upon the frozen surface beneath him. His tears froze over before they left his eyes. A distinct sound reached his ice cold ears, a sound that he knew all too well. The sound belonged to the girl that resisted him for so long...The girl that crushed his hopes, dreams and soon, his life. The girl's luscious blue hair swayed behind her as she stretched her arm outward, letting the freezing mist that covered the entire area swirl around her hands. Slowly, a dark blue spear appeared between her fingers. The lady raised her hand high, the point directed right at the weeping boy. Finally...finally she would have piece of mind! Finally, those years of pretending were finally over.The blue gem ,lodged in the spear's shaft, began pulsing with dark blue waves. But something else interfered with the waves....something sinister. A purple hue flared up inside the girl's eyes as the spear fell downwards. Was this really his end? Was this really the reason he began with this ordeal? Was this...how he was going to end?Julian saw his life flashing before his very eyes, remembering the first day this all started. The day when he traded his innocence for power. It was a normal day , the sky was cloudy and a soft , cold wind rolled over the earth. . A neat row of houses covered both sides of the road   . The four wall of concrete weren’t anything special or out of the ordinary , just your average neighbourhood . A small patch of grass , hidden between the concrete buildings , bowed its graceful peaks with some help of the gentle touch of the wind Further down the street was a school . A secondary school with quite the reputation , as well as  a good reputation as a bad one . Today , that school was busy . Very busy . It was the last day of the exams and students were really hyped to finally leave the mostly dull environment of the school grounds and go on a relaxing vacation . Julian  slowly shuffled outside of his house and closed the door behind him , locking it . He too was happy school was finally over , yet he didn’t know what to do during the vacation … He hadn’t exactly the most of friends and those friends weren’t exactly vacant every time of the day . So Julian thought that he would spend the vacation in solitude again while he shrugged his shoulders at the thought . The comfortable material of his short sleeved red shirt slid across her shoulders when he did that while he adjusted his black coat . His short pants came just under his knees while his dark blue socks were put into a pair of brown leather shoes . Julian found them quite comfortable himself . He crossed the street and walked to his school . The boy shook his backpack a bit and ruffled in his dark brown hair . While he walked alongside the side road , he passed a piece of ground , filled with heaps of rubble and other useless stuff . Julian had heard it remained in that shape because nobody wants to buy the slab of earth . Just before Julian wanted to continue going to school , he noticed a faint glimmer in his right-eye corner . That was unusual . If there was something shiny , it would’ve been stolen already . Julian frowned and walked over some pieces of broken metal and climbed over a heap of concrete before he arrived at the shimmering object . It was a bracelet ! But not just any bracelet . It was made of a white metal and its sides were covered in gold . Small , intricate patterns were seemingly woven into the yellow glimmering metal . It had 5 empty holes in it , each from about the size of a marble . Julian grabbed the strange object and looked at it . The bracelet looked like it costed a lot . The brown haired boy inspected the foreign accessory but didn’t find a name tag or something of that nature . ‘ I might as well keep it , nobody’s going to miss it if it’s out in the open like this …’ Julian said to himself and put the bracelet around his wrist . It looked quite good and Julian admired the piece of metal for a bit . He turned around and left the patch of ground and walked further to school , continuously watching his new accessory hanging from his wrist . When Julian arrived at his school , he knew what the reactions would be . He was customized to the fact that he had the reputation of being a weirdo . And he knew the reasons as well . Reasons like the fact he didn’t follow the masses but rather followed his own desires .   When he arrived at the school buildings , he waited for the bell to ring , and followed his fellow students to the grand hall , where the principal was waiting for them . The principal was an old woman who attended class in the same buildings they were in right now , while the school was still a boarding school . So her annual speech begun with an anecdote over her time here , like always . The first years always found this part interesting , yet the seniors almost fell asleep during that opening of the speech . After the speech had concluded , which seemed to take several hours , the students left the building and waited for the moment they could leave school . That sweet , long desired moment of release and the start of two months of freedom . Julian smiled and walked outside , feeling a cold wind touch his face . He just crossed his school gate when he heard some murmuring sounds behind him . He was used to laughing behind his back but murmuring was something new . He turned around , interested what it was they were laughing about . But to his surprise , they weren’t gossiping about him , they were looking at something above him . Julian raised his eyebrow and turned back around , gazing at the grey sky. At first , the boy couldn’t see anything out of the ordinary . But slowly , countless black spots began to appear all over the horizon .Black spots that continued to grow bigger and bigger and got wings while they grew more and more . Slowly , humanoid features like arms and legs became more distinct and Julian began to see their whole body . It were humanoid monsters . they had a human-like face and limbs . However , their wings and their cries were far from human . Apart from their trident , they didn’t carry any weapons with them . Some people already turned around and ran away . ‘What in the --?!’ Julian wanted to run away but his legs didn’t listen to his mind and he couldn’t get away . Only when one of the monsters threw its trident his way , he suddenly made a jump that could make a cat jealous . Julian began to run as fast as he could back inside into the school , and made sure he got away from those freaky monsters . But for some reason , they seemed to follow the dark brown -haired boy . His feet ran as fast as they could , occasionally dodging falling spears . However , Julian got cornered after a short chase around his school . Strangely enough , the police was nowhere to be seen . ‘Damn it ! What do you want from me ?! What are you guys ?!’ Julian tried to distract them by posing questions while he searched for an escape route . Those questions were answered by a collective growl from the hunting monsters . Julian saw one monster’s hand go back , ready to throw the spear and narrowly dodged the lethal pike before feeling a sharp pain in his right knee . ‘AAARgggg!’ Julian screamed from the pain he was feeling , a pain he never felt before . He fell onto one knee before he saw another spear fly towards him . ‘Nooooooooo!’ Julian put up his hands in a futile action to try and defend him . In vain because the trident pierced through his hands , straight through his chest . The boy didn’t feel anything anymore . Just a cold hole where the spear was lodged . Julian’s hands tried to pull it out but his hand completely missed and fell to the cold , hard concrete . that was soon followed by the rest of his dead body . His ice blue eyes stared into nothingness . While continued to bleed , the monsters closed in on him and that’s when his vision went completely black . He only heard something metal scrape against bone before his body completely shut down . What he didn’t know was that the last sound he heard , the sound was that killed one of the bloodthirsty monsters . A clear liquid followed , dissolving another monster before a flame took three out . Three girls fell out of the grey sky , landing before and on Julian’s powerless hands . ‘oh ! I’m , like , super sorry for that!’ A blonde beauty , carrying a double sided scythe was the first to say anything . ‘I’m pretty sure this boy is dead . He won’t mind that you stepped on his hand .’ A simple confirmation left the second lady’s mouth . This lady wore a long dark blue dress , with dark blue stockings underneath it . Knee-high boots topped off her outfit .  She had a weird air about her . Like something that isn't able to exist in this world but still lives, in defiance of its fate. ‘No , some vital organs still work , like his lungs . Nothing some good medicine won’t solve !’ The third girl landed , carrying multiple vials of coloured liquids . She wore a white top and white stockings with matching garters . Quite the revealing outfit to be wearing outside . The monsters scurried back to create some distance between the newcomers and themselves before beginning the counterattack . Well , they tried at least because the girls were more than strong enough to fend of all the monsters , even if they were heavily outnumbered . After the fight , not even monster remained alive . ‘enemy eradicated .’ The dark blue clad woman simply stated the fact while she poked against Julian’s bleeding body . Her yellow cat eyes looked at his bracelet . ‘Well , I didn’t expect to see something like that in a remote place like this.’ ‘The orders were to , like , carry him to safety , right ? I wonder what the boss’s going to , like , do with him …’The blonde pondered as she grabbed his left shoulder. ‘Oh well , she has a plan at the ready , like always. And if it doesn’t work out , He will make for a fine puppet to play with …’ The vial carrying girl licked her lips before carrying Julian’s body and returning to where they came .  Julian’s dead body resting in their arms . Julian felt nothing anymore. The boy slowly woke and rubbed in his eyes, a reflex he build up during the vacation days, and from sleeping so much. But when Julian opened his eyes, he saw as much, or even less, as when his eyes were closed. He tried to lift his arms. He felt nothing move on his body although he saw a faint outline of his hand floating before him. He tried looking around. Everywhere he looked was pitch-black darkness. ‘Admiring the view, are we?’ A cocky, echoing voice sounded behind the boy, who quickly tried turning his head around at hearing the weird sound. But his head just didn't move. He heard the voice laughing hearthedly as he tried to move his head.

'Don't even bother, you dumbhead!' This voice certainly wasn't adept in insulting people , that's for sure! Julian tried commenting but felt that he only could make some small grunting noises, coming from deep down his throat. The voice laughed once again, louder this time. The echoing was so loud , Julian couldn't even hear if it was a female or male voice that was making fun of him. 'Don't worry about talking! It happens to everyone for a bit once they accept me!' The voice commented as it sighed, seemingly disappointed about something.It mumbled something before continuing. 'Why couldn't it be a hot chick for once...? S-Sorry, I was just lost in my mind!' The voice scraped his throat before continuing ,sounding really formal all of a sudden. Its cocky undertone didn't disappear though. 'Listen up, boy...your old life has ended. From now on, you'll be working for me! Your body will have to do as my vessel, even if you hate it anyway! We'll be partners in crime for as long you'll live...and for as long I don't get tired of you, of course!'The voice laughed as it apparently took in Julian's floating form. 'I know you'd like to see your new Boss, however as for the moment... I don't have a form...It's been centuries after my last vessel died and I completely forgot what form he gave me...I can give you my name, at least. I am called many things , however one name Always stuck with me...you can call me, wait for it, Kraikki! ...Not impressed, huh?...Anyway, enough about me! The reason you were chosen as my vessel is the level of imagination that goes around in that otherwise empty head of yours. My power is dependant on that so you better never lose that imagination if you want to keep breathing!' The voice barked before it sighed. 'The zone you are in now is mine...It has seen better days , sure, however it all depends on the amount of work you put into it! You can shape this area, as well as my form into whatever your imagination dictates, isn't that awesome?!' The voice proudly announced before continuing.'Anyway, my powers reach much, much further than that! I hold a power that's mostly dependant on the imagination of my vessel and how he uses that imagination to achieve his goals! As you can see, my power isn't a given for anyone who lives.However, it can be the most devastating power that exists once it has been tamed properly.' The voice sounded pretty proud of itself as he gave this explanation. 'But,sadly if I do say so myself, that's enough about me, it seems your other self has regained control once again. Your consciousness wants you back, in other words. We'll talk later, once you've come to! Remember this however, I'll Always be with you, even if you do'nt like it!' The voice finished as Julian felt hismelf getting heavy, as something began pulling him down .The voice didn't answer as Julian slowly fell down, but he couldn't see anything anymore as he slowly drifted back to unconsciousness.

#fanfiction #fiction #story

[flauntpage]

It’s in the Air (Yards): Alshon Jeffery Is Due for Some Big Plays, And Other Fantasy Football Notes for Week 2

Air yards are the new version of the target in fantasy football analytics. Years back, tracking targets as an opportunity rate seemed revolutionary; no longer were we simply relying on the results from a given game, but the potential a given pass-catcher’s usage rate revealed. A decade back when I was cranking out content for ESPN, the fantasy community often chased receptions and yardage—the raw sum of production—when evaluating a player, without much regard to how those receptions were compiled.

That seems archaic now, as targets have become common nomenclature for the fantasy fiend. The thing is, the target is a somewhat obtuse number in that it only suggests a pass was sent to a specific player during a game. How far was that target down the field? If big gains—”splash plays” as the cool kids are now saying—are the coin we covet in fantasy football, it helps to know how aggressive and potentially rewarding a player’s target distribution proves.

Enter air yards, which are exactly what they sound like: the yardage the ball spends in the air en route to a targeted receiver. Thanks to increased quality in-game charting by proxy of sites like Pro Football Focus, the NFL’s Next Gen brand and some of ESPN’s proprietary tracking data, we can discuss not just how many targets Alshon Jeffery had in his regular-season debut with the Eagles this past Sunday in Washington (seven), but the depth of such targets (16.7 air yards).

Julian Edelman was fourth in the NFL in targets per game last season (9.81), yet his average target traveled a conservative 8.85 yards in the air; so it’s not surprising he was 15th in receiving yards per game despite such a premier opportunity rate. Larry Fitzgerald was seventh in targets per game and yet 27th in yards per game. Yep, his air yards per target sat at just 7.4 yards, the lowest clip among the top 20 targeted players in 2016. Volume drove both receivers to entirely respectable fantasy seasons (especially in point-per reception formats), but a lack of air yardage undoubtedly limited the splash play upside each offered on a weekly basis.

We can value these target hogs, but shouldn’t just focus on the target as a whole number any longer, as they really aren’t all the same suggestion of opportunity as we once believed. When the depth of target increases while a healthy volume of targets is maintained, we get the bonanza games and seasons the likes of Mike Evans, DeAndre Hopkins and A.J. Green have offered in recent opus efforts.

Back to Jeffery and the brimming upside he claims in a pass-happy Philadelphia offense (Eagles were fifth in pass attempts in 2016 with 648). My fellow football nerd Kevin Cole is a gifted data scientist who often produces some of the more thought-provoking content (both for real and fantasy purposes) in the field. Cole curates an index this season of the air yards allocated around the league. I’ll allow Cole’s preface to best explain the concept:

If we know where a player was targeted on the field, we build league-wide historical averages for anything from expected yards, touchdowns, and receptions. Then, we can compare those expected number to what was actually posted in the box score. The differences between expected and actual stats can help us identify receivers who may be under- or overvalued based on unsustainable levels of efficiency. … these numbers can give up an idea of receivers’ potential upside, or downside, if notoriously volatile efficiency moves in the other direction.

Cole has developed a measure of production potential and realized production driven in part by air yardage. As the table below reveals, Jeffery was seventh in air yardage in the entire NFL in Week 1. (Fitz factors in well thanks to 13 targets, as I mentioned, we can continue to value volume when it proves consistent.) Jeffery’s seven targets accumulated 116 air yards in Washington, and yet he hauled in just 38 yards, 18 of them after the catch.

Historical conversion rates for Jeffery’s quality of targets results in 12.5 expected fantasy points, but he netted just 6.8 using Cole’s index. This margin of 5.7 “missing” fantasy points suggests some positive regression could be due for Jeffery. A proven vertical weapon and contested catch maven, Jeffery is going to start gashing secondaries soon enough. Nelson Agholor, meanwhile, produced eight more fantasy points than his usage pattern in Week 1 historically nets; he converted 82 air yards into 86 actual yards. This doesn’t scream regression is due, but we might assume Carson Wentz isn’t going to fend off pressure for 13 seconds and strike to Agholor downfield for a touchdown every game.

The marketplace is unique in every fantasy league. There are those who might already perceive Jeffery’s stock as a bit shaky given the modest results from his Philly debut. I perceive him as a player with a likely 20% share of an offense that will give him plenty of downfield work. The sample size is tiny, but Wentz’s average target traveled 10.18 air yards in Week 1 in Washington, third highest in the NFL. Last season, albeit in a much more substantial sample, the Eagles’ average throw traveled 7.31 yards—26th in the NFL.

I’d compose some seemingly shiny two-for-one offers to the Jeffery owner in an aim to pry him away before the potential yardage becomes realized production.

As for other notable buy-low candidates, Dez Bryant has the largest gap between opportunity and production from Week 1 and will now head to Denver to face a shutdown secondary. Bryant’s owners are going to be salty saltface on Sunday afternoon, but all indicators suggest he’s merely facing a series of terrible matchups to start the season.

Terrelle Pryor was second in the NFL in air yardage last week with 166 sent his way, as he might consume one of the best usage rates in the entire league this season. Brandin Cooks’ buy-low window isn’t likely open, but he’s going to go full Liam Neeson on the Saints in a revenge game on Sunday. The last time the Patriots were two games under .500, Drew Brees was a month away from taking his first NFL snap. Hunting shares of Cooks in DFS could be quite rewarding.

Week 2

Whether the focus is the waiver wire in traditional redraft leagues or the daily fantasy market, let’s highlight some of the names and numbers that demand attention for Week 2.

Quarterback

Philip “One L, Eight Kids” Rivers is only $5,800 on DraftKings this week and yet claims one of the higher ceilings (his optimum fantasy outcome) of the entire slate, according to Fantasy Labs‘ predictive modeling. For those wanting to get in on the Coors Field of football in New Orleans, Drew Brees ($7,700) is a sliver cheaper than Tom Brady ($7,900) in a game that claims a silly implied point total of 56 points.

Point totals are a useful quick-and-dirty way to approximate offensive expectations for a team, so it’s of note that Derek “Not David” Carr ($7,200) is cheaper than the Superdome duo and is at the helm of a Raiders team set with a team total of nearly 29 points. As two-touchdown favorites over a hapless Jets squad that ranked near the bottom in the NFL in pass defense last season, this could be fun.

For those in season-long leagues streaming at quarterback (streaming isn’t a urination reference, but rather the idea of allowing matchups to determine which cheap quarterback to trust in a given week), going back to the Carson Palmer well (welp) is an option, as even his brother Jordan dropped him in his fantasy league this week. Look, the Colts are fielding a Fairmount Park beer league on defense and just made Jared Goff look like a proficient NFL product. If Palmer’s stains on the sheets from last week won’t come out, the rushing floor Tyrod Taylor offers (at least 30 yards rushing in 11 games since the start of last season) is a safer compromise.

Running Back

Ty Montgomery ($5,800) flashed legit bell-cow usage rates in Week 1, consuming 92.5% of the backfield snaps, 91% of the carries and all dem targets. The Falcons just made Tarik Cohen look like a prime Darren Sproles (and that might be the case, but still inviting). DraftKings is a full point-per catch model and this game in the new balloon knot stadium in Atlanta has an implied point total of 54 points, a rate that would lead almost any NFL slate save for the Superdome shootouts. Getting affordable paths to this game in Atlanta could prove rewarding.

Jacquizz Rodgers ($4,400) paired with Montgomery is a fun way to pay-down at running back but still command plenty of touches. Chicago’s front seven is pretty savvy without any big names, but the volume could support a nice yardage day for Quizz, especially as the lead back on a sizable home favorite (often a positive correlation for running back production). Continuing the value theme in order to afford an elite QB and stud receivers, I thought C.J. Anderson looked pretty good in Week 1 and was close to a much bigger game if he had converted goal-line work.

For the streaming crowd, it’s entirely worthy to deploy Kerwynn Williams against the Colts. David Johnson’s injury is devastating in both real and fantasy regards for the Cards, but Williams might enjoy a temporary workhorse role on a heavy road favorite.

Receiver

Let’s leverage the air yards model Cole crafted and chase shares of Cooks ($8,200), Amari Cooper ($8,100), Keenan Allen ($5,800) and Adam Thielen ($5,000).

Tight End

“Gronk” only costs $6,900 (nice!) thanks to a dreadful opener and the fact this is a difficult position to pay a premium for given the shallow and fickle nature of tight end production. That said, Gronk could go full cruise ship bukakke on the Saints’ suspect secondary. Paying down (which is DFS nerdspeak for saving money) at tight end, Coby Fleener ($3,100 ) costs nearly nothing and yet has a worthy red zone share in a Brees offense. Charles Clay ($3,000) has been on a 70-catch, 800-yard pace since Week 12 last season for a Buffalo offense absent competition for targets.

With Eric Berry unfortunately out of the picture, it will be interesting to see how Zach Ertz ($5,300) fares as the chain-mover for the Birds in Arrowhead.

Defense

Tampa’s defense ($3,200) looked awesome on Hard Knocks against themselves if that’s of any value (it isn’t). More importantly, the Bucs yielded the second-lowest passer rating, claimed the league’s highest interception rate and fifth-highest sack rate from Week 12 on last season. The Mike Glennon revenge game might just become the “let’s tackle that huge neck” game.

The nearly unavoidable defenses this week, however, are the Raiders ($3,500) and Ravens ($3,700). Oakland faces Josh McCown on the road. McCown has thrown at least two interceptions on passes of at least 10 air yards in each of his past three starts. It’s going to be four straight on Sunday. Baltimore hosts raw rookie DeShone Kizer in what might be a personal screening of “It” for the rookie.

It’s in the Air (Yards): Alshon Jeffery Is Due for Some Big Plays, And Other Fantasy Football Notes for Week 2 published first on http://ift.tt/2pLTmlv

[alchemy-travels]

Israel : 25th December 2016 Part 1

We popped in the cab, headed to the Red Sea and rented a car. That took longer than ever but the ladies at the desk loved Steven and I. They thought I looked like George michael which is ironic to say the least. The bodacious Moroccan woman working the desk selling sass and taking credit cards to the left was madly in love with him. Her entire demeanor changed when she saw my face and we all had such a good laugh. Because I played the game, they upgraded our car for free. Christmas was underway and we had only one destination in mind: the Dead Sea. We drove four hours down the highway all the while being able to see the Jordanian/Israeli boarder. How different it’s two halves were. One western, one thriving in the past. One Jewish, the other Arabic. I'm in love with yin and yang. At this point our drive was a race against the sun. In December we were planning to swim in the sea and somehow not freeze, so we indeed needed the sun very badly. David Bowie blared through Stevens phone, then metric, then Gaga and Florence would eventually give us vision to the sea of death. At first it looked to have icebergs floating all throughout it. Then lines appear across the sea from Israel to Jordan, and soon we realized that would be the harvesting process of its glorious minerals. We decided to find a spot far from this near the resorts to avoid getting sucked into its’ mineral collection. We suffered a parking ticket in the process but we found our spot. And with that we played with the salts and the bouyancy of our bodies. Pictures could barely do the lowest point on planet earth the justice it deserves. So we floated on without worry of sharks. The small cuts on my knuckles would burn instantly when they touched the water. It was the same sensation of opening the door on a sub zero degree winter day. It was a necessary evil to enjoy the moment. It was absolutely the lowest point on our planet and I had no low feelings sinking in on me. It might be because the water just wouldn't let us sink. There was no lower to go than this point in my life but I had already started to climb high even before I met this point of earth and water. I was actually floating through life and it felt so good to just be in this low point and feel so high on the moment. And so the sun would set and we would be late for our Aurbnb check in with Rahel in Jerusalem. I drove through the night along those twisty desert roads. I was afraid a few time and Steven was afraid even more. After swimming in the Dead Sea, we would arrive in Jerusalem to some freezing ass weather. Rain, sleet, winds and very cold tempuratures. The parking meter was unbearable as we attempted to read the Hebrew sign and make it work. Eventually we gave up and took a picture of the sign for Rahel to read. In luck, we didn't have to pay until 8am. Rahel was ready to leave on this merry Christmas Eve, but she was heading to a candle lighting gathering of the Minorah. We had made. Her late but she was still a peach of a person. Only after she explained how her kosher kitchen was laid out did we get a chance to take a hot shower and melt the salt away. Seeing as it was indeed a holiday, Steven and I decided to go off into the city for an adventure of excellent dining, I'm not sure what the restaurant was called but it was spelt XX which I'm sure meant something in Hebrew. We brewed a feast on that night. Starters of Matze ball soup and I followed mine with meatballs while Steven had a rice dish. I washed it down with a glass of read and we would be on our way. There was something about this restaurant though. I'm not sure if it's because of how authentically Jewish it was, or if it was the company and conversation that made my heart warm but the fireplace in the corner sure did us justice in completing the ambiance of a beautiful Christmas meal. The next day we would spend tramping through the holiest place on earth. We went into the old town of Jerusalem. We saw the western wall, a place of prayer and a place of mourning. We went down underneath the wall to see its construction and its depth. So many small intricate hallways and rooms that would be set up for an underground society if there was ever anything to happen to the surface. We movies through the winding street ways past the stations of the cross, through mother Mary's birth place, and finally to the prison where jesuswas held period to being sent off to die. His post didn't seem very saintly, and both at the same moment Steve and I turned to one another because of the electrifying jolt of energy that Hit uslike a fuzzy lightning bolt. How strange that some people feel such unexplainable madness at historical sites that just consume the body with energy from gods and deities of the past. We would spend the rest of the day running through the old town of Jerusalem. Neither being super religious but both able to appreciate the immensity of the space with humbled steps. I found it funny that almost directly on the opposite side of the street was one of the richest shopping districts in the city. Yet inside the walls people would sell, bargain and buy at rates they felt acceptable for the grabs and meals. Tradition versus westernization at its finest. The colors of sandstone and dulled browns brought on by winter clouds would decorate the city streets as we embarked the hour long walk back to our free parking spot. Cars are awesome but cars are a pain. We interacted with the city streets along the way. Bulbous trees that were outlasted by the forest, rusted playgrounds next to graveyards. Orthodox Jews were the majority here. I'm not sure I'll ever be seeing that again in my life. It was refreshing to see harmony amongst the masses though. With so much religion floating around it's easy to find ruffled feathers. Second star to the right and straight on till…..Nazareth. Pronounced Nazarit in Israel. All was cool under our hood until we made it to the actual city. Then, we were invited in by a daunting maze of hills and secret passageways mistaken for streets. Our GPS was of no help whatsoever. Thank the lords I wasn't driving. With every command of our lady voiced GPS we grew more and more weary of the correct direction. Until finally, we encountered a hill so steep, you would simply roll down it if you wanted to stop and take in the views. Our car managed to get down it, and back up the other side thanks to Steven. But of course, the lady GPS was basically laughing at us as she recalculated her directive thoughts. We turned her off real quick to find ourselves trapped in a parking area for those living a top the hill. By the time Steven turned to look back and reverse, we were being watched. A man in traditional Jalaba garb, was blocking our only escape. So much for a quick getaway, batman. His curious eyes were darkened in the light of one lamp in his frontdoorway giving off the eerie sensation that only occurs when you know you're in the wrong place at the wrong time. We were all ready for a fight (not really) to the death when his wife stepped out and into the street as well. She smiled at our struggles and yelled up to her son, whom lived on the third floor of their complex. Speaking more English than his parents, the entire mood of the situation changed in two seconds. And in three seconds we were in their house, awaiting tea and sweets galore. Apparently this happens often. Travels try and use the GPS and twice a year, the family is blessed with new faces in their living room, often for a few hours of chat as we had. Dinner, sweets, tea, cigarettes were all shared with us as three generations of family piled into the living from from above in the complex. One daughter spoke the best English as well as Arabic Hebrew and Russian. What a powerhouse I must say. She was about to take her dentistry exams within a year and was happy we dropped by for some English practice. By far this was the grand example of human interconnection that I had ever experienced. For an entire family to welcome us in, take selfies and photos, feed us, he'll they would have clothed us if we were standing in front of them naked and bare. We might as well have been as we were lost, cold and alone in a country with no other contacts.i will forever find gratitude in them and hopefully will be able to return the favor someday to a lonely wanderlust er looking for their hostel for the evening. We chose not to stay long in Nazareth but Steven managed to get some mud and sand for his mother as she loves the story of mother Mary. But after that we were out of there quickly and off to the Sea of Galilee to attempt to walk on water. It didn't work but it had a lovely misty feel to it with Israeli flags flying high around the edges. Proud they are. A country of abused and misused rising from the ashes. Becoming one of the most defensive countries the world knows today. And so we drove. We drove into the afternoon and into Haifa, the city of hills. Built upon these hills was the Bahia temple gardens. Luscious layers of shrubbery and prayer sites. The youngest riling ion of the world with the most beautiful sense of natural composition. Youthfulness is what brings our present into the future. I wish the older generation of Americans had the audacity to understand this. They're selfish for the most part though. A generation of sociopaths raised by media that brought them to addiction and fear of the unknown. To them, curiousity killed the cat. To the youth curiousity is what brought the cat to our laps. Anyway, we spent the first hour of Haifa looking for wifi and waiting for our Airbnb host to get home and let us in. Just walking the city and shooting the shit. It began to rain and rain hard after we made our way to a few sites. This is the time when we look for food and relax before our parking meter is up. We found a deliciously petit spot with the gas heaters blaring to fend of the frosty winds. What annoyed us most is that everyone we had asked about restaurant recommendations, was just...unsure. They kept directing us to McDonald's. Luckily we passed the gem just in enough time to make it back before the parking meter went running out. By dark fall our host came home and was ready for us. She seemed to have a lot on her mind but still gave us tea and a spot of conversation. After Steven and her exchanged paintings and artwork, we spent the rest of the dark and dreary evening in our bedroom. Catching up with the world that wasn't in Haifa. We woke with an early start and took view of the gardens, managed to find the cutest human inclusive shakshuka spot along the base of the gardens. We followed this with a trip to mount Carmel. I know, it sounds like a hundred churches in the US but this is what Haifa is built on. Half of the mount is the city and the other side is fixed with hiking trails down into the valley. We drove and stopped at the topped. Walked for a bit and screamed into the distance in hopes to hear echos. It was thrilling. Steven made up a story about the haifens and another clan having a massive battle over a piece of metal that we found and how mount Carmelo's was truly just a burial ground for all of those fighting over the piece of metal that we were sitting on. We would drive on after this and make it to our final destination. Tel Aviv. This would be where Steven and I split up and the continuation of my journey, while he heads home. So we spent days trolling through the city. Smoking cigarettes with our host who me had one of the largest apartments in Tel Aviv. A block from the water the lawyer and the textile artist lived, chain smoking and smoking pot loving one another for the past 9 years. Steven and I thought she was just there for the money but most of the time we saw real love. He a chef and we his guests. We would wander out for felafel and adventure any chance we had. The shower was cold but the conversation was lively. I remember wandering with Steven to the bridge of the stars with all of our astrological signs mounted to the would banister. It was said that dreams would come true if you wished upon your sign. I'm still half waiting. We'd get lost in street markets and find more kenaffe to eat. It wasn't as good as it was in Jordan but it did us well. I almost couldn't finish it. It was sweet as the day! All that I wanted to do when we reached Tel Aviv was dance with Steven in the gayest club we could find. We were rudely awakened by the fact that the city didn't operate as Chicago does. It operated on weekend pop up parties and not real dance clubs. So we settled for conversation and a few beers for me. We weren't happy about it to say the least. The bar was quite interesting though. It was an open air bar that allowed for smoking at every table on multiple layers as if we were in a theatre in the round. I believe the bar was called Friends or something. Nobody wanted to make friends with other tables but pre-existing friends sure had a laugh around us. And so we'd drive the car 30 minutes north to drop it off. Steven still nervous of the scratches he made in Nazareth went and delivered it alone while I waited. It took us about and hour to walk down the coast of the Mediterranean Sea. Talking pictures and walking through sands. Watching consumers consume on the pier restaurants. It was like our goodbye walk before our goodbye dinner. After that I'd have to find a new Airbnb which I had and ended up not needing. Part two anyway. Steven and I shared one final romantic dinner over calzones and pizza. We pigged out and he bought the meal for me. Smiles exchanged and the slow dance styled walk back to the spot. We went to bed and went off to dream land until he woke me up at 3 am to say good bye. And just like that another close friend was here and gone. What's so strange about seeing Steven is that we are so similar. When he first arrived we were both like Farrell cats checking out a smell that was once familiar but our guard still high up to the sky. Being in the Middle East changed our relationship than the streets at home were we would scream and laugh and twirl around without a care in the world. Here we were a bit more reserved and withheld the passion we have for each other a bit. Man i can't wait to go dancing with him again. Until then.

[brishu]

My Week At Sea - Part 1

I can’t remember whether President’s Day gave us a three day weekend in Greensboro, North Carolina. We sure as hell didn’t get a whole week off, but New York schools do so this year we took a cruise with my parents.

No matter how far in advance you try to book a flight for that week, the quoted fares will send you into a tailspin of regret, forcing you to relitigate all of the decisions you ever made that delivered you to this moment as a budget-conscious person. You might even start rehearsing your explanation for why this is probably a good year to skip the February trip somewhere warm. Maybe the polar vortex won’t barrel through the Northeast this year. Maybe we can get the girls wall to wall playdates so they won’t miss frolicking in the sun so much. But while you refine your excuses, your hand has already extracted a credit card or two and the people who run Kayak nod like the borderline abusive paramour who knows you’ll answer his texts every damn time. Your laptop itself might whir in a way that sounds a lot like, “Mmm hmmm. Thought so.” If only the airlines maintained their own schedules as scrupulously as they adhered to that of the New York City public school system.

So what are you really doing when you wail to your parents about how expensive Presidents’ Week trips are? Maybe, maybe you’re bemoaning your well-traveled spouse’s mathematically tenuous expectations. But lo and behold, it “occurs” to them that that week would be a great opportunity to spend some time with their delightful granddaughters. And waddya know? They’re friends with a travel agent! And as long as you don’t look too unflinchingly within, or excuse yourself the flinch through self-deception too insidious to monitor, you’ve been furtive enough about the whole thing to keep your dignity intact.

Five months later the Out of Office reply is on and you’re on a 7 AM flight to Miami, encouraging your kids as passive aggressively as possible to forgo the in-flight entertainment and take a damn nap. But when you’re eight or six and your parents enforce draconian screentime restrictions, you ain’t gonna waste three hours of untrammeled access to a large movie library on shuteye, no matter how wise or mathematically sound your handsome, loving father’s advice is. I read a book. Between naps.

Day 1

We landed in Miami flush with optimism for the week ahead. My parents were waiting for us in baggage claim. I took the girls’ stuff so they could run into their grandparents’ arms, an airport ritual they’d been performing since they were ambulatory. Watching my mom and dad’s faces during the interval between launch and collision always made me feel like my nachas/tsuris account with them was finally balancing out.

A mild comeraderie starting fogging around baggage retrieval. The airline was sending mixed messages about which carousel would convey our luggage and people were subtly jockeying, not to be first to get their stuff, but first to have the straight dope on location to share with passengers as if that established some sort of heirarchy. I was happy to smile and offer grateful thanks to another dad who seemed keen on attaining the certainty that would finally deliver him from 10 minutes inter-carousel limbo, and realized that if I knew first, I would not want anybody lavishing gratitude on me. I wondered if this distinction was formed as some kind of private rebuke of the other dad, though I was glad to oblige his emotional ambition, maybe provide him with some social momentum so he could spend his vacation accumulating validation and even new friends, patronizing as all that was. But it was him who was chomping at the bit to be town cryer. It occurred to me that us vacationers wouldn’t be revving up so much at the outset if we weren’t bracing for a few unpleasant moments we’d have to fend off or minimize, protecting our experience from anything ruinous or memory-souring.

The boat itself shoved off from Port Everglades in Fort Lauderdale. We rode a transfer bus with a father and his grown son and daughter, all from Toronto. They were very nice and fascinated by real live New Yorkers. I forgot both men’s names quickly but Barbara was easy to remember, sporting a Til Tuesday-era Aimee Mann hairstyle with stars shaved into the sides. The punk rockness of her haircut combined with her genuine warmth and gladness made me feel like she knew exactly who she was and she liked it very much, which I liked too. Still, I was afraid to veer any conversation away from banalities.

By the time we got to Fort Lauderdale, I realized that my private observations were lapsing into probative NPR-speak, luxuriating in my own bafflement in the groggy upward lilt I associate with people whose comprehension lags a hairsbreadth behind their speech. Like I was trying not to miss my own bus.

Standing between us and the boat (you’re supposed to say ship but every jolly reminder of this stiffened my resolve to call it a boat) was a processing facility that seemed designed with the mandate, “Think Ellis Island, but bigger and with less craftsmanship.” “So, hollowed out Costco?” “This guy gets it!” All sorts of heirarchies were enforced within the hangar: Gold, Platinum, Emerald, Diamond, Diamond Plus and Pinnacle Club each had their own dedicated service areas with varying calibers of expedience and hand sanitizer. I asked someone where I should go if I was Linoleum Status, and then I felt bad because he was obligated to act amused even though he probably wasn’t. Or maybe his smile was from sending us to the back of the longest line. We had been up since 4:30 and had deviated slightly from our strict kale and broccoli-based diet by feeding our daughters jelly beans for breakfast. So while I was careful not to catch myself trying too hard to maintain perspective, as that tends to trick me into thinking I’m teetering over a lake of despair and that the only way to relieve this emotional vertigo is to plunge right the fuck in, I was eager to get onto the boat and start consuming. The whole process wound up taking about 15 minutes.

I don’t want to belabor the zeal with which Royal Caribbean goes about bolstering its revenue, nor even refer to it as greed since some of the money they grub has to support their massive scale of employment before funneling to a handful of bean counters in the C-Suite. But from the bombardment of promotional emails I started getting after signing the waiver for the onboard zipline to the army of soul-stealing photographers swarming the margins of every potential memory we had from boarding to debarcation, the relentless attempts to upsell lent the entire cruise the feel of a sterilized, Eurocentric souk.

So, experiencing only the downside of fame, we fled the pre-boarding papparazzi and made it to the gangplank. Setting foot onto the ship felt like it should feel momentous. So I took a picture of my parents and daughters.

This was the moment of transition from the cold grind of work and school to a carefree, sun-drenched week at sea. Just a few more steps and the fun we’d been anticipating for months would start happening! In real life! Or maybe it’s just a pavlovian response to a relative with a camera, now embroidered with the wonder of how widely the record of this moment would be publicized and digitally appreciated.

Alcohol. When I was in my 20s we took a family cruise with my parents, brothers, cousins, aunts, uncles and grandma. The onboard drinks were a ripoff so we went to the duty free shop, bought bottles of bourbon, vodka and kahlua and, with milks and juices ordered from room service, ran a bar out of our stateroom. This was pre-9/11 and smuggling was much easier so we also made beer runs at every port of call. But now all duty free purchases are held until you debark. Wanna drink, gotta pay the ship. So my father bought the four adults on the trip the Premium Beverage package. This presented a fairly obvious quandary. Do I do my damndest to make sure Dad gets his money’s worth? Or do I exercise caution to avoid being even more unpleasant company than I already am? Predictably, I opted to sprint across the emotional minefield I’d first glimpsed in the Miami airport, honoring my father’s financial commitment on my behalf and hoping that eroded inhibitions would only make me that much more charming and fun. I finished my second margarita on the way to lunch.

The Allure of the Seas features three main dining rooms, 15 different restaurants and cafes plus a few snack bars and one doughnut kiosk I learned about one day too late. But upon boarding, only one dining venue was serving food and definitely not doubling as a nautical porn location: The Windjammer. Or that was the name of the always-open poolside buffet when I was in my 20s. It had since graduated to the Windjammer Marketplace, and I am sure that many cruisegoers appreciated the connotations of wider variety, enhanced freshness and the Milton Friedman Chicago School of economics. Our blood sugar was not quite at grumpy levels, but it was low enough that I worried whatever auspiciousness I had been drumming up was about to get overtaken by hostility toward entire teams of shipmates who stood between me and the food. Writ large, this first encounter with so many hundreds of fellow passengers, representing so many different ages, body types and origins, all unified by the overfed western version of hunger had the potential to arouse contempt. We all have reserves of generosity and good will toward our fellow man, it’s just that we also have moments when these reserves are inaccessible. Or, in my case, trying too hard to access them makes me feel so artificial that my resentment toward my surroundings is compounded by my inability to generate good will toward them. But, maybe because I was afraid that feeling too much antipathy this early in the trip would not bode well for the prospect of continued heavy drinking, summoning smiles for every beefy red-stater handling what were rightfully my nacho tongs was nearly effortless.

At every pass between the buffet and our table (usually for another glass of water, in my defense), the line to get into the international temple of all you can eat poolside cuisine grew longer, and announcements began issuing in three different languages to please enjoy your food and then get the fuck out so somebody else can sit down. I couldn’t help wondering how many liberty-loving Trump voters responded to authority-impelled courtesy by remaining at their tables until dinnertime. Did anyone onboard know Cliven Bundy? But I had seen enough signs of friendliness among the array of diners there, polite deference to wheelchairs, help with utensils, that a climate of decent manners did seem to govern the Windjammer Marketplace and perhaps the entire boat. Everybody seemed to understand that we all have more fun when we’re nicer to each other. And a lot of them were even drunker than I was.

Cocktails in hand, we vacated our table and went to see our staterooms. We did not expect our luggage to be delivered for another few hours, but we could change from our morning in New York clothes into the bathing suits we’d carried on. Just after we’d changed, our stateroom attendant came to introduce herself. She was a stout Trinidadian woman in her 50s named Adeline. She told the girls to call her Addy. In a bigoted way that I fear no amount of enlightenment or sensitivity training will ever cure me of, I saw Addy as a type more than as a thinking, feeling person. And in this blithe relegation, I wondered if her relationship with the girls would be colored at all by the way they might associate her with some of the West Indian nannies they’ve known their entire lives. Would they warm toward her in ways kids from the sticks might not? But conversely, would Addy prefer to keep her interactions with guests perfunctory, with just enough warmth to engender greater generosity at end of the week tip time? Did it serve anything whatsoever for me to be so delightfully sensitive that I broke through the typically transient cruiser-attendant relationship to foster something more meaningful, or would I merely succeed in creating more confusion in service of my own moral vanity? Did I give a shit either way? Yeah, I guess. Maybe it was time for another drink.

My mom had a friend who had cruised on this vessel months earlier and she said the one show you do not want to miss is Oceanaria, a Cirque du Soleil type diving show, presumably enough  unlike “O” to perform without triggering a lawsuit. The show was so popular that by the time we sought a reservation, the only available timeslot was Night 1 at 10:45 PM. So will you please nap now please? Maybe after we go swimming. I see. So I accompanied them to the pool area and, responsible adult that I am, I waited at least 20 minutes before pursuing drink number seven. Whoo!

OK so you can’t actually swim in any of the pools. But who can resist the appeal of a chlorinated soak rife with incidental contact with obese strangers drinking sugary cocktails through straws while singing along to reggae songs whose lyrics they don’t know? The rational mind assures you that diabetes is not contagious but you still equate acceptance with osmosis and no matter how fictitious your worries are, you just know that something here is doing you damage. But what about the kids? They are joyous and unfatigued, so you owe it to them to smile and pump your fist every time they run through a candy-colored sprinkler. Now is not the time to teach them to raise their search for validation to a standard higher than getting wet. Sell that smile. You know you’re not supposed to be at war with your more jaundiced perspective while you’re on vacation, but if you are, at least win. Maybe all this running around will increase the odds of a nap. Maybe my parents can come take over for me lest I claim all this happiness for myself. And can’t I just cut ahead of all these multi-ingredient drink orders to get another plastic tumbler of whiskey? Whoo.

What finally pries the kids out of the pool is Muster, the mandatory survival drill that compels all passengers to the emergency station where a designated crew member would spirit us to a 237 person lifeboat. Take that, Godzilla. Our station was in the Silk Dining Room. My wife pointed out that photographers were poised in the lobby in front of a backdrop of the balustrade from Titanic, yet one more reminder that too much thought was ill-advised. Familiarity > Meaning.

After Muster we gathered on our room’s small balcony to wave goodbye to the Floridians who had come to the pier to bid our voyage bon. The horn sounded, the boat set sail and the waving grew wavier. Trying to get with the program, I thought that was very nice of the people at the pier and nothing more. Nothing whatsoever.

We were now at sea. And while I refused to call the ship a ship, I became a stickler for maritime directions. I don’t know what accounts for such inconsistencies, but by 6 PM the fore, starboard, aft and port views were all landless. The vastness of the Atlantic Ocean or Gulf of Mexico or Caribbean Sea or whatever was terrifying in a good way. Thrilling. And feeling dependent on the vessel and her crew, and recognizing how casually at ease I was told me that, for all of the blundering attempts the Royal Caribbean corporation made at invading my conscience, they succeeded where it really mattered, winning my trust in their nautical competence and banishing all worries the mighty sea presented.

At 10:45 PM, further mastery of water was on display at the boat’s Aqua Theater. Our kids normally get up at 7 and go down at 8. Today they got up at 4:30 and wouldn’t go down til midnight. I presumed the show would go one of two ways: either luster would be lacking or we would bear witness to muscular specimens whose notable skill was drilled into them by authoritarian regimes who had destroyed their capacity for joy whereby it could be argued that we were no better than party officials sitting there on our asses, too sluggish to express appropriate appreciation for the amazing feats these exploited acrobats were performing, quiet hatred seething justifiably from the stage. Instead we were treated to 30 minutes of soaring, splashing joy. Whatever behind the scenes cynicism governed the performance, I was too dazzled to contemplate. Plunging from 3 meter springboards, 10 meter ledges and even 15 meter perches, I joined the crowd in roaring approval, according the divers full dignity for their show. More than once a woman behind me said, “I’ll take either one of those!” And our sleep-deprived girls were so invigorated by the performance that even my mother’s guilt for booking us so late was relieved. As I downed my umpteenth drink, I felt my duties as a son were fulfilled on all fronts.

Day 2

I was out of bed early to run laps around the 650 meter track that wrapped around Deck 5.

I sweat buckets in 30 degree weather, so in the Tropics it seemed extra wise to get going before dawn. Didn’t matter. Between the heat, humidity, alcohol, shortchange of zzzz’s and onboard climate of sloth, three miles and a little work at the gym was all I could handle. Ashamed of my effort, I sulked back to our stateroom where my wife and kids were now awake and spoke to them as though my body’s newfound shortcomings were somehow their fault. Later that day my wife pointed out the donut kiosk so for the rest of the week, I went there after exercising and returned to our stateroom the picture of civility.

With no port of call on Day 2, all 6,100 passengers and 2,200 crew members were together and ready to…. well, that depends. I know that judging people says more about you than them, and that a crowded cruise ship is a great place to subscribe to Will Rogers’ credo that strangers are just friends you haven’t met yet. And there were certainly people around me who knew how to survey a crowd and then mingle into it successfully.

Sometimes I see a group of people yukking it up and I think of a passage from the Great Gatsby: Forms leaned together in the taxis as they waited, and voices sang, and there was laughter from unheard jokes, and lighted cigarettes made unintelligible circles inside. Imagining that I, too, was hurrying towards gaiety and sharing their intimate excitement, I wished them well. But these groups took delight from the heights they attained, whereas other groups laughed loudly and called it a good time no matter how funny anything really was, reveling in comedy without humor. I was not guaranteed entrée into either clique, and even if my private pomposity was as defensive as it was discerning, the boat groups felt boorish to me. So I dumped the kids on my parents and retreated to a quieter area of the boat, choosing my book over people.

The dimensions of the boat were such that port and starboard stateroom corridors were more than 100 meters long. Later I learned that you could always go to a deck that featured one of the boat’s “neighborhoods” and walk through that instead of a Shining-like hallway. But I did notice that the superstition applied to decks did not apply to room numbers:

A funny thing about thinking is that the wider you cast your thoughts, the less significant your personal affairs become. But the ego, never fully banished, can’t help but notice that recognizing your insignificance is a fine mental feat, so while you’re transcending your petty concerns, you’re touting the transcendence you’re achieving. Am I alone in enjoying the deftness with which I self-negate? Maybe there’s a paradox named after a suicidal philosopher that describes it better than me. But during moments alone, pondering the ocean and sky, questioning whether I’d like to see myself as more consequential or less so, I wondered if it wouldn’t be wiser to build a strong divider between material and spiritual concerns and spend the rest of the week focused on material good fortune. So what if I sensed spiritual poverty at every turn, from my shipmates’ difficulty returning a friendly wave to well-wishers to the hundreds of children I’d seen holding ice cream in one hand, an entertainment device in the other, crying their faces off? Who am I to judge? I’m probably worse because not only do I object to so much, I hone my fucking objections. Yes, I was enjoying the joy my unjaded kids were experiencing, and the nachas that was bringing my parents. But what did I want for me? Weren’t insistent anxieties like these exactly what I was supposed to be vacating for the week? On the flipside, how does one enjoy the ocean and sky without listing toward the existential?

Day 3

Made it a wopping 4 miles and change on the track, much of it with the sun well above the bristling skyline of Cozumel, Mexico.

The cruise company sold all sorts of onshore excursions, from swimming with dolphins and sea turtles to tequila and chocolate tastings to visiting the Mayan ruins in Quintana Roo. Ace researcher that my wife is, she found an escape from the rampant gringoism that was just a taxi ride away from the port. My parents and children wanted to take advantage of a less crowded boat so they stayed onboard while we went off to Playa Palancar.

It would have been lovely if I hadn’t spoiled it. The details are unimportant, but, attributing nothing to my masturbatory tussles with significance, I made a big deal out of something insignificant and that started an argument from which no winners emerged. I suppose the reasons why my difficulties relaxing were so acute they fucked up my wife’s relaxation too merited some kind of examination. But, possibly by astrological fate (Libra), I felt caught between attempting to solve an issue and dropping it altogether. Getting to the bottom of what the hell was the matter with me seemed thornier but more rewarding, while moving on felt like shirkery. I don’t think I ever made a decision one way or the other. My wife swam out to the floating platform (that’s her in the photograph) and I read my book. By the time we caught a cab back to the pier, peace had been restored and the rest of the day was fine and maybe even relaxed. OK, the argument was about fish tacos.

That night the kids slept in their grandparents’ stateroom while my wife and I had a reservation at the Comedy Club on Deck 4. You know, the Comedy Club. Across the hall from Jazz Club.  When the biggest George Carlin and Eddie Murphy ruled stand-up comedy, nobody paid much attention to the learning curve of a comedian. But in the current heyday of Louis CK and Chris Rock, it’s gushed into our consciousness that there’s more to the art than good jokes, and that one minute of solid material seems to take hours of work in small clubs, where even the big boys sometimes bomb. I don’t know whether this greater familiarity with the risks involved in stand-up comedy has trained audiences to be more supportive of those poor, vulnerable people onstage, or spoiled the magic of sausage-making. But either way, I figured the comics who got this gig would be seasoned professionals who knew how to work a room. And they were and they did. Opener and headliner alike got laughter from the room and they harnessed it and killed. It’s worth noting that Trump jokes were conspicuously absent. The only borderline political moment was when the headliner mentioned “participation trophies” and a few audience members roared approval (this is a right wing trope that has convinced a huge segment of America that poor people aren’t entitled to the same representation as rich people). I didn’t let it bother me (too much). The biggest laughs came from jokes about very specific cruising behaviors and when I saw that the participation trophy folks laughing just as hard as I was at some of the nonsense onboard, it actually gave me a great feeling of hope. As long as people believed that cruise ships were the perfect place to splurge on jewelry, elitist libtards and Bible Belt morons could unite in mockery of them.

Day 4

At sea due to arrive in Falmouth, Jamaica the following morning. Not much of note except it was National Margarita Day. I had grown sick of my anthropological pretensions and was not keen on observing people in pursuit of some great insight on human folly or spiritual deviation. I just wanted to observe NMD and spend time with the kids after being away from them the prior day. If I fell into the stupor that was de rigeur onboard, look out below.

But I’m realizing that, while I had a lot of fun throughout the week, it’s harder for me to write about the nice times in an interesting way. Muddling through my difficulties throughout weeklong Caribbean vacation is a tough enough ask of a reader. But what’s readworthy about the enjoyable parts, where I didn’t feel confused or conflicted?

That morning after breakfast I played shuffleboard and minigolf with my daughters. Even the boat’s minigolf course hardly seems noteworthy. The ice skating rink, the carousel, the zipline and rock climbing walls, I found myself wishing I was more familiar with deprivation so I could be wowed by those features. But I didn’t feel guilty about being non-plussed by them either. Just happy to be with my family and, at this point, looking forward to getting back to my book, which I already knew I would miss more than the cruise when it was over.

And I also wasn’t going to feel guilty about enjoying an hour alone with said book, a Spotify playlist I love, and said holiday’s honored beverage.

#to be continued #cruise #Presidents Week #royal caribbean #Allure of the Seas #Cozumel #fort lauderdale #Vacation #Supposedly Fun #Cruise Ship #Love Boat #Dysfunction #Neurosis

[alchemy-travels]

Israel : 25th of December 2016 Part 1

We popped in the cab, headed to the Red Sea and rented a car. That took longer than ever but the ladies at the desk loved Steven and I. They thought I looked like George michael which is ironic to say the least. The bodacious Moroccan woman working the desk selling sass and taking credit cards to the left was madly in love with him. Her entire demeanor changed when she saw my face and we all had such a good laugh. Because I played the game, they upgraded our car for free. Christmas was underway and we had only one destination in mind: the Dead Sea. We drove four hours down the highway all the while being able to see the Jordanian/Israeli boarder. How different it’s two halves were. One western, one thriving in the past. One Jewish, the other Arabic. I'm in love with yin and yang. At this point our drive was a race against the sun. In December we were planning to swim in the sea and somehow not freeze, so we indeed needed the sun very badly. David Bowie blared through Stevens phone, then metric, then Gaga and Florence would eventually give us vision to the sea of death. At first it looked to have icebergs floating all throughout it. Then lines appear across the sea from Israel to Jordan, and soon we realized that would be the harvesting process of its glorious minerals. We decided to find a spot far from this near the resorts to avoid getting sucked into its’ mineral collection. We suffered a parking ticket in the process but we found our spot. And with that we played with the salts and the bouyancy of our bodies. Pictures could barely do the lowest point on planet earth the justice it deserves. So we floated on without worry of sharks. The small cuts on my knuckles would burn instantly when they touched the water. It was the same sensation of opening the door on a sub zero degree winter day. It was a necessary evil to enjoy the moment. It was absolutely the lowest point on our planet and I had no low feelings sinking in on me. It might be because the water just wouldn't let us sink. There was no lower to go than this point in my life but I had already started to climb high even before I met this point of earth and water. I was actually floating through life and it felt so good to just be in this low point and feel so high on the moment. And so the sun would set and we would be late for our Aurbnb check in with Rahel in Jerusalem. I drove through the night along those twisty desert roads. I was afraid a few time and Steven was afraid even more. After swimming in the Dead Sea, we would arrive in Jerusalem to some freezing ass weather. Rain, sleet, winds and very cold tempuratures. The parking meter was unbearable as we attempted to read the Hebrew sign and make it work. Eventually we gave up and took a picture of the sign for Rahel to read. In luck, we didn't have to pay until 8am. Rahel was ready to leave on this merry Christmas Eve, but she was heading to a candle lighting gathering of the Minorah. We had made. Her late but she was still a peach of a person. Only after she explained how her kosher kitchen was laid out did we get a chance to take a hot shower and melt the salt away. Seeing as it was indeed a holiday, Steven and I decided to go off into the city for an adventure of excellent dining, I'm not sure what the restaurant was called but it was spelt XX which I'm sure meant something in Hebrew. We brewed a feast on that night. Starters of Matze ball soup and I followed mine with meatballs while Steven had a rice dish. I washed it down with a glass of read and we would be on our way. There was something about this restaurant though. I'm not sure if it's because of how authentically Jewish it was, or if it was the company and conversation that made my heart warm but the fireplace in the corner sure did us justice in completing the ambiance of a beautiful Christmas meal. The next day we would spend tramping through the holiest place on earth. We went into the old town of Jerusalem. We saw the western wall, a place of prayer and a place of mourning. We went down underneath the wall to see its construction and its depth. So many small intricate hallways and rooms that would be set up for an underground society if there was ever anything to happen to the surface. We movies through the winding street ways past the stations of the cross, through mother Mary's birth place, and finally to the prison where jesuswas held period to being sent off to die. His post didn't seem very saintly, and both at the same moment Steve and I turned to one another because of the electrifying jolt of energy that Hit uslike a fuzzy lightning bolt. How strange that some people feel such unexplainable madness at historical sites that just consume the body with energy from gods and deities of the past. We would spend the rest of the day running through the old town of Jerusalem. Neither being super religious but both able to appreciate the immensity of the space with humbled steps. I found it funny that almost directly on the opposite side of the street was one of the richest shopping districts in the city. Yet inside the walls people would sell, bargain and buy at rates they felt acceptable for the grabs and meals. Tradition versus westernization at its finest. The colors of sandstone and dulled browns brought on by winter clouds would decorate the city streets as we embarked the hour long walk back to our free parking spot. Cars are awesome but cars are a pain. We interacted with the city streets along the way. Bulbous trees that were outlasted by the forest, rusted playgrounds next to graveyards. Orthodox Jews were the majority here. I'm not sure I'll ever be seeing that again in my life. It was refreshing to see harmony amongst the masses though. With so much religion floating around it's easy to find ruffled feathers. Second star to the right and straight on till…..Nazareth. Pronounced Nazarit in Israel. All was cool under our hood until we made it to the actual city. Then, we were invited in by a daunting maze of hills and secret passageways mistaken for streets. Our GPS was of no help whatsoever. Thank the lords I wasn't driving. With every command of our lady voiced GPS we grew more and more weary of the correct direction. Until finally, we encountered a hill so steep, you would simply roll down it if you wanted to stop and take in the views. Our car managed to get down it, and back up the other side thanks to Steven. But of course, the lady GPS was basically laughing at us as she recalculated her directive thoughts. We turned her off real quick to find ourselves trapped in a parking area for those living a top the hill. By the time Steven turned to look back and reverse, we were being watched. A man in traditional Jalaba garb, was blocking our only escape. So much for a quick getaway, batman. His curious eyes were darkened in the light of one lamp in his frontdoorway giving off the eerie sensation that only occurs when you know you're in the wrong place at the wrong time. We were all ready for a fight (not really) to the death when his wife stepped out and into the street as well. She smiled at our struggles and yelled up to her son, whom lived on the third floor of their complex. Speaking more English than his parents, the entire mood of the situation changed in two seconds. And in three seconds we were in their house, awaiting tea and sweets galore. Apparently this happens often. Travels try and use the GPS and twice a year, the family is blessed with new faces in their living room, often for a few hours of chat as we had. Dinner, sweets, tea, cigarettes were all shared with us as three generations of family piled into the living from from above in the complex. One daughter spoke the best English as well as Arabic Hebrew and Russian. What a powerhouse I must say. She was about to take her dentistry exams within a year and was happy we dropped by for some English practice. By far this was the grand example of human interconnection that I had ever experienced. For an entire family to welcome us in, take selfies and photos, feed us, he'll they would have clothed us if we were standing in front of them naked and bare. We might as well have been as we were lost, cold and alone in a country with no other contacts.i will forever find gratitude in them and hopefully will be able to return the favor someday to a lonely wanderlust er looking for their hostel for the evening. We chose not to stay long in Nazareth but Steven managed to get some mud and sand for his mother as she loves the story of mother Mary. But after that we were out of there quickly and off to the Sea of Galilee to attempt to walk on water. It didn't work but it had a lovely misty feel to it with Israeli flags flying high around the edges. Proud they are. A country of abused and misused rising from the ashes. Becoming one of the most defensive countries the world knows today. And so we drove. We drove into the afternoon and into Haifa, the city of hills. Built upon these hills was the Bahia temple gardens. Luscious layers of shrubbery and prayer sites. The youngest riling ion of the world with the most beautiful sense of natural composition. Youthfulness is what brings our present into the future. I wish the older generation of Americans had the audacity to understand this. They're selfish for the most part though. A generation of sociopaths raised by media that brought them to addiction and fear of the unknown. To them, curiousity killed the cat. To the youth curiousity is what brought the cat to our laps. Anyway, we spent the first hour of Haifa looking for wifi and waiting for our Airbnb host to get home and let us in. Just walking the city and shooting the shit. It began to rain and rain hard after we made our way to a few sites. This is the time when we look for food and relax before our parking meter is up. We found a deliciously petit spot with the gas heaters blaring to fend of the frosty winds. What annoyed us most is that everyone we had asked about restaurant recommendations, was just...unsure. They kept directing us to McDonald's. Luckily we passed the gem just in enough time to make it back before the parking meter went running out. By dark fall our host came home and was ready for us. She seemed to have a lot on her mind but still gave us tea and a spot of conversation. After Steven and her exchanged paintings and artwork, we spent the rest of the dark and dreary evening in our bedroom. Catching up with the world that wasn't in Haifa. We woke with an early start and took view of the gardens, managed to find the cutest human inclusive shakshuka spot along the base of the gardens. We followed this with a trip to mount Carmel. I know, it sounds like a hundred churches in the US but this is what Haifa is built on. Half of the mount is the city and the other side is fixed with hiking trails down into the valley. We drove and stopped at the topped. Walked for a bit and screamed into the distance in hopes to hear echos. It was thrilling. Steven made up a story about the haifens and another clan having a massive battle over a piece of metal that we found and how mount Carmelo's was truly just a burial ground for all of those fighting over the piece of metal that we were sitting on. We would drive on after this and make it to our final destination. Tel Aviv. This would be where Steven and I split up and the continuation of my journey, while he heads home. So we spent days trolling through the city. Smoking cigarettes with our host who me had one of the largest apartments in Tel Aviv. A block from the water the lawyer and the textile artist lived, chain smoking and smoking pot loving one another for the past 9 years. Steven and I thought she was just there for the money but most of the time we saw real love. He a chef and we his guests. We would wander out for felafel and adventure any chance we had. The shower was cold but the conversation was lively. I remember wandering with Steven to the bridge of the stars with all of our astrological signs mounted to the would banister. It was said that dreams would come true if you wished upon your sign. I'm still half waiting. We'd get lost in street markets and find more kenaffe to eat. It wasn't as good as it was in Jordan but it did us well. I almost couldn't finish it. It was sweet as the day! All that I wanted to do when we reached Tel Aviv was dance with Steven in the gayest club we could find. We were rudely awakened by the fact that the city didn't operate as Chicago does. It operated on weekend pop up parties and not real dance clubs. So we settled for conversation and a few beers for me. We weren't happy about it to say the least. The bar was quite interesting though. It was an open air bar that allowed for smoking at every table on multiple layers as if we were in a theatre in the round. I believe the bar was called Friends or something. Nobody wanted to make friends with other tables but pre-existing friends sure had a laugh around us. And so we'd drive the car 30 minutes north to drop it off. Steven still nervous of the scratches he made in Nazareth went and delivered it alone while I waited. It took us about and hour to walk down the coast of the Mediterranean Sea. Talking pictures and walking through sands. Watching consumers consume on the pier restaurants. It was like our goodbye walk before our goodbye dinner. After that I'd have to find a new Airbnb which I had and ended up not needing. Part two anyway. Steven and I shared one final romantic dinner over calzones and pizza. We pigged out and he bought the meal for me. Smiles exchanged and the slow dance styled walk back to the spot. We went to bed and went off to dream land until he woke me up at 3 am to say good bye. And just like that another close friend was here and gone. What's so strange about seeing Steven is that we are so similar. When he first arrived we were both like Farrell cats checking out a smell that was once familiar but our guard still high up to the sky. Being in the Middle East changed our relationship than the streets at home were we would scream and laugh and twirl around without a care in the world. Here we were a bit more reserved and withheld the passion we have for each other a bit. Man i can't wait to go dancing with him again. Until then.