#also the crown of shark teeth kept breaking

[illegallyexisting]

i kept wanting to post this photo again and again, but kept forgetting. anyways i dressed up as my interpretation of princess andy for Halloween :3

i am so proud of this costume

#halloween #the blasting company #the petrojvic blasting company princess andy #princess andy #costume #thank you to my mom for helping me with the costume #also the crown of shark teeth kept breaking #and i was about to cry #but then i rembered #i have glue

[peachesandmilktea]

Art by the wonderful, the magnificent @obsidianne-art (also known as @beware-thecrow) Click here to see the original post!

𝕭𝖊𝖙𝖜𝖊𝖊𝖓 𝖙𝖍𝖊 𝕯𝖊𝖛𝖎𝖑 𝖆𝖓𝖉 𝖙𝖍𝖊 𝕯𝖊𝖊𝖕 𝕭𝖑𝖚𝖊 𝕾𝖊𝖆 [𝒫𝒶𝓇𝓉 𝐼𝐼]

Part I.

Captain Shigaraki is a merciless pirate, a terror over the seven seas, a monster of a man who fears neither god nor man. You’ve sworn to take him down and bring him to his knees under the crown’s justice, and you would have, if only he hadn’t discovered your most well-kept secret.

TW: Mentions of Violence and Death, Misogyny, Smut to come in the next part.

Weaponless.

Powerless.

Defenseless.

You were laid bare under his crimson gaze, eyes like rupees darting over your feminine features, from the soft shape of your jaw to the torn fabric that hung in front of your chest, or the little yelp that escaped your lips as you took a step back and away from him. There was nowhere to flee, though, not when your thighs bucked against the wood of his desk, not when he towered in front of you, inescapable wall of a man obstructing the only way towards the deck, the sea, your own ship, freedom.

He smiled, chapped lips pulled into a smirk.

His gaze, unreadable when it dove into yours.

“Wanna live, Commodore?” he asked, three simple words rendered heavy by the way they held your fate in their so few syllables.

And what were they but a too-good-to-be-true offer from an enemy, a deal with the devil, an unknown contract signed in blood? Triumph was in his hands, in his eyes, in the way his satisfied grin showed teeth sharp as a shark’s. The power balance tilted in his favor, he knew, and you’d have to break it and kill him for you to get the upper hand again, but that would never happen.

He had won.

“Yes,” you whispered, eyes closing on their own when you felt the blade of his sword softly brush against your throat, a threat ever so present. What if he’d just asked the cursed question to taunt you, after all? The bitter taste of humiliation mixed with the sourness of fear on your tongue, and you waited for the cut of the blade, for the blood to spill, for the cold embrace of death as it ripped your soul from your body and took it to the bottom of the sea where it would rest at last.

Instead, you felt something warm.

Your eyes startled open, and you only saw the back of Shigaraki’s silhouette as he left his own cabin, his white shirt stained with the crimson of your own blood, wild strands of his hair swaying in the sea breeze as it slammed the door behind him, leaving you there, in that cramped little office on your own.

With his coat laying on your shoulders.

The fabric was warm from the temperature of his skin, you realized, a slight blush creeping over your cheeks at the thought. It was wet at the sleeves with what was probably seawater and a few buttons were missing, but it didn’t matter, because it was big enough on your form to fill its purpose.

To hide the shirt he’d cut open and your body parts peeking beneath.

Fingers trembling with relief, you closed the fabric over your chest. It felt good, reassuring, even. Familiar, somehow; it smelled like him, which shouldn’t have been as comforting as it was. A knife lingered in the pocket, and your fingers clasped around the handle when you reached for it, just in case.

But you hadn’t been tricked.

The door wasn’t locked. You could step out on the deck and leave with your own ship if you wished to. You weren’t trapped, at least not by Shigaraki’s doing. You had a knife, enough clothing to hide the feminine shape of your chest, and your life still intact.

And yet, you stayed.

Feet frozen into place, fingers trembling on the handle of that knife, the clatter of swords slowly dying down outside as Shigaraki announced that he’d taken the commodore hostage, no matter that he hadn’t, in fact, no matter that you’d willingly laid out your fate in his hands.

He’d kept your secret.

It was clever, as usual with him. He’d chosen the only way for you to go back to your life, should you wish to, once the crown paid a ransom. It advantaged both of you, filling his pockets with gold and allowing you to keep both your life and the ocean of lies you’d chosen as shelter.

Yet, one mystery lingered.

Why hadn’t he killed you?

—-

You watched, fascinated, as your ship went away.

A life’s work. The dreams you’d cradled as a child, all incarnated in that wooden hull and creamy-white sails. Its silhouette got smaller and smaller as it reached towards the horizon, disappearing like a ghost once it was far enough.

Leaving you on your own, on Shigaraki’s ship.

And yet, your heart felt as light as that night in your hometown. It had seen a glimpse of freedom in Shigaraki’s hands, you knew, and now begged for more. His coat felt warm on your shoulders, and the sea breeze blowing through the open window of his quarters’ tasted like a promise of the unknown, a vow of something more, of something true, for once.

You pushed the door leading to the deck, meeting a pair of golden eyes sparkling with excitement on your way there, blonde strands of hair framing a cute little face coated in blood.

“Toga,” you said, still in awe at her presence. There was a smile on her lips, like the last time you’d seen her, revealing little fangs as sharp as a shark’s.

She made a little turn on herself, skirt flying gracefully around her, to study you from each and every side, golden irises darting from your face to your hands, to the sword at your belt or the coat on your shoulders. She cocked an eyebrow at the sight, freezing for a second as if surprised that you’d be the one to wear it, but her smile widened then, a slight hint of mischief now pulling at her traits.

“Tomura said you’d be with us for a bit,” she sang, the knife she held in her hands almost dancing between her fingers as she played with it.

Tomura.

The name felt foreign as it echoed in your mind, though you’d let it roll on your tongue once or twice in the past, always followed by his last name in an attempt to belittle him. There was power in a name, sometimes more so than in a title.

Pirate.

Captain.

Tomura.

He was close to his crew, it meant. Close enough that he would allow such intimacy, a first name called like a friend’s. He’d called her Toga, too, you remembered, without any hesitation in his voice, without any doubt in his tone. Such names without an added title meant proximity, loyalty, family, sometimes, even. Shigaraki and his crew were bonded not by duty, but by something else, it seemed.

A pang of jealousy prickled at your heart.

Commodore, you’d always been called.

With voices cold as the deepest depths of the sea, as the strongest winds from the north. Respect pulled at your crew’s tone more than any other feeling, each syllable completely void of any warmth, for you weren’t their friend but their better.

The navy didn’t allow for any flaw, any personal closeness.

Or any woman.

Yet, Toga grabbed the fabric of your sleeve between two fingers, pulling you behind her as she made her way towards the rest of the crew, on the other side of the deck. Night was falling slowly but surely, the sky darkening by the second as someone you recognized as one of Shigaraki’s crew’s members lit up a few lanterns that hung over the railing.

It gave a cozy, warm atmosphere to that space they’d made theirs.

Shigaraki was leaning against a wall, arms crossed in front of him. Your eyes trailed the fabric of his shirt, thin enough that he would surely be cold as the sun sank below the horizon. It clung to his skin, wet with sweat, seawater and blood, delicately emphasizing the shape of his arms and chest underneath.

You averted your gaze, focusing on the other crew members instead, most of whom eyed you not with hatred or apprehension, but curiosity instead.

Toga shoved a bowl of fish soup in your hands, inviting you to sit beside them and share dinner, which was so damn domestic it made your heart flutter in a way it shouldn’t have.

“So,” a man covered in tattoos said, a smirk pulling at his lips pierced with silver rings. He leaned towards you from the other side of the table, one of his bony fingers smoothly trailing the hem of Shigaraki’s coat along your shoulder and collarbone. There was a hint of mockery in his voice although he’d only said a single word, and you frowned before he even finished his sentence.

“Never knew our dear ol’ captain was into weak, self-righteous, ridiculously posh men,” he teased. “What’s it about? The thrill of playing enemies to lovers? Can’t see anything else appealing about you, or him for that matter.”

You froze.

Not at his accusation, but at the realization that hit you like a hurricane.

He hadn’t told your secret. Not even to his crew.

And, as you raised your eyes to his, there was something in his gaze, an explanation clear as day sparkling in his crimson irises.

Your secret is yours to share, it said.

“Stop pestering him, Dabi,” Toga said, childish pleading thick in her voice. “This is why no one wants to join this crew. You’re too annoying.”

Dabi scoffed at her words, lips pulled into a grin revealing sharp, white teeth.

“Who needs a coward like that in their crew?” He turned to you then, some kind of spiteful arrogance in his eyes. “Abandoning your own ship simply because you were losing, Commodore. It might be a win-win situation, but it sure as hell isn’t a good look for you. You that scared of defeat?”

Something hissed in the air before hitting the table with a loud sound.

The blade you’d found in Shigaraki’s pocket, lodged in the millimeter-wide gap between two of Dabi’s fingers. Threatening. A demonstration of precision, a promise of something more if he didn’t shut up.

You could have severed his whole hand, had you been less skilled.

“I’ve learned,” you said, and this time, you didn’t disguise your voice, didn’t try to pass it as male. It felt foreign even to your ears then, a little too high, a little too weak, but it was freeing all the same. “That men who talk loud and stupid like you do tend to try and make up that way for something they lack. Got nothing in your pants, Dabi, is that it?”

You said his name softly, so mockingly seductive, everything in your tone and demeanor an attempt to belittle him.

His eyes widened for a second, mismatched lips parted in pure, raw surprise.

“So that’s what it was,” an older man said, a gentle smile spreading on his face. He spoke as if a mystery had been unveiled, a treasure uncovered. You supposed that the truth was close to that.

Something to treasure, like you should have.

“I knew it!” Toga exclaimed, clasping her hands around yours. Hers were tiny, lean fingers struggling to tighten their hold. Still, they were wet with blood, and you would have wiped it away with the sleeve of your coat in a sisterly gesture, had it been yours.

“Give her some clothes,” Shigaraki told her, not mentioning the torn shirt though all could hear it in his voice. She’s got nothing else to wear, it said. He didn’t bring up the coat, didn’t push for you to give it back to him, as if it had been yours all along.

Someone filled your soup bowl with more fish pieces, the most tender parts of it, a nice gesture that made you feel welcome. Shigaraki was gone when you raised your eyes after taking a bite of it, and somehow, his absence felt louder than the laugh of Toga and her friend Jin.

It was a group of misfits, you realized after a while.

And somehow, your true self fit right in.

——

It was a few days before you were alone with Shigaraki again.

You’d washed the coat to the best of your abilities, wearing Toga’s clothes instead. They were a bit tight and somehow impractical on your form, but it didn’t matter, not when they were the first feminine clothes you could wear freely in a while. It felt weird, to let your body breathe without hiding your curves under a tight cloth.

It felt like you could move, it felt like you were free.

It felt like you could do anything.

“Enter,” Shigaraki’s raspy voice said once you knocked on the door to his quarters.

You closed it behind you, careful not to wrinkle the coat you held in your arms. Anything not to undo all the efforts you’d made.

The pirate captain was hunched over his desk, maps, pens and ink clattering the whole surface of it. His lean fingers went from one side of the crumpled paper to another, trailing the length of sea roads, the gentle shape of carefully drawn seaside towns you had yet to visit, or the red crosses here and there he’d scribbled with crimson ink — the marks of his next targets, surely.

You let your gaze focus on the slow movement of his digits over the maps, every movement carefully calculated. He had gentle hands, too pretty and delicate-looking for the filthy business he used them for. You’d seen them drenched in blood more often than you could count, the pretty pale white of his skin concealed beneath crimson stains. And now that it had washed away, scarlet gone both from his hands and from the image you held of him in your mind, it was as if you discovered him again, as if you’d never truly known him before.

He looked pretty beneath the blood.

You averted your gaze, your cheeks warming a bit too much at the thought.

He perked up, then, a slight little frown pulling at his brow.

“The coat,” he said, glancing at the clothing item you carefully cradled against your chest. “You could have kept it, you know.”

He almost didn’t want it back.

As captain, Tomura was an efficient man. He took calculated risks, knew his own strengths and weaknesses and how to make the best of them to take down every single one of his enemies in a bloodbath if needed. He wasn’t often surprised, and for good reason — he did pride himself in always knowing what to expect, always predicting the next move on the chess game of life.

He was clever. He knew what to make of things.

But you’d bested him then — he’d studied you as an opponent, learned and analyzed every single little thing that made you such a worthy adversary, from your skills with the blade to the wits you’d demonstrated each and every time you’d faced him in battle. And yet, he hadn’t been able to uncover the most obvious truth, the one that could have doomed you in a single word should he have wished it so.

You were an enigma. A mystery. And now, he wanted to uncover every single one of your little secrets like lost treasures yet concealed by the riddles swarming your gaze, just like he had when his blade had slashed through your shirt. He would kill two birds with one stone, earn the ransom money and put together the pieces of your puzzle, if only he could keep a grasp on the strange fascination that had birthed in the very depths of his chest at the sight of you, this time devoid of lies of pretense.

The sight of the real you.

But those grand plans would be made easier if only he didn’t feel so lost at the mere knowledge that you’d worn his clothing.

It was stupid. Just a few pieces of fabric held together by a bit of thread. Something old, something that was ripped in a few places, something that was covered in dark stains no matter how many times he tried to wash it. It was a coat, nothing much, but it was his — he’d worn it every time he’d fought you, and every time he plotted revenge against you, too. If he didn’t have much but his fleet and a few riches stolen here and there, that one truly belonged to him.

And he would have lied if he’d said seeing you wearing it didn’t do anything to him.

It was a weird little spark that had lit in his chest, something warm and almost comforting. Yet, no matter how much he yearned to lean into it, he’d buried it in the deepest abysses of his mind, never to be spoken into words. If Tomura knew his strength and weaknesses, he could very much attest that whatever this little spark was, it was somehow turning into the latter.

Yet, his heart had the nerve to tighten a bit when he noticed you’d washed the coat, and your scent wouldn’t linger on it.

Stupid, stupid, stupid.

“I’m not wearing men’s clothing anymore, remember?” you replied, your tone a bit teasing. It felt both weird and natural to hear the smile in your voice, when just a few days before you’d held blades to each other’s throats.

Tomura found that he didn’t dislike the sound.

You stayed true to your character, though — the arrogance that your position had given you lingered still, and he almost found a way to appreciate it when you pushed a few ink brushes littering his desk just so that you could sit on the polished wood there. It brought you closer, that stupid, shameless side of you, and Tomura’s eyes dwindled on your face when you studied the marks he’d made on the map, your gaze on it too focused to notice his lingering stare.

Your lips parted for a second, as if you were about to comment on his next target.

But you stayed silent — you weren’t ready to betray the navy just yet, not in that way at least. Not by helping a pirate captain destroy their ships and supplies.

“I’m grateful, truly,” you said instead, and Tomura hadn’t expected that — you were harder to read than most, he supposed. The pride he’d seen you wrap yourself into like a blanket seemed to fade from your grasp each second you spent on his ship, and he often wondered if, maybe, it hadn’t been a way for you to push others away, to protect your secret from peeking eyes.

You were like a puzzle, one he was eager to put together.

“I told you you’d fit better among the pirates,” he simply replied, his eyes dawdling on your lips when they stretched into a smile.

You leaned towards him, above his desk, above the map, above every single ounce of self control he still held in that tiny, rotten little heart of his, and there was a light of mischief in your gaze, almost as unexpected as that stupid spark that lit once again in the depths of his chest, or the infernal warmth that pooled beneath his flesh.

Weakness, there it was.

Yet, he longed for it all the same, cradling it in his mind like a treasure yet undiscovered.

“So, what do you think?” you asked then, as if to provoke him even more, and it worked all too well in Tomura’s opinion. “Does freedom suit me?”

It did.

More than he’d expected — another miscalculation on his part.

If you’d been cold and distant as commodore, wrapping yourself into cowardly pride that Tomura had craved to rip away with his blood-coated hands, you were warm, almost tender and even kind, ever since you’d watched your ship sail away and disappear behind the line of the horizon.

A fire birthed in you, bright as sunshine, light made flesh, and the navy had done nothing but stifle it, smother it until you were but a shadow of yourself, drowning in empty lies just in the hopes you’d be able to grasp happiness between trembling fingers. The thought filled Tomura with unbridled rage, one he was eager to unleash, one that pulsed beneath his ribs whenever his chest wasn’t filled with the stupid little spark that birthed there every time your gaze met his.

Of course, you perked up, and, when your eyes dove into his, he realized he had forgotten to reply.

“It does,” he said in a breath, and he prayed that you weren’t able to hear the embarrassment in his voice. The words sounded weak, because they were — in all the dictionaries and encyclopedias he’d read, there wasn’t a single term that would have been fitting to speak the thoughts that swarmed his mind then. It simply did, it suited you, stupidly so, so much that it made him want to carve into his own chest to grasp the spark that lingered there and extinguish it between his trembling fingers like he would any other weakness.

You replied with a laugh, and the sound made him feel as far gone as those times his ship got pulled into a sea storm and death almost caught his soul in between its tight clutches. But Tomura was no weak man ; he’d always found a way to cheat doom, and it wasn’t going to change anytime soon, not even for the soft little smile you gave him as you went on your merry way, leaving his coat, washed and carefully folded on his desk.

Or so he thought.

—-

Life on a pirate ship was very different from the navy.

Both messy and overwhelming, a comfortable kind of chaos — one that wasn’t dictated by rules broken but by the lack of them thereof. On your fleet, tasks were scheduled and carefully assigned to each member of your crew. There wasn’t any place for unplanned events, for slacking off, or even for games played in the light of a few candles long after the sun dropped below the line of the horizon.

Shigaraki’s crew seemed fond of those and, soon enough, you found yourself sitting beside him, watching a very determined Toga trying to win a game of cards against a more-than-annoyed Dabi. The young girl had put some money on the line, and Dabi seemed ready to snatch the few coins that littered the worn-out table between them, but the state of the game said otherwise.

“I’m betting on Toga,” you told Shigaraki in a low whisper, nudging him in the ribs to catch his attention.

He glanced at you, arching a brow in amused acknowledgment.

“No luck, I’m betting on Toga too,” he replied.

“Don’t waste your breath,” Spinner intervened, tilting his head towards you. “There isn’t a single person in this crew who would bet on Dabi at this point.”

The lean man covered in tattoos perked up at the words, his jaw ticking with unconcealed annoyance. It dripped from his voice as he spoke, heavy threats pulling at each and every one of the syllables that spilled from his lips.

“I should throw you all overboard,” he said, though there was no animosity in his tone, unlike you’d expected. It was as if he were used to all of this — the bickering, the bantering, the gentle little teasing shared between friends. It was an unfamiliar type of atmosphere to you, for there had been no place for friendship on your fleet, only for cold, distant efficiency, and the thought prickled your heart like a thorn.

Well, it wasn’t too late. Maybe you could change things once you went back to your ship.

Or would you?

The possibility was there, as threatening as it was appealing. To say fuck it all and join Shigaraki’s crew, leaving behind a life spent locked in a golden cage crafted with your own lies. As gentle as the feel of your shackles was, they were restraints all the same, and Shigaraki held the key to your salvation — would you be bold enough to ask him for it, then ?

You glanced at him as Dabi slipped a few coins in Toga’s palms with a sigh.

The pirate captain was focused on the game still. A light of amusement sparkled in his gaze, one that you hadn’t seen often in the deep red of his irises. Yet, it disappeared in a blink, as soon as he noticed you’d been staring.

You averted your eyes before he could comment on it.

You would have time to think about your future later — for now, it was easier to simply let yourself dive into the easy atmosphere, to laugh with the pirates as if you belonged there, among them. Soon enough, the sound of Toga’s laugh drowned the most dreadful of your thoughts and your concerns sank to the darkest abysses of your mind, forgotten for now.

Hours passed, coins changed hands, and wax dripped from the candles onto the worn-out wood of the deck beside the soles of your boots. Soon enough, the first of the crew members went to sleep, followed by others and others, yawns echoing in the deep silence of the night only troubled by the song of the waves rippling here and there. And, soon enough, you were alone with Shigaraki, two lost souls adrift on the confines of sleep deprivation.

“Play against me,” you said, grabbing the deck of cards from the table and taking a seat facing the pirate captain. You didn’t feel tired, not when his fingers briefly brushed against yours as he handed you a couple of lost cards, probably used as a cheat by one of his comrades before.

The contact pleased you more than it should have.

“Alright,” he conceded, though there was a slight hint of confidence in his voice, making it clear that he didn’t think he would lose against you. And maybe he was right, after all, whether it was through an accurate knowledge of his own skills or simply that he was able to read you well — you didn’t play games. Not with your crew, because it meant slacking off. Not with your friends, because you didn’t have any. Not with anyone.

Yet, even if you were to lose, the perspective was appealing.

And you wanted to give it a try.

“Wager your hat,” you ordered. “I want it.”

He blinked, and the surprise that flashed in his crimson eyes made you smile.

You could almost call it cute.

“My hat? Why the hell would you want my hat?”

A frown pulled at his brow now, but that didn’t mean he would deny your demand, you knew. Curiosity swarmed in his gaze, interest, too — he was as eager as you to see what would come out of this game between two enemies turned into something more, king of pirates against commodore.

But that didn’t mean that the prizes had to be as grand — you didn’t have much to offer in return, after all.

“The commodore’s uniform hat is dull. I’ve always wanted to try on a pirate hat.”

The excuse seemed to amuse him enough for him to nod.

“Deal. And what will you wager, commodore?”

He still called you by your title, but not in the same way he used to. Now, the syllables seemed almost fond as they rolled on his tongue, gentle and soft in the way they fell from his lips, lowly muttered in his husky voice.

“Secrets, Captain,” you replied in the same tone. “Surely, there must be something you’d like to know.”

You owed him.

More even than your life. If he’d saved it, he’d also offered more — hospitality, friendship, a sense of belonging that you’d never felt before. And you didn’t have anything to offer him in return, not without your ship, without your title, or without the power the reveal of your identity would have stolen from your hands. The only things worthy of wagering were the thoughts that swarmed in your mind, memories of the navy’s plans to fight against the pirates and decimate his kind.

That was all you could offer.

His enemy’s secrets.

Your betrayal against your own title.

“There is,” he confirmed, slowly taking the deck of cards from your hands to shuffle the cards between his lean, delicate fingers. “And so, we have a deal.”

The game didn’t take long — he was objectively good and you were objectively clumsy, unused to such recreational ways to pass the time. Soon enough, he held all of the winning cards, cradling a landslide victory in the palm of his hands.

“You get one question,” you said as he slipped the deck in the pocket on the inside of his coat. “You can ask anything.”

He let silence settle for a few seconds, though you knew he wasn’t pondering over his question. No, he would know what to ask, already — he would have made the calculations as soon as the proposal was out of your mouth, because Captain Shigaraki Tomura was nothing if not clever, and you’d never been able to truly catch him off guard, no matter how many times you’d tried.

He leaned over the table, an elbow settled on the worn out wood, his chin lazily resting on his palm. His gaze was on you now, studying your face as if to read even more secrets from your expression than the ones you were already willing to give. He tilted his head, crimson eyes diving deep, deep into yours.

“Why the sea?” he asked. 

You blinked in surprise, the three simple words the very last thing you expected.

“You could have had freedom, on land. You could have lived a life as yourself, rather than wear a mask that would doom you if it were to fall. Why did you choose such a fate willingly?”

He wasn’t asking about the navy.

He was asking about you.

And the question brought back memories that you’d buried far, far in the darkest depths of your mind. The dreams of the sea, of monsters and syrens, of gold to be found in tiny little islands lost in the midst of a blue immensity, of new discoveries that weren’t on any map, yet. That little girl who’d wished she could sail like the men did, if only because it meant she would go wherever she wanted whenever she wanted and tame, if even a little, the overwhelming, terrifying force that was the sea.

But the question wasn’t right.

The way he’d asked it — it was as if he didn’t believe it himself.

“There was no freedom to be had on land,” you replied sincerely. “The land is a shackle in itself, one that cowards and wimps cling onto because the sea is too much of an unknown danger to them. I’d rather die to be stuck there, away from the freedom that I can taste here, no matter that it’s a fleeting or a stolen one.”

The freedom you’d held as a commodore wasn’t more than that.

Now, the one that Shigaraki offered tasted sweeter, but you’d choke on it if you let your mind dwindle on the thought for too long.

“The land is a shackle,” he repeated, pondering your words. There was the shadow of a smile on his scarred lips, and somehow, it felt as if his soul was made in the same cloth as yours. The land is a shackle, and the sea is the key — it echoed in his tone, truer and more genuine than anything else he’d ever said as the syllables rolled on his tongue.

“How did you become a pirate?” you asked then.

Not why. How.

After so many days spent by his side, you could now understand why one would choose to walk on this path. It was appealing — a bit too much, even, a forbidden treasure that could doom you as soon as you held out a hand to grasp it. Pirates were free, pirates obeyed no rule but their own, pirates had gentle hands and red eyes that sparkled with something unreadable whenever they met yours.

“Someone raised me into it,” Shigaraki replied, his tone low. “The previous pirate king. But he saw me as nothing but a pawn and so, I killed him, and stole his fleet for myself.”

He said it as if it were something small, a detail without much significance, and you supposed it was — however Shigaraki had been raised, however he had risen into power, he owed none of it to anyone but himself; that much you could attest to after facing his wits and strength time after time as his worst enemy. 

But the story reminded you of your own.

It echoed the tales you’d heard, whispered low between sailors in the darkness of your parents’ tavern on late evenings. The previous pirate king, a man as cruel as he was powerful, a ruler who’d killed thousands and thousands without blinking an eye. He’d terrorized merchant and navy ships alike, and spread horror in seaside towns like yours.

And your parents had been killed by his men.

Shigaraki frowned when you said it, and if you hadn’t known better, you might even have thought you saw a slight hint of concern in his gaze.

“Is that why you joined the navy rather than a merchant ship?” he asked. “For revenge?”

To kill all the pirates without mercy.

Such had been your vow.

“For safety,” you corrected — you’d already known the previous pirate king was dead. There was no place for revenge in your mind, not if you wanted to go forward. “The safety of innocents. So that no one else would have to go through the same thing I did.”

He hummed in acknowledgment, though he knew you’d meant to decimate his kind without a second thought, if only that meant those you’d sworn to protect would be safe from his hands.

“But,” you added, and he perked up at the sound of your voice, diving his gaze into yours again. “I think I reached that goal already.”

You couldn’t read his expression as he tilted his head to the side, a few strands of white hair brushing against his cheek as he did so. Their shadows danced in his eyes in the faint light of the dying candle, and you stared for a second, entranced by the sight.

“Did you?” he wondered, and you couldn’t tell if he was pleased by your words or annoyed by them. “How so?”

You settled for the truth.

“I don’t think what happened under his rule would happen under yours. I think you’re different. I think you’re better than him. And I think I might have been mistaken when I chose the navy, though I’m not entirely decided on that matter yet.”

Something flashed in his irises — pride, maybe, though you couldn’t tell if it was for partly making you change your mind, or for the sincere compliments you’d given him. As much as you’d studied him, as well as you now knew him, he was still a mystery of a man, cloaked in shadows and secrecy.

And he kept those thoughts of his secret as well when he stood and held out a hand to help you get to your feet too. You grasped it with a shiver, letting the comforting warmth of his skin gently brush against your palm.

“It’s getting late. You should go to sleep, commodore,” Shigaraki said.

But before he turned towards the way to his cabin, he raised a hand and grasped the hem of his hat. A second later, it was on your head, shadowing the sight of him as he strode away from you.

“That’s your consolation prize,” you heard him say. “Take good care of it.”

You caught it between two fingers before it could fall in front of your eyes — the size didn’t really fit you. It was a stupid gain, from a stupid victory and yet, nothing could hold back the giddy smile that stretched your lips as you replaced it correctly on your head.

Maybe being a pirate did fit you better, after all.

---------

I know I said I would end this in two parts but Geri presented me with a TOO JUICY CONCEPT and now I'm obsessed and you're getting a few more chapters (it won't be too long though!). Expect a tiny bit of angst with a happy ending!

As usual, please please please tell me your thoughts, it truly means the world to me ❤

#shigaraki x reader #shigaraki x you #mha x reader #bnha x reader #mha x you #bnha x you #shigaraki x y/n #mha x y/n #bnha x y/n #shigaraki fic #shigaraki tomura #shimura tenko #mha fic #bnha fic #my hero academia #boku no hero academia #pirate au #Peaches writes #between the devil and the deep blue sea #shigaraki art

[notesofarichlycolorednight]

it’s taken me a while but here we are!! listened to bloodwater ballad [TUMBLR | SOUNDCLOUD] by @gerrydelano so I’m gonna dive (ha, dive, get it?) into some analysis even tho I haven’t taken a proper English class since AP English Lit in high school and the god complex it gave me has never left (RIP to everyone else, but I’m different). But I do have a degree in Psychology and am a Researcher, so I know how to dissect things (this is probably why the god complex never left lmao)

disclaimer: I have only listened to TMA through one (1), read it ONE time, so if you read something that seems wrong it probably is because my memory is not The Best (the seasons are 40 eps long and 30 mins each, Jonny why) and I’m probably straight-up not remembering or misremembering some aspect or detail about either a character and/or their relationship

(and before you say it, i absolutely CANNOT just go relisten to an ep out of order. my nd brain Will Not Let Me until i have listened thru all 4 seasons, In Order, several times)

ALSO: i speak very definitively here, but it doesn’t mean i’m right abt my analysis

bold and italics are lyrics, regular font is analysis. if there’s a more accessible way to format this, lmk!

analysis under cut

honesty that's what she gave to me mary didn’t hide who she was; eric knew exactly what he was getting himself into

into the water i bleed into the sea sea motif/metaphor to describe how eric viewed his relationship with mary

truthfully even when she lied through her teeth it only meant she trusted me to lay at her feet rationalization from eric: he knows she’s lying, and she probably knows he knows. but she also knows that he won’t do anything about it

oh, heave-ho it's over the edge i sink more of the sea metaphor in pieces in ribbons in tatters i'm thrown into the dark of the drink ribbons and tatters: reminiscent/hint of mary needing a piece of his skint to keep his ghost in the leitner

oh, heave-ho it's over the edge i go blow the man down, he's a jewel for your crown (blow me down) and no one will ever know ”jewel for your crown”: suggestive of how mary used eric like an object. jewel and crown suggests that he was useful to her in an important way, tho, still an object ”no one will ever know”: suggestive that no one else, looking in on their relationship, would even see it for what it truly was, nor would they ever expect mary to throw him away so casually like she did

war, you see is somewhere you go just to bleed the end of a book you can’t read (books you cannot read) a legacy’s greed “book you can’t read”: suggestive of mary’s relationship with leitners ”a legacy’s greed”: commentary of leitner; bc this is eric telling his story tho, this could also be about how mary pulled eric into her plots regarding leitners, and then gerry

distantly, familiar hope came to me that even with blood in our teeth my son stayed asleep ”even with blood in our teeth”: eric knows what role he had to play in all this and is not absolving himself of blame ”my son stayed asleep”: often sleeping can be used as a metaphor for ignorance. in this case, eric is hoping that, despite what gerry’s mother is and what eric has been complicit in, will not affect his son i think it’s interesting to note here that the backup voices cut out for “my son stayed asleep” (put a pin in it)

oh, heave-ho the ship is my body, i gave to my wife as the captain, the whip, and the brine, the shark lurking under the waves more of the sea metaphor; also a metaphor for how complicit eric was to mary’s will i think it’s super interesting that she’s the captain, whip, brine, and shark in this metaphor. all things that can hurt eric, as the ship. suggests that mary is in complete control of eric (as the captain). also adds to the notion that eric knew exactly who mary was and still loved her anyway (”i gave”).

oh, heave-ho the ship is my body, she cracks the mast of my spine, spills my blood as her wine (lightning strikes and) i really like this line bc it makes me think of the marriage lines in corpse bride: “your cup will never empty, for i will be your wine.” and i love that it’s turned on its head here. cuts a flag from the skin off my back (takes all the skin off my back) a direct callback to the fact that mary has to take strips of eric’s skin to keep his ghost in the leitner book, while also staying with the metaphor that eric is a ship out at sea

way, ay, i wanted to say though blinded i still saw the light at the end of the hall, in a crib with his eyes almost grayer than mine in the night direct callback to eric blinding himself, twice! also represents how much he loves his son: “light of my life” is a common saying and gerry was that for eric

i gave up the sight of his face for his life and i would have lost more for the same i'd cut out my heart to save his from her bite and i almost don't know who to blame again, direct callback to him blinding himself so he could escape the institute a demonstration of how much love he holds for his son, willing to give up more and more of himself if it meant keeping his son safe heart motif! both for eric and gerry i really like the last line here bc he’s saying he doesn’t know who to blame for his blindness (aka cutting out his heart): himself or mary. bc, as i’ve stated before, eric knows who mary is. and he still loves her. still had a child with her. i also think it’s foreshadowing. and the reason i say this is bc, in the end, eric was unable to save gerry from mary. this song is representative of his statement to gertrude, so at this point, he’s a ghost. tho he may not know exactly what mary has done, he knows who she is enough to know that after he died, mary would raise gerry in her likeness, with her ideals

is it a murder if i made my bed by her side when i knew what she was? and here we have eric, most nearly explicitly, stating that he knew mary’s true colors. and loved her anyway. perhaps i'm complicit; i fell asleep first in the bloodcutting comfort of jaws this also solidifies his stance that he should shoulder some of the blame for allowing himself to love her when he knew what a truly terrible and deadly (literally) person she was ”bloodcutting comfort of jaws” is also really nice alliteration

forgive me, forgive me, i did try to swim with my hands and feet bound to my heart heart motif! okay so this one has so many layers for me: so, for all intents and purposes here, eric has effectively cut out his heart, which his hands and feet are bound to, and is now in the jaws of a shark (mary), who is dragging him down to kill him. he tried to save his son by getting away from the institute by blinding himself but it didn’t work weighted and anchored with love for my son who by birthright deserves more than scars legit, this confused me for a bit bc i always saw “with my hands and feet bound to my heart” as the anchor that pulled him down, as you’d weigh someone down with big rocks if you wanted them to drown. however, in the context of tma, i realized anchor could also mean the way martin is jon’s anchor. eric’s love for gerry was his reason--the person who he kept fighting for as best he could

additional note: these 4 verses are all sung without backup voices. i think it’s interesting that the lyrics/verses that revolve around wanting to save his son, and that are about his son, are sung with his singular voice. i wish i could articulate more what that means, but despite my best efforts, i’m not musically inclined even tho i’ll kinda be talking abt music composition for firesorrow girl lmao. link at the end

my eulogy the carpet red under my feet like standing on top of the sea (standing on the sea) the frenzy beneath don’t ask me why but i really like how this last part of the song starts with “my eulogy” bc you can tell the song is coming to a close now by that lyric. what’s really nice is i can “picture” eric closing his statement with gertrude with the request that she finds his son more sea and shark metaphors

infamy how do you remember me? that fool just so desperate to leave that he couldn't see? i also really loved these lines bc eric most likely knows how gertrude thought of him, and can probably sense how she feels of him now, after his story then i love how “couldn’t see” has a double-meaning here: 1) of course, he blinded himself but, 2) that he was also metaphorically blind to what kind of consequences his actions had, both on him and his son

oh, heave-ho a dead man has only one tale listen,,, i know i keep saying this, but i love how ron turns turn-of-phrases on their heads. bc “dead men tell no tales” right? eric has one tale, tho: his statement bc he’s a ghost who’s been bound this book and kept, for all intents and purpose, alive i knew she had hunger for blood in the water and that means it was no betrayal again, confirmation that eric knows that he has to shoulder some of the blame for the consequences of knowing who mary was (this bloodthirsty shark) and still loving her anyway

oh, heave-ho though, i have one request of you now if my son can be found and his own hands unbound (find my son) cut the rope - don't you dare let him drown (don’t you dare be the reason he drowns) so a throwback to “hands and feet bound to my heart” tho perhaps gerry’s heart isn’t what’s dragging him down, necessarily bc he was raised by mary, he didn’t have a choice. the moment he was born, he was tied to her. and the moment mary killed eric, there was no chance he could get away and then, of course, the gut-puncher: “don’t you dare let him drown”/“don’t your dare be the reason he drowns” are especially poignant, given gertrude uses gerry much in the same way mary did. gerry becomes bound to a different entity and is used for gertrude’s gain. so he drowns anyway.

--

alkjdlf i hope this is semi-coherent. i tried to do it more “professionally”--i even thought abt breaking it up and putting it back together, out of order, to address all the themes and motifs all in one spot--but then decided what would be best for my brain, was to listen to the song and just add my thoughts in as they came, stream of consciousness style *finger guns*

firesorrow girl analysis | meme i made for these analyses bc it’s funny and i wanted to share

#tma #the magnus archives #tma meta #(kinda. alkjldkf idk how to tag thissss) #eric delano #mary keay #gerard keay #chirp.meta

[rekwritesnonsense]

Prompt: Mistake

Bael breathed out in heavy, thudding huffs, exhaling ambient cigarettes, spice, and blood splatter from between red lips. It was one of those pit fights where the goddamn neon kept flashing, changing against the duracrete floor and the sweat on the human in front of him, making shadows jump in half a dozen directions, giving the whole thing a nauseating strobe effect. He spat a rope of blackened phlegm to the side, roared for the crowd, and made the charge. He had the weight advantage, and while he wasn’t faster than the other man, he was fast enough, and he could take the slighter man’s hits to the ribs, the meat of the stomach. He clamped his hand into the hollow parts of his opponent’s face and slammed him spine first into the floor with enough force to feel the jaw pop out under his grip. Since the bastard couldn’t bite anymore, he pushed his hand in deeper and repeated the impact until the body stopped kicking.

There were some cheers. Money changed hands. Somebody passed Bael a gray and red splotchy towel and a beer he assumed was free. Some people dragged the human out. The lights made it hard to tell if he was breathing or not, but they didn’t leave him there, and Bael supposed that was a sign of something. His teeth tasted like silver.

“Easy fight,” Vrict hissed next to him, checking a tally. “Not great profits with those odds, but good job making it a show. Kerr says you’re welcome back any time.”

“Tomorrow?” Bael asked. The adrenaline was draining out and he could feel the tender spots left by those hits, but he figured he could probably win again tomorrow. His boss had been laying low the last two weeks- something political- and his landlord was making noise about it again. Ma said his sister needed new books for school. “Doesn’t the school fuckin’ give them books?” he’d asked, but apparently this was some sort of special thing, or some sort of punishment, or his Ma didn’t read whatever the school sent home and was just fucking guessing again because asking her boy was easier than slogging through whatever polite, vague, unhelpful thing some prissy pristine white furred teacher sent home in a language Ma was never that great at reading. “Let me see it,” he’d said over the holo, which was also costing money he wasn’t making. “Threw it out,” she said, waving a cigarette like she was trying to precision incinerate flies. There was no talking to the woman once she’d decided a thing was too complicated for anyone to figure out, and solving the problem only made her angry that you were calling her stupid. “Love you, Ma,” he’d said eventually. She sucked down tar and smoke. “Stay safe, Baby Boy. Don’t let the bastards put one over on you.”

“Yeah, probably tomorrow.” Vrict clicked his mandibles. “But maybe cool it a day or two, yeah? Can’t spend money dead in a ditch.”

Bael groaned and tipped up his beer. He tried to make eye contact with the Nautolan he’d been talking to before the fight, and then wished he hadn’t. Those big black eyes had gone wider, and he was more than familiar with the fear in them, with the sudden understanding of exactly what Bael could do to another sentient being if he set his mind to it. He turned back to Vrick as they quickly paid the tab and hurried out. That was another set of maybe-plans gone for the evening.

“What the fuck is wrong with the boss?” he complained. His knuckles ached and the quickly warming drink sandwiched between them was not helping as much as he’d like. “Why can’t we just go back to work? Bust some heads, shake down some shops, fucking stand in front of something with a blaster rifle, I don’t care, but I need the fucking work, man.”

“There’s freelance?” Vrict’s offer wasn’t helpful and they both knew it. Freelance meant sticking your dick blind into the hornet’s nest that was Nar Shaddaa politics. Or it meant hopping a ride somewhere else and hoping the boss didn’t call while you were out moonlighting on a different moon. You could go weeks without hearing from that slimy coward, but stars fucking forbid you didn’t call him back within five minutes and hop to wherever the fuck he told you. That just left pit fights and loan sharks, both of which were going to break a few of Bael’s ribs eventually. Bael growled into his drink.

“Hey, champ!” somebody called, and Bael scrunched up his face in physical pain. Somewhere behind him, someone was trying to get his attention. Somebody with a Corellian accent and a self-important swagger even to their voice. Without turning his head, Bael stuck up a middle finger and elaborately, pointedly drained the last of his drink. “I’m talking to you, you fucking dewback!” the voice was rising in pitch. “Do you know who I am?”

Bael looked to Vrict, who shook his head very slightly. No idea.

“Let’s launch,” Bael said, staggering up. “Get some better air.” Vrict snorted. May as well suggest a walk in the sunshine.

The hand that came down on Bael’s shoulder and tried to pull him around was too big to belong to the voice. He turned in the spastic light and saw a weequay, but nobody he knew. Behind him some little human with gold jewelry and one of those stylized slavers’ belts with a loop which could anchor several chains was shouting about respect, and how he wouldn’t be ignored.

Respect.

Bael’s fist hit the weequay’s spiked face with the full force of an impending eviction, of a speeder bike he couldn’t figure out how to fix, of an apartment full of empty beer cans and cheap holos alone, of not having enough control of his own life to see his people in anything more than occasional calls where they asked for more money, of all the frustration and humiliation possible when your only skill was what you could put your fist through. The crunch felt satisfying.

The little human pulled a gun, and the next few seconds were blind speed and pure instinct. Bael broke his hand around the grip and punched him in the throat. Then he hammered down on the crown of the man’s skull as he fell choking and gasping. Vrict was at his back, gun drawn and ready to hop in, but the fight was already over. The lights flickered and sputtered.

“Holy shit man,” said somebody in the crowd, “do you know who that was?”

And that was when Bael knew he had made a serious mistake.

[neverwatchedonepiece]

523-525: "A Surprising Fact! the Man Who Guarded the Sunny!", "Deadly Combat Under the Sea! the Demon of the Ocean Strikes!" and "Lost in the Deep Sea! The Straw Hats Get Separated!"

A New Challenger Appears...?

These were good episodes. There was world building, with all the underwater scenes and explanation of how the OPverse and its technology works. There was action (the Caribou pirates ramming Sunny and the Kraken fight). There was comedy (Franky’s nipple lights, anyone?) and there was genuine tension (would the air inside the bubble last? Where have Luffy, Zoro and Sanji gone?)

There were also two big reveals.

And this was one of them.

Oh. My. God.

While Sentomaru got his ass burned by Marine HQ over letting the Strawhats escape, Rayleigh had found a comfortable grass tussock. The perfect place to sit and let a fit of nostalgia wash over him.

Could not believe it when I saw that straw hat on young Roger’s head. Luffy’s beloved hat not only belonged to the infamous Yonkou, Shanks, but has sat on the head of the Pirate King himself. I wonder if Roger and Shanks had a moment when the straw hat was passed down, like Luffy and Shanks did at the start of the story?

Rayleigh and Roger’s first meeting was great too. Luffy really does have a similar personality to Roger. He never cared that Rayleigh stole the ship. He just wanted a ship and someone chill to sail with. And Roger had Big Ambitions.

“Hey. Nice ship,” Roger said to Rayleigh.

“I stole it. My house burned down so I live here now.”

“Cool. What’s your name?”

“Rayleigh.”

“I’m Roger! I think we were destined to meet, Rayleigh?”

“Destined?”

“You wanna turn the world upside down with me?”

At the time, Rayleigh reacted like most of us would in that situation. Who was this madman and why was he trying to convince him to set sail.

But Rayleigh must have crumbled.

And the rest is history.

The tear in Rayleigh’s eye as he remembered his old friend was touching. Roger’s death and the break up of the crew must still affect him. But here he is, still alive, happy living with Shakky, coating ships for a living and ensuring the succession of the next Pirate King, who was  at that very moment, heading for Fishman Island on his long-awaited journey.

Good job, Rayleigh. :)

Cyborgs Understand Cyborgs

Have to say, the underwater scenes were beautiful. It really did feel like the Strawhats were leaving the real world behind and passing into a fantastical realm where slow rays of light slanted through clear blue water and the enormous roots of Sabaody’s mangroves dug deep into the bed of the shallower, warmer sea. All the Strawhats were awed by the beauty.

Then, as Sunny submerged and the shadows grew longer and the water colder, Chopper and Usopp began to freak out a little. Didn’t blame them in the slightest. I kept thinking about pressure and what that would do to them if the bubble popped. 

But Oda had thought of that and had it covered! I can happily report that the coating bubble is not that easily popped! Sanji demonstrated that the bubble will not burst even under tremendous deep pressure. Objects, like cannon balls and Luffy’s hands, can pass through the coating (not sure what that would do to the pressure inside the bubble, but I’ll go with it).

HOWEVER, sharp objects like sea king fangs or, say, one of Zoro’s swords would pierce the bubble. Similarly, if the Sunny crashed on rocks and the mast or planking shattered and burst the bubble from inside, it would be Game Over.

Apparently, seventy percent of ships heading to Fishman Island do not make it. Luffy and Zoro nearly made the Strawhats a statistic by trying to catch fish because they forgot they were inside the air bubble! Chopper and Usopp smacked some sense into Luffy and he broke out Hancock’s bento boxes instead (because Sanji had almost died from blood loss and was in no condition to cook. xD)

But, as I said earlier, Franky was a shining star of these episodes.

This was one of his crowning moments. He had an announcement to make concerning the identity of the one who protected Sunny with Hatchi, Duval and the Flying Fish Riders.

It was none other than Bartholomew Kuma, the one who spirited them away from Sabaody (and danger).

Franky must have got to Sunny first, as a battered, singed Kuma was waiting for a Strawhat - any Strawhat - to return. There was no ceremony about it. He simply stood, said, “I’ve been expecting you. Mission complete,” and walked off.

Franky told the others what Rayleigh already knew. Kuma was a member of the Revolutionary Army, like Luffy’s dad. He didn’t have much time left, but he had saved their lives at Sabaody. He had agreed to be turned into a World Government cyborg and has now lost his personality. Chopper asked the question I wanted to ask: how could he wait at Sunny if he was completely drained of sentience?

Franky, who is a cyborg and spent two years in Vegapunk’s lab, probably understands Kuma’s predicament more than most. He said that Dr Vegapunk, who modified Kuma, agreed to Kuma’s request to program a mission into his mind: “Defend the Thousand Sunny until one of the Strawhats comes back.”

Kuma has sacrificed so much. It’s good to know that the Strawhats now appreciate what he did for them.

“I don’t know my dad that well, but that Bear guy was a good guy,” Luffy said.

“Make no mistake,” Franky said. “He’s the one who gave us these two years. We can’t ask him why, but only remember that he did it. Bartholomew Kuma turned out to be our greatest ally. But remember, if we meet him again, he’s a killing machine.”

I like Franky. He can be silly sometimes, but the guy is articulate and intelligent. He has a good turn of phrase. I like the way he speaks.

Zoro believed Franky but wanted more. What was Kuma’s motive for all the weird shit he’s pulled over the years? Why would he agree to become a WG killing machine?

Kuma is still a mystery. I don’t think I’ll find out more about him until more is revealed about the Revolutionary Army.

A Familiar, Bovine Face In The Briny Deeps

While the Strawhats talked about Kuma, something approached in the shadows. Sunny was sinking fast. The silence of the deep ocean was unsettling. Whitebeard whales drifted past. Usopp was on alert. Seventy percent of ships sunk was not good odds in his book. It was just as well he was on the look out because he spotted the Caribou pirates’ ship approaching at speed!

Then they rammed Sunny!

(Honestly, that was dumb. It could have taken out their ship too. Do they even know how bubble coating works?)

But how had they caught up so quickly.

Turns out the Caribou Pirates had Mohmoo to help pull them through the water. 

How cute is Mohmoo, though? (The subs called him Momoo. Is that the correct spelling?) Nami instantly recognised him, ran up to him and said, “I’m Nami! Remember me? I was there at Arlong Park!” I’m not sure how Mohmoo felt about Nami but he definitely saw Luffy and Sanji (and he cried and fled. Poor Mohmoo. Can’t the Strawhats just adopt him?)

Oh, and I was so blinded by Mohmoo’s cuteness, I forgot to mention that the Caribou Pirates tried to board the Sunny but got dragged away by Mohmoo, leaving Caribou himself alone on board the Sunny with the Strawhats looking at him like this.

You Were Saying...? Part I

Look at them. Even Usopp is like, “Dude... you fucked up.”

Once he was tied up, Nami asked where he’d found Mohmoo. Apparently, they just caught him. Lots of experienced pirates have sea cows to pull their ships.

Of course, this was like a red rag to a bull. Luffy decided then and there that he wanted a pet sea monster.

Only you, Luffy.

Luckily, as the ship sunk further, a prime candidate stared out of the murky depths with huge yellow eyes.

Luffy Just Punched Out Cthulhu

Lord Cthulhu A Kraken emerged! A vast, tentacled abomination with fragments of whole ships stuck between its teeth. 

This was the point Caribou must have thought: I am trapped on a ship with absolute lunatics.

For Luffy had set his heart on that evil Kraken to pull his ship. 

“I have a good idea. Let’s tame him. He can pull our ship!”

Usopp, Chopper and Nami were not for the idea.

Brook just looked at it and thought, “It has not bones. I have bones. We’re opposites, ehehehehehe...”

Robin sketched the tentacled abomination. Franky complimented her drawing.

Zoro said he didn’t mind helping Luffy, as long as he had a plan.

“Yes,” Luffy said. “I have one. But our problems is that we’re in the sea.” (lol)

For a horrible moment, I thought something bad might happen to Mohmoo. But no. Everything was fine. Well, for Mohmoo and everyone on Sunny. The Kraken popped the Caribou pirates’ bubble and wrecked their ship. I was like, damn, those guys are all dead. (And Zoro made his “too soon” jellyfish joke. Mihawk would be proud.)

Luffy decided he would fight the Kraken. Coribou showed them how to use individual bubbles so they could fight outside the one protecting Sunny. Luffy, Zoro and Sanji leapt into the bubbles and the fight was on!

I liked how Oda used Franky (rocket launcher), Chopper (guard point) and Robin (gigantic hands) to protect the Sunny. Oda is good at inventing clever ways to have as many Strawhats participate as possible. (It also shows their teamwork is as solid as ever!)

Wasn’t sure about Luffy and Robin’s DF techniques working underwater, or Sanji moving out of the bubble entirely (mainly because of the extreme pressure. At that depth, they would have been crushed) but Oda’s Universe, Oda’s Rules.

Plus, Zoro got carried away and slashed the Kraken (I wonder how much the bubble restrictions will impact their fighting styles?) 

Then a cute little shark wearing a jumper (yes, a jumper) popped out of its severed tentacle, thanked the Strawhats for helping him and swam off.

WTF... XD

Oh, and the ship hit a downward current and all hell broke loose.

You Were Saying...? Part II

Usopp woke up to darkness and freezing cold. Nami, Franky, Robin and Chopper were all awake, fine and still on board. But Luffy, Zoro and Sanji were nowhere to be seen.

Huge fish with glowing eyes stalked the Abyssal waters. Searching for Luffy, Zoro and Sanji, they encountered huge poisonous jellyfish, carnivorous tubeworms, faceless crabs, huge blob fish, dodged undersea volcano vents (Oda has done his research!) and were almost munched by a massive angler fish.

Then, as if cute a shark wearing a jumper wasn’t weird enough, a Sea Bonze (?) which is a deep sea monster that looks like a man, bopped the angler on the head and told it off! 

“Ankoro! How many times do I have to tell you? Don’t eat ships! Captain won’t be happy.”

Then an ominous, shadowy wreck sailed towards the Strawhats. Holy crap, I thought, that’s the Flying Dutchman. (I remember reading about that when I was a kid. The ghost ship doomed to sail forever and never make it to port). Then there was a teaser of an oddly familiar fanged face.

That isn’t Arlong, is it?

“What’s wrong? Snake? SNAAAAAAAAAAAAKE!”

#one piece #neverwatchedonepiece #nwop #never watched one piece #monkey d. luffy #roronoa zoro #sanji #usopp #nami #tony tony chopper #nico robin #franky #silvers rayleigh #dark king rayleigh #shakky #gol d. roger

[ua-kins]

Canon Call

Please tag my blog @terminally-c-apricious

I have three Todoroki canons, one Fumikage canon, one Shigaraki canon, and a fictive of Kota. This is a canon call for all of those, sorry if it’s lengthy.

—–

Canon Todoroki timeline:

I have already found my Bakugou, my Izuku, and possibly my sister Fuyumi. I am mostly looking for my Momo but also anyone else, including anyone in my family. (Yes, including my father). Along with my noncanon children.

The events of my life were like canon for the most part. I had a mental hospital visit when I was 14 for a suicide attempt, my father was obligated to send me due to it being bad publicity if he didn’t. When I was 13 I started dating Momo because our parents pressured us into it because we were childhood friends and they hoped it would end in a quirk marriage. We were very close, but there was no actual romantic feelings there. We broke up and agreed to just be friends just before entering UA.  During my second year of UA I started dating Izuku. During my third year, he asked if he could date Bakugou as well. I was uncomfortable with it at first, but after a month or so of thought, I decided to give it a try. I tried to back off and spent a lot of time alone, but usually texting Momo about it. After a few weeks of isolating myself, Deku started inviting me along with him and Bakugou to hang out and we all three became close before I started dating Bakugou as well.  Some time during second year, Denki ended up committing suicide and we didn’t find out until a couple of days later. Aizawa was the one who announced it and gave us a week off to cope. Kirishima had a breakdown in the classroom, the classroom had to be evacuated and it took Aizawa erasing his quirk and All Might to hold him down until he stop trying to break things. He was put on surveilance for a week for his own safety.  After I became a pro hero, I made plenty of money. Not only did I have money due to my family’s wealth, I also had money due to being one of the top pro heroes. I had enough money for a large house and I adopted two children. One was Hitomi Todoroki, she had reality warping powers and was adopted when she was 5. The other was Daisuke Todoroki, he had shark-like features like a tail, a fin on his back, and two rows of sharp teeth. He had a power of aquakinesis. he was a year older than Hitomi and adopted a few months before her. They were both from very abusive households.  I ended up having another hospital visit as an adult because I would be gone for months at a time and was getting wreckless with my work on purpose to sustain injuries as a form of self harm.

—–

Villain Todoroki timeline

I have found no one from this timeline yet. I am especially looking for Hero Killer Stain, but anyone will do. I am not looking for Endeavor in this timeline.

I killed my father when I was 14 and almost killed my mother, who was still home at the time. I stopped myself and ran away. I spent about a week hiding out and stealing to get food because I was a wanted criminal for murdering Endeavor.  Hero Killer Stain found me and took me on as his apprentice. He became a father figure to me and I followed in his footsteps, killing heroes who were heroes for the wrong reason and killing abusive parents before calling the police on their parent’s phone to inform them there was an abandoned child there and that the parents were dead.  All of the other UA students were still students, Shinsou was in class 1-A.  I joined the League of Villains for about a week, aquiring a gun that concentrated my quirk as a bribe to join. After a week I decided they were all childish idiots and quit, but was hired by them on occasion when they desperately needed someone strong. I dated Toga on and off for a couple of years. 

—–

Fantasy AU Todoroki

I have found my Izuku. I am looking for everyone, but especially Ochako and Iida. 

I was a prince being trained to take over my father’s kingdom as king, also being prepared for an arranged marriage with Momo, who was the princess of a nearby also wealthy and prospering kingdom.  I met Izuku when I had snuck out of the palace for a walk, like I often did. He was only traveling with Ochako at the time. We talked every night until a week later he asked if I wanted to travel with him because he had to leave town and continue travelling. I was hesitant at first, but agreed by the end of the night, leaving with them without packing anything.  We travelled a lot, mainly travelling for the purpose of filling Izuku’s notebook with our experiences and notes of different creatures and people we met and saw. He wanted to fill the notebook for his mother, who wished she could travel but couldn’t due to running a small farm and a bakery in their home town. We had some bigger plot that I don’t remember that urged us to keep travelling.  When our journy took us closer to Izuku’s home town he wanted to stop by there, but when we got there we found out that she had died while he was gone. I comforted him and took his filled notebook to her grave for him because he couldn’t bear to see the grave himself. I visited the grave with him and sat with him in the pouring rain at the grave.  We kept travelling and then later in our life, the four of us moved into the small town that Izuku grew up in, starting up the farm again with seeds of plants that we had collected from around the nation while Ochako ran the bakery and Iida started a blacksmithing career. 

—–

Fumikage timeline

This was in a canon setting. I’m looking for everyone but especially Tsuyu.

My parents were especially negligent and never home. I raised myself basically and went to UA to break the cycle of poverty that we lived in and to give myself a fighting chance in life and to gain life experience that I knew they wouldn’t give me.  I started smoking cigarettes when I was 14 and quit them when I was 17 with Tsuyu’s help.  I had problems with self harm, depression, PTSD, and schizophrenia. I had episodes of paranoia and hallucinations in class and occasionally would have to leave to hide in the bathroom until it passed and on rare occasions, had breakdowns in the middle of class to which Aizawa would tend to me if he had the time, even going as far as calling another teacher to substitute so he could go talk me down from my episode.  I ended up attempting suicide in my dorm during second year, having taken an entire bottle of my antipsychotics and slitting my wrists. Tsuyu found me, handled the situation calmly as far as I know until I blacked out rather soon. I woke up in the infirmary at school, Recovery Girl having taken care of me.  I started dating Tsuyu in the first year of being at UA and we would often sit outside to have lunch. We did things like make flower crowns for each other and catch baby frogs and at night we would catch fireflies. We were very close. The rest of the class all trusted me and when they needed someone to talk to about dark and heavy stuff, they came to me to talk. I talked Kirishima through his depression a lot, Izuku through his anxiety, Todoroki through his PTSD, Momo through her lack of confidence, and many others came to me.

—-

Shigaraki canon

I have no canonmates from this timeline and limited memories. I am looking for everyone.

I remember being very lonely despite being surrounded by people I cared about in the League of Villains. I was very close to Kurogiri. I was abused as a child, physically, emotionally, and sexually. I lived with my stepfather, my biological father having left my mother before I was born and my mother having died when I was very young.  I was like a father figure to Toga and was very close to Dabi, possibly dating him. 

#fumikage tokoyami #fumikage tokoyami kin #todoroki shouto #shouto todoroki #shouto todoroki kin #shigaraki tomura #tomura shigaraki #shigaraki kin #my hero academia #my hero academia kin #boku no hero academia #boku no hero academia kin #bnha #bnha kin #mha #mha kin #mod mirio #submission #canon call

[junker-town]

The gore, guts and horror of an NFL fumble pile

Jameela Wahlgren

Stories from the bottom of the most lawless play in sports.

Retired NFL defensive lineman Fred Smerlas recalls them as the most exhilarating yet frightening moments in pro football, a purgatory of cheap shots and atrocities where you did your time unwillingly, a place where dragons lurked.

The fumble scrums. The barbaric scramble to recover a bouncing oblong spheroid, maddening in its Boing! Boing! Boing! misdirection.

As an offensive player, covering the ball keeps a critical drive alive. As a defensive player like Smerlas, you can proudly present the prize to your own sideline, offering it up like some precious blood-ruby.

In tight games, the fumble stakes were so high, the adrenaline coursing so strongly to the brain, that the big defensive linemen, those lumbering apex predators, would hold up the ball and beat their chests, howling primal screams of accomplishment.

“As a defenseman, recovering a fumble was the difference between getting off the field or having to stay there for another 10 plays and getting your head caved in,” Smerlas said. “They were huge. You trained for them since when you were a little kid. And then, boom! A fumble happens and everything goes dark. Only the ball lights up. No matter what’s around you, you go for that thing. When those lights go out, it’s ‘Here we come!’”

Now 62, Smerlas was a five-time NFL Pro Bowl selection during a 14-year career as a nose tackle with the Buffalo Bills, San Francisco 49ers and New England Patriots. No pushover between the lines, he was then the only Greek player in the NFL, with a 6’3, 270-pound body filled out by dolmades, bougatsa and baklava.

Inside the pile, you kept your eyes closed, like a feeding shark, to guard against knifing hands that were trying to maim and blind, yank and punch scrotums, and dislocate fingers.

Yet the billy-club violence of those pileups still makes him shudder. The man-weight was so great that he could hardly breathe, and players hurt one another for the fun of it. Nothing was safe or sacred when 2,000 pounds of unscripted National Football League flesh-and-muscle pressed down on anything lying beneath it — untuned baby-grand pianos crushing hapless players fighting for both the ball and for oxygen.

Inside the pile, you kept your eyes closed, like a feeding shark, to guard against knifing hands that were trying to maim and blind, yank and punch scrotums, and dislocate fingers. The football changed hands often and ruthlessly. Late-comers dove into the jumble with their helmets first, heat-seeking missiles looking to break or dislodge anything in their way — the ball, even teeth. You couldn’t even trust your own teammates because in the heat of the scrum, it was often impossible to determine friend from foe.

Years after leaving the game in 1992, Smerlas still remembers the screams that came from a snapped femur or tibia, the animal grunts, that soulless profanity. Perhaps worst of all, he can still smell the rank breath of those miners’ sons and blue-collar pigskin heroes, many amped up on amphetamines or steroids, or both, a concoction that made them unscrupulous and even dangerous.

“You got guys grabbing your balls, punching you in the chest, gouging your eyes. In the fumble pile, everything gets whacked. You’ve got 330-pound men jumping on you. Let me tell ya, get hit by guys that size with pads and helmets, and it gets ugly fast,” Smerlas said. “In the pile, we used a different language. Part Greek. Part Italian. Part filth. ‘You fucking cocksucker, I’m gonna kill you.’ Guys would purposely go without brushing their teeth and eat garlic for five days straight. You’d be down there and pick up some rank smell and tell yourself, ‘I don’t want to know what that is.’”

So dreaded are the pileups that they come to players in their dreams long after retirement: The ball is still bouncing. Mammoth men converge. All that villainy and violence, and without a referee in sight.

The average National League Football game is comprised of 24.7 possessions, about 12 per team, and 3.2 of them (about 13 percent) end in turnovers. Out of 2.3 fumbles per game, on average at least one will be lost.

The 1938 Chicago Bears and 1978 San Francisco 49ers share the indignity of suffering the most fumbles in a season (56), and the 2011 New Orleans Saints can boast about having the fewest (6). The most fumbles to occur in a single game is 10. That slapstick ineptitude took place four times between 1943 and 1978.

Those numbers don’t tell the whole tale. While fumbles are brief events, their casualties, from lost molars to blown momentum, add up quickly. Famous college coach John Heisman, canonized with his own trophy after he died in 1936, once advised his players, “Gentlemen, it is better to have died as a small boy than to fumble this football.”

Fumbles changed the rules of the game, and many earned their own monikers: The “Holy Roller” (also known as the “Immaculate Deception”), the “Miracle at the Meadowlands”, the “Butt Fumble”, and an incident between the Broncos and Browns in 1987 that was so crushing it became known simply as “The Fumble”. In the 1960s, a generation of players earned reputations as ball-strippers, boasting nicknames that evoked the wicked street-poetry of the The Longest Yard: “Refrigerator”, “Assassin”, “Night Train”, “Diesel” and “Bus.”

Jameela Wahlgren

Today’s game is its own cacophony of violence, and fumble pileups are still no place for the meek. Players are bigger, faster and more agile than ever before. But back in the old days, before instant replay and probing multi-angle camera shots kept players in check, before the emergence of new rules that banned head slaps and ruthless high-and-low hits, the field of play was more primitive, more ungoverned, more savage, according to interviews with 18 retired players, coaches and officials.

Gary Plummer, a former linebacker for the Chargers and 49ers, believes his era of fumble piles was more ruthless than today’s. He says that modern players are as prized and protected as Triple Crown racehorses.

“They can call it a respect for your opponent, but I think that it’s because most players realize that they’re making $5 million a year, and you don’t want to mess up somebody’s career, so the intensity isn’t as heightened,” he said. “When we played, guys were fighting to put food on the table. Today, it’s all about getting an extra Ferrari. There’s a difference.”

Cliff “Crash” Harris, a cog in the Dallas Cowboys’ fabled “Doomsday Defense”, was tagged by Washington Coach George Allen as “a rolling ball of butcher knives.” Oakland quarterback Kenny Stabler, himself known as “the Snake”, described mammoth Raiders offensive lineman George Buehler as a “Coke machine with a head.”

Defensive lineman Rich Jackson, who played for the Raiders in the late 1960s, was known for a bear-paw swipe called the “halo spinner”, and once broke Green Bay Packers offensive tackle Bill Hayhoe’s helmet with a head slap. Lyle Alzado, the terrorizing Raiders defensive end, called Jackson the toughest man he’d ever met.

Jackson called himself “Tombstone”.

“When they asked me why,” he said, “I’d tell ‘em that the tombstone is the termination of life, a symbol of death, the end of the road.”

Even Tombstone considered fumble scrums to be cold-blooded places. “You’d hear guys holler and you couldn’t imagine what was going on to make a man scream like that, the dirty things taking place,” he said. “But I was down there. And I did whatever it took. We played desperate in the old days.”

This lawlessness built football legends. Some players had particular reputations for violence. They possessed the honed skills of hired hitmen, only too glad to employ them inside the scrum.

Gremlins like Dick Butkus, Ray Nitschke, Jack Lambert, Lawrence Taylor and Joe Greene, who was known for being just plain mean.

“Everybody knew that you didn’t piss off Joe Greene,” said Clinton Jones, now 74, a former running back drafted by the Minnesota Vikings in 1967. “You’d even try to compliment him. You’d say ‘Nice hit, Joe.’ Because you knew that if you didn’t treat him nice he might try to eat you, and that would make for a long afternoon. Some guys had no limits.”

Then there was Conrad Dobler, who earned lasting infamy — and a cover story in the July 25, 1977, issue of Sports Illustrated — as the dirtiest player in football.

As Los Angeles Times sports columnist Jim Murray once wrote, “Conrad didn’t play football, he waged it. You couldn’t describe what he did as play. Not unless you figure the Indians played Custer. Dobler turned a line of scrimmage into a killing ground. He went about the game with … maniacal, suicidal fervor.”

For many players, the word “Dobler” meant frothing, filthy hits.

“Guys like Conrad Dobler would bite your eyeballs out,” Smerlas said. “Conrad would eat a child, for God sakes. He had no conscience. He’d tape his hands and rub them in salt and go after your eyes. He was like a crab. Everything on him was going to hurt you. If the ball was on the ground, he would punch you in the ribs or in the throat. You could beat Conrad to death, he wouldn’t care.”

Yet even the formidable Dobler quakes at memories of the scrum. “All that stuff they said I did at the bottom of the pile was bullshit; I avoided piles,” he said. “They were dangerous places. You could get hurt. Being there on the ground with your legs spread out and guys piling on, you could break something. One of the most dangerous places was standing around a pile. You’d get hit by some guy using his helmet as a battering ram. It was a good way to get your ass knocked off. All I wanted to do was get out of that pile and check my bones to see if anything was broken.”

Dobler insists he didn’t need the cover of a fumble scrum to inflict his damage. “If I hurt players, I did it out in the open. I’d bring up my hands and hit ‘em in the face mask. I’d catch ‘em in the solar plexus with my fist. That stopped ‘em real good. It was all legal. The refs didn’t like my leg whip, but it was sufficient to knock a guy off his feet.”

Fumble piles were the perfect cover for criminality. Players who moments earlier had been felled by brutal hits sought out scrums to exact revenge, knowing they could hide from cameras and the discerning eyes of opposing sidelines and referees.

“When we played, there was no place to hide between the white lines,” Dobler said. “If I got my hands on a defense guy in the pile, I beat the shit out of him. You got no mercy. I made a guy cry once.”

An opponent once tried to bite off Dobler’s finger in the scrum. “But I always wrapped my hands before games. They were caked in dirt and mud and sweat. I might have even picked my nose with those fingers. So I laughed at those guys.

“Myself, I never bit anyone. I liked my teeth too much. And I still have beautiful teeth.”

Though steeped in venom and hostility, the fumble scrum is also a place where real technique, finesse, sophistication — perhaps even something like artistry — could shine. Think of Mikhail Baryshnikov with a helmet and shoulder pads.

Some players entered the fumble scrum more as pacifists than combatants. The game was built as much on savvy and skill as testosterone and eye-gouging, they reasoned. Sure, smash-mouth worked, but so did sleight of hand.

“Players talked trash in the pile, but I didn’t get into it. You throw down all that hate and you get consumed by it,“ said Riki Ellison, who played linebacker for the San Francisco 49ers and Los Angeles Raiders between 1983 and 1992. “Every locker room had the big bad-ass defensive linemen who were on the top of the food chain and set the mood. But some guys played a game of psychology in the pile. Matt Millen always talked about stuff that had nothing to do with football, like the weather, how his parents were doing or what was going on in his life. It was pure comedy. It would throw off a guy’s aggression.”

Jameela Wahlgren

Few players were as crafty as Cliff Harris.

“As a free safety, I caused a lot of fumbles, many more than I recovered,” recalled Harris, who played in five Super Bowls and was elected to six consecutive Pro Bowls. “I had a technique. It wasn’t any big secret. I’d come up from behind a player and punch the ball out with my fist. We called it stripping.”

By the 1960s, teams were practicing how to snatch loose footballs. “You were trained to fall on a fumble in a certain way,” Harris added. “You weren’t supposed to dive and land on the ball, but hit the ground next to it and curl up around it. If you tried to pick it up and run with it, there was better chance you’d really get injured.”

Players worried the fumble scrum might result in season-ending injuries. Football could fulfill dreams of glory, then tear everything away when one of the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse rolled over your leg.

“When I got to the NFL in 1976, I had to develop a receptivity to pain and learn how to deal with brutal, nasty, mean people,” said linebacker Reggie Williams, who played 14 seasons for the Cincinnati Bengals. “In the fumble piles, you’d expect someone to go for your gonads. Before instant replay, I felt a bunch of hands going for my nuts, so I’d get in the fetal position and clamp my buttocks together. One guy put his finger inside my nose and pulled, trying to rip the skin. Players would scratch your eyes, give you infections. It was all part of the nastiness of that pile. The dirtiest players were usually the ones on steroids. A steroid-induced athlete is a different kind of animal.”

Neck-twisting was considered fair game. “It wasn’t unusual for some guys to grab a player’s face mask and just twist, you know, literally wring his neck,” said Lee Roy Jordan, who played weakside linebacker for the Dallas Cowboys in the 1960s.

Thirty years later, necks and other vulnerable body parts are still being wrung in the pile. Today’s players don’t carry brass knuckles like Butkus or Nitschke, but they have ways of going for the jugular. “You put your hands up by somebody’s neck and, especially with an elbow, they stop moving,” said Stephen White, a former defensive end who played between 1996 and 2002 for the Tampa Bay Buccaneers and New York Jets (and now contributes to SB Nation). “You hit the throat, the ribs or the midsection, somewhere that makes the guy cough up that ball.”

Smerlas likens the toughest players to prison enforcers.

“We pounded the shit out of people. A lot of guys should have been put in cages after the game. We brought the adrenaline to every game,” he said. “I popped a finger out a few times and pulled it back myself. Once I hit the side of some guy’s helmet and ripped the side of my hand off, pinky to wrist. I ran off the field with all this white stuff oozing out, and they sewed it up right there without any pain killers. That kind of aggression.”

Kevin Gogan, a veteran offensive linemen who retired in 2000, earned the nickname “Big Nasty” for his legal hits as much as his reputation for dirty plays. Calling scrum violence “learned behavior,” he offered some pointers on exerting maximum nastiness.

“The best place to hit was right in the soft tissue. I’ve poked my fingers in people’s eyes,” Gogan said. “It’s not a good feeling, oh no. I remember one game where I kneed this guy in the nuts, hurt him real bad. He got up before me and stomped on what he thought was my leg, with those fierce inch-long cleats they used for grass fields. But he hit my teammate instead of me.”

Even referees have developed techniques to survive the fumble pile. After all, they venture between the lines without the same protective equipment or blind aggression as players. In a scrum, they feel more like the Christians than the lions.

Jameela Wahlgren

Now 90, Jim Tunney was nicknamed the “Dean of NFL Referees,” and wore No. 32 on his black-and-white uniform. He was particularly wary of fumbles, which he called “the most exciting play in football.”

“As an official, you’re foolish to dive into those scrums. I told younger refs, ‘Take your time. Don’t worry about it. Let things settle down,’” Tunney said. “Sorting through those players was like trying to take a steak from a dog’s mouth. I’d see referees dig into that pile and I’d tell them, ‘What are you worried about? Trying to find the right guy with the ball? C’mon.”

Once Tunney sensed that the worst brutality was over, he pounced.

“That ball comes loose and 22 guys come looking for it all at once. Only one or two are going to get to it. The rest are piling on, trying to hurt each other,” he said. “As an official, you peel those guys off. You say ‘It’s over, it’s over. Get off of there.’ And most times they would. But until you got down to the bottom of the pile, it was Darwin’s survival of the fittest. I would tell players, ‘If you haven’t read Charles Darwin, you better go back and read him.’”

Most players simply have to come to terms with the idea that sacrificing their bodies is for the good of the team. Because inside the pile, some drooling 380-pound lummox with pads and an attitude could hurt you even when he wasn’t trying. Like a hippo rolling on the riverbed.

“The weight of the pile was overwhelming and caused physical pain. I broke my arm underneath one pile against the Pittsburgh Steelers. Just the weight of all those bodies,” Ellison said. “A guy was on top of me and my arm was in an awkward position. You can’t do anything about it. You just gotta suck it up and wait the 10 seconds for the bodies to unpile.”

Geoff Schwartz, an offensive guard who played for five teams and retired in 2016 (and now contributes to SB Nation), said that fumbles took a particularly hard toll on the largest players. He stands 6’6 and played at a whopping 340 pounds.

“Fighting for the ball in those piles was the most exhausted I’d ever been on the football field over a 30-second period,” he said. “Trying to keep control of the ball, when guys would do anything to punch it out. It just wore me out.”

Sometimes, fumbles would punish players for their instincts. When a football popped loose into the open field, big defensive linemen got hurt doing something they later reconsidered as plain foolhardy: picking up a loose fumble and trying to run for a touchdown.

“Defensive linemen never got any glory so when we could pick up a fumble, we tried to score,” recalled Bob Lilly, a Dallas Cowboys defensive tackle in the 1960s. “One time I had Larry Cole on my left, and Cliff Harris, another one of my teammates, wants the ball too. So he comes running up and hit me in the back and tore my hamstring in two. I thought two things while I was falling: I wonder who that son of a bitch was who hit me in the back, and that I should have lateraled to Larry Cole.”

“Tombstone” didn’t fare much better in a similar situation. “I was playing Cincinnati one day and there was a fumble on the 5-yard line. The rest is kind of blurry. But it was the worst experience I ever had,” he said. “I picked it up, and I was thinking TD. I took the first step and it suddenly felt like the entire stadium was on me. They had me by the arms and the legs and the neck, pulling and punching and doing everything they could to get that football. And I told myself right there, ‘Man, don’t you ever do that again.’”

If a retired NFL player’s long-past career can seem like a fading dream, then the fumbles are the nightmares, those nagging memory loops, full of anxiety and feelings of impotence, that wake you up in a sweat at 3 a.m. Suddenly, you’re drowning in the bathtub, or caught stark naked on a public bus, mired in quicksand while trying to outrun a serial killer.

Gary Plummer once picked up an opponent by the eye sockets in retaliation for being kicked in the groin.

Either you come to terms with the chaos and the powerlessness, maybe even embrace it, or you don’t. You shudder, block it out of your mind. Or get therapy.

Gary Plummer once picked up an opponent by the eye sockets in retaliation for being kicked in the groin. How’s that for a nightmare? His mantra: hit or be hit. “If you weren’t fearless on the football field, you wouldn’t have a very long career,” he said.

Many players avoided people like Plummer. After all, why mess with Bigfoot when you know the bloody outcome? “I wasn’t in many of those piles,” said Harris. “I chose not to be until I had to be.”

Wait, even the guy known as the “rolling ball of butcher knives” avoided the pile? “I was a tough player, but I was also a smart player,” Harris said. “What kept me healthy was my thinking, not my instincts. And my instinct was to stay away from those scrums.”

Though fumbles are still much-ballyhooed by fans, NFL officials maintain a love-hate relationship with them. In 2018, the league changed one rule, no longer calling a loose ball a fumble if the player who lost the ball regains control “immediately”.

Some have called for a possession arrow, like the one used in basketball, to curtail the violence and the guessing game of the fumble scrum. Even coaches have begun asking their players to hold back.

Jameela Wahlgren

Players who once sought out the fumble pile now can only shake their heads. “It’s amazing to look back on it,” said Plummer. “I was a broadcaster for the 49ers for 13 years and I’d go to practices and training camps and I’d watch the drills and hits and I started thinking, “My God, I used to do this. How crazy that was. It’s like you have this ’S’ on your chest and a cape on your back when you’re playing. Fear never once entered into the equation.”

Long-retired NFL veterans describe their fumble psychosis as if they’re lying prone on the analyst’s couch. “Our era featured the sons of coal miners and men who worked in the steel mills. For them, football was bloodsport,” Clinton Jones said. “And when players left the game, they had post-traumatic stress. They had nightmares of the piles and the intensity of the sport, one campaign after another. They remembered all the vicious hits. Deacon Jones was a good friend of mine, and he’d always say, ‘Somebody slams the door and I jump.’”

Deep down in that fumble-pile flashback, desperate men will always be fighting for the football, brutality still being waged. The ball is right there for the taking. The only question that remains: How badly do you want it?

Forever lurking in the deep are delinquents like Lambert, Nitschke, and Butkus. “They were fierce. They loved the fumble scrum,” said Tunney. “That’s all a linebacker cares about. He doesn’t care if he’s having dinner that night. He just wants that ball. If you’re a running back and you fumble, you might make one attempt at the ball, but you wouldn’t be caught dead on the bottom of that pile. You leave that to the big guys.”

By the time he retired in 1973, Butkus had hard-coded trepidation into a generation of NFL veterans, not only for his felonious tackles, but for what he did in the pile, and everywhere else. He broke bones, crushed egos and prompted stretchers to be brought onto the field. NFL Hall of Fame defensive end Deacon Jones said Butkus, “was a well-conditioned animal,” and that “every time he hit you, he tried to put you in the cemetery, not the hospital.”

After both retired, Tunney asked Butkus about his zest for violence. “I

always called him Richard. I asked him, ‘Richard, did you ever intentionally try to hurt somebody?’

“He said, ‘Nah, not unless it was in a game or something.’”