#those are metal cleats
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You read about Ty Cobb and hear he was a total dickhead on the field and you're like "Alright, how much of that is him being a competitor and how much is just genuine assholishness." And then you see pictures like this
#those are metal cleats#spiked metal cleats#flying karate kicking that man in the nuts#he isn't even trying to hit the plate#this was just an act of violence
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— NO PHOTOS ! pt. 1
༺ feat. isagi, bachira, chigiri, kunigami, nagi
༺ outline. where the boys keep their slutty polas of you <3
༺ w. pro!players, 18+ content, minors dni, photos/polas, fem!reader, read at your own discretion as I don’t do individual tagging for element of surprise <3
༺ pt. 2 (reo, barou, rin, sae, shidou)
— ISAGI ! on the back of his phone
Oh, he’s obsessed with this one polaroid you let him take, his cock slotted between your pretty tits. Your nails sparkled in the photo due to the flash, acrylics all shiny as you held your breasts together to keep him nice and snug
That night was one where he had earned himself a big win, the celebration you gave him was timeless. Your face was all sticky, smeared in pearly cum and runny spit, little bubbles all around the corner of your mouth
Clear case and all, everyone can get a good look at his favorite girl, see just how much of a cockslut she was with a fat dick between her tits and a pearly smile on her face
— BACHIRA ! shoebox
As deranged as Bachira is, he likes to keep you for his eyes only. That being said, the Nike shoebox that’s stored under his bed is full of filth, softcore porn, downright sin
Pictures of your leaking cunt just pumping cream all over the base of his thick cock, pictures of your fucked out face all flushed and dazed. Constant memories that he happens to keep ahold of for lonely nights
There’s enough to nearly fill up the big black box that once held his soccer cleats, so full that the lid can’t even fit on properly to do its job. It’s a tradition for him to snap a shot of you when he’s got you cockdrunk, after all
— CHIGIRI ! trendy altoids wallet box
Did we expect anything else from our artsy princess? He follows trends and those metal altoid mint boxes aren’t an exception, he carries it around with him at all times, decorated to perfection
He’s got tons of miscellaneous shit in there, ranging from a mini bottle of fragrance, a roll of tums, a fortune slip from the fortune cookies the two of you got at the local chinese restaurant in your area
Oh, but his favorite item is taped at the top of the box, sealed in place with a hello kitty sticker. A polaroid of you with his cock down your throat, taking it so deep that you can see the outline in your esophagus. He just so happens to be pressing a palm flat against, Chigiri was real proud of you that night
— KUNIGAMI ! scrapbook
A man of class, really. He’d hate to see all of those precious photos of his princess getting damaged or scratched, his best bet was getting a plain book to store each pola in their own plastic slots
They’re even organized, ranging from you sucking his cock, to your back turned to him as he’s plowing your guts from behind, to you on your knees with glossy nut covering every goddamn inch of your body
It’s his prized possession, stuffed in his bookshelf next to all of his old soccer books and manga. A good flip through is enough to make him chub up in his joggers
— NAGI ! playstation
That playstation was damn expensive, he’d be a fucking fool to not add a breathtaking picture of you bouncing on his dick like it’s your lifeline. It’s taped with washi tape, front and center for him to look at anytime he’s within reach of his console
You’re purely glowing in the photo, the sheen of sweat he got you worked up in making your skin glisten like a goddess. The flash managed to catch the details of his veined up arm as he wrapped a huge hand around your throat
He’s obsessed with the expression on your face too, brows furrowed and jaw slacked with a fat glob of spit dripping past your lips like a hungry dog. His girl was a whore for big dick, a fact that made him smirk lazily when it crossed his mind
#bllk smut#blue lock smut#blue lock x reader#bllk x reader#isagi x reader#isagi smut#bachira x reader#bachira smut#chigiri x reader#chigiri smut#kunigami x reader#kunigami smut#nagi x reader#nagi smut
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Request for anonymous
"Let's see..add a few fine tuning on the stitches, tighten up the bells…" Merkeo muttered as he faced his computer desk, threading a needle through his jester suit. "Just a little bit of tugging and..There!”
He took a step back to admire his handy work. The black and red spandex glistened beneath his lamp, slumping from the miniature desk to the wooden board of the one beneath. It took him weeks to find a suit customizable, he could hardly count the shops he visited that sold suits for people his size. He took the suit from the desk, reminiscing its silky texture as it glided between his fingertips.
"Wait until the the peeps get a load of this, I can already tell this DnD session will be-"
A beep rang from the magnet on the front door, a hard thud striking the panel as a spiked cleat forced it to the wall. "Hey nerd! Guess who's home!" A voice boomed as the rest of their body lowered into the frame, the metal borders of the door screaming as they made their way passed. "I swear this damn door needs an adjustment. Hey nerd! Nerd!"
"I'm right here, Fervin!" Merkeo shouted, rubbing his ears from the vibrations in his ear drums. "Must you shout so loud? We're in a dormitory."
"What can I say? when I make an entrance, I make an entrance."
He slumped his duffel bag from his shoulder, tossing it against the wall as its weight sent a pulse through the floor. Merkel watched as his form strolled closer, like a looming storm cloud about to pour upon a landscape. The computer chair rushed back, Fervin's hide forcing the cushion down as it raced eagerly to support him.
He crossed his arms behind his back. "Oh it feels good to be out of that lecture room. The professor really cracked down on that essay, even double checked to ensure it was mine. Guess some pencil necks can’t handle such great genius."
"You mean my work. My whole sleep schedule’s out of whack because of your pestering."
the desk shook as spikes prodded upon the table. Merkel nearly yelped at its prickling touch, his hands casting to the air. "And it worked like a charm." He kicked his other foot upon the table. But he paused as he gazed at the slim ware hanging from his foot. “Huh, what are those? pajamas?”
The footwear wagged as Merkeo raced to retrieve his suit, cautiously eying the coned steel as they swiped from side to side. “If you must know, It’s my jester suit. And I would very much like it without holes for DnD.”
"That nerd shit? Pfft, lame. You can’t expect to get babes with a thing like that. Now that spring break party tonight, that’s where it’s really at. And guess who’s cohost? This guy!”
Merkeo managed to grab ahold of his suit, sliding it from the cold pedestal as he tumbled back to the desk. "You? Cohost? I don’t think they chose wisely on that."
“Cute, can’t be surprised to hear that from a bookworm. But If there’s one thing I know, it’s how to party.” He said. “The drinks, the babes, I can already imagine it now. And by the end of the night, I’m gonna bang me a cheerleader."
He raised his palms to the air, his fingers swaying to trace an hourglass shape. His hips slowly began to thrust, his junk pushing through from its pouch as it slithered to the leg hole of his shorts. Merkeo caught a glimpse as the phallus peeked out, shielding his eyes as his face flushed red.
"Ay Ay! TMI man, I don't want to see all that!"
"Aww is the nerd getting flustered?" His legs stretching over the desk, the hefty package between his legs gyrating against the wooden furniture. "I bet you wish you could be all over this."
"I’d rather do quizzes than be that close to you." he replied, "Will you put that away already?!"
"Hah, that's what I like about you nerds, always so squeamish." he slid his waist back to the chair, groping at the bulky outline. "Luckily for you, this bad boy has its eyes set on the ladies tonight. It can't waste time on small fries like you. Though it might give that thin noodle of yours some pointers."
"Thanks, but no thanks."
"Peh, suit yourself."
He grabbed a few beer bottles, hoisting them over his broad shoulders as he walked out of the room. Merkeo sighed, taking back to his suit as he checked for punctured points. Aside from dust particles, the fabric was unscaved. Thank goodness, he didn't know what he’d do if it became damaged.
He returned to his desk to tend to the rest of his props, organizing the board and creatures he was ready to unleash upon his members. Another hour ticked by in a flash, his notes piling over one another from his practice sessions. He yawned as he checked the clock on the wall, a quarter past 7:00 PM.
“Time for a break.” he leaned into his chair.
He took to his computer as he looked into his group chat for the group. Many online were already talking about the upcoming session, sharing new lores while roleplaying in their own channels. What a treat it was to indulge in fantasy, he thought, may he could give them a taste of the jester magic. He reached for his cards to select to share, but paused as he eyed his costume. He eyed the group chat as many shared their costumes, it sent an urge through his body, his fingers wiggling at the temptation of trying it on. He didn’t want to spoil the magic with a picture, but to send a picture of their grad DM, it may just make them excited, if not himself.
“Oh.. why not, I still have to make sure it fits anyway.”
He picked up the costume as he held it on his shoulder, stripping himself as the cool conditioning washed over him like a wave. He slipped his limbs inside, his hairs standing on end as they brushed against the elastic spandex. He soon put on his Cap n Bells as they dangled from the sides of his head, its little chimes sending a giggle from inside as he tapped at the round spheres.
“I think a quick selfie might do the trick. ‘The crowned jester and his future pawns’. Oo, that kinda has a ring to it.
He hovered his phone to get a better angle for himself, shifting the filter as sparkles boarded the frame. But the ground shook beneath as he caught himself, the water bottle on the desk rippling. An earthquake? It can’t be, the tectonic plate wasn’t near the university. Heavy thumps slowly overwhelmed the silent rumbles, traveling through the walls before it stopped at the front door.
The magnet chimed, but the handle didn’t turn as grumbling lingered behind it. The magnet reactivated, and pounds struck the door, as if a wild beast was trying to force its way in. Merkeo eyed the door as its pounds became aggressive, the green lighting of the magnet flickering before another strike snuffed out its light. The door slammed open, and wallowing filled the room.
Fervin loomed inside as he entered. One of his shoes were missing, and his "Damn it all..who do they think I am?! I'm a fuckin'.. Football player!"
His weight leaned as his feet stomped forward, like a drunk T-rex trying to run as he staggered to couch. He tripped over his own feet as he hurled toward the cushion, knocking the couch from its sliders as his head wedged into the soft gaps.
Merkeo used the railing in the room to make it over to the couch, standing upon the armchair. "The hell happened to you?"
"It's horrible..I go all that way to seek her out..An.. the hag blue balled me. Me!" He groaned into the cushions, scraping from its soft crevice. “You know how many want to..to.. Fuck me?!"
Fervin turned his head, his roaring breath flowing out like a dragon. Merkeo fanned the air as the smell of alcohol polluted the once clean air, holding the collar of his suit over his mouth to deter himself from passing out.
“You went and got yourself again! Didn’t you learn from the last party you went to.”
“Screw you!.. I don’t take orders from you! Why I..I” tears slowly sleeping through his eyes, a whimper escaping. “Damn it all..why do they have to make it so hard?”
Merkeo palmed himself. He must’ve drank too much if he’s already at his wallowing state. He sighed before hopping to the side of the lughead's face, caressing his cheek as its warmth filled his palm. "Hey now..you. There's no need to fuss about one girl." He said to him, wincing at the drool wetting his pants. "There's many out there in the sea, and I'm sure there's some out there waiting for him."
"Yeah right!" He blurted, knocking Merkeo onto his butt. " That's not gonna solve my aching cock right now!"
Fervin dug a finger through his waistband, the jock’s musk mixing with the tainted air as flesh squeaked against the sofa’s rubbery surface. The forearm above Steamrolled Merkeo as it traversed toward the bulging phallus, answering its wet call as his stubby fingers pampered its side. It throbbed it wedged itself between the crevice of the cushions, the jock’s hips flexing as he shuttered.
“Oh Yeah..that’s the stuff.” He muttered, his hips pumping into the couch.
"Dude! Not in the living room! Do that somewhere else."
"Sue me..I'm too pissed and horny to move."
His strokes increased as his hips moved like a wave, the wet slap of flesh overwhelming the silence in the room. Merkeo raced to comfort his ears as he moved to a cubard, searching through his supplies. He flipped over towels stashed in the corner, and found a plastic bottle of water sticking out from its packet. He wrapped his arms around the slender bottle and dragged it out, heaving it toward his drunken roommate on the couch.
“Alright, let’s get you sober so you don’t break the wall again?” Merkeo said.
Fervin grumbled as his knees slumped beneath him, thrusting him upward as his wait trailed backwards. Merkeo eyed cautiously at his blundering, backtracking as the stumbling feet trailed closer.
“I didn’t say move!” he yelped, rolling the bottle the opposite way.
But he wasn’t fast enough to outrun Fervin, his feet kicking in front of the other as he tilted like a chopped tree. The floor darkened before a wall of mass crashed at his back, burly arms planting the ground with a thunderous thump.
“That lady’s cheeks were cold… I’m barely s..satisfied.” He pawed the ground. “I need more!”
“Well you’re not getting one when you're on top of me! Now get off!”
His glassy eyes opened as he glared at him. "Piss off, man! I don’t need your..” he paused as he stared at the small roommate, his eyes blinking before they widened.
Merkeo met his gaze, looking at the marbled floor before looking back. "What?"
"Hey..where’d this toy come? Ho..How long have you been there?"
“Toy?" He blinked, tugging at his suit. "No, this is my suit, remember?"
"And it talks!..oh man..This must be my lucky day.”
"I have no idea what you're talking about. All that booze has gotten to your head. Why don't you go lay down and-" A palm wrapped around his body, plucking him from underneath. "Hey!"
His hand gripped like a vice, Fervin hauling him away as he returned to the couch with a drunken waltz. He was hurled into the closed fist as his back met with the soft cushion. He strung themselves to to the floor, a signal that rushed to the titanic cock as it pointed from his body. Merkeo pounded a hand at the sides of the jock’s fingers, the other covering his nose as the smell of rubber and jizz invaded his nostrils.
The phallus loomed closer, stamping at the gap between the middle fingers as it struck his chest. "A perfect fit..awesome." He slurred beneath his breath, his palms lifting as Merkeo plunged into the cavern of the couch, the bulbous head stamping his chin as it ensnared between his walls.
As the cock reached the bottom of the gap, it was a catalyst for Fervin’s arousal as hips began to pump. Flesh skidded against the silky suit, the phallus ramming into a pocket above Merkeo as the little bells were swallowed by the slit. Its warmth was overwhelming, his nostrils filling with a sour aroma as it stuck to his suit like cologne..
Merkeo raised his arms to shield himself. "Wait!…I'm not!.."
"Just a little more..a little more."
Fervin doubled his efforts as his hips twisted in place. The sweat that once dried between the cushions humidified as it loosened its restraints upon the tender skin, joined by the drizzling pre as it lathered into his roommate’s skin like lotion. The phallus scooped higher as it smashed Merkeo’s defense, the puffed edges moving like a wave as it stamped at his face.
He was stamped firmly as seed dressed his head, but unsatisfied puffs echoed above, a palm dragging him from underneath the bulging member. "Nrgh..that's not enough!" Fervin slurred from his lips. "How are you going to be a toy if you can't even get me off?"
"That's because I'm not a toy you lughead!"
His eyes squinted, eying the little roommates as strands of his own pre dripped to the couch. "Wha?..sure you are..I'm looking right at you." His fingers stamped across his body, the lonely bell on his right tuft jangling at his prods. "You look like a toy..feel like a toy. You are one…I'm just not using it right."
Gravity shifted as the palm tilted on its side, hovering over the hairy crotch. His other pinched eagerly at the drooling slit, pinching it open as its seed flowed down its underbelly like lava.
"What..what are you doing? No, hell no! You're not putting' me in there!"
"You better make this work..toy!"
"I told you I'm not a-!" his stomach dropped as the palm rushed toward the cock, a wet belch erupting from the cream filled phallus as it opened wide. Murky white fluid filled his vision as the orifice encircled his head. His shouts muffled from the bulging head, his palms slipping from the sides of phallus
Fervin's cock throbbed as it suckled at its meal. "Yeah…yeah that's the stuff. Get..right in there."
The palm loosed as fingers climbed over his feet, feeding more of Merkeo inside as its underbelly bulged with his body. With a giddish chuckle, he corkscrewed the rest of his feet inside as the slit closed. Wads of pre rushed into his body as it blinded him of the trip ahead, the muscular tube getting thickening as a suction pulled at his body.
A mere lump cast itself upon the jock's shaft, pulse after pulse dragging him down as it squeezed into the base of the shaft and into his prostate. More seed flooded the tender bean as the valve closed behind him, leaving him at the mercy of the muscular waves as it tenderized his body. He struggled to hold them back, his limbs sinking into their surface as he tried to find a way out. Pressure tugged at his feet, yanking him into the source of the musky fluid as he was dragged through the labyrinth swirling in the Jock's waist.
He held his breath as he was dragged through its loops, before he found him at its ridge as he slid through a long tube. He was deposited inside an enclosed sac, the walls forcing him to lay straight as if he were in an airtight compartment.
"Damn it Fervin, this has gotten way too far!!" he scowled, Worming himself toward the valve that winked out of reach, taunting at his predicament before it vanished behind a fold of seed coated flesh.
His calls were left unanswered, drowned out by the jock's beastly grunts as it reverberated through the walls.
wet slaps came from outside, jostling the testicle as if it were a fish bag. "That's the job..right there!" Fervin huffed louder.
The jock roared as the walls shrank around Merkeo’s body, the valve above him slurping the pool from the chamber as climbed through the tubes. The ceiling spasmed as spurts muffled the walls, Merkeo took the chance to breathe, but shriveled as his lungs filled with the ripe aroma of salt and bodily fluids. He squirmed along the walls to follow the fluid out, but his fingers wouldn't register as the stiff folds pucker in place.
Droplets of the lukewarm substance dripped at his back, and he groaned. "There, you had your little release. Now get me out of this thing!" He paused to hear the outside, the heavy wet thumps shaking the chamber as he swayed in place. "Hey! Are you listening?"
"Oh man..you are a good toy." He muttered, his voice distorted as if he were a broken speaker. "Ah really…good one."
"Yeah yeah, great, now get me out!"
Fervin’s words slowed as they traveled through his body. Gravity flicked as a heavy mass compressed the ceiling. The layer of flesh surrounding the testicle squashed at his torso.. The jock's breath grew heavy, rattling the muscles like rusted gears. He's kidding, he thought to himself, he sends him down his cock and now he's taking a snooze?
"You’re not sleeping with me in here!." He shouted. "Wake your ass up!"
He rattled the sac like an ape in a cage, thrashing himself in the compressed space to disrupt Fervin’s sound slumber. It was only when his knees cushioned into the round testicle did he get a reaction, the jock's body springing to life as a moan howled through the environment. Gravity shifted again, and the flesh barricading the orb pinned him down as the round lump cushioned his face.
He groaned as it tucked him against the corner wall, singing its whale songs of gurgles and churns to its captive audience. "Damn it.."
The hours ticked by since the events of that evening. Fervin tossed in his slumber, snarling from his nostrils as he rocked over the arms of the sofa. He stretched his limbs to scratch himself, but fell backwards as gravity pulled him to the floor. Sunlight erupted from the winder, burning into his eyes like a flashbang as he groggily got up.
He picked himself up from the floor, his balance tumbling to the cushion as he caught himself.. "Fuck what a night, all that partying really tired me out.." He scratched absently at his crotch, warm skin sticking to his fingers as he cocked it back, His barreled cock resting between his legs. “Where the fuck did my shorts go?..”
He stretched before getting up from the couch, giving one last yawn as he fetched a protein shake from the fridge. He looked at his roommates' things, his props scattered along the tabletop as his cotton bed was toppled from the windowsill. The nerd’s already gone, he thought, guess he decided to leave early for spring break. That’s good, he didn’t have to worry about underwear then. He drank at his shake and moved onto his side of the room, kicking his suitcase between his legs. He crumpled his clothes, tossing them inside as a hill slowly formed.
He scratched at himself once more, reminiscing at his fingers touch as his nut flexed over them. But he squinted as he gazed at the round sphere. Something was different about them, his right testicle sagged lower than the other. He fondled beneath its weight as his cock throbbed. It might just be his imagination, he did hold a lot of his seed in there last evening.
"I’m sorry big boy, I got too drunk to enjoy you properly.” He massaged his shaft. “But I bet you got plenty of rest after you had your fun."
"Absolutely not?"
He blinked at the sudden voice, looking at his Cock. He poked at its pudgy surface for a response, but it only throbbed. "Heh..hehe, I must have had way too many shots last night. Thought I just heard my cock talking."
"Not the cock you idiot!" The voice echoed again.
He cocked a brow as he stared at his member, movement rising beneath the sagging right testicle. He scooped his sac into his palm, pinching at the active orb as he rotated it. A squirming lump curled along its edge, a soft imprint appearing before a flex pulled it down.
His palm flung from his ball, letting them swing between his legs as his heart pounded. "What the hell did I drink last night?! My ball's coming alive!"
"No, It's me! Merkeo!"
"Merkeo?" He paused, looking back at the wiggling lump. He poked at its side, a pathetic whimper escaping from it. "It is you, nerd! The hell are you doing in my balls!"
"Take a guess! You shoved me in here on another one of your drunk sprees."
"Drunk spree? I don't know what the hell you're talking about." He said. “As far as I can remember I was alone..then again, there was this talking toy. Don’t remember much but it kept squawking about not being a..toy. Huh, well that explains all the whining.”
“You fucked me into the couch.”
He groaned upon the nerd’s response "Yeah well..you should’ve been more careful. It’s not my fault you’re in there.”
“It literally is!"
"Potato, Potato."
He moved toward the glass mirror along the wall, reaching , putting on his underwear as he got dressed. He pulled the back as the thin fabric saddled his glutes, letting his cock spill over the pouch as he took to his suitcase.
His nuts jangled together like wind chimes, crashing into his thighs. "What are you doing now?"
"What do you think I’m doing? I’m packing for the weekend. I’ve got shit to do back at home, and since you're stuck with me, you'll just have to tag along until we get back."
"What?! I'm not staying in here! DnD is this weekend!" Merkel said, pressure climbed through his epididymis to the valve connecting to the rest of the cock. The right nut sway passively, flexing as the sensation of fingers prodded at the tight folds. "Gotta get..out of this thing!"
The jock snorted at the attempt. "Oh boy, aren't you nerds supposed to be smart or something? My cock doesn't take orders from nerds, it listens to one that has the oomph to shake it. And that's yours truly."
"Then get on with it already."
"You’d love that wouldn’t you? To see yourself ejected from a real cock." he fondled his nuts between his fingers. "Unfortunately I’m still spent. It's gonna be a long while before these babies are ready for another round."
“And how long would that take.”
“Hell if I know, 3 hours or so.”
“Three hours?!”
“Yup, so might as well get comfy until I fetch for you.”
He raised his cock over the flap, sealing it inside the pouch as he tied his shorts. He reeled his luggage into the hallway, following the narrow passageway toward the elevator in the crossway. Movement shifted as Merke tried to adjust in the compact space, the bulk of Fervin’s nuts dog piling his lump as it jostled in the pouch of his jockstrap. That nerd really knows how to get under his skin. Literally. Though he'll give him one thing, it felt good to have his balls stimulated, like a hot girl playing with his balls. The elevator doors opened, and he stepped inside. As they closed, he groped at his crotch, humping at the air.
He picked up a soft whimper from beneath the fabric, pressure building at his testicle as soft kneads rested upon it. He still didn’t know how to feel above having the nerd in there,but at least he’ll help filling him up back home..
The ride with Fervin was a long and bumpy trip. Every passing moment was filled with flesh jumbling Merkeo around, marinating him in the little puddle that climbed at his ankles as the testicular wall shriveled and compressed. He didn't know how far they traveled, the outside was too muffled to depth the surrounding environment except for the purrs of jock’s vehicle. After another eternity of stewing in the jock's balls, inertia pulled ahead as his face was wrapped in a sheet of muscle.
His steps boomed as a door creaked open, the sound of a zipper being undone as the sac rolled on its side. "Ah, it's good to be back home." Fervin’s voice distorted through the walls..
Merkeo padded at the soft tissue to get the jock's attention, the testicle spooning into his torso. His palms were pinned by the protruding bulge, only managing to use his ankles as he bucked weakly as the ridge of the testicle.
A heavy thud struck the balls, the soft curvature of fingers pressing at his back. "Eh? oh yeah, forgot you were in there."
Not a surprise. "It's been hours since I've been here. Can you get me out now?"
“I told you that’s not how my nuts work, nerd. They need the energy to get them started.”
“You said you needed three hours!”
Fervin laughed heartily. “I said It’d take me three hours to fill them, I never said I’d be ready to release it.”
The sac shook as its contents plonked around, the seed secreting from the wall spreading out as they washed over Merkeo’s body. His stomach dropped as the fingers let go, the nuts beginning to sway as steps boomed outside. A soft pressure cushion at the walls, tight leather scrunching beneath him.
“Been a while since I checked on the game” Fervin said. “I wonder if my K/D is still intact.”
The jock’s weight shifted as the sac tilted, forcing Merkeo to spoon beneath the rough lump as seed polled at his shoulders. Fervin's voice could be heard beyond the walls, blurting comments as a controller clunked high above. His obnoxious bantering went on for another hour, his balls rocking periodically as a finger scratched at the testicular layer. Merkeo tried again to get him to answer, splashing at the pool of seed that splashed beneath his chin. But he only received a brush from one of the thighs, followed by cursing as he shouted at someone in the game.
Outside the sun loomed past the hill in the window, the crimson sky slowly turning blue as the moon rose from the horizon. Merkeo tilted his neck as he faced the quivering sphincter above, counting its flexes as seed drooled from its lips. It’s all he could do, with his limbs bathed into the milky pool as the muscle flexed in place.
“Fuck yeah!” Fervin’s voice blurted,the testicles thrusting forward before snagged. “Hope you like that grenade yas wuss! That’ll teach ya to steal my kill!”
“Fervin!” Merkeo called out, thrashing against the tender wall. “Fervin!”
The chamber shifted, pressure applying to his back. “What now nerd?”
“Are you ready yet? It’s getting kind of full in here.”
“Hmm..They are kinda heavy…” the pressure behind him pushed at his body, a thrust sending a wave over the little roommate. “And I’m already pumped as it is, why not.”
“Yes! Finally!”
A rumble boomed above, a bubbling torrent shaking the walls as pressure melted behind him. “Shit, I forgot all about dinner. Can’t wank one out on an empty stomach.”
Merkeo swayed as Fervin traversed the household, his steps hardening as it traveled through his body. Wrappers muffled from above as the jock giggled to himself, followed by a meaty crunch as he chewed on his food. He listened to symphony of crumpled wrappers and munching for moments, and still he had yet finished his feast. The fluid climbed higher, dosing his ears as if they dipping sauce.
The walls flexed, and he raced to force them back. “It's getting a little cramped in here, are you ready to release yet?”
“Eh? Release what?”
“Your seed!”
“Oh yeah yeah, I’ll get right on it. Just..” an announcer muffled from outside, followed by bells as cheer muttered in the background. “Oo, the playoffs! I forgot that aired today.” He walked over as the sounds came closer, springs creaking beneath him.
“Wait a second, get me out first.”
“Don’t sweat it, it won’t be long. I’ll have you out by halftime, jock’s promise.”
Merkeo groaned at the response, working his limbs close to deter the walls from overtaking the pocket. He didn’t know if he could bear the salty aroma, each whiff was like intaking smelling salt, forcing him to buck at the round testicle that threatened to submerge him without hesitation. Buzzing rang from beneath him as a bubbled climbed into the pocket, his phone emerging from the pool as a notification was plastered upon it.
It was from one of the members, sending a message about the meet for tomorrow. He fiddled a finger toward its direction, its angled edge taping at his fingertips, before a fold greedily dragged it out of sight. He sighed as he faced the wall, thrashing it about to get Fervin’s attention. This time there was no response, all except his goofish giggling as he mocked the game. He couldn’t do anything but wait, tugging into the soggy fold as he closed his eyes.
A few minutes passed as he opened his eyes, once chaotic background softening as snores followed behind it. He was still in his balls, and he was fast asleep. In rage, he thrashed about the chamber to cause discomfort, swiping at the lump at his torso despite how weakly his limbs slipped off.
A roaring ocean filled his ears, as the side of his hear were submerged in milky pool. In shriveled defeat, he closed his eyes, awaiting for the jock to wake up once more. DnD was tomorrow, and he couldn’t stand being trapped in his nuts for a moment more.
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Throughout the next day, he slept to conserve his energy, listening to Fervin’s wandering as carried out his activities. When waved of seed flowed into his nostrils, he shot awake, kicking the testicle as a jolt shook the walls. A groan escaped from the jock as fingers took to his balls, forcing him to adjust as the chamber tilted it’s side.
“Watch where you’re kicking in there will ya?” Ferman demanded. “These babies are to be treated with care!”
“These babies are a nightmare, I’ve been stewing in here for god now’s how long!”
“Oh please, you barely move in there, it can’t be that bad.”
“You’re not the one neck deep in side!” He bent his knees to open more space, driving his feet into the sides of the testicular wall.
Its flesh raced to subdue, contracting its muscle around him like a snake. But he refused to let himself cave under its pressures, prying at the opposite wall.
Fervin’s body twisted. “What are you doing?”
“DnD is tonight, I can’t stay in your balls any longer. And if I have to cause a ruckus, then so be it!”
His body lit ablaze as he took to the lump, kneading into the tender walls as the testicle throbbed beneath its layer. Fervin’s fingers raced to subdue his efforts, but the sac was too full to add enough pressure, Merkeo using it as a shield as battered the walls with his own body.
After moments of struggling, a roar of defeat erupted from Fervin." Fuck it! Fine I’ll get you out.” he announced. “Was getting tired of hauling you around anyway."
The testicles swayed as he wandered outside. It wasn't long before pressure built beneath, the opposite testicle shifting before it dropped off a ledge. The sound of wet slaps returned from above, sending ripples in the chamber as the testicular sac compressed Merkeo's face.
"Ugh, my suit is so ruined, can't you pump faster?"
"Don't get your tidy widdies in bunch ya nerd, I'm almost there."
The walls flexed harder, compressing his feet as he squeezed along the hump like paste in a canister. The valve slowly began to quiver, widening slowly a seed rushed through its mouth. It flowed into its tubes like a pipeline, gulping periodically at the substance as he himself was pulled close to its lips.
Strands of his own hair were plucked between the soggy lips, crowning his head as seed piled his shoulder. But flex ceased as the narrow tube dried up, clamping at his head as seed disappeared into the abyss above. "What the? What's the hold up?"
A muffled ring vibrated the walls, the pounds halting as the jock shifted slowly. "Got a call." Fervin said, answering the device. "Bandi, my boy, what's up? Yeah I’ve been in town, just letting out some steam."
"Hey! Don't stop, keep going!"
"Give me a fucking minute, I'll get there…no no, just talking to a nerd is all I-…wait seriously?! Oh shit, count me in!"
The sac rattled from the jock’s excitement. "What are you doing out there?"
"The boys found a goldmine for some chicks from the cheerleading squad at the university. Looks we're heading to the bar."
"What?! What about me?! You still have to take me out!"
"I'll fetcha ya later, Right now I gotta fetch old faithful from the drawers. I'm gonna catch me a big one tonight"
The chamber thrashed as he braced himself for another tide, the thick goop dragging down his body like syrup. He stretched his limbs to pierce the tender muscle, but pouted at the meat pocket. Unbelievable, he was about to be free from this hellhole before that phone call. He couldn’t bear more of Fervin’s antiques for god knows how, but it appears he didn’t have much choice.. Before he knew it, the chamber moved as steps trailed outside, a door muffling open as the purrs of the truck returned.
And so began the trip to the bar. Voices muffled from the walls as Fervin greeted his friends, softer tones following them as he assumed they were women. His hips gyrating was the confirmation he needed, if not rhythmic throbbing from the shaft.
The minutes felt like an eternity as jazz played from the bar, glasses clanging together as the jock’s obnoxious chattering filled the void. His ears submerged in seed was a mercy compared to listening to the awful pick up lines he spewed from his mouth.
"This is so humiliating." he groaned.
"Hey baby, there's no need to take a seat on these raggedy old chairs, come take a gander at this one" Fervin said, heavy thumps causing the sac to dip.
Pressure ensued as the testicle rolled at his back. His torso sunk like an island landscape, dipping beneath the murky fluid as it climbed to his chin. He struggled beneath the titanic weight above, the thigh outside bouncing as it jostled the chamber..
"Oh my, you make a pretty good seat." A woman's voice said above.
"Oh ho baby, I can do more than just cushion."
"Oh for fuck sake." Merkeo covered his ears, hoping to drown out the conversation.
Another hour drew by as he listened to the oaf's bantering. At one point, chattering dwindled before the nutsack spilled forward, and the crushing weight was relieved. Fervin was on the move, the sounds of the bar growing distant until it became white noise in the background.
He scraped the wall before placing his ear against it, curiosity overwhelming him as he listened to the jock’s steps. The zipper of the pants were undone, and he spilled forward as flesh caught his fall.
"Here they are my dear, my pride and enjoy in all its glory."
"You weren't lying, it certainly is thick."
“He’s with a girl, of course he is.” his side cramp as a lump fondled his back, He squirmed to ease its protrusion, elbowing the testicle as the jock released a grunt.
"Is everything all alright?" The woman asked.
"Oh yeah sure, everything is just fine. Just a little..excited is all." Fervin replied. "Afterall, how can a guy not melt for a hot doll like yourself."
The chamber shook as the lump flattened, seed rushing from the other end like a dam as it splashed into Merkeo. Slow wet pounds filled the void, the testicle compressing before it squashed into his body. A disgruntled moan pierced the air as the sac swayed forward, a dulled edge separating the balls as softer moans echoed ahead..
God, She's sucking him off, as if his problem weren't already wacky enough. He fought the testicle to plug his ears, but its ridge forced them away, allowing the demented display to continuing as it intensified. The pressure returned as digits cupped behind him, thinner than the ones before as their pointy ends prodded his back.
The pool increased as it climbed over his head, a current seeping into the valve as it widened closer. Muscle contraptions echoed beyond the thick walls, glurking as the women's moan grew fierce. The sac pulse, and the valve widened as it guzzled seed to the surface..
"Hope you're thirsty, cause I'm gonna unleash my load inside."
"Like hell you are!" Merkeo blurted, thrashing from the chamber.
The lump prodding at his back vanished beneath murky waves, the balls dropping as they bashed against the jock’s thigh. "Did your balls just talk?!" The woman squealed.
"N..no? Did you hear them talking? I..I didn't hear them talking."
"Disgusting! Absolutely disgusting."
The sound of boots muffled from the outside, growing softer as the chamber thrashed about. "No! Come on babe, Come back!" Fervin called desperately for her, the door slamming shut. A vice grip wrapped the testicle, and Merkeo was smothered into the walls. "Damn it you nerd, you scared her off!"
"I scared her off?! I was nearly protein for her! I'm trying to get out from inside you, not end up in another."
"Well congratulations cause now I'm fucking limp, thanks for that." A bang sounded from outside as the jock began to walk. "Can't believe I got cock blocked by a nerd."
The sac rocked between his legs as the creaking door lingered from overhead, trailing off somewhere behind them as the sound of the roaring crowd returned. Merkeo tucked himself against the corner pocket of the chamber, it was the only place he could manage to breath without intaking the salty seed. He heard the jock's friend talking, reminiscing over the cheerleader storming out of the bar. His response wasn't pleasant, a squeeze smother the eager testicle against his head as if to point the blame upon him. but it relented as he relaxed, his balls drooping at the thigh.
He curled against the opposite wall, before a buzz rumbled from above, his phone squeezing from the compressed fold as it slid in front of him.
a photo appeared from beneath the milky substance, a group photo with his friends dressed in their fictional costumes. Speak of the devil, he thought, here comes the fruits of his labor reminding him of his failed attempt. What he would give to be there right now. He focused on the group photo, admiring the designs each of them chose to wear. but his eyes furrowed as he caught a glimpse of one of the members, his eyes widening.
"No way.."
That late night dragged into Sunday morning, as Fervin drove back into the dorm room as he tossed his backpack. Merkeo eyed the quivering sphincter above as its lips expanded, the walls compress as he catapulted into the tight tube. The ride up was rigid and slow, but fast enough to wipe seed clean from his skin before he squeezed back into the embrace of the jock's prostate. In a firm push he climbed up the urethral tube, skyrocketing into a tupperware container as he collided against the plastic wall.
The jock scorned above, the milky stream pouring faster as he shielded his face. "Alright that's enough!"
"Not yet it's not." Fervin said grumpily.
the stream pushed at his palms, piercing their way through as he slid into the smooth corner, it was only until his palm remained uncovered did it finally stop, and the slit sealed shut.
"Now it's finished” Fervin sneered at his handy work, shaking the drizzle from his cock before turning toward his stuff.
"Hold it!" Merkeo muttered, rising from the gunk. "We're.. we're not done."
"oh we're not huh? and what makes you say that?"
"You cost me the whole weekend! you have to make up for it!"
"Wha?.." the jock burst from laughter. "What are you on about, you're the nerd who got stuck in there in the first place."
"Only because you put me there. and nearly got me swallowed."
He rolled his eyes, fanning at the remark as Merkeo climbed out of the container. In a slippery leap, the little roommate lunged as he clung to the tufts of his jersey. It was like holding onto a moving vehicle, seed soaking his suit fanned to the luggage on the floor. Fervin drew closer to the computer desk, and jumped as he followed him to the tissue box, stomping at its opening as the giant palmed reached for it..
the jock's face soured. " You're really starting to get on my nerves."
"Likewise, but I'm not letting you off the hook. you’re going to pay up, right here, right now."
"Oh you gotta be shitting me." he chuckled. "Fuck it, I'll bite. What? What could a little nerd like you do to force me to pay you back."
He dug into the soggy pouch of his pocket of his suit, taking out his phone. He clicked at the photo, holding it to the air as Fervin's face loomed closer. "This is how!"
"Hah! What more nerds? Get over yourself."
"They may look like mere nerds to you. But one of them I'm sure you know quite well." he zoomed the photo closer, focusing on a woman dressed as a witch. "That lady right there is Cindy, the lead cheerleader of our university. I wonder what she might think if she finds out about our little mishap. I'm sure she'd love to share the adventure with the football captain."
The jock’s eyes widened before narrowing. "You don't have the balls to go through with that."
"Oh yeah? One already think's you have talking balls, I'm sure they can puzzle the rest if I speak up."
The jock growled, reaching a palm as the thick digits twitched in rage. it lunged forward, yanking a tissue from beneath Merkeo’s feet as it crumpled into a withered mess. "What do you have in mind?.."
"Heh."
"It's so good to see you again, Merkeo” Cindy greeted him, lowering a finger as he shook her hand. We missed you last night’s session. You’re wearing your night costume again?”
He scratched at his head, adjusting his cape. "Yeah, the other suit kinda got stuck in a rut. Fashion crisis am I right? But hey, we at least got time to catch up on a session. I even brought a plus one."
Heavy thuds came from the hallway, sharp squeaks lingering as a silhouette peered through the frame. An inflated dragon loomed in, Fervin’s soured face tucked beneath its chin as the rest of the rubbery suit hauled inside, he grumbled as he wrestled his tail inside, bumping it against the door.
"I'm sure you two know each other."
"We sure do.” Cindy said, “I didn't think he took part in DnD."
"You could say he had a change of heart." He replied, sharing glances with Fervin as his fiery gaze overshadowed the derpy expression of the inflatable.
They prepared the table as they all encircled it, Merkeo taking out the dice as many took their roles. scattered the props along the props behind the bordered sheet, he cleared his throat. "Alright ladies and gents, let’s begin. The adventurers set out upon the request of the king, a dragon has been spotted in a cave near the kingdom. You find the entrance and travel through its catacombs. There, surrounded by shimmering gold and diamonds, lay the beast. Sprawled upon its haunches as it snarled at your intrusion.”
Merkeo paused as he scooped the dice in hand, lending them to one of the members dressed as a wizard. “Care to start us off.”
"Oh Oh! I roll to ride the ride dragon"
"Try it and I'll flatten you like a crumpcake, pinhead!" Fervin snarled.
"Ah ah, not without a roll you're not." Merkeo assorted, nodding toward the little wizard.
The wizard squeed as they shook their hands in place, the dice jumbling like ice cubes as they rolled them to the thin sheet crossing the table. both dices toppled themselves, number nine marking the both of them.
"ooo, Nat 18. the wizard casts a construct to cast himself atop the dragon."
The wizard let out a high pitched squeal as They climbed aboard the inflatable forearm. Fervin eyed in disgust as the little one stood atop of him. the googly eyes of the dragon jangled as they clung to one of the ears, pulling it from one side of his body to the other.
the dragon squeaked as it smothered Fervin’s face, his neck jerking from side to side. "Hey! what the-?!"
“Wow, you really are pulling your weight." Merkeo said. I figured you'd make a good dragon.”
"Get them the fuck off me!"
"mm, not how it works. you gotta announce it, then roll."
"Oh for the-" he reached for the dice at the end of the table, fingers denting the barrier as they rattled. "The dragon attempts to throw the nuisance off."
He flung the dice forward, their forms streaking across the table like cannons as they pushed the barrier back. The dice came to a standstill, number one marking them both.
"Ooo two, the dragon failed to throw the wizard off. bummer."
"The hell?! what kind of bullshit is that I-"
"Our rodeo isn't over yet, dragon!" the wizard yelled, heaving at the inflated ears like reins. "Your hide will be a fine reward for my potions!"
"Crushing you is still on the table you damn pest!"
Merkeo watched as the two of them bicker, admiring the jock's flailing as he walked sluggishly against the walls. but he turned his head as Cindy whispered for his attention, lending an ear toward her.
"He seems pretty aggressive for a DnD player, Are you sure he's here to play?" She asked.
He looked toward the two once more, the wizard yanking backward as Fervin pivoted like a horse on a hill. He smiled as he placed a hand on his cheek. "Oh yeah, I'm sure."
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is it sooo much to ask that they put their sweaty cup over my mouth and nose? Use their socks to tie me up or gag me?? They could step on me with their cleats I can take it !!
Oh to be passed around by a bunch of beefy fucking dudes!!
→Post-practice cool-off fuck? Sign me up. They're lazy about it—tired after their coach ran them so hard—causally passing you around, letting you do most of the work. You're on your knees in the shower as scalding water pours down from above, Gaz's strong hands knotted in your hair. His soft, encouraging praise is just audible over the hiss of the water. You're bouncing in Price's lap, mewling softly into his neck as he looks over the coach's practice notes. He pays you no mind, as he calls out tidbits of note to the team.
→Post-win celebratory fuck? I'm there, baby. Endorphins and energy are through the fucking roof. You barely have a moment to finish with one, before the next is jockeying for his place. One moment Alejandro has you pressed against a locker—you're clawing at his back, sure he'll dent the metal if he fucks you any harder. The next, you're on your back on a bench, clenching around Soap's length as he babbles filthy nonsense against your shoulder: "That's it, Bonnie, Fucking howl for your champion."
→Post-loss blow-off? It's how I long to die. The vibes are heavy. Have you clothes off before they enter the room if you care about them, because they're going to rip whatever you're wearing off your body to get at you. Simon holds you at arm's length, pressing your face into the stone wall as he takes you from behind, rough, stone-faced and silent. He fills you up, and disappears. You don't see his face on nights like those. König takes you on the floor, like an animal, large hands, pawing at your body, a string of curses catching between his clenched teeth. He fucks you like it you he hates, and not himself for failing his team.
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not going home club (hiori yo)
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angst, hiori parent bashing, 1.9k words
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Music blasted in his ears, as loud as he could stand it, heavy bass and raggedly screamed lyrics drowning out his roommates conversation. God, guys his age could be so fucking loud and for what? To be stupid? Yeah, he was being salty but when wasn’t he, he just made sure no one else saw it.
Hiori remembered the sentence that made the headphones get brought out, it wasn’t even a full one…
“When I go home-” and that’s all he heard before he decided to tap out of the conversation. His headphones were in his hands and turned on before he really recognised what he was doing, getting frustrated with the way they refused to pair with his phone. They did eventually though, thank fucking god for that, and metal was playing through them soon after.
Sure, he felt slightly guilty for getting pissed over some small and insignificant comment his friend said. But he didn’t do anything, didn’t yell or get pissy so maybe he shouldn’t beat himself up so damn much. Still, though, he felt silly for getting so worked up for something so small but hey, he had his reasons.
The thought of going home felt physically repulsive, like he wanted to rip out from his skin and get as far away from the thought as possible. Whenever the thought crossed his mind it felt like his whole brain came to a full stop, like it hit a brick wall that prevented him from continuing along those tracks.
Of course he didn’t want to go back, he had no plan to, actually. His parents didn’t give a fuck about him, Yo, the child they had, no they only gave a fuck about what he could do, pressing him into their shitty mould to coping with being second rate halfwits who couldn’t succeed with their own lives. Seriously, Yo’d seen those American pageant videos online, you know the one, dozens of little kids forced into the stupidest, most invasive procedures to live out the half baked dreams of their mothers who only wanted to live through them by dressing them up like they were a doll and not a person.
He related to those kids so fucking much it hurt, yeah he liked doing football now but in no way did that mean that he forgave his parents for being like that. The way waking up felt pointless and empty because the day would be filled with doing shit you had no fucking say in built up over years and crushed him with its void-like weight, soul sucking and soul crushing.
Sometimes he feels like he’d betrayed himself, his young self, the one who hurt his ankle and realised his parents didn’t really love him in the same few minutes, the one that desperately tried to be good so they’d keep loving him and more importantly each other, by learning to enjoy football in his own way. That petulant child kicked him on the inside, cleat covered foot driving its too-firm outsole into the backs of him eyes, reminding him of everything that drove him insane.
Yo didn’t really feel guilt about the resentment he harboured for his parents, no, he couldn’t. They really were exceptionally stupid, emotional creatures that were so desperate for the centre of the limelight that they just had to make a whole new person about it? He felt angry on behalf of his younger self too, how dare they do something so fucking selfish? How dare they play with him like he didn’t have his own personhood? How fucking dare they.
Ever since the incident on the stairs he’d doubted every ‘kind’ action they made, doubted the sincerity in them, doubted their motivations. It always felt forced but now he knew it absolutely was, there only just to fulfil his basic needs so he wouldn’t have a breakdown mid match or something, or god forbid, end up in therapy when he could be practising.
God it made him feel mental, how long could someone go without genuine human contact without losing it? He found out, sixteen years. Sixteen years and he still clung on. And he was mad he was clinging on, because he shouldn’t have to fucking cling to the edges of his stability with often-forced politeness, he deserved better.
And that’s why he would never go back home, when Blue Lock was over and he’d ultimately failed because being a striker wasn’t even his goal anymore he’d leave for Tokyo instead of home the second he was left unattended and disappear into the grey jungle and make it alone no matter what. Going home was the same as being stuffed back into a display home, and on top of that he’d have to deal with his parents coping with his failure.
The thought brought a smile to his face, actually, wouldn’t it be so fucking funny to watch their faces fall when his foot crossed the threshold? To watch as half of their lives crumbled into nothing with his very presence, to try and wrap their tiny minds around the fact they’d never get the spotlight they wanted. It was a gleeful feeling, to imagine they’d be crushed with hopelessness, folding under the weight of disappointment the same way he did when he realised he was only worth as much as his football was to them.
Often though, the anger and its accompanying vengeful joy shattered into pained fragments, stabbing and poking at him with an overwhelming sense of loss. If only his parents actually loved him, if only they could look at him and truly see him, witness his truth that strayed from the path they set out and still cradle him in their arms with love and sweet words.
It ached, that longing, constantly. Sometimes it was ignorable but most of the time he could tell it was there, looming over his head like the worst, most decrepit kind of shadow. An all consuming void that soaked up genuine praise like a parched sponge, but never felt full, never satiated. Sometimes he just craved to be held like he should’ve as a child.
Other times, that being most, the waves of anger intersected with the waves of sadness and they dulled each other out like opposite colours being mixed together, red and blue forced to co-exist in the childhood shaped hole in his mind. They cancelled out, filling the base of his being, the root of his psyche with a nothing colour that felt like it could block out the sun. That nothing feeling was so normal, it was everyday, it felt so weird because it was like walking around half deaf. The numbness didn’t feel like much, because he didn’t feel like much and he hadn’t for a very long time, the only breaks from it were filled with ugly feelings he’d rather ignore.
He felt tired a lot of the time, a consequence of the numbness sometimes and a result of his anger burning too bright at others. The tiredness after a bout of anger felt so bone deep, probably because it was, he had nowhere to put it and it dug through the fibres of his muscles and into his bone marrow and from the blood they produced the tiredness spread and filled him. Yo wished his anger could go somewhere, disappear off of his head like steam from water when he put his head on the pillow to finally sleep, he really wished it could.
Blue Lock felt like a monumental chore at first, playing along until he got far enough for his parents to not disown him instantly then quit and disappear. Oh, he wished he could disappear, pack his life into a bag or two and vanish from the face of the earth. Not only that, no, he wanted it to hurt. He wanted it to hurt his family, to watch them mourn the idea of their missing son, the tears they’d shed over their hopes dissolving in front of them as an intangible spectator. He wanted it to hurt him, to feel the guilt and the horrible impending doom of no longer existing as he stuffed clothes into bags until there was nothing left but the mementos that tied him to his parents that he would leave behind forever to collect dust in his empty room that was never really home.
It was a stupid childish fantasy, and a tragedy that he could only imagine half-genuine tears of half-genuine care being shed over him when he wasn’t there. But he could, if he wanted to, disappear into the city and never come back, be swallowed by its crowded streets never to be seen again.
It would be awful, the life of a teen runaway would never be easy, especially in the city. He’d considered the countryside too, miles of forest to hide in and less people to catch him. It would be easier to physically do too, to hop off the bus taking him back home, wait for it to leave and walk in the direct opposite of his house. But he wanted to live properly, live freely in society when he was of age and no longer required to be in his parent’s ‘care’, and he could only do that with a good job. Safe to say, he’d been planning this for a while, since he was a child.
God isn’t that awful? A childish plan that lasted so long it evolved, and all because two people decided to be selfish.
Yo sighed, the paper in front of him wasn’t getting any fuller, what a waste.
He wondered if his parents would’ve been happier if they hadn’t had him. Maybe they would’ve divorced and found something healthier to do with their time than reminisce, maybe his mother would’ve gone somewhere with her life instead of ending up as a miserable stay at home mother, maybe his father wouldn’t be so distant with her. Maybe, just maybe they would’ve moved on from their early peak and been happy.
And so, he felt guilty for existing sometimes, without him they could’ve moved on, had a happy life untethered by accomplishments they didn’t quite get, maybe even had a child they could love right. He kicked himself a little every time a ‘what if’ burrowed its way into his brain, that would never happen and thinking like that is useless because he’ll end up killing himself, and he intends to live long enough to abandon them.
Still, he rewatched the U-20 match sometimes, telling himself over and over that it was for the game play, but only focusing on the interviews at the end. With the glossy eyes of a child he’d watch them, watch as his peers spoke of their families, watch as their families spoke of his peers. There were highlights and social media posts that captured them embracing, the high emotions and the tears and the tight grip they had on one another that spoke of immense pride in them.
Oh, he wanted that, he wanted it dearly because when they did it, it meant something, it was more than some self-congratulatory act. He wanted it, and he mourned all the times he never got it everyday.
And so, no matter what he’d leave them. No more watching himself from someone else’s perspective, no more living for anyone else, from the moment he stepped foot outside his parents property he’d become a member of the world’s loneliest club. The not going home club.
Yo gave up with the paper in front of him, putting the pencil down and taking his headphones off. The chatter had died down, everyone focusing on their work. Next to him, Isagi shuffled closer, their legs brushing. It was a small act but it fit a lot of worth into it, not going home meant finding a new one. He wouldn’t be alone.
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also available on ao3!
thanks for reading ily <3
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Do you remember your father’s yacht? Golden rails blinding eyes, not a speck on those polished floors, the ones paid for with the money he made preaching a book to a crowd of aimless people.
Me, on my hands and knees, yellow oversized gloves and a metal bucket of soap, and you, with your violet corduroy sweater, the undertones coloring your cheeks pink.
Do you remember your father’s Bible? His gospel? When he saw the hickey on your neck and found us in the broom closet and seemed to forget that we were children. No child of mine. You are no child of mine. He was shouting then, breaking his carefully constructed appearance in front of the company of the faggot that dare touch his son. His spit wet the real leather of the Bible’s cover and I prayed it would ruin it.
That was the same summer you kissed me; my back against a rusty, green playground pole, three a.m. moon turning your tan skin pale. When you whispered boys don't kiss boys and bit my lip until I bled.
That summer, the boys club was the only safe place in a world full of your fathers. You found soccer and I found you and when you stripped naked of everything except your soccer cleats and fucked me on the football l field, I tried to make a permanent imprint in the grass. I kissed the bruise on your cheek a thousand times that night and you growled to me about homophobic assholes.
Sometimes when I lick the inside of my mouth, I can taste you lingering. I can feel the softness of that sweater. I can feel the metal digging into my back. I can feel the damp grass.
I can feel the love I felt for you.
| k. - @nosebleedclub viii. boat, ix. boys club, xii. cleats, xxi. hickey.
#tw#abuse#religious trauma#religious imagery#poetry#original writing#writing#prose piece#original poetry#story prompt#writing prompt#original story#prose poetry#female writers#writeblr#writers on tumblr#writers and poets#short story#the nosebleed club & its inspirations#drawn from the life around me#musings of moments in a life that comes of and brings nothing signficant
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My thoughts on HH and some other stuff, too
Wow, y'all. Just... just Wow.
Okay, first off, I just wanted to say that I am absolutely blown away by the sheer amount and scope of all the attention that I've gotten this past week or so regarding my story BtM. I was truly not expecting that, and for my readership to explode exponentially since the last time I posted, it's amazing to me the number of followers I've gained, the people who've stopped by to say hello, the messages, the comments, the subscriptions and favorites, the everything else, and I just wanted to say thank you.
Reading everyone's reactions and seeing them get so excited and hyped up about something that I truly care about really makes writing worth it.
So, I'm thrilled that everyone's having so much fun. :D I know I am!
Anyway, I've had a couple people reach out to me, requesting my thoughts regarding the first season of Hazbin Hotel, and I thought to myself, 'Oh, why not?'
So, here we are.
Overall, I greatly enjoyed it. The animation was crisp and pretty to look at, the songs were absolute bops, as was the background soundtrack, the overarching narrative was interesting, and the characters, barring a few notable exceptions here and there- *cough* icky moth man who needs squished flat with a metal cleat and the world's first grandiose malignant narcissist- were quite enjoyable.
They were all well written, of course, but, good Lord, some of them were just truly heinous people.
I think, out of that of all of the new characters to which we were introduced in the series that didn't hold speaking roles in the pilot, I think my favorite was a tie between Rosie and Emily. Rosie was exactly who I hoped she'd be, Dolly Levi with a dash of Mary Poppins- she even gave out her business card to that one cannibal lady like Dolly did all the time in 'Hello Dolly'- and Emily was such an adorable little bean. We need more of both those ladies in the future.
The biggest surprise out of the whole show for me, though, was finding out that the hotel actually worked. I genuinely was not expecting that, and I suspect that the exercises that Charlie was making everyone do didn't really do that much, but the situations in which the characters found themselves and how they chose to react to those situations because of their experiences at the hotel were what really clinched it in the end.
I'm very proud of Pen, though. Good for you, man. Goin' out like a champ and getting into Heaven by total accident. Well done.
Mind you, I did have a few gripes here and there, such as the rushed nature of the pacing, but I doubt that I'm alone in that particular camp. The pacing of the overarching narrative was a bit rushed for my taste, and when I'm watching a show, I would prefer not to feel at the end of it like I was in the middle of a caffeine bender.
If I'm going to do that, I'll drink two pots of coffee, follow it up with a latte, and see where it goes from there.
It was almost like deciding to make soup, but not adding any water to the condensed can, so it ended up way too thick and not nearly as smooth as it could've been, had the water been included.
Had they taken the same amount of plot and spread it out over twelve episodes, instead of just eight, it would've been a bit more evenly balanced, and we might have gotten more character moments and interactions to really sell the growing bonds between the main cast, which would've made the other narrative points that much more powerful, such as Pen's noble sacrifice.
However, the number of episodes was probably down to studio constraints and the bigwigs decision to keep the series compressed because money, so I won't hold that against the production team.
That's just business. It happens. No big deal.
So, all in all, it was a fun little romp. Alastor is still my favorite character, because he's just so interesting and multifaceted, and by the end of the season, I had far more questions about him than I did answers.
This is a good thing, though.
I'd be disappointed if he were too easy a character to read.
There's a lot going on there with him, and his morality is too grey and muddled with far too many unknown factors to make a definitive take on him just yet. I still think that my initial understanding of him is on the right track, such as his MO, but I am curious to see where this goes in the official narrative.
So, yes, I will be staying tuned for the next season.
However... just curious here.
Are we really going to have to wait another two years for the next season?!
Because I heard a rumor circulating that that was the case, and I'm kind of hoping that's not accurate.
#bathsaltsmcgee#B answers stuff#Hazbin hotel#q and a session#B's bad opinion corner#I still don't know what to call this
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2022 Trek Travel Cross-Country Bike Trip Epilogue
The stats
21 riders including 8 women, 42 riding days, 4 rest days, 14 states, My personal stats - 3,735 miles (avg 89 miles/day), 142K ft ascent, 232 hrs moving time, 16 mph avg speed, $0 prize money
For comparison, the stats of the 2022 Tour de France
176 male riders, 21 riding days, 3 rest days, 2,081 miles (avg 98 miles/day), 157K ft ascent, 80 hours moving time, 26 mph avg speed, $2.7M prize money
I'm guessing that the average age of the Trek group was approximately double the age of the average Tour rider - we were older and slower but went considerably farther.
In anticipation of your questions:
Most memorable part of the trip: The rides in the Western States brought stunning views and memorable climbs/descents. If I had to pick one segment, I would recommend the Columbia River Gorge.
Most difficult part of the trip:
Days of temps in the 90s/100's turned asphalt roads into broilers, cooking us from our cleats to our helmet. Also, cold rain is no fun but we only had a few days of this. I also had a stomach bug that caused me to DNF a day and suffer the next few days as I recovered, but fortunately it was relatively short lived. Due to the DNF I missed 54 miles/4k ft ascent of the trip.
Physical impact:
Yes, I lost weight, but not more than 10 lbs. My body composition changed though; I lost fat and gained muscle. I didn't grow giant quadriceps like a pro rider but my cycling V02 max improved by 15% to 60. I never got sore like I do when I run and my only injuries were saddle sores in weeks 2-3 and a mild case of cycling elbow (i.e. tennis elbow) the last few days of the ride.
Was it easier or more difficult than I expected:
I really had no idea what to expect. I got stronger and faster as the ride progressed and was less sore than I expected. The ride was challenging, but it wasn't torture and I'm proud of averaging 16 mph.
Would I do it again?
No. I wanted to see the country from the saddle of a bike and to physically challenge myself and I've accomplished those goals. As the guides attested at the closing dinner, we had an extraordinary group of riders (kind, fun, thoughtful, strong) and I can't imagine being able to repeat that good fortune. Lastly, 47 days is a long time to be away from Beth, family and friends.
Things I learned riding coast to coast across the northern US:
1. It is ridiculous to think that 21 people in their 50s and 60s (and one in his 70s!) can bike across the country in 46 days. But what if they were provided:
• A training plan 8 months in advance;
• The best road bikes available;
• A GPS attached to their bike with turn-by-turn directions of the carefully planned route;
• White glove service managing all the logistics (luggage, hotels, meals, etc.);
• Refueling stops with water, sugar, salt, and encouragement every 17 miles in addition to a fully catered lunch stop each day;
• The support of 5 of the best guides in the business?
If you do all of that, then a group of ordinary (albeit highly motivated) men and women can do the extraordinary.
2. We live in a truly beautiful country; the Columbia River Gorge and South Dakota badlands were breathtaking, but so too were the simple pastoral beauty of the Midwest and the charming towns and villages of New England.
3. The vastness of US agriculture production is astounding and difficult to comprehend. Given the amount of land devoted to producing corn, the rise of electric vehicles and decline of gasoline/ethanol consumption will be nearly as disruptive to the farming community as it is to petroleum producers.
4. If political signs, flags, and bumper stickers are to be believed, there is a deep and troubling political divide between rural and urban America. This divide is being stoked by selfish interests and must be reconciled.
5. Those thick black rubber bungee cords with metal hooks on the ends that people use to secure things to their car or truck? They don’t work. Beth and I have picked up tens of them in the two miles of I90 that we’ve adopted, and I dodged hundreds of them lying on road shoulders while riding across the country. They should be taken off the market.
6. This trip reminded me of a lesson I first learned when I began Ironman training. The average human body is capable of amazing things, much more than you imagine. I occasionally hear the advice, “Listen to your body.” I think it is important to clarify that advice. Remember that your body evolved to crave an afternoon on the couch with a bag of chips in one hand, a cookie in the other and a milkshake to wash them down. So, when you’re listening to your body, listen carefully. Distinguish between when your body doesn’t want to do something and when your body can’t do something. At mile 14 on day 19, sick with a stomach bug, my body said it couldn’t continue and I listened. On the other mornings when my body said it was tired, I ignored it.
7. Bicycling is much easier on your body than running. Over 47 days of riding I never felt sore (with the temporary exception of my butt); I never needed a massage or used my Theragun. As an older athlete I plan to incorporate biking more regularly into my training regime to give my body more time to recover from the impact of running.
8. It is a privilege to do this ride. It is a privilege to have the good health, time, resources, and support (thanks Beth and all of you) to pursue an odyssey like this for 47 days. It isn’t lost on me that there was no racial diversity on this ride; that’s likely a reflection of the privilege this ride requires and the work we have left to do as a society.
9. When riding a bike a long distance, nothing matters more than the wind. Depending on the wind, a 40-mile ride could either be a thrilling 2-hour sprint or a grinding 3-hour sufferfest and in this respect, this cross-country ride is a metaphor for life.
Riders are quick to complain about a headwind, but very few will acknowledge a strong tailwind; on those days riders are more likely to credit their pace to their fitness and fortitude. This is a natural human tendency, despite the profound and more importantly, invisible influence of the wind. Bikers likewise compare their segment times to the results of other riders on different days despite those comparisons having little meaning without an acknowledgment of the wind (which never happens). Some riders have lighter, faster bikes, but those differences are visible, more easily accounted for and generally have less impact the invisible wind.
Riding against the wind isn’t just a physical challenge, it is mentally and even emotionally draining. I have a power meter in my pedals, and it tells me how much power I am producing. 220 watts with a good tailwind can easily propel me at 20 mph. Conversely, when riding into a headwind those same 220 watts may not get me above 14 mph. Here’s the interesting thing; even though I’m working equally hard in each scenario, pedaling at 220 watts for an hour with a tailwind is easy and fun; I’m going fast and making great progress. By contrast, I can rarely keep up a 220 watt effort for more than 30 minutes when facing a headwind; the slow pace and drone of the wind whistling in my ears are simply too frustrating and discouraging. It’s the same amount of work, but one feels considerably more difficult than the other.
Of course, a headwind isn’t necessarily an inevitable, unavoidable obstacle. A rider may be able to alter his course to one which is protected from the wind but still reaches the same destination. Or a rider could pick an entirely new destination, one which turns the headwind into a tailwind but arrives at a different but equally suitable destination. These options are usually only available to riders who are familiar with the area, riders who have been there before or have seen other riders navigate the optional routes and destinations successfully. Rookie riders are unlikely to deviate their course or destination and will generally attempt to grind it out in the absence of knowledge of the alternatives.
Sometimes a headwind is simply unavoidable, however. On those days, riders can help each other by taking turns pulling at the front, shielding those behind from the wind and giving them a chance to rest and recover. On many occasions during my trip, stronger riders would pull weaker riders for hours to the destination simply because they could and they didn’t need the help of the weaker rider.
At the risk of being preachy here (probably too late) I had the tremendous good fortune to be born with a strong tailwind. I saw other riders (my parents and their friends) reach my intended destination and I followed their course. In addition to a tailwind, I had the benefit of being pulled by older, more experienced riders (work mentors and great bosses like Jack ONeill). And finally, Beth Koetting is a strong and capable teammate who is riding with me and sharing the work.
3,735 miles taught me to be appreciative of a tailwind and acknowledge it’s contribution. More importantly, it’s taught me to recognize when others are struggling with a headwind. Odds are good that these riders would be equally successful with the benefit of a tailwind. I am reminded to help them find a new route or destination, or better yet move to the front and give them a chance to rest and recover.
10. The love and support of family and friends can make even the most challenging journey more enjoyable and for that I thank all of you.
Thanks for following along.
Mike
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Corrupted, Chapter Six - The Laughing Beast, a Malevolent x TMA Crossover
Rational thought goes up like flash paper. “No,” Tim snarls. “I want you afraid.” And for just one second, he wonders where that came from. That isn’t like him at all.
Then he hopes whatever is coming hurts.
AO3
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Run, whispers Tim’s inner Cthulhu, and for the very first time, he sounds terrified.
Not startled. Not unnerved. Terrified.
(He should run. It’s the moment. The new guy, the old woman, and the thing from the book are all distracted with each other.)
Rational thought goes up like flash paper. “No,” Tim snarls. “I want you afraid.” And for just one second, he wonders where that came from. That isn’t like him at all.
Then he just hopes whatever is coming hurts.
“What are—” starts the old woman.
“What's this? Firebombs? Sacrifices? How many people have you killed?” And the voice is laughing.
No, that’s not the word. The voice is stabbing, every guffaw like lightning crashing down, and if Tim had tried to run, this laugh would have shaken him in its teeth and thrown him broken to the ground.
He can’t get up now. He’s curled, hands over his ears, gasping.
Run! the asshole hisses.
Tim can’t even move.
“Oh, I’m not hurting you,” purrs the voice. “You’re too fun. That means you should go, of course. This is going to be m-m-m- messy, and I wouldn't want to get… carried away… and kill you!” And that laugh strikes again, and it hurts, it hurts, and Tim cries out in pain.
He feels electrocuted. He can’t think.
The whatever-it-was he released from the book roars again. For a moment, the ground trembles, and the rusty hangar screeches like metal being torqued.
Then the roar cuts off with a squeak, as though its maker has been pinched.
“Wait your turn,” says the voice. “All right, you little vixen, you, go on now. Ooh, ooh, you know what? Let’s just give you a pinch more protection, shall we? Don’t want this to be over too soon.”
There’s the sound of a wet, sloppy kiss, accompanied by an actual mwah.
“Off you go. I’ll be watching you. ”
“Right,” says the old woman, who sounds somehow both dazed and focused at the same time. “Don’t do it again,” she adds, stern as a governess, and leaves.
Run! hisses the asshole inside him.
“Shhhh,” says the new voice, and then—
Earthquake? Tim thinks, because he has no other reference for it. The ground leaps, thrusts him inches into the air like a trampoline someone jumped on.
Or as if something incalculably heavy were slammed down upon it.
“You little opportunist! I guess it’s only fair, given how he stole your favorite city all those years ago, but really! If I’d known you were being all, ‘My god, they were roommates,’ I’d just have been tracking you all this time!”
Another bass sound, no words, too much meaning, and Tim groans.
The voice drops an octave again. “I like lies, Daggy-boy, but that was insulting.”
There’s another slam, another earthquake, another sound of tearing flesh. The resulting roar blacks Tim out for a moment.
When he comes to, he’s panting, on his back, and the heavy thing—whatever it is—seems no longer able to fight back.
Run, whispers his passenger, his monstrous personal demon.
Tim won’t. He clenches his fists in the dirt beneath him as if to anchor himself.
The sharp voice is low. “And you didn’t tell me. You knew I was looking for him for, like, a thousand years, and you... didn't... tell me.”
Tim smells ozone, as if literal lightning is about to strike this place. For some reason, that gets through. Clarity hits; self-preservation tops his wild, mindless rage. He rolls over and tries to run.
Rope suddenly whips around him from throat to ankle, and he falls, choking.
He lands hard, and discovers the cleat hooks have been threaded through the rope, bruising him cruelly, digging in. He cries out.
“You just stay still,” says the voice, low. “I’ll get to you. Dag! Allow me to communicate my disappointment.”
And then communicating disappointment happens, and all the sounds Tim’s heard to this point are nothing.
It’s like galaxies dying.
It’s like if water could scream.
It’s like—
Whatever it’s like has gone beyond Tim’s ability to quantify, and his thoughts are scattered.
Sometime after that—maybe years, he doesn’t know—it’s over. The silence is weighted, strange; the only sound is dripping, an unknown liquid that hisses every time it lands, like steaming blood.
Footsteps come his way. Just ordinary footsteps, not bothering to run; implacable.
It should be terrifying. Instead, Tim only knows rage, swallowing fear, feeling so damn good. “Come on, you fuck,” he dares the laughing beast, uncaring if he gets destroyed as long as everything else does, too.
Tim! the asshole hisses.
Tim is picked up by the rope like a bag with a handle, and it tightens, digging those cleat hooks in. He groans.
“Let’s see, let’s see, how shall we make this dramatic? Oh, I know!”
There’s a sound Tim has heard all his life—that of a cheap folding table being set upright, on its feet—and then he is slammed on top of grimy, textured plastic.
“Fuck you!” Tim shouts.
Tim is yanked close to what he thinks is a face. Fetid breath washes over him, reeking like meat that’s gone slightly off, too hot and too wet to come from human lungs.
“Hello, mule. The temper is cute? But I really don’t have a use for you, so lemme make this clear. The grownups are talking. If you make one more sound, distract me one more time, I will snap your spine. Then, I will set your nerves on fire. You won’t even be able to cry as you lie there in living hell, heart beat-beat-beating away, until it’s all done. Understand?”
Oh, Tim understands.
He understands he’s fucked no matter how this goes.
He understands the asshole inside him wanted his body, and took advantage of his grief to make it happen.
He understands that the asshole is fucked, as well, but that is not enough.
In a moment of blazing, all-encompassing anger, Tim decides to go the torture-paralysis route just to make fucking Cthulhu feel the loss of something he wanted.
He tries to bite the face.
He misses, teeth clacking on nothing.
“Well, that was a choice,” says the devil.
There is a clean, electric snap in Tim’s back.
The full weight of his body suddenly pulls him down, compressing, buzzing weirdly, limp. He can barely breathe, but if he could, he would laugh, because Cthulhu wanted this body, and now he has to watch it be destroyed.
The pain that follows, though—that is bad.
The devil wasn’t lying. It rockets immediately beyond anything he would have thought of as pain or torture or torment and into something he can only call destruction—a fire that moves, a cruel and eager razing of his every nerve. He’d be screaming if he could do anything at all, but he can only drool, and the only thing that could make it better would be if the asshole could feel this, too.
The laughing beast gasps dramatically. “Interference? In my prey? It’s more likely than you think!”
And it all suddenly stops.
The pain. The paralysis. The rage. Just stops, like a cord yanked out of the wall. Tim realizes he’s lying on a grody plastic folding table in the middle of butt-fuck nowhere, and he has antagonized the devil.
He tried to bite the devil’s face. What the fuck. What the fuck.
“Take five, Casanova. The grown-ups are talking.”
Tim doesn’t need the warning repeated. He can’t stop hyperventilating, either, but happily, the devil doesn’t seem to mind.
“Hey, Haaaaastur?” says Satan like a whiny little girl. “Whatcha doooooin’?”
Inside Tim, the asshole makes a… groan. Long. Drawn-out. Agonized.
Tim is right there with him. His head spins. He opened the book again. Why had he opened the book? What the fuck had he done?
“Oh, you released one of the Great Old Idiots who’s been AWOL for about a thousand years, who then panicked because a mortal was defying him (what a babe!), and then went stupid and tried a Great Working, which of course I felt, so I came a-knocking, only to discover the particular Great Old Idiot I’ve been actively hunting for thrice that long has been hiding in a universe I never thought he’d dare! Can you believe the nerve?”
No, Tim cannot believe the nerve. "He… what?"
“The real question, my little fig pudding, is how. Daggy-boy should have stayed in there no matter how often that book opened—which means that you summoned him, darling.”
Tim feels like he’s waking up from being drugged, or from some kind of alcoholic haze. “How?”
“Dunno! I’m waiting for an answer, Hastur,” says the being lightly, too lightly.
Wait. Who the fuck is Hastur?
The damned cleat hooks are digging in. Tim shifts, uncomfortable, and then—with a flush of embarrassment—he recognizes the way he’s tied. It’s too tight, definitely not sexy, but he knows it. “Shibari?” he blurts.
“Oh, good, you noticed! I thought it might have gone over your head. Funny, right? On the fly, too. I’m proud of myself.”
“What the f—”
“Shhh.”
The laughing beast knew he’d…
Did it know everything?
It was here because he opened the book.
Tim did this. He’d summoned something (he’d wanted to, he remembers, though it feels like a dream), and lured the laughing beast right to them.
Tim has never imagined fucking up this badly. He has never imagined doing anything this cruel. He feels sick. “John, I’m sorry,” he whispers.
The being chokes. “John? You told him your name is John? Oh!”
And the laughing beast loses his mind.
Stomps away, cackling, crackling, possibly flailing his unimaginable limbs, and creaking-rustling-smashing-bashing sounds fill the hangar, a cacophonous storm. “Oh! Oh!”
The beast laughs. It hurts. There is a terrible, violent screech, and rain suddenly patters on Tim’s face.
The hangar’s been ripped open. By laughter.
“John! John! Damn it! Damn you! I was all prepared to hurt you so much for making me wait (all that screaming, all that pitiful begging), and then you had to go and be funny? Oh!”
Buffeted by raw sound, Tim falls off the table and lands hard. Those damned cleat hooks are going to leave him cow-patterned with bruises.
Run, whispers John or Hastur or whoever, though he has to know Tim cannot.
“I’m sorry,” Tim whispers again.
“You know what?” bleats the beast. “New idea! You’re going to make a lovely audience. Whoop!”
Tim’s eyes suddenly feel stabbed. He screams.
So does Hastur, for some reason?
The being touches Tim’s face, and he flinches. “Open up. That’s right.”
Open up? What, his mouth? He—
What’s happening? Hastur gasps. Where’s… what’s happening?
Tim gasps, too. He can see.
The devil is just a guy.
Just some guy, a man, bent toward him, wearing an absolutely boring suit with the shirt slightly unbuttoned, all of it rumpled as if he’d been out all night drinking to celebrate The Business Deal. If not for his bare feet, which seem to be smoking, he’d be nearly unremarkable.
“Oh, Hastur’s really freaking out now,” the guy chirps, and smiles like a hurricane. “I should’ve done this with the other one! Place swap! Ooh, maybe I should give him your body, let you have the eyes?”
“Rather you didn’t?” says Tim, voice cracking.
“Prefer to have it all, eh? Well, I can’t blame you. So would he!” The guy’s face twitches, expression warring between amusement and rage. “Fuckin’... John. You had to go and make me laugh. Damn it.” He gets up and starts pacing again.
Tim stares after him, panting.
The hangar is huge, and almost entirely rusted orange. It’s not dark; both front and back walls have been completely blown out, along with half the roof. Rusted-out farm equipment and random junk lie all over the place, and Tim really hopes his tetanus shot is up to date.
What a stupid thing to think. He’s not surviving this.
The way the laughing beast stalks that space… He moves like a tiger. It’s barely human; smooth, controlled, like he’s made of power and violence. It's incredible.
Tim would absolutely have hit on him in a pub.
He suddenly wonders if he has hit on (and succeeded) with non-human things in a bar.
“You have,” says the laughing beast without even looking at him.
“How do you know?” says Tim. “Wait. You?”
The devil laughs. “Sweet summer child. No. You’re alive and sane (though they’re both not a given at the moment), which is not a thing after I’ve done the do, so, no, you have not been fucked by me. Also, I just got here! New kid on the block!”
Just got there.
Because of the book that Tim opened.
“Oh, gods,” Tim moans.
What? What’s happening? says Hastur in a panic, which is when Tim realizes Hastur can’t see.
So Hastur is stuck in the dark, paralyzed and blind. Because Tim opened the book. “I’m sorry,” Tim whispers.
“Oh, and sweetums? Call me Kayne. Not that I hate the laughing beast (better believe that’s going on some booty shorts), but the titles are getting distracting.” And then he grabs Tim’s rope and drags him across the uneven, littered ground.
The cleat hooks catch on things. They dig in. Tim cries out.
Then Kayne tosses him onto the manky old armchair, and a cloud of spores or whatever the hell rises.
Tim coughs, choking.
What? What’s going on? Hastur demands.
Kayne flops in front of Tim, elbows digging into his thighs, chin propped on hands, and beams up at him.
Eyes watering, Tim freezes.
“So, my darling yellow coward… how you been?” says the devil, says Kayne, who apparently intends to drag this out.
Hastur makes that low, wordless sound. It is not a good sound. It’s terror, vocalized.
Tim doesn’t know why he speaks up, except that no one deserves to be treated this way, even if they are an asshole. “He’s scared shitless of you. He can’t answer yet, all right?”
“Are you scared shitless of me?”
“Uh, yeah?” Tim can’t help the sarcasm.
“But you’re so chatty.”
“I talk when I’m scared,” says Tim, which is true. “Besides—you said he’s been running away for three thousand years. Give him a minute.”
Kayne snorts at him. “Hey, want to know what you fucked?” he says, and Tim is smacked in the brain with a memory.
Of the adorable couple in the pub in Fairfield, positively impish smiles, getting all his jokes—
Of the three of them coming together like some wild spring bloom, all different petals and colors and all grassy-sweet.
And Tim’s memory, all his, of Carlin inside him and Darcy on top, of a rare and beautiful intimacy of no-holds-barred and everybody satisfied, of laughing in the bedroom (Tim loves that best) and top-ten-orgasms-ever territory—
And then, Tim sees what it really was.
Not a couple at all. Not human at all. Some kind of long, moss-covered thing, with an emotionless human face, with many openings and a segmented body and at least ten arms with wrong hands on each, pinning him down and fucking him stupid (and being fucked, too, which somehow matters?), and lifting a scorpion tail above him, ready to strike—
So clearly about to kill him, stretching him out, tail poised right over his willingly exposed throat—
And Tim, being Tim, laughing in the middle of illusory bliss and saying, “Happy birthday to me!”
And the thing (Male? Female? Did it even fit in one category?) just out of curiosity saying in a dual voice, “Is it your birthday?”
And Tim, being Tim, nerves singing, brain ringing, saying, “Naw, but if it was, I’d sell tickets.”
And the thing… laughs.
Because Tim bleeds charm, and Tim is cute, and the way Tim says this is so ridiculously endearing that the scorpion tail retracts, disappears, is put away.
The thing still takes its pleasure from him, but Tim doesn’t die.
And in his memory, he felt besotted, and then sad as the couple (not a couple not a couple) told him they had a good time, but they were just passing through, and they left the hotel before he woke.
“What was that thing?” says Tim weakly.
“Oh, see, what the Sela does is take your seed, give you its seed, and then it kills you! Stabs you through the throat so your blood can water things. Then you become a tree that cannot be uprooted, and it gives birth to a thing that looks like you, but with backwards hands. When it grows up, the cycle begins again.”
From nowhere comes The More You Know piano theme.
Okay, Tim has stroked out and this isn’t happening. “Oh, of course that’s what it does. Naturally! Should have guessed.”
“You really do talk when you’re scared, don’t you? And no, you’re not stroking out, but that’s an idea. Bet you’d both love that,” says Kayne.
Impossible, says Hastur. The Sela doesn’t spare people. This is bullshit.
“Yet it did. And who the fuck are you to argue, anyway? Hey, Timmy. Hey. Do you want to know what Hastur was doing today?”
Tim is busy being so grateful for condoms he almost misses the question. “He… was going to take my body?”
“Pfft, hahaha!” says Kayne. “You think it used a condom? And I mean, yeah, Hastur was leaning toward taking your body, but guess what? He made himself an arbitrary roadblock.”
Hastur is silent.
It takes Tim a moment. “What are you talking about?”
“He likes you. He set a bar for magic ability that’s really absurd, and had decided if you weren’t gods-damned Merlin, he wouldn’t go through with it—all couched under the guise of not good enough for him.” Kayne rises and speaks right against his ear. “Then you opened the book and damned him. You just know he’d thought better of you, don’t you?”
Tim feels sick. Shamed. “I don’t know why I...”
“Uh-huh, we’ll get to that. Hey, Hastur. Did you even notice yet? Did you? He got marked, mon petit roi, while you were dicking around playing Humane Society.”
What? says Hastur, sounding startled. Nonsense, I would have... He gasps.
“Marked?” says Tim, thinking bruises, cuts, flesh-eating bacteria.
“By a fear-born entity of complete and utterly personal destruction!” says Kayne. “By the One Who Consumes All. By That Which Sets Ablaze to treasured things, feeds that fire with its own flesh, and laughs all the way to ash and ruin.”
And Tim feels… a flutter. An echoed anger, a whispered call to finish what he started. He shudders.
That is not his desire. Yet it sort of is. It’s his hopelessness turned to poison, his pain weaponized, his blunt-edged anger bent to hammer-headed rage.
“Fun, right? I’ve never seen the Desolation eat a guy inside an avatar’s body before, but if you lose control of that, you’re both dead, and I’m pretty sure it’ll hurt.” Kayne sounds like he just saw an intriguing trailer for a movie. “So what do you think I’m gonna do with you, hm? Ask me. Go on, ask me.”
What are you going to do with me? And that voice, John’s voice, Hastur’s voice, is so afraid.
“Kill you! You know what’s really funny? I might not have if you hadn’t run. Might’ve ignored you. Or just hurt you for a few centuries. I didn’t particularly care, Hastur—until you ran. Until you actually thought you could get away from me. Until you had the gall to stay hidden.”
Tim is shaking by the end of this, even though it’s not directed at him. The malevolence in every word is like spider legs, crawling all over him, tips of fangs just pricking his flesh and threatening venom.
John (Hastur, whoever) makes that low groan again.
Tim isn’t sure what to do. The simmering rage wants to poke, to tease the spiders so they sink their fangs in. The quivering fear wants to stay silent in hopes only Hastur dies today.
Neither of those are who he wants to be.
He’d thought he was a good person before this, someone people could trust in a pinch, who didn’t molest or steal or hurt anybody. It turns out that isn’t him. When things got bad, he grew so angry that he opened the book and summoned something, knowing others would suffer.
So, not great.
He will deal with horrible personal revelations later. For now, he can at least try to do one good thing. “Sounds boring,” he says.
Hastur doesn’t have a body to stiffen, but he sure gives that impression, anyway.
“Really?” says Kayne.
Kayne probably heard that entire thought process. Tim decides to act on the assumption that he has. “Seems to me the movie trailer offered the more entertaining option. Better than just canceling things mid-production, anyway.”
Hastur’s bafflement almost tickles, it’s so strong.
“You know, you are charming?” says Kayne as if the words smell bad. “Kind of wholesome. If I’d just found you wandering along the side of the road, I would absolutely hit you with a truck.”
“Even with the Desolation thingummy?” says Tim. “Thought that was a good plot twist.”
Kayne laughs, low. “You don’t even know what that means yet—but you know, you have a point? In that case, I’d rile you up and drop you in the middle of an orphanage.” There is, from nowhere, a sudden smell of burning meat.
Tim gags. Fuck, is he serious? But Tim knows he is. Burning children would be funny to this guy.
What’s happening? What is that? demands John, Hastur, whoever.
“My hesitation is, I don't do re-runs,” says Kayne. “I already saw this show, and even though the finale was so… mmm, fucking good, I don't know that I want to do it again.” And he shudders at the memory, eyes lidded, violently illicit. “You are right, Timmy—I haven’t decided. But Hastur knows where this is going, don’t you, buddy? I kept my word to your namesake, didn't I?
You killed him, says Hastur, so very quietly.
Him? thinks Tim.
“I did! Eventually, I’m going to kill you, too. The only question is whether it’s now.”
Hastur is silent.
“Nothing? Heh. All right. It’s time for Final Jeopardy.” Kayne leans in.
Tim rears back. The armchair crunches.
“Hastur,” says Kayne. “The truth, now. Why did you use ‘John?’” And, very low: “If you lie, or if you hold the truth back, it’s over. Right here, right now.”
Tim can’t help him with this one.
Kayne pats his cheek. “No, you really can’t. Be quiet. Hastur. I’m waiting.”
I…
“The. Truth.” Vicious words, absolutely cold. Merciless.
Because I miss him, Hastur whispers, and in the end, he never needed me at all.
Tim’s eyes go wide. A spouse? Something else? A brother?
There’s another feeling in there, now. John—Hastur, whoever—might be… crying?
“You are making some faces,” says Kayne. “All right—I’ll accept that answer. It’s close enough, and it hurt you to say, which, let’s be fair, is what I was after. So!” He claps his hands. It causes thunder. Big, booming. As if the universe is responding to whatever Kayne’s decided. “Starting today, I have a whole new world to play in that I have utterly ignored because the gods were gone.”
“What?” says Tim, because what?
“And I have you two, which could have been boring… except you’ve both already fucked it up. You’re infected.” He tweaks Tim’s nose, making his eyes water. “He’s a narcissist.” He pokes Tim in the chest, but it’s Hastur who grunts. “The entities that dwell here are very interested to munch on a deity they haven’t tasted yet. I wonder how long you can stay alive?”
Tim stares. “What?” he says again.
“I wouldn’t count on Timmy to help much,” says Kayne to Hastur. “That infection is going to get him. You know that.” And he smiles. “Going to eat up that goodness, burn that wholesome charm like kindling. It’s a matter of time. You get to lose him. Slowly. No matter what you do.”
Hastur is heavily silent.
Tim thinks it's grief. Which makes no sense. Hadn’t he been about to kill him?
“And you are going to be stupid enough to think he can change, or is changing, or coming to be trustworthy. You’ll grieve, and try to save him, and give yourself away, and it’ll be a stupid, selfless mess. Yuck.” Kayne taps his chin. “Honestly, I know how it’ll go. It sounds dull. I’ve seen this before. It’s TV Tropes all over. Still…”
Tim stays quiet. Very still. He’s sure, somehow, that anything he does right now will tip the scales the wrong way.
“See, right there,” says Kayne. “There is something here I don’t understand. You shouldn’t be picking up on his moods. You shouldn’t be knowing how I feel and adjusting accordingly. You shouldn’t have instincts like that. But you do.” He flicks Tim’s forehead.
“Ow!”
“Something I can’t quite see, and that might make it interesting? Might. Fuck, there’s not enough audience for this—and like I said, I don’t do repeats. I mean—I am going to kill you, Hastur. You know that. Don’t you? Come on, now, be honest!”
I know, whispers Hastur.
“Do you want a stay of execution?” says Kayne so sweetly it’s stomach-turning.
Please, whispers Hastur.
Tim’s pretty sure if Kayne offered Hastur an extra week of life in exchange for Tim’s right now, he’d do it. He swallows.
“You’re not on the table, Timmy. You’re the only part of this that might be interesting. Of course, if I’m wrong, and you’re not, fuck it. I’ll just kill you anyway. But you’re lucky, Timmy. Ask me why, Timmy. Ask me why.”
This might as well happen. “Okay. Why?”
“Because I don’t care about you. You didn’t make me mad.”
Hastur is… trembling?
“See, right there. You can’t do that. Shouldn’t be able to feel that. This is… intriguing.” Kayne grips Tim’s hair tightly and looks him in the eye. “Nope. Don’t see the cause.”
“Sorry?” says Tim.
“Ha, not yet you’re not. We’re going to mix this up.”
And Tim feels… something. A buzz. A tingle, from his scalp straight down his body to his toes.
Hastur cries out. Fuck!
“What was that?” says Tim.
“Oh, you’ll figure it out,” says Kayne with a terrible smile. “I mean, it was actually your idea, though I don't think you remember wanting it. Oh, this will be a fun little balancing act. Good luck! Be funny!” And then he’s gone. Just gone. After rambling madly and threatening and being absolutely horrifying, just gone.
Tim sits on the terrible, crunchy armchair, panting, aching. Then he realizes he’s still tied. “Figures,” he mutters, and tries to see if he can get loose without falling to the floor.
------
Notes:
Yeah… Kayne said he’d kill them, and he did.
At least you know they’re together in their Dark World arc.
#malevolent#malevolent fic#tma#tma fic#tma crossover#malevolent crossover#tim stoker#kayne malevolent#kiy malevolent#corrupted fic
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Baseball Babe: Ch.2
Pairings: Bruce Yamada x fem!oc, Robin Arellano x platonic!fem!oc, Finney Blake x platonic!fem!oc
Warnings: cursing, baseball inaccuracies
Word count: 1600
Summary: While Bruce is used to the girls practically falling at his feet, he is challenged when one is not. At the ripe age of 13, Bruce Yamada, for the first time, is confused. Why isn’t she in love with him? Why wasn’t she kissing the ground he walked on? Bruce, for once, finds himself taking interest in someone. Someone, who also happens to play his favorite sport.
a/n: Chapter 2!! I promise that this chapter is important to the storyline. Bruce lost track of time and watched the entire tryouts but it's ok. Hopefully chapter 3 doesn’t take too long to get written. :D
Ch.1 !! Ch.3 !! Ch.4 !! Ch.5 !!
⚾
Classes passed by rather quickly, it was typically the same for every hour. Roll call, lecture, homework. Roll call, lecture, homework. During lunch Jamie sat with Robin, as per usual, complaining about the workload they had and how fast Robin’s math teacher talked. By the time sixth period was finished, and the day had ended, Jamie was jumping with joy. Nerves and excitement had been wracking and flying about her body all day. She just couldn’t wait to get home to collect her baseball equipment. Jumping on her bike, she rode her way home, not yet recounting how many of her classes had a familiar face sitting behind or near her. How in four out of the six of her periods, had a boy with jet black hair and pale skin, perk up when she went to answer a question. Despite Jamie’s obliviousness, Bruce had taken notice every. damn. time.
When she arrived home, she was quick to change into practice clothes, before putting on comfortable shoes and grabbing her baseball bag she had prepacked that morning. She knew better than to put on her cleats right now, if she wore them on concrete, they would wear down.
The ride down to the baseball field where the tryouts were being held was short, only about 10 minutes since it was near the school. The other field was about another 5 minutes from this one. Jamie stopped her bike, before getting off of the vehicle and locking it onto the metal rack. From there she lugged herself onto the field to warm up with the other kids.
While warming up, she could feel the stares of the boys. The not-so quiet whispers and snickers had reached her ears, and she hadn’t failed to notice the pointing out of her gender. The team was also warming up with those trying out in an attempt to see who they had good chemistry with, who they’d want to work with. In spite of this, Jamie seemed to be left alone.
God, she knew this would happen. It happened every other time she had tried and every other time, she’d failed. She could only hope this time would be different.
She was snapped out of her thoughts by footsteps crunching against the dirt. Stopping herself mid-pitch, she turned to see a boy with long curly brown hair. He was a bit shorter than her, wearing the Front Rangers’ jersey.
“Hey”, she ignored him, thinking he was just here to taunt her. Tell her to stop trying before she gets her heart broken later on.
“I like your pitch”, he stood there awkwardly, shifting on his feet, watching her pitch with the utmost of concentration.
She threw a palmball then a curve into the net. Both of which landed directly into the strike zone of the net, the ball not once skimming or touching the flexible fibers.
“Thanks”, she replies blandly, still staring at the net.
“My name’s Finney”, he holds his hand out for her to shake.
She takes it, “I’m Jamie.”
Their conversation ends as she walks towards the coach that’s calling everyone over to begin tryouts.
⚾
By the time Bruce had finished packing up, Jamie was out the door. Well more or less, she had been out the door for a couple minutes already, likely on her way home.
If he ran fast enough, maybe, he’d catch her talking to a friend or something.
After finally getting himself collected, he left the classroom along with the last couple of students. He searched around the school for a couple of minutes, before giving into defeat. He took time to talk to his friends, who were mostly baseball players, before ultimately making the decision to ride home. On his ride, he passed by the baseball field near the school. The one the Front Rangers used. He stopped to silently observe their tryouts.
Bruce watched as each coach took a a group to work on drills for each skill, knowing pitchers and catchers will later be separated for analyzation. He watched as each group went through their respective drills, each of the coaches face scrunched into concentration.
They were typical drills, ones his team went through them all the time.
He continued to watch, for the whole three hours, making a couple stops to the Grab N’ Go every now and again. He’d gotten to watch a couple batters hit before they split off the pitchers and catchers from the other groups. One person had caught his eye. He watched as the boy walked over with easy confidence with his mitt. Bruce hadn’t seen the boy’s face while he was batting, nor could he see his face now. The only significant part of the boy he could see was his long hair, which was tied up into a bun underneath his hat. All Bruce knew was that this kid was good. While doing batting drills, the kid had hit a couple home runs already. Not to mention, he was an excellent outfielder from what he could tell.
Bruce watched as the boy was analyzed during pitching drills by the designated coach. His fastballs? Each and every kind, clean and sleek. His breaking balls? The exact definition of the name, for every variation. His changeups? Killer. This guy, whoever he is, is good. Better than good. He could have Bruce shaking in his cleats on the field. And that was, as described by his coaches, almost damn near impossible.
Bruce watched as the coaches wrapped up, cutting a couple kids before making a few announcements. The only words catching in his ears were, “We’ll have a short 3-inning scrimmage tomorrow, this will help determine who we’re keeping while we fully evaluate and make decisions as coaches. Great job today.”
Bruce took this as his sign to leave, guess he was showing up to watch tomorrow too.
⚾
The next day, Bruce had shown up just after the team had finished warm-ups. He sat and tried to recognize those from yesterday. That’s when the coach had tossed the ball to the boy with the bun.
⚾️
To her surprise, the coach had tossed Jamie the ball first. Catching it in her mitt, she mentally prepared herself on the mound. She watched as one of the boys from the team stood at home base, gripping his bat, awaiting her pitch. She took a deep breath, deciding to pitch a curveball. As she exhaled, she picked up her leg from the ground before swinging her arm, releasing the ball at the same time. The boy swung at the ball. Strike. She executed the same routine, the same pitch. Inhale, exhale, pick up leg, swing. The ball flew in the air, landing in the exact same spot. The boy swung again. Strike. Jamie went through her routine again, not without deciding to pitch a four-seam fastball this time. Inhale, exhale, pick up leg, swing. He swung again. Strike. He was out.
He must of been the teams best batter. Jamie could hear the scoldings from one of the coaches. Frustrated with how he could let a “pretty little thing like her”, strike him out. She walked off the mound to watch as other kids trying out pitched, rotating them in and out every couple minutes with the actual team batting. She could point out a mistake in every one of them. A couple throwing balls rather than strikes. When they did pitch well, the batter was able to swing and successfully hit the ball.
She was brought out of analyzing to go pitch again. To be frank, the same thing happened. She struck out the boy. That was two times now.
⚾
Bruce watched as the boy struck the batter out. Damn he was good, not that he didn’t already know that. He watched and watched for a better pitcher, but no such thing came. He analyzed the first pitcher as he walked back up to the mound. There was a certain confidence to him, his walk. A confidence no one on that field, not even the existing team, possessed. Bruce watched as the boy did the same. exact. thing. Once again, he counted three strikes.
He was confused. Bruce sat there in utter disbelief. This kid that he’s never heard of, forget the fact that he’s never seen his face, was one of the best pitcher’s in his age group he’s ever seen. His pitch was a damn near talent baseball players his age hoped to possess. Bruce was baffled, amazed even. He continued to stand there as they switched positions. Putting the team's best pitcher on the mound, while the boy with the bun gripped the bat.
⚾
Jamie stood at home base, holding the form she worked day and night on to perfect. Giving the bat a hearty squeeze, she watched as the pitcher wound up. It looks like a fastball, maybe two-seam. And it was. The ball came at her with great speed, no curve included. Jamie had to admit, it was a good pitch. Just not good enough to get Jamie a strike. As it approached her, she swung. One could hear the crack from when the bat hit the ball. From there, the ball flew into the skies and out of sight. Home run.
Jamie let go of the bat to run the bases, coming back to firmly step on home base.
⚾
For the second time today, Bruce was confused. His brows furrowed together in confoundment. If he knew what was good for him, he needed to find out who this guy was.
#theblackphone#the black phone#bruce yamada#robin arellano#finney blake#robinarellano#finneyblake#bruceyamada#jamiesoleilmonroe
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@angelowl-fics I wasn't sure anyone wanted to see more of that one! But I do have more of it.
I'll give you the first chunk of the next chapter.
Years ago, when the New Times were just beginning, Jaime Lannister thought he knew what Hell was. Hell was a place, and he was living in it. A world actively falling apart around him, masses of people dying, the Old Times so clear and recent in his memory that if he closed his eyes he could still see it, could almost reach out and touch it just beyond his fingertips. When he opened his eyes, the Old Times would dissolve nauseatingly into the New Times, into broken plates and empty pipes and the stench of death all around him. Everything was ruined, and nothing mattered, and there was nothing left to lose. That was Hell, or so he thought.
In a way, he had thrived in it, his own idea of Hell. He had been talented and reckless and better to rule in hell than serve in heaven, et cetera. It didn’t matter what he did, so he could do whatever he wanted. Be whoever he wanted. It was terrible and lonely and worst of all it was fun, and to avoid feeling bad about the fun of it he did it all more.
That was a younger man. Impossibly younger. Older than the foolish boy he had been in the Old Times, but not by much. Nihilism is only fun for the young. After a while it’s exhausting to maintain. You can’t step in the same room twice without leaving some impression there, or carrying some part of it with you, and sooner or later you are out of new places anywhere within reach, and you wear yourself out trying not to accidentally mean something.
Anyway, he was wrong. Hell is when everything matters. Absolutely everything. Every action laden with meaning and portent. Every place infested with memory, with ghosts. Every thing reminding you of some other thing, pulling on some other nerve until one of them crackles with pain. All connected, in a terrible web of grief and loss. And superimposed over all of it is Her. The ghost of Her, burned onto the retina of his missing right eye like a still frame.
Hell is a unit of time. This minute, and the minute after that, and the minute after that. A long and agonizing stretch of minutes and hours and days in a world without Her. It is a unit of time to the power of itself and it will never end.
He carries his Hell into the Black Mountains over a road that is more of a memory of a road. There is asphalt trapped somewhere under layer upon layer of ice, but no longer visible to the eye. It is a smooth incline surrounded by craggy and jagged angles and it is not much easier than the bare snow to walk on but probably not going to lead him over a cliff, and that is good enough for this journey. For certain no vehicle has passed this way in a long time, maybe not since the Before time.
It leads him between two mountains, one peaked and white with snow and one flat-topped, black as onyx. He struggles for purchase on the ice even with the boots Jon Snow had given him that were made for just this kind of journey. The metal cleats grip nicely through the snow and the grittier ice, but as he ascends the ice goes mirror smooth and it takes much longer to be sure of his steps. If he does not watch himself he will find himself sliding backwards, and then only the collapsible ice axe will stop him descending helplessly down the way he came.
It takes great mental and physical effort to ascend, and he is grateful all the way for the occupation of his attention. His skin slicks with sweat and his mind focuses so strongly on his shivering steps that hours slip past him without notice. Hours that he would have had to wade through like sticky mud otherwise, heavy with grief.
In the night the wind is strong enough to sail him down the mountain all on its own, and he has to wedge himself into a rock face and bunker down for the night. Those hours are more difficult, and much slower.
The nights are always the worst. Others don’t sleep. If anything, they prefer the nights for the cold and the darkness. It is suspected that they can see in the dark, though obviously there is no way to prove it.
The worst thing, in the early days, was thinking about all the people you could remember from the old world, and imagining where they ended up. Alive? Dead? Or Other? Is your first grade teacher a frozen corpse right now, gnawing on someone’s arm? Is she trapped in a house or a car or a grocery store somewhere, surrounded by monsters? Did she escape somehow over the sea? Or is she in a landfill, burned to ashes with a thousand others? What about your first crush? Your grandmother? Your best friend? There was no way to check back then, the Lists were not yet circulated. The internet was patchy and then gone. There were newspapers of a sort, hand copied, printed and posted to telephone poles, but those too did not last.
When you looked at the Others in their endless wandering, or rushing straight at you, did you recognize any of those faces? Sometimes he thought so. Sometimes at night, he would think back over the frozen skin, the hair color, the clothes, and wonder if someone felt familiar, if they might have been a neighbor or a coworker once.
That was the early days, when it was not yet clear that the Others were not a temporary disaster but a permanent condition. They slowly became a feature of the landscape, like weather - something you could forecast and sound the alarm for, like tornados or hurricanes. They would learn to predict them, avoid them, if not prevent them. After the first year, you didn’t look at their faces anymore. They were all the same face, anyway: blue, frozen.
Many things had been tried -- trapping them, negotiating with them. For awhile they thought bunkering down would allow the things to simply decompose. Stay in your bunkers, the authorities said, don’t let them turn us and eventually they will be gone. But it was too slow. Maybe if they weren’t frozen, their dead limbs would have rotted right off and rendered them harmless -- but they are well-preserved in their cold. They could not heal from injury, and that alone would reduce their numbers slowly over time. But the living would run out of provisions faster than that.
Killing them was both simple and difficult. Anything less than destroying their brain or their spine will slow them down, maybe, but they don’t die. In a big crowd you can hack off their legs so they can’t chase you, but they’ll go on crawling after that, possibly forever. And eventually, after dragging themselves around for years and years, that same creature might come upon some poor soul sleeping or trapped somewhere and wrap his cold hands around their throat. Better to kill them if you can.
(But what does killing even mean, for dead things?)
He’s had a lot of time to think it over since those days. He must have struck down nearly a thousand of them, during his career on the Kingsroad. A thousand monsters who were once people. But he didn’t kill them. They were already dead. They were Death itself reaching out through dead hands to claim more lives. That was the only will at work, the only thing the Others hungered for. More death. More dead things.
The Stranger must have gotten tired of waiting for people to die the slow way. He was ending his career all at once, in a grand finale, clearing out all of the lives in Westeros for good so that he could hang up his hat and try some other line of work.
It’s as plausible an explanation as he’s ever heard, for what has happened to the world.
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THERE'S JUST ONE THING
When a friend invited me to the Neue Galerie on Sunday morning I understood the exhibit, The Ronald S. Lauder Collection, as penance for the kaffee and strudel we would enjoy at Cafe Sabarsky beforehand. But the show was sweeter than the snack. While most private collections feel like a cultural vanity or tax write-off, or both (see The Broad), this one gives great pleasure. Aside from the modern paintings at the Hermitage, I haven't seen another collection where each object shines so brilliantly while resting comfortably within the whole.
The exhibit includes modern German and Viennese paintings and furnishings, Medieval art, armor, movie memorabilia, and a kunstkammer with ancient and modern sculpture and objects. The displays mimic those in Lauder's home, with pieces spaced judiciously on walls and shelves. There are no interactive or immersive elements, which is a relief. The wall texts are simple if a bit shaky on context, never explaining directly that many modern works here were seized by the Nazis from Jewish owners and reclaimed by heirs decades later after exhaustive legal battle. And there's so many great pieces that some, including a series of sketches by Egon Schiele, are hung too high to see properly.
Lauder's patronage is the main story. He has chosen objects well and with love. The armor gallery at The Met always feels like an inconvenience, something to run through to get to the American Wing, but the one here floored me. There are suits of chain mail and metal plate, swords, cross bows, and horse armor, all buffed and shimmering dreamily. For the first time I understood the exquisite piecing and ergonomics of armor, imagining the pains taken to don and doff them. The shaffrons (metal plates horses wear on their faces) are as complexly and subtly contoured as an alien landscape.
The heart of the show is the Green Room, a recreation of the living room where Lauder hangs his German Expressionism works. Each one is a stunner. There are major paintings by Max Beckmann, Otto Dix and Erich Heckel. But it's the small pieces hung in the gaps that seduce. There's a Kurt Schwitters collage, no larger than a paperback, built from painted cardboard scraps, that opens like a new universe as one peers inside. In the kunstkammer there are two vitrines by Carols Scarpa from the mid-50's with spindly metal legs and small metal cleats that seems held together, and held up, by magic. A coffin-sized hardwood mid-century table, fabricated more crudely, gives the space a center of gravity. I imagine it's where Lauder sits and works at home, surrounded by all of his extraordinary things.
View of the ‘Green Room’ at ‘The Ronald S. Lauder Collection’ on view at Neue Galerie New York. (Hulya Kolabas/Courtesy of Neue Galerie New York)
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curve ball // inconsolable au
because @theblerdbox gave me the confidence to dive into writing more au ficlets/fics, this au happened. and that the last two paragraphs of stanley's "after cgl" section of his survival guide book when he talked about his life in high school exists. so thank you blerd and thank you louis sachar.
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Mickey sat at the top of the bleachers again.
It wasn't that he looked for her but, well, no one else was around so it was noticeable. She was noticeable. Even when she kept her head down, facing her drawn up knees where she doodled or did homework or something in the notebook she always had with her. She didn’t come every time, but every time she did he noticed.
Stanley messed with the brim of his cap, pulling it lower on his forehead, his curls puffing out from beneath it at all sides like a cloud. Though not quite like the light, fluffy ones dotting the blue sky above. People actually paid attention to those. Liked them, too.
Fidgeting with his hat again, he lowered the brim enough to block out the screaming glare of the sun. Unlike Zigzag who seemed to make it his mission to keep constant eye contact with the sun back in the outfield. Though he wasn’t alone in his idle distractions: Twitch gnawed on the excess lace of his glove as if attached to an infinite length of noodle and Barfbag lie back on the grass as if working on his tan. He may as well, they didn’t have much else to do while waiting for someone to get a hit.
So far all of X-Ray’s pitches hadn’t gone back to him, a feat he pointed out every time Magnet or Armpit whiffed with a loud guffaw followed up by some sort of taunt. Usually commenting how bored he is and if he wanted to give his one arm a workout he could just be spending his time at home. Squid stood quietly nearby, jaw working on the large wad of dark gum rolling in his mouth.
“We’re lookin’ at a power hitter.” Stanley nearly jumped when Hector spoke, even if his words were directed down towards the clipboard in his hands than up at him. They still commanded attention, only because words came so few and far between. Even though their tutoring sessions Stanley did most of the talking. It wasn’t until a few weeks ago Stanley knew Hector could speak at all. And that was to correct him on being referred to as Zero. The entire B-team bestowed each other with nicknames within a week after returning from a training camp. Judging by the stats collected in Hector’s small and tight handwriting, they would have benefited from less time ragging on one another instead. “Armpit’s good when he can land one, but otherwise...” Spelling and grammar may be difficult for him, but math and numbers all but poured out of his soul. They didn’t think twice putting him in charge of keeping track of stats, for them and their opponents.
Stanley nodded, going back to rubbing polish on the metal bat X-Ray insisted on using. There was nothing different about it compared to the others, though X-Ray claimed the bat length was just slightly shorter than the rest of the regulation ones handed out to their team, which meant his swing speed was superior than the others. If only that helped his lack of control on the hit. He could pitch well but he lacked when it came to landing hits in the right places, namely not directly into the opposing team’s gloves. His claims of his large glasses allowing him to see the field better than everyone else didn’t hold as much punch as it used to.
“C’mon man, let me have a turn,” Magnet said from where he leaned against the entrance to the dug off.
“Not until i get a hit,” Armpit replied, stomping his cleats into the dirt at the plate.
Magnet rolled his eyes. “So I’m never gonna get a shot then, huh?”
“Man, shut up.”
“Why don’t you give up? You’re never gonna get it. You’re always gonna strike out, like with that Tatiana chick.”
“Man, I told you to shut up!”
Magnet said something back in Spanish, which either wasn’t the right thing to say or Armpit just didn’t understand him; either way, the two ended up chest to chest within seconds, yelling in each other’s faces. Their coach could’ve intervened if their couch wasn’t passed out in his truck in the back parking lot. They didn’t have to check on him to see if that were actually they case, he was a coach in name only. The A-Team got the dedicated coach. The A-Team got everything, the better bus, the better jerseys, the better equipment, the school’s respect.
And the attention. Not that Stanley particularly wanted attention, he wouldn’t know what to do with it if he ever got it. People looked through him or past him so often it still surprised him if a teacher called on him in class. And attention from girls? That was a pipe dream. Besides, he didn’t even know what to do if one ever said ‘hi’ to him. They’d have to know he existed first.
“Bro, I’m takin’ a break,” Squid said, walking past X-Ray towards the stands. He spat out a long, thin stream of dark liquid as he went, the bulge in his cheek bouncing. X-Ray also left the mound, heading straight for Armpit and Magnet. Zigzag and Barfbag remained in the outfield but Twitch took off running, diving nearly headfirst into his bag once off the field to grab some sort of tubed candy. Not that he needed the extra energy.
“What do you think?” Hector’s large eyes bored into Stanley.
Stanley didn’t have a chance to ask about what—perhaps if they should forfeit the season before it even started?—when vibrating rumbles against the metal bleachers grabbed his attention and his breath lodged in his chest when he realized Mickey had descended and now stood nearby. She leaned against the fence, extending a gatorade in Squid’s direction, a half-open backpack hung off the crook of her elbow.
“I don’t need a babysitter,” he stated. The bite to his words softened a little due to the tiniest hint of a smile pulling at the corner of his mouth when he took the bottle. He downed half of the bright blue liquid in two gulps.
“It’s not babysitting when you’re waiting on your ride,” she said.
Squid brushed the liquid running down his chin off with the back of his arm. “Speaking of, I gotta drop Zig off on the way back. That cool?”
“Fine. As long as he keeps his shoes on this time.”
“My car, my rules.”
Her head tilted back, amplifying her anguish. “Dude, I’m not drowning in boy stink again!”
Squid shrugged. “Open a window.”
“Your windows stick.”
“Well I’m sorry it’s not a horse-drawn carriage, Princess.”
“It’d smell better.”
A wicked gleam appeared in his eye. “Let’s compare.” Despite her shriek of protest, Squid lifted his arm and pulled Mickey’s face into the pit. “Yeah, get right up in there.”
“Oh my god, you’re so gross!”
Squid chuckled as she squirmed free, taking another big swig of gatorade just as the metallic smack of a ball vibrated across the field. Twitch dropped the bat by his feet and it rolled harmlessly away as the ball sailed through the air towards Barfbag’s position in the outfield. He jumped to his feet and shuffled backwards while Hector added new numbers to the chart on the paper he’d been keeping track of. Leave it to him to take even the practices into consideration. He certainly left no stone unturned.
Stanley lifted his eyes only to nearly drop X-Ray’s bat when they landed on Mickey only to see her looking back. Her face remained blank for a second, and then she blinked and she smiled. He turned, glancing over his shoulder, only to look back and see her eyes still on him, smile growing a touch wider, enough to carve dimples in her cheeks.
Air squeezing out his lungs, Stanley forced his eyes back to the filed just in time to watch Barfbag dive for the ball and end up crashing along the ground, head over heels.
The thudding of his heart against his chest jumped up, now sparked with a different kind of fear and something told him it had everything to do with Barfbag clutching his leg and Stanley was sure it wasn’t supposed to bend like that.
#my writings#holes fanfic#inconsolable au#another au to add to my collection#they're in high school no cgl obvs#and they're all on the b-squad of their school's baseball team#stanley's the equipment manager#zero tracks stats#and the rest of d-tent and some others are the players#this was supposed to be short#oops#holes 2003#curve ball
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Check out this listing I just added to my Poshmark closet: New Balance Black FuelCell Romero Duo Comp Wide Softball Cleats.
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Ice and Snow Cleats
Ice and Snow cleats
Navigating Winter with Confidence: The Ultimate Guide to Choosing the Best Ice Cleats for Your Shoes
Introduction
Winter brings its own set of challenges, and icy sidewalks and slippery surfaces are among the most daunting. Whether you’re a seasoned winter warrior or a newcomer to the cold season, investing in the right gear can make all the difference. In this guide, we’ll explore the world of ice cleats, discuss the importance of choosing the best ones for your shoes, and provide valuable insights into keeping you steady on your feet during icy conditions.
Understanding Ice Cleats
Ice cleats, also known as traction cleats or ice grippers, are specialized devices designed to enhance traction on slippery surfaces. They consist of durable materials like rubber, metal, or a combination of both, featuring spikes or studs strategically placed on the sole to grip onto ice and snow. These innovative accessories transform ordinary shoes into winter-ready footwear, reducing the risk of slips and falls.
Key Features to Look for
When selecting the best ice cleats for your shoes, several key features should be considered. Firstly, look for adjustable and secure fastening mechanisms to ensure a snug fit on various shoe sizes. The material of the cleats is crucial; durable rubber provides flexibility and longevity, while metal spikes offer excellent traction. Consider the ease of putting them on and taking them off, especially when transitioning between indoor and outdoor spaces.
Top Picks for Shoe Ice Cleats
Yaktrax Diamond Grip
Renowned for its durability and superior traction, Yaktrax Diamond Grip features a patented diamond-bead design that bites into icy surfaces effectively. The lightweight and easy-to-use design make them a popular choice for winter enthusiasts.
Kahtoola MICROspikes
Designed for extreme conditions, Kahtoola MICROspikes offer robust stainless-steel spikes and an elastomer harness for a secure fit. These shoe ice cleats are perfect for those who navigate icy terrains regularly and need reliable, long-lasting traction.
STABILicers Walk Traction Cleats
With a unique cleat-and-tread combination, STABILicers Walk Traction Cleats provide maximum stability on ice and snow. The easy-to-attach design ensures a hassle-free experience, making them an excellent choice for everyday winter use.
Tips for Maintaining and Using Ice Cleats
To ensure your ice cleats remain effective throughout the winter season, regularly inspect them for wear and tear. Clean them after each use to prevent ice and snow buildup. When walking on surfaces without ice, consider removing the cleats to avoid unnecessary wear. Always follow the manufacturer’s guidelines for usage and care to maximize the lifespan of your ice cleats.
Conclusion
Investing in the right ice cleats can turn winter strolls into a secure and confident experience. By considering the key features and exploring top picks in the market, you can find the best ice cleats for your shoes and navigate icy terrains with ease and safety. Winter adventures await — step into the season prepared and worry-free.
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Stay Safe and Sure-Footed on Ice: The Benefits of Snow Cleats
When it comes to winter, snow, and ice can pose serious risks to our safety, especially when we have to walk or work outside. The most common injuries caused by slipping and falling on ice include broken bones, sprains, and head injuries. However, this doesn’t mean that we should avoid the outdoors altogether during winter. Snow cleats can offer a solution to staying safe and sure-footed while enjoying winter activities. In this article, we’ll be discussing the benefits of snow cleats and why they’re essential winter accessories.
What are Snow Cleats?
Snow cleats are a type of traction device that can be attached to the soles of shoes or boots to improve grip and stability in snowy or icy conditions. The purpose of snow cleats also referred to as ice cleats, is to improve traction on snow and ice, preventing slips and falls. They typically have small spikes or cleats that grip onto the ice, providing extra stability and grip. Snow cleats are available in a variety of styles and designs, from slip-on models to those that attach to the soles of your shoes or boots.
Benefits of Snow Cleats
Improved Safety: The most significant benefit of snow cleats is their ability to improve safety during winter. By providing extra traction, they reduce the risk of slips, trips, and falls on snow and ice. This is especially important for people who need to walk or work outside, such as hikers, postal workers, and delivery drivers. Snow cleats also prevent injuries from falls, such as broken bones and sprains.
Increased Mobility: Snow cleats provide increased mobility during winter, allowing you to go about your daily activities without having to worry about slipping on snow or ice. They also give you the freedom to explore the outdoors without fear of losing your footing. Walking, hiking, running, trekking, and other outdoor activities are safer on snowy surfaces with snow cleats.
Versatility: Snow cleats are versatile and can be used for a variety of winter activities. They’re suitable for hiking, running, walking, or even working outdoors. They come in different designs to suit different needs, such as those that attach to the soles of your shoes or boots and those that slip over your footwear.
Durability: Snow cleats are made from durable materials that are designed to withstand harsh winter conditions. Most snow cleats are made from rubber or metal, which makes them durable and long-lasting. They can withstand repeated use on snow and ice without losing their grip or effectiveness.
Easy to Use: Snow cleats are easy to use and require no special skills or tools to install. They’re lightweight and compact, making them easy to carry around when not in use. Some models come with straps or buckles that make them easy to attach to your shoes or boots. Others simply slip over your footwear and can be taken off when you’re back indoors.
Affordable: Snow cleats are an affordable winter accessory that can save you money in the long run. By preventing slips and falls, they can help you avoid costly medical bills or lost wages from time off work due to injuries. They’re also a cost-effective alternative to buying new shoes or boots specifically designed for winter conditions.
Environmentally Friendly: Snow cleats are an environmentally friendly alternative to using salt or other chemicals to melt snow and ice. Salt and other chemicals can damage plants, trees, and other vegetation, as well as pollute water sources. Snow cleats, on the other hand, provide a non-toxic and eco-friendly way to improve traction on snow and ice.
Snow spikes and cleats that are the best on the market
• The Quadtrek All-Terrain Snow Cleats
Slippery hillsides. Icy sidewalks. Snow-covered steps. If the thought of these things makes you want to hide in your house, you need a pair of Quadtrek All-Terrain Ice Cleats. They slip over your shoes and provide traction on any surface. Hikers and wilderness wanderers as well as urban office dwellers trying to survive their commute will find them invaluable for daily use. Quadtrek all-terrain ice cleats strong rubber construction allows them to stretch securely over almost any shoes to help your fit grab the ground for secure stepping. Quadtrek’s stainless spikes are completely rust-proof with a traction system providing traction on ice.
These Snow Cleats pull on and off easily with a built-in tab too. No laces to tie, zippers to zip, or awkward galoshes to pull on. All-terrain ice cleats work with dress shoes and sneakers alike and fit compactly in a purse, briefcase, or backpack when not in use. The Slip-on stretch along with the traction system is an added benefit for walking on ice with shoes and boots. Best of all, you can face your terrain with confidence. Get a grip with Quadtrek!
• Quick Spikes
The Quadtrek Quick Spikes are a versatile and innovative piece of gear designed for outdoor enthusiasts who need reliable traction on various terrains. Whether you’re hiking through snow, trekking on icy paths, or running on slick surfaces, these spikes can provide the grip you need to stay safe and stable. The spikes themselves are made of high-quality stainless steel and are strategically placed to maximize grip and stability.
The Quadtrek Quick Spikes come in different sizes, so you can find the perfect fit for your shoe size and type of activity. The spikes are also designed to be durable and long-lasting, so you won’t have to worry about them wearing out or losing effectiveness after just a few uses. Another advantage of the Quadtrek Quick Spikes is their portability. In terms of performance, the Quadtrek Quick Spikes have received high praise from outdoor enthusiasts and professionals alike. They offer excellent traction on snow, ice, and other slippery surfaces, helping to prevent slips and falls that could lead to injury. The spikes also provide added confidence and stability on challenging terrain, allowing you to focus on enjoying your outdoor adventure rather than worrying about your footing. They come with a handy carrying case that can easily fit in your backpack or even your pocket, so you can have them with you whenever you need them. Whether you’re on a day hike, a trail run, or a winter camping trip, these spikes are a great addition to your gear.
Conclusion
Snow cleats are an essential winter accessory that can improve safety, mobility, and overall enjoyment of winter activities. They provide extra traction, prevent slips and falls, and are versatile, durable, and easy to use. Snow cleats are also affordable, environmentally friendly, and cost-effective.
Don’t wait anymore, grab yours now!
Shop Now
#Snowcleats#icecleats#quadtrek#icysurface#anti-slip#anti-fall#adventure#snow#ice#trekking#hiking#equipment#traction#safety#protection
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