#but look how much work i put into crafting him an adonis-like face!! | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

yeojaa · 3 years

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stay gold.

pairing. jjk x f!reader. rating. explicit. tags. blond!jk being a good boy? idk. that’s literally it. wc. 3k. beta reader. @hobi-gif, ofc. author note. this was meant to be pwp but i cannot shut up so here is this mess that is neither pwp nor something with a legit plotline. 🤠 blame blondie.

Having a content creator boyfriend is fun. Usually.

You get to go on cool trips, he gives you all of the random shit his sponsors send him, and you get to preen like a cat that ate the canary when his DMs blow up with hundreds of messages.

Sure, there are the downsides. All his stupid pranks - the ones that piss you off when you’re trying to do your makeup, the ones that have him dunking ice cubes on you while you’re in the middle of a shower - and his perpetual recording, camera glued to his hand and if not that, then his phone. There are the rude comments - the oh, that’s his girlfriend? He could do better was a common one - and the long hours he spends editing, holed away in his office; the beyond inappropriate packages he gets in the mail, thongs and other things that he immediately tosses away with a reassuring tilt of his pretty head.

You don’t mind it though. He enjoys it, thrives on it, and you’re there to support him.

But you’d never expected this.

This Adonis standing in the doorway, freshly styled strands pushed back from his forehead, glimmering gold falling across his eyes. He looks, for lack of a better word, unreal.

(You’re not often speechless. Can’t be, when you’re dating someone like Jeon Jungkook and everything he does either makes you laugh or infuriates you. Boring isn’t a part of his vocabulary and you’ve learnt to keep up with his antics over the years.)

(Still, this comes close, stealing all the air from your lungs.)

“Hey, baby.” It’s his usual greeting, offered without hesitation as he crosses the threshold and tosses his keys into the catch-all by the door. Kicks off his chunky sneakers and peels his sweater over his head, effectively tousling the tawny threads.

He’s so handsome it’s outright disgusting, leaving you gaping up at him from your post on the couch. Gives you very little to work with as he shimmies down the hall, grabs an apple off the kitchen island, and then not-so-gracefully plops himself down beside you.

You still haven’t found your words by the time he takes two gigantic bites, flesh crunching between his teeth, big doe eyes sparkling like he’s stepped right out of a Disney film.

“D’you like it?”

Did you? Well, obviously.

You’ve never imagined Jungkook blond. He’d gone through a phase in college, colours of the rainbow rotating through the ends of his hair. Brown, red, orange, blue. You’d loved each hue but this was something else entirely. (Different even from the two months he’d spent as full-on ginger, committing far too hard to his Haikyuu!! Halloween costume.)

This version of him is steeped in some twisted fantasy, a dream crafted by years of bedtime stories and happily ever afters. It screams Prince Charming and has you reaching for him before you know what you’re doing, threading fingers through the surprisingly soft silk that curls over his ears and looks so lovely next to the silver of his piercings.

You mean to be gentle, to comb delicately through flax but fuck. He looks so good you want to devour him. (You can only imagine your face - a lovesick puppy brought home from the pound.)

There’s still apple in his mouth, juice tracking down his chin because you’re really making it quite hard for him to chew when you’ve got him like this, two hands on either side of his face, holding him in place. Inspecting him like a piece of meat as he peers at you, deceptively innocent and amused. “That’s a yes?”

An answer comes in the form of a kiss, of limbs rearranging and settling directly into his lap. Knees wide, chest to chest, you can’t even be bothered by the sickly sticky feel of his skin, the way his hands are too cold to be creeping up beneath the hem of your - his - shirt.

(Where had he put the apple? You know it’s not finished, two bites in and left to roll all over the rug. You’ll give him shit for that later, when you’re not so distracted.)

“You look like Barbie,” you mumble against his lips, into the warmth of his mouth. You ignore the way he laughs, swallowing it down with a pass of your tongue and too much spit swapped, a string of saliva caught between you when you come up for air.

Somehow, you’re still lightheaded, all your thoughts framed into the familiar silhouette of the boy beneath you. Cherry red lips - your fault, from all your biting and teasing and the balm you’d applied earlier - and blond hair. Who would’ve known that was your weakness?

(Deep down, you know Jungkook as a whole is the issue. That it’s your stupid handsome boyfriend with his lopsided smile and bunny teeth, dimples and that scar on his cheek. This is just a new layer to be explored, another reason you love him added to the Jungkook Best Boy jar that sits front and centre in your mind’s eye.)

“Don’t say that,” he groans, equal parts reproach and affection, palms resting where they belong, nestled over your spine. Long fingers toy with the soft cotton of your thong, brushing over the seamless material with small repetitive motions.

You realise then his hands aren’t the only things heating up.

The two of you have an understanding, an abiding awareness of the boundaries of your relationship and the roles you take on. Best friend, occasional sucker for the sake of a TikTok, lover.

He knows how much you hate your dirty laundry being aired - does his very best to never post anything that might be misconstrued, ensures he only ever portrays you in a good light because the internet could be cruel. (Even if he argued with you in the quiet of your home, he’d keep you safe outside of the four walls.)

You know how he needs his quiet time but that sometimes, a night out was unavoidable, a part of his life he - and by extension you - couldn’t always say no to. (Even if you were achy and tired by midnight, glaring down at your phone as he made his rounds, exchanged contact details and rambled about shit that meant nothing.)

He’s learnt to make your eggs the way you love them: soft in the centre, covered with too much pepper. He never washes your clothes in hot water (not after The Great Sweater debacle) and he always makes sure not to use your special memory foam pillow.

You kiss him goodnight without fail and play with his hair until he falls asleep; you bury your face against his chest when he’s had a long day, signing your love with the felt-tip of your lips. You bring him fresh cut fruit when he’s been working for more than three hours and wash his hair when he’s stressed.

Knowing each other was easy; loving each other was like breathing.

This, though, is different. New. Special.

He’s never been like this before, glazed over in the eyes, patience wearing thin. Sat so well, picture perfect beneath you and cornsilk crown lighting his entire expression up like a halo, he’s ethereal.

“Baby,” he whines, grits through his teeth as you roll your hips that much slower, the glide impossibly smooth thanks to the lychee watermelon lube he’d received to his PO box. (One of the items you hadn’t thrown away from that package, together with a handful of other toys that’d come in handy over the months.)

You’re shameless, soothing a hand across his cheek, thumb slipping past his lips. (You ignore the noise of indignation, meet it with a twinkling laugh of your own.) It sweeps over his tongue, pressing down in tandem with the second sound - one that echoes out of his chest, a growl that pitches into a whine and makes your ears buzz. “Hi, baby.”

“Stop teasing.” It’s practically begging - or as close to it as Jungkook will get. It draws a smile and another pass of your thumb, gliding across his gums to slot against the interior of his cheek. You’ve got him fishhooked, immobile, even as he glares up at you.

(He’s so, so handsome. Looks utterly out of it even as he tries to harden his gaze, coerce you into doing what he wants with that stare that makes your heart lurch pathetically in your chest.)

“You don’t like this?”

You know he does - that he loves being pampered. That he’ll rarely ask, instead pouting at you from wherever he sits until you turn to putty under his gaze and smother him in all the love you have to offer.

“I do. I just—” The rest of his words don’t come, stolen by a gasp when you grind against him, swollen head of his cock bumping against your clit. He’s making a mess of you both, back arching, hips rising, hands fisted into the sheets even as he chases friction like a dog does its tail. The warmth between your legs is so close he looks as if he’ll lose his mind, rutting against your cunt like just the right angle might get him what he wants. “Fuck, baby.”

“I’m trying,” you retort, mouthful of teasing that only earns you another glare, some poor semblance of one as he bites into the webbing of your hand, bucks up impatiently.

“Please.” He tries again, a different tactic this time, all sugar-spun sweetness. Strawberry shortcake rather than sour cherry pie, so eager to get what he wants that he’s not above pulling out all the stops. A hand risen from the sheets, digits decorated in ink swimming over your skin, sinking into the meat of your thigh.

(He doesn’t push though. Knows you’ll pull the moment he does.)

“Please?” An echo chamber, endlessly teasing, and a ducked head, lips finding the sweat-slick column of his throat. Just one drag of your tongue has him crumbling further, careful composure slipping with each swivel of your hips, the edge of your teeth. There’s nothing but desperation radiating off him, demand choked back when you drift lower, tracing over his chest, teasing him in the ways you know best.

It’s all so unnecessary, drawing out what he wants until he’s a goner, three seconds from combusting beneath you. You’d give him anything he ever asked for - offer it all up on a silver plate, a meal fit for a king. This is just fun, different and exciting.

You relent with a minor adjustment, settling yourself against him, face dropped into the crook of his neck. “Slowly.”

He repeats after you, uncertain and hopeful; his hand falls further, warmth descending to pull you close, hold you still. As much as he needs this - needs you - he loves the slow burn just as much. The stutter of his pulse gives him away, erratic beneath your touch. He’s a thousand miles above the clouds, floating on cloud nine; every second passed is another tingle of his toes, a tightening of the coil in his stomach.

When he aligns himself against your core, pre-cum pearling over his tip, he does exactly as you’ve asked. Sinks into you at such a leisurely pace you wonder if you might be the one who splinters apart, shatters into a million tiny pieces at the way he splits you open.

“Good?” Jungkook asks so nicely it’s impossible for you to say no, to deny him this tiny bit of reassurance.

(Maybe it’s the way he looks, crowned in glittering gold, painted by Fra Angelico. Or maybe it’s how his smile spills like sunshine, a peachy pink horizon dragging over the apples of his cheeks, burnt red like their namesake.)

(Whatever it is, it’s everything you want, packed perfectly and pouting.)

“Good boy,” you purr, breath hitching once he’s sheathed to the hilt, seated so deeply within that you swear you can feel him in your throat.

You’ve never felt so full before - close to overflow, taunted and taxed by ridges and veins, each flex of his hips that drives him somehow further within your fluttering walls. So full you might burst, that you can’t possibly hold yourself together when he begins to move, fucking you tenderly, as if he can feel the weight of the moment.

There’s something happening. A shift in the air, in the axis of your planet that revolves around him. It falls on its side, spins wildly out of control, and you’re emotional. It’s not just his hair - that gilded crown he wears, heavy heavy heavy like aureate coin - or the impossible dark of his eyes - blown out, an entire galaxy devoured by the supermassive black hole that is his pupils. It’s the things you can’t see, the pieces beneath skin, soft and jammy, the tongue-tart sweetness.

(The thing with Jungkook is that he doesn’t let go, refuses to fully submit, always so careful to regulate his voice when things get to be too much. He’ll blink back his tears, stifle a sob, even as his breath disappears from nothing but a delicate brush of his chest.)

You take his vulnerability as a treasure, hold it close and craft a chest for its home, promise to keep it safe even while you're the one who poses the most danger. When it’s your teeth and tongue that eviscerates the soft of his flesh, makes him keen and gasp, heart pounding like hooves, beat imprinted against, under, into your palms.

When he begs you to move - manages the request in a broken articulation that makes you giggle - you give, swivel your hips in a figure eight, an infinity of motion that never ends.

You take all he has to offer and sing your praise into the wet of his mouth. Lick over teeth and gums and trade spit for love; know there’s only more where that came from, that the fountain begs to overflow as he finally - finally - breaks that much more, gripping your hips gentle as can be. Hands soothe up and down, an unspoken plea in how he thumbs your hip bones, taps hopefully over the small of your lower back.

He doesn’t need to speak for you to hear him.

It’s more than a kiss forming against your skin. It’s a confession of adoration, sealed by the frame of his mouth, cemented by the sting of his teeth. It’s I love you without saying it, plastering the pecks along your spine, placing them safely in all the spaces you’ve created for him.

It’s also an apology, because he’s just torn your castle to pieces, shattered your entire fantasy into smithereens.

He hadn’t expected you to react the way you had, rolling off him as if he hadn’t just been chasing the sweet bliss of release, splitting your walls and making you wail above him. It has him pouting, utilising the one thing that melts you down like candle wax.

“Baby,” he whines, reaching for you, needy and horny and so hard he imagines all the blood has rushed from his head straight to his cock. Everything spins when he moves with you, scrambles across the California king to paw at your hip.

He’d been so good for you - wasn’t that enough?

“Don’t,” you grumble, searing his insides with just one look. (It shouldn’t be as hot as it is.)

“But—” A plea punctuated by groping hands, eager as always, smoothing over the swell of your ass, flesh squeezing between knuckles. He’d normally let this go - fuck into his closed fist in the shower after he’s done something to cut playtime short - but he can’t help it now. He’s been on the edge for so long, lit up in neon that demands to be seen, heard, felt.

“Don’t dye it again.”

Oh?

That has him reeling, laughing, such a stupid grin across his face. It devours everything else, spearing dimples into place as he pulls you against him. You can feel his smile forming against your skin, the wet drag of his tongue as he sucks a welt into the sensitive spot of your shoulder.

“You wanna play with Barbie, baby?” It’s such a stupid line - utterly sophomoric and riddled with teasing and yet the delivery has you shivering in his arms, equally childish huff splitting your lips.

Jungkook doesn’t listen to you often - not about silly things like this - but he figures he can, just this once.

“I won’t,” he chirps, sneaking another kiss, stamping another smooch. It’s working exactly as he wants, stilling your protesting limbs as he cages you to him, slips his hand back where he most wants to be. The glide is perfect, a mixture of arousal and fruity lubricant; he slips a finger in without resistance, grinding his palm against your clit.

“R-really?” Of course you don’t believe him. He messes with you too often, plays too many pranks. (He deserves that.)

His promise comes too easy, driven by how nice you feel, how pretty you sound when he presses another digit in along the first. The scissor of his fingers is languid, exploring for the spots that make you breathless as he hums a noise of affirmation against your neck; he fucks you open as if he has to, as if you aren’t already dripping, eagerly sucking him in. “Really.”

“Put it in then, Ken doll.”

He laughs - and then he does. In bed, with your knee hooked over his, pace slow and sure and sinful. In the shower, bent over with his hands bruising your hips. In the kitchen for a late night snack, another apple in his mouth and your hands in his hair.

Maybe blonds did have more fun.

tag list. @neverthefirstchoice @youwannabelostandnotbefound @codeinebelle

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bitchfitch · 3 years

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A Pleasant Trip to the Circus

(ie, The statue man and the medusa's meet cute)

no warnings needed

Adonis' eyes had shattered months ago, but he had never needed them to see. They, like every other part of his crafted body, had been more of a decoration than an actual part of him, so it had surprised him how much he missed having them. He didn't miss their weight in his carved sockets or the tackiness of the putty that his creator had used to keep them pointing the right way, but without them his empty eyes seemed to frighten and fascinate those who looked at him in equal measures. They seemed to illicit more stares and stolen looks from strangers than when he had had them.

He didn't wish to be looked at.

When he had his eyes those who passed him on the street might cast a look his way but after seeing his human like eyes they would write off the grey stone and gold guiding that made up most of his skin as makeup. But without them it was painfully obvious that he was not flesh and blood, that his strange silence and stillness was natural and not a performance, that he was not human.

Some recoiled at the realization, others drew closer, staring at his face and taking pictures with their phones as he held still and waited for them to leave. Some would pull at the fabric of his clothes or at the ribbons of his hair, curious fingers would touch and grope and prod as they tried to puzzle out why a statue as magnificently realistic as this one would have been left here.

Some recognized him from before he was alive. From when he and his creator had toured the entire continent so that all could marvel at his Pygmalion's work. So that all could marvel at Adonis.

The ones who recognized him always asked where his eyes went, or where his creator had gone. Some jokingly asked if Adonis had finally divorced the other Mr. Wright.

Adonis did not respond to any of them. He couldn't speak even if he wanted to, so he just waited.

He learned to travel at night, to keep his hood up and his head down. He had wanted to see the world Henry had kept him hidden from in the years following his awakening, but he had never considered that maybe many of the things Henry had said were true.

That this was not a world built for hollow stone men. That he was delicate, and trusting others to not try and break him was foolish.

Still, he explored.

The world was so much bigger than the chateau and the corpse that rotted away at its center, and he needed to know it all. He needed to find a place where he couldn't hear his beloved creator's voice calling for him anymore.

He found something close on a late summer's day. The scorching heat had chased most of the people into the shade and air-conditioned buildings and away from this circus that was still setting up for its opening night.

Adonis didn't know what drew him here, didn't know what he was looking for, but something pulled him along as the dry dirt crunched beneath his heel with every step.

A woman approached him as he neared the gates. She was older, balding, and covered in a sheen of sweat from directing the construction efforts all day,

"Sorry sir, we're not-" her voice cought in her throat as she looked up to meet his empty eyes, she swallowed hard, taking a step back more on instinct than out of fear, "You- Hello? Are you- Are you still alive in there?" she waved her hand in front of Adonis' face,

Adonis cocked his head. He couldn't really emote, his face frozen in the same pout that it had been carved into by his beloved, but he wondered if the stranger understood that he was confused by the question. No one had ever questioned if he was alive before, he very clearly had never been.

"Are you here to see her? The medusa? Did she do- Oh she's going to be so happy to know one of you lived!" The woman broke out in a grin as she grabbed his wrist to pull him along towards one of the tents.

He could tell that she was strong, that there was a fair amount of muscle hiding under her loose skin and fat, but he knew that not even some one like her could move him on her own. Yet, he found himself following her, too confused to resist her touch or to use his not insignificant weight to stop them both in their tracks.

She lead him to the back of a small shipping container that had been painted with the circus' name and logo in long faded colors.

Rapping on the door she called out, "Ione! You have a visitor!"

"I do?" a soft voice called back, the entire truck the crate sat on shifted as something moved inside of it, "Who is it?"

"He Hasnt told me his name yet, but he looks like he might be someone you'd know," the woman grinned at him while the door swung open, letting out a wave of air barely cooler than the surrounding heat as it did so,

Adonis had never taken a breath in all his years of existence, but this must be what it felt like to lose it.

The woman in shipping container, Ione, was stunning in ways Adonis would never be able to put to words even if he could speak or write them all out one by one.

She had the torso of a sturdy looking human woman with all the muscle and soft fat that that would imply, but instead of legs she had a long, thick snakes body trailing out into the darkness of the container behind her. Her crane like neck lead to a narrow and finely scaled vipers head that itself had a long thick tail emerging from a writhing mass of black snakes that almost looked like hair or an oil spill. Her dress was boxy and sleevless, and it showed off the defined muscles that were barely softened by the shimmer of her cremy white, or rich brown and pitch black scales. The fabric was finely beaded in intricate swooping patterns and it made such a satisfying clicking noise with her every movement as she leaned out of the back of this cargo container.

Though she wore a thick black cloth tied around her face, covering her eyes completely as well as much of her snout, Adonis would guess those were equally enrapturing. She was completely unlike anything he had ever seen before. Large and powerfully despite the grace that flowed through her every rolling movement and stunning besides the her fearsome size.

He wondered if this is what all of those speechless mueseum goers had felt looking at him on his pedestal, though he doubted his creator could have ever made anything as divinely beautiful as this woman.

"Hello?" " she asked, her voice even prettier when not muffled by the metall walls,

"Go on then, introduce yourself," the woman grinned, gesturing to Ione

Adonis waved lamely, though he doubted she could see the motion past her veil. He turned to the woman and tapped his fingers against his carved lips before drawing an ex over his throat in am attempt to convey his muteness.

The woman sucked in a breath as she realized her error but Ione spoke up first, "I can tell there's something here," she gestured to him, "But I don't get this joke Melanie, what is it, and why are you saying its here to see me?"

Adonis tried not to wince at being referred to as an 'it' he knew she probably meant nothing by it, but it still hearkened back to some memories that were better left alone.

"I don't think he can talk, but he's a statue. The same grey marble the things you turn to stone become, but he's fully animate, like he walked up to the gates on his own and everything," she gently grabs one of Ione's massive hands and tugs it towards Adonis, "Just feel his hand and that will be all the proof you need,"

Adonis hesitated for a moment as Ione's face drew tight at being man handled by Melanie, but after quick head jerk from the older woman, Adonis did as she wanted, and took Ione's hand in his. It was mockery of a handshake, as Melanie pulled hers away.

Ione's scales were softer than Adonis had expected them to be, like velvet or a well worn blanket instead of plastic or glass, as she carefully felt the sun warmed stone of his hand. He wondered if his smooth carving felt rough to her, if the natural texture of the rock he'd been carved from was as nice for her as her softness was for him.

"You... are," she said softly, sadness and amazement tangling in her voice, "Did I do this to you?"

He shook his head and gestured for Melanie to speak up for him,

"He's shaking his head no," Melanie said, "Wait, then what happened to make you like that?"

"Hush Melanie, he doesn't have to tell us if he doesn't want to, and besides that, I think the fact that he can't talk might make a question like that a little difficult to answer,"

"I'm sure he has a way to communicate," she huffs, "Like a pen or paper? Or Oh! Simone's little sister is deaf, so she probably knows sign, I can go get her!" Melanie had almost already ran off before Adonis caught her by the shoulder, he didn't hold her hard but still she was jolted to a stop, "Shit, you're a strong one aren't you? What's up?"

"He stopped you from going to go get Simone?" Ione sighed, "Sir, do you even know sign?"

Adonis shrugs and shakes his head, then he mimes out writing and shakes his head again,

"He doesn't, and going by that second little bit of charades I don't think he can write either," Melanie scratches her chin, "Say, Stones, do you have anywhere to go?"

Adonis cocks his head and waits for her to continue,

"Like, you came here for a reason, and given I don't think you you were looking for Ione here, maybe you were after a job? Like if you are, I think I have the perfect place for a piece of work like you,"

He shrugged again as he finally pulled his hand from Ione's, he had no need for a job, but he already felt more comfortable here than he had almost anywhere else. Melanie was a bit intense, but she didn't stare or treat him as inanimate, and the two women had already put more effort into trying communicate with him than almost anyone else ever had. So, he wasn't apposed to sticking around depending on what Melanie had to offer.

"She probably wants you to be part of the freak show," Ione said flatly,

"The Oddities and The Beauties, Not the freak show," Melanie exclaimed, "Ignore her, Stones, we aren't that out dated around here. I promise you would be treated with the upmost respect,"

"Are we really calling him 'Stones'? He probably has a name already," Ione slithered out of her container, all 30 or so feet of her coiling out onto the grass as she closed the door to her container. He scales shimmered in the sunlight so brightly that Adonis was almost too distracted by the spectacle to continue listening to Melanie.

"Until we find a way for him to tell us his name, he's Stones," Melanie nodded, "But again, Stones, I promise you you will not regret tagging along with us. We travel all over the country seeing everything there is to see while putting on good family friendly shows that have entertained millions! You have Got to at least stick with us through this stop so you can get an idea of what the experience is like!" she sticks out a hand, "Are you in?"

"You haven't even told him what he would be doing," Ione said,

Though Ione is right, Adonis doesn't hesitate to shake Melanie's hand.

"Wonderful! Ione, give him a tour while I go get things set up for tonight, you two are going to be the talk of the town before we leave it!" She runs off with a wild smile on her face before either of them can stop her.

"I'm... sorry about her, She gets excited." Ione huffs fondly, "But come on then, I'll try and fill you in on everything she missed,"

#ione #adonis #banes and boons #cracked stones and hardened scales #my writing

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iheardarumorxxx · 4 years

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Midnight Sun, Chapter 2 - Open Book

Not even a full paragraph in and I have to call Weirdo on something. In the Twilight canon, it is often mentioned that vampires are always always always cold. Like, big old blocks of perfectly sculpted ice. But here, Eddie boy says that his skin had cooled to match the air around him. Can’t work that way. Either Pires are heat sinks that are always freezing, or their temperature can change based on the temperature around them. Can’t be both.

Also gonna bring up the chapter titles real quick. Maybe SM will try to hamfist it, but in Twilight the chapter titles were (supposedly) related to the chapter. First Sight was Bella (supposedly) falling in love at first sight w Edward, and Open Book was Bella going on about how she was an open book and couldn’t hide anything and wore her emotions on her face etc etc. It doesn’t make sense to me to keep the same chapter titles when we’re obstensively living in the head of a different character.

Would have been, if I'd been able to really see it.

What SM was going for here was ‘Edward was so lost in his own head that he couldn’t even see the sky above him even though it was beautiful’ but this doesn’t work. Wanna know why? It’s because of this: The sky above me was clear, brilliant with stars, glowing blue in some places, yellow in others. The stars created majestic, swirling shapes against the black universe - an awesome sight

Weirdo described the sky with perfect, flowery detail, expressed outright the colors that were swirling above him and the way the stars swirled and made shapes. He wouldn’t have been able to do that if he was too focused on his own thoughts to pay attention to it. This is what I mean when I say that SM hasn’t really mastered the First Person POV. This would have absolutely worked if instead of ‘I’ it had said ‘he’.

As a note: Weirdo calling Bella ‘unremarkable’ in terms of how she looks just comes off as those shitty ‘you aren’t even that hot’ responses from people when they get rejected.

And Weirdo describing the way Tanya leaps at him reads really flat and boring. The play by play method to show how Graceful and Ethereal the Pires are is gross and the flat emotionless tone makes it read like a laundry list of actions.

Chagrin sighting number two. And I’ve gotta say, this little thing with Weirdo and Tanya reads a little more realistically than any interaction between our main couple throughout the entire Twilight Saga. Sure, Widdle Eddie isn’t into her, but they’re openly and honestly communicating about it, which is more than Bella and Weirdo ever did.

Mostly Tanya preferred human men

This sentence right here completely invalidates Weirdo’s entire argument about how he would murder Bella with his Schlong if he ever gave into his desire for her, as there is clearly a way to hook up with a pathetic, weak human without killing them.

Two chagrins in one chapter, I am blessed.

though her feelings were not deep, hardly pure, and, in any case, not something I could return.

This goes back to that thing I was bitching about in chapter one about Weirdo and only reading surface level thoughts. He isn’t an empath, he can’t descern from her surface thoughts how deep her feelings might be. Based on how his power comes across, it’s likely that he can’t actually interpret any kind of tone at all, and is guessing at the emotion behind the thought. Just because Tanya makes a passing thought about Eddie that may be ‘unpure’ (gag) doesn’t mean that her feelings for him are strictly lusty and naughty.

By the way, it’s only chapter two and I’m already sick of hearing about Bella’s ‘chocolate brown eyes’.

That time jump that they did from Snowy Alaska back to Fork High cafeteria was jarring. We have literally travelled through space time to get back to The Plot(tm) as quickly as possible. Maybe, just maybe, it would have been beneficial to see some of Weirdo’s drive back, get some more introspection, more of an idea of how he plans to handle himself re: The Bella Thing, even if it is in his whiny, affected urple prose.

Humans were constantly desperate to feel normal, to fit in. To blend in with everyone else around them, like a featureless flock of sheep.

Unlike our great, wonderful, perfect Pires, of course. They would never dare to try fitting in with the Sheep that they have decided to live among and try to blend in with. This goes to prove my point that SM’s Pires don’t give a flying shit about blending in with humans, even though it is supposedly Vampire Mafia Law that they don’t get exposed.

"Maybe you're not as scary as you think you are,"

Despite the fact that SM tries so hard to make him come off as the stereotype of ‘dumb jock’, Emmett deserves a better series than this one. Not being afraid to roast Weirdo is absolutely fucking A+ in my book.

We are, yet again, applying Pire logic and physics to not Pire things to show how Strong and Powerful and Amazing our Pires are. I must once again posit that these things are not Pires, and therefore, would not behave in this manner, even when a Pire is interacting with it.

I am once again unconvinced by this Let’s Shit On Jessica Stanley thing I’m having to schlock through. Sure, she’s a lil petty, but she doesn’t come across as overt mean girl bully and she never has. SM never made her feel like anything more than a (in fairness, extremely stereotypical) teenage girl trying to be nice to the new girl in school and being put off by her weird behavior.

Small point to make here, just because I realized how bored I was with the debate over whether Weirdo would go to class and murder Bella or not. Because this is a companion piece to an already published novel, we know what’s gonna happen. Now, a good author wouldn’t let that stop them from making the tension feel real. Even though I know the outcome, I would still be focused on the journey to get there. But I’m not, because it reads as dry and dull. The tension isn’t there and I’m not enjoying the journey to get to the ending I already know. The characters aren’t even likeable enough to keep me entertained. This is why companion pieces and POV shift retellings are so hard to do.

it was hard to believe that anyone so vulnerable could ever justify hatred.

I feel like this is supposed to be the first lil glimmer that Weirdo is In LUV with Bella or whatever in this POV, but the thing is, his patronizing tone and the way he is seemingly always going on about how weak and pathetic Bella is just kinda makes it feel like he’s acting like her Dad.

Though they didn't want to stand out from the herd, at the same time they craved a spotlight for their individual uniformity.

I only have one thing to say about this. Fuck You Edward Cullen.

I feel like Weirdo is starting to craft this idea of Bella in his head, much like he does with everyone else, but because he doesn’t have the crutch of using his surface thought mind reading powers, he has to guess at her thoughts (much like typical normal human people do because we’re weak and pathetic unlike the Pires), and he’s basically assigning her the thoughts he thinks she should be having. He’s crafting Bella into the perfect ideal for himself without taking her atonomy into consideration.

"Ladies first, partner?"

This is a continuity error. In Twilight, he did not say ‘Partner’, just ‘Ladies first’. It’s nitpickey, and I’m aware that it’s nitpickey, but it’s jarring if you know Twilight well enough to know the dialogue. If we’re going to see the same scene from a different POV, the only thing changing should be the inner monologue, not the dialogue between characters.

I could feel myself warming slightly to the higher temperature.

Bzzzzt, no. I already talked about this earlier, but everything established in canon shows that Eddie doesn’t ever warm up. He and Bella cuddle under a blanket and he is still described as rock hard marble adonis ice. He can’t warm up, according to established canon.

And in this chapter, we finally start the Shitting On Mike Newton run. Mike is the fucking worst in this book and is treated like shit, all because -- can you guess??? -- all because he thought the new girl was pretty and had a little crush on her. Mike gets shit on SO FUCKING MUCH in this series just for daring to think Bella is pretty.

Ignorance was bliss to the human mind.

OR EDDIE YOU’RE JUST ARROGANT AND RUDE AND NOT AS INTERESTING AS YOU THINK YOU ARE. The Cullens fucking PRANCE around this school in their designer beige turtlenecks with their flashy fucking cars and look down their noses at the pleb humans who could never be as good as they are, and especially with the way SM wants to paint Forks as this fucking insular hick town where everyone knows everyone and are probably socioeconomically lower than American average, its RUDE AND GROSS and makes them look like stuck up fucking JERKS. But sure. Keep touting on about how humans are scared of you.

And yet again, we get an example of Eddie boy ignoring the fact that Bella (for all of her faults) is a HUMAN PERSON and not some game for him to play. ‘Wahhh, I can’t read her thoughts, that makes me angy and frustrated’ and whining about how he wants her to GO AWAY because her blood makes his froat hurt but how he wants her to stay because she’s so MYSTERIOUS AND DEEP.

This didn't fit with the scenario I'd been constructing in my head.

And this is exactly the point I was making up there. Edward is making wild assumptions about Bella based solely on his experience with the human condition from his immortality, but he is also crafting her into what HE thinks is the right way for her to be in his mind without taking into consideration that she is a complex human with feelings and emotions. But instead of actually correcting himself, he continues to do this, and we know he does because he continues to posit that she’s deep and wise even though we know different from being in her POV for three and a half books.

A lot more of this dialogue is changed from the conversation in the original Twilight than I thought. It should be easy to keep at least the dialogue consistent.

I clearly was not as perceptive as I gave myself credit for.

This is the most true thing that Eddie is going to think in this entire book, and it isn’t even genuine and that upsets me so much.

my mother always calls me her open book.

I would like to use my solid four years of Twilight knowledge to point out that Bella Swan is not an open book, she’s a lying liar who lies about things, even though she says all the time that she doesn’t like lying. She was always going on about how she fakes her emotions for the benefits of others, she is not an open book at all.

The reason she was upset was because she thought I saw through her too easily.

And, of course, Weirdo eats this shit right the fuck up.

"I find you very difficult to read." "You must be a good reader then,"

This exchange didn’t make sense in Twilight, and it still doesn’t make sense here. Unless Bella is being sarcastic based on her previous statement, the exchange just... isn’t good. And it’s pretty clear that Bella isn’t being sarcastic. So. Explain it, someone, pls.

Emmett still deserves a better book than this one. He is literally out here like ‘Everyone makes mistakes, Eddie boy.’ But we are still talking about murder here, so...

And that’s chapter two. I didn’t mean to do it all in one long post, but I couldn’t really see a good break in it to cut it in half. The human bashing is already getting worse and it’s making me annoyed. As you can probably tell from the Cap Locks. We get the first glimpse of Eddie being ‘protective’ that we know is gonna get creepy and paternal as the story goes along. And I know that SM was going for an old timey thing with Eddie, but Bella’s inner monologue was really dry and boring, and Weirdo is even worse in that area. Yet again, we see the First Person POV slipping. Little things that just don’t work in Eddie’s head.

Join me tomorrow for more, and thanks for reading along.

#sierra recaps stuff #ms liveblog #midnight sun #midnight sun spoilers #long post #ms chapter 2

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big-bad-a-detective-story · 4 years

Text

CHAPTER 03

It was obvious I wasn’t getting anywhere with the kid nor the creep, so I decided I’d try my luck with the woman at the root of it all; Ms. Fawcett herself. In only moments, I was knocking on her cottage door. I was soon greeted by the smiling face of what appeared to be a kindly old woman. But I knew better than to let my guard down for a second.

“Oh, hello, dear!” The old woman readjusted her spectacles and got a better look at me. If her frown was any indication, she wasn’t pleased with what she saw. “You’re not Little Red ...”

“How astute of you, ma’am. I’m known around these parts as the Big Bad Wolf, and I’ve got a few choice questions I’d like to--”

“Oh my, wolf? Wolf!”

I’m not sure which hurt worse in that moment: my feelings, or my snout when she slammed the door in my face. Alright, fine. It was quickly becoming clear to me that a direct approach wasn’t going to work here. On to plan B.

The B stands for boring, and boy was it. A good stakeout takes patience, vigilance, and dedication to the craft. I just so happen to possess all three in spades, but even I was beginning to nod off in the tree I’d perched myself in by the time I spotted movement along the adjacent treeline.

It was Larry Lemonade! Just this fact alone was enough to jolt my senses-- as well as nearly caused me to topple from my roost. Grabbing onto the sturdy branch of the tree, I shielded my eyes with a free hand.

All the better to see him with, you know.

Larry was the perfect vision of a sneaking snike-- mostly because that was what he was doing. He slithered out from behind the trees, tip-toeing through shrubbery as he made it to the door of Fawcett’s cottage. I watched, ever vigilant, as the depraved delinquent turned himself side to side-- no doubt on the lookout for my familiar face.

Ha! For someone who took such pride in his intelligence, apparently looking UP was above him!

After a few minutes the wolf seemed satisfied enough, straightening his crooked frame as he knocked on the door. It was only as an afterthought that Larry bent over to pluck a handful of posies from the window box, holding them as a makeshift bouquet.

It was the moment the old woman had opened the door to her home that I had realized my mistake: I was too far away to hear anything! Cursing that my brilliance had been my downfall, I strained my eyes to get a better view. I happen to be an amatuer lip reader, so it was at that moment my skill was put to the test.

Ah, Fawcett was surprised. Larry handed the flowers over, something about ‘for you, my dear’. My head was beginning to ache from the agony of my peepers peeping beyond their limits, but I could see that scoundrel kissing her hand, and Fawcett feigning a demure attitude. My frustration was building, and it was building fast.

I didn’t need to see Larry getting himself a sugar granny, after all!

Thankfully some higher power was on my side, as the flirting came to an end. Either Maybelle was suddenly offering an avocado, or she had just asked the wolf to come in.

“The plot thickens!” I cried out triumphantly, troubling my temporary twittering neighbors. But who cared about THEM, anyway. No birds were going to keep me from my case!

The robins apparently disagreed, as their sudden swooping caused me to tumble out of the tree. But no matter! The vines and underbrush I now found myself entangled in provided the perfect cover I needed. I’ve gotten so adept at camouflage, I don’t even need to try anymore.

I heard her long before I saw her. I'd know that chipper humming anywhere. And wouldn’t you know it, a moment later there she was, skipping into the clearing, her basket in one hand, a bouquet of flowers in her other. The final piece of the puzzle had arrived, and I waited, I watched, held in place just as much by my keen sense of intuition, as by the shrubbery.

Red shifted the flowers to her other hand, and she knocked on the door. The door opened, but it wasn’t the old woman standing there.

“Hiya, Granny! Hey wait,,,”

The girl was snatched up so quickly I barely saw it, her optimistic cry of “Whee!” cut off abruptly as she was pulled inside, the door slamming shut behind her. I was beginning to think maybe the girl was in danger, after all.

It wasn’t the time to think of suspects, it was time to save lives! The make it or break it moment where heroes were born!

Thus, quite naturally, my birth of valor was through breaking the cottage window.

Glass shattering was merely a cymbal in the sea of sounds coming from the home-- heavy thuds and muffled screams being the key notes. I might not have known the full story of what was going on, but I knew trouble when I heard it on the soundtrack of life! So, I used this opportunity to stretch my paw inside-- fiddling with the lock on the other side. The noise continued, and I was beginning to grow-- dare I say it-- worried.

With a small metallic click I was allowed entrance. AHA! It was with a cry of success that I threw up the panel, and climbed inside-- only just missing having the window slam back down on my back. I clambered to my back paws, dusting my coat and gave a look about.

The place was an absolute wreck-- and I didn’t just mean from the taste of tacky furniture! Tables were flipped, picture frames were thrown to the floor. Chairs were… Actually, they were fine--BUT EVERYTHING ELSE! Oooh, this had the markings of a genuine struggle!

My deducing would have to wait, as it was the sound of the little girl screaming that sprung me into action.

“I gotcha Red!”

I scurried to the foyer, followed by stumbling up the steps. I was huffing and puffing by the time I reached the top floor. Another cry! All that stood between me and saving the child was a simple door.

I charged with everything I had.

I collapsed, along with the wooden door. Boy, they sure don’t build houses like they used to anymore… Where were the Walrus and the Carpenter when you needed them?

Oh, right. Prison.

I shook my head, visions of singing oysters leaving me as I took in the room I had so desperately demanded entrance to. Blinking with heavy eyes, I was shocked by what I saw!

The room was absolutely deserted.

The open window told me everything I needed to know … granny and the girl had been nabbed. But where had Larry taken them, and for what purpose? I asked myself these very questions as I descended the stairs, my deep contemplative concentration broken by a loud clatter that could have only been the front door crashing open.

Even more guests? The last thing I needed. Or perhaps the very thing I needed … perhaps whoever it was had seen something, had some information vital to this new questionable quandary I suddenly found myself with. I continued my way down the stairs, and prepared to confront the guest.

Or the intruder.

What I didn’t expect, however, was to see a modern day Adonis. If you asked a barkeep for a tall glass of water, this guy would be the equivalent of getting the whole barrel. Seemingly kind eyes were tinged with worry, as the large lumbering man stumbled through the door. He picked it up afterwards, leaning it back into its frame in some sort of manner of bashful etiquette. Hand on his ax-- Woodsman, then-- he called into the destroyed home.

“Mrs. Fawcett? Ma’am? You home? I brought you this week’s supply!” Boots crushed a picture frame, the lad stopping in his tracks as he bent over to pluck it from under his heel. “Oh my, bingo must have been intense. Shame I missed it!”

This was said with enough cheer that it caused me to facepalm from my spot on the stairs. Oh no, the kid was a nimrod in every sense of the word! I continued to watch: while I was sure he wasn’t the brains of the operation, I wasn’t yet sure where the Woodsman fell on the morality scale. (For all I knew he was a goon of Larry’s!) After I witnessed a cleanup of the crime scene, the Woodsman stopped himself to frown at the rest of the mess.

I could practically hear the squeaks of unused wheels, as the lad was attempting to make a thought.

“I… am beginning to suspect this wasn’t from bingo.”

“Nooo, you THINK?”

My outburst came as a surprise to us both-- my only weakness being the fact I couldn’t stand the simpleminded. Unfortunately for me, I wouldn’t be standing for long: for the moment the Woodsman spotted my fury complexion… Well, let’s just say profiling caused the oaf to have an ax to grind with little old me.

I have no shame in admitting I yelped, falling down the stairs as I dodged the swing of the blade.

“H-hey, pal, let’s be reasonable!”

Another swing of the ax told me that logic and reason may not have been this guy’s strong suit. The way said ax sliced through an overturned table, barely missing me as I scrambled out of the way, told me he may have been wearing his strong suit,

“Halt, foul beast!” This man had a voice like a tuba. “What have you done with poor Ms. Fawcett? I don’t see her anywhere!”

“I’ve been trying to tell you! If you’d just put the ax away, and give me a chance to explain myself...”

My wit is quicker than my legs, I’m afraid, and I failed to escape the hand the size of my head. I was snatched up off the ground like an unfortunate rabbit in the talons of a hungry hawk. The brute of a man looked me up and down as I dangled there.

Not my most prideful moment.

“Hmmm. You didn’t eat her, did you?”

“EAT HER?!”

Now, let me tell you a thing or two about wolves: we get a bad rap. Sometimes it felt like wolves were getting the short end of the stick on everything. Treating all the world's problems on wolves like me. You know what it’s like to get stink eyes everywhere you go? Can’t even fish for a bargain on salmon without people grabbing their kids and running for the hills!

So let’s just say I am a smiggen sensitive when it comes to the subject.

“I’ll show YOU ‘eat her’!” I growled, rage blinding me as I attempted to do the same to the bigot-- claws swiping at nothing. “I walked IN on this, you loony lout! Now put me DOWN before I-”

If the Woodsman considered my threat, even for a fraction of a second, it didn’t show. Head starting to feel like a cheap stress toy, the barbarian secured his grip as he began stomping towards the kitchen.

At this, I protested.

“Hey! Where are you taking me? You can’t do this! I’m a detective: I have RIGHTS!”

I was starting to think the sore throat I was getting from yelling was all for nothing-- especially as the guy ignored me. In some ways that was WORSE than being accused of sentience cannibalism. However, I quickly deduced what the plan was, as I saw the Woodsman reaching for the phone hanging on the wall.

My suspicions were confirmed when I heard the seven words every detective loathed to hear:

“I’d like to speak to the police.”

#big bad: a detective story #norman d wolf #the woodsman #chapter 03

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gainerstories · 5 years

Text

Muffin Tops: Epilogue (Community Story)

Written by: Gainer Stories

Hayden unlocked the front door of Muffin Tops and waddled inside, followed by his husband. They walked to the back of the bakery and up a spiral staircase to their office. The duo had been proud business owners for a mere six months, and proud husbands for nearly a year. Out of breath from the stairs, they each plopped down in their reinforced office chairs. Every morning they arrived one hour before opening to discuss cash flow, changes to that day’s menu, and issues concerning staff. Business was booming since they had opened, with both men astonished at their income. They chose a location far from the beach and innovated a regularly updated gourmet menu to differentiate themselves from Thick Treats Bakery, and it was definitely paying off.

“Here’s today’s menu,” Hayden said passing Diego an iPad for review.

“Sounds delicious, save me some of the cherry devil cupcakes will you? And perhaps we should up the price point on those-- they went fast last time,” Diego replied while absentmindedly rubbing his protruding beach ball of a gut.

“Perfect, and let’s discuss Adrian,” Hayden said. “He’s such a sweet kid, but he’s horribly awkward with the customers. I gotta say that I haven’t minded watching him put on that little paunch since he started, but…” Hayden shrugged.

“But we should consider letting him go. It’s a shame because he’s really thickened out. That ass is seriously juicy now! I was watching him bend over to take trays out of the oven and his pants can’t even contain that furry ass crack from showing.”

“He does love sampling my concoctions, I can’t complain there. I bet he’s put on a solid twenty pounds of chub in two months…”

The couple decided to keep a closer eye on Adrian, his work performance and his gains, before pulling the plug. After finishing up their meeting, Hayden rolled his chair over to his husband to plant a smooch on his chubby cheek, their bellies grazing each other. They were nervous to go into business together, but it had only made their relationship stronger. Besides, Diego didn’t spend every day at the bakery, leaving day-to-day operations up to Hayden. Now that he had a bank account to match his waistline, he was going to the gym again and sprucing up an old Jaguar in his free time.

“I’m gonna get in my baking gear and head down to the kitchen,” Hayden said.

The baker hoisted himself from his chair causing his pale belly to swing out of his too-tight T-shirt. Hayden hadn’t put on too much weight since their wedding, maintaining the fleshy form of a baker that knew his craft. Small moobs rested atop his swollen, hanging, midsection that barely fit in any clothes. He’d taken to wearing obscenely small shirts under his baker’s jacket because Diego liked the surprise when he ripped it off. On workdays Hayden exclusively wore sweatpants, and the rest of the time he usually had to wear suspenders with his jeans. A jolly double chin spilled out around the collar of his baker’s jacket, occasionally causing a slight rash on particularly sweaty days. The last ten or so pounds seemed to collect mostly on his thighs, which were chafing like crazy. He was definitely feeling the discomfort of being obese, but ameliorated the pains by training his employees to take over his most labor-intensive duties.

Diego remained in the office for a couple hours doing paperwork. Muffin Tops was a-flurry with customers as usual. Feeling accomplished for the day, Diego grabbed his gym bag and locked the bathroom door to change. He stripped off his skin tight jeans and slid booty shorts over his bulbous butt. He was happy that his ass grew just as fast, if not faster, than the rest of him. It had developed an overhang of its own and required special tailoring for all his jeans. The only downside was that it was constantly sweating. All that meat packed into the seat of some tight denim caused a serious case of swamp ass. He didn’t mind, however, and relished the way it bounced in tandem with his belly when he walked.

Next, he pulled on his muscle tee. This was his sluttiest and favorite type of clothing. About thirty pounds ago he had cut the sleeves off a bunch of black tees. Since then they became faded and tattered from overuse and as of late a sliver of belly peaked out everytime he lifted his arms during a workout. His perfectly rounded and wobbling belly, crisscrossed with bright red stretch marks, garnered lots of stares at the gym. His pecs also were somewhat exposed in his shirt. The muscle undergirding his chest and arms was coated in a layer of pudge that connected both parts of his body with more stretch marks. When Diego was swole, it looked like he was about to burst.

Dressed in his skimpy ensemble, he lumbered down the stairs and towards the front of the store. As he approached the front counter a familiar, yet hard to place voice uttered his name.

“Diego?”

Confused, Diego stared at a large man in front of him, trying to place where he’d seen his face before.

“Diego, it’s me… Bradley. Your former boss.”

“Oh my god, Bradley. You…” How the tables had turned. It seemed like just yesterday that Bradley didn’t recognize Diego’s fattened physique. Now Bradley was giving him a run for his money.

“Yeah, you’re not the only one who got thick,” Bradley, beat red, awkwardly muttered and shrugged.

“I… well, I mean, yeah married life and running a bakery has done a number on my waistline,” Diego proudly gripped his gut with both hands and gave it a firm jiggle. He no longer had qualms about showing off, even to someone like Bradley. He was proud of his body.

“No shit, you run this place? That’s amazing dude, I live for your coffee cake. Come here a few times a week before work. I uh, got promoted to an office position at city hall... Hence this gut hangin’ off of me.”

Diego looked down at the former lifeguard’s torso. Bradley’s beach body had completely gone to pot in a little over two years. Diego couldn’t believe his eyes. Bradley still retained some muscle, but for the most part his chiseled physique and sunkissed skin had become swollen, fleshy, and pale. He also wasn’t used to seeing Bradley in a button-up, especially one so snug. His love handles warped the the geometry of the plaid print, accentuating the distendedness of his belly. Diego also noted how his chest had begun to sag and even his cheeks were puffier. For a few seconds they were both just staring at each other, taking in their swollen fatty forms bursting at the seams of skimpy clothing.

“Hey Adrian, give my friend here the employee discount from now on,” Diego shouted and turned to face Bradley. “From one former lifeguard to another: you look better with some chunk, Bradley,” he said and patted the man’s gut. “I gotta head out but I’ll see you around. Enjoy yourself,” he said with a wink.

As Diego strutted out the door he could feel Bradley’s eyes on his bouncing behind. The encounter was extremely gratifying to Diego who worked out even harder at the gym because of it. By the end of his workout his limbs felt like jello and he knew he was gonna be sore the next day. Even still, he was electrified with verve. He felt ecstatic, hungry, and horny.

Diego spent the rest of the afternoon at his favorite burger joint and then the beach. He scarfed down a double cheeseburger, fries, and a slice of pepperoni pizza. Before leaving he filled up his large cup of coke one more time and waddled out to his car. On his way to the beach, he stopped at a corner store for a bag of pork rinds. The next two hours he spent shirtless in the sand, like an Adonis grown fat with wealth. Lathered in sunscreen, his naked torso glistened and gurgled in the sun. He had learned to be careful of getting an uneven tan with his new belly. Too often, only the top would tan leaving a pale crescent of underbelly. This meant fully reclining on his back to ensure the pillow of fat on his abdomen got full exposure. As he lay reclined, fantasies of the newly fattened Bradley drifted through his mind.

Following his beach romp, Diego was even hornier than before and headed straight to Muffin Tops where Hayden was closing up. His dick nearly hard before he even got there, Diego swung open the doors and confidently marched over to his husband. His whole body jiggled and swayed and Hayden was in awe.

“Wow, who is this tanned hunk of meat approaching me?” Hayden said starry eyed.

Diego pushed the baker onto the counter, ripping off his baker’s coat, and kissed his mouth like it was the most delicious pastry on earth.

#gainer stories #muffin tops #community story #muffintops

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okietokiee · 5 years

Text

Fic: Söt (Ch. 1)

Summary: Skwisgaar comes to terms with some extremely un-metal, disgustingly mushy feelings he has for the new kid. (Pre-Klok, right after the audition)

Rating: Teen

Chapters: 1/5

Pairings: Skwisgaar Skwigelf/Toki Wartooth

Notes: This is my first Skwistok fic and it’s basically an excuse to make Skwisgaar suffer badly over the fact that he finds Toki insanely, irredeemably fucking adorable and he can’t stand it LOL

Also, apologies for any mistakes!

Skwisgaar Skwigelf was not a man known for being overly emotional. He was an absolute charmer to the young and old groupies alike, but he kept a definite distance between himself and his bedmates, ever the polite, handsome, closed-off gentleman that always sent off his multiple lovers with a suave kiss to the hand and a non-committal wink, hinting at a second round that was unlikely to ever occur.

His blase, cool-tempered nature did nothing but draw even more blushing ladies to him, each more provocatively-dressed and seductive than the last. Even the GMILFs often primped themselves up a bit for him, wearing their silkiest, shiniest nightgowns and bonnets.

But no matter what, Skwisgaar kept a certain air of nonchalance around him and he knew exactly how it drove the ladies wild.

Skwisgaar would’ve been content living his days like this forever; known as the golden, emotionally-constipated adonis that could fulfill every woman’s ultimate fantasies, as long as those fantasies included nothing about a relationship or commitment.

He’d never even felt much emotional pull towards anyone in his life, not even the sexiest groupies that loitered around after a show.

Skwisgaar attributed it to the fact that no one was interesting enough to catch his eye in any way. He was a God of guitar and sex, and regardless of how much the groupies’ skimpy outfits and embroidered aprons tugged at his loins, they never tugged at his heart.

At least, that used to be the case.

Hell, it would be so much easier for Skwisgaar if it would stay that way because he’s extremely happy with his life, thank you very much. He’s a handsome, collected gentleman with refined tastes and raunchy habits.

And these are the reasons he can’t fucking wrap his head around whatever it is he’s started feeling whenever he’s around his band’s new rhythm guitarist.

The audition for the new rhythm went a lot more unpredictably than he’d originally expected, and he ended up going against his own whims and hiring some kid on the spot.

And that’s the perfect description for the guy. He couldn’t be older than 16, which was practically a child in Skwisgaar’s opinion when compared to his 25 years on earth. Toki was his name and he was young, naive, and as hilariously out of touch with American culture as Skwisgaar once was when he first immigrated.

The kid normally wouldn’t even cause a blip in Skwisgaar’s radar, let along change his course completely. Now, in the comforts of his small, dingy room in his tiny, rundown apartment, Skwisgaar rapidly fingerpicking his guitar, questioning his sanity.

He wouldn’t lie and say that he was completely oblivious to his reasons though. Shocked and appalled, yes, but regardless of what his broken english suggested he was not completely daft to the inner workings of his own mind. The kid had something about him. It wasn’t just ambition and it wasn’t just talent. There had been plenty of those types who had auditioned before him that Skwisgaar completely blew out of the water. Boring mechanical techniques and overconfident arrogance was no match for the brilliant and dexterity Skwisgaar could exhibit with his eyes closed.

No, the kid was special somehow. And it was driving Skwisgaar crazy trying to put his finger on what, why, and how this Toki seemed to shine brighter than a blazing star when he played. He can honestly say without a doubt that he’d never felt that intoxicating burst of pure energy while playing in his life.

The guitar is his heart and his music the blood that flows through it and keeps it beating. It’s the only thing that he can say, with no hesitation, brings him pure unadulterated joy and satisfaction.

The feeling of playing his music was a feeling he never thought anything in the world could top; the best drugs or hottest groupies in the world would never best the feeling of his explorer in his hands, creating the godly music that effortlessly flows through his fingertips

He never thought it could possibly get any better. At least, until that kid showed up and showed him exactly what it meant to rise to the highest precipice of his art, experience the exhilarating speed of music pouring out of his soul, and for once in his life, experience this with a kindred spirit, the first person he’s ever met who could so closely match him riff for riff. Regardless of Toki’s abrupt downfall, Skwisgaar was still awestruck at what the boy was capable of.

The fact that this short, half-starved runt that looked like he’d been living off the streets can just waltz in with his beaten up Gibson and push Skwisgaar to higher limits he did not even conceive as possible; it was infuriating and intoxicating all in the same breath.

This young boy with his familiar accent and friendly demeanor. His big, blue eyes and his soft chocolate hair.

Fuck, his existence alone was doing something to Skwisgaar and he couldn’t stand it.

Those eyes were just too blue! He’d never seen anything like them before, even in Sweden, he didn’t remember ever seeing such big, icy eyes that did something to him he felt too disturbed by to acknowledge.

Suddenly, Skwisgaar was interrupted from his pensive musing by a hesitant knock on his door.

“Comes in.”

Slowly the door opened and the pair of blue eyes driving Skwisgaar mad with something he can’t explain peeked through.

“Um… H-hellos Misters Skwisgaar, Nathans told mes I shoulds asks you if I can sleeps in here tonights... Is that alrights with yous?”

Toki, the poor lad, was tensed up and visibly nervous, bracing himself for a rejection and scolding for bothering Skwisgaar after strict instructions to leave him alone and find something to entertain himself with the rest of the band in the living room.

Skwisgaar was exhausted after a long day of battling mediocre guitarists, he wanted some reprieve from everyone and everything. If any of the other members had bothered him when he was in one of his moods, that would be grounds for a litany of angry, barely-understandable curse words, but this was different. Skwisgaar sat up from his bed, setting his Gibson down next to him, and gave Toki a slight, indifferent nod.

“Fines. Just donts be makings too much of the noises. I’m tryings to write a new solos.”

“Yes, Misters Skwisgaar! Toki will be quiets! You won’t evens knows I’s here!” Toki smiled widely, making a move to presumably leave and retrieve his meager belongings.

“Toki.”

Skwisgaar spoke too fast to stop himself. Toki gave him a confused look and Skwisgaar was internally facepalming.

“Justs… calls me Skwisgaar. I’m nots a olds grandpas yet!” He tried to laugh off his mistake.

Toki’s smile brightened even more, something Skwisgaar didn’t think was possible. “Yes Skwisgaar! Tank yous!”

And with that he was off.

It was apparent that Nathan had decided to pawn off the new kid to Skwisgaar for tonight and likely every other night in the foreseeable future until they can figure out a better living arrangement.

Out of every member of the band, Skwisgaar was the only one who had his own place. It was a ratty one-bedroom on the bad side of town, but it was his. Pickles and Nathan rented a considerably nicer place together as roommates, where they did most of their recordings, and Murderface crashed (lived) on their couch more often than not.

After they discovered Toki was basically homeless, it made sense Nathan would lump them together. The two matching Scandinavian guitarists, of course Nathan would force them together like two peas in a pod. Didn’t mean Skwisgaar couldn’t complain about it.

“Tsk. Fuckins racist.”

“Whats you say Skwisgaar?”

Skwisgaar was startled up.

“Eeuugh! Toki, don’ts comes in without knockins.”

Toki looked sheepish. “Sorries… I just wants to says I gots a sleepinks bag from Pickle! It’s… uh… okays if I sleeps now?” Toki stumbled through.

This made Skwisgaar pause. He took the moment to give Toki a long, hard look, something he hadn’t done since the kid completely changed his perception on guitar playing completely. Looking closely, he saw the obvious signs of exhaustion on Toki’s face, his sunken cheeks and dark, baggy eyes. Skwisgaar assumed its been a while since Toki had a comfortable place to sleep and a roof over his head. And a shower too now that he thought about it, seeing Toki’s clean hair and skin which was hidden under a layer of grime just a few hours ago. Did he eat? Surely the rest of the guys would’ve gotten something, though Skwisgaar was prone to skipping meals. Because the kid was definitely in desperate need of a meal-

“Skwisgaar?”

Snapped out of his train of thoughts, Skwisgaar forced himself to regain a mask of indifference.

“Yeahs, go aheads Toki. I was abouts to bes sleepinks too.” Skwisgaar waved to a plush white rug parallel to his bed to signal for Toki to take that spot. “Turns off the lights.”

Toki happily obeyed and curled up on the soft faux fur rug Skwisgaar was oddly attached to.

A few minutes ticked by in complete darkness and Skwisgaar was tense in the dead silence. Then, all too abruptly, Toki broke it.

“Ah… Skwisgaar?”

Skwisgaar forced himself to relax and apathetically replied, “Yes Toki.”

“Toki just wanteds to says… tank you. I am sos happies I mades it to the audiktions. Toki promiskes you won’ts regrets this. Good nights.” Toki said gratefully with an obvious smile in his tone.

Skwisgaar was speechless. And he remained speechless, until he heard Toki’s soft snoring fill the room. Of course he deserved to be thanked. He was the lead guitarist of Dethklok, a master of his craft. It was an act of true goodwill, him letting this runaway kid join them. Hell, Skwisgaar didn’t need much to fill his ego and he expected all mere peasants to be grateful for whatever he deans to give them.

But this was different. What Toki said, those innocuous, meek words, they didn’t fill Skwisgaar with the usual self-importance. They made him feel strange. Like there was a twisting in his gut and a disturbing pit in his chest that almost felt warm and mushy. The shit normal people probably feel when they see a newborn kitten. Not Skwisgaar though, he was the stone-cold adonis, even kittens didn’t soften his heart. Regardless of how soft their fur is, or how big and beautiful their eyes are, or fuzzy their tiny little paws-

“Euugh!” Skwisgaar let out an involuntary sneer which he quickly quieted. He chanced a glance at Toki’s still snoring form and breathed a sigh of relief.

Yes, fine, maybe kittens had certain characteristics about them that were pretty nice, but Skwisgaar was confused at his train of thought. Whatever it was that Toki made Skwisgaar feel, it was reminiscent of the yucky, gooey emotions small animals inspired in him as well.

Skwisgaar had no clue what to do with that fact, but his exhaustion was finally catching up with him. With a sigh, he rolled over, and fell asleep to the rhythmic snoring of one Toki Wartooth.

#metalocalypse #mtl #my fics #skwistok #my fanfic

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zecretsanta · 6 years

Text

Zecret Santa 2017 gift fic for nursedianaklim

To: @nursedianaklim

From: @interabangs

Happy Holidays, nursedianaklim! I’m thrilled to be your Zecret Santa, especially since I love Sigma/Diana, so I went with a family-themed fic for them. Hope you like it!

Recursion

“Are you two married?”

Thunk.

Diana hadn’t meant to drop her fork, really. It just happened to slip from her hand, landing on the finely crafted plate her mother only used for special occasions. Diana’s face grew hot, and it took all of her willpower not to look at Sigma.

“Okay, bud,” Liz said, dragging out her son’s chair and turning it at an angle so it faced the kitchen. “You asked for it.”

“Mom, no!”

“We talked about this,” she said as Diana wished her own face would stop looking like a tomato. “Back to the kids’ table for you.”

Looking dour, Taylor took his regular dinner plate and stomped all the way to the kitchen, angrily swatting aside the curtain that separated it from the dining room.

“Sorry, sis,” Liz said with an apologetic shrug as she scooted the empty chair back into its spot.

Diana exchanged a quick glance with Sigma before picking up her fork and saying, in as casual a voice as she could manage, “Oh, um, it’s all right.”

She supposed she was telling the truth. Things at least had been ‘all right’ up until Taylor looked right at Sigma and asked him one of the Forbidden Questions – probably because it might have been true.

Diana couldn’t exactly blame her family for wondering. There she was, back in her hometown, in her parents’ nice three-story in the cul-de-sac at the end of Bishop Street. Just two weeks ago, she’d cut contact with her entire family, and two weeks before that, she was crying her eyes out to Liz about another – well, Diana hated using the word, but it definitely had been an Incident.

Not long after that, and she was sitting next to a man her family never met, after having begged everyone over the phone not to ask him about their relationship status.

To her immense relief, said man reached under the table, where her free hand was trembling on her lap, and he enveloped her hand with his. Not pushing down on hers, not gripping it. Just keeping his there, for her to feel him.

Her hand stopped shaking, and she smiled down at her plate.

She hadn’t even planned on asking Sigma to come home with her. It had simply slipped out, like the fork from her hand.

He’d been folding laundry while she was peeling carrots for dinner, and it was one of those things she didn’t realize she said, until right after she heard it come out her mouth:

“I’m going to visit my parents and sister next weekend, since I missed Christmas dinner with them. Do you want to come?”

She peeled off a particularly large piece of carrot, watched it hit the sink, then said, her face flushing, “Oh, I mean, I know it’s really soon. You don’t have to come with me if you don’t want —”

Sigma had crossed the room within a few of those giant strides of his, and put his arms around her, gently. “Yes, Diana. I’d love to.”

So, yes, Sigma had been great about it – like he was about pretty much everything, except grocery shopping – but it wasn’t him she worried about.

Before she’d called Liz and broke down crying, Diana hadn’t spoken to her in months. She hadn’t spoken to anyone in her family for longer – not even Great Nana, whom Liz was always quick to point out favored Diana.

And she was back home, sitting in her favorite dining room chair, like she hadn’t snapped at Mom to stop badgering her about the bruises on her arms, and why she couldn’t come to Taylor’s birthday party.

To everyone’s credit, they were warm and welcoming ever since greeting Diana and Sigma at the door. Patrick – Liz’s husband – and Dad might have shaken Sigma’s hand a little too long, and Mom may have squeezed Diana a little too tight when they hugged. But Diana could tell they were all on their best behavior.

As if to prove her point, Dad broke the incredibly long, awkward bout of silence – save for forks clinking against plates – which hung in the air after Taylor’s departure. “So, Sigma, how’s UC?”

“It’s great,” he said, without missing a beat. “I enjoyed my break, but I’m glad to get back to work.”

Patrick asked, “And you’re going for a, what, Master’s degree?”

“Actually, since I managed to get all my paperwork in before the deadline, I’m pursuing my doctorate.”

Liz nearly choked on her steak. “Your… I’m sorry, but how old are you, again?”

Sigma took his hand off Diana’s, but, after she glanced down, she saw that he only did it to wipe his sweaty palm on his black pants. “I’ll be 23 this year.”

“Holy shi – I mean, good for you,” Liz said, coughing as Patrick patted her back.

It was Mom’s turn to grill Sigma, and when she opened her mouth, Diana suddenly wished Sigma hadn’t taken his hand away from hers. “And your field is… engineering, right? I wasn’t quite sure how that got you into the same fundraising event as Diana.” Mom laughed in that slightly disconcerting way where you knew you did something wrong and she was pretending it was fine, but it wasn’t.

“Well,” Sigma said, after taking a few moments to chew his food, but Diana knew he was remembering what they’d prepared for the past few nights, “my passion is engineering, yes, but I’d like to study diseases – and their cures, as well. There was a seminar about a particularly disturbing disease at the event, and I happened to sit next to Diana.” He paused to exchange a brief, but knowing smile with her. “She’s heard all about the details, but I’ll give you the short version: when I was in high school, there was a deadly outbreak in my hometown, and if I could help prevent something like that from happening again, then I’d do whatever I could.”

Diana exhaled a long, slow sigh of relief as Mom, Liz and Patrick nodded in polite sympathy.

Dad took a sip of wine, peering over the rim of the glass at Sigma. “You’re from Michigan, you said?”

“That’s correct, sir.” Diana had to bite the inside of her cheek to keep from laughing at the irony of Sigma saying ‘sir.’ He’d told Diana beforehand that he would be as honest with her family as possible, without explaining all the time-travel stuff that she knew they’d never believe. She and Sigma had to make up an entirely new story about how they met – in actuality, it could very well be true in one universe – but Sigma didn’t mind being open about his past. And, in this case, alternate future.

Dad put down his empty wine glass. “How come I’ve never heard about this disease outbreak?”

“Well, it will happen – it happened a long time ago, and the government made sure it didn’t spread in the news, so it wouldn’t cause any panic.”

“Really?” Patrick said, starting to become skeptical – he was so much like Dad it wasn’t even funny; no matter how much Liz protested – and Diana glanced at Sigma, unable to hide the worry from her face.

Sigma kept his gaze on her father and brother-in-law, and, as he launched into a far more detailed and boring explanation, his hand slipped back over hers.

Diana picked up her fork, smiling again.

—————————————–

“How long you known him, sweetheart?” Dad asked her not two minutes after Taylor and his three brothers yanked Sigma and Patrick out on the front lawn, turning them into human jungle gyms.

Diana stirred her hot cocoa, remember what she and Sigma had practiced in the car ride. She couldn’t have said three years, or even a year, when she felt like she’d known him much, much longer. She hadn’t mentioned anything remotely related to Sigma when she called Liz.

“I told you, it’s been a couple weeks,” she said, watching the dark liquid swirl in her cup after she lifted her spoon.

“Diana,” her mother said, gently.

“Okay – a few months.” It wasn’t a lie if both answers could be true at the same time.

“You really think it’s the best time for you to, y’know, be shacking up with someone new?” Liz asked.

“I’m not —” Diana protested, but the flush in her cheeks that she knew was visible, was about as obvious as if her nose began growing.

“Darling,” Mom said, the worry lines creasing between her eyebrows as she scooted her chair closer to Diana’s and brushed her hair back behind her ear. “I understand why you want to be with him. Really, I do. I mean, he’s polite, he’s intelligent, and good Lord, if Adonis was made flesh —”

“— Okay, let’s not get too carried away here,” Dad said gruffly, and everyone else laughed, even Diana.

“And the way he acts around you,” Mom went on, continuing to stroke Diana’s hair, like she did when there was a thunderstorm. “I can tell he’s taking this, taking you, very seriously. But what if he turns out to be like… well…”

“He won’t,” Diana said firmly. “I know he won’t. And I know you want what’s best for me, but please don’t worry about us. We’re taking things slow.”

“Hmm,” Liz said, chin resting on her hand as she watched Diana take a long sip of cocoa. “If ‘slow’ means making out in his car for five minutes down the street, I’d hate to know what ‘fast’ means.”

Diana’s cheeks burned even more at that. She set down her mug. At least she didn’t spit out anything.

Liz lowered her hand from her chin and reached it out toward Diana, across the dining room table. “Hey. I’m kidding. Look, you’ve been to therapy —”

“— And I’m still going,” Diana said, a bit hastily, but she was glad she sounded firm. It was one of the truths she and Sigma went over, like him being able to pursue a doctoral degree.

“We’re all incredibly glad to hear that,” Liz said, her hand still outstretched on the table. “If you know, for sure, that you really wanna be with this guy… If you feel safe with him and can trust him after such a short time, then…” Liz felt silent and looked to Mom for help.

She was as quick on the draw as Sigma had been earlier. “Then I suppose we can trust him, too.”

Diana looked out the window, toward the front yard where her nephews were hanging from Sigma’s arms and laughing as he flexed. Then she looked at her family’s faces, at the mingled concern and hope in their eyes.

Then, slowly, she reached her hand across the table, and pressed her palm against her sister’s.

—————————————–

“He doesn’t know about your family, does he?”

Diana studied Sigma’s expression, one of her favorite past times. He was starting to be more animated – not as much as she was, or most people, really. But she was fascinated with noticing each miniscule change in his face.

Liz, Patrick, and their kids had left ten minutes ago. Diana planned on heading out with Sigma soon, too, but not before giving him a more detailed tour of the house. Her room, which somehow still looked like it had years ago, was the last stop.

“He’s a good guy,” Liz had whispered in Diana’s ear as they hugged goodbye. “Tense, but I think it’s because he’s one of those old souls, y’know?”

Diana laughed, squeezing her sister tighter. “Thank you, Liz. I’m glad you like him.”

“He’ll take care of you. At least, he better. And if you ever stop banging him, I know at least twenty single moms who’d give an arm to be with him.”

“Liz, come on!” Diana said, but it took her a while to stop laughing.

As she looked up at Sigma while they stood in her old bedroom, he was gazing intently at the objects on top of her dresser drawer.

“No,” he finally replied, “I don’t think he knows. I’ve tried not to think about them lately, just in case. But I think if he meant them any harm, he would’ve gone through with it now.”

Diana nodded. Neither she nor Sigma had uttered the name of their son, not since escaping the shelter. She wondered if they ever would.

Sigma’s breath hitched before he spoke again. “I’ll make sure he won’t touch anyone in your family.”

“He won’t.” Somehow, Diana was certain of that.

“Have you always had these?” Sigma asked, his gaze fixated on the row of dolls arranged neatly in a row – probably by Mom – and facing him with an identical expression.

“Since I was little, yes.” Diana had to stand on her toes to reach out and run her fingertips over the dolls, from the largest to the smallest. Most Matryoshka figures, Diana thought, were old women, but this set featured a wide-eyed, innocent looking red-headed boy.

“Do you know where you come from?” she whispered to the smallest one. “Do you care?”

She remembered holding the newborn boy, during the long hours it took for them to die.

Diana blinked, and when her vision cleared, there was a teardrop next to the smallest rd-haired doll.

“Hey, Diana,” Sigma said, bending his head so he could murmur in her ear, “let’s lie down for a little while, okay?”

She was about to protest before an uncontrollable yawn cut her off. “Oh, okay.” She turned off the light and guided Sigma to her bed. They settled down on the covers, facing each other – it was a bit cramped, but Diana didn’t care one bit.

Sigma wrapped his arms around her back, tracing slow, small circles on her sweater with his thumbs. “Thanks for asking me to come. I had a great time.”

“You were wonderful,” she told him with a wide smile. “I’m really glad you came with me.”

“We should bring Phi next time, if that’s all right with you,” Sigma said, closing his eyes. “I’m sure we could come up with a story for her.”

“Yes,” Diana said, stifling a yawn, “and then we can visit your family.”

“That sounds nice,” Sigma said, though his words were beginning to run together. “I’d like that.”

“Ten minutes,” Diana told him, “then we’re leaving.”

“Of course,” he said, leaning forward to kiss the top of her head before settling his back down on their shared pillow. “Whatever you say.”

“I mean it, Sigma,” Diana whispered as her eyelids fluttered close. “Ten minutes… and then… we’re heading home.”

#zero escape #zero time dilemma #nursedianaklim #interabangs #diana/sigma #zecret santa 2017 #submission

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white-collar-lawmen-and-conmen · 7 years

Text

Frimer

Note: There are sentences in here using foreign languages. For translations as you read, please refer to: Frimer Translation Guide

Frimer – French. (vrb) “to show off”

Summary: Your helpless crush on Neal gets worse when he starts spending more time with you… and talking to you in other languages, which he knows you love.

Words: 3,241

“Hey, Neal,” you greeted, coming up to his desk and working hard to make sure your face stayed its normal color.

He looked up at you with a polite smile. Once he realized you weren’t one of the agents that would bust him for the doodles he was making in the margins of his paperwork, the smile turned into a wide beam. “Hey, Y/N! How’ve you been?”

“I’ve been well,” you answered, biting you lip so you didn’t smile. “So, um, Peter says you’re multilingual.”

He canted his head proudly. “Sí, es cierto.” You blinked. Other than the ‘yes,’ you had no idea what he’d said. His smile went from smug to amused and he chuckled. It made you blush, despite your best efforts. “What do you need?”

You held out the folder. “Peter needs this translated, but if we go through the normal channels, we won’t get it back until tomorrow – and that’s if we’re lucky. Would you mind?”

Neal leaned over his desk. “Por supuesto no. Cualquier cosa para ayudarte, mi corazón.” You nodded like you understood, but you were sure he could tell it went over your head. He reached up for the folder, so you assumed he was saying he didn’t mind, and handed it to him. Neal let your fingers brush as he took it from you. His skin was warm and soft and you didn’t think it was possible to be any more in love with a person as you were right then.

“Gracias,” you squeaked, because you figured pretty much everyone knew that word, and you hurried to go back to your desk.

You had always loved foreign languages. You thought they were fascinating. More than that, though, you had a secret: you loved listening to people talk in them. It was something your friends mercilessly teased you about when they found out. You didn’t know what it was, but some languages just sounded so romantic, and when you didn’t understand the words, it was a great opportunity to just listen to someone’s voice.

You already had a crush on Neal about the size of Canada and Russia combined (because that’s a totally normal unit of measurement) and you could listen to him read a phonebook to you and still just be happy that he was talking to you, so hearing him speak to you in Spanish just made everything worse. Or better, depending on your perspective, but since you were trying not to embarrass yourself by making it obvious your dream guy was your coworker, it definitely made things worse.

Unfortunately, it seemed like your flustered response to his Spanish was enough for him to cotton on. He showed off whenever he got the chance. It was doing very little to help you with your predicament. In the words of Tumblr, your ovaries were unable to take it.

“Kon’nichiwa,” Neal said brightly, making himself at home by sitting on the edge of your desk. He set a cup of coffee by his leg. Judging by the scent wafting from the lid, it was your favorite order from the coffee shop nearest to Federal Plaza. “Watashi wa kōhī o motte kimashita.”

You blinked owlishly. Neal put his hand down by the coffee and pushed it a few inches closer to your hand.

“You didn’t have to do that,” you replied, understanding the gesture. Though you took the coffee anyway (you didn’t want to be rude) you were both flattered and embarrassed. Yay, he was paying attention to you! … He was paying attention to you. What if he realized you liked him as more than a friend?

He shrugged his shoulders and somehow made a careless gesture look elegant. “Watashi wa shitakatta. Daisukidesu.” His beautiful eyes stayed locked on you until you started to feel your face turn pink again and you turned your head away. His low chuckle rang in your ears, even as he stood up and left.

You made sure he was all the way back at his desk before you muttered, “Tumblr is on to something.”

You didn’t know anymore if Neal was messing with your head on purpose or if he just saw it as a friendly game. Every day, you woke up, you promised yourself you weren’t going to let him make you feel romanced and special, and every day, you failed. He would saunter over, purposeful and charming, and hell, you felt romanced and special just when he looked into your eyes. It was just the icing on the cake that he would speak to you in whatever language he thought of first. You’d identified six different ones so far, not including English, and you had to say that, everything else aside, you were very impressed.

You’d always been friendly with each other. If Neal had been a jerk, you would’ve been able to get over your crush in less than a week. But no, he had to be the most sensitive guy ever, who brought you coffee and chastened Peter on how his romantic gestures weren’t romantic enough and who got really offended when he heard about someone cheating on their lover, no matter who the person was. It certainly didn’t hurt that he looked like Adonis might’ve, had the ancient Greeks developed their belief systems in a time when Colgate and Armani existed.

Things were just harder now than they had used to be. Neal had been broken up with Sara for well over a year now, and you were having trouble showing signs of having a social life of your own, much less of getting over the man you weren’t allowed to have. Your life revolved around very few people: your best friend from college, Peter (your boss), Diana, and Neal.

“Languages!” Your friend gushed over the phone.

You groaned and slammed your head back against the headboard, then grimaced. “I know. And he knows, that’s even worse. He found my weakness and he’s exploiting it shamelessly.”

“He’s showing off,” she pointed out to you, her voice sounding all cheerful and optimistic. It made you feel queasy. “Guys do that when they want to impress someone. At least your guy’s not showing off by acting macho and mean.”

“Color me impressed,” you grumbled. “I wish he would stop, but at the same time, I love it. It feels like he’s flirting with me, but instead of those stupid lines boys used in university, it’s… sweet. Cute. Tailored specifically to my interests because he knows I like hearing him talk.”

“Then why want him to stop?” She snorted over the phone. “He sounds like a keeper.”

“He would be, if he was mine to have. Look, he’s a people person. I have a hard time believing he hasn’t figured out how much I like him, so teasing me like this seems mean. I’d assume he was being a brat, but… he’s not that kind of person.” Neal was a lot of things, but he had never been a douche. You looked over to the window and saw that it was much darker than you’d thought. “Ugh. It’s late. I have to go.”

There was a pause before her response as she checked the time. “Time flies. We need to talk again soon. I miss living in the same city.”

“You’re the one that moved,” you reminded. “Goodnight.”

“Night, Y/N.”

Your next day at work began with a pink piece of paper on your desk. It was folded up into an origami tulip. Immediately, your eyes went to Neal – he was the only one in the WCCD that would hand-deliver cutesy arts and crafts. He was focused on his computer.

Regardless, you’d met Alex Hunter, and you knew how these worked. You unfolded the little flower and smoothed out the creases in the paper. Your first reaction was surprise that the ink hadn’t smudged. The second was exasperation – it was a full handwritten letter, but it was written in an Asian dialect you couldn’t even begin to read.

“Really?” You called across the aisle, holding the paper up so that the script was facing the conman. He bit his tongue between his teeth as he grinned and giggled. It was adorable and cute and you so didn’t have time for this. “I don’t even know how to pronounce this, let alone understand it!”

“Zhè shi yī fēng qíngshū, qīn’ài de,” Neal responded, swiveling his chair around to face you. Now that you could see his face better, you could see the dimples. Dimples. Either you got incredibly lucky by somehow earning his increased level of interest, or someone up there was really enjoying taunting you.

No matter what was happening, his voice never failed to awe you, and regardless of whatever the Chinese was (it sounded like Chinese), he’d still given you a flower. Sort of.

“Why?” You asked simply, sitting down hard in your chair. You just wanted a reason. You just wanted to know what you’d done to deserve this weirdly enjoyable torture.

Neal’s wide smile faded slightly. You felt a little bad – you hadn’t meant to upset him, you just wanted to know how much longer this was going to last. Being Neal’s friend was hard, but you valued him as a person too much to walk out on friendship just because you were pining for more. Having him play around with you so much was difficult to handle. Suddenly you had him talking to you and engaging with you, and you didn’t really know what to do. You would’ve been confused but delighted except for the fact that you weren’t able to catch onto any clues, because they were all coming at you in conversational Swahili or whatever.

More seriously, he glanced at his desk before meeting your eyes again. “Yīnwèi wŏ xiăng ràng nĭ dui wŏ tèbié.” He lifted one shoulder halfheartedly and pressed his lips together tightly as if unsure whether or not to stop. He must’ve decided not to, because he let his shoulder fall. “Wŏ xiăng yào tèbié gĕi nĭ.”

You were definitely still as clueless as before, but it seemed important. And it sounded gorgeous falling from his soft, kissable lips.

You kept the Chinese letter. Your original intention had been to have it translated by some online service. Right before you’d taken a photo with your phone, you remembered the earnest, open expression on Neal’s face as he explained what it was. You didn’t need to know the words to know that you needed to treat it with care. It felt… personal. It had started out as a joke, but Neal had made it feel like it was something special, just between you two, so you moved it somewhere safe and didn’t upload it to the internet.

On Friday, you had a special dinner plan: you were going to meet a friend’s boyfriend. Knowing Peter, you weren’t going to be given leeway to leave work early just to dress up, so you went ahead and wore your nice dress to work. It wasn’t too revealing or too clingy, but the gentle flow of the skirt made you feel comfortable and confident, and the color went well with your eyes.

When Neal came in with Peter – both of them after you had already arrived – he made a detour to your desk (common these days) and placed a hand casually on the back of your chair.

“Sembri stupefacente, amore.” Neal looked down at your dress with a polite smile on your face. His soft and sweet tone gave you a pretty good idea that it was a compliment, and you looked down in vain hopes that he wouldn’t realize how delighted you were that he complimented you.

You swallowed and looked back up. “Thanks. That’s Italian, right?” It was another of the romance languages; you could tell that much by the smooth way it rolled over his tongue, but the accent was wrong for it to be French, and you’d heard enough Spanish from him at this point to recognize when he was speaking in something else.

His mouth quirked in delight that you guessed and he nodded enthusiastically. “Continuo a farlo a te perché mi piace dire quanto ti amo e non preoccuparmi di come reagirai.” He held his tongue and looked down at you expectantly.

Your temporary pride at following along evaporated. “Too many words,” you complained, but then attempted to stay on the same page. He’d complimented you, so… your turn? “Your suit is nice,” you ventured.

Neal chuckled. The sound came very close to giving you the shivers – it was so attractive, and so close to your ear. If he were just a little bit closer, you could’ve felt his breath. “Non cambia mai, la mia preziosa.”

You made a complete guess and gave him a nervous thumbs-up.

“Veux-tu aller au resto italien que tu aime?” Your gorgeous blue-eyed friend showed up beside you while you were fixing subpar coffee in the bureau’s kitchenette. He came out of nowhere, like an ambush. He leaned on the counter and crossed his ankles. “Seulement nous.”

You chewed on the inside of your cheek as you tried deciphering what he was saying. It wasn’t like he spoke in tongues all day, every day – you still knew how he was, what was going on in his life, and all that, as much as you had before. Now you just had the added challenges of acting normal while he behaved in a manner that would’ve convinced you to ask him to kiss you on the spot if you didn’t work together.

“Um, italien, Italian… something.” You puzzled. Neal raised an eyebrow but nodded confirmation. “Italian… suits. Shoes.” While those were surely of interest to him, you couldn’t think of why he would be asking you a question about them – you knew as much about Italian fashion as you knew of Italian language. And, just to show how far off the mark you were, you were ninety-five percent sure he wasn’t even speaking Italian. “Coffee?” You asked hopefully.

Neal, trying not to laugh, shook his head. His eyes were bright and playful and his smile was contagious. To your surprise, it wasn’t as hard to keep your cool, and you didn’t feel like you were blushing. You loved being around him as much as you always had, but you were gradually growing more accustomed to his interest.

“Um… wine? Food?” You guessed.

His face lit up and he nodded quickly. “Très bien, ma belle mademoiselle!” He had been leaning with his elbow on the counter, but he propped his hip up on the side of the cabinets instead to free his arms, gesturing as he spoke. “Veux-tu manger le diner avec moi?” He pointed at you, made a motion like he was bringing something to his mouth, and then pointed at his own chest.

“Dinner?” You asked, and his smile grew to show his teeth while he nodded again. “Okay.” You felt your face warming again.

It seemed like he’d decided enough was enough, and Neal was giving you a break. He hadn’t said a single word in anything but English since that morning, and now you were sharing a small table in an Italian restaurant not far from June’s.

“Do you have any preferences for champagne?” He asked courteously, turning the wine list around so you could see.

In truth, you were no connoisseur. You would leave that business to Neal. If a friend placed something in front of you, the odds were high that you would drink it without critiquing its wood-like qualities or whatever it was wine tasters talked about.

“Order for me,” you suggested. “That way my unsophisticated palate won’t offend your delicate tastes.”

Neal laughed and turned the list back around, moving his eyes down the page. You knew it wouldn’t take him long to decide. Even if it was a long process, he was too nice to let you sit in silence for very long. While he was distracted, you looked around as subtly as you could.

You’d let him choose the restaurant because he was the one who’d invited you. In your head, this dinner had been more like a quick meal at Fazoli’s. You couldn’t have been more wrong. For starters, there was a wine list. Appetizers began at a larger monetary value than any appetizer had a right to cost. The menu boasted fresh ingredients and meals made to order in an authentic Italian style. The ambience romantic and soothing, the lighting rosy and the soft classical music full of harmonized violas.

Would you have agreed if you’d known this was where he’d take you? On one hand, it was a dream come true. Not literally (you weren’t that far gone), but it was like one of those cute daydreams you would’ve loved to fantasize about, had the idea occurred to you. On the flip side, it was hard enough just being friends. Now he was bestowing you with unexpected trinkets and gifts, inviting you to five-star restaurants, playing around for fun, acting like he was romancing you- oh my God, he’s romancing you.

“This is a date!” You blurted suddenly, your eyes wide. You covered your mouth instantly, embarrassed. You felt stupid for not realizing sooner and silly for saying it so loudly in an already-quiet public place.

How dumb could you be? You’ve wanted to date him for what feels like forever and you didn’t notice when he asked you out? What the actual hell, Y/N?

Neal slowly put down the wine list. “What gave it away?” He asked sarcastically. There wasn’t a sting to the question, but it still made you feel even worse. You wondered what the odds were of there being a sudden fire in the kitchen that you could go put out and decided that they weren’t in your favor. Neal gave a long look to your chastened expression and reached across the table, taking your hand in his and stroking your fingers with his thumb. “Hey, it’s alright. Don’t feel bad. I’m the idiot who had to ask in a language you don’t even speak.”

“All of that… the languages, they were all just to ask me out?” You asked unsurely. That seemed like a lot of effort that you weren’t sure you were worth – especially from Neal, who could easily have anyone he wanted.

“Not at first,” he admitted, shaking his head slightly. He glanced down at the table as if he was embarrassed, too. “I was just playing around. When I saw how much you liked it, though, I kept at it. I thought if I impressed you, you might be more likely to say yes when I did ask.”

You turned your hand over so that you could gently squeeze his. “You didn’t have to do any of that. I’ve had an insanely inappropriate crush on you since you asked me if your hat made you look like a cartoon.”

Neal rolled his eyes. “I was proving a point to Peter.”

You took your hand away. “My turn to ask something,” you decided bravely.

He leaned forward and tilted his head. “What’s that?”

“Will you kiss me?” You almost lost your nerve, but managed not to cop out at the last minute.

You watched him to see his reaction and were relieved and thrilled when he licked his lips and grinned. “And here I was, thinking I’d have to ask first.”

Requested by anonymous.

So I took a request for little scenes and made it into little scenes compromising a ridiculously fluffy plot. Sorry…

Send in requests!

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zeldaismyhomegirl · 7 years

Text

Cat’s Masterlist of Recs Part 2

Another week, another long, long list of recs! I’ve discovered so many gems in the past couple of days and I can’t wait to share them with you so you can go and love them too ^.^

caidy:

Gold Plate (translated into English by amanuensis)- Then he adds, “We broke up yesterday.” Mila chokes on her coffee, and in a moment of childish cruelty, he smiles.“What?” she says, wincing. “Wait, yesterday?” Yuri shrugs. He thinks he should probably be sad, but he isn’t. Maybe because it was mostly his decision.“What happened?” “Nothing special. We had eleven great years.” He’d be lying to deny it, he thinks. “But we reached the end of our relationship,” he adds. “That’s all. We agreed it was time to end it.”

(I stumbled across this accidentally and have not stopped thinking about it since. Beautiful. So beautiful. I want this fic engraved onto my tombstone.)

@blownwish-blog :

Bizarre Love Triangle- Yuri Plisetsky met them both on his knees in the boys' room. One would stay, the other could not. America was one fucked up country.(The 80s high school au you didn't ask for.)

(I can’t believe I hadn’t read this before this week, but this has got to be the best damn Otapliroy I’ve ever read- so so good! The setting was incredible, the feelings, the details. Just incredible.)

magicalyoyo:

A Heart Beats At Night- A lone figure ran along the sidewalk. Otabek would have mistaken him for a motivated jogger, if not for the sinewy, fluid movements and familiar figure. He jerked his bike over, skidding to a halt in front of the runner.Otabek’s heart was pounding a sickening, dizzying rhythm, but he schooled his face into stoicism as he pulled his helmet off to get a better look.“Yuri Plisetsky died two years ago,” he growled. “What the hell are you?”

(I’ve been reading this for months now and after a certain development in today’s chapter just had to kinda shout about my love for it. It’s paranormal au. I’m not gonna lie, that put me off reading it for MONTHS but PLEASE PLEASE don’t let this disaude you as althought it’s definitely a plot line, it’s not the cominating factor of the story, not by a long shot. It’s got angst, the most beautifully written plot and descriptions, love, affection. @ded-i-am-just-ded I’m actually just gonna rec this to you straight up right here right now so you can cry with me because I’m sure you’ll love it like I do.)

@phaytesworld :

Yuri!!! On Circus- Yuri!!! on Circus! In this AU you will have Victor as an albino, Yuuri a contortionist, Yuri the cat boy, Otabek a giant mute, Georgi the Fortuneteller. The cast will all be acts with in the circus. We will follow as Leo has run away with the circus, different acts, troubles and just in general the circus life set in early 1900's.

Hung- Prompt - Imagine what the fandom would be like if Yuri was the one with 19 cm... I might have made him larger......

Sand and Salt- Summer romances are always the best. Guang Hong, local surfer kid at the beach falls for the lifeguard in town for the summer.

(She’s done it again. My eyes have been opened to the beauty of LeoJi, Hung Yuri and fucking fortune teller Georgi because YES I live for that. Phayte is a miracle worker with words and imagination- I can barely keep up with everything she writes, I honestly have no idea how she does it!)

@the-stoned-ranger

Only Losers Go To School- When Otabek Altin's employer discovers his diploma is fake, he loses his job as a pharmacist and enrolls in Detroit Community College. Forced to take an advanced-level French literature class taught by the deranged Monsieur Lee, Otabek starts a study group in order to impress his crush and makes the friends he never knew he wanted in the process.Yuri Plisetsky is the pint-sized art student with the brilliant wit and bad attitude who immediately captures Otabek's attention. Though Yuri rejects Otabek's advances at their first meeting, together they survive a French professor obsessed with ennui, a psychology professor fixated on sex, and study group shenanigans. As the semester progresses, Yuri and Otabek slowly draw closer. Are they really just friends, or could they be something more?

Eat Your Heart Out, Adonis- The year is 2021. The Beijing Winter Olympics are just around the corner, and Yuri Plisetsky is forced to take a break from skating in order to recover from an ankle injury. His friend Otabek comes to Russia to keep him company during his time off the ice. UST follows.

(I love me some good goddamn unresolved sexual tension and beautifully written smut! I would read anything they threw at me, I’m not going to lie- everything is just so well crafted and feels so realistic. I especially love in Only Losers the whole psychology paper and getting those little glimpses into the other characters and their sexual personalities- so so clever!!!!)

@onotherflights

Almaty’s Fire- They were like the lost boys, and of course Otabek was Peter. Yuri was fine with being Wendy if it meant he got to keep the thimble at the end of everything, when the sirens would be drowned out by the sounds of drums and the blue and red lights would flash something gorgeous against his skin.

Or; The lead singer is supposed to have a ton of groupies. Otabek only has the one.

Start of Everything- He didn't realize someone could fall in love with their best friend, but watching Yuri light a sparkler and chase the other Yuuri around his own garden made something click. The way he threw his head back in laughter, his hair and his face equally lit in the golden twilight. It was just a little ache in his heart, something he hadn't felt before. It confused him, made him furrow his brows together.

Or; Otabek has tried really hard to be good enough for everyone in his life, but Yuri is easy to please.

(I’m so happy I stumbled back upon these works- I remember reading the first chapters of both way back before I even had an ao3 account (which isn’t even that long ago lol) and being absolutely blown away with how well they are written. Especially in Start of Everything- the way Beka’s feelings and anxieties are presented- gosh it felt so so real)

@doitforthefics :

The Law of Life- By nineteen Yuri Plisetsky thinks he's got his life figured out. He's one of Russia's top male skaters and will defend his title tooth and claw.Then Otabek, Yuri's best friend or boyfriend - he's not quite sure what the hell they are - hits him with an actual sledge hammer; he's leaving the ice to become a professional DJ.Yuri comes to realise then that he, in fact, has nothing figured out at all. With his support system screwed up, he finds himself sucked into a world where sincerity is superficial, and vindictiveness cuts twice as deep.

(I know there can be a lot of schtick with A/B/O but this one is amazing. There is undeniable sexual tension between Beka and Yuri in this that makes me want to scream, and the fact that there’s still so many chapters to come makes me so happy ^.*)

JBankai89:

Lost in the Sound of Separation- Following the Grand Prix Final in Barcelona, Yuri Plisetsky disappears. Only Otabek seems to be concerned about him, while his friends and family seem to care little about where he may have gone.Two years later, Otabek has moved from his home rink to one in a small college town in Québec, Canada, and a late-night stop at a nearby convenience store proves to be the small rocks that start an avalanche.Everything was about to change.

(Another A/B/O, albeit this one is much much darker, so please be aware of the tags. I love how this is from Beka’s point of view showing his struggles with Yuri’s absence, and then reappearance in his life.)

vivevoce:

what did you expect- At some point, Yuri makes the Best Decision/Worst Mistake of his young life in befriending the flaming trainwreck that is Otabek Altin. He can't quite bring himself to regret it, so he decides on enjoying the ride and Not Screwing Things Up.

(I love this so so much! I’m not sure what you’d classify this au under, neighbours? Friends to lovers? But again it focuses on Beka’s struggles with being an ignored only child, and how he deals with it. It’s definitely bittersweet and although it hasn’t been updated in a while, I highly recommend the read!)

@cashryley :

Prima’s Pleasures- Having almost everything he could possibly want, a very wealthy Otabek Altin decides to do something he's never done before: hire an escort.

(Okay this is so so good! The last update has left me on the edge of my seat because there’s so much developing between Beka and Yuri, there’s been shifts that I can’t wait to read more about! And Yuri as a protective cat mom with the tiger lillies made me smile like fucking crazy!)

Faylette:

This Man Is Mine- Yuri Plisetsky is over people thinking he's girly. At least, he thinks he's over it, until he sees people react to his relationship with Otabek Altin. But he'll keep telling himself he's over it. He can keep this up. Who cares what they think?Yuri. The answer is Yuri cares.

(this is one of the first fics I ever came across on ao3, back when the first chapter came out in Feb. I was hooked instantly. I think by now people know I’m a sucker for insecurites and this shows Yuri’s and how eventually he comes to terms with it so well. Plus, the smut is hot (; )

@ded-i-am-just-ded

Dead Air- You looked me in the eye and lied.

(Mind the tags again! But it looks like the angst off has begun (; If you want a guaranteed cry go and check this out!)

@theinsanefox :

The Drabble Chronicles- A series of drabbles focused mainly on Otayuri, but could also eventually include other pairings from YOI

(There’s some light hearted fluff, there’s some angst that’ll make you cry, but my love’s drabbles are so good and will make you smile ^.*)

@aphhun :

we just need a human touch- What happens on a tour stop in Almaty will stay in Almaty. Well — probably.

“Give me your phone,” was the next thing out of his mouth, and Yuri found himself near squinting at the other.

“What?”

“Your phone. I’m going to give you my number,” persisted the DJ, and if Yuri had been more devoted to getting drunk earlier on in the evening, he knew that he would have handed it over without a second thought or a question. Sober Yuri, however, was more rational and undoubtedly skeptical.

“You literally don’t even know my name."

(Oh my god, I love love love this DJ/Dancer AU so much. I just went back to reread it and I fell in love all over again!)

@aftgonice:

Not a random one- He found that those fluffy and sweet fan fictions were starting not to be enough anymore. His feelings for Otabek weren’t of the innocent type, and while he was already used to fantasize about them, he’d gotten so used to actually reading that one day he just slipped. He found a pretty vanilla one, and promised himself that it would be enough. It was a one time thing, it had to be. It wasn’t.

(this is so creative, such a great format and an original idea! It’s fluffly as well as smutty- just perfect!)

Right, now I need to go back to planning chapter 11 of Just a Spark and actually writing chapter 3 of Summer On Your Skin. I said I was taking the weekend off, but there’s only so much binge watching of OITNB I can do before actually working on my own fics xD Have a lovely week everyone!

#cat recommends #fanfiction #fanfic #ao3 #Yuri on ice #yoi #go spread some love!

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spine-buster · 7 years

Text

Chapter 7 - The Beginning and the End of Everything (Finn Balor)

Fergal only thought about how Gemma would get to his flat once he heard her knock at the door. Like it had been doing a lot recently, his mind went on overdrive when he knew he would be near her or with her in some capacity. He didn’t know why. Despite their kind of heart-to-heart earlier in the week at the coffee shop, he still couldn’t help but watch what he said around her most of the time. He liked to think that she wouldn’t blow up on him now – now that she knew he was on her side and ready to listen to her, support her. But like most things concerning Gemma, he wasn’t so sure. He could never say he was 100% positive she would or would not do something.

She was about ten minutes late from the agreed upon time, but he wasn’t mad since he was an idiot and didn’t offer to pick her up. Her Uber was probably late. Hell, she probably got into a fight with the driver because he had tried to help her and she kept refusing.

When he finally opened the door he was greeted with Gemma and her crutch. There was no attempt to dress up on her part – she was wearing a pair of workout tights, a light oversized sweater, and a dark denim jacket. Not that he thought she would – this wasn’t a date, after all. He smiled at her and let her wobble into the apartment. “How are you?” he asked politely, taking her jean jacket and hanging it on his coat rack. He noticed a small red maple leaf patch sewn underneath the collar, the number 23 in black in the centre of the leaf.

“I’ve been okay,” she said softly, shrugging her shoulders. “I’ve had better days. You know how it is.”

Fergal was able to get a good look at her, now that he had hung up her coat, and noticed that her eyes were red. Her face wasn’t wet, but her eyes were definitely red; rubbed aggressively by the back of her hand to rid the evidence of her tears, he thought. It was obvious she was lying, at least somewhat. “Were you crying?”

She nodded her head. He hoped she’d explain why without him having to ask, but of course, she stayed silent. He should have known better than to think she’d explain something without persistence on his part. “Why?” he asked.

Gemma shrugged her shoulders again. Fergal was beginning to think it was her go-to answer for everything. “Cause I’m an wreck who can’t keep her emotions in check?” she asked rhetorically, attempting a joke. Fergal clearly didn’t find it funny, not laughing at all and not picking up on her sarcasm. She sighed, knowing she’d have to explain. “I’ve been crying a lot since I got injured. My emotions have been an epic shit-storm.”

Fergal nodded his head, trying to understand. “Yeah, me too.”

“Not as bad as mine, I bet,” she said, her eyes darting around the room. “You have a nice place.”

“Thanks,” he said politely, absentmindedly. He was still stuck on the crying part. He didn’t appreciate her trying to change the subject, especially when he was trying to talk to her. “Seriously, are you sure nothing else is wrong?”

“Positive,” she said, a lot more convincingly this time. He gave her a look, and she noticed. “Honest to God, Fergal. My emotions are just all over the place. Like I said at the coffee shop…I just want to be playing hockey. I hate that I’m not right now.”

“You will be, eventually. Just like I’ll be wrestling again,” he tried to offer some words of encouragement.

“Yeah, well…” she shrugged her shoulders again. It was obvious she didn’t believe him and was brushing him off. “What are we having for dinner?”

It was obvious to him that she didn’t want to talk about it; that she had tried to cover up the fact that she was crying in the first place before she got to his apartment. Nevermind the Uber theory from earlier. “There’s this place that does amazing gourmet thin-crust pizza,” he said, digressing to the fact that she didn’t want to discuss why she was crying anymore. He knew if they were going to have any semblance of a good night he should stop trying to bring it up. “You in?”

“Damn right I am.”

Once the pizzas were ordered, Fergal invited her to sit on his couch while he prepared drinks for them; he swayed her out of a boring request of water and convinced her to have a bottle of a craft Irish cider his parents literally smuggled in through their suitcases when they were in town for SummerSlam. Upon taking a sip and announcing she really liked it, Fergal smiled proudly and joined her on the couch, flipping on the TV but turning down the volume, just so it could be background noise.

They settled into casual conversation, mostly about their families. Fergal told Gemma about his brothers and sisters, how he was the second oldest, and about his new sisters-in-laws and brother-in-law he considered family now, too. He spoke glowingly about his little nieces and nephew, how Eoin’s daughter looked exactly like him, and how his parents were enjoying their new role as grandparents.

Gemma was surprisingly more open than usual, and he enjoyed her this way. When she spoke of her family, a constant smile was tugging on her lips. She spoke of her Arab mom, Nabilah, from Lebanon, and her dad, James, a Canadian now for generations but whose family originally came from Ireland. She had no siblings to speak of but she spoke about a family trip to Ireland when she was a preteen to visit her Dad’s extended family. She also spoke at length about Jane, her best friend. Jane, who had a path quite similar to hers – young female hockey player, scouted at a young age, made a name for herself independently with her skill, without the help of shady ‘agents’, and definitely without the help of hockey reporters who only wanted to focus on the boys. The fact that they had both made it onto Team Canada was their dream come true; the result of years of hard work, playing just like the boys – hell, even fucking better than the boys.

Fergal was having a great time, and he hoped at the end of the night he could say the same for Gemma. When the pizza came, they exchanged one slice each before digging in, focusing their attention to the TV, a re-run of a network sitcom keeping them entertained. During commercials, they kept their conversation going, funny stories about their families making them laugh. Fergal told Gemma about the time his little brother hit him in the forehead with a golf club, causing a permanent scar; Gemma told Fergal about how she was once responsible for her father’s black eye = they were practicing slap shots and he was the goalie, of course. The next day, he had a slew of meetings at work and it was quite the talk around the office.

The only real hiccup in their conversation was when Fergal offered Gemma another beer. Instead of accepting another one, she shook her head vigorously. “I really should just stick with water,” she waved him off.

“Come on, live a little,” he joked.

“Nah, I can’t. Besides the fact that too much alcohol might mess with any painkillers I might need to take, beer won’t do my body well,” Gemma said.

“Oh come on, Gemma,” Fergal laughed, thinking she was joking.

“I’m being serious!” she said, a little more harshly than Fergal anticipated. “Not everybody can have Adonis abs like you do.”

Fergal cocked his eyebrow. “You mean the abs I kill myself in CrossFit for,” he offered.

“I mean the abs I don’t have and won’t have for at least a year since I can’t work out like I usually do,” she clarified. “Seriously, I can’t slack too much, especially since I need to get back into even better shape than I was in before when I starts to play hockey again.”

Like most conversations he had with her, he digressed and gave in. There was no use fighting with her. She was set in her ways, and in her beliefs, and, well, who was he to make her deviate from them? “Alright, fine…you have a point,” Fergal smiled slightly. “I wouldn’t want my abs disappearing on me after the shit I put myself through just to get them.”

“See,” Gemma nodded slightly, “you’re on the dark side now.”

“Yeah, but I’m not gonna regret eating that pizza.”

Gemma snorted. “Yeah, me neither.”

When the night winded down and Fergal could tell Gemma was tired from the day and wanted to go home, he offered to drive her back to her place, which she accepted. They hopped into his car and he drove through the streets slowly.

“I’m going to show up to the NXT tapings in about two weeks,” he said as his foot barely touched the gas pedal. He noticed Gemma look over at him. “NXT is like the wrestling developmental system – well, at least in the WWE, in Japan they have these things called dojos where you train --”

“I know what a dojo is,” Gemma interrupted him.

“Right, of course you do,” Fergal said, shaking his head at himself for being such an idiot. “Anyway, I’m going there in about two weeks, because they’re going to be taping NXT shows. Do you want to come with me to see it?”

He could tell Gemma was taken aback by the proposition, though she tried to hide it. She ceased looking at him and began to look out the window, like she always seemed to do in times where she was unsure, or just didn’t want to talk. “I don’t think that’s a good idea,” she said, her voice soft again, like when she first got to his apartment and had been crying.

“Why not?”

“I don’t…I just don’t feel like being around athletes right now,” she revealed. “You’re hanging out with me,” Fergal challenged.

She snapped her head towards him, her eyebrows furrowed. “You’re not wrestling every time I see you,” she countered. “You’re injured just like I am.”

“What’s the difference?”

She sighed, crossing her arms across her chest. “I don’t get to see how great of an athlete you are while I sit on my ass literally incapable of doing anything,” she grumbled, looking out the window again. “I appreciate the offer but I don’t want to go.”

“Well, alright,” Fergal gave in, knowing he hit another sore spot with her. “Just thought I’d ask is all.”

Despite his slowed pace, he reached her apartment quickly, pulling up at the curb like he usually did when he picked her up and dropped her off. She hadn’t said another word to him since she told him she didn’t want to go to NXT with her. He knew she was upset, and he had only himself to blame. He put his car in park and shifted so that his body was facing hers a bit more than usual. He noticed that she wasn’t looking out the window; instead she was just looking straight in front of her, obviously contemplating something in her head. “You alright?” he asked. He felt like that was all he ever asked her.

She looked over at him. “Why do you want to hang out with me?”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean…like…it’s obvious I’m not easy to deal with right now. I’m a mess, I cry about 75% of the day…I’m a hormonal and miserable bitch,” she said.

“So?”

“So? You invite me over for dinner, you want me to go to NXT with you. Why do you want to hang out with me?” she repeated her original question.

Fergal shrugged his shoulders. He wasn’t exactly sure, either. She was hormonal, she was miserable. But there was something more to her, and he knew it was there because he saw it in that video of her Golden Goal. It sounded stupid, but it revealed a lot to him – a lot she didn’t know. A lot that he couldn’t see in her now, but he knew he would see in her in the future. But how could he say all of that out loud? There was no way. So he resorted to shrugging his shoulders and stating what he wanted to say in its simplest terms. “Because I like you.”

Gemma looked at him like he had five heads. “You like me?”

“Well, yeah,” he said. She kept giving him the same look and that made him know he needed to clarify his comments. “I mean I don’t write Mrs. Fitzgerald-Devitt on notebooks or anything but despite your mood swings, I like you and I like being around you. You’re only miserable because you’re not doing what you love right now.”

Gemma couldn’t believe what she was hearing. Somebody liking her, wanting to be her friend at the absolute lowest part of her life was something she didn’t think was possible. She wasn’t sure what to say. “Uh…thanks.”

Fergal nodded his head in acknowledgement. “So if you don’t want to come to NXT with me, do you at least want to get dinner again? Maybe sometime next week?”

He felt like he was waiting a lifetime for her response. In Gemma’s defense, she was still trying to wrap her head around the fact that Fergal enjoyed her company. He tried to control the smile threatening to take over his face when she finally answered with “Yeah…okay.”

#finn balor #finn balor fic #finn balor fan fic #finn balor fanfic #finn balor fan fiction #finn balor fanfiction #wrestling #wrestling fic #wrestling fan fic #wrestling fanfic #wrestling fan fiction #wrestling fanfiction #baeoe series

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spicynbachili1 · 6 years

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Review: Creed II

Creed : Creed II :: Rocky : Rocky II

Rocky is not only one of the greatest sports movies ever, it is one of the greatest films ever. It was a dramatic, gritty, and surprisingly grounded film that redefined the genre, established now common tropes, and basically created the modern sports film. There’s a reason it won best picture over Taxi Driver.

Rocky II took the tropes of the first film, pulled out the guts, and refined them into what we now know as a boxing film, turning the franchise into an enjoyable spectacle instead of a character-centered meditation on fame, toughness, and family. Rocky II does sports movie really well. There’s no one who gets to the end of Rocky II and isn’t holding their breathe as Apollo Creed and Rocky both try to get up off the mat. There is nothing wrong with Rocky II other than the fact that it isn’t Rocky.

There is nothing wrong with Creed II other than the fact that it isn’t Creed.

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Creed II Director: Stephen Caple Jr. Rated: PG-13 Release Date: November 21, 2018

Creed II picks up sometime after the original film with Adonis Creed (Michael B. Jordan) on top of the world after winning the heavyweight championship with Rocky (Sylvester Stallone) in his corner. However, this stardom has brought a new challenger in the form of Ivan Drago’s (Dolph Lundgren) son, Viktor (Florian Munteanu), who has been raised with one goal in mind: revenge on the man who ruined his father’s life way back in Rocky IV. Meanwhile, Adonis’ now-fiance, Bianca, (Tessa Thompson) is pregnant and his mother (Phylicia Rashad) is worried about him taking the fight.

If you’re thinking that this sounds a lot more like the latter Rocky films, you’re absolutely right, because it is. Unlike Creed, which was a drama coated in a boxing movie this is a boxing movie through and through. The reason Creed succeeded as a reboot of the Rocky franchise is because it was less a Rocky film, and more a film on its own.

Director Ryan Coogler brought a raw grittiness to the movie that pulled out Stallone’s best performance since the original film and turned Michael B. Jordan into a true superstar. The first film used boxing as a way to discuss grief, loss, race, and a myriad of other subtextual subjects, while still giving you the final release that all good sports movies deliver. It was about guys getting punched in the face, but what made it special was that between those punches there was more.

Creed II is pretty much about guys getting punched in the face. There’s the trappings of something between the punches, but it’s not point. There’s actually some strong bones between those punches, but they’re never really executed on. The film clearly wants to look at legacy and fatherhood, and has a great chance to by contrasting the Dragos’ relationship with the Rocky/Apollo/Adonis one, but it drops the ball hard on the Viktor Drago plotline. There’s an attempt to make both Ivan and Viktor something more than evil Russian punching bags, but it’s so half-hearted that the true themes get lost in your desire to see Viktor fall to the mat. The first film would have subtly pulled these threads, turning everyone into well-rounded characters, this film just gets you pumped for the last boxing sequence, it’s dramatic themes strewn around in the cheering crowd.

The movie also dodges around the social issues that Creed so wonderfully handled. In fact it dodges around almost any issue at all. Considering the fact that Rocky IV was basically Cold War propaganda at its finest, it’s stunning to see that Creed II doesn’t even pretend to discuss the current relations between Russia and the U.S. The film completely ignores any and all modern day politics or social issues in favor of telling a boxing story in a social vacuum. The closest it gets to saying anything about anything is Adonis Creed wearing black American flag shorts in the final fight, which may or may not be a nod to current issues in America, but I’d lean towards them just thinking it looked cool.

And now that I’ve complained about Creed II‘s lack of ability to live up to its forefather and it’s complete and total lack of social awareness, I have to say this isn’t technically a bad thing. Sometimes a sports movie is just a sports movie, and Creed II is a damn enjoyable movie, as most of the Rocky films are for various reasons. It’s cram full of sports training montages, moments that make you sit on the edge of your seat, and performances that deliver the emotional and physical punch when you need them to. Not that it’s a hard feat to get the audience excited when you’ve got the Rocky theme blaring and two boxers going toe-to-toe, but Creed II does it admirably.

It does this mostly through cliche and tried and true practices. Director Steven Caple Jr. is far more interested in making the film look stunning than he is in taking risks as his predecessor did. This makes for a visually sumptuous film, full of training montages that are often breathtaking to behold, but lack the groundedness of the original. The final montage, an inverse homage to Rocky IV’s mountain climbing epicness, is especially striking in its visual direction, while being nearly as ridiculous as the scene that influenced it. Caple isn’t quite as adept as others as keeping the in-ring action fluid, but he does a quality job. He’s turned Creed into a blockbuster, and there’s nothing wrong with that.

Stallone, Jordan, and the rest of the cast seem to know this as well. Their performances aren’t bad, but the heart and soul they pulled out of themselves for the last film seems to have drifted away. Stallone delivers his emotional monologues this time around as, well, emotional monologues. Jordan’s Adonis seems more like a character than the real person he was in the first film, and Lundgren isn’t given enough to work with to know if he’s there or not.

Muntenau is probably the most surprising performance as the boxer delivers sadly limited turn that still shows surprising emotional range for having almost no lines. Still, everything is taken up to that “sports movie” level where every moment is larger than life. It doesn’t help that the screenplay is set up more like a traditional sports film, with dialog that can be clunky and scenes simply building to the next boxing match.

But I’ve started complaining again when I really shouldn’t be. Creed II is an entirely enjoyable, well-crafted, well-directed, well-acted sports film. If Creed did not exist you’d come out of it having enjoyed a new Rocky film, and thinking that it was on par with what the franchise had become since the original film released. Maybe then the film is actually wildly successful in confronting its themes of the expectations put upon us by our predecessors. Here we have Creed II being criticized because it isn’t its “father.”

On any level, you could call Creed II a success, but it was never going to live up to its heritage. Maybe Creed II‘s true message is that it shouldn’t really have to.

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Creed II reviewed by Matthew Razak

GOOD

Solid and definitely has an audience. There could be some hard-to-ignore faults, but the experience is fun. How we score: The destructoid reviews guide

from SpicyNBAChili.com http://spicymoviechili.spicynbachili.com/review-creed-ii/

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homoerotixx · 7 years

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And I'll Pluck It From the Sky Just For You

[ONESHOT]

pairing: wontaek notes: my wrists are dying please save me words: 3,609

The starlight above shines brighter than before, blindingly so; the way it gleams on Wonsik's skin makes it look like it was crafted of the stars themselves.

"Do you wanna see something?" Wonsik suddenly asks. His voice punctures the thick silence around them and it startles Taekwoon just a little, though he hopes his jump hadn't been noticed. He looks owlishly in Wonsik's direction. Wonsik stares back at him intently.

"Hyung," he starts again, "do you wanna see something?"

Taekwoon tilts his head.

"Come with me."

Wonsik stands, dusting off his back and then offering out his hand. Taekwoon glances between Wonsik's face and it, his own tingling with the need to clutch on for dear life. He only tentatively reaches out instead. With the strength of an Adonis, Wonsik pulls him up.

They jump down from the wooden patio and suddenly, Wonsik sets out into a sprint in the tall grass. Taekwoon gasps, nearly stumbling over himself but jumping forward to catch his footing. Despite the bright moon and twinkling stars above, Taekwoon isn't sure how Wonsik can see in the night as they practically fly towards the treeline.

They pass the treeline before Taekwoon can protest—"You're too careful, hyung!" he hears in his head—and he fears tripping over tree roots and forest ground. Wonsik's impossible sure-footing, however, guides him easily with the reassurance that he won't hurt himself on anything. He wonders where they're going; the thickening forest all too quickly shrouds his home behind them.

"Where are we going?" he asks meekly, worry seeped into his tone.

"I won't hurt you," Wonsik replies. "I won't let you get hurt."

Taekwoon bites his lip.

With over-stretching lungs being crushed to their limits and a heart working double-time because of adrenaline and nerves, he's tiring out fast. But Wonsik would never let him get hurt. He trusts Wonsik. He may be a bit weird—other-worldly, even—but he always puts Taekwoon first.

But, "W-Wonsik, please, I'm—" he pants.

"We're almost there, promise!" Wonsik replies, and he doesn't sound anywhere close to breathless.

They must've run an eternity before Wonsik finally begins to slow. Taekwoon's leg muscles burn and scream at his mushy mind; he's ready to clock out. Wonsik guides him a little further until the treeline breaks again.

Taekwoon gasps, exhaustion forgotten. The revealed clearing is lined by tall trees that reach up into the sky for a sun that abandoned them, as if they want the moon to take its place and feed them. They prickle at the dark violet peppered with diamonds, shining the brightest Taekwoon has ever seen—he didn't even know it was possible for stars to illuminate like this.

The smell of pine scratches at his nostrils and he hardly pays attention to Wonsik until he begins to strip.

"Wh-What are you doing!" he worries, quickly covering his eyes.

"Hyung, no, watch!" Wonsik almost begs. "Please, you have to see me."

Taekwoon's hands tremble in front of his eyes; apprehension and fear are tight in his nerves because he's so far out of his comfort zone. With reluctance, he peeks through his fingers, only to yelp at seeing Wonsik's bare backside. He clamps down on his bottom lip to smother the hesitance so he can force his hands away from his face; he should at least try what Wonsik wants so badly to show him.

Wonsik smiles over his shoulder at him a bright and exciting thing and then turns towards the pond center of the clearing. Taekwoon follows in a worried step forward.

"You don't know how deep it is," he cries, eyes beginning to burn.

"That doesn't matter," Wonsik laughs, continuing without a care in the world.

Just as Taekwoon is going to rush to stop him, Wonsik steps into the pond—onto it. The calm water is solid under his feet; he walks on it as if it were frozen. Awed and terrified, Taekwoon cuts short, stinging eyes wide enough to pop from his skull.

The starlight above shines brighter than before, blindingly so; the way it gleams on Wonsik's skin makes it look like it was crafted of the stars themselves. Taekwoon rubs at his eyes, wondering if he was dreaming or not. Every inch of Wonsik's skin shimmers and the moon bathes him in such a radiant sheen that it could be nothing more than a mirage.

All Taekwoon's breath leaves his lungs. "Y-You . . . You're . . ."

Again, Wonsik beams over his shoulder and pure joy is alight in his sparkling eyes. "Here, you try!" he beckons. "But you need to take off your clothes first."

Heat floods Taekwoon's face at the thought and he wraps his arms around himself in embarrassment. "B-But . . . I'm not like you . . ." Not that he knows exactly what Wonsik is—what can walk on water and shine like the stars?

Wonsik turns around and Taekwoon has to cover his face up all over again. "I promise," he says, "it's okay. You can do it."

Taekwoon peeks through his fingers like a child. Wonsik stares at him with such earnest that it would be a shame to let him down just because he's horribly flustered.

He's not sure what else compels him—Wonsik's astonishing, baffling beauty or maybe he wants to feel it for himself—but his trembling fingers reach for the hem of his shirt and then pull it over, exposing his pale skin to the night air. His eyes widen at the sight of his arms beginning to shimmer under the moonlight.

"Wh-Wha—"

"You're doing it!" Wonsik cheers, hopping.

Shock is too locked into Taekwoon's system for embarrassment to stay set, and his pants are shucked off next. The revealed skin takes on a glowing glaze, blessed by gods themselves. He spins around excitedly in his spot, mesmerized as light refracts off of him.

He looks to Wonsik, his face reflecting the joy on the other's. Wonsik is laughing brightly, absolutely delighted, and he quickly shakes his hair out like a wet dog.

"Your hair!" Taekwoon exclaims, pointing with a rounded mouth.

Wonsik pulls at a lock expectantly, eyes lighting up even more at the sight of it glowing white. "It's happening!" He's almost vibrating with excitement. "C'mon, c'mon, you gotta hurry!" He motions at Taekwoon's underwear.

Some shyness and nerves return because Taekwoon still isn't sure what Wonsik is going on about—but he seems so excited and he is so beautiful, still stealing Taekwoon's breath away, so he can't do anything else but join him.

When his last piece of clothing is gone, Taekwoon's first step up to the shoreline is wobbly. The water grazes his toes as a hint that it wants nothing more than to pull him under; and surely if he tries to step on top of it like Wonsik is doing, his foot will only go right through.

"I-I—I can't." he whimpers, taking a step back.

Wonsik shakes his head. "You have to. Please, hyung? For me?" He peek up to the sky, eying the stars with urgency. "Please?"

Why is he so insistent? Taekwoon is merely human and Wonsik is . . . not. They aren't the same. Taekwoon will fall through the water.

"I promise, you can do it. Don't think about it, and you can do it."

His insistence wells frustrated tears in Taekwoon's eyes and he clenches them closed, setting his jaw. Why does Wonsik think he can do this? He can't. He can't.

"Hey."

Surprised, Taekwoon opens his eyes. Wonsik stands in front of him, apologies written into his expression. "I'm sorry."

Up close, his bronzed skin lined with patterns of stars from up above is even more dazzling. Taekwoon blinks a few times to get his bearings back. Wonsik's warm hand trails down his forearm to gently grasp his wrist.

"I'll help you."

Taekwoon's tears have accidentally spilled over but he nods dumbly. Wonsik steps back.

"Just close your eyes and let me lead, okay?"

"Okay." he whispers. "Okay." He wipes at his face, feeling silly, and then lets his eyes close again.

Wonsik steadily pulls on his wrist until his arm is fully extended. There's no choice but to follow forward. Fright launches his heart into his throat, but instead of his foot going right through the water, it's like he stepped onto midair.

Every horrible feeling comes to a halt. He opens his eyes again and looks down; under their touches is the calm water that reflects the sky, without ripple as if neither of them exist. He feels light as a feather at the sight. Wonsik takes another backwards step.

Dazed in amazement, Taekwoon lets himself be led forward. His brain simply can't process the fact that he's walking on water as if it's normal ground, as if it's the most natural thing in the world for him to be doing. He looks at Wonsik.

Wonsik grins ecstatically, the luster of diamonds reflecting in his dark eyes.

When they finally stop in the middle of the glassy pond, which seems far more vast all around than before, Wonsik looks up into the sky. Taekwoon marvels at his lovely countenance—like he's looking towards home, or a place he so longs to be. Wonsik looks back at him, determined.

"Do you trust me?" he asks.

Taekwoon blinks, caught off guard. "Do I . . ."

"Do you trust me?" he asks again, ardent.

What's he supposed to say? He doesn't not trust Wonsik. There's never been a reason not to trust him, but has there also ever been a reason to trust him. In fact, Taekwoon becomes aware of how out of his depth he is with Wonsik, how he doesn't know a single thing about him. He backtracks on his thoughts from before the forest, when they sat together on his porch and pointed out impossible shapes in the constellations: Wonsik won't hurt him, not ever. He believes that wholeheartedly, as real as the shimmer on the bodies, the vibrant glow from their clasped hands.

He trusts Wonsik.

Wonsik wouldn't hurt him.

He nods.

Wonsik's expression changes as if Taekwoon's response had been the very best thing in his whole life.

"You better hold on tight then, hyung." Wonsik weaves Taekwoon's arms around his waist and a hyper-awareness spreads through Taekwoon at their naked bodies pressing together almost too much. Heat begins to take over his face.

"H-Hold on for wh—"

Before he can finish, the water starts to ripple around them. The entire earth shakes to life, the trees sway back and forth in a synchronized dance only they know, praising the skies that held their life in the stars. The stars shine brighter and brighter, glow spanning so wide that it eats away at the dark violets and indigos. Goosebumps begin to overrun Taekwoon's body at the extraordinary display.

Wonsik's luminous hair flares around him and more swirls, lines, and stars manifest, claiming his skin for their own. It strained Taekwoon's eyes and he's almost afraid that he'll be burned to a crisp, but instead of white-hot pain, a soft warmth envelopes him, the kind one feels when coming home after a long winter's day. It soothes him right down to his core.

"You're so beautiful." he whispers in reverence.

Wonsik, maybe no longer Wonsik, glances down at him with icy, starlit eyes, a grin somehow visible on his face. "No, you're beautiful."

Taekwoon wants to reply, but they're suddenly jerked upwards, so rapid that all their bones should've snapped. Not even able to scream, he keeps his arms circled tight around Wonsik's waist for dear life and screws his eyes shut.

"Hyung," Wonsik's voice sounds fuzzy and distant in his brain. "Hyung, you can open your eyes now."

Taekwoon fervently shakes his head. He's so sure he'll die if he does.

"It's okay."

Gentle fingers grasp his jaw and lift his face.

"Open your eyes."

He does. His eyes flutter open.

He gasps.

They're surrounded. An endless sea of stars circle their every side. Taekwoon whips his head from all around—even if he had the rest of eternity to see it, there was no way he'd be able to see all of it. This is a face of the universe he's never known or seen before; home seemed like such a small and faraway place in this moment.

He hardly has the words to speak.

Wonsik's arm is slid securely around his waist, holding him close. "What do you think?" he asks.

Still in utter disbelief, Taekwoon slowly shakes his head. "I. . . It's . . ."

Wonsik laughs a warm sound that soaks into Taekwoon's skin. "Do you like it?"

All he can do was nod stupidly.

Wonsik is even more pleased and nuzzles against his neck and cheek. It brings Taekwoon back to himself and he looks at him—his skin has regained its natural tan, but patterns are still etched into it like ancient runes that gods wrote sacred prophecies on him for safekeeping, and his hair strands still seem spun from the purest, white gold starlight.

"You're still . . ." he breathes, raising a hand to run his fingers through it. It's so soft. "Are you human?"

Wonsik laughs again. Maybe it's a little late to be asking that. "You know the answer."

Enchantment with his hair and skin has Taekwoon completely wrapped around him. "You look like a star." he whispers, entranced with tracing a swirl down his cheek with a single finger.

"Close enough."

Taekwoon has to look away from Wonsik's staggering beauty. "Why did you want to show me this?"

The question sobers Wonsik's face just a little, smile faltering. "I . . . There wasn't a lot of time left." he says.

"Time?"

"For me."

"You?"

Wonsik sighs, but his face picks up a little more. "You should talk this much all the time."

Taekwoon can't stop himself from pinching him in the arm. He whines playfully. "Time for what?"

"I . . . I was being called home." he explains. "They were calling me." He looks wistfully to the stars, eyes dimming unnaturally. Taekwoon thinks that if his eyes went completely dark, he might die.

"Who?"

"The stars. They're my family. They want me home."

Taekwoon wants nothing more at that moment than to wipe the somberness from his face and return his radiant smile to where it belongs.

"So you have to leave?" he asks, trying not to sound unhappy. "And you wanted to show me . . . ?"

Wonsik turns back to him, determined. "I wanted you to see this. To know what it's like. I wanted you to feel this with me. Just one time . . ." His next laugh is tinged with bitterness. "Actually, I'm kinda breaking some rules by doing this. Humans aren't allowed out here like this. I'm sure I'll be made an exception with a little slap on the wrist." He winks.

A blush tickled at Taekwoon's cheeks. "I . . ." He looks to the expanse of glittering stars again, eternal in their spread. "Thank you. It's the most beautiful thing I've ever seen."

Wonsik chuckles, and Taekwoon turns back to him. "Not for me." He shakes his head. Taekwoon tilts his in confusion. "It's you. I've seen so many things, but it's you, hyung. You're the most beautiful being in existence."

Taekwoon doesn't have a chance to sputter or refute because Wonsik's tender hold is on his jaw again and he presses their lips together. There's such compassion in the way Wonsik kisses him, like anymore and he might accidentally crush Taekwoon. His wide eyes close in a new bliss and he kisses back, sliding his arms around Wonsik's inscribed neck.

There it is again—the warmth of coming home, filling Taekwoon's lungs, flooding through his veins, blanketing him all the way to his fingertips. It feels perfect, right.

When Wonsik unfortunately pulls back—it seems like far too soon—Taekwoon is breathless with rosy cheeks and pinked lips.

"I've always wanted to do that." Wonsik murmurs almost shyly, sliding his fingers along Taekwoon's hairline.

"Thank you." Taekwoon blurts.

"For what?"

"For showing me this. It's more than I could've ever dreamed of."

"Heh." Wonsik lets out. "I could say the same thing about you."

He's going to continue, but a chime sounded off in Taekwoon's head and they both stop. By the way Wonsik's face falls, it means something.

"It's time . . . You have to go."

"Me? I thought you had to go home." he asks, confused.

Wonsik shakes his head, simpering. "Taekwoon . . . I'm already home."

There's no room for Taekwoon to reply. Wonsik presses a last, soft kiss to his forehead and then simply . . . lets go.

Taekwoon's scream catches painfully in his throat.

He begins to plummet down, limbs drawn out in front of him as he falls backwards. Wonsik's figure shrinks into the ocean of stars, smaller and smaller until it's nothing but the brightest twinkle. Taekwoon doesn't have time to think about that as his stomach folds in on itself, freezing air slicing against his back, more being sucked from his exhausted lungs.

He's going to die. He plunges at faster and faster speeds, ones that will ensure he won't survive this. Time suspends because he can't tell how long it goes on, but it's an endless terror of existence, knowing this is the last part of his life he'll ever live.

Calm down.

A soothing voice graces up in his ear canal.

It's okay.

It triggers his pounding heart into steadily beginning to find its normal pace. He's still dropping, but the voice had pacified some of his dread.

The sky begins to morph into something more familiar—dark violet, only the stars aren't as luminescent as they were before. They're still plentiful, but have more numbers than shine. He'll hit the ground soon. It'll be over. It will end.

His peripherals show him just a single glance of the pine treetops, but they're still and low, having bowed under the moon's glory and calmed their unruliness. The moon must be happy to be free from being devoured. Overhead, he's able to catch a glimpse of a shooting star darting down from the sky sea.

After passing the trees, he meets with the water. It isn't a slam. It isn't bone-shattering. His body doesn't burst apart on impact. It's only falling into the water, a soft splash. It engulfs him like a freshly-laundered blanket.

Darkness.

And then, he opens his eyes.

⋆

Taekwoon sits up with a start. Dizzy and frantic, he glances around; it's his room, and morning light shines rays through the pulled curtains. He looks down at his blanket—yes, his blanket—warm and pooled around his waist.

Raising his trembling hands, he scrutinizes his skin and palms for any trace of the markings he'd seen before—before. Before, when? In a dream? A hallucination? Fever dream? He doesn't feel sick. He doesn't remember getting sick. His eyes trail up his arms. There's nothing there, no remnants of star shine.

He raises weak fingers to his lips. They feel . . . normal. At least, he thinks so. He closes his eyes and tries to recall; it takes a moment, but there it is: a warm feeling of assurance and safety.

It wasn't a dream.

Quickly, he pulls out of bed and begins searching the house. Both his parents worked in the morning and if his brain isn't failing him, the day is Sunday. They aren't around. He scours every nook and cranny for evidence that his mind hadn't fabricated such a fantastic dream.

He searches and searches, but there's nothing. He finally finds himself standing, forlorn, on the wooden porch, gazing longingly to the forest. He wants to go—but no. If it was a dream, then he needs to let it go. He wasn't a child anymore.

The realization doesn't stop dejection from weighing down his shoulders as he steps with a heavy heart back inside his house. He trudges to his room and then plops back down on his bed, wishing he'd never woken up to begin with. That falling sensation had been the worst . . .

As soon as he flops down, a tinkling noise makes him shoot right back up. He gazes alertly around the room—until something's glisten catches the corner of his eye. He looks to his nightstand.

At the corner is a mason jar, larger than average, covered with a silky mesh that's decorated with glitter and star-shaped silver confetti, and tied with a silver ribbon around the rim. His eyes widen—it definitely hadn't been there the day before. That isn't the most interesting part: inside of the mason jar is an impossibility, the shining, brilliant light of a star.

Taekwoon's breath is stolen.

Hurried, Taekwoon picks it up, having to wrap both his arms around it to carry, and then sprints through the house while trying not to trip over his feet. He breaks free of his front door and jumps over the porch, landing on the soft, tall grass.

With bright eyes, he looks up to the vibrant blue sky, eyes searching for something they won't be able to see during the day—he searches anyway.

Then, there it is: a star glimmering so bright that it shone past the veil of sunlight to greet him. His arms wind tighter around the jar as emotion swells through him, burning his nose and tightening his throat.

With watery, curved eyes he says, "Come back to me soon."

By the way the daylight star sparkles, Taekwoon doesn't have a single doubt he'll see Wonsik again.

#VIXX #Leo #Ravi #wontaek #oneshot #no warnings #fluff #starboy ravi #i hope it turned out as beautiful as i think it did because if not i'll cry a lot

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213hiphopworldnews · 5 years

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Meek Mill’s ‘Motivation Tour’ Stop In LA Proved He Hasn’t Lost A Step After His Long Absence

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Meek Mill hasn’t been on a tour since 2017, thanks to the machinations of the criminal justice system and one judge in Philadelphia who Meek and his attorneys say held a personal grudge against him throughout his case. But it’s safe to say, I think, that performing on stage is like riding a bike — at least, that’s how it looked Thursday night at the Hollywood Palladium for the Los Angeles stop of Meek’s Motivation Tour. The Championships rapper hasn’t lost a step or his flair for dramatic guest reveals and fiery, charismatic sets that take full advantage of his powerful voice and preference for thunderous, driving beats.

Some of that continued onstage comfort undoubtedly comes from Meek’s willingness to give the fans what they want. Usually, that means “play the hits,” but in his case, it means “play ‘Dreams And Nightmares (Intro).’” It’s like “Seven Nation Army” at a ball game, or maybe “We Will Rock You.” You will hear this song at a Meek Mill show and you will be forced, by shared energy or sense of obligation or just plain enjoyment of the moment, to turn up. It’s predictable, but only in the sense that Rocky — or Adonis, now — will win the final fight of the film. “Dreams And Nightmares” has become Meek’s unofficial theme song and it hits just as hard every time.

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But Meek also knows that you can’t just live off the fan favorites. You have to get those out of the way early and get to the other fun stuff so you can create a new set of favorites. Thursday night, he definitely led off with the predictable hit, but that only warmed up the crowd for him to launch into the triumphant comeback material from Championships. “Uptown Vibes” and “What’s Free,” received tremendous reactions and PNB Rock and newcomer Melii were welcome additions to the proceedings on their respective jams (“Dangerous” for PNB and “Wit The Sh*ts (W.T.S.)” for Melii).

Of course, the biggest crowd pops were reserved for the appearances of three other guest stars. One, LA hometown hero Nipsey Hussle, doesn’t have a song with his host, but the pair share a label home, Atlantic Records, as well as a rugged, no-nonsense business ethos rooted in their similar upbringings on the streets of their respective home cities. The crowd improbably livened up when Nipsey appeared, but when Nipsey brought a guest of his own in the form of Compton’s YG, with whom he ripped through a scintillating rendition of “Last Time That I Checc’d.”

Drake said Meek Mill had the best comeback of ALL TIME! pic.twitter.com/z39jeCcOBb

— UPROXX (@UPROXX) March 1, 2019

However excited the audience got when the two local legends took their bow, they practically turned the entire place upside as Drake sauntered onstage to deliver his verse from his and Meek’s Championships reunion, “Going Bad.” Looking around, not one person in the building wasn’t holding a phone, doing their best to get clean footage to prove to their friends and family that they were there when it happened. Even my own shot — for work purposes, I promise — is filled with other folks’ screens in the bottom third, which just goes to show how hard people were trying to get their shots over their neighbors.

I’m pretty tall — at least compared to most people — so what should have been an easy shot for me actually became difficult thanks to the stretches everyone else was making. Funnily enough, it was my second time at show where Drake popped up in as many months (he previously put in an appearance at ASAP Rocky’s February Forum set), but it was my first time actually seeing him in years, since I left the Forum literally five minutes before he came out a Rocky’s show. This time, I was skeptical he’d pop up at a smaller venue, but I’ve never been more glad to be wrong.

Soooo Drake at Meek Mill show at The Palladium pic.twitter.com/WaedxJItpA

— Aaron Smarter (@AaronSmarter) March 1, 2019

That being said, Meek didn’t really need Drake, or even Nipsey and YG, to control the stage and put on one of the better shows I’ve seen in a long time. There was no gimmickry. The stage design was simple but effective — a billboard-sized screen playing a few video clips on loop, mainly one proclaiming the name of the tour. An interesting thing about that: The screen was placed much further downstage (toward the front of the stage, near the audience), clipping the amount of area Meek had to cover. It felt odd at first, but the drama kid in me recognized its subtle, smart effect: It pushed the performers to stay closer to the audience, which actually redoubled the energy reverberation between them and the crowd.

What that means is, where usually, an artist might be tempted to use the negative space to shy away from the crowd, catching a break or feel the need to roam to fill it up, Meek and company were stuck face front right on the lip. The space they had to cover was halved, giving them a little bit of a break from having to keep the crowd’s attention from wandering to that negative space and keeping them right in the “splash zone,” which kept both the crowd and the artists totally engaged with each other. I liked it and I hope to see it again. It’s the sort of thing you pick up as a veteran of stagecraft, which is exactly what Meek is.

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His openers were also pretty good at keeping that energy, because like Meek, they’ve been around long enough to hone that aspect of their craft. Kash Doll may just be getting a buzz now, but her earliest work dates back almost five years. She clearly used her time out of the spotlight to prepare well for her time in it. Likewise, Lil Durk has accumulated plenty of reps since his early days dropping mixtapes in the city of Chicago’s infamous drill days. Both openers set up Meek well and were excellent selections since they share similar, street-centric sensibilities and appeal to similar demographics. There was never a moment of “Who?” which is always a danger when an A-lister brings newer or less popular artists on tour with them. In this case, there was a definite sense that things were building up to the epic moment when Meek would take the stage.

And it was an epic moment. When a performer has been away for so long, it can be tempting — especially in hip-hop — to give up on them, to decide that they’re washed up, to slide them a little further down the totem pole of relevance in the fast-moving climate of today’s rap scene. Meek’s clearly maintained his relevance and kept his skills as sharp as ever. He has every right to revel in the exultant vibe of Championships and fans should hope that he never has to take such a long break again.

Meek Mill and Nipsey Hussle are Warner Music artists. Uproxx is an independent subsidiary of Warner Music.

source https://uproxx.com/hiphop/meek-mill-motivation-tour-live-review-palladium/

#hiphop #hip hop legend #hip hop history #hip hop #music #trending #hip hop news #ballin #hip hop scen

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flauntpage · 6 years

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NBA Trade Value Rankings!

If the Houston Rockets suddenly let it be known that James Harden was available for a trade, how much could they get for him? More or less than the Milwaukee Bucks could get for Giannis Antetokounmpo? What about a theoretical proposition to trade the two superstars for each other: Would the Bucks or Rockets hang up first?

This sort of hypothetical thought exercise is forever the most enjoyable and contentious way to draw someone into an entertaining conversation about the NBA. It's responsible for a string of some of the more digestible and refreshing NBA columns you'll read, and in a league that’s increasingly influenced by the collective bargaining agreement, it doubles as a useful way to look at where the sport is along with where it may be going.

Present-day skill and net impact are key components when ranking players based on their trade value, along with contract length/worth, age, injury history, and potential. (Kawhi Leonard and Jimmy Butler are top-12 players who’re easily better than several names listed below, but neither cracked the list because trading for just about anyone on the final year of his contract is too risky.)

In today’s NBA, one of the most valuable and increasingly rare commodities is certainty. Having someone under your control who you know is good can matter more than a superior talent who can either bolt or subsequently demand a massive contract sooner than later. Risk also applies to players who have health-related question marks or are teetering near the edge of a statistical fall off.

I’m sure everyone who reads this will 100-percent agree with everything that I write because that’s how the internet usually works, but before you do I should note the obvious: there’s no scientific way to parse out which factors are more valuable than others. Think of it more as a subjective attempt to rank these players outside their current team-specific roles and responsibilities, while also projecting how much they outperform their contract. In some cases, what matters is the unknown—i.e. growth potential, development, and looming decline. It allows two people who know what they’re talking about to conduct a healthy debate about whether a decorated veteran at his peak is worth more than an up-and-comer who has no ceiling.

Without further ado, let's dive into my top 15.

(Apologies to: Paul George, Devin Booker, Russell Westbrook, Damian Lillard, Jamal Murray, Bradley Beal, Gordon Hayward, Kristaps Porzingis, Draymond Green, Rudy Gobert, Clint Capela, every incoming rookie, and half a dozen more who I definitely forgot.)

15. Kevin Durant

Let’s say you’re happily married to someone you love. They’re awesome. You’re more than ready to settle down, start a family, and set forth on a new, rewarding, priceless chapter with them by your side every step of the way. Joy! Then, one day, like an irresistible wrecking ball, Rihanna slips into your DMs and asks for your number. Do you pursue, step face first into an uncertain future, knowing there are strong odds you’ll be single in a few weeks? Or do you spurn the once-in-a-million-lifetimes chance some men would literally go to prison for, even knowing you’ll forever wonder what could’ve been had you answered her question? Decisions, decisions.

Durant is about to turn 30 as an expiring free agent who’s particularly unpredictable, but sometimes a player is too damn good for anything else to matter. He is not the mysteriously hampered Kawhi Leonard or emotionally enigmatic Jimmy Butler. This is a two-time Finals MVP who eviscerates opponents for fun—potentially one of the 15 greatest players who ever lived when it’s all said and done. Durant transcends rationale, and putting him in the top ten isn’t close to crazy. If an opportunity to harness that inconceivable, league-quaking talent presents itself, then throwing it all away just for a few months of pleasure may, in some cases, be totally worth it. Life is short. Shoot your shot. Dance like nobody's watching.

14. Jaylen Brown

13. Brandon Ingram

It's hard to separate these two wings as long-term projects, even though both have discernibly different playing styles. The rookie-to-sophomore season improvement made by Ingram was breathtaking. As he focused less on scoring from beyond the arc (not the most hopeful trend, but the guy turned 21 earlier this month so we’ll cut him some slack), Ingram upped his playmaking chops and his overall efficiency despite carrying a higher offensive burden. While his frail frame seemingly obfuscates how aggressive he’s willing to be, Ingram was elite at drawing fouls last year. He’ll be one of the league’s premier bucket-getters before too soon; having him on a rookie-scale deal for the next two years before he becomes a restricted free agent makes him a lock somewhere on this list.

Players like Brown, a 21-year-old two-way wing with limitless athleticism who shot 40.2 percent from beyond the arc and successfully squeezed his game into a title contender’s infrastructure, do not grow on trees. Instead of viewing him as a role player, it may be more intuitive to highlight the glimpses of All-Star potential Brown showed last year, during an impressive season in which Boston was miles better with him on the floor.

The ability to make teammates better has yet to be seen, but opportunities to showcase that side of his game have been few and far between; any attempt would be, thus far, accurately seen as an unwanted step outside his lane. In the long-term, do not doubt Brown’s capacity to learn and execute on the fly. There’s an attractive rawness to his game, one that hints at an inevitable rise to a higher tier. At his disposal is every physical instrument needed to shine in a league that values versatility, strength, speed, and relentless dynamism.

12. Victor Oladipo

Oladipo’s ascension at the age of 25, in the first season of a reasonably-priced $21 million-per-year contract, makes him that dude. The context can’t be ignored—he was traded to an organization that crafted its entire personality around his gifts—but a vast majority of what Oladipo accomplished last year can be attributed to his own drive. He was a first-time All-Star who made third-team All-NBA, won Most Improved Player, and cracked an All-Defensive team. (Oladipo nearly doubled his steals per 36 minutes.)

He’s a franchise player, and a testament to how fast status can shift in the NBA. Two years ago, Oladipo was Westbrook’s flailing sidekick. Last year, he was part of a trade that was widely viewed as lopsided in favor of the team that sent him away. Today, the Pacers wouldn’t even think about moving Oladipo for George or Westbrook. (Not that it means all that much, but neither player is on this list.)

11. Nikola Jokic

10. Joel Embiid

9. Karl-Anthony Towns

It is impossible to rank these three without feeling like you messed up. Each stands at least seven feet tall with preternatural gifts. Each has yet to celebrate his 25th birthday. Each has recently signed a five-year contract worth between $146-190 million.

Embiid is sandwiched between two players who’re held back by defensive deficiencies, while his own proven dominance on both ends makes a first-overall finish on next year’s list conceivable. It’s exhausting to bring up his various injuries, and how badly they marred the start of his career, but it’s understandable to want more than one season of top-shelf production before vaulting him any higher. Meanwhile, Towns has yet to miss a game and possesses a near-flawless offensive repertoire. His touch is 50/40/90 accurate, which is completely unfair inside his Adonis body.

Jokic is not cut like Towns, but pairs similar shooting numbers with fantastic rebounding acumen and some of the most comically avant-garde passes you will ever see. When compared to the other two, Towns nudges past by a hair because his contract lasts one season longer and there are no options. He’s two years younger than Embiid and one year younger than Jokic, with zero health concerns and, well, if he can figure out how to rotate from the weakside, the league won't have a more dominant player.

8. Donovan Mitchell

7. Ben Simmons

6. Jayson Tatum

It’s tempting to compare Tatum with Simmons. Both will eventually (if not already) be expected to escort a historic NBA franchise to the promise land for the foreseeable future. And it's reasonable to assume their biggest obstacle will be each other.

Tatum ranks one spot ahead for a few reasons: He’s almost two years younger, has one more year on his rookie-scale contract, outplayed Simmons in last year’s playoffs (including a series in which they were matched up head-to-head for several pivotal possessions), and only one of them dunked on LeBron.

Beyond a silly and fruitless head-to-head comparison, Tatum is shaping up to be a splendid bridge between the league’s old and new school, with the toolbox of a traditional scoring champion crossed with a threatening wingspan, insatiable work ethic, and effortless three-point shot. Tatum is fearless, hungry, and already comfortable with or without the ball in his hands, in the biggest moments on the most consequential stage.

Guarding him one-on-one is already not possible. He can create space from just about any spot on the court yet also understands the need to be selfless. The fact that he’s only 20 years old, still three years away from max-contract eligibility (upon which he’ll earn as a restricted free agent), means there’s only a tiny handful of players the Celtics would move him for; all are already established as perennial top-five guys.

None of this is to take away from Simmons, who has "best player in the universe" qualities and within a few years may be the best passer on Earth. Most teams don't have anyone who can even think about guarding him. He's a 6'10" lightning bolt. But even though his coach says he won't be defined by his jump shot, Simmons will be defined by his jump shot. It's a critical glitch in an otherwise perfect game. Tatum has no such flaw.

Mitchell ranks below Tatum because of his age (22) and below both because of his size. He’s already shown an ability to thrive as the lead ball-handler on a very good playoff team—and should see his efficiency bolstered by healthy Ricky Rubio and Dante Exum sharing more responsibilities next season—with vision and flair that can best be described with the word absurd. But he doesn’t have the defensive upside Simmons or Tatum share, two huge wings who will be able to defend four or five positions by the time they reach their prime.

That said, building an elite offense around Mitchell shouldn't be too hard. He's an ideal building block, with Dunk-Contest-winning athleticism and the same contract situation as Tatum. Scary.

5. Steph Curry

This is a little self-explanatory. Curry is still a mirage. He turns 31 this year, but has revolutionary ability that may pummel Father Time in ways we haven’t seen before. So much of his game is about finesse and expertise, panic-inducing movement that can’t really be game-planned to stop.

Curry is the NBA’s highest-paid player—deservedly so, being that this era will ultimately be defined by his three-point shot—but the value of having him under contract for the next four years, without a player option, may outweigh the $166.4 million he’s still due (especially under a salary cap that’s expected to reach $118 million by 2021).

Age combined with frequent health issues knock Curry down to five, even though, sentimental weight aside, it’s hard to imagine Golden State exchanging him for anybody in the world.

4. Anthony Davis

It’s reasonable to believe that Davis can be the world’s best player before he turns 26, and then hold onto that spot for (at least) half a decade. His peak is a hazy dunk-everything/block-everything-else nightmare that, when mixed with a legitimate three-point shot, perimeter skills, and consistent Defensive Player of the Year intangibles, may permanently position him above everyone else.

Why he’s not number one? Only two more seasons remain before the most anticipated free agency decision since Durant supplemented a dynasty in Northern California. (Semi-related: On his current contract, Davis will earn less money than Otto Porter.) He recently hired Rich Paul as his agent, too. That may not be a great sign for 29 teams.

3. Giannis Antetokounmpo

Giannis has stopped growing, but would you even blink if someone told you he still is? There are priceless advantages in his game, with a body that was designed to dominate. He’s almost exactly ten years younger than LeBron (23 freaking years old!) and under contract for the next three seasons, scheduled to make the same amount of money as Steven Adams.

I don’t think Giannis will be one of the three best players in the league next season, but a(nother) breakout is possible, if not likely. And even though he’ll be an unrestricted free agent in 2021, having Bird Rights for a player who’s still improving and will be worth every penny on his next deal assuages some worry from the situation. Unlike the two players ranked ahead of him, age-related decay is out of the question. He ranks below them because his jump shot is technically still a legitimate question mark, and it’s impossible to crown someone who’s yet to win a playoff series.

Then again, do the Bucks move him for anybody in the league? Probably not.

2. James Harden

In the first draft of this article I had Harden at number one. Coming off his first MVP season, he just turned 29 and is under contract for the next four seasons (with a $46.8 million player option in 2023). He’s one of the NBA’s best scorers, passers, and ball-handlers, with timeless strength and a skill-set that succinctly meshes with the league’s modern aesthetic.

His attack leans on traits that should age well through his current deal, and meaningful decline may not be visible for another few years. The dollars are massive, but, even with logic that applies to just about any team that has an MVP candidate in his prime, it’s so hard to imagine a scenario where the Rockets trade Harden before his pact expires. He doesn't have the defensive impact like Davis or Giannis, but his overall impact is powerful enough to lift a team to championship contention, so long as certain pieces are around to help out.

Will Harden be better than Giannis three years from now? Probably not. But it may not be so clear, and I'd like to think that not having to worry about Harden's free agency for an additional year matters, though it's clearly fluid at the top.

1. LeBron James

There’s only one LeBron. Even though he turns 34 in December, him finally locking into a contract that’s longer than one season makes him the most important and reliable foundational piece in basketball. Still!

His invincible armor will eventually chip away, but nobody knows when exactly that day will happen. If it’s four years from now instead of three, having the best player alive on your team until then virtually guarantees success, relevancy, and unparalleled attention. And even when James isn’t unanimously viewed as the best of the best, watching him navigate life as a second fiddle in search of more championship rings will be fascinating, especially if he's at a point in his career where he's willing to take a pay cut.

What he did during last year’s postseason was poised virtuosity, with the second-highest usage rate of his career, averaging an insane 34 points per game and competing one-on-five in a Finals that could’ve been more competitive had his epic 51-point, 8-rebound, 8-assist Game 1 ended with a questionable call going the other way, or George Hill making a free throw, or J.R. Smith knowing where he was. This man is rewriting the rules as he goes along, physics, history, and logic be damned.

There’s still no player in the league any team would keep off the table if the Lakers called with an offer. Which they would never do. Because we’re talking about LeBron.

NBA Trade Value Rankings! published first on https://footballhighlightseurope.tumblr.com/

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