#also i have very choice words for giannis

[realtapiocafan]

YEAHHH, CELTICS WIN!!!!

[msfbgraves]

So…Daniel went into Heat immediately after he and Terry ‘made up’. Obviously, things aren’t perfect between them yet but…my question is this: 

when an omega goes into Heat, there is a desperate desire to have sex. Considering the rape that took place that caused all of this misery, would something like this alleviate the fear that Daniel might feel being intimate with Terry again? After all, Daniel was still flinching when Terry merely held his hand, and now he’s going to have sex with him. That’s a huge jump. Would going into a Heat help the intimacy, rather than hinder intimacy? Because Daniel will want it so bad, it’ll block/numb any other fears he would have otherwise.

I suppose in this case, this Heat was the best thing that could have happened. Otherwise I don’t think Daniel would’ve jumped into bed with Terry so eagerly and with least resistance. Even with their sweet scene at Michael’s wedding, I am not sure Danny would have been ready to engage in the same thing with Terry that broke his heart. 

One last question: what was the song that Terry played/sung at the wedding? I loved the lyrics :)

The song is called So In Love and is by Cole Porter. It is from 1948, so I am maybe 2 to 3 years early but it's an AU maybe inspiration struck a little sooner.

On the one hand, yes, Daniel can still feel the assault in his body, but he also misses Terry's loving touch. He already seeks Terry out in his sleep before and cuddles in when Terry protects him (or thinks that what he's doing).

And the fact Daniel goes into heat also means that a lot of intimacy feels good between them. Had he not, yes, the seeking each other out again would have been far more drawn out, though it would still have happened. If Daniel won't kill Terry and Terry wouldn't ever give Danny up - something he re-established yet again with that song - this is the only other choice. And by now they also have years of a good marriage between them.

It isn't all OK. It's taken a huge toll on Daniel, on the pups, and through his own stupid fault on Terry. They'll have to figure it out. Terry will have to create a real place among the LaRussos. Daniel (and we see him do this after Anthony's birth) will have to get involved in business a bit more. They'll have to talk more (something Terry is now less likely to shut down because he knows how terrible it is to have Daniel truly upset with him).

Daniel is very fragile during Anthony's pregnancy, if he is over the moon to have his home and his puppies and yes, his mate too - because he did miss him. And Anthony is a very, very happy puppy so that is a great joy as is not missing any more of Gianni's time. It seems like business as usual a lot but it takes a good while for Daniel and Terry's ease to come back - though by then their bond has intensified, too. Michael also keeps a closer eye on him, and Daniel accompanies Apollonia to a few omega spaces, though it turns out the girl doesn't really need it as she is a force to be reckoned with - she can out-Italian anyone but Lucille and Lisa! Soon she takes over Daniel's house from time to time, because his pups are getting too American, and she's the only one who, later, can get Anthony to behave with just one word. But it's mostly so Daniel can get back to himself, she's not forgotten how upset he was.

[waterloggedsoliloquy]

a book i’m working my way through that i DO like: The Grammar of Fantasy: An Introduction to the Art of Inventing Stories by Gianni Rodari

This book’s title is very literal! It deals with the word choice, word placement, and structural essence of storytelling. The chapters are more like conversational essays or editorials, and Rodari’s history as a teacher (and as a communist) shine through. Many of his analyses of storytelling and storycrafting come from a lens of making education engaging for students, and reforming how things are taught within the classroom. His perspective of mostly teaching elementary schoolers makes the techniques he describes feel accessible, rather than a disciplinary slog. 

There are muses of the psychology as well: why do these techniques work? How are they engaging? What do children gain from them? What do adults gain from them? “Why do children like riddles so much? My hunch is that it is because they represent the concentrated form -- and are somewhat emblematical-- of their experience of conquering reality. For a child, the world is full fof mysterious objects, incomprehensible events, and indecipherable figures. Their own presence in the world is a mystery to be resolved, a riddle to solve, and they circle around it with direct or indirect questions....In these challenges, children’s feelings of security are reinforced, their capacity to grow, their pleasure in existing and knowing.” 

It’s a book that is teaching me a lot... I don’t really write my stories "for" kids, even my kid-friendly ones; I guess for a while the process of "how" had eluded me. I certainly don’t want to condescend to my audience, and I think a lot of children’s literature-- or the people who decide what literature should be in children’s hands-- fall into that pit well enough on their own without my contributions. It also would just be plain unfun to write, having to second-guess everything I put into a story to make sure it’s “appropriate” for whatever arbitrary class of child I’ve decided it’s “for”. 

What makes a story of mine "for kids", then, must be some storytelling mechanism disconnected from the stated/perceived complexity of the story or how it’s presented. Big words and nuance can make some works inaccessible to some kids, but all my stories will be inaccessible to kids if i don't take into account a child’s perspective of story and their own relationship towards storytelling. 🤔 If Rodari says children approach stories as a means of “conquering reality”, then that’s what I have to keep in mind: I need to write from a place of wonder, not know-how. The only thing different between a child and an adult is experience, so i suppose the way of doing it is “Instead of assuming my reader is understanding of this concept, introduce it in a way that my reader feels as though it is able to be understood, and tell a story that helps them do so.” 

"The world can be looked at from the height of a man, but also from a cloud (airplanes have made this easy for us). Reality can be entered through the main door or it can be slipped into through a window, which is much more fun.” so says Rodari.

[essieeeeeeeee]

FUCK IT, i’m posting part 1. no title yet, so it’s just “bad touch villain fic” for now until I can get my act together enough to come up with one.

may I just start by saying that I love how we all as a fandom have collectively taken one look at our guy Shaw and thought: this boy needs to get fucked.

on a separate but equally important note, Transporter 2 may have been an absolute train wreck of a movie, but it gave me the gift of some quarter-dressed villain chick licking up the side of Jason Statham's face while he exudes such gay "I'd rather be literally anywhere else than here in this moment" energy, so there's that.

i’m fucking wheezing, man. his face.

anyways, in case it’s not obvious, I’ve stolen the T2 villain couple and threw them into here instead, so if you’re curious about what they look like, feel free to look them up (Gianni Chellini and Lola). this isn’t a crossover, it’s just me being lazy and stealing characters from other movies and playing with them.

a’ight, here we go with part 1. will get part 2 out relatively soon, I think. hopefully. god, I’m so slow at writing, guys.

----------

The bell above the door chimes merrily as Shaw pushes it open and steps into the diner, breathing in the homey scent of grease and caffeine that wafts out at him the moment he crosses the threshold. He lingers in the entryway - tucking his sunglasses carefully into his front left suit pocket, and letting his eyes drag over the establishment in a quick, practiced once-over.

American, is the first thought that comes to mind. Tacky, the second, though he supposes that’s a given, considering the first.

To be fair, it isn’t the worst diner he’s ever stepped foot in - that dubious honor went to a crusty hole in the wall in New Jersey, the name of which he couldn’t and didn’t really care to recall - but even so, the place isn’t exactly what he’d expected from a meet and greet with the CIA.

It's… lively, for starters. 

Shaw skims his gaze over the laminate red and white booths, the worn looking tabletops sticky from dots of leftover syrup. Bright sunlight peeks through the big windows, now that the storm clouds are dissipating in the frankly oven-like California weather.  Patrons chat loudly from each corner of the room. It's open and cheery and packed with parents and their tiny screaming sprogs, and all of it's already giving him a very sleep-deprived headache.

Shaw can pinpoint every word of the conversation that’s happening six booths to his left, too, which means privacy won't be much of a concept here either.

Strange choice in location, he thinks, for a debrief with top secret government information regarding a world-ending cyber death cult.

Deckard shrugs off the discomfort of it all, though. Partly because he honestly can't muster up enough of a fuck to give, and partly due to the fact that the smell of freshly brewed coffee has been relentlessly beckoning him forward since the initial whiff of it hit him from the doorway. He takes a quick moment to map out the visible exits, more habit than anything - front door, side door, likely a back one through the kitchen if needs must - and, once satisfied with his perusal, makes his way towards the bulky figure in the back right corner that’s stuck out like a mountain among mole hills since Shaw first walked into the place.

“Hobbs,” he mutters wearily, and spares a grimace at the grungy empty seat across the table. He resignedly lowers himself into it anyways.

The lawman’s eyes flick up from the plate in front of him, and he doesn’t look all that surprised; but Shaw knows it’s because he caught Hobbs’ gaze since the moment he stepped out of the rental car in the lot outside.

They’re both just a couple of paranoid bastards like that, he supposes.

And Hobbs looks - good. Better than the last time Deckard's seen him, awkwardly parting ways at a terminal in LAX, the both of them littered with bruises and scrapes that were only a small testament to the absolute shitshow they'd somehow just survived. Now it seems the bigger man's nicks are less than scabs, and the large bruise Hobbs had been sporting across his left temple at the time is nearly gone.

Shaw grudgingly notes that he's also been nursing his own wounds, and steadily healing, if slowly. His right shoulder still twinges when he moves it the wrong way, paracetamol continues to be a three times a day affair, and the spastic tick in his left hand hasn't quite let up since Brixton's electroshock therapy session, but overall - things are better.

His ribs still ache something fierce, though. Fractured, likely. Not that he's about to whine about it.

“Tinkerbell,” Hobbs greets, and then blithely stuffs another bite of the fried monstrosity that sits on his plate into his mouth. Shaw’s grimace deepens. “You’re late.”

“Blame your shitty weather. Flight delay.” Deckard ignores the insult; he's too fucking tired to pick up Hobbs' volley today. Instead, he leans forward, careful to avoid the greasy stain at the edge of the table, and gets straight to the point. “Where’s your contact?”

Because that was the obvious missing piece here, wasn’t it? Shaw didn’t come traipsing all the way to Los Angeles just to witness the Hulk stuff his oversized mug with substandard diner fare.

Two weeks out from Samoa - two weeks of very different, yet equally consequential family reunions, of settling affairs that only a forty-eight hour hotseat on every major news channel in the world can cause - and now it was time to get down to business. Hobbs’ CIA friend had promised intel. Shaw may be reluctant to forego his solo status for another team-up with Ms. America here, but he wasn’t an idiot. Information on Eteon didn’t exactly just rain from the sky.

Nine years of hunting the bastards down on his lonesome taught him that much.

Besides: the fact that Hattie’s life wasn’t on the line with this one left Deckard feeling a mite less prickly. Hobbs may be an annoyance, but he's at least a tolerable one.

“Also late,” Hobbs says, glancing down at his watch. Then the man sighs, and rubs at his temples in a way that makes Shaw wonder exactly what he’s getting into, here. “But he’ll probably show up -”

“- fashionably late and with Starbucks? You bet your perky muscled ass I will, Rebecca.”

Deckard startles a little in his seat, because where the fuck did this arsehole just come from, and his hand reflexively slides over the utensils on the table in front of him, but he smothers the instinctive urge to lodge one into the meat of the thigh that's suddenly appeared at his side. The scruffy, grinning man it's attached to seems to catch the movement, from the way his eyes dart down to the table. He shifts, just slightly, away from Shaw.

Smart fucker.

And no sensible shoes, either. That was interesting.

"Locke," Hobbs says, resigned, scooting in to make a little room as Scruffy slides himself into the seat left behind.

"Aw, don't be like that, Becky," the man whines, and Shaw can't help but mouth a bewildered 'Becky?' at Hobbs with raised brows. Hobbs only drops his head and rubs at his temples a little harder. "You know my delicate emotions can't handle the strain."

"You brought Starbucks. Into a diner."

"Never judge a man for his grande quad nonfat one-pump no-whip mocha habit, Lukas. Gosh, have I taught you nothing?"

"I can sincerely say," Hobbs grinds out, and Shaw is somewhat delighted by the disgruntled twist in the other man's features, "that the only thing you've ever taught me is the true meaning of patience."

"Don't you sass your father like this in front of company, young man. Already in the rebellious teenage phase, Christ, they grow up so fast, don't they?"

"Like mold," Deckard drawls. The disgruntlement on Hobbs' face grows deeper.

"Ha," he says, flatly. "What'aya got for us, Locke?"

"Don't rush me, sweetums, I'm famished," CIA titters, enthusiastically waving down one of the bustling waitresses. Deckard's somewhat grateful for it; he'd murder for a coffee, and that wasn't a metaphor. "And, what, no introduction? The manners on you today."

Hobbs sighs. Shaw honestly can't help but be somewhat amused by the balls this bloke must have, riling up the lawman like this. He's not sure quite yet what to think about Chatterbox - intriguing or just downright irritating - but he can at the very least admit that anyone who can put that level of utter frustration into Hobbs' eyes was worth looking into.

"Shaw, meet Locke," Hobbs says, waving impatiently at the agent beside him, who wriggles his fingers at Shaw in greeting while slurping loudly around his straw. "Locke, meet Harry Potter's uglier cousin."

Deckard scowls.

"Well fuck me sideways, but Dudley sure grew up nice, didn't he?" Locke says, and - Shaw’s actually a bit flattered to see the agent’s eyes flick over him lasciviously.

But before he can quite unravel that one, a server appears at the table edge, shooting a wide, familiar smile in Hobbs' general direction. "Can I get you boys anything?"

Locke straightens in his seat. "I'll take one of everything."

"No he won't," Hobbs snaps, smacking the idiot’s shoulder with the back of his hand.

"You're so right, snookums, gotta watch that girlish figure." Locke rubs his arm with a wince, beaming at the woman, who's started to look a bit flustered at this point, poor dove. "I'll take a number two, extra syrup, extra mayo."

She nods slowly, and turns to Deckard, as though hoping to re-establish some sort of normality.

He takes pity on her. "Coffee, thank you. Black.”

"To match his soul," Hobbs mutters around a sip from his own cup.

"To match my shoe," Shaw corrects with a tight smile. "Going up your arse."

Hobbs snorts. "Think you got that one twisted, son."

"Think you might want to start ponderin' the merits of a wing-tipped enema. Son."

"Jesus, you two are adorable," Locke interjects, resting his chin in his hands as the waitress pours out the coffee and shuffles nervously away. "Like some sort of walking, talking, opposites-attract, enemies-to-lovers, sixty-nine kay slow-burn. Is there a kudos button hiding around here somewhere?"

Shaw can't interpret even half of that. He has a strong inkling that he should probably just shoot the man for it anyway.

"You wanna get to the point, chuckles, before I put your head through this table?" Deckard says. He drums his fingers casually against said tabletop, just to make his own point that much clearer.

Entertaining as Hobbs’ little motormouth of a friend has been, Shaw has just spent the better of his last twenty-four hours on a transatlantic red eye: he's exhausted. Even a verbal spar with Hobbs isn't quite giving him the usual spike of adrenaline it deserves. The only thing he wants more right now than the coffee in his hand is his head on the pillow of a hotel room bed, and CIA here was the last obstacle standing in the way of that particular goal.

Not a safe place to be, generally speaking.

"And oddly in sync with your threats, too," Locke muses. He shifts back in his seat, though, and quickly raises his hands in surrender when Shaw leans forward menacingly. "Right, yes, ok, the point! I, ah. I definitely have one of those."

Finally, he digs into the bag at his side, hastily pulling out a few manila files. He slides them across the table towards the two of them. Shaw lets the murder in his eyes simmer down a bit as he snatches up his own.

“So, the Snowflake,” Locke starts. “Turns out the late professor wasn’t the only one with his hands in that diabolical cookie jar - ”

Scruffy keeps talking, but Shaw stops listening the moment he opens up the folder and skims his eyes down the first page.

Oh, shit, he thinks.

His stomach makes a very abrupt descent to his knees.

Because there, tucked under a paperclip in the top right corner, is a set of photographs. Generic, really. Black and whites, likely mugshots from the look of them. A man and a woman - staring straight towards the camera, little smirks nestled in the corners of their mouths like poorly hidden secrets. Shaw’s gaze traces over the sharp curve of a cheekbone, an aristocratic nose.

The faces staring up at him are jarringly familiar, in the worst possible ways.

The kinds of ways, in fact, that suddenly makes it very tempting to get up from the table and walk away, as quickly as possible.

“-ellini and Lilian Nuata,” Locke says, pointedly tapping the photos in his own file, and it’s as though the world’s volume has abruptly turned back up again. Shaw blinks, then snaps his eyes back up to the two men across the table from him. He blanks his face to cool disinterest when he finds Hobbs staring back at him.

Deckard’s not sure what kind of expression worked its way across his face while he took in the literal goddamn nightmare in his hands, but the perplexed look Hobbs shoots him makes Shaw think it wasn’t as subtle as he would have hoped.

"You know 'em?" Hobbs asks.

And fuck, but that's a loaded question. Shaw can feel his face twist like he’s sucked a lemon. It's completely involuntary, and he hates himself for the tell.

“We’ve… met,” he answers, somewhat honestly.

As if 'met' could ever sum up the amount of sheer overwhelming fuckery their run-ins entailed. Shaw covers his discomfort with a fortifying sip of his coffee.

It curdles in his stomach.

"Oh, good," Locke says, almost obliviously cheerful. "Then you probably know just how pants shittingly insane our Harley Quinn and Joker duo here are."

Bit more than you'd think, Shaw muses with faint dread. 

"Nuata's the big brain behind our little Snowflake," Locke continues. "Andreiko may have invented the capsules that carried it, but the whole organ-melting, blood-spitting, eugenics genocidal virus shebang? That's her bouncing bundle of joy." The man takes another flippant slurp of his latte. The sound grates on Deckard's nerves, but he's feeling a bit too numb to give much of a shit about it.

"And Chellini?" Hobbs asks. The lawman's still shooting curious glances Deckard's way, and Shaw figures that's his cue to stop acting the part of nervous wallflower.

"Muscle," he finally speaks up. The word somehow comes out normally, despite the fact that Shaw's throat is feeling drier than the Sahara. "But also happens to have a brain, unlike someone else I know."

Hobbs' semi-concerned expression falls back into an irritated scowl. That’s good. Deckard doesn't need the man's cautious hovering. 

They may have a somewhat decent, if not entirely amicable working relationship now, but Shaw wasn't about to dump his sordid histories into Hobbs' lap. They weren't friends. 

Deckard didn't really know what they were at this point, actually, but it certainly wasn't that. 

"Nuata can take care of herself, but they're… formidable, together," Deckard continues, before Hobbs can open his mouth. "They're sadists. Like to play with their food before eating it."

"And you've… met, huh?"

Something about Shaw's voice must have been slightly off, because the concern is creeping its way back into Hobbs' eyes. It makes Shaw's skin itch in irritation; he's not some child to be coddled and fretted over. Best to cut that nonsense off right here and now.

"Worked with 'em on a job once." Deckard shrugs, nonchalant, and leans back in his seat. "Briefly. Didn't quite appreciate their methods, so we parted ways."

It's the truth, if a heavily edited one. Either way, the mission is accomplished: the concern vanishes immediately.

"Of course you worked with them," Hobbs snorts bitterly. "Looney tunes here sound just your speed. What kind of job they end up luring you in with, anyway? Selling poison to toddlers? Murdering puppies in Tokyo?"

Ah. Well - ouch.

That one hit somewhat closer to home than likely intended, going by the expression of mild regret on Hobbs' face moments after the words leave his mouth. The sting of it is sudden, surprisingly unexpected, and altogether earned, really. It’s an abrupt reminder that even in the wake of Samoa, there’s still a decent amount of unpacked baggage between the two of them. The kind of baggage that comes with literal skeletons in closets 

Or in fiery, crumpled sports cars, smoldering vengefully on a busy street in Tokyo.

Shaw considers himself a reasonably self-aware person; he already knows he's a piece of shit. Doesn't mean he'll tolerate Hobbs shoving his nose into the fact like some misbehaving dog.

"Fucking hilarious," he snaps, narrowing his eyes. "Don't think that's any of your business, is it?" 

He leans forward, and suddenly Deckard finds that he's angry. The irrational kind: no specific target, no specific cause. Angry at Hobbs - angry at Locke - angry at every little shout and laugh in the air of the diner around him. Absolutely, completely, furiously angry that this file, with those pictures, has been dropped into his lap like a fucking grenade when he least expected it.

"You sure seem real interested though, Tiny. Maybe you get off on that kind of thing, huh? Puppy murder? Kiddy killing?" Hobbs' mouth twists, as though he knows he deserves the retort, but that it's pissing him off nonetheless. Shaw smiles grimly. Good. "'Cause I know a few people who could give you some details -"

“Yeah, I’m sure you know plenty of people -”

"Maybe we could table that steaming pile of inhumanity for another day," Locke interrupts suddenly. "Fascinating as getting in touch with our inner Cruella de Vils sounds, we're on a bit of a time crunch, darlings. Your flight to Spain to bag us Bellatrix Lestrang and her boytoy is in five hours, and we’ve still got some ground to cover here."

Shaw cuts himself off, and reigns in the bright spark of rage still flickering in his head. Closes his eyes for a moment.

What is he even doing?

He opens his eyes again, lets them flick back down to the photographs in front of him with the morbid helplessness of watching an imminent disaster just waiting to occur. Knows, with swift clarity, exactly where the anger is coming from.

Tired or not, Shaw’s aware that the abrupt flare of resentment is an unreasonable reaction to what was meant to be an innocuous comment. He attempts to tamp it back down a bit; difficult, with Hobbs’ narrowed-eyed gaze staring at him from across the table, but do-able.

Professional, he thinks. You’re a fucking professional.

"Spain, huh? Always liked Spain. Good memories," Hobbs says suddenly, voice far too innocent to be anything but deadly. Shaw watches with sharp eyes as Hobbs takes a very pointed sip of his coffee, staring Deckard down. The bigger man places the cup back on the table with a quiet thud, and smiles. "Like when we blew up your brother’s plane, for instance."

On second thought, fuck professional.

"Whoa now,” Locke says, hastily grabbing at Shaw’s wrist with a nervous laugh as the Brit's fingers spasm hard around the cutlery on the table in front of him. Lucky timing - Deckard had half a mind to jab the butterknife in his grip straight into Hobbs' hand, crowded diner be damned. “Let’s just take it easy there, Scarier Spice. We’re all friends here.”

Shaw very deliberately glances down at the hand on his arm, before letting his eyes drag back up to the agent’s.

“You’re gonna want to let go of me,” he says, slowly. “Friend.”

The hand is instantly snatched away, with frankly satisfying speed.

“So aggressive,” Locke says with another nervous little chuckle, fanning himself. “I gotta say, the fearboner I’m getting right now? I’m kinda into it.”

The ache in Shaw's temples gives another sudden, violent throb, and - yeah, no.

He wasn’t throwing himself back into the wreckage that was Chellini and Nuata for the sake of the two men in front of him.

Deckard rises from his seat. "Have fun with your little mission, Hobbs. You go enjoy knocking a couple of pissant nobodies' heads together in Spain like a good dog, while I go find some useful intel to work with."

"Yup," Locke mutters quietly. "Definitely aroused in this moment."

"Locke, shut your goddamn mouth," Hobbs snaps. "Shaw, just - sit down."

And oh, but that's rich. "In case you haven't noticed, steroids," Shaw sneers, leaning forward on the table, "you ain't the boss of me."

Hobbs just rolls his eyes. "Don't be stupid, jackass. This is our best shot at getting these bastards, and you damn well know it."

The DSS agent leans forward himself, hardly backing down from the challenge in Shaw's eyes. And usually, that would get Deckard going - really throw some fuel on the fire - but now it just makes him hesitate.

"Besides," Hobbs adds, and his mouth quirks up into the beginnings of a wry grin. "Can't knock some pissant nobodies' heads together without my sidekick tagging along."

… goddamnit.

Shaw didn’t feel guilt very often, but Hobbs’ playful, friendly little smile was causing an avalanche of it. He falters; stands at the edge of the booth, half-turned towards the doorway, towards freedom, towards his ticket out and away from not-so-old wounds he’d rather take a bullet to the head for than let Hobbs be an audience to.

But. But.

He also wasn’t quite monster enough to allow Hobbs to wander into that horror show on his lonesome.

Slowly, grudgingly, Shaw sits back down.

He does not flush when Hobbs beams at him like the giant fucking golden retriever he is.

“Wonderful!” Locke says, clapping his hands together cheerfully. “Gosh, isn’t this exciting? It’s like we’re a team. Like the X-men or something. Ooooh, I call Wolverine.”

“Locke,” Hobbs says forlornly.

“Yeah, no, you’re right, Shaw definitely pulls off the brooding loner better. I think I’m more of a Jean Grey myself, too.”

“What’s the plan?” Shaw asks brusquely, flipping open the file again. He slides his gaze past the photos this time, and further on to the information on the page beneath.

The pictures still manage to haunt him out of the corner of his eye.

“They’re holed up in Chellini’s private chalet in Almeria. Real fancy stuff,” Locke says. “These two may be balls to the fucking walls bonkers, but they're not stupid. Guards and security out the ass, I’m tellin’ ya. We’ll need you two to go in, extract them, and maybe not destroy half the city in the process, because Big Daddy Government isn’t thrilled at the thought of covering your usual laundry bill.”

“Get in, get the marks, get out. Simple,” Hobbs says, leaning back in his seat.

“You’re simple. This is not,” Shaw snaps, tapping at the folder. “We need an actual plan, not your usual smash-and-grab theatrics.”

“Pretty sure my ‘theatrics’ are what threw your ass in jail.”

“Pretty sure your incompetence is what got me out of it -”

Somehow, an hour later, the smallest semblance of a strategy comes together. The stability of it helps soothe the tension buzzing at the edges of Shaw’s mind, but even so, it lingers, like a bad taste on the back of his tongue. He traces his fingers along the black and white images in front of him for a brief moment as CIA pays the food bill, before forcefully flipping the folder shut.

"Still one thing I need to get straight,” Deckard says, gaze suddenly pinning Locke to his seat. “You had me fly to Los Angeles, from London - just to fly back to Spain?"

The murder must be back in his eyes, Shaw thinks, because there's certainly a new hint of fear in Locke's.

"Ok, to be fair," Locke starts, edging back in his seat slightly, "one: I didn't actually know you were in London, because two: you're a very naughty, sneaky boy who happens to be incredibly difficult to track down, and did I mention I have a very delicate bone structure?"

Locke's voice climbs increasingly higher as he presses further back into the booth - likely because Shaw was leaning across the table with the intent of strangling him.

“Shaw, stop scaring the rabbit,” Hobbs says, shoving at Locke’s shoulder as the man pushes himself into Hobbs’ space. “Locke, let me the hell out of this booth.”

Shaw slips out of the booth himself, but not without a withering glare in Scruffy’s direction.

They make their way out of the diner, Locke scurrying off with rambling goodbyes that Shaw doesn’t bother listening to, and the sudden wave of heat as he steps out of the doors with another chime of bells above them is almost nauseating. Deckard grimaces at the bright blue sky as Hobbs siddles up next to him.

"You good?" Hobbs says, and bumps his shoulder awkwardly against Shaw's own.

And the move is just - so fucking Hobbs, so endearing (though Shaw would commit a fantastic amount of homicide before admitting that fact), that Deckard slowly, reluctantly deflates. The still-smoldering anger finally winks quietly out of existence, and just leaves him feeling exhausted in its stead. He pinches the bridge of his nose.

"Fine," Deckard mutters, glancing away with an irritated little sniff. "Just -"

He looks down at the file in his hand. Thinks of the photographs.

Trepidation hits him like a roundhouse kick to the gut. 

"- tired," he finishes dully.

Hobbs pats him on the shoulder with a big hand, and then just. Leaves it there. Like they're pals, or something. Shaw hesitates, but decides not to shrug it off.

It's ridiculous that it helps his nerves somewhat.

"Yeah, well. I've got a guest room, if you need to crash for a couple hours before the flight."

The offer is unexpected - possibly for both of them, going by the slight discomfort Shaw can pick out of Hobbs' posture, and the way he won't quite meet Shaw's eyes after - but Deckard honestly considers it for a moment. 

Only a moment, though. "Already booked a place," he lies through his teeth.

Fat fucking chance he'd be able to get any sembleance of sleep, with images of mugshots seared into his mind. Shaw knows himself; in all likelihood he'll find a place to kip out, with enough caffeine to hotwire an elephant, and drown himself in research for the next three hours.

Preparation never really helped when it came to Chellini and Nuata, but it sure as hell would make him feel less like he was throwing himself into the lion's den. Again.

"Right," Hobbs says. He gives a little squeeze to the shoulder under his hand, before letting it fall back to his side. Shaw refuses to let himself acknowledge that the sudden lack of pressure there is a disappointment, because he's not a fucking child. "I should head out. Gotta find someone to watch Sam while I'm gone."

Ah. The daughter. Strange, to suddenly remember that Hobbs was a man in charge of nurturing something. "Wheels up in four, then," Shaw says, slipping his sunglasses back onto his face in the California sunshine. "Just don't bitch to me about your leg room this time, Gigantor."

"Not all of us suffer from being vertically challenged, short stop."

"Just mentally, in your case," Shaw says, and can't help the corner of his mouth from ticking up slightly at Hobbs' snort of laughter.

“Sure,” the big man says with a huff. “Guess I’ll see you in España, tonto.”

And with that Hobbs walks off with cheery little wave, Shaw following him with his eyes as the lawman hefts himself onto the motorbike and departs with a roar of the engine. Shaw just shakes his head, and sighs.

Chellini and Nuata. Jesus fucking Christ, he thinks.

Well.

If nothing else, at least he'll have back-up this time.

[miasanfamilie]

DFB-President Keller Seeks Out Conflict -- Peace in the boxes, war against fan curves

Fritz Keller should have been the embodiment of change at the DFB. However, his strange appearance in “Sportstudio” damages his image as beacon of hope, who acts ignorantly in cases of racism and affronts active fans in a way out-of-touch with reality.

Magic lives inside every new beginning.  Especially when the past hurts.  Fritz Keller should have been the face of this new beginning at the DFB.  His predecessor Reinhard Grindel met his fall over a luxury watch and failed on all accounts: The case of Özil, the unquestioning loyalty to Joachim Löw, the missing explanation of the sold Sommermärchen, the growing chasm between amateurs and pros, the poisoned atmosphere between clubs, federations, and fans -- this heavy burden has rested on Keller’s shoulders since September 2019.

Hymns of praise accompanied his election to DFB-President. It was believable that this Keller was reasonably competent, upstanding, in short: “The right choice,” like Uli Hoeneß said.  However, for anyone who heard the beacon-of-hope Fritz Keller on Saturday in the “Current Sportstudio,” a few other attributes could spring to mind: out-of-touch with reality, inflated, ignorant, bigot. No trace of the magic. Only traces of the past.

Of course, moderator Katrin Müller-Hohenstein began the conversation with the excitement of the day: The match pauses in Sinsheim, which has been written about in this paper many times already, for example here, here, here, here, here, here, here, and here.  However, just for background, one more time the facts: In FC Bayern’s fan block, banners were hung with insults against Hoffenheim’s financier Dietmar Hopp.  Nothing less, but also nothing more.

Protection for one who does not need it

However, Keller stood strongly on the sides of the football-elite from Karl-Heinz Rummenigge to Michael Zorc: “I believe we have really arrived at the bottom.”  He spoke about continuing “only in solidarity” for the “cleanliness of the sport.” Once again: This was about an insult against Hopp.  Now about the slush fund for the Sommermärchen, not about the crooks at Fifa, not about the dead workers at the construction sites for the winter-world cup in Qatar.  For the DFB-President Keller, who leads more than seven million members, the line is crossed when a billionaire is insulted.  A man who can afford the best lawyers, and also does so.  For years, Hopp has buried fans with cases.

In order to discover who called their boss the son of a sex worker, TSG installed  directional microphones in the stadium.  Hopp doesn’t need any special protection.  Jordan Torunarigha could have used some, however he received a red card instead.  The Hertha-BSC pro player was the victim of racist insults.  But what would have happened, if he had left the pitch and his colleagues had followed?  When asked, Keller suddenly turned from being an engaged anti-racist (”The dummest form of hate”) to a petty bureaucrat: “There are rules, regulations, and processes that are made by Fifa.”  In other words: we’ve already lost in the bureaucracy, there’s unfortunately nothing that can be done, too bad.

Altogether, though, it was hard to shake the feeling that the DFB-President could have used a little bit of help dealing with the topic of racism: Keller claimed England is farther along in fighting racism, because I has simply been a problem there longer.  A slip of the tongue?  Probably not, he piled it on: It did not want to enter his thoughts how now, so many pears after the war, racism is becoming a problem in Germany again.  Again?

Keller is 62 years old.  Even when he was very busy being a vintner and gastronomer, wouldn’t Lichtenhagen mean something to him?  Solingen?  The NSU-murders?  He has worked in football since 1994.  He must have heard the U-Bahn song at least once in stadium.  Seen the flags for the Third Reich at away matches of the national team.  Right-wing hooligans at the World Cup in France.  Or does the president of the world’s biggest sporting federation want to pretend that racism in German stadiums is a relatively new phenomenon in the year 2020?  That would explain why the DFB is so often disgracing themselves on this topic.  That cannot be serious for Keller.

Racism?  Just not at this buffet...

The explanation for Keller’s strange views probably lies with the point-of-view: Whoever only saw the match from the TV or watches Bundesliga stadiums out of VIP-areas, probably only sees football simply as the superficial, simple, shiny product that advertisers from Coca Cola to SAP want to see so badly.  The deeply-rooted racism, which has continued to live on especially in the lower leagues and is now simply getting louder again, is so wonderfully easy to look past from the boxes.

Not only that: The things that happen in the fan curve, that bother the fans -- no one in this five-star buffet is interested.  If they protest, if they become loud or uncomfortable, then the functionaries put them in their place.  For Keller it sounded like this in “Sportstudio”: The clubs should “reconsider, who they give tickets to.”  At the end of the day, it’s about “anarchists who want to destroy the game.”  This says the man who smilingly shook Fifa-boss Gianni Infantino’s hand at the end of last week.  A meeting before the hearing about the purchased Sommermärchen.  What was spoken about there?  The DFB didn’t release any information about it, the new transparency doesn’t go that far.  When would it be released, Katrin Müller-Hohenstein wanted to know in “Sportstudio.”  Keller responded with a question: “How am I, a simple football functionary, supposed to get the truth?”  Well, if only the president of the DFB could do something... Maybe the DFB could, just as a suggestion, not act as “underhandedly” during the investigation into the Sommermärchen as the best-informed SZ-journalist Thomas Kistner claimed during the Fifa-corruption scandals.

What the fans think? Who cares

If you were to take the photo of the happy pair Keller and Infantino with you through the fan curves in the Bundesliga and ask who here is destroying the game, most people would rightfully point their finger towards the bald man.  And if Fritz Keller isn’t careful, then they’ll also point towards the DFB-president after that.

Keller’s hard stance in “Sportstudio” against the supposed “anarchists” in the fan curves in the league begs another question: Does he really not know what Hopp symbolizes?  Does he not know the proxy war that is being waged against the Hoffenheim boss?  That’s impossible: The discussion about exuberant commerce, the growing alienation of the critical groups of fans -- these cannot escape the notice of a DFB-leader.  So he must be intentionally ignoring this perspective.  The viewpoint of active fans is apparently completely moot to Keller.  And this despite that it happens to be exactly them who have led meaningful educational work with the initiatives against racism, anti-Semitism, and homophobia.  And they have to lead the work, because the DFB left them alone long enough and looked away.  Until the curves sought out the wrong enemy.  One from the VIP-boxes.

You could do everything the way the DFB-president has.  But then you have to live with the accusation, that you are a boss for bosses.  Yesterday in “Sportstudio,” Keller was exactly that person as he explained to active fans what solution the DFB wants to pursue in the future: peace in the boxes, war against fan curves.

[pug-bitch]

That’s not why I’m going (28)

Be cool

Book: The Royal Romance

Pairing: Drake Walker x Amara Suarez

Rating: some foul language, some extremely suggestive, and a VERY steamy scene. This is absolutely NOT appropriate for people under 18.

Word count: 4,350 (let me know if the ‘keep reading’ cutoff isn’t working well!)

Notes: This picks up basically where we left off, during the last night in the cabin, starting with Amara’s POV. This chapter is a little slow, but it sets up several things that will be important for what will happen next!

*****

Amara had gone back to the kitchen for the umpteenth time to make more margaritas. And to think she’d made fun of Drake for buying so much booze.

Dinner had been amazing, Drake truly hadn’t lied about his grilling skills. Even Hana, who was always poised and polite, had asked for thirds, and downed one burger and two hot dogs. Olivia had begrudgingly agreed that the mushrooms and leeks on top of the burgers were a nice touch.

Armed with two pitchers of margarita and her pineapple and coconut cake on a tray, Amara made her triumphant entrance in the backyard. As everyone cheered for her to fill up their glasses, she caught herself worrying for their livers, but promptly remembered that, if everything goes to shit tomorrow at Penelope’s estate, this may be their last fun night, so cirrhosis be damned.

‘Amara! This cake is heavenly,’ Hana gasps.

‘Oh, honey, you don’t have to say that,’ Amara responds. ‘I’m not the best cook--’

‘Shut up, Suarez, and give me another slice,’ Olivia cut her off.

‘Guys,’ Max says, his mouth full of cake, ‘let’s continue, it was Liv’s turn to dig into the bowl.’

They had started a game of Truth or Truth, for which they had written deep questions for one another on little pieces of paper, and mixed them in a bowl. Olivia rolls her eyes but picks up a paper.

‘When was the last time you were in love,’ she reads.

‘Oh, that’s my question!’ Hana beams.

‘Kid, you know we all have to answer, right?’ Olivia says. ‘You included.’

Hana blushes. ‘Oh, I didn’t realize that.’

‘I’ll go!’ Max says enthusiastically. ‘Drake, you remember Gianni, right?’

Drake nods, ‘I fucking loved that guy. He was hilarious.’

‘Yeah,’ Max says wistfully. ‘I thought we were more serious than he did. He ended up going back to Italy and breaking my heart.’

‘Max, I’m sorry, that sucks,’ Amara says as she reaches to hug him.

‘Your turn, Suarez,’ Olivia interrupts.

Amara blushes. She feels like a schoolgirl playing Spin the bottle. Are they really gonna make her say it in front of everyone? ‘Guys… you know.’

‘Ooooooh,’ Max teases, ‘no we don’t!’

Amara throws her hands up. ‘Well, obviously it’s Drake. Last time I was in love is now, with Drake. Happy?’

Drake reaches for her cheek and brings her face to his. Their mouths crash together in a sweet, yet urgent kiss.

‘Same answer for me, bitches,’ Drake slurs. ‘My last time is also now, with Amara.’

She knows he’s drunk. When else has he called anyone ‘bitches’ as a term of endearment? But then again, she’s drunk too, and so blissfully happy that she couldn’t care any less.

‘Alright, you guys are fucking gross,’ Liv says, waving her hands at them as if to shoo them. ‘Lee, your turn.’

Hana blushes again, and takes a big sip of her margarita. ‘Damn, Amara, these drinks are good. Thank you for making them strong. Well, you guys remember the infamous photo, right?’ Everyone nods, and she continues. ‘I told some of you that this woman, Caroline, was kinda...the one who got away. We were together at Oxford. After graduating, I had to go back to China, or, to be more exact, I didn’t have the guts to stay in the UK and defy my parents. So, I broke up with her, said I wasn’t ready, right before our third anniversary. She had booked us a trip to New York as a surprise, which I found out after, through a mutual friend. In any case, I didn’t break up with her for lack of love. More like...for lack of courage.’

Max holds out his arms and Hana pulls him into a hug. ‘Hana, babe, there’s nothing harder than coming out to tough parents. You didn’t lack courage, it was simply not the right time!’

‘Exactly,’ Amara chimes in, ‘look at how brave you were in front of the whole court the other day. A fucking champ! Because now is your time.’

‘You think?’ Hana sniffles. ‘I mean, I basically didn’t have a choice…’

‘Yes you did,’ Amara continues. ‘You could have denied it, said that it was a fake picture, or said it was a joke among friends. But you took the high road, and we’re so proud of you.’

‘Ok, this game took a turn,’ Liv sighs. ‘I didn’t think it would end in a group hug.’

‘Well then,’ Max replies, ‘you go ahead, Liv, answer the question.’

Olivia quickly glances at Amara, who gives her an encouraging smile. For a split second, Amara thinks she’s gonna be truthful and open up about her feelings. But, after a brief pause, she says ‘Nope. No heart, remember? Icy Nevrakis bitch here. Nothing to see. Next!’

*****

‘Babe, we’ll clean up in the morning,’ Drake whispers in her ears, his arms draped around her waist as she does some dishes.

‘I want to help,’ she says, leaning into his embrace, ‘I know you have to get up early, to go to the grocery store and get ready for Liam and Bertrand coming over.’

He kisses her neck. ‘I don’t mind. I like it. Besides, you made all of the drinks all night long, which was by far the biggest job of all, given this crowd.’

She chuckles. The sound of her laugh makes his heart full. He hates to admit it, but the glowing heart imagery from Jane the Virgin is spot on.

She says, ‘I know you like entertaining, but I don’t mind doing a few dishes. It’s not even that late. Please, let me help.’

He takes a kitchen rag. ‘Alright, then I’m gonna do the drying. Team work, right?’

*****

Olivia turned on her phone for the first time for a few hours. After what happened with it, the mere thought of sending a text filled her with dread, but she had to check her email at least, in case something was needed from her at Lythikos.

She plops down on the bed, and unzips her dress while her phone turns on. It’s strange to be here, at the Walker cabin, but especially in Savannah’s room. Maxwell and Hana had called the Master bedroom, which had a king bed. They had rightfully assumed that Liv would rather cut off her own arm than share her bed with either of them. But still, in here, she feels like she is sharing it with Little Savannah Walker, whose spirit is all around.

She wonders if she had contributed, even minimally, to sending her away. She’d never been very nice to her, never welcoming. But then again, it’s not her job to hang out with the Kingsguard’s offspring. She had enough on her hands as a child, after all.

Her phone buzzes, pulling her out of her daydream.

I had a good time yesterday. I decided to come to Portavira after all, so I’ll see you tomorrow?

Rashad. Damn, she hates how her heart jumped like an idiot as she read his name on the screen. Why? It’s stupid. He’s just being nice.

She takes off her dress and gets into a tank top and shorts, before heading to the bathroom.

She’s not answering that text.

*****

‘Wow, you look hot,’ Drake whispers as he sees Amara come out of the bathroom in her new, emerald green nightie.

‘Oh, this old thing?’ she smirks. ‘Just kidding, it’s brand new. I got it at the lingerie store the other day with Hana.’

Drake pulls her into bed with him, and kisses her urgently. ‘How come I’ve never seen it?’

‘Well, Walker, as I recall, you didn’t exactly give me time to wear anything last night.’

He chuckles as he plants a trail of kisses from her lips down to her collarbone. ‘Heh. I guess you’re right. What can I say, I can’t resist you, Suarez.’

‘Mmmm, ditto. Don’t stop.’

He has no intention to stop. His mouth runs all over her chest, until he’s kissed every inch. He pays special attention to her nipples, which get harder and harder under his tongue. Soon enough, off comes the sexy nightie, to make more space for Drake to kiss her all over. On his way down, he kisses her stomach, until he reaches between her legs, where he’s been aching to go, all night long. Amara moans in anticipation as Drake pauses before putting his lips on her core. He teases her with his tongue, softly at first, then more deeply.

Her moans get louder and louder until she catches herself and remembers they are no longer alone in the house. Somehow, her muffled grunts turn him on even more. His only mission tonight is to make her come, and judging from her increasingly intense breathing, it becomes obvious that he’s on the right track.

As Amara orgasms, she lets out a barely muffled low groan, which Drake is pretty sure everyone in the house heard. But he doesn’t give a shit. Amara catches her breath, and whispers, ‘Wow, Walker...you got game.’

He smirks, ‘I fucking love taking care of you.’

She pulls him into a kiss, and he shivers as his hard cock touches her naked body. She reaches down and starts stroking it slowly, drawing groans from Drake. ‘Fuck me, Walker,’ she whispers in his ear.

*****

Amara opens her eyes, awakened by Drake’s soft kisses on her forehead. ‘H--hey,’ she mumbles.

‘Oh baby, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to wake you.’

She smiles and kisses him. ‘It’s ok. I need to take a shower and move my stuff anyways.’

Drake nods, stroking her hair. ‘Wanna join me in the shower?’

She acquiesces enthusiastically.

After showering, she stands in a towel in front of the mirror, brushing her rebellious curls and spraying rose water on her face. Drake gets into his jeans as quickly as he can and kisses her lips. ‘I’m gonna run to the supermarket to buy lunch before everyone else wakes up. I’ll see you later? I’ll bring croissants back for you guys, so don’t make anything, ok?’

‘You’re the best, thank you!’

He really is. Amara hopes that things don’t change too much from the bliss that she’s been feeling for the past two days, but she doubts her wish will come true. She already feels stressed out about Liam’s upcoming visit, and it’s not even an official courtly one. She’s already scanning the cabin in her head, to make sure nothing incriminating lies anywhere.

Once dressed in a casual outfit --light-wash skinny jeans and a yellow blouse--, Amara goes downstairs and puts the coffee pot on. Hana is already in the backyard, reading a novel.

‘Hi Amara!’ she waves.

‘Hey hun, I’m making coffee. Want some?’

‘Sure,’ Hana replies enthusiastically. ‘I saw Drake leave a while ago, he’ll be back with breakfast.’

Amara waits until the coffee has brewed and pours two cups, with a dash of milk.

‘Thanks,’ Hana says. ‘Did you pack? You should put your stuff in the master, we’ll say you slept with me, and Max on the couch.’

Amara nods. She loves that Hana has thought of everything. ‘Thank you. I was gonna ask if you mind lying a little…’

‘Of course not. We don’t want to raise suspicions, not now.’

Amara takes a big sip, pauses a bit, and says, ‘Hana, do you think we’re fooling ourselves? Liv is right, Liam will be furious however we announce it.’

Hana gives her a reassuring smile, and somehow, Amara already feels soothed. ‘Liv is hurting right now, she’s lost and she sees everything in a negative light. I think you and Drake are doing what you can. If the timing is right, if you wait until Liam has proposed to someone, and has moved on, you could always fudge the details and say you guys fell in love after the Decision Ball.’

‘You’re right. But...what if we don’t pull it off? What if someone rats us out before that?’

‘I understand the fear, believe me. Given everything that’s happened, it’s legitimate. But you can’t live in fear, honey. You’ve already lived the past two years punishing yourself for something you didn’t cause. You need to let yourself be happy.’

Amara swallows hard. She and Hana had many heart-to-hearts in the past few weeks, ever since she’d told her all about Sergio. Hana had been an excellent listener, and an even better hugger, but had never expressed any judgment or given her opinion on Amara’s past. This was the first time she had said something like that. ‘Funny,’ Amara smiles, ‘you’re not the only one who’s been telling me this, lately. My dad, Drake, Max, even Liv…’

Hana smirks, ‘Well maybe we’re all onto something. Obviously, you can’t announce your relationship to everyone right now. Liam and Drake’s friendship would not survive. But even in secret, for now, maybe you could find a way to stop feeling guilty. To stop fearing.’

‘Good Lord, woman,’ Amara whispers, ‘you’re so wise. It’s exhausting, really.’

Hana laughs heartily. ‘Oh well, I try, but I can only apply my wisdom to other people’s problems.’

Amara grabs her friend’s hand. ‘I’ve been thinking about what you said yesterday, about Caroline. You should reach out to her. Explain to her what you said to us, about timing, about being ready. Maybe she’ll understand. It’s worth a shot, right?’

Hana smiles wistfully. ‘It definitely is.’

‘Morning my little blossoms!’ Maxwell kisses Hana’s and Amara’s cheeks. ‘How did you sleep?’

‘Great,’ Amara says. ‘Help yourself to coffee, Max, there’s plenty. Has anyone seen Olivia?’

Max shakes his head, all the while pouring himself a cup, to which he adds about four spoonfuls of sugar. ‘No, not yet. Hope she’s alright.’

As if on cue, Olivia comes down the stairs, looking more relaxed than the day before. ‘Morning guys,’ she says softly.

‘Hey Liv, how did you sleep?’ Max asks.

‘I um…’ she scratches her head and grabs a cup of coffee. ‘I actually slept really well. I’m sure it was Suarez’s margaritas.’

‘Or it could be the peace and quiet,’ Amara chimes in.

‘Yeah yeah, nature is fucking adorable,’ Liv replies.

*****

All five of them are still sitting outside, enjoying their coffee and croissants, in the sun. Drake bought something easy for lunch, he will just have to assemble the salad, and grill the steaks at the last minute. They will have ice cream for dessert.

The croissants he brought back were a hit, although he wishes he had had more time to make them himself. On second thought, he is glad he spent that time in bed and in the shower with Amara instead.

There is a knock on the door, and when Drake looks at his watch, he sees that it’s only eleven. Could it be Liam already? ‘I’ll get it,’ he says before getting up.

‘Good morning, Drake,’ Bertrand says, an awkward smile on his face.

‘Hi Bertrand, welcome!’ Drake responds, opening his arms for a hug.

Bertrand, visibly taken aback by the gesture, hesitates before walking into Drake’s hug. ‘Thank you for having me. I hope I’m not too early, I just, um…’

‘No, not at all, come have a coffee with us, we’re outside.’

He walks in, and Drake notices that he is wearing a black shirt, and a vest with little embroidered horses on it. Drake has to fight a smile. Bertrand probably thought that coming to the countryside warranted a horse-themed outfit. Thankfully, he didn’t break out the riding boots, just some boat shoes.

‘Hello everyone,’ Bertrand says awkwardly. It occurs to Drake that he had never really been included in any of their private get-togethers, besides the Beaumont Bashes. Drake feels bad. Although he doesn’t know it yet, this man is the father of his nephew, they should be closer.

‘Hi Bertrand, good to see you!’ Amara says, as she gets up and gives him a hug.

‘Oh, um, hello, yes, um, good to see you too, Amara,’ he mumbles, patting her back like he’s trying to burp her.

‘Do you take milk or sugar?’ Hana asks.

‘Um, no, I take it black, thank you, Hana, you’re very kind.’ He takes the cup. ‘Before we sit down, I wanted to make sure that everything is in order. I mean um, Amara, did you think of removing all evidence that um… that you were staying…’ He rubs his neck, obviously unsure of how to say what he wants to say in an appropriate manner.

Amara sees his struggle and interrupts. ‘Yes, thank you for thinking of this, Bertrand. I removed my belongings from Drake’s room and transferred them to Hana’s. Also, I wanted to apologize. For keeping you in the dark.’

He waves her off. ‘Please. There was a clear conflict of interest. You couldn’t possibly tell me, when I was so eager to push you on Prince Liam. But um… for what it’s worth, I am happy for you both. Love is precious and should not be apologized for.’

Drake’s eyes widen. Did Bertrand just say something adorable? Well fuck. ‘Thanks, man, we appreciate it. We heard you had our backs yesterday, thank you for that too.’

‘Oh,’ Bertrand mumbles again, ‘it was nothing.’

*****

Liam looks at his watch. He’ll be right on time for lunch at Drake’s. He decided to drive himself, to clear his head. Bastien had begged him not to, but he needed to be alone on this drive. He needed to feel normal.

Nothing feels normal. His best friend is acting weird and distant --although he hopes that today’s lunch will reinstate things. Olivia is banging her bodyguard and refusing to talk to him. Amara, the woman he’d been dreaming of, has made it clear she does not want him. Madeleine keeps pushing and pushing.

He thinks back of their encounter, just this morning, in the gardens. He was taking a stroll, coffee in hand, before leaving for Portavira, and she was obviously looking for him. After they exchanged pleasantries, she squeezed his arm, and lingered for a little too long. Then, like clockwork, his father called him into his study and asked him to give Madeleine a chance. He can bet that Madeleine went crying to her aunt Regina as soon as Liam was dismissive of her. According to Constantine, she is the best contender and Liam has not even considered her.  

His eyes on the road, his hands firmly on the steering wheel, Liam tries to clear his head. It feels good to drive himself. But really, he can’t relax, not properly anyways. All he can think of is how weak his father looked, this morning, in his study. So small in his chair. Liam wonders how much weight he’s lost. How much time he has left.

He can’t stop thinking about what his father told him. Consider the good of Cordonia. Don’t give the kingdom to a stranger, or to a hotheaded woman who fornicates with the help. The kingdom needs stability, and Madeleine is stable.

Is she, though? What she pulled the other night in his study was definitely a little crazy. Leo has warned him that she is way more harmful than she looks.

What are his options? Olivia is shutting him out and banging other people. Amara says she doesn’t love him, but maybe she could learn to? Or, maybe she could just be his companion, and… No, she won’t accept. He’s pretty sure she wouldn’t accept.

But then what, at the end of the week he chooses someone, and he never sees Amara again? That’s no good either. There has to be a solution.

‘Shit,’ he swerves, almost hitting a hedgehog trying to cross the road. Damn, he thinks. He really is distracted.

There’s still Kiara and Penelope. Are they contenders? Not sure if Penelope has it in her to be queen. Kiara, he sees her as more of a noblewoman doubled as a diplomat. He would definitely get her to be a part of his council, but marry her? No. His father is not a fan either, he doesn’t think she’s a leader.

‘This is a clusterfuck,’ he mumbles to himself. In five days, the Decision Ball will be upon him, and he is very far from having made a decision.

He turns onto the small road leading up to the cabin. He hasn’t been here in a while. Last time was months ago, when he needed to unplug after his brother abdicated. Drake had offered to have a weekend at the cabin together, just them guys. Max had joined for one evening. That was probably Liam’s last memory of normalcy.

Here he is, pulling up to the cabin. He parks near Bertrand’s car and lets himself out of his own. From the backseat, he grabs the apple pie and white wine bottle that he brought despite Drake’s request not to bring anything.

He knocks, weirdly anxious.

‘Hey,’ Drake says, opening the door. ‘I told you not to bring anything.’

He wraps him in a bear hug, and Liam lets out an imperceptible sigh of relief. ‘You knew I would.’

‘Heh, I did. Come on in. Everyone’s here already.’

And here they are. The Beaumonts, Hana, Liv, and Amara, all out in the backyard, joking around and having coffee.

‘Liam!’ Hana notices him. ‘So good to see you!’

She approaches him and gives him a warm hug. Liam is grateful for the enthusiasm. Everyone else greets him, Bertrand with a handshake, Max with a huge hug, and Amara with a quick one. Upon touching her skin, Liam’s heart flutters. He’ll have to shut it down really quickly if he doesn’t want to make everything awkward.

Only Liv has not gotten up from her chair outside. ‘Liv, hi, how are you?’ Liam risks.

‘Liam. I’m good, how are you?’

Her tone is cold as ice. Still no improvement from their last interaction. She’s not even meeting his eye. Is she embarrassed about the bodyguard? Is she angry with him for not standing up for her more? He has no idea. What he sees is resentment, and he has never seen that from her before.

‘Alright,’ Drake says, ‘let’s have some food!’

*****

Amara is pleasantly surprised with the free-flowing conversation. She thought Liam’s arrival would put a damper on things, and it has, to some extent, but his company is pleasant today, he’s not being weird, except for when she hugged him hello and he lingered. But if that’s her only problem, she’ll be fine.

She has to watch herself, though. Be cool, Suarez, she thinks. She made a point to sit farther from Drake than she usually does. She is between Hana and Maxwell, which feels natural, but also prevents her from reflexively taking Drake’s hand for everyone to see.

They try not to interact too much, but still let themselves joke around with each other in reaction to Max’s antics, or Liv’s badassery. It feels restrained, but natural nonetheless. Liam knows they’re ‘friends,’ he probably even thinks they’re close, especially since Drake defended her against Tariq and stood up for her when Liam was inappropriate.

‘Oh, so you were all here last night?’ Liam asks, when Drake makes a reference to last night’s dinner.

‘Yeah,’ Max quickly responds, ‘except for Bertrand who had business to conduct. But I took Hana, Amara and Liv here. It seemed like a good opportunity to blow off steam and hang out!’

Amara holds her breath. She can see on Liam’s face that he has FOMO. Before he arrived, they agreed that they wouldn’t hide that they’d all spent the night, especially since they’d have to take their luggage back and bring it to Penelope’s estate. But still, his reaction was somewhat worrying.

Drake’s eyes meet hers, and he chimes in. ‘It was a spur of the moment kinda thing. I know you had meetings. But next time--’

Liam waves him off. ‘Of course! I wish I could have been there, but I could barely free up these few hours this morning, can you imagine the uproar if I’d left court last night?’

He plasters on the fake smile that Amara hates so much. She knows she has to change the subject. ‘So how are things at court? Is everyone behaving without us?’

Liam drops the façade and takes a deep breath. Shit, Amara thinks. Maybe it wasn’t the right way to divert the conversation. ‘Well,’ Liam begins, ‘it’s definitely been quiet. Kiara and Penelope spend most of their time together, although I had a very pleasant one-on-one with Kiara. But um…’ He pauses and scans everyone’s faces. ‘Madeleine is acting a bit...suspicious. Can I be blunt?’

Drake nods. ‘Go ahead. We’re steel traps.’

‘She showed up in my study the other night, clearly trying to seduce me, and when I rejected her, I could tell that she was really pissed off. I’m convinced that she’s involved in the...pictures.’ Liv looks away, and Liam continues. ‘I’m waiting on some more reports from security. Bastien is on the case, looking for clues.’

Amara turns to Drake, and they make brief eye contact. They both know that putting Bastien on the case will do nothing. And yet, they both have zero interest in speaking up about him, because he’s the only reason why no one has found out about their relationship yet.

Hana senses the tension and chimes in. ‘I think there’s nothing more you can do, Liam. Amara has tried to investigate. The phone used to send out my picture was a burner, linked to no one. The envelopes are untraceable for now. There’s just not enough to go off of. All you can do now is keep being a reassuring presence.’

Liam nods. ‘You’re right. I just want this madness to stop. If Madeleine is involved…’ he interrupts himself and glances at Amara. She knows what he wants to say. But he stops in his tracks, probably not wanting to offend her or freak her out.

So, Amara says what they’re all thinking. ‘If she’s involved, I’ll be the next target.’

*****

Taglist:

​ @drakeandcamilleofvaltoria @jovialyouthmusic @andy-loves-corgis @mariahschoices @drakesensworld @thequeenofcronuts @notoriouscs @drakewalkerisreal @nikkis1983 @simsvetements @alesana45 @iplaydrake @emceesynonymroll @lily1999love @drakewalkerwhipped @drakxwalker @drakewalkerrosenberg @drakelover78 @silviasutton1989 @dcbbw @carabeth @furiousherringoperatortoad @hollygirl1269 @sirbeepsalot

Thank you for your encouragements, everyone! Let me know if you want to be added to the taglist :)

[gleekto]

This week, Darren Criss announced he’ll no longer take on gay roles. The 31-year-old actor, who has famously played several queer characters including Glee’s Blaine Anderson and recently won an Emmy for his outstanding performance as Andrew Cunanan on The Assassination of Gianni Versace: American Crime Story, tells Bustle, “I want to make sure I won’t be another straight boy taking a gay man’s role.”

Many people in the queer corners of the internet praised Criss for taking a stand to create space for openly gay entertainers, while others were simply shocked to learn Criss is actually straight and engaged to his girlfriend of nearly a decade. Though I, too, appreciate Criss for acknowledging Hollywood’s ongoing representation problem and sacrificing his livelihood for us gays, I think Criss, Claire Foy, Eric McCormack, Melissa McCarthy, Timothée Chalamet, Rami Malek, and any other straight actor who gets offered a gay role should take it and slay it.

First of all, you’re an actor. It’s your job to play someone else and make us believe it. If I wanted to watch a movie where an actor just plays himself, I’d just watch Adam Sandler. Second, you walking in those gay shoes will help us to run (or sashay) later. Third, we can walk and chew gum at the same time. In other words, yes, Hollywood needs to look at its casting problem, but it also needs to work on its lack of creative storytelling. Lastly, if you’re an actor who wants to be an advocate and an ally for the LGBTQ community, don’t give up your damn seat at the table. Invite gay actors inside from the picket line.

Criss absolutely killed (no pun intended) his role as Andrew Cunanan this year. And did you see Melissa McCarthy and Richard E. Grant as queer con artists in Can You Ever Forgive Me?Didn’t Rami Malek totally rock you as Freddie Mercury in Bohemian Rhapsody? All of these performances of real-life queer people are strong contenders for awards heading into the 2019 award season. Bohemian Rhapsody is now the most successful music biopic of all time.

Queer lives are being celebrated, recognized, and are making bank.

And with films like Love, Simon, Call Me By Your Name, Boy Erased, and The Miseducation of Cameron Post accelerating acceptance by furthering the conversation on coming out and conversion therapy, young LGBTQ people are being inspired and empowered to come out and love themselves despite the hateful rhetoric being spewed by our very own leaders. Yes, it’d be nice if those characters were played by actors from the queer community, but is it the end of the world if it’s Chloë Grace Moretz?

What’s also great about the latest queer-themed movies is that the narratives are becoming more nuanced. We’re moving away from the tired-ass gay best friend and confidant (mostly), and we’re seeing our contributions to society and complexities as humans. Shows like Will & Grace and movies like Transamerica ran, so Pose, Call Me By Your Name, and The Favouritecould strut and death drop. We’re seeing nuanced gay characters who aren’t props, sidekicks, and punchlines, but protagonists who are owning their stories, helping young gays understand themselves, changing hearts and minds, and exposing viewers to someone who may not be exactly like them.

So what if it’s Armie Hammer in short shorts? We could do worse.

Yes, there’s much more work to be done. So if Criss wants to be an ally, he should wield his power and privilege to bring in diverse creatives to be in front, behind, and beside the camera when he’s given the platform—not give it up.

As NewNowNext writer Lester Fabian Brathwaite points out in his look-back at this year’s best in queer TV, “2018 was a banner year for queer television based not only on representation but the sheer quality of that representation.” Has there ever been so many choices across almost every entertainment genre and platform for queer audiences to “explore the entire rainbow of identities without feeling forced or contrived?”

Criss’ Blaine sang so Ryan Jamaal Swain’s Damon (Pose) could shine. Will Truman and Jack McFarland kissed so Kevin Keller (Riverdale) could cruise for cock in the woods.

This year, I spoke to many a filmmaker and actor about Hollywood’s representation challenges. Newcomer

Hank Chen

(Life Size 2) and Oscar-nominated Philadelphiascreenwriter

Ron Nyswaner

both told me about the consistent need to justify having a queer characters in scripts in the first place.

“I am optimistic there soon won’t be a justification needed for an Asian person or a gay person in a script,” says Chen. “They won’t have to have some sort of trauma—unless it serves the purpose of the movie—we can just be allowed to be ordinary people, too.”

Thanks in part to the success of films and shows helmed by straight actors, we now get to have creators like Lena Waithe and Desiree Akhavan who are now creating space for others. So, no, Darren, do not pass up the next chance to play gay. Take it. You’re giving the community much-needed visibility, you’re showing our stories and our lives matter, and you’re creating opportunities for more of us to come through the door.

And honestly, our stories may not get told at all otherwise.

[matrixaffiliate]

A Twist of Fate

Co-written with @hufflepuffmarlenemckinnon

FFN and AO3

Chapter 19

The two days journey back to Athens felt like a dream. It was amazing how the euphoria seemed to permeate everything. She couldn't even be bothered by the fact that most of the crew looked at her like she was Medusa. Having Sirius there with her made all their fear a bit easier to swallow. Sirius was proof not everyone would feel that way about her.

She stood with Sirius' arms wrapped around her waist as the crew prepared to dock in Athens port. There was a crowd gathered, and King Aegeus of Athens stood at its front.

"What do you say," she looked up at Sirius with a sly smile, "that once we get everything sorted out with the Aegeus down there, we go find an inn or something for a couple of days before making our way back to Dion and Olympus?"

Sirius chuckled and pulled her tighter. "I thought the couple was supposed to escape away after the ceremony."

"For being a son of Dionysus, you have a strong streak of conventionalism." She laughed at him as he pinched her side.

"We all lose something to our mortal nature," Sirius whispered into her ear before placing his lips against her neck.

"I'm calling that answer a yes," She arched back into him and sighed.

Sirius went to say something, but he was interrupted by the captain's trembling voice.

"Dreadful Daughter, Son of Dionysus, we're ready to lower the gangplank."

"Wonderful news!" Sirius smacked the man on the back. "Let's get everyone on dry land!"

The captain looked at Sirius with almost as much apprehension as he did Marlene, for very different reasons. Marlene chuckled as the twelve eagerly lined up, calling out to family members who had heard the black ship had returned. It brought tears to her eyes to see the youthful faces reunited with their parents and loved ones. She and Sirius took their time to make their way off the ship. When they finally stepped foot on the dock, King Aegeus was waiting for them.

"Daughter of Fate and Son of Dionysus, our kingdom is forever in your debt!" He was nervous, but he seemed bolstered by the fact that that Fate had favored his kingdom this day.

"The feud between your Kingdom and the Kingdom of Crete is at an end, Aegeus. The Minotaur is dead. No longer will you send tributes, in lives or monetary means, to Minos." Marlene tried to give a softer display than the one she had in Crete. Aegeus would do whatever she commanded right now, he didn't need to also fear her entirely.

"Our deepest gratitude to you!" Aegeus cried. "My palace will always be a home to you both! Forever will the Kingdom of Athens make space for the Daughter of Fate and the Son of Dionysus!"

"Really old boy, Sirius and Marlene are fine. You'll get tongue tied if you keep trying to call us that way, plus I don't think Father even knows how many sons he has, so…" Sirius smirked and Aegeus seemed to relax a bit.

"I would be honored," he inclined his head to them. "Please," he gestured towards his palace, "Stay this day with me. I will prepare a feast and wine and we will celebrate your heroic journey!"

Sirius perked up at the word wine and Marlene was about to accept the invitation when she saw Helios touch down on the water.

"There you two are!" He yelled. "Moira said you'll be needing a ride home. She said she'd have Dionysus there when we reach Olympus."

Marlene sighed, "We will have to postpone our stay, Aegeus. Fate has called."

Aegeus looked very nervous, "Of course, of course, our door is always open to you both."

Marlene took Sirius' hand and walked towards the water.

"Helios, I am not wading into the ocean for this," Marlene gave Helios a pointed look.

The god sighed and rolled his eyes, "Only because I have a schedule to keep." Marlene felt herself lifted into the air with Sirius and set gently down on the bench of Helios' chariot.

Marlene sighed as they flew over Athens, "At least we don't have to figure our own way back to Olympus."

"I could have really done with that wine though," Sirius lounged idly on the bench, much as he had when they traveled down to Athens.

"How was mine, by the way?" Marlene leaned into him.

Sirius played with her curls, "Impressive, but it had a bit of a kick to it. Was that intentional?"

Marlene chuckled, "No, but like I said, the fruit doesn't grow far from the vine. Let's just say, never accept a goblet from my mother."

Sirius chuckled, "Noted, any reason why?"

"It knocked Zeus on his rear," Marlene laughed. "He suggested to Mother that she might feel better about her parting of ways with my father if she found someone new. Mother handed him a goblet and said it was by way of thanks for his advice. He coughed so hard he caused a wind storm."

Sirius laughed and pulled her closer. "That's my new favorite Zeus story!"

"Because it involves wine?" Marlene chuckled.

"Because it involves my family making a fool of him," Sirius whispered against her cheek.

Marlene turned to kiss him soundly. She was quite content to kiss him for longer, but the chariot went into a dive and they looked down to see her parents and Dionysus standing near the entrance to Zeus' palace.

"To be continued," Sirius placed one last kiss against her lips before sitting up.

"Welcome home, my beloved daughter," her mother's voice sounded in her foresight as the chariot touched down.

"You lived!" Dionysus flailed his arms around Sirius as Marlene climbed down from the chariot. "I was almost certain you would!"

Marlene turned to her mother and wrapped her arms around her.

"Thank you, for everything," Marlene held tight to her.

"I love you, Marlene. And I'm so proud of you!" Her mother pulled back and smiled. "He's been distraught without you."

Marlene smiled and turned to her father. She flew to his arms and let the tears fall as she held onto him.

"I've been so worried," he choked out.

"Here," Marlene pressed the pouch he'd given her into his hands. "We did it, Sirius and I, we killed the Minotaur."

He tucked the pouch under his cloak. "I'm so glad you're safe." He cupped her face in his hand. "I love you so much."

"I love you too, Father," Marlene pulled herself back into him.

"Do you see it?" Her mother's voice sounded.

And then she did, she saw her father's unhappiness at her choice to be the Daughter and Instrument of Fate.

She sighed and pulled back. "Father, I know you want me to become mortal and marry Giannis, but I've chosen differently. I'm going to be Mother's Instrument, and this," she turned to Sirius, "is Sirius, one of the sons of Dionysus. He's asked me to be his wife, and I've accepted. Sirius, this is my father, Vassilis."

Sirius smiled as he came to stand next to her.

Vassilis' shock was apparent on his face, "But, but Marlene, you've suffered so much because of the abilities you inherited from your mother."

Marlene nodded, "I know, but I love Sirius, and he loves me. We are equals already, neither of us needs give up anything to be together. And he makes me happy, Father." Marlene could hear the pleading in her voice - as if that could change the reality she saw.

"I'll do everything in my power to make her happy," Sirius wrapped an arm protectively around her waist. "You have my word that I would give my life for your daughter."

Vassilis shook his head, "What am I to tell Giannis?"

"Leave that to me," Moira stepped forward, "That is my responsibility."

Vassilis huffed, "I'm sorry, I think this is a mistake." He turned and started down towards Dion.

"Father!" Marlene cried, "Please, Father!" He didn't turn back.

"Do you see it?" Her mother asked. But Marlene saw nothing this time.

"No, Mother," Marlene felt hot tears stream down her cheeks.

"Take comfort, my daughter," there was a warmth in her mother's mind that helped soothe the hurt Marlene felt.

"Well, that's quite a downer," Dionysus sounded from behind them. "So sorry he's being stubborn about this. But know that I'm thrilled! Confused, but thrilled!" He wrapped Marlene and Sirius in a hug.

"Dionysus," Moira chuckled, "Why don't you go start making plans for the party?"

"Wonderful idea!" Dionysus cried and summoned a goblet out of thin air.

"Father, where's James," Sirius turned from her.

"James? Oh your little mortal, he's with your sister somewhere, probably at one of our regular spots." Dionysus shrugged but it looked more like he was attempting to keep from jumping in the air by pulling his head into himself. "I'd best be off! So much to do!" Without further ceremony, the god of revelry popped out of sight, leaving Marlene clinging to Sirius' arms as she watched her father walk down to Dion.

[michalwu]

Best of 2018 in TV

Another year passed and again I watched a lot of good quality tv. I think that although again it was very hard to choose my top 10 this year was a little bit less intense than previous. Still I had to do a short list of places 20-11 because I couldn’t resist not to mention a few more productions. That said remember I’m not a critic. I watch thinks I like not because I have to and this list is totally subjective though I tried to be fair. I watched over 50 series from 2018 and that’s the results:

20-11 (in random order)

The Affair (season 4), Atlanta (season 2), Homecoming, ACS: The Assassination of Gianni Versace, Killing Eve, One Day at the Time (season 2), Lemony Snicket's A Series of Unfortunate Events, Maniac (season 2), Legion (season 2), AHS: Apocalypse.

10. Anne with and E (season 2)

I never was a huge fan of the book as a kid but I read it as mandatory lecture in primary school. But I am a huge fan of this series. Beautiful placement of the plot plus very talented young cast with leading Amybeth. The best part of the story for me always was the dynamics of Anna's relationship with her adopted parents.

9. Patrick Melrose

What an absolutely outstanding trio of actors: Benedict Cumberbatch, Hugo Weaving and Jennifer Jason Leigh. Plus another young talent this year Seabstian Maltz who as a young Patrick is giving one of the most dramatic performence of the year. Creators did justice to the novel.

8. The Deuce (season 2)

This was one of the most enjoyable series this year. I love the period it shows and since the first season I started to develop a sympathy for all those characters especially for Candy. Too bad the series seems to be forgotten this year by critics. In my opion it came back in a lot better shape than last year. It’s funnier, it’s faster and the whole fuss around making porno adaptation of Red Riding Hood is just captivating.

7. Sharp Objects

Another great limited series and another proof of my love to the craftsmanship of brilliant Jean-Marc Vallée. The story from book was kinda predictable and tacky. But thanks to the director who is an expert of showing emotions and dilemmas from the past plus the cast of three great actresses made it into phenomenal work. I am really looking forward to see more projects from cooperation of Mr. Vallee and HBO because so far it brings only true treasures.

6. Barry

I was always a fan of Bill Harder on SNL and his (usually) small roles in comedies. So then I found out that he’s making his own show I kept my fingers crossed for the success. And the results are better than expected. Barry is a great combination of drama and comedy. It sound like things we see lately very often but Barry is the best mix of two this year (not to mention animated series). Why? Because drama is real (he’s a seriall killer with many very hard moral choices to make) and the comedy provided (mostly) by Henry Winkler is just a poor gold. Well done.

5. The Haunting of  Hill House

I’m not a big horror enthusiast but I do have a soft spot for those stories in classical form. And what’s more classic than beautiful, old, and huge haunted house. I fell in love with this series and it’s so much better than the previous movies. This one is actually very far from the original story written by Shirley Jackson but it capture the atmosphere the best. Separation of episode focusing on different from five siblings was a great idea. From non-believer to the most affected of the kids the story became more and more intense and scary. I honestly was scared almost the whole time. Still I tried to play with creators and watch for all  the hidden ghosts in the background. The secret of Bent Neck Lady was haunting me for a while and even after finishing the series it all stayed with me in my mind. This was my favorite new series of the year. I’d love to see it again in other form, maybe as anthology like AHS. With this cast yes please!

4. GLOW (season 2)

It’s so nice today that we can get such a smahing tv show this such a huge female cast. I love this series and those Gorgeous Ladies Of Wrestling since season 1. I always enjoy it when show or movie takes me to another peroid of time and GLOW blend us into into that reality of 80 like nothing else. We had so many exctiting things this season with Debbie becoming single mother after divorce, Sam Silvia trying himself as a father and the whole team becoiming more and more like a crazy family (recording of intro in the mall was amazing). In real life I’m not really intrested in wrestling (like at all) and though it probably differs a lot than reality I loved those duels bethween characters. Episode Mother of All Matches is one of the best in 2018.

3. BoJack Horseman (season 5)

Oh how I love this show and this character. And before anyone judge me I don’t love BoJack for being a walking disaster and misery. I love this character and many other on the show for the incredibly smart writing. He is a alcoholic, narcissus and washed-out tv star and that who he is. Just like Priness Caroline is an ambitious woman who will give up many things for career even if she know it won’t give her happines in the end. But that’s the greatest thing about this show and creators that they won’t change those characters and put them in unexpected positions just to get the wow factor from the viewers. They still find  a way to present those persons in fresh and captivating way but making it “in” the nature of the character. And that’s the fift season so congrats! And still we can count on them to give us some real gems like episode Free Churro which is a masterpiece of writing. The thing is this season of BoJack doesn’t stand out in specific way from other but it gives us the thing it always did and never disappoints - crazy rollercoaster ride.

2. Mozart in the Jungle (season 4)

When I said at the beginning that this list is totally subjective I meant it inter alia because of this series. Mozart IS my favorite tv series. I don’t know if the best but it always gave me the most joy when watching it adn that’s a pretty good determinant. Unfortunately I will have to start saying it WAS my favorite because Amazon cancelled series after this season. I’m still mad and disappointed because GoT is about to end so all platforms grab the money to invest in “next huge thing” (in case of Amazon it’s new Lord of the Ring..yeah we need it). But don’t get me wrong. I didn’t put Mozart this high because I’m mad and or to mark someone’s mistake. I just really loved this season. Placing the plot in Japan was bull’s-eye move. Rodrigo De Souza (favorite tv character next to Leslie Knope) as a boyfriend of Hailey was hilarious, a much as observing her way to become succesfull and independent artist. The scene when she debuts as conductor with piece “Hi” is maybe my favorite moment in whole season. Even stronger is her performence at the finale. Although I rooted for Hailey and Rodrigo as a couple I’m glad that creators didn’t go into cliche with their relationship. Another strong scene is the on at traditional tea ceremony. Of course as always the whole season was very firm from the music side (this series helped me to discover a little piece of classical music and I’m grateful for that). I will really miss this series. I think it could easily do another season especially now when creators decided to end this season in such an interesting place. Too bad...

1. The Marvelous Mrs. Maisel (season 2)

There’s nothing to explain... but I will ;) I compared all the series with each other and in my opinion there was nothing better that Mrs. Maisel this year. I enjoyed it last year but I didn’t even expected how much delight will it be to have it back. Visually it is the most beautiful thing in tv right now. And the writing as always is case of Amy Sherman-Palladino is just excellent. Those characters are so fast and wit it’s just a pleasure to observe them interact and discuss with much to many words and refrences than any normal person would use. And those actors really take it like a champs. All episodes in Paris was nice but it was nothing compre to Catskill where it felt like watching dirty dancing but with much better and more interesting story. I love the way Palladino direct her characters. How they develop especially Midge, her friendship with Susie and her realisation that stand-up comedy is not only the thing she want to do but it is something she will do for the rest of her life. Every time she stands in front of audience, camera or father himself she proves to be nailer and we as audience live for those moments! I really enjoyed see her parents in Paris as we could discover totally different side of them both and also new romance of Midge. But my favorite sequence of the season was Midge watching Lenny Bruce (Luke Kirby is so on point with this role) in last episode and realising it all (inconspicuous scene but made me waste a few tears). At the end I will add that I love the attitude towards the children presented in this series...irrational like many other things.

*******

Suming up in my list dominant are HBO and Netflix productions but in the end two first places go to Amazon.

Comapring with previous year there is no sign of Legion in top 10. Well season 2 was good, sometimes even great but not enough to get into the top. Beside there’s less new series on the list (seven in 2017, four this year) but we had some amazing comebacks.

I don’t have huge disappointments this year, maybe just a few. 1) Romanoffs were boring as hell and I really counted on Weiner. 2) Cancelling of many good series like Mozart in the Jungle or Daredevil. 3) Riverdale became so absurd that it beats and law of logic. I mean why it gotta be so intense?

[queerbrownfox]

Another Queer Bites the Dust at This Year’s Golden Globes

Awards Season!

If you’re like me, you’re probably suffering right now with an existential quandary, somehow caught in the space between knowing that award shows do not matter in the scope of things and only represent the Hollywood establishment which is only a tiny portion of the arts and being glued to your TV set to see who wins best picture this year.

And if you’re also like me, by which I mean queer (or care about queer stuff), you were probably pretty psyched for this awards season. The Favourite, The Green Book (not to be confused with The Green Mile), Bohemian Rhapsody, Can You Ever Forgive Me?, Boy Erased, Rafiki, Colette, Lady Gaga’s existence, and more . . . there have been so many queer films to come out (heh) in 20gayteen. 

At the Golden Globes this past weekend we saw an array of queer films nominated, and, I’ll be honest, I was pumped. It looked like it would be a great year for representation.

But then.

So without further ado, here’s the piping hot dish of queer erasure casserole that was the 2019 Golden Globes, folks.

Thought this year was a success for queers everywhere after the Golden Globes? Well, in point of fact . . . nope. Despite wins by The Green Book, Bohemian Rhapsody, The Favourite, and The Assassination of Gianni Versace, which all told queer stories, this year’s Golden Globes failed queer audiences massively.  Let’s break it down.

1. The Green Book? More like The Story Book.

The Green Book is a film that tells the story of Dr. Don Shirley, an insanely talented black pianist, and his white driver, Tony Vallelonga as they travel through the deep South on tour. Shirley, who happens to be a queer black man, and Vallelonga, despite their early differences (like Vallelonga’s being super racist), navigate issues of race and class throughout their journey and eventually end up as friends and comrades.

Sounds great. Except. 

First off, the movie was adapted and directed by Nick Vallelonga, the son of Shirley’s driver, who wrote the book that The Green Book was adapted from. In other words, it was the white man’s version. The film has come under constant fire since its public debut from none other than Shirley’s family, particularly his brother. Mhmm. Bad news.

Next, the trailers released for the film and other promotional materials don’t even nod to the scenes in the film in which it is revealed that Shirley’s oppression is criss-crossed with his identity as a queer black man. True, the preview shown during the Golden Globes ceremony did include a clip that revealed the pianist’s identity, sandwiched between shots of Vallelonga beating up people who were attempting to assault him. 

All in all, the movie smacks not only of queer erasure, but an elixir for white guilt. We as white people love to eat up feel good stories about white people who reach across culture and race boundaries to form “color-blind” relationships built on true empathy and compassion (see The Help, Shawshank Redemption, Hidden Figures). Stories that often take place, (coincidentally?) in the 1960s at the height of segregation. Which is funny, because it perpetuates the idea that race issues are all resolved now, as a result of the compassion shown by white people to black folks Way Back When. As anybody who’s got a sense of what’s going on in the world—or their own backyards—that’s far from the case.

Just sayin’.

2. The Assassination of Gianni Versace: Or, Another Straight Gets a Golden Globe for Playing a Gay and Everyone Eats it Up.

Ah, Darren Criss. This isn’t the first time we’ve been down this road. Have we. 

It started with Glee. Criss played Blaine, opposite Chris Colfer’s Kurt Hummel, an adorable baby gay with an impossibly effeminate singing voice that was ear candy if I’ve ever heard it. Criss, of course, very talented too. I lived for their relationship as boyfriends on the show, and tried to suck it up and pretend not to be disappointed when I found out that Criss (somehow???) was not queer in real life.

Then there was Hedwig and the Angry Inch, and now, Gianni, in which he plays the famed designer’s killer, Andrew Cunanan. All gays. All roles he was praised the hell out of for performing. He even won a GG for best actor in a limited series last Sunday.

And sure, Criss recently stated in a Bustle interview that he will no longer play gay characters so as not to be “another straight boy taking a gay man’s role” as the actor said.

That’s all fine and good, but that article was published in December. And at the GG’s this year? No mention of it in his acceptance speech. At all. If it weren’t already too little, too late for the guy, that last snub certainly makes it so.

I mean, I sort of forgive him for Glee though.

And finally. The worst offender of them all. 

3. Bohemian Rhapsody, But, Like, Without the Part Where Freddie Mercury Dies from AIDS.

This one pains me. I don’t want to admit it happened. But it did. And it was REAL bad.

Rami Malek. Even as a lesbian, I love him. Okay, I said it. He’s a cutie, and he’s extremely talented (See Mr. Robot), and his voice sounds like how coffee would taste (I imagine) if I liked coffee. And when I saw the first trailers for Bohemian Rhapsody, I was PUMPED. Thank God they got an actual person of color to play Freddie Mercury who, most people don’t even know, was also a person of color (yeah, his name was Farrokh Bulsara). The likeness, too, was pretty impeccable.

Freddie Mercury was one of the most famous bisexuals of his time, rivaled only by David Bowie, perhaps, who together produced perhaps the greatest and gayest moment that rock music ever saw when they collaborated on “Under Pressure.” Malek, always an enigma, I’m not going to jump to conclusions about his sexuality since he’s never stated it publicly, but, let’s just say he’s only ever dated women. 

Which is all fine and good on its own.

But Bohemian Rhapsody had already come under scrutiny for “straight-washing” after the release of its first trailer, which completely masked Mercury’s queerness, quickly followed up by another trailer that gave audiences a blink-and-you’ll-miss-it dose. As an article featured on Into stated regarding that sprinkle of queerness, “It’s the kind of passable moment that straight audiences wouldn’t take offense at and gay viewers could feel like they had some semblance of representation.”

Needless to say, we were off to a rough start.

So while I was watching the Golden Globes, watching Rami Malek walk on stage and accept his Best Actor award, of course I was nearly praying in my head that Malek would mention Mercury’s queerness. That would have made things better for disappointed queers. And honestly, Mercury’s memory deserved it, along with all the others who had their lives cut short during the AIDS epidemic.

So what brilliant lines had he to say about that? Nothing. Not a mention of AIDS or Mercury’s queerness was uttered by Malek or the production team who accepted the GG for best Drama.

Frankly, I wish I could say I was surprised. Or enraged. Or something. But as the 2019 Golden Globes ceremony came to a close half an hour late, I just had a kind of half grimace on my face.

As my mom would say about every fashion choice I made in high school: Disappointed, but not surprised. 

It was looking like it was going to be a good year for queers during award season, but we’re really not starting off on a great foot. Yet, I should add, we queers and allies should take courage, and tell ourselves that it’s not over until the last white guy receives an Oscar. Our fates are not yet writ. With a little over six weeks left, we have two options.

First, for those of you who are staying tuned in, have hope. There are a lot of queer films, TV shows, and artists in the running at this year’s award shows. The Golden’s are pretty indicative of how the Oscars turn out, but they’re not a direct reflection. And there’s still time for people, (Ahem, Rami Malek and Darren Criss) to do justice to the queer community as potential allies.

Second, for those of you who don’t care about awards shows, take pride in knowing that you’re probably right. It probably doesn’t matter. Nothing really matters, after all . . . ♫

[mysterioustransmissions]

My favorite comics of 2017

Keeping with my new tradition of posting this list super late, here, on the last day of 2018, is my best comics of 2017 list. I can offer excuses -- my wife and I remodeled our house and welcomed our first child into the world this year, and I’m also unfailingly lazy -- but 2017 was also a killer year for comics, making this a bit larger of an undertaking than usual. Both Koyama Press and co-publishers Retrofit Comics and Big Planet Comics had absolutely stacked lineups. You’ll see them listed as publisher for many entries below.

I always struggle with how to order this list. I got serious about organizing my comics collection in 2018, and am running into the same problem. There, I’m thinking of dividing it into two -- a single-author section organized by author name (which ends up being mostly minicomics and graphic novels), and a multiple-author section organized by title (which ends up being mostly traditional-sized comics). Here, I’m essentially doing that same thing, but mixing them together; some entries are by title, and some author name.

Comics I especially enjoyed are marked with an *.

Allison, Matthew; Cankor: Calamity of Challenge #2 and #3 (self-published).

Berserker 1, edited by edited by Tom Oldham and Jamie Sutcliffe (Breakdown Press). There was a lot of anticipation and very specific expectations placed on this book ahead of its release, but no one seemed to walk away from the finished product satisfied. But it’s got a killer cover, great production design, and strips by some of the best cartoonists going. I hope Breakdown does another one.

* Booth, Tara; How to be Alive (Retrofit Comics & Big Planet Comics). One of the funniest books I’ve ever read. Booth’s drawings are a riot to look at, that the gags are also great is pure gravy. About as big as crossover hits get in my house. (I.e., my wife also loved it.)

Cardini, William; Tales From the Hyperverse (Retrofit Comics and Big Planet Comics). Cardini’s sci-fi world is made bigger and more engaging by the rapid-fire pace of this short story collection. His wild experimentation with color is always an inspiration.

Corben, Richard; Shadows on the Grave #1 - #8 (Dark Horse Comics). Not my favorite of Corben’s late-period Dark Horse horror books, but there’s plenty to enjoy. I was stunned by the sheer efficiency of the storytelling -- there are entire stories told with a single image and a few word balloons. A lot of these books sport great covers, issue #1 here, seen at the link for this entry, is one of the best.

Darrow, Geoff; The Shaolin Cowboy: Who’ll Stop the Reign? #1 - #4 with Dave Stewart (Dark Horse Comics). I was so bowled over by the experience of buying Shemp Buffet monthly that I initially scoffed at Cowboy’s return to more traditional narrative, but it turned out to be no less wild and no loss at all.

Davis, Eleanor; Libby’s Dad (Retrofit Comics & Big Planet Comics) and You & a Bike & a Road (Koyama Press). You & a Bike & a Road does something that’s often attempted and rarely successful -- it beats the audience down so it can then lift them up higher. Its success is due in no small part from its origin as a real-life journal. The visceral and emotional pain Davis feels on her journey is sincerely felt, and the lack of cynicism the storytelling choices are made with allow the reader to feel it whole cloth. And listen; it certainly doesn’t hurt that Davis is an amazing narrative storyteller besides -- Libby’s Dad is no less affecting.

DeForge, Michael; mini kuš! #43 'Meat Locker' (kuš!). I sleep on DeForge. I take him for granted. I feel like I’m not the only one? I see some excitement when his books come out, but no discussion. Blame it on the high volume and opaque nature of his work, the dearth of comics reviewers, and me, obviously. Also obviously, whenever something of his does find its way to my hands, I’m never sorry.

Estrada, Inés; Alienation #3 - #6 (self-published). The bundled version of this series, seen at the link for this entry, has the coolest book packaging I’ve ever seen in my life.

Expansion by Matt Sheean and Malachi Ward (AdHouse Books). I didn’t like this nearly as much as this same team’s previous Ancestor (due no doubt to its earlier and improvised creation), but damn, what a cover.

* Forsman, Chuck; Slasher #1 - #4 (Floating World Comics). I’d say the majority of my interest in Forsman’s work is in seeing how he presents his it and steers his career -- he’s among the best there is at that. Slasher is his first work I strongly connected with. It digs deep and gets wilder and wilder.

Ferrick, Margot; Yours (2dcloud). I’m a simpleton, so I was surprised at how deeply I was able to be moved by something this abstract. As always, grabbing 2dcloud’s whole line on Kickstarter expands my horizons and makes me a better reader.

Foster-Dimino, Sophia; Sex Fantasy (Koyama Press). I’ve actually only read the minis of this. This collection has the one I’m missing, plus some new material, but I love Sex Fantasy. It’s like a perpetual motion machine for thought -- you can just think about it forever.

Fricas, Katie; Art Fan (self-published). One of those things you dream of happening at a show -- picked this up at MICE not knowing anything about it, and was delighted by the artwork and knocked out by the “reviews of trippy art events”; particularly the first, about Duke Riley’s Fly by Night.

* Friebert, Noel; WEIRD6 (self-published), SPINE: I’ll Still Watch (Bred Press), Old Ground (Koyama Press). Sometimes when I have a fever, I can’t break loose of a single, circular thought -- I have the same thought over and over, only to realize once the fever’s broken that it was barely coherent. Friebert’s newer, decompressed work is like that. You turn page after page, and nothing happens. It’s the same characters still doing and saying the same things, again and again. You turn the pages faster and faster, almost in a panic, hoping to break the cycle and resolve the unease before you. But it’s no use.

* gg; I’m Not Here (Koyama Press), Valley (kuš!). I’m Not Here is one of a few books I recommended to people who were enjoying season 3 of Twin Peaks at the time. It doesn’t convey information so much as emotion, and rewards as much thought as you want to put into it.

* Hankiewicz, John; Education (Fantagraphics Books). I loved this so much I only read a few pages a night to make it last. Michael DeForge once called Noel Freibert an “astronaut” -- that applies to Hankiewicz also. No one’s ever done anything like this before, and if we didn’t have Hankiewicz I don’t think anyone ever would. Bringing poetry and modern dance (!!) into the language of comics, this was another book I recommended to watchers of season 3 of Twin Peaks -- you don’t understand the story by connecting facts, you understand it by connecting emotions.

* Hanselmann, Simon; Portrait, XMP-165 (self-published). XMP-165 was the first big payoff of the longform nature of Megg and Mogg, and it destroyed me. Also released this year was Doujinshi, Cold Cube Press’ gorgeous re-release of a Japanese Megg and Mogg fan comic.

Harkam, Sammy; Crickets #6 (The Commonwealth Comics Company). People talk about how good this book is, and I agree, but I’m not sure I could tell you why.

Haven, Eric; Vague Tales (Fantagraphics Books).

Hernandez, Gilbert and Jaime ; Love & Rockets Vol. IV #2, #3 (Fantagraphics). I made the terrible error after Love Bunglers to trade wait Locas, and for whatever reason they haven’t released one since. So I was way behind when this started coming out, but I bought and read it anyway. I initially found the story to be light, but I eventually realized I had a free ComiXology trial and caught up. It’s as great as ever.

Ito, Junji; Dissolving Classroom (Vertical, Inc.), Shiver: Junji Ito Selected Stories, and Tomie: Complete Deluxe Edition (Viz Media). Tomie may have come out in 2016 actually? I describe it to people as being about a beautiful woman who stands around until some total lech of a man inevitably murders her, then she comes back and annihilates him in the most unpleasant manner possible. Repeat ad infinitum. I don’t think the text 100% supports my reading, but that’s what it means to me.

Landry, Tyler; Shit and Piss (Retrofit Comics). The ephemeral, disjointed nature the single issue format served this story better, but it’s still extremely rad.

Loup, Celine; The Man Who Came Down the Attic Stairs (self-published).

Marcus, Ben; Crisis Zone 3rd Edition (Bred Press).

Mignolaverse and John Arcudi; Dead Inside #3 by Arcudi, Toni Fejzula, and Andre May, Lobster Johnson: The Pirate’s Ghost #1 - #3 by Arcudi and Tonci Zonjic, Hellboy: Into the Silent Sea by Gary Gianni, Mike Mignola, and Dave Stewart (Dark Horse Comics). Ignoring a few years in college when I was a lapsed comics reader, I’ve bought every Mignolaverse comic since I was about 13. That loyalty has slowly eroded over the last half decade about. I’m not alone in thinking the Arcudi-Davis run is one of the greatest of all time, and that the books started to go downhill after Guy Davis left. Beyond the departure of Davis, there are a few reasons for that, in my view.

First was the decision soon after to expand the line’s offerings. Doubling the line’s output and bringing in (inevitably) inferior creative teams was a no-win proposition for readers. Who wants more of something not as good?

Second, I think that Arcudi, a great writer, has shifted his focus from tightly-plotted five issue arcs to series-spanning character arcs. While I’m guessing this reads great in big chunks, it doesn’t spread out month to month, some months out of the year. I’m looking forward to a big re-read of everything after B.P.R.D. wraps in a few months, to see if this theory holds. Lobster Johnson: The Pirate’s Ghost came close to standing on its own, but was still rife with moments that I can only assume were big character payoffs because I didn’t remember enough to know. (Especially cool covers by Zonjic on these issues.) However, the non-Mignolaverse title Dead Inside offered the type of visceral, plot-based payoff his B.P.R.D. run with Davis hooked me with. I hadn’t been this thrilled by an Arcudi book since Killing Ground.

But third, and worst of all, has been the addition of writer Chris Roberson, whose books read like updates to the Mignolaverse Wiki. (The Visitor: How and Why He Stayed was okay, but pretty much solely due to Paul Grist’s fun art and layouts.)

I’m staying aboard the main B.P.R.D. book as it races to the finish line, and will continue to buy anything Arcudi writes, which seems to be mostly these Lobster Johnson comics. (Although even that’s looking increasingly, and sadly, unlikely to continue: https://twitter.com/ArcudiJohn/status/1075086925436874753) And I’ll certainly buy any more of these very sporadically-released Hellboy OGNs, like Into the Silent Sea, they decide to release -- the only real non-Mignola drawn Hellboy books anymore.

* Milburn, Lane; CORRIDORS (self-published). Sits comfortably next to Inflated Head Zone by Zach Hazard Vaupen, one of my favorite comics. They both forsake straightforward narrative in favor of theme-driven emotional impressionism, and do it with horror. This is catnip to me, and something I aspire to (although I’m far too boring to achieve it).

* Mirror Mirror II, edited by Sean T. Collins and Julia Gfrörer (2dcloud).

Now: The New Comics Anthology #1, edited by Eric Reynolds (Fantagraphics Books).

* Providence #12 by Jacen Burrows, Juan Rodriguez, and Alan Moore (Avatar Press). It came out months after, but it’s a safe bet Moore wrote this before Trump got elected, right? A more accurate depiction of the shell-shock of being thrust into a post-facts world I haven’t seen.

Roberts, Keiler; Sunburning (Koyama Press). Another big crossover hit in my house.

* Shiga, Jason; Demon Volumes 2, 3, and 4 (First Second). Demon became a book I wouldn’t stop showing to anyone who would listen. Like Gina Wynbrandt’s Someone Please Have Sex With Me, its hook transcends the normal comics reading audience -- you can show it to anyone and they get it right away. Specifically I would show people this amazing video https://youtu.be/NRxCTeM5pyU, which would clue them into what Shiga does enough to get them to read Demon. Demon has a story, but it’s more about rules -- establishing them and playfully subverting them with a level of inventiveness that regularly leaves you in awe.

* Terrell, Jake; Extended Play (2dcloud). This delightful book took me completely by surprise, an experience made possible by 2dcloud’s subscription model.

Tomasso, Rich; She Wolf: Black Baptism #1 - #4, Spy Seal: The Corten-Steel Phoenix #1 - #4 (Image Comics). The end of this second series of She Wolf approached the same hostile disregard for what came before as the end of Tomasso’s previous series, Dark Corridor. But where Dark Corridor acted on that impulse by simply burning it all down, She Wolf has enough respect at least to replace what came before by pivoting into a completely different comic. The freedom this affords the plot to dart in unpredictable directions is exhilarating. And it’s fun and beautifully laid out and designed, as always with Tomasso.

Tran, Thu; Dust Pam (Peow). Gorgeous!

Vaupen, Zach Hazard; Combed Clap of Thunder (Retrofit Comics and Big Planet Comics).

* Willumsen, Connor; Anti-Gone (Koyama Press). The part where the protagonists drive their boat past a window with a dog in it rewired my comics-making brain forever. This was another comic I only read a few pages of a night to make it last longer, and also recommended to friends of mine who were enjoying season three of Twin Peaks -- the plot is obfuscated in a similar way.

Yanow, Sophie; What is a Glacier? (Retrofit Comics and Big Planet Comics).

Yokoyama, Yuichi; Iceland (Retrofit Comics). Another comic I recommended to Twin Peaks season three fans. Similar to the residents of the Red Room, the characters seem truly of another world, their motivations and actions incomprehensible to us.

[realtylong]

Nba 2k19 cover player

#Nba 2k19 cover player full#

#Nba 2k19 cover player tv#

“He’s the perfect cover athlete and we’re excited to feature him as our very first international cover star, as NBA 2K has a strong following with fans all over the world. “Giannis is the future of the NBA and his drive and athleticism have made him an undeniable force in the league,” said Alfie Brody, vice president of marketing for NBA 2K. Bucks forward Giannis Antetokounmpo is on the cover of the 'NBA 2K19' standard-edition video game, becoming the first international player to receive the honor. Taking to the stage during a press conference in sunny Athens, the publisher announced that Milwaukee Bucks’ player and Greek legend, Giannis Antekokuunmpo, will be gracing the cover of this year’s game. In addition to the release of the cover, 2K Sports also released a first look at the upcoming edition of the game with a video narrated by Giannis’ mother, Veronica, titled “A Boy With A Name.” 2K has just revealed that NBA 2K19 will feature the franchise’s first ever international cover star. Perhaps most importantly, the cover includes the words “Father’s Legacy” which Giannis has repeatedly says will continue to define him and motivate him to improve year-after-year. The cover features key words and phrases that have become synonymous with Giannis’ journey in the NBA, including the 23-year-old’s now iconic nickname, the “Greek Freak.”Ī Greek flag also graces the background of the cover, while the words “Hellas,” “Athens,” “Sepolia,” “Family,” and the name of Giannis’ four brothers also grace the cover. I have worked hard to earn recognition in the NBA and being on the cover of NBA 2K19 is a dream come true.” “I love playing NBA 2K so this means a lot to me. “I am honored to be the first international player featured on the cover of NBA 2K19,” Antetokounmpo said in a statement. Giannis Antetokounmpo will grace the cover of NBA 2K19, American video game publisher, 2K Sports, revealed in an announcement in Athens on Monday.Īntetokounmpo will become the first international player to grace the cover of the video game’s standard edition, which has had yearly iterations since debuting in 1999.

#Nba 2k19 cover player tv#

Watch the 2018 FIFA World Cup in Greek Commentary with the AGONAsport TV 2018 World Cup Pass. James Harden of the Houston Rockets is an obvious choice, but because he was on the cover of NBA Live 18 and. What do you make of the cover reveal? Do you have any thoughts on NBA 2K19 so far? Have your say in the comments section below, and join in the discussion here in the NLSC Forum.2K Sports has named Giannis Antetotkounmpo as the cover athlete for the upcoming edition of the popular basketball video game NBA 2K19… Chances are, the player (s) who will grace the cover of NBA 2K19 probably know as well. This year’s Prelude, once again only available on PlayStation 4 and Xbox One, will be coming out on August 31st. On Tuesday, 2K announced Cleveland Cavaliers superstar and the NBA's best player LeBron James is the cover athlete for NBA 2K19's 20th Anniversary Special Edition. The 20th Anniversary Edition of NBA 2K19 comes out on September 7th, while the Standard Edition drops on September 11th.

#Nba 2k19 cover player full#

Check it out below, along with the full cover art. In addition to the cover reveal, we also have our first “First Look” screenshot of the year, naturally featuring The Greek Freak. Pre-order customers will receive a Sapphire Giannis Antetokounmpo MyTEAM card, along with 10 MyPLAYER packs (one delivered each week), and 5000 VC. The cover art is similar in theme to the 20th Anniversary Edition cover featuring LeBron James, who has just signed with the Los Angeles Lakers.Īntetokounmpo becomes the first European player and Milwaukee Buck to appear on the primary cover of NBA 2K. Following what seems to have been a completely inadvertent leak last week, the Milwaukee Bucks’ Giannis Antetokounmpo has been officially revealed as the cover player for the Standard Edition of NBA 2K19.

[acsversace-news]

Ryan Murphy hates the word “camp.” He sees it as a lazy catchall that gets thrown at gay artists in order to marginalize their ambitions, to frame their work as niche. “I don’t think that when John Waters made ‘Female Trouble’ that he was, like, ‘I want to make a camp piece,’ ” Murphy told me last May, as we sat in a production tent in South Beach, Florida, where he was directing the pilot of “American Crime Story: The Assassination of Gianni Versace,” a nine-episode series for FX. “I think that he was, like, ‘It’s my tone—and my tone is unique.’ ”

Murphy prefers a different label: “baroque.” Between shots, the showrunner—who has overseen a dozen television series in the past two decades—elaborated, with regal authority, on this idea. To Murphy, “camp” describes not irony but something closer to clumsiness, the accident you can’t look away from. People rarely use the term to describe a melodrama made by a straight man; even when “camp” is meant as a compliment, it contains an insult, suggesting a musty smallness. “Baroque” is big. Murphy, referring to TV critics (including me) who have applied “camp” to his work, said, “I will admit that it really used to bug the shit out of me. But it doesn’t anymore.”

We were outside the Casa Casuarina, the Mediterranean-style mansion that the Italian fashion designer Gianni Versace renovated and considered his masterwork—a building with airy courtyards and a pool inlaid with dizzy ribbons of red, orange, and yellow ceramic tiles. A small bronze statue of a kneeling Aphrodite stood at the top of the mansion’s front steps. In 1997, a young gay serial killer named Andrew Cunanan shot Versace to death there as the designer, who was fifty, was returning from his morning stroll.

The previous day, Murphy had filmed the murder scene. Cunanan was played by Darren Criss, a star of Murphy’s biggest hit, “Glee.” I’d visited the set that day, too, arriving to find ambulances, cops, and paparazzi swarming outside. There was a splash of red on the marble steps. Inside the house, Edgar Ramirez, the Venezuelan actor playing Versace, sat in a shaded courtyard, his hair caked with gun-wound makeup, his face lowered in his hands.

Now Murphy was filming the aftermath of the crime, including a scene in which two lookie-loos dip a copy of Vanity Fair into the puddle of Versace’s blood. (They sell the relic on eBay.) The vibe was an odd blend of sombre and festive; a half-naked rollerblader spun in slow circles on the sidewalk next to the beach. Murphy, who is fifty-three, is a stylish man, but on set he wore the middle-aged male showrunner’s uniform: baggy cargo shorts and a polo shirt. He has a rosebud mouth and close-cropped vanilla hair. He is five feet ten but has a brawny air of command, creating the illusion that he is much taller. His brother is six feet four, he told me, as was his late father; Murphy thinks that his own growth was stunted by chain-smoking when he was a rebellious teen-ager, in Indiana.

Murphy’s mood tends to shift unexpectedly, like a wonky thermostat—now warm, now icy—but on the “Versace” set he made one confident decision after another about the many shows he was overseeing, as if skipping stones. He also answered stray questions—about the casting for a Broadway revival of “The Boys in the Band” that he was producing, about a grand house in Los Angeles that he’d been renovating for two years. “Ooh, yes!” he said, inspecting penis-nosed clown masks that had been designed for his series “American Horror Story.” He approved a bespoke nail-polish design for an actress. A producer handed Murphy an updated script, joking, “If there’s a mistake, you can drown me in Versace’s pool!,” then scheduled a notes meeting for “American Crime Story: Katrina,” whose writers were working elsewhere in the building. Now and then, Murphy FaceTimed with his then four-year-old son, Logan, who, along with his two-year-old brother, Ford, was in L.A. with Murphy’s husband, David Miller.

“I never get overwhelmed or feel underwater, because I feel like all good things come from detail,” Murphy told me. It’s what got him to this point: the compulsion, and the craving, to do more. “Baroque is a sensibility I can get behind,” he said. “Baroque is a maximalist approach to storytelling that I’ve always liked. Baroque is a choice. And everything I do is an absolute choice.”

Murphy’s choices, perhaps more than those of any other showrunner, have upended the pieties of modern television. Like a wild guest at a dinner party, he’d lifted the table and slammed it back down, leaving the dishes broken or arranged in a new order. Several of Murphy’s shows have been critically divisive (and, on occasion, panned in ways that have raised his hackles). But he has produced an unusually long string of commercial and critical hits: audacious, funny-peculiar, joyfully destabilizing series, in nearly every genre. His run started with the satirical melodrama “Nip/Tuck” (2003), then continued with the global phenomenon “Glee” (2009) and with “American Horror Story,” now entering its eighth year, which launched the influential season-long anthology format. His legacy is not one standout show but, rather, the sheer force and variety and chutzpah of his creations, which are linked by a singular storytelling aesthetic: stylized extremity and rude humor, shock conjoined with sincerity, and serious themes wrapped in circus-bright packaging. He is the only television creator who could possibly have presented Lily Rabe as a Satan-possessed nun, gyrating in a red negligee in front of a crucifix while singing “You Don’t Own Me,” and have it come across as an indelible critique of the Catholic Church’s misogyny.

When Murphy entered the industry, he sometimes struck his peers as an aloof, prickly figure; he has deep wounds from those years, although he admits that he contributed to this reputation. Nonetheless, Murphy has moved steadily from the margins to television’s center. He changed; the industry changed; he changed the industry. In February, Murphy rose even higher, signing the largest deal in television history: a three-hundred-million-dollar, five-year contract with Netflix. For Murphy, it was a moment of both triumph and tension. You can’t be the underdog when you’re the most powerful man in TV.

On that sunny afternoon in South Beach, however, Murphy was still comfortably ensconced in a twelve-year deal with Fox Studios. On FX, which is owned by Fox, he had three anthology series: “American Horror Story”; “American Crime Story,” for which he was filming “Versace,” writing “Katrina,” and planning a season based on the Monica Lewinsky scandal; and “Feud,” whose first season starred Susan Sarandon as Bette Davis and Jessica Lange as Joan Crawford.

For Fox, he was developing “9-1-1,” a procedural about first responders. He had announced two shows for Netflix: “Ratched,” a nurse’s-eye view of “One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest,” starring Sarah Paulson; and “The Politician,” a satirical drama starring Ben Platt. Glenn Close was trying to talk him into directing her in a movie version of the Andrew Lloyd Webber musical “Sunset Boulevard.” Murphy was writing a book called “Ladies,” about female icons. He had launched Half, a foundation dedicated to diversity in directing, and had committed to hiring half of his directors from underrepresented groups. And, he told me, there was something new: a series for FX called “Pose,” a dance-filled show set in the nineteen-eighties.

It was no mystery which character in his current series Murphy most identified with: Gianni Versace himself. Versace was a commercially minded artist whose brash inventions were dismissed by know-nothings as tacky, and whose openness about his sexuality threatened his ascent in a homophobic era. Versace, too, was a baroque maximalist, Murphy told me, who built his reputation through fervid workaholism—an insistence that his vision be seen and understood. “He was punished and he struggled,” Murphy said, then spoke in Versace’s voice: “Why aren’t I loved for my excess? Why don’t they see something valid in that?”

[...] Murphy has long been a connoisseur of extremes and hyperbole, games and theatricality. He rates everything he sees and revels in institutions that do the same—the Oscars are a kind of religion for him. In Miami, at dinner with the “Katrina” and “Versace” writers, he played a high-stakes game in which he was forced to immediately choose one person in his circle over another; he demurred only when the choice was between Jessica Lange and Sarah Paulson. His go-to question is “Is it a hit or a flop?,” and he asked it about every show that came up in conversation, as I observed him giving shape to “Pose,” from scouting locations to editing dance footage. (He has other stock phrases. “What’s the scoop?” is how he begins writers’ meetings. “Energy begets energy” explains his impulse to add new projects. “That’s interesting” sometimes indicates “That’s worth noticing” but just as often means “That’s infuriating.”)

[...] His multitasking benefits greatly from the freedoms of cable and streaming: he has zero nostalgia for the twenty-two-episode network grind of a show like “Glee,” in which “halfway through Episode 15 you had nothing left to say, the actors were sick, the writers were sick, and it was fucking oatmeal until the end.” He favors eight or ten episodes, often with a small writers’ room, as with “Pose.” He writes scripts for some shows, whereas for others he gives notes; on a few projects, like his HBO adaptation of Larry Kramer’s play “The Normal Heart,” he’s very hands-on. “We left blood on the dance floor,” Murphy said, affectionately, of his three-year collaboration with Kramer. “Versace” had one writer, Tom Rob Smith. But Murphy provided close directorial, design, and casting oversight, and he had a strong commitment to the show’s themes, particularly the contrast between Versace and Cunanan, two gay men craving success, but only one willing to work for it.

[...] In the meanwhile, Murphy had scored a ratings bonanza with Fox’s “9-1-1,” a wackadoo procedural featuring stories like one about a baby caught in a plumbing pipe. It was his parting gift to Dana Walden. “Versace” had been, by certain standards, a flop: lower ratings, mixed reviews. Artistically, though, it was one of Murphy’s boldest shows, with a backward chronology and a moving performance by Criss as Cunanan, a panicked dandy hollowed out by self-hatred. After the finale aired, a new set of reviews emerged. Matt Brennan, on Paste, argued that “Versace” had been subjected to “the straight glance”—a critical gaze that skims queer art, denying its depths. “Even critics sympathetic to the series seem as uncomfortable with its central subject as the Miami cops were with those South Beach fags,” Brennan wrote. Murphy was reading a new oral history of Tony Kushner’s “Angels in America,” in which, in one scene, Roy Cohn denies being gay because, he barks, homosexuals lack power: they are “men who know nobody and who nobody knows.” The line echoes one in “Versace.” A homeless junkie dying of aids tells the cops, bitterly, why gay men couldn’t stop talking about the designer: “We all imagined what it would be like to be so rich and so powerful that it doesn’t matter that you’re gay.”

[tiny-tinkerer]

Clickspring’s Log: Meeting Celio

I haven’t decided the exact order in which JunkTown events occur for Clickspring, but as the pieces fall together I’ve been writing little excerpts to capture the scenes. I do love first encounters, so the following scene is a bit indulgent. Enjoy the read! 

Coming back around from the aching grog of my forced slumber, I sit up slowly and press warm palms onto my throbbing forehead. I keep my eyes pinched shut, not yet prepared to greet the light again. Even with eyes closed it is immediately apparent that my surroundings are very different. I am quite used to the coarseness of fabrics woven for humans. It isn't exactly easy to find something with a high enough thread count to feel soft when you're less than 5 inches tall. The fabric laying across my lap is an entirely new level of coarse, however. Strong woven and thick like an airship sail, with threads nearly as big around as my thumb.

"What in the hell-"

I halt the words in my throat and finally pop my eyes open as I feel vibrations in the ground. My instincts scream danger, but the quaking ceases, and then recedes into the far distance again. Definitely not at home in the Inn, that's for certain. It is also immediately clear that running away is out of the question.

This new, foreign place seems to stretch on for tens of meters. It'd take me half an hour to situate myself in the nearest cover. Not to mention that everything around soars leagues over my head in height. I can't even see the end of the massive mattress I'm essentially trapped on. But the dresser in my field of vision is far above me. A bed just plopped down on the floor? Seems like a borrower sort of choice; you end up taking a few shortcuts when you have to make your own furniture. I feel my waist to find my utility belt and all my tools missing. The chance of escape is nill without at least thread and a fishhook to  grapple, so the only logical choice is to let the situation play out.

I remember bits and pieces of the events that brought me here as I stew over the situation. I recall a group of scavengers, being squeezed tight in a human's hand, having my gear ripped away, and then forcefully being shoved into a padded metal jar. There were harassing voices above poking fun at my position, and then suddenly the whole world was draped in shadow.

I'd never seen a junk giant up so close, not outside the safety of my repair room where I was under constant protection and surveillance. I was vulnerable, and from what I could see with my restricted viewing, this one’s shadowy figure loomed far above the head of my captor. A voice rang out too loud to comprehend, but there was anger to it’s tone. I forced myself into the bottom of the surrounding padding and held my head tight in my arms, fearing that if the behemoth continued to speak, my eardrums might actually burst. There was a crash, and the jar went flying. The ground came hard and fast as I was painfully rattled about and flung from my unsealed prison. I recall feeling the dirt grind away the skin on my cheek and arm as I slid across the ground. The back of my head met with something hard, and the world went black.

Legends say a junk giant can swallow you whole without even knowing they've done it. A borrower is a bug they could smash to pulp with one finger. Bugs they enjoy toying with and slowly killing for some sick, fetish-like pleasure. Gods I hope that isn't true.I pinch my eyes shut. My blood runs fast and my heart pounds in my throat as the rhythmic quaking makes its return. My whole body quivers.

Metal slides against metal as the great door across the room is slowly freed from it's latch. I brace my arm against my side and hang onto the sail cloth below me for dear life as the world shakes out of control. I'm too terrified to open my eyes. The quaking halts for a moment, I can hear the sounds of air being drawn in and out of cavernous lungs, and the tension of massive cables of muscle straining to hold up the behemoth as it leans over and sets something down on the end of the bed. A brief moment of silence, and then comes the greatest shaking I've ever felt as the monster lowers it's whole massive weight to the floor. In the chaotic movement I'm flung back on my side, and I curl into a tight fetal position to protect my head.

"Oh! Sorry!"

The whisper, deep and still horrifically thunderous, hits my chest like a punch. I open my eyes wide with fear and unfurl my body. Turning over to gaze up equally in fear and confusion.

"S-sorry?" My voice blurts out, dumbfounded.

Above me looms the giant from before. Wide as a truck bed, probably as tall as a warehouse. He seems less terrifying now. His face is youthful and rounded, framed by a mop of brunette hair in disheveled bangs, a rhomboidal red birthmark splashed across his nose, from which hangs a bull ring I could probably sit on. He lifts a hand and waves awkwardly, in a way that would be halfway cute if his fingers weren't wider than my torso.

"What did you say, little buddy? I-uh," he swallows anxiously and scratches at the back of his head. A few flakes of dandruff as big as my hand flutter down to the mattress. "I-can't really hear you. I'm so sorry." His face becomes even redder than his birthmark as he blushes embarrassedly.

I immediately sure up at his apparently soft demeanor. I lift myself back to sitting. He's young, naíve. Maybe I can make this go my way with a little bit of gusto.

"That's Clickspring to you, bub," I point at him with some falsely inflated attitude. "Where the heck am I, I want some ans-"

"Hang on, hang on," the behemoth stifles a giggle. "I can’t even tell what you’re saying. Gosh your little voice is adorable,"

My complexion broke at his words and I could feel my face heat up, angry tears well up in my eyes as I shoot him a venomous glare.

"Ack- I'm so sorry, I didn't mean to offend you! Let me get down more so I can actually hear you. I am so, so sorry."

He continues to apologize as he lowers himself even further. It is a much more controlled movement this time, but even without the massive earthquakes his body can cause, his voice still hits like a physical blow. His massive, resonating vocal chords make even the lowest whisper rumble through the air like thunder.

I soon find myself looking into intelligent violet eyes vastly larger than my whole head as the giant lays down before me and thrusts the lower part of his face into the mattress. The warping of the surface almost tosses me forward toward him, but by some miracle I am able to hold on and stay still.

"I'm really sorry," he says again, the muffling of his voice by the mattress makes him much easier to listen to. "I really didn't mean any harm, I swear. I even brought some things to help those wounds." He brought a hand uncomfortably close to gesture, but was careful not to touch me.

I suddenly recalled the bad road burns on my head and arm, beginning to throb again now that my adrenaline rush was calming. I jumped as the man's eyes suddenly pinched shut for a moment.

"Crap, I didn't even tell you my name. Gianni would kill me for being so rude," His violet irises returned and locked on to me. "My name is Celio. Celio Featherson. What's yours?"

I couldn't help but stare blankly, taken aback by the irrational averageness of the situation. I can feel my body still shaking from weakness, anger, and embarrassment. As much as I want to, I can't quite summon up my voice and attitude. Here I sit mere feet away from a creature so  vastly different in scale to me that  he could quite literally obliterate me with a sneeze. Awkward moments stretch out between us. Celio patiently waits, but doesn’t turn his expectant periwinkle eyes away. I find myself beginning to be overtaken by panic.

"Hey, hey, it's alright, don't force yourself," He picks up his head from the mattress and shows me a soft, encouraging smile. "Let's get you all fixed up first. I'll just call you Sorellina in the meantime. That’s uh, ‘little sister’ in my native tongue. Sound like an okay arrangement? ...I'm still so sorry for what I said earlier, I didn't mean to break your confidence like that, that was an awful, jerky move on my part."

I nod, half assured. Suddenly those huge purple eyes widen even bigger. I narrow my own, confused.

"Shit, your ears are bleeding! H-hang on!"

With muscular arms he launches himself back to standing and rushes away with familiar quaking steps. I was accustomed to light auditory trauma, and my body was already in such pain, I hadn't even noticed the sudden perforation of my eardrums. What was one more thing?

“Damn it all, am I really that loud? Crap, what if she can’t hear at all anymore? What the heck do I do? What the hell do you even say when something like this happens? ‘Sorry I literally destroyed your ears?’ Damn it...” Celio mutters from an adjacent room. I hear glass jars clinking about as he searches for something. Guess I’m not quite deafened yet.

I breathe deep and submit to the ache for a few meditative moments. Usually I have to handle these kinds of things all by myself. Strange as this day was going, it was kind of nice to have some compassionate company for once. Celio obviously cared - it wasn’t his fault that he could only be so careful with his big body. Rough handling was kind of normal in the business of robot repair, so this wasn’t anything too new. Not that the robots at the inn meant to be cold or uncaring, they just weren't programmed for contact and companionship. People hated me for being small. It was infuriating and unfair, so I made a point not to hold the consequences of size against anyone.

Celio's quaking footsteps returned, and I finally got a quick look at his full body. He had a proportionally short, sturdy form that was highly muscled. His clothing, minimal: his shirt leaving his entire arms, shoulders, and the sides of his torso exposed. His pants were cut just below the knees, and he wore no embellishments whatsoever. Not even shoes to protect his feet. I brace myself as he crashes into a kneel. He sets a bundle of loose cotton fiber in front of me. I look at it confusedly for a moment. Then back up at him. He gestures at the soft bundle and then pantomimes a compressing motion with his fingers. He then swishes his bangs aside and makes a gesture toward one ear. Earplugs. Got it. Apparently we’re done with talking for now.

I follow his pantomimed instructions. By the time I finish, I smell the astringent sharpness of surgical spirits, and look up. I expect to be handed a swab to clean my wounds, but instead find a massive hand approaching with soaked cotton. I automatically begin to backpedal, but almost immediately find myself braced in place by another massive hand. I struggle against his hand with all my strength. I can clean my own damn wounds, dammit!

"Stop that. You can’t hold me back and I don’t want to hurt you. C’mon, this isn’t so bad, just take it easy." Back to whispering again.

The earplugs helped lessen the blow of his voice considerably, and they held off the bleeding. My struggling is brought to an abrupt end by a swift brushing of Celio’s thumb that pins my uninjured arm and body down effortlessly. I flinch and close my eyes as the cold medical alcohol comes into contact with my arm and dabs the burn repeatedly. It stings horribly.

"I know, I know, this stuff sucks. But you’re not a junk giant, you’ll get an infection if we don’t clean these. Can’t you little guys die that way? I will not let that happen. Keep your eyes closed, I'm doing the burn on your face now."

When the alcohol drenched swab and Celio's hands retreat, I relax, thinking the torture is done. Celio rifles around things on a tray he'd set on the end of the bed when he first came. A jar of herbal smelling salve is unscrewed, and suddenly I find myself caught by the giant once more. I struggle against his unyielding massive strength again to no avail. Instead of allowing my stubborn fight to continue, the junk giant scoops me up in his palm and effortlessly wraps his fingers around my entire body in an imprisoning arrangement.

"That's enough of that! It’s just one more tiny thing. Geez, I'm not hurting you." I can feel the quake of a soft laugh echo through his hand. Then a clearing of his throat as he recoiled. “Not that it’s funny or anything. You need this, just work with me for a minute. I don’t want to do this any more than you do.”

Celio opens his hand for but a moment and carefully snatches my injured arm, holding it up straight as he curls his fingers back up, supporting my comparatively miniscule limb between his middle and ring finger. I decide not to struggle, being squished against his unbearably warm palm is enough of a punishment.

The junk giant is shockingly gentle with his treatment. His hands might be huge, but they're as deft as a surgeon's. He barely applies any pressure to my body as he slathers my wounds with the minty, cooling salve. It frightens me to allow it, but he even manages to gently apply some to my cheek, opening his palm and lifting my head with an imprisoning thumb. Despite my discomfort I almost laugh at his intensely focused expression: face crinkled tight, one eye closed, and mouth  slanted tightly to one side. He finishes the job more quickly than expected, though leaves a massively thick layer of ointment on my wounds because of his vast size. I don't protest. Finally, his palm opens, and I scramble back to seated, taking in some cool air after being trapped next to his stiflingly warm skin.

"There. See, that wasn’t so bad, was it? That ointment should help the pain and fend off infection. We should let those wounds breathe a bit before we bandage them up. How about a cup of tea while we wait? I’m sure my brother has some snacks I could get into if you’re hungry: how about it?"

My blood is still boiling a bit from the last experience. Good intentions or not, being handled without permission is embarrassing. I hate not being given a choice, I allowed it, but now I need answers. I give him a stern glare from my position in his palm, and as loudly as I can manage, I give an order.

“Put me down. Now,” I say resolutely.

I am dizzied by a sudden move closer to his face. I crouch and try to maintain my balance, flinching away from his hot breath as I’m drawn to his level. The collective circumstances are dizzying, and I want to be down on solid ground more than ever.

“I-I’m sorry? Can you repeat that Sorrelina?”

Frustration boils through me. “I SAID PUT ME DOWN. NOW.”

The giant’s eyes grow wide and suddenly the world drops. I nearly faint as the big guy promptly follows my order. He spills me off onto the mattress again. I hold onto my stomach and spinning head, and my body flinches hard as I am hit with a sudden realization: I just yelled at a giant. Not a robot that will follow orders, but a fully autonomous person far outside my locus of control. I curl myself small, expecting anger, retaliation, violence even; but moments pass and nothing comes. I look back up at Celio. He appears concerned, a little hurt.

“Hey, you don't have to… Please, don't be scared like that. I promise, I would never hurt someone like you… Never on purpose anyway. I didn't save you from those lousy scavengers just to put you in harm's way myself. I mean, it’s not every day I get the chance to make a friend...”

The giant rises a bit and then very deliberately lays his head on the mattress next to me, making sure he was finally within earshot. I hesitantly plod closer and take a seat against his nose. The unexpected touch stirs a flinch that almost knocks me over.

“I hope you can forgive me for handling you like that. I just… I didn't want to risk you saying no to my help... I was afraid of what would happen if I didn't take care of your wounds.” His body shifted a little as his big arm swung overhead and covered his eyes embarrassedly. “I’ve heard littler folk can get such bad infections that you'll lose limbs or die. That doesn't happen to us giants. Our bodies are just too tough. I didn't know how long before it would be too late to stop it - y’know? Ugh, it’s probably a stupid assumption to make, but I was actually worried you’d die if I didn’t do anything,” he took a long, tentative pause. “Y’know Sorellina, I only really know four people. Two of them are my blood family so they don't even count... I just didn't want to lose potential friend number three before I even learned your name.”

I try to absorb the thought that someone other than a broken robot would want me around. To nearly every other organic person I've met, I'm 'just another borrower.' It is an unusual feeling to be wanted.

“Well, I guess we'd better get on it with the friend making business in case I get gangrene or something,” I chuckle, Celio doesn't seem to find it so funny. “Name's Kelly Clickspring. Everyone just calls me Clickspring... I think we might have some things in common, big guy.”

[celineetceline]

Cinq

Today’s blog will summarize the entire weekend and today’s trip to Montmartre, so buckle up.

Thursday’s trip to the Opéra Bastille was lovely, but I found I had not properly accounted for my sleep schedule, and that jet lag and the opera do not go well together. I did stay alert long enough to notice, however, that I enjoyed the Puccini much more than the Ravel. Gianni Schicchi was costumed and designed well—the set reminded me of a Wes Anderson film. Its characters, to me, seemed to have a bit more depth, and its ending was much more satisfying.

While Friday’s original plan to visit Monet’s house in Giverny was postponed due to the train strikes, Sidney and I had a backup plan. I launched an exploration initiative around my neighborhood first (Jeff de Bruges plus a few vintage and record shops) and then joined him for a return to Shakespeare & Co., where I found a secondhand book written by Louis-Ferdinand Céline with a plot involving an apocalyptic ballet—of course, I had to buy it. My name on the front cover and the word ‘ballet’ on the back were more signs than I needed. Céline, I read, has a reputation for disapproving of translations, so I will read with a grain of salt knowing that the English version isn’t quite the real thing.

Saturday after Anne’s royal wedding party, Caitlin, Mica, and I found a fun shopping square to be unproductive in before making the trek to Père-Lachaise, which we plan to revisit (to pay our respects to a wide range of music masters, from Chopin to Morrison). I’ll elaborate when we get to today’s activities, but the cemeteries here are fascinating. Little pieces of history are scattered throughout each, and the differences from grave to grave are countless as far as architecture, family history, even time period.

Sunday found Mark and I a little restless, so we headed to Éléphant Paname for a ballet class, For perspective, we’ve done over fifty miles of walking since we reached Paris, but a two-hour ballet class still reminded me that I was out of shape. Since I hadn’t brought my pointe shoes with me, I decided I would do the men’s exercises, and then also do the pointe exercises on demi-pointe, and this morning my calves expressed their disapproval at the choice. Regardless, I had loads of fun, and remembered that I truly do love ballet, no matter how far my career goals veer from being in a classical company. A student asked me where I was from, and told me that I “dance with so much joy—it’s not the French way,” she said, “but it’s very nice to see.”

Today’s visit to the Sacré-Cœur was much better than the Notre Dame for my personal ideals; the church is much lighter, both literally and figuratively. The windows allow more sunlight, and the windows depict a bit more joy than the suffering I found throughout the Notre Dame last week. I was warmer, more hopeful, and the constant prayer in the chapel was encouraging—a sign said that visitors should feel able to share their blessings and their burdens with Christ during prayer—this seemed a much more welcoming place.

After a quick stop at Le Passe-Muraille (a sculpture depicting a more comical, lighthearted Parisian anecdote which I found very sweet despite its uncomfortable ending), we visited Nijinsky, Taglioni, and Berlioz in the Montmartre cemetery. Again, it was incredible to see such a wide range of pioneers in one place, but that seems to be a theme in Paris—in a city with so much history, there are bound to be some coincidental intersections.

[junker-town]

The Denver Nuggets have the NBA’s most disappointing player. What can they do?

What’s wrong with Gary Harris?

The Nuggets can’t be champions without Gary Harris.

There are two questions worth asking about Gary Harris right now. Both are critical for the Denver Nuggets, and their climb towards the NBA title: “What happened?” and “What if he turns it around?”

Two years ago, when Harris was 23, only two players his age averaged more than his 17.5 points per game: Joel Embiid and Giannis Antetokounmpo. The bubbling optimism that surrounded Denver’s young core was amplified by Harris’ breakout campaign, how he so perfectly complemented Nikola Jokic and Jamal Murray in a league increasingly infatuated with athletic three-point shooters who could not be bullied on the other end.

Denver appeared to have one franchise center (to say the absolute least), one franchise point guard, and one complementary franchise do-it-all on the wing. The Nuggets lost their last game and barely missed the playoffs, as a sprained right knee kept Harris out for 11 of the season’s final 13 games.

That year only 24 players had a usage rate above 20 and a true shooting percentage higher than 59. Of them, six averaged more minutes than Harris: LeBron James, Antetokounmpo, James Harden, Karl-Anthony Towns, Anthony Davis, and Damian Lillard. Not the worst company!

Even as he battled injuries last season, Harris’ future was bright. He was ascendent, graceful, and, in theory, exactly what every good team in the league wishes it had. He acquitted himself and advanced expectations in his first taste of the playoffs. But today, with Harris as arguably the most disappointing player in the league, his play may be a requiem for their own championship aspirations.

Development is not linear and there are myriad ways to describe any one player’s unforeseeable stagnation, but the reality is Harris went from doubling as an integral present-day contributor and precious trade asset, to a big reason why his team can’t scratch the ceiling they otherwise could. The past few weeks have been a particularly dark nadir. In his last 20 games Harris is averaging 8.7 points, shooting 35.2 percent from the floor and 23.9 percent behind the three-point line. Over his last 15, the Nuggets have been outscored by three points with Harris on the court.

His usage rate is a career-low 15.3. His PER is 9.0. Only three players are afforded at least 30 minutes per game despite a True Shooting percentage that’s below 0.50: Harris, Darius Garland, and R.J. Barrett. This is an epic fall. Two years ago, Harris shot 69 percent at the rim and 40 percent beyond the arc. This season he’s down to 58 and 30 percent, respectively. In last year’s 14-game playoff run he only scored in the single digits one time. This year he’s crossed the 20-point barrier once, and finished with nine or fewer points in 24 of the 42 games he’s appeared in.

Harris is 25 years old, guaranteed $39 million over the next two seasons, and has the ninth-highest usage out of everyone who’s played at least 500 minutes on his own team. That is bad. It’s easy to say if his struggles continue and Denver still wishes to meet the championship goals they’re young enough to reach for, Harris should be exchanged for a different puzzle piece. But how many teams will look at his decline and believe it’s salvageable enough to fork over something the Nuggets believe can help them?

When players fall off, usually there are hints that allow us to draw rational conclusions. Mike Conley’s decline can superficially be blamed on age and his entrance into a new system. The same can be said about Al Horford, who’s also confronting a positional overlap with Embiid. Jokic’s early-season slump was thanks to his bloated waistline.

Harris is harder to decode. What’s happening to him may be explained away by health issues he’s battled over the past two years, including the tight adductor he’s currently playing through that also bothered him last season. Hips, thighs, groins, and hamstrings are delicate parts of the body for a player in Harris’ role, be it on hard cuts into the paint off Jokic’s high-post orchestration or how he needs to fight through screens and lock down his assignment on the other end. But if health were the only reason for a slide this extraordinary it’s worth wondering if Denver’s medical staff would even let Harris play. And he probably wouldn’t be able to do stuff like this:

Then again, later in the same game, this probably wouldn’t happen either:

The Nuggets have a closer eye on this than anybody else, and maybe they have an educated guess or verifiable way to explain Harris’ plummeting impact on offense. (He was indirectly picked to over Malik Beasley, which isn’t the wrong choice, but a decision with an uncertain outcome nonetheless.) Recent comments by Nuggets head coach Mike Malone didn’t divulge any definitive answers to a worrisome curiosity:

“When you watch Gary in practice, when you watch him work out in his (player development) sessions, he’s been shooting the ball lights out,” Malone said. “So now hopefully, after some time off, going back, spending some time with his son, his family and just relaxing ... hopefully he can just go out there and play and not put whatever pressure he’s putting on himself. Just relax and play.”

If nothing else, Harris’ season is a reminder that sports will forever traffic in the unexplainable and random. Nothing is guaranteed and many statistics aren’t predictive.

Projecting out where he was two years ago with where he should be today, the contextual comparisons make his play even more disheartening. During the 2017-18 season, Harris had to navigate lineups that had Jokic and Mason Plumlee in the same frontcourt. Murray wasn’t the playmaker he is now, Jokic wasn’t the singular attention-grabbing force, and thousands of additional possessions that have transpired since with Paul Millsap, Murray, Jokic, and either Will Barton or Torrey Craig by his side should bolster the long-standing chemistry that gives Denver an advantage over most of its opponents

This naturally leads us to wonder how the Nuggets would look if Harris returns to his old form and makes defeating the Nuggets four times in seven tries the Himalayan hike it should be. Harris averaging, say, 20 points per game — one-third of of them thanks to 40 percent shooting beyond the arc — and then paring it with elite on-ball defense, would help slice the margins that currently sit between Denver and the LA teams. Their offense would sparkle more vividly than it currently can in tight spots — meaningful, considering the Nuggets already have the sixth-highest offensive rating in the league.

Right now 76 percent of Harris’ two-point field goals are assisted. Two years ago that number was 18 percent lower. That helpful offensive fragmentation would allow Malone to utilize Harris in different ways, perhaps commandeering his own bench unit, flashing some of the playmaking chops that have otherwise been static. (Harris plus bench groups have been successful in a small sample size.) What about in ways that unlock a more lissome side altogether, with Jerami Grant and Michael Porter, Jr. turbo-energizing the frontcourt? With more dependable offense, Harris’ defensive versatility would permit some creativity.

(“I think you’d be hard-pressed to find a better perimeter defender in the league,” Nuggets general manager Tim Connelly told me earlier this season, during a conversation about the positive impact continuity had on their defense.)

Instead, Harris has traded a sharp blade for a blunted fencer’s foil. His drives to the basket have dropped. He’s finishing fewer possessions as a pick-and-roll ball handler. He’s averaging nearly 10 fewer frontcourt touches than he did in 2018.

His evolving surroundings might help clarify some of the remaining question marks, but as an excuse that’s nothing more than speculation, and one that conflicts with common sense: The lower your usage rate, the more efficient you should be. Since his third season, Harris has had to adjust to the addition of Millsap, Barton’s development, and, more recently, Porter’s very existence. These players deserve the ball, and it’s not like Denver’s making a mistake when it chooses to run offense through them.

Sacrifice is usually a good thing, but if Harris can’t use it to his advantage a world where he gets the sunshine he needs to blossom might be one where the Nuggets find their best self. All that might mean is more opportunities to sprint out of the corner for his signature dribble hand-off with Jokic, an action that hums to a melody only their ears can hear. It’s a devil to deal with, especially when the opponent sticks a smaller defender on him:

What’s happened to Harris, for whatever reason, is a pothole the Nuggets couldn’t see on their 100 mile-per-hour drive towards the NBA’s upper echelon. Porter is the core-elevating supplement who may one day be their second-best player, but while they wait for that to happen (while keeping in mind that there are no guarantees) consistency from Harris is what can take them from boutique to high fashion.

Sometimes Harris still moves like he used to. Sometimes he’ll rip through a closeout, rumble towards the paint, and finish strong through or over the rim protection. Sometimes he’ll go off the bounce with his arms low to bait the defense. Sometimes he’ll epitomize the ideal role player.

The Nuggets would not be a favorite to win the championship even if Harris followed his old trajectory, but sometimes is a word for dreamers. And unless he fixes his shot, stays healthy, and regularly exudes the same confidence that once made Denver’s ceiling feel limitless, becoming anything more will be much harder than the Nuggets ever thought it’d be.