#also that’s seated boxer my friend seated boxer from art history !!!!!!!!

[fortyflightower]

tha met

[lockefanfic]

Business Trip: Pt 42 - Plan

From the moment she stepped into the car you knew what Minatozaki Sana wanted.

You couldn’t say you were surprised - not given her open and declared desire for you. Nor could you really blame her, given the circumstances - you were both young and just so happened to be well-dressed and in a fancy car; not to mention being on the verge of yet another important operation. The adrenaline was high. So was the sexual tension.

She was wearing a short, black velvet dress that looked more like an elongated blazer than anything else. It left her long, creamy legs bare, making it difficult for you to keep your eyes on the road - especially when she began to touch herself.

Again - you weren’t surprised. You had assumed she would make her move at some point later in the evening, perhaps afterward, perhaps even at the cocktail party itself. She wasn’t one to hold back. She wasn’t one to give a damn about slipping a finger beneath the tiny black shorts she wore under her dress, even as she sat in the passenger seat of a car driving through the busier streets of downtown Tokyo.

When you pull up to a stop light you knew that was when she would try to take the next step. You knew she would try and steal your attention away from the ridiculously expensive high performance car you were driving through one of the world’s most beautiful cities. You knew she didn’t care about the cocktail party, or looking for leads on Seulgi and Yeri. You knew Minatozaki Sana well enough to know that she wasn’t going to stop until she got what she wanted, and what she wanted right now was you.

You knew what she was doing, could see her legs squirm and writhe softly in your peripheral vision. But it wasn’t until she let the first soft gasp of pleasure escape her lips that you took your first glance over at her.

Those long, perfectly sculpted legs of hers quivered slightly under your gaze, sending delicious looking shocks of movement through those full, round thighs of hers. She was wearing black lace gloves when she stepped into the car, but one of them was on the floor now, her naked right hand busy between her legs.

Your gaze travels up her body, past the gleaming gold buckle of the wide belt at her waist and the black blazer wrapped tightly around the curves of her chest, past the thick black choker over her long, graceful throat - until you reach her face. 

Sana always had full command over her expressions. She could look like she stepped out of an anime one moment and then suddenly become a sultry seductress the next - a switch to be flipped at her whim. You found her adorable and cute most of the time, although admittedly, so were most of the girls in your life, to one degree or another.

It was in her sultrier moments that Sana’s facial expressions were unmatched. When she was seducing you, during foreplay, and especially during sex itself - sex turned Minatozaki Sana’s face into one of the beautiful sights on Earth. Mouth slightly open to gasp or moan or shriek; eyes half-lidded, sometimes shutting in the deepest throes of pleasure; full cheeks flushed and rosy, like a visual representation or indicator of the pleasure coursing through her veins. No one else came close. No one else could even try.

She catches your eyes and holds your gaze. You couldn’t have looked away even if you wanted to. 

The gasps leaving her full lips quickly turn into soft moans as her fingers slip even deeper into the flesh between her thighs. After fucking herself with her own fingers for a few long seconds, she lets them slip out of her, shiny and glistening in the dark interior of the car. She slowly begins to circle her clit with her slick middle finger. Her other hand, still gloved in thin black lace, reaches over the centre console and to the belt at your waist.

The stoplight turns green. You press down the gas pedal. So does Sana.

Her right hand works with remarkable, impressive dexterity at your belt, quickly undoing the buckle. She pulls down the zipper - almost scarily quick - and she quickly slips her slim, still gloved hand into your boxers. 

You gasp. Sana moans. Her fingers slip once more inside herself.

You sigh as she touches your rapidly hardening shaft, the sensation of the thin black lace against your cock a new and novel sensation. Her slim fingers give your cock a few rubs over its top before sliding her fingers under it and pumping it slowly. She wastes no time. Your cock, quickly stiffened to full attention, seems to share in her eagerness.

Sana pauses her handjob for only a moment to pull your boxers down, roughly, as though she were angered that the cloth had the gall to keep her from what she wanted. Your cock springs free. An airy gasp of need leaves Sana’s throat at the sight of it, as though she were seeing it for the first time.

Her gloved hand returns to it, her grip warm and tight. 

“Please,” she says, her first word to you that evening. It is light and desperate and needy. “Pull over. I need you now.”

Lesser men might have found as secluded a spot as was possible in the bustling downtown core of Tokyo so that they could give Sana what she so desperately desired. An especially reckless man would have pulled over right at that moment and let the mewling young woman have her way with them, right there in a flashy car next to a busy sidewalk.

But you were not such a man. You weren’t some stranger to Minatozaki Sana, new and unwise to her wiles and her plans. You had history with this woman. Her history with you and your work was deep and tumultuous, but it was the way she projected one image to her colleagues and the general public whilst wearing another one behind the scenes that frustrated you the most. 

There was no better example of these masks than the way she treated Momo; ostensibly appearing utterly devoted to their friendship but in reality only insofar as it did not relate to you - when it did, the fangs came out, even if the older Japanese woman had no idea she was being bitten. It angered you, the way she treated Momo. It infuriated you.

But she was also a top tier member of your team - smart, reliable, and dependable. She was friendly, bubbly, always enthusiastic and eager for a good time shared with friends. And that was saying nothing about her beauty - cute and adorable one moment, sultry and sexy the next. Sublime from head to toe. Minatozaki Sana was as close to perfect as was seemingly possible. 

She was a beautiful spider in a perfect web. It was easy to get caught up in the complex, sticky strands she was continually weaving. Everyone else saw only the brilliant, shiny strands of diamond-laced silk and thought it a beautiful work of art even as they found themselves caught up in its strings. Only you knew of the venom she was hiding beneath it all.

She was simultaneously someone you wanted and someone you wanted to keep away. She was attractive and repulsive, soothing and vexing, good and evil all at the same time. She loved you and she hated you and she wanted you for herself and no one else; a part of you wanted the same.

And it made you want to see her work for what she wanted.

“No,” you say, softly - and Sana’s grip tightens around your cock.

“What?” she gasps, “please… I need it, I need you, please-”

“No, Sana.”

“Why not!?” she cries, the words sounding more like a plea than a demand. “I need you… oh! I need you inside me, right now oh god please, oh god, oh god-”

“No,” you repeat, even as the pumping of the mewling Japanese girl’s hand on your cock and the quick movements of her own hand between her legs intensifies.

“Why, please, fuck, oh fuck, I need your cock in me, I’ve been such a good girl, fuck I need you to fuck me right now, make me take your cock oh god-”

“Not until you make yourself cum first,” you state, plainly, as though you were giving her a new assignment at work. 

It doesn’t take her long to follow your order. She must have been right on the edge. Your demand must have thrown her over it.

“I, oh fuck, oh fuck, oh fuck I need you so bad, I need your cock in me I need it fucking my wet little pussy oh god I’m so wet for you, so wet and tight oh god oh god oh god fuck!---”

When she orgasms the sound she releases fills the small cabin of the Ferrari with a wordless, beautiful sound that comes close to music - light and airy, high and low notes, a song sung by a siren who had achieved, at least temporarily, a respite from the need that had been building in her body.

But as her song ends its last notes turn into notes of longing. The respite was temporary. The need remained, and she needed to fill it.

“Are you done?” you ask, as nonchalantly as you could. You shift gears. You change lanes. You do your best to ignore the woman a foot away from you, still trying to find her way out of her post-orgasm haze, her hand still wrapped around your hard, leaking cock.

“No,” she answers.

She unbuckles her belt, and with the grace of a black widow gliding along the intricate diamond strands of its web, she leans over the centre console, grasps your cock with her right hand, and takes you into her mouth.

The feel of her hot, wet mouth and that skilled, quick tongue on your shaft causes a spasm of pleasure to shoot up your spine - and it causes your foot to involuntarily straighten on the pedal, sending the car speeding down the thankfully mostly empty street.

You cruise for a few blocks, uncaring now of ensuring you were on the correct path to your destination - caring only about making sure the car wasn’t swerving into other lanes or crashing headlong into a wall or tree. To say it was difficult, given the bobbing of the young woman’s head on your cock as she took you in and out of her mouth, was an understatement. It was dangerous and reckless - and ridiculously arousing.

When you mercifully reach the next stop light you let a long sigh escape your mouth. To the driver in the car next to you you must have looked like some tired young executive eager to get home after a long day’s work. Your sighs of pleasure could have been mistaken for sighs of weariness, your expressions of bliss for those of exhaustion. 

You let your eyes drift closed for just a second as Sana’s tongue works its magic in your lap, swirling around and under your head, just the way she knew you liked.

Pedestrians cross the street, mere feet from you, each of them seemingly unaware of the lewd act taking place in the seat of the expensive red car they were passing. Were they to look closer they would have only seen a young man at the driver’s seat, sighing at the prospect of waiting another few minutes for the light to turn green again.

Inside the car, your sign turns into a groan. Her head keeps bobbing. Her tongue keeps working.

“Fuck, Sana,” you hiss, not quite able to finish the sentence. 

If she heard you, she must have ignored it. Or maybe she did, because her only response to your expletive is to redouble her efforts. Her hand, still slick with her own juices, joins the party. She fondles your balls with wet fingertips, teasing and cradling them.

The light turns green. The car gathers speed. So does Sana.

You last only another block before you begin looking for an alleyway or parking spot. You were well and truly trapped in her web, now. The black widow claims another victim, and was now merely waiting for the right moment to finish it off.

You find a dark alley, as hidden as could be from the main, bustling street you were currently on. You throw the car into park. 

Sana lets your cock slip out of her mouth. In a frenzied rush she strips the black shorts off her hips and kicks off the black heels she is wearing. She quickly undoes the belt at her waist before sliding over the center console and straddling you in the small, cramped driver’s seat.

She unbuttons her blazer. No bra, no panties. Only her.

Eyes glazed over with need and lust, she reaches between you to point the tip of your slick cock at her dripping folds. She dips her hips, takes you inside her, and you both feel the air rush from your lungs.

Ferraris, it appeared, prioritized performance and speed on the road over a comfortable sexual experience. Who would have thought? But not that you gave a damn, not that you cared as Sana ground herself against your hips, taking your cock in and out of her wet, hot, slick pussy as fast and as quick as she could given the cramped space of the sports car’s cabin.

No build up, no slow ramping of speed or intensity in her movements. From the second you are inside her she is riding you as though her life depended on it, fucking herself on your cock with smooth, fast movements, as though reaching a mutual orgasm was the only goal she had ever wanted in her life.

She crushes your lips with hers in a frenzied kiss, caring little for subtlety or affection. She wanted her tongue in your mouth and yours in hers. Nothing else mattered, not your comfort nor any last shreds of resistance in your mind about the propriety of what you were doing. 

The fangs were in. The venom was spreading.

You slip your hands into her open blazer, eager to partake in the wonders of her beautiful, perfect body. Your questing fingers quickly find her round, soft breasts, squeezing them none too gently, extracting some measure of revenge for the liberties she was taking with you. She responds with a deep, needy moan straight into your mouth, her tongue following closely behind as it continues its duel with yours.

You find and pinch both of her taut, tight nipples. You continue to squeeze her breasts roughly, enjoying the feel of the warm mounds of flesh filling your palm and the little gasps of pleasure and pain that escape her lips because of it. Her nails dig painfully into the back of your scalp and the nape of your neck. Her pussy tightens and pulsates. She moans. You sigh. The response of your bodies is to seek more and more - always more.

Sana finally releases your mouth as your cock reaches a new depth inside her. She lets out a long, loud moan directly into your ear. You couldn’t have cared less if people walked in from the street and watched you two fucking. She could have opened the car’s quickly steaming windows to scream out her pleasures directly into the alleyway for all of Tokyo to hear, and you wouldn’t have given a damn about it.

She straightens her torso as best she could - she wanted to give you a show, wanted to put her body on display for you, as if you weren’t already completely and utterly enraptured by it, weren’t already rendered completely helpless by the silken strands of her web and the poison in her bite. 

Your hands push the blazer from her shoulders, exposing more of her body to your hungry eyes. Perfect, creamy vanilla skin; round, bouncing breasts; full, thick thighs flexing with effort as she rides you faster and harder with each bounce of that perfect body. She was beauty and perfection and lust incarnate. 

You knew she wasn’t good for you. You knew you had to struggle and fight your way out of the sticky, entangling strands of her web before it was too late and escape was no longer a possibility. You knew the pleasure she had injected into your veins was in reality a form of venom - a venom that bent you to her will and made you powerless to fight her charms. You knew you had to fight it. 

But it was so easy to let go, so easy to lose yourself in the pleasure and the beautiful silken strands of her web, so easy to give in to her charms and indulge in her body - so easy to let the black widow have her way, just one last time. You could stop her the next time she tried, surely. One more time couldn’t hurt. How could you resist, how could you stop, when you were already as far as you were? Just one more time, one last time, then you would stop her, set her straight and tell her to stop playing her games. One last time...

She nears her peak first - mercifully, because you weren’t sure how much longer you could hold on.

“Oh fuck I’m gonna cum all over your fucking cock oh god oh god-” she hisses, the filthy words escaping her mouth in a breathy hiss. Her pace, bouncing up and down and grinding forward and backward - doesn’t stop or slow down. It increases. It speeds up. She rides you harder and harder, her softly bouncing breasts and warm thighs and tight, slick pussy beckoning you to join her in bliss.

“Oh fuck, god I’m so close, you’re so big in me, you’re stretching out my pussy so much oh fuck, oh fuck, I’m gonna cum, I’m gonna cum oh god cum with me cum inside me please oh god fill me up, fill my pussy with your cum, oh god, oh!!-”

The filth coming out of her mouth is interrupted by your hand at her throat. You start with a soft grip, your fingers wrapping around the black lace choker she wore - but when the startled look in her eyes is quickly replaced by perverse pleasure, you find your grip slowly tightening around her windpipe. Not nearly enough to keep her from breathing - but enough to cause her pussy to tighten even more around your thrusting cock as its owner is aroused even further by the imagined threat of losing consciousness.

It said a lot about Sana, you thought, that she was so much into choking - particularly when she was nearing orgasm. It was probably the same reason she loved having sex in public, if your previous liaisons at her apartment, the resort in Hawaii and in a public washroom in Seoul were any indicator. She loved playing dangerously. And a dark part of her loved and craved the possibility of being caught doing it.

That was what turned her on the most - the possibility that others might see how wanton and lustful she really was under the friendly and adorable facade she usually wore. It was why she was always ramping up the intensity of your sessions, choosing ever more public and ever more dangerous times to seduce you. The threat of that side of her being revealed to others, others who only knew the cute, bubbly side of her - it aroused her like nothing else ever could.

She orgasms with a strangled cry that barely leaves her constrained throat - and you follow her willingly. The feel of her body tightening and pulsating around you suddenly becomes too much for you to handle, and your cock spasms as it sends thick streams of hot warm cum deep into the slick walls of her pussy.

The feel of you cumming at the same time as her - the feel of your pulsating cock spurting hot semen inside her body to splash wetly against the walls of her pussy - intensifies and multiplies the pleasure overtaking Sana’s body. For a moment she blacks out. Your grip around her throat tightens involuntarily as you cum, and her moans are cut short in a frightening gasp. Her mouth is held open in a wordless, soundless ‘o’, her eyes shut unwillingly. For a moment you thought you’d hurt her, caused her to pass out. Her body trembles at the pleasure. You feel your body do the same.

For long glorious seconds only the feeling of Sana’s body wrapped around you is all that exists in the world. When it is over Sana slumps onto your chest, sapped, at least temporarily, of the energy she usually possessed in limitless supply.

For a single, dark moment you consider walking away from it all - quitting on the operation and your job and all your other responsibilities. You consider taking her back to your hotel room and spending the rest of your life happily entangled in her web, doing nothing more than fucking and indulging in every single one of her whims. Perhaps those two things were one and the same.

But something deep inside you convinces you to fight her venom. The realities and responsibilities of the world return, unwelcomed, to your mind. Even as she is no more than a sweaty, breathless body atop yours, you realize that every time you gave in to her whims you risked becoming ever more entangled in her web. You had to fight back, had to resist the spider’s bite while you still could.

But each time she bit her fangs dug just a bit deeper, and her venom became just a little harder to fight.

--

It took Sana a while to find the black lace glove she had torn off her hand before she started to touch herself. It was a dark alleyway and the Ferrari didn’t have any cabin lights that could help, so you ended up having to use your phone’s flash to help her locate it.

“Yatta!” she exclaims upon finding the elusive glove. She slips it back on her hand with a wide smile at you, her eyes large and bright, like some character in an anime or manga.

She did so with her blazer still open, revealing plenty of the creamy curves of her breasts - in addition to the fact that the sinful evidence of your recently sated lust was still warm and wet between her thighs.

But such was the dichotomy that was at the core of Minatozaki Sana. She was at once both an angel and a devil, and sometimes she wore the clothes of one while in the world of the other.

“Sana,” you begin, wanting to finally begin a conversation.

“Yes?” she asks, her tone innocent, even if she replied whilst tucking her breasts back into her black blazer and buttoning it up.

“We need to talk. About-”

“Let me guess,” she interrupts, letting out a sigh and turning her head quickly to get rid of a lock of messy hair that had fallen into her eyes. “This is about why I’m here, and not Momo or Mina?”

“Well, yes,” you reply, caught somewhat off guard by her forthrightness. 

“You’re wondering what underhanded scheme I’m pulling, and what I had to do behind the scenes to make sure Momo is at the airport and Mina is busy with an unexpected phone call, leaving me the only option to come with you?”

“Yes,” you admit. Momo had left for the airport an hour or two ago for some business related reason, and Mina was busy with a legal matter that had arisen with JYP’s legal department in Europe.

Sana finally finishes buttoning up her blazer. She brushes stray locks of hair aside and smooths down her clothing, trying to make it look like she didn’t just have rushed, dirty sex in the driver’s seat of a car mere minutes before.

“I’ll let her explain to you herself,” she says with a soft sigh. She reaches for her purse and retrieves her phone, dials a number, and passes it to you. The screen indicates that it is Momo she is dialling.

“Go ahead,” she says, a sad look in her eyes, “talk to her.”

You take the phone, not quite sure what this was leading up to.

“Hello?” comes Momo’s voice on the other end.

“Momo? It’s me.”

“Oh, hey. They just touched down. We should be there on time. Has Sana filled you in on the plan?”

You look over at Sana, but she is looking out the window, seemingly avoiding your eyes. You cannot see much of her face, but from what you could tell from her body language she seemed a little upset - and perhaps a little hurt.

“She was just about to. Do you wanna start?”

“Sure...” Momo says, a little confused by what was going on on your end. “Anyway, I’ll meet you guys at the venue for the fundraiser. I’ll be bringing guests. We have intel that a very important potential target for us will be there…”

Momo goes over the outline of the plan with you in deep detail - it takes almost half an hour for you and her to hash out the specifics. When you end the call, you hand the phone back to Sana, who takes it and shoves it back in her bag. There is still a look of hurt disappointment on her features.

“Someday I hope you’ll start to trust me,” she says, a hint of sadness in her voice.

---

It wasn’t difficult to differentiate the legitimate attendees from the gangsters.

Everyone was dressed to the nines, but the gangsters each stood out, in their own way. Some were covered in intricate, detailed tattoos; others wore expensive silks and furs; some seemed to carry an entire small country’s gross domestic product in jewelry on their fingers, ears, and necks. They had a swagger, a confidence to them that the other law-abiding attendees did not have.

It also helped that they all seemed to congregate on the second floor of the swanky restaurant that had served as the fundraiser’s venue. A particularly scary looking bouncer stood at the only visible set of stairs to and from the balcony, arms crossed over his large barrel chest, looking a bit like a miniboss that had to be fought before one gained entrance into the final dungeon.

“At least it’s easy to see where we need to go,” Sana remarks, taking a couple of champagne flutes from the tray of a nearby server and passing one to you. 

You had arrived at the party a half hour or so earlier and you had both made attempts to make small talk with fellow attendees, hoping to find a lead on Seulgi and Yeri - it was clear, however, that there wasn’t anyone on the ground floor who might have known anything about the two fugitives.

“Yeah. That dude at the stairs might be a problem, though,” you reply, taking a sip.

“It shouldn’t be too hard to distract him. Follow my lead.”

“Wait, Sana. There must be another way up there. Maybe we can go around back and-”

Minatozaki Sana was having none of it, though, and before you knew it she had already looped her arm in yours and had begun dragging you towards the stairs.

“Wait here,” she says to you under her breath as you both near the guard, who was momentarily distracted by something else in the crowd.

You watch, curious, as Sana begins to walk towards the guard. Almost immediately her entire demeanor changes - gone was the thoughtful, determined colleague of a moment ago. Now she was all sexiness and allure, taking care to accentuate every single step of her long, perfect legs with a generous swing of her hips. She casually brushes her hair over her shoulder. On her face is the look of slight annoyance that fashion models wore on runways. It was a determined look. A look of a woman who knew precisely what she was doing.

Until she tripped over her feet a few metres from the guard.

“Eeek!” she shrieks as she falls to the floor, looking a bit like she’d just been shot by an unseen cartoon supervillain. The flute of champagne in her hands crashes to the floor, the loud crack of the glass breaking attracting the attention of every pair of eyes in the vicinity.

The guard at the stairs immediately moves to help her, seeming genuinely concerned and perhaps feeling a little lucky at the prospect of helping a gorgeous young woman in distress. You smile, slyly, as you slip past him and up the stairs. 

You make eye contact with Sana before you head up the stairs. She shoots you a wink before immediately making as big of a scene as she could.

---

Finding the target was simple. It wasn’t hard. In a group of loud, raucous type-A personalities, she was at the centre of it all. The queen bee atop her hive of drones. Despite the dangerous and intimidating auras of those around her, it was obvious at first glance who was in charge.

Roseanne Park - better known simply as Rose to those in her line of work - looked for the most part like any other high-class, well-dressed attendee at the cocktail party. She was young and beautiful, with a lithe build and cute, innocent-looking features. In her sparkly, short pink dress she looked much like any other girl in her twenties, out at a club looking for a good time.

But as you stood there and watched her interactions with those around her, you saw past that. There were glimpses here and there, in the glares she gave others when they weren’t looking, or in the obviously forced and faked reactions she gave to the underlings that buzzed around her, trying to gain her approval. Glimpses of who she really was. Glimpses of the danger that lurked just beneath the surface, less of a bee and more of a shark that was quickly growing tired of the small fish that circled her, oblivious to the danger she posed to them.

Momo had told you they had intel Rose would be here. As one of the members of Blackpink, you knew she would have the best chance of knowing anything about Seulgi and Yeri.

Your approach to her corner booth, where she sat with a half dozen of her underlings, is blocked by a man that you took to probably be her bodyguard. If they had ever decided to make a live action movie out of Overwatch, you’d found their Hanzo right here. 

He raises his right hand to your chest to physically block you from moving any further.

“I’d like to speak with Miss Park,” you state, as strongly and firmly as you could. This was the type of guy who could smell weakness. You knew if you wanted to have a shot with speaking to Rose that you had to get past him first, and he was unlikely to let you pass if he was even slightly suspicious of your intentions.

“Is she expecting you?”

“No. But she’ll want to hear what I have to say. I’m from JYP.”

Hanzo narrows his eyes as he searches for a sign of weakness in yours. You feel your inner self wither under his gaze, but you somehow keep up the front long enough for him to feel satisfied that you weren’t a threat to his boss.

“Wait,” he states. An order, and not at all a request.

Hanzo walks over to Rose’s booth and steps past the loud, raucous drones to whisper into her ear. Her gaze finds and settles on you as Hanzo informs her of your presence and intentions.

The girl takes a sip of the glass at the table. For a brief moment, there is a wicked flash in her eyes, like that of a shark that had finally found worthy prey. She says something softly to Hanzo, who returns to you a moment later.

“Your phone,” he states. Again, not a request - a demand that implied there was no choice in the matter.

You slip your phone from the inner pocket of your blazer. 

As you do, you make note of the text message from Momo that informed you that she had arrived with the guests. 

Clearing it from your lock screen, you hand the phone to Hanzo and he inspects it briefly before he motions with his head for you to follow him towards the booth.

“All of you, out,” Rose states as you approach, words firm and direct, eyes locked on you and not even bothering to care about the inconvenience of her underlings. Another order. In this world, it seemed, nothing was ever merely a request.

The drones get up and leave, brooking no questions. Each of them gives you a dirty look on the way out, unhappy with being so rudely interrupted. Rose’s eyes remain locked on you.

“Come, sit,” she says, her charming tone and Australian accent lending her words a soft, inviting tone, even if there was an underlying venom to it all.

You take a seat next to her. Hanzo leaves your phone on the table, face down, before giving Rose a short bow of respect and returning to his post.

“I’m told you’re from JYP,” Rose begins, taking another sip from the glass at the table. She crosses her long, thin legs in front of you, slowly, turning her body to ensure you could see her every action. She holds the glass in her lap, ensuring she is pushing her small, cute breasts together with her upper arms. There is a sly smile on her lips that reminds you, strangely, of Sana’s.

“I am. And I’ve heard things about you.”

“Is that so?” she answers, pretending to be at least a little surprised. “And what exactly have you heard about little old me?”

“I’ve heard of your work with Blackpink. And your involvement with Red Velvet.”

At the mention of Red Velvet a slight, barely noticeable change appears in her face. It is small and fleeting - but unmistakable. 

“I’m not quite sure I follow,” she lies, “I don’t have any involvement in that world.”

“That’s too bad, because if you were at all interested in that world I would have something to offer you.”

“And what might that be?”

“I’m relatively high up at JYP,” you state, looking off into the distance where the cocktail party was still in full swing, trying your best to appear nonchalant. “I could, much to my dismay, become the victim of a hack into my phone that could then give you access to all of our servers and the company secrets within them.”

Rose sets the glass back on the table. Her smile widens slightly. You’d gained her attention, it seemed.

“And in return, what would you want from me?”

“We’re tracking two fugitives from Korea - former members of Red Velvet. Boss says I have a promotion waiting if I bring them in. I’m sure either you or people you know have either found them or know where they are.”

“It’s your lucky day, I think,” she answers with a small chuckle. “I happen to know exactly where they are - or rather, my girls in Blackpink do.”

“Then I think we can arrange something,” you answer. “You give me Seulgi and Yeri, I give you access to the JYP servers.”

“We could,” she says, her gaze finally leaving you and returning to the half-empty glass of amber liquid at her table. “Or we could take you and your date and force that information out of you both.”

She motions with her head towards her bodyguard - who is holding Sana in front of him with a firm grip on her upper arms. Sana struggles against his grip, but it was obvious there was no way she was going to escape his clutches.

Rose chuckles. It is a laugh with little mirth, and plenty of implied threat.

“This is quite hilarious, I must say - did you really think you two could waltz in here, two complete strangers, and start sniffing around hoping to find Seulgi and Yeri? Did you really think we didn’t know who you were the second you stepped through that door?”

The conversation had taken a turn for the worse - but you were still confident in the evening’s plan.

“Alright, there’s no need for this. Let her go, she’s just a date. She’s not involved in any of this.”

Rose smiles to herself, and then at Hanzo.

“You and the boys go have fun with her,” she hisses, all trace of humor leaving her face in an instant to be replaced with a dark and sinister smile. “Just make sure no one can find what’s left of her afterward.”

Hanzo begins to drag Sana away, but the loud jingle that leaves your phone stops him from going any further.

“Ah, right on time,” you say, picking up your phone from the table where Hanzo had placed it. You bring the phone to your ear.

“Ah, yes, Officer Miyawaki. We’re upstairs, on the second floor. Corner booth. Yes, she’s here. Pink dress. See you soon. Okay. Bye.”

Rose and Hanzo are struck in momentary confusion. 

“Officer?” Rose repeats, “What the hell is-”

The sound of a loud commotion erupting from the stairs to the second floor interrupts her mid-sentence. You smile as you watch three women approach the booth. Hanzo releases Sana to confront them - and as she catches your eyes Sana lets a smile appear on her lips as well.

At the head of the group of three is Sakura Miyawaki - following her are Nayeon and one other woman you didn’t know. As Hanzo raises his hand to stop her, just as he did with you, Sakura bats it away sharply with the back of her hand. The bodyguard looks stunned, as though suddenly not knowing quite what to do, his tough front having no effect on the tiny but determined woman confronting him. Hands on her hips, Sakura speaks sternly with a raised voice in Japanese, and while you couldn’t understand what she was saying, the fact that the man quickly backs away sheepishly implies that whatever she said had certainly put him in his place.

Sakura approaches the booth with a look of serious determination on her cute features - a look you had not known she was even capable of.

“My name is Officer Miyawaki Sakura, Tokyo PD. Are you Roseanne Park?” she questions, firmly.

“Y-yes,” Rose answers. The haughty, confident demeanor of the young woman had begun to crack in the face of this unexpected turn of events. “But you can’t do anything to me here. I haven’t committed any crimes in this country.”

Satisfied that you’d led her to the right person, Sakura turns to let a second woman approach the table - a tall, beautiful young woman who looked to be of mixed descent. While dressed in casual clothes, the holstered pistol at her waist and the credentials she flashes from a folded leather wallet soon make it clear who she was, even before she introduced herself.

“Roseanne Park, I’m Staff Sergeant Somi Douma of the Royal Canadian Mounted Police. I’m here on behalf of the governments of Canada and the Kingdom of the Netherlands to place you under arrest for the crimes of invasion of privacy, illegal surveillance with intent to blackmail, and willful, malicious, and repeated harassment of individuals.”

“The Netherlands? Canada? What are you talking about-”

“We have evidence of you committing crimes in both countries. Please stand.”

Rose hesitantly stands on shaky legs, but the look of shock on her face remains, even as Officer Douma approaches her, gathers her hands behind her back, and places handcuffs on them. She begins to read the confused young woman her rights as she leads her out of the restaurant, Officer Miyawaki leading them both and clearing a path through the look of confused attendees.

A wide smile on your face, you rise and give Sana and Nayeon high fives as you leave the booth.

You briefly think about giving the confused and shamed Hanzo a cheeky one-liner on your way out, but you settle instead for raising your palm to his chest, just as he did to you - before turning it into a patronizing pat on the shoulder before you walk away.

---

You had to admit that you felt more than a little proud of your role in capturing the first of the four members of Blackpink. You smile widely as you watch the still-protesting Rose being forced into the back of a waiting police cruiser by Officer Douma, before she herself gets into the passenger seat. Sakura takes the wheel, and the car heads off, presumably to the Tokyo PD central precinct.

You meet with the rest of the team in the parking lot of the restaurant - along with a former colleague.

“Boss!” Park Choa says, her face gleaming and bright in the dark Tokyo evening. She rushes towards you and envelops you in a hug, wrapping her arms around you and squeezing tightly. You reciprocate, happy to be near her once more.

“This wouldn’t have happened without you,” you say when you finally part.

“Oh, I didn’t do much. It was getting pretty lonely in Europe... but I heard about how you got involved with Blackpink, and after I heard that one of them was wanted in the Netherlands, I thought JYP might want to know. After we found out Rose was here in Japan, JYP put this plan together. Mina was happy to take care of the legal issues and ensure the right authorities were informed,” she says with a nod towards Mina, who had met her at the airport. “JYP was the real brains behind this operation.”

“But how was Canada involved? That officer was a Canadian,” Jihyo asks.

“Rose was the one who harassed and threatened Wendy’s family in Canada in order to blackmail Irene into doing their bidding,” Momo explains, “and she’s wanted there too. I guess Rose was in charge of all the overseas intimidation and threatening that Blackpink was behind. She just hid behind the fact that she didn’t actually commit any crimes in Korea or Japan.”

“Officer Miyawaki has assured us that we’ll have time to question Rose about Seulgi and Yeri,” Nayeon notes. “It will be a matter of time before we crack her and she squeals about where we can find the rest of Blackpink, too.”

“Well, tonight sounds like a win,” you state, finding agreement in the smiling faces of the girls around you. “I think we deserve to celebrate.”

The girls cheer loudly before starting to find cabs that would take them downtown to party the night away. As they leave the parking lot, Momo grabs you by the arm and leads you quietly towards the black sedan that she had used to pick up Choa from the airport. Nayeon  waits nearby, an unreadable expression on her face, as though she were anxious to see your reaction to what Momo had to show you.

“We have one more guest tonight,” Momo says. “You’re probably wondering how we knew that Rose would be at this party.”

“Now that I think of it, yeah,” you admit.

Momo gives you a slim smile before opening the rear door to the sedan.

In the backseat is Irene, her face bandaged, hands handcuffed in front of her. There is a determined look on her battered features.

“She’s volunteered to help us find the rest of them, too,” Momo states.

--

Author’s Note: Happy New Year!

The plot thickens! I had to think long and hard about how I wanted this chapter to go. I was tired of the OC being constantly screwed over and backstabbed so I wanted him to have an active role in actually getting a win lol.

[wienerbarnes]

Stressor

Pairing: Bucky x Reader (Cheek to Cheek)

Word Count: 2,622

Warnings: murder lol, mentions of gore/blood, mentions of rape (its described in like two sentences and theres a short non-graphic flashback, but pls pls pls message me if you dont wanna read and ill give u a sparknotes version), so theres angst but also some nice parts like bucky meditating okay

A/N: wrote this while procrastinating my art commissions but i bought my first laptop BY MYSELF after saving for months and im v excited :) lmk what yall think of this, i promise next part will be goofier/happier lol

MAIN MASTERLIST | CHEEK TO CHEEK MASTERLIST

“Shit… Fuck… Fuck! He’s gonna fucking kill me… fuck…”

The mumbles spill from your lips as you take in the scene in front of you. Puddles and puddles of blood covered the floor of your apartment, dirtying your beige tile and all the other surfaces with splatters. David lays in the middle, with about thirty-six stab wounds in his body.

When you and Bucky started the arrangement regarding your list, there were two rules you two agreed to follow - no matter what. First rule: Kills are never completed alone. You two are to complete the list together and help each other with everything that involves the person. Second rule: Bucky is to know everything about the person they’re killing. What they did to you, their name, their remaining family, where they live, what they eat for breakfast; everything. 

And here you were breaking both of those rules.

It was too good of an opportunity, you try and convince yourself. Bucky will understand, he’s always so understanding, he never yells, he’s always so nice to you; a choked sob escaped your body as your dirty hands fly to cover your face, tears flowing down your cheeks mixing with the blood now smeared across your skin.

…

TWO HOURS EARLIER

Bucky always told you to be extremely cautious when leaving the apartment. Even though it had been well over a year, almost two, since your prison escape, you never knew who could be watching. Every few weeks or so, your name pops up in the news, Whatever happened to one of the worst killers in modern history, How did she pull off such an escape from such a high security facility, Is she even still alive, etc.

But as soon as your name appears, it vanishes once more, replaced by some other injustice happening in the world.

Your feet take you inside a small bar, the musky scent intrigues you along with the copious amounts of peanut shells littering the floor. You take a seat on the stool and try not to pay attention to the fact that every single person in the room is staring at you right now. But you can’t blame them; you’ve dyed your hair a pastel pink now, body covered in baggy jeans and baby blue long-sleeved milkmaid top, a gift from Bucky. “You can’t wear that one t-shirt, that’s mine, by the way, forever.” He’d told you. Your rainbow painted toes and fingernails stand out under the dimmed lights of the place.

An older man behind the bar approaches you and places a napkin in front of you, “What can I get ya’?” You order some beer plastered on the wall because as far as you know, you’ve never even tried alcohol before, let alone know enough about it to have any kind of preference.

You take sips of the beer for a while, aimlessly watching the sports game playing on the TV, every once in a while glancing at the pool table where a group of older men play a game together. Suddenly, the stool beside you becomes occupied. You know it’s not Bucky, he doesn’t know you’re here and it’s not his cologne, but for a second you were hoping it was. A parallel to when you sat with him in that cafe all that time ago. When he bought you that apple pie and hot chocolate. I miss him…

You refuse to look over at the man sitting next to you, but you can feel his eyes blatantly staring at you. 

“So… what’s your name?” He breaks the silence and asks you. You don’t respond, simply just continue sipping away at your beer.

“My name is David.” He offers. A chill runs up your spine at the name and you look over at him. He looks so familiar… Where do I know him from? Have I seen him at the food market before? Is he Hydra? Did we go to school together? Were we in the Marines-

“Hey officer,” A deep voice curls into your ear, causing a chill to run up your spine.

“Fuck off, David. I’m trying to do my hair.” You don’t bother glancing at him in the mirror as you scoop more gel into your hands and smooth it onto the top of your head. You’ve let your hair grow to long and the strands keep sticking out of the bun, but the thought of asking any of the other women, or worse - the men, for help cutting it terrifies you. You’re still too new.

“Now, is that any way to talk to your higher up?” A large hand wraps around your middle and gropes your breast.

“I said fuck off.” A pointy elbow slams back into his chest, knocking the wind out of him.

“I’ll get you for that, just you wait. Fresh meat.”

Your body runs cold as you make the connection and you feel as though your entire body has shut down. You can feel the cold sweat gathering in your palms and your lower back. A lump forms in your throat and you want to cry; you want to scream. But something takes over, and although you feel terrified, you keep yourself composed; hide your anxiety.

“Do you want to get out of here? My place is only a few blocks away.” You ask, false sultriness dripping from your voice. David smirks at you, clearly not recognizing you from nearly a decade ago. 

He takes out some cash and places it on the bar, grabbing your beer from your hands and placing it on top, grabbing your hands after and leading you out of the bar.

…

Bucky sits on the floor of his living room, practicing his twenty minutes of meditation before bed. Alpine rubs her cheek against the bare top of his foot that’s crossed under his knee, but eventually gets bored before trotting around behind him to start climbing her way up his back. Bucky tries his best to ignore her tiny nails digging through his shirt, but can’t help but chuckle as she makes herself comfortable in the curve of his neck. “Guess meditation time is over, huh baby?” He whispers before gathering her in his hands and plopping her on his bed. He reaches down to roll up his yoga mat when he hears a silent buzzing from his kitchen.

Confused on who would be calling him this late, knowing that Sharon’s visiting a college friend over in SoHo and Sam’s on a date, he sees a number he doesn’t recognize flash on the screen. Bucky hesitates answering, but he knows telemarketers rarely call this late.

“Hello?” Bucky answers.

“B-Bucky?” Your shaky voice sounds on the other end. The sound is watery and raspy, like you've been sobbing your eyes out and screaming for hours.

“Bucky, I-I-I need y-your help… I fucked up,” Your voice is cut off by a hiccup as Bucky goes to grab his closest pair of pants to go over his boxers and he pulls on sneakers before grabbing the keys to his bike.

“Hey, sweetheart? Do me a favor and relax, okay? Are you okay? Are you hurt?” Bucky rushes out as he locks his door behind him before making his way to the staircase.

“I’m so so so sorry, Bucky… please don’t be mad at me-e… I broke t-the rules,” Choked sobs escape you and Bucky has never heard you cry like that before.

“Listen, I’m already on my way, okay? I’ll be at yours in twenty minutes, okay?” You don’t respond as Bucky listens to your crying and you eventually hang up.

Broke the rules? What does she mean by… oh. She couldn’t have… we had our next hit planned for a few days from now. Did she do someone else on the list? Bucky tries not to think too much about it until he can get to yours and figure out what’s going on, his motorcycle screaming through the quiet night.

…

You’ve been sitting in David’s blood for about an hour now. The liquid is cold, his body is cold, the phone in your hand is cold. Nice going, you’ve really done it now. Not only have you probably just cost yourself your freedom, but you’ve ruined your jeans and the top Bucky bought you. He’s going to be so mad at you; he’s going to be so mad that he’s going to have no choice but to bring you in. He’ll be laughing as the cops drag you away-

Your thoughts are interrupted by a frantic knock on your door, Bucky’s voice calling your name on the other side.

“If you don’t open the door, I’m breaking it down!” He calls. 

You slowly stand, trying not to slip in the puddle, before walking over to the door and opening it about halfway. Bucky’s eyes widen and his brows furrowed together as he looks your body up and down.

The blood on your clothes is starting to brown and you’re covered up to your forearms in blood. Splatters decorate your face, neck and hair, and your eyes are puffy from crying.

“I-I-” You begin to stutter. Bucky silently pushes his way inside to see the bloodbath waiting for him. He pushes the door closed behind him and stares at the body laying in the middle of the floor. Your knife still sits standing out of his face.

“Who the fuck is that?”

“Bu-Bucky- I can,”

“What, you-you can explain?!” Bucky snaps, turning to face you, and you’ve never seen him look at you like this. You flinch and take a half-step backwards, bumping into the door behind you.

Bucky turns back around, a flesh and silver hand running through his hair and roughly over his face.

“Here’s what’s going to happen,” He begins, voice eerily even, still staring at the body. “You're going to go shower and wash all of the blood off your body. Then you’re going to make sure this apartment is spotless. I’ll take care of… him. And then we’ll talk when I get back. Are we understood?”

You can’t seem to make any words come out so you quickly make your way to your bathroom and close the door behind you softly.

You shower until the water runs cold and your skin is tinted red. Either from the blood or how hard you were scrubbing, you’re not sure, you just didn’t want Bucky to still be in your apartment when you stepped out.

It’s not that you were scared of him, because you weren’t. You knew that Bucky would never intentionally harm you, both physically or mentally. You were more angry at yourself. Bucky's done nothing but protect you; he’s kept you a secret, helped you indirectly work through your trauma, stitched you up, made you smile and laugh when you didn’t even think that was ever going to be possible for you anymore. You broke the only rules he asked of you. You disappointed him. You’ve put him in an even worse position than he’s already in by protecting your existence.

You turn the knob of the water to the right before stepping out and wrapping your fluffy yellow robe around your body, tying it at the waist. Your apartment is empty when you step out of the bathroom, Bucky nor David occupying the space. Your walk over to your sink and open the cabinet on the bottom to take out your cleaning supplies before getting to work.

…

Bucky’s calmed down significantly by the time he gets back to your apartment. He checks his phone to see that it’s almost five in the morning before reaching in his other pocket for your keys that he took off the table, slipping the key into the lock and jiggling it until pushing the door open. 

He’s not mad at you. Perhaps he was for a bit, but he realized that anger was just fear. Had anyone seen you? Did this guy do something to you? Did he recognize you and that’s why you needed to kill him? Did you kill him because you actually wanted to experience that again? He really hoped it wasn’t the last one.

You're sitting on your bed in the corner of the apartment, splatters still visible on the sheets but the floors are clean. The room doesn’t have an overpowering smell of bleach or cleaner, but there is no trace of a body here, besides the small splatters, but those can be passed off as splashes of wine. You did good.

Your feet are stretched out in front of your as your hands are planted behind your back, propping you up. Your yellow robe is tied around your waist but the edges sit high up on your thighs.

He sets your keys on your table, kicks off his shoes, and walks over to take a seat next to you.

“Did you know I was a Marine before all of this? When I was, like, eighteen?” You break the silence, still staring at the wall in front of you.

“Yes.” 

“The guy was my unit chief. He raped me twice during my first week there.” 

Bucky remains quiet as you explain, watching your face and it’s calm expression. You hesitate, opening and closing your mouth before opening it once more to continue.

“I went to some bar tonight and he hit on me. He didn’t recognize me, and… I don’t know. I thought I’d scare him or something, remind him what he’d done. But then he was here and he kept trying to feel me up even though I’d push him away. I didn’t have a plan yet. And then he snapped at me and then I snapped back…” You trailed off. 

“After I realized what happened, I panicked and I used his phone to call you.”

“I’m really sorry, Bucky.” You say, softer now. You bring your legs up to your chest, wrapping your arms around your shins.

“Okay. I forgive you.” Bucky responds after a moment.

The two of you sit in silence next to each other on the thin sheets. You’re staring at the passing cars out the window. He’s staring at your plant that’s sitting on the small night stand next to your mattress. You’ve changed out the silver tin it was sitting in to a light blue one covered in green polka dots. 

You tilt your head to meet his eyes and look away briefly before meeting them again.

“Can… Can I have a hug, Bucky?” You ask, with the smallest voice in the world, your sentence ending in a small crack.

Bucky doesn’t answer and instead scoots closer to you, wrapping his arms around your body and pulling you onto his lap, your thighs on either side of him, chests touching. His left arm wraps around your back and drags slowly up and down while his right hand rests on the back of your head, softly scratching through your still damp hair. Your hands are tucked close between both your chests and your breath fans softly against his neck where your head is tucked into. He silently breathes in your scent, the children’s strawberry soap you use mixed with a homey, warm small that’s just you. He watches out the window as the sky turns from a dark blue to a deep orange; it should be about five-thirty right about now and the morning traffic is about to start.

“There’s a ton of white cat hair on your shoulder, Buck.” He hears you whisper against him, voice slurring a bit with drowsiness, the last bits of adrenaline wearing off.

He smiles to himself and holds you until you're fast asleep, and then stays for a while after that, too.

[marshmallow-phd]

Open Wounds

Genre: Boxing!AU

Pairing: Yixing x Reader

Summary: You practically lived at the fighter gym, taking your anger and frustration out on the punching bags as a form of personal torture. Because you also hated that place for taking away the person you loved most. But when a new trainee shows up, showing that he’s different from the boxers you’ve met in the past, your wall begins to crumble. But is history doomed to repeat itself?

Netflix Teaser 

Part One I Part Two

**

The sound of skin hitting worn vinyl and the grunts and groans of grown men trying to beat each other up surrounded you. No matter how high you turned the volume up on your headphones, you couldn’t drown out the distractions. You hated this place. You shouldn’t be here. Over and over again, you told yourself to leave and never come back. When you were covered in sweat and your muscles were sore, crying out for relief, the first part was easy enough to do. It was that damn second step that was impossible.

“Now, what did that poor bag do to you?”

Taking one last swing at the punching bag, hard enough to put some momentum in its swing on the rusty chain, you turned around to face the only person who dared approach you while you were attacking the defenseless bag of sand and pulled out your headphones to hear better.

Han, the old man who owned the gym, smiled at you with wrinkled, sun-weathered eyes. He was still wearing those ugly Hawaiian shirts over baggy khaki shorts after all these years. But despite his appearance, he could still move around and jab like any of the middle-weight boxers around here. You’d known him for years - since you were a teenager – which meant he knew exactly what the punching bag had done to you.

Deciding you’d had enough for today, you started unstrapping the Velcro of your gloves, your hands breathing in relief at the release. “Hey, Han.”

“Tough day?” he guessed.

You sighed. “Tough week.” More like a tough life.

In all honesty, it probably wasn’t that rough. You had a roof over your head, heating in the winter, air conditioning in the summer, food, a bed, a job that you thrived in. Really there was only one dark cloud hovering in your otherwise ordinary sky. A blank spot in your life that could never be filled no matter where you searched for a substitute.

“I’m sure things will get better,” Han said encouragingly. “They always do.”

“No, they don’t.” There were too many examples in the history of the world to list of where things did not eventually get better.

Han huffed at you. “If you keep that up, I’ll ban you from my gym.”

You smirked. “You could never ban me, Han. You love me too much.”

He started to grumble out something along the lines of “watch me” but he couldn’t hold on to the façade and soon he was smiling at you. “Are you going to join us tonight for dinner? There’s a new recruit that joined a while back and you know the boys. They have to initiate. He’s very promising, could be the new lightweight champion. Reminds me of-” Han caught himself before he mentioned one of his old students. The one that brought you pain, the one that brought you here over and over again, never letting you go. Coughing to cover his slipup, he went on, “Well, anyway, I’m sure the boys would love it if you tagged along.”

“No, I think I’ll skip on it,” you said non-too-surprisingly. You never joined in, but that didn’t stop Han form offering, hoping one day you would change your mind, like how you used to. “Thank you, though. I’ll see you around.”

Han nodded, understanding completely. You kissed the old man on the cheek before gathering up your things and heading for the showers.

Once cleaned and refreshed, you weaved through the boxers and MMA fighters training for their next big fight before making it to the front entrance. As you pushed on the door to exit, someone called out for you.

“Hey, wait!”

Rolling your eyes, you turned around to what this person wanted. Most of the boys here knew to leave you alone. Only the ones who’d known you for years would stop and talk to you, but they knew better than to try to chat when you were trying to leave.

The man didn’t seem familiar at all as he jogged up to you, careful to avoid a weight that had rolled into his path.

“What?” you snapped. You’d been here too long and you needed to get out, not be chatted up by some brave newcomer who thought it’d be fun to hit on the only female within this testosterone factory.

The man bowed his head sheepishly, his cheeks taking on the slight hue of pink. In his outstretched hand was a worn red glove that had certainly seen better days. You snatched the glove out of his hand, not out of maliciousness, but out of a rush of relief. If you’d lost that glove….

“Thank you,” you said gratefully as you secured the glove back into its normal pocket. “Sorry about… being rude.”

He smiled at you. “It’s okay. Although, I thought exercising was supposed to make people happier?”

“Depends on the environment,” you countered. That was probably a lie. The chance of your body deciding on how much endorphins to release based on where you were exercising seemed slim. But maybe you would be a bit more cheerful if you worked out at one of the bigger chain gyms than this small training facility.

“Understandable,” he nodded, thinking that you were making a joke, based on the smile he was giving you. He held out his hand, “I’m Yixing, by the way.”

You looked down at his hand for a few seconds, not sure of what to do. Yes, you knew the social norm was to take his hand and introduce yourself as well, but you tried to avoid any interactions with the boxers that you weren’t already friends with before….

Sighing, you stuffed your hand in your pocket. “Nice to meet you, Yixing.”

And that was it. No handshake, no giving of your own name. You simply turned on your heels and left the gym, not looking back as you reached your bike, throwing one leg over the seat and slamming your helmet on before taking off down the road, putting as much distance between you and the gym as possible.

**

Yixing stood there, dumbfounded. Had he done or said something wrong?

“Don’t take that too much to heart,” Han sighed as he came up and clapped Yixing on the shoulder from behind. “Poor thing had it rough a few years back. Put a wall up after that. (y/n) only tolerates a few of the guys here and that’s more out of respect since she’s known them for so long.”

Yixing frowned, watching as you peeled out of the parking lot on an old motorcycle. “Did something bad happen to her?”

The distrust and the avoidance of physical contact coupled with her working out in a gym designed for fight training… the picture made Yixing’s stomach churn.

Han seemed to know where his thoughts were headed. “No, nothing like that. She just lost someone close to her.”

A strange relief washed over Yixing before the guilt set in. You’d still lost someone you cared about. How close the two of you must have been….

“Come on,” Han ordered as he slapped Yixing’s shoulder again. “You’ve got more jabs to throw before you can leave. Also, it’s your turn to clean the mats.”

Yixing cringed, but laughed nonetheless. “It’s always my turn to clean the mats.”

“That’s what you get for being the newbie, kid.”

Yixing shook his head. He knew all this work would pay off in the end. Every fighter had to pay their dues before stepping into the ring. And someday, he’d be the king.

**

You clutched the stencil steady as you carefully drew the brush over the slick surface of the gas tank. No air escaped your lungs while you kept yourself still, afraid that even the slightest breath could knock everything off course. The line needed to be perfect or else you’d have to start all over. And get lectured for wasting expensive paint.

As soon as the line was completed, you refilled your lungs with fresh air, sitting up and loosening up your shoulders.

“Nice work, kid,” Don commented as he inspected the paint job over your shoulder. “Line work’s getting better.”

“Thanks,” you smirked proudly. These days, it was the only thing that made you really happy. Putting a brush in your hand and letting the image in your head come to light on the polished metal for the world to see was the best job you could have ever asked for.

You weren’t sure exactly how you ended up in the garage. Art had always been a major part of your life and identity, with faint dreams of entering the institute for your degree. Your brother swore up and down that your works would be displayed in museums one day. Back then you’d laughed at him, called him crazy. And maybe he was.

Even now you still loved to paint and draw on canvas, creating your own worlds with a few simple ingredients. But those works stayed in your apartment, away from the public eye. The images you made on motorcycles and car hoods were the only ones allowed to be seen. You were more comfortable that way. This world of gears and grease was one you knew all too well, even if working here hadn’t been the plan. Being here made a little more sense than being the dressed up featured artist being adored by patrons with large checkbooks, anyway.

Well, the checkbook part sounded nice.

“I think I’m going to finish this one and head home,” you told Don. It was getting late and your hand was beginning to cramp.

“Sounds good,” Don nodded. “And you’re coming in late tomorrow?”

“Yeah, I’m going to hit the gym first,” you said, turning around on your stool. You had skipped out on your personal torture yesterday and today, so it was time for a recharge. Plus, tomorrow was Han’s birthday. If you didn’t at least stop by and see him, you’d never hear the end of it.

“Alright, sounds good. Have a goodnight.”

You waved to Don as he walked away. “Good night.”

When you were alone again, you stretched out your hand and got back to the next set of lines to finish out the tank in peace.

 The next morning you went about your normal routine, fixing that too-sugary cup of coffee and yanking on paint splattered clothes before throwing your gym back over your shoulder and heading out the door.

At the gym, Han was already there in his usual spot by the main ring a few hours early, leaning on the ropes from the floor while yelling out punches and jabs at the trainee who was up on the platform working with Jack. You didn’t want to be, but you were actually impressed by the speed of the trainee’s hands. They were nothing but blurs, following Han’s barking orders without hesitation. Mesmerized, you stood a little ways away, arms crossed over your chest as you watched the session.

Han noticed you after a few minutes and brought the training to a halt. “Alright, get some water you two. We’ll pick it back up in fifteen minutes or so.”

The trainee took off his protective gear, revealing his identity to be Yixing from the other day. He must be the one Han was gushing about. His next golden boy.

Pulling a thin rectangular present from your bag, you held it out to Han as you approached him. “Happy birthday, big guy.”

Han smiled broadly as he took the gift. “(y/n), if this is what I think it is, you’re going to make an old man cry.”

“That’s my goal in life,” you teased. To your relief, he didn’t open it right away. You hadn’t expected an audience to be around when you gave the present over. Things like this you preferred to be kept private. Usually, Han spent his mornings watching old fight reels, studying the different methods or just reliving his old glory days in the ring. If he was skipping out on that tradition to train this guy… he must really be something.

“So, how are you doing lately?” Han asked.

You shrugged. “I’m fine. Things are going good at shop. I’ve got a lot of projects going so there’s plenty to keep me occupied.”

“Good, good,” he nodded. “Are you still making time for your own work, though?”

You scoffed, pointing to the gift. “What do you think that is?”

“I know what it is,” Han grumbled. “But you also know what I mean. Your own work deserves attention, too.”

“Look, between here and the shop, home is where my hands get a rest.”

Han raised an eyebrow, no hint of playfulness in his eyes. “Then maybe I should ban you from my gym.”

Your jaw dropped. “Han, are you serious-”

“Is everything okay?”

You sent a death glare towards Yixing that he probably didn’t deserve. It was just instinct. Your connection was being threatened and that put you on edge.

“Everything’s fine,” Han chuckled, showing you that he wasn’t serious after all. You relaxed a bit, but now you really needed to hit something.

“I’m going to go change,” you mumbled. Swiping you gym bag back up from the floor, you headed for the locker room.

When you came back, Han and Jack were gone. The former had most likely retreated to his office to hide from your wrath. Jack probably had some errands to run during his short break and Yixing didn’t seem to be sticking around, leaving the gym mostly empty for you to go about your business. As you wrapped up your hands, however, you learned that you weren’t completely alone after all.

“Need a sparring partner?” Yixing offered, wiggling the punching pads at you when you looked up from your seat on the bench.

You shook your head. “I kind of want to be the one throwing the punches right now.” You weren’t here to just be his target.

“That’s what I meant,” he chuckled. He slipped the sparring equipment over his hands and walked back up to the ring, easily stepping up and through the ropes before stopping in the middle of the platform.

Fine. He wanted to be the punching bag, let him.

Sighing, you stood up to your feet and headed on over, ready for him.

“I won’t go easy on you,” he warned.

“If you did, I’d have to kick your butt,” you taunted. The giggle he let out took you off guard. Then the smile slipped away to make room for a hardened glare and he started barking orders at you in a tone that rivaled Han’s.

“Cross! Jab! Hook!”

Over and over again, he shouted out combinations almost too fast for you to keep up. Every few punches, he’d swing out on his own, making you duck. It didn’t take long for you to be covered in a sheet of sweat, breaths coming out short and raggedy as you fought to keep going. Too soon, though, your arms grew weak. You threw in a few more punches before stepping back, giving in.

“You’re good,” Yixing complimented. He unstrapped the gloves from his hands, tossing them down on the canvas out of the way. “Do you want to get something to eat?”

Well, that didn’t take long. You rolled your eyes. “Just because I work out at this gym doesn’t mean I want to date a boxer, okay?”

Yixing knitted his eyebrows, confused. “I wasn’t asking for a date. I’m hungry and I don’t like eating alone.”

That made you stop and reconsider. Because even though you did it every day, you, too, hated eating alone. It was too quiet. It gave you too much time in your head.

“Okay, then,” you nodded. “I’m going to go change real quick.”

“I’ll meet you at the door.”

You threw him a lazy thumbs up before jogging out of there. Even though your morning workout was cut short, you were slightly thankful for the change up in your routine. Besides, he seemed nice and – boxer or not – you could use a new friend.

Part of you worried if you were being more open to him because he reminded you of- no. They were very different. He didn’t giggle, among other things.

You didn’t bother to shower since you weren’t trying to impress anyone, just slipping back into your knotted up t-shirt and jeans before throwing your bomber on and heading out of the locker room.

Yixing was already at the front door, awaiting patiently for you. He’d somehow managed to change faster than you, now sporting skinny jeans and a matching black shirt. For a very, very brief moment, it’d thrown you off guard. You’d grown used to ignoring anyone in athletic gear, immune to what it was supposed to be showing off. But seeing the new fighter in streetwear was making your head spin. The hardened concentrated look was long gone, softening his features to be more open and inviting. Before you could fight it, the corners of your lips were turning up.

“Ready?” he asked. You nodded and followed him out the front door and to his car.

It was a short drive to the little breakfast dinner, only a few blocks away but you’d never noticed it before. Yixing seemed to be a frequent visitor given the friendly waves from both the wait staff and the cooks visible through the kitchen window.

The first few minutes were spent in silence while the two of you mulled over the menus provided at the table. After the waitress took your orders, you played with the pink sugar packet, flipping it back and forth to occupy your attention. You hadn’t been in a situation like this for a long time so you weren’t sure how to proceed.

“Have you been going to the gym for a long time?” Yixing asked, breaking the silence.

You nodded. “Yeah, since I was a teenager.”

“But you don’t train to fight?” he guessed.

“No, I don’t,” you half laughed. “Fighting was never my thing. That was-” you caught yourself just in time. “No, I would just go to hang out with friends who were more into the boxing thing. I liked the workout better than others, so it just stuck.”

“And you know Han pretty well.”

You snorted. That crazy old man had been a huge part of your life. He was there for you when you were alone and basically gave you a second home to run to. But you didn’t need to voice that out loud. “Yeah. He has a soft spot for me, I guess.”

Yixing smiled crookedly, revealing a dimple in his cheek that just softened his features even more. “He doesn’t seem to hand those out very easily.”

“No, it takes a lot of buttering up,” you agreed. “If you’re training under him and he sees potential in you, you’ll never get that treatment.”

“You seem to speak from experience,” he pointed out.

The waitress arrived then with the large plates of food. You immediately dug in, much hungrier than you realized. Plus, it gave you an excuse not to continue the conversation. The hot-off-the-grill meat tasted savory in your mouth and for a few minutes, you forgot that you were sitting across from someone.

“So, what do you do for a living if you’re not a boxer?” Yixing asked suddenly.

You swallowed the food in your mouth and washed it down with a few sips of water before replying, “I work in a customs shop. I do the detail painting and sketch ups.”

“So you’re an artist?” he dug, excitement flashing in his eyes.

“Uh, yeah, kind of.” Shyness, while not a typical character trait of yours, was making you shrink over your food. Being called an “artist” was making you feel awkward.

Putting his fork down, Yixing folded his arms on the table and leaned forward. “Did you do the work on your motorcycle?”

“Yeah, I did.” Your cheeks were heating up. What was going on? You never reacted like this.

“The line work is really incredible.” Sincerity – not flattery – was more than apparent in his tone. “I noticed it a few times while coming in, but I could never figure out who it belonged to until I saw you drive away on it a few days ago. You have real talent.”

Now you couldn’t even lift your own fork. “Thank you.”

“Did you paint something for Han?”

You cleared your throat, unsure of how to answer. A reply of simply “yes” should have been easy enough. But once buried memories bombarded your inner thoughts.

You’re amazing and someday they’ll put you in the Louvre.

I wish you would stop lying like that.

I’m not! You’ll be this world famous artist and I’ll be the Lightweight Champion across the globe. You can’t paint everywhere I go to fight. We’ll be the greatest team the world has ever seen.

Sure. If that happens, then I’ll paint myself green and dance in the gym.

Deal.

“(y/n)?”

You jumped, pulled from the fuzzy memory. “Sorry?”

“Is everything okay?” Yixing’s face was pinched with worry. Somehow you’d even missed the waitress dropping off the check. He was already signing off the receipt and putting his card away.

“Peachy,” you nodded. Changing the subject, you frowned, “You didn’t have to pay for my meal.”

He waved your protest away. “It’s not a problem. Maybe you can get the next one?”

You knew what he was doing, opening up the conversation of another meal together without outright asking. This wasn’t a date, he said it himself, but it appeared he might want to change that in the near future. And honestly, you weren’t as against it as you thought you might be. Even though he was bring up memories you’d locked away, you found his presence… soothing the hurt rather than multiplying it.

“Sure,” you smiled. “I’ll get the next one.”

Now he was the shy one as he ducked his head. “Good.” Composing himself once again, he stood up. “Let’s go. I have to get back to the gym or else Han will have me on double cleaning duty.”

“That would terrible,” you agreed with a laugh. You weren’t sure the last time you felt this relaxed with a person, this open. It was a scary feeling, but one you were more than willing to further explore.

**

Yxing watched you speed away on your bike, a smile stretch widely across his lips. You’d promised to have dinner with in a few days and he was on cloud nine. This time, he was able to declare it officially a date before you headed off to work.

Each step he took to head back inside the gym was light and cheery, practically skipping as he headed for Han’s office.

“I’m back,” Yixing announced as he stuck his head in, finding Han staring intently at the small TV he used for fight reviews.

“About time,” Han grumbled. He didn’t pause the TV or look away. “If you weren’t out with (y/n), I’d be making you do suicide runs until you threw up for skipping out on training.”

Surprised, Yixing came all the way inside the office. He’d fully expected to get the third degree, declaring to himself that the short meal with you was worth it. You’d intrigued him when he first saw you. No one was willing to explain who you were or why you came to the gym and left without interacting with anyone. Everyone else seemed to just know already, but refused to let him in on it. “Why do you say that?”

Finally pausing the TV, Han sighed. His eyes drifted over to a painting that was leaning up against the large window that gave him access to the open gym space. It was new, something Yixing hadn’t seen before. That must have been your present you’d given him earlier.

The colors were beautiful. Everything blended in with the fake light that gave it a touch of hyperrealism. A fighter’s robe made of shiny green silk laid across a short wooden stool in the corner of a boxing ring. With the folds of the robe, he couldn’t make out the name embroidered on the back, just bits and pieces of the silver letters.

“She’s a good kid,” Han sighed again. “Watched her grow up within these walls. She painted the murals in both of the locker rooms in high school. She was happier back then, livelier. If she wasn’t here with her friends, she was at home with her dad, helping him on his side business fixing up cars, making them beautiful again. She always needed to be creating something. Then she lost that spark.”

Thinking back to the diner, Yixing could see that clearly. You were fighting to hold back something when he complimented you on your work, like you were embarrassed and didn’t want to talk about it. Then your eyes lost focus because what he could only assume was a memory coming back to the surface. Treading carefully, he asked, “What happened?”

Han pointed to the fighter on the small screen. “Him. She lost him.”

Yixing’s eyes widen. Because he knew who that was. And the more he stared at the footage flickering on the TV, the more his heart sunk. Because he knew this fight.

He was there the night that fighter died.

[marvelgbt-posts]

Forever

{Peter Parker x Male Reader}

Warnings: none… angst…? slight self hate ig but idk you’ll see…

Summary: a peter parker x male reader where peter gets insecure about mj and readers friendship since he sees how good they look together and knew MJ had a slight crush on reader. Reader fixes the problem by cuddling him, giving him slight kisses on his neck and just some fluffy shit. also cute bby boy peter being all flushed and cute

I really hate giving MJ this role, but ok :/ and also, what do you us think about MJ and Peter in FFH? Personally, i dont like it. I’ll make it it’s own post, it’s mostly a personal preference though.

(not edited)

“OMG, [M/N]. You’re too funny,” MJ said, a slightly happier tone to her voice than usual. You smiled, taking the small smack to your arm with a soft laugh as well. Peter watched across the lunch table while Ned was too occupied with the game on his phone. He pouted; you seemed to be having way more fun with MJ than with him. Lunch was almost over- oh no, wait, that was the bell…

You stood up from your seat as Peter gathered his stuff. He waited for you to walk him to his next class, as you usually did so. MJ also stood up, looking at Peter, “Hey, loser,” Peter had found himself being called ‘loser’ a lot by MJ- probably more than he found himself being called that by Flash- but he knew she was joking, “Aren’t you and I together for History?” Peter nodded, “Oh yeah, I forgot,” he usually had Math right after Lunch, but today was Thursday. Thursday schedule was always weird for him. You began dragging yourself behind and in between them. Ned had already disappeared; his next class was all the way across the hall from where their classes were, so he had to hurry. You spoke up, “I have Biology next anyway. It’s right down the hall from there.”

“Neeerd!” MJ laughed, yelling into your ear. You tried to move away from the noise, a smile playing to your lips, “Oi, idiot, that hurt!” MJ smirked, “Good.” Peter fumed- he felt like he was the third wheel when it was supposed to be MJ. He was dating you, not her. Though, to be fair, not that many people knew. Just the two of you, Ned, Aunt May, Mr. Stark, Happy, and the rest of the Avengers. MJ didn’t, and Peter felt like he should tell her- if not for it being for the reason of ‘she should know because she’s my friend’, then at least for ‘omg stop touching him he’s my boyfriend’. And there she goes, touching you again. Though, this time she used her own shoulder to bump into yours instead.

Peter heard a small murmur, “Doesn’t MJ look really cute next to [M/N]?”

“Yeah, she’s definitely happier around him.”

“She smiled a lot when with him.”

“Their both into the arts; she likes reading and drawing, he likes music and (insert an artistic talent/interest).”

Soon, Peter began hearing things other than just small murmurs and chattering around him. It felt as if he could hear everything everyone was saying. Wasn’t that a side effect of his spider-like abilities? Perhaps it was, Peter couldn’t remember at the moment.

“Yeah, they’re practically made for each other.”

“They make a good couple.”

“Did you hear that MJ and [M/N] got a full score on their project for Art?”

“Oh yeah, they were parters, right?”

“Yeah, MJ made the layout of the sketch and [M/N] finished it up. He did his own thing as well, and they ended up getting their art submitted into the contest happening at the art museum.”

Then, Peter felt as if he couldn’t breathe.

“So cute.”

“Wow, they make a good couple.”

“Peter looks like such a third wheel.”

His own thoughts mixed with the other small talk around him, and it surrounded him in a pit of black.

“He looks like such a loser.”

“Wow, no one would be interested in him anyway.”

“No one likes a nerd.”

“Peter is a loser.”

“Peter is a nerd”

“Peter is lame.”

“No one likes Peter.”

“Peter-“

“Peter!” You shouted in his ear, and Peter jolted up. “O-Oh, yeah?”

“Isn’t this our class?” MJ asked, pointing to the door. Peter nodded sheepishly, looking over at you. You smiled, “Have fun learning about a bunch of dead guys. I’m off to math!” You pumped your fist up in mock excitement. MJ laughed and Peter gave a small chuckle, “H-Have fun.” You nodded, “Sure wont.”

***

3rd person P.o.V.

[M/N] met up with Ned, MJ, and Peter after school. “Hey guys!” He greeted, wrapping an arm around Peter’s shoulders. Peter resisted the urge to lay his head on the other male and just looked at him and smiled instead. [M/N] smiled back, but Peter felt like their was this other feeling in the other male’s eyes he couldn’t quite read. “Uh, hey,” [M/N] started, “Parker, you feeling up to a study session today?” Peter pretended to think, nodding soon after, “Sure, dont have any plans today anyway. Lemme text Aunt May, though, first.”

‘Study session’ was a code name for ‘miniature date at my house’. Peter had grown to love the words very much because then it was just them two, and it was normally [M/N] showering Peter in love and affection for the whole night- if he didn’t have Spidey-duty that day, that is. Peter pulled his phone out from his back pocket, pulling up Aunt May’s number. “Can I come too?” MJ asked, “Or is it just one of your gay things?” MJ huffed in amusement at her own joke, not realizing the irony of it. She tried sounding nonchalant about it, but not wanting to break her heart, [M/N] let her off easy, “Uhh, my house is really messy. I feel like Peter can handle it, but I dont wanna make you run off because you’re scared of my pigsty of a home.” He laughed. MJ chuckled, “Wow, gender equality, dude. Whatever happened to that?” [M/N] shook your head, “maybe next time. You don’t have anything and Peter usually spends the night, so it’d be weird, wouldn’t it?” MJ nodded, seemingly disappointed, “yeah, whatever. It’s cool.”

“Done!” Peter chirped, and MJ began walking off. Ned had also run off somewhere. “Good!” [M/N] smiled, “I have you all to myself for the rest of the evening!”

2nd person P.o.V.

Once the two of you made it home, Peter put his stuff down onto the floor in your room while you prepared some food. Since it was Thursday, you guys weren’t assigned that much homework, so you and Peter would probably finish it in the small intervals before classes. You prepared some snacks like popcorn and candy while Peter changed his clothes. He also took the time to pick out clothes for you- a loose white T-shirt with black basket ball shorts. He wore a white shirt- of course, a nerdy one with a scientific pun on it (the two atoms; one asking if the other is positive it lost a electron)- with one of your boxers. He walked out, socks protecting his feet from the cold floor. He scrunched his nose at the smell, smiling.

“You wanna pick out the movie?” Peter asked, wrapping his arms around your waist. You turned around, wrapping your arms around him as well. They made their way around both his arms, one hand holding the other to trap the smaller boy in an embrace. “No, you can pick,” you smiled, tilting your head to kiss Peters lips quickly, “so long as it isn’t Star Wars or Lord of the Rings again. Please. I can’t go through another marathon again.” Peter whined playfully, “But [M/N]!” You stuck your tongue out, “Too bad.”

Peter reciprocated the action, and you both let out a sigh of giggles. “Anyway,” you continued, “You want anything specific to eat?” Peter shook his head and you nodded. You let him go and he went over to the couch. He flipped though the many channels on the TV before settling on a Disney movie. “Is that Disney?” You asked, walking in with a bowl of popcorn, two sodas, and a plate of cookies. Peter watched in awe as you balanced everything. “Yeah,” he answered, “The Hunchback of Notre Dame.”

“Aw, sweet!” You fist-bumped the air, “love that movie.” Peter nodded, leaning to rest his head on your shoulder, he had been deprived of physical touch for a while. He just wanted to spend time with you, was what he thought as he wrapped his arms around you. Your arm wrapped around his waist while the other ate from the supported the bowl of popcorn on your lap. Peter stole some as well, and you watched as the movie began with its intro of the parents trying to save their defaced child from the protagonist.

“It’s kinda inappropriate, dont you think?” You asked Peter after a while, and Peter looked at you confused, eyes squinted Ashe seemingly judged you. “How? It’s a Disney movie?”

“Well, I mean, it talks about gypsies. Aren’t they visualized as prostitutes? And that seen where Esmeralda dances for that old dude, you can see he’s clearly turned on.” You shook your head, “never mind…”

When the movie was over, you cleaned up the remaining food and placed it down to be cleaned later. You carried a very, very tired Peter Parker up to your room. You laid him on the bed and dimmed the lights. He gripped onto you desperately, “Dont move, dont go anywhere…” he said, “Can we stay like this forever…?” He asked tiredly, and you laughed softly, “No, we have school tomorrow.” Peter whined childishly, “forget school. I can make us enough money by being Spider-Man, we dont need education.”

“Peter, my parents would kill me if they found out i dropped out of high school to piggy back on my superhero boyfriend for money.” Peter let out a huff, and the two of you let out quiet, breathy chuckles. He leaned close to you, noses touching. He then frowned, “Do you like MJ?” The question was sudden and it caught you off guard. “Well, i mean… yeah, we’re friends…”

“No, i mean… like like her…?”

You let out an ‘ohhh’, suddenly realizing Peter’s behavior earlier (the cause of your strange glint Peter noted earlier). “No, baby,” you smiled, “I’m not romantically interested in her, if that’s what you’re thinking.” “But,” he began, a slight pout on his lips. God, he was really tired, “she was all over you today, shamelessly flirting with you. You didn’t seem to mind it though…”

“Peter,” you began, stroking his hair a bit, “I dont like MJ. I like you. No, I love you. A lot. So dont think that.” You moved to lay Peter on top of you, taking his hands and intertwining them with yours as he made himself comfortable on your chest. “I know,” Peter started, playing with your fingers a bit, “its just… everybody says you two look good together. I guess i just didnt like the feeling of you with another person, even if it’s just the public appeal and not reality. Sorry…” You shook your head, “dont apologize, baby. It’s normal to feel jealous…”

Peter was quick to defend, lifting his head up to glare at you accusingly, “I wasn’t jealous!” You laughed, “yeah, and I’m not dating Spider-Man.” Peter sighed, resting in his previous position. He mumbled another, ‘I wasn’t jealous…’ and you just nodded. You began running your hands through his hair, to which he quickly responded by sighing and relaxing even further into your chest.

A few minutes of running your hands through his hair later, Peter got bored and slightly irritated of the position. He moved to sleep next to you, with you spooning him. You wrapped your arms around him and gently played it his stomach, felling up and down his abs. He whimpered lightly, curling a bit at the ticklish feeling. His body began to heat up; you could feel it. “Are you still upset?” You asked softly, and Peter nodded. You sighed, placing soft kisses to Peter’s neck. He leaned back, face flushed red as you continued up his neck to his jaw. He turned his head to face you, and gave you a soft kiss. You to didnt move, instead you stayed there and took in the presence of each other.

When you two pulled away, Peter had the brightest blush on his face. He huffed, eyes falling closed, “I wasn’t jealous.”

“Of course you weren’t,” you smiled, “who said you were?”

You turned off the light once Peter finally fell asleep. The two of you stayed like that for the rest of the night- and, to be honest, if you could, you would stay like that forever if you could.

Panicked gay moment; had no clue what to write for MJ, sry sry sry anon (._.”)

[viltrumitesuperboy]

“I’m Spider-Man” (Peter Parker x Male Reader)

It’s Tom Holland’s birthday and I (finally) finished something yesterday.

Partially requested by: @rklf001

Peter tries to tell you that he's Spider-Man.

Word count: 1537

"I'm Spider-Man. I am... Peter. I. Am. Spider-Man. I am Spider-Man. I'm... gay. I'm bi. And I'm Spider-Man."

Peter groaned and hit his head on the mirror, sighing as he pushed himself back from it. He stared at his face in the mirror, sighing and trying a few more times.

"Peter, dinner!"

He left his room in defeat to wash his hands then went back to the kitchen to help set the table.

"Peter, are you still trying to talk to that friend of yours about being in love with him?" Aunt May asked with her hands on her hips.

He jumped, almost hitting his elbow on the counter as he was grabbing forks and plates.

"What? No! May, of course I don't like him that way," he sputtered out, rushing back to the dining table mostly to hide his face.

"I know you do. And I heard you in there," May said, placing a bowl down in the middle of the table. "You're trying to tell him you're Spider-man? Why?"

"I just... he's one of my few... only friends and I want to be able to trust him with that information. Ned already knows, I just have to tell (Y/N) and MJ," he said.

May smiled and put her hand on his shoulder, rubbing her thumb on his shirt as he looked away.

"Hey, look at me. Would you rather he found out the way Ned and I did? I mean, it was kind of funny but you know that you'll have to explain a lot more. And I'm sure he'll still be one of your best friends."

Peter started to smile and gave her a hug.

"Thanks, May."

"Take him to a museum."

"May!"

You and Peter were sitting on a large rock overlooking northern Central Park. The sun was up, and it was still morning. Families were playing together on the large patches of grass.

"Look. That kid just did a backflip!" you laughed in awe. "That's so cool."

Peter shifted, giving you an awkward smile when you turned to him.

"What's up?"

You furrowed your eyebrows at him, and turned your body to face him more.

"(Y/N), I... I am-"

"In love with me?"

His eyes widened as he stared at you in shock.

"I- no, that's- no!" he stuttered. "I mean it's true but that's not what I wanted to tell you!"

You laughed and put your hand on his shoulder.

"It's fine. MJ and Ned kept telling me and I didn't believe them. But then you started saying something that sounded like that so... I'm sorry," you sighed, putting your hand down and giving him an apologetic look.

"Do you wanna go to the Met?" Peter blurted out.

"Like, as a date or...?"

"Yeah."

"Then let’s go!"

"Peter, look at this!"

You pointed at a piece of armour and started to explain it.

"So, the Japanese were the first ones to use leather armour. It was much lighter than the metal armour the Europeans used, and it's tough so you can't get a sword through it that easily. And over here is the longbow the Mongols used! So much more efficient than crossbows, obviously with skill. Also, their system made a lot more sense. Europeans had a monarchy, but these guys did it by how useful with battle skill they were."

Peter listened to your rant and followed you as you speed walked to the different objects through the entire museum that caught your eye. You kept going through about four different sections before he stopped you.

"Sorry, but we've spent like 3 hours in these 4 sections. Do you wanna go get lunch and then come back?"

You checked your phone before awkwardly laughing, agreeing with him as you headed for the exit.

"I got carried away, I'm sorry," you said.

"No, it's okay. It was fun watching you get so hyper. That was like me when I- when I, uh, helped Ned with that Lego Death Star set," Peter replied.

"You hesitated."

"Wha- I mean it though!"

"Whatever you say, Peter."

After a lunch you shared in the park, you went back to the museum, this time on the left side. Once again, you were giving him just some of your knowledge of the historical subjects until you both reached the Greek and Roman sculptures section.

"I've read all the Percy Jackson books. I got this," you bragged, holding a hand out to Peter.

"I've read them multiple times through," Peter retorted. "I bet we don't even have to look at the plaques."

You both gave each other knowing glances before beginning at the first piece of art, immediately naming the Greek mythological character in it before giving each other a high five and laughing.

"Oh my god, we're actually nerds," you laughed.

"This could only be worse if we played Mythomagic," he responded, moving to the next piece.

"Maybe someone should make that game," you mumbled.

"Dionysus!"

"Dude, I was distracted! Not fair."

You both burst into another fit of giggles but moved on quickly when people around you began staring. As you continued through the many sculptures, Peter's hand found yours and you smiled just for a moment. Then he pulled you along and you couldn't stop smiling as you both continued to compete to name each character.

Once it was about 5 PM, you both exited the museum to the subway, hoping to get to Peter's place to hang out with Ned and MJ.

"Hey, uh, (Y/N)?" he suddenly said once you were both seated in the train car.

"What's up?" you answered, leaning in a little closer to hear him talk over the train's noise.

"I didn't meant to tell you that I really liked you romantically and that I wanted to take you out on a date. I mean, not today. I was planning to tell you that I... I am..." Peter trailed off.

He opted to take both your hands and fumble with them.

"Peter?"

"Well, first, I just want to say that today was really, really nice. And you were really cute today just talking about all the history and art stuff you know, not that you're not always cute. I just don't want your view of me to change when I tell you this one thing."

You furrowed your eyebrows before giving him a reassuring smile.

"You can tell me," you said quietly, squeezing his hands.

"(Y/N), I'm Spider-Man."

The rumbling train hid his voice from the rest of the world, but you heard him clearly.

"I-I'm sorry, what? You're joking, right?" you asked in shock, studying his face for any sign that he was lying.

"That's what I wanted to tell you earlier but you cut me off," he admitted, giving you a guilty look.

"Oh god, I'm sorry. I mean, I guess I believe you? I don't really have proof for why not."

The train stopped at your station and he let go of one of your hands for both of you to leave, and you smiled at the fact that your hand was being held by a boy you had a massive crush on before remembering what you were just told. You both did a bit of a speedwalk to his apartment, all the while you peppering him with questions about being Spider-Man, his powers, how he hid his identity (to which he answered "I don't know" and he quickly pulled you into his room and shut the door.

He opened his bag and took his clothes off, everything but his boxers.

"What the- Peter!" you scolded.

He pulled the familiar red and blue outfit onto his body. It was extremely loose and seemed to just be a bad cosplay, but then he pressed the center and it tightened onto his slim body. He then reached in and pulled out two cylindrical objects out and the famous mask.

"You... I guess you are Spider-Man," you mumbled.

"I guess I am."

You took the mask, inspecting it and seeing the "face" of the person who had saved hundreds of people ever since he first appeared.

"I just wanted to be able to trust you with this. Ned found out by accident and so did May, so I wanted the person I really, really liked that I am, uh, Spider-Man," Peter quietly said, fumbling with what you figured were his web shooters. “By the way, I can do a backflip.”

"Well, I'm glad you told me. All those things."

You pulled him into a hug, enjoying the embrace of someone you cared about deeply.

"I should take this off. MJ and Ned are coming over and MJ doesn't know."

"Right, right."

You both reluctantly pulled back and he put his regular clothing back on, shoving his suit into his closet as you both smiled at each other. The ringer that let you know someone was downstairs rang and he suddenly leaned over and pressed a kiss to your cheek. He rushed out his room to answer it, and you blushed as you watched him leave. It seemed that you needed to go on more dates with him if you wanted more of those kisses.

[tcm]

James Earl Jones by Susan King

Here are some facts you may not know about James Earl Jones:

His father Robert Earl Jones played Luther in the Oscar-winning best film, THE STING (’73).

He appeared in the X-rated movie, END OF THE ROAD (’70), with Stacy Keach.

He once dated Oscar-nominated actress Carrie Snodgress (DIARY OF A MAD HOUSEWIFE, ‘70).

He was a pre-med student in college.

He made his Broadway debut more than 60 years ago in the multi-Tony Award-winning drama Sunrise at Campobello.

From 1961-64 he was a cast member of the award-winning off-Broadway production of The Blacks: A Clown Show, which also featured Cicely Tyson, Roscoe Lee Brown, Maya Angelou, Louis Gossett Jr. and Godfrey Cambridge.

From the time he was five, he was raised by his grandparents on their farm in Jackson, MI.

For eight years, he was mute. Jones’ stutter was so bad when he was young, that he didn’t speak. “I was a stutterer. So, my first year of school was my first mute year, and then those mute years continued until I got to high school.”

His English teacher Donald Crouch helped him gain his voice through his love of poetry, public speaking and acting, though he did have stuttering issues into adulthood.

Of course, it’s hard to believe that Jones’ powerful baritone voice—which has terrified audiences as Darth Vader in the STAR WARS franchise captivated fans as the strong but loving father Mufasa in the animated film THE LION KING (’94) and the current photo-realistic blockbuster remake, in addition to being the authoritative voice of CNN—was silenced for nearly a decade.

Over the decades, the 88-year-old Jones has earned Emmys, Tony Awards, a Grammy and an honorary Oscar. Nevertheless, concerns were raised when his picture wasn’t included in the promotional material for the new THE LION KING and when he didn’t appear at the world premiere in Los Angeles. But director Jon Favreau told USA Today that the actor is in good health, but he lives in New York and chose not to attend. 

“This is something that takes a lot out of you to do,” Favreau explained. “So, his participation was geared more toward his performance.”

As remarkable as his performances have been on screen and television, Jones is really in his element on stage. I’ve had the great fortune of seeing him twice on stage, including in 1988 when he appeared in Los Angeles in his Tony Award-winning performance in August Wilson’s Fences. As soon as he walked out on stage, he grabbed the audience and never let go for nearly three hours. During a scene in which he raged at his wife, Jones was so intense I thought he was going to collapse. He didn’t, but I thought I was going to collapse from exhaustion when the play was over.

When I interviewed him two years later for the L.A. Times, he confessed how upset he was when audiences laughed at the dramatic moments.

“Do you know what laughter is?’” asked Jones, who is a formidable presence in person. “For American audiences, laughter is rejection. If you sat a person in a seat by themselves without a group, they would deal with a play. But in a group, their instinct is to reject it with derisive laughter. It means you lost them.”

He continued: “Give me a genuine response and I can absorb that. I can incorporate that in my performance. I want to say to them, OK, I’ll take a break, and you can make your sounds and when you’re finished, I’ll resume the play.”

Jones didn’t return to Broadway until 2005 when he and Leslie Uggams starred in a revival of Ernest Thompson’s On Golden Pond, earning a Tony nomination for his performance.

The actor made his film debut in Stanley Kubrick’s 1964 masterpiece DR. STRANGELOVE, as B-52 bombardier St. Lothar Zogg, and three years later he joined Elizabeth Taylor, Richard Burton and Alec Guinness in THE COMEDIANS.

But it was THE GREAT WHITE HOPE (’70) that changed his movie career. Jones was the toast of Broadway in 1968 with the play version for which Jones and his leading lady Jane Alexander both earned Tony Awards. Jones portrayed Jack Jefferson, a boxer at the turn of the 20th century, based on the legendary Jack Johnson. Directed by Martin Ritt, the film version didn’t do very well at the box office and received mixed critical response.

In his New York Times review, Vincent Canby criticized the movie adding “the film contains a performance that makes the windy, otherwise empty movie seem inhabited, if not by life, at least by art. James Earl Jones, who re-creates the role of Jack Jefferson, he played on Broadway, is marvelous to watch, combining heroic physical presence, technique and (to me) a completely mysterious way of projecting intelligence, so that the character commands attention even when the drama doesn’t.”

Jones became the second African-American to be nominated for the Best Actor Oscar for his towering performance. Sidney Poitier was first nominated for THE DEFIANT ONES (’58) and then made history when he won for LILLIES OF THE FIELD (’63).

Though Jones is best known for his dramatic work, he demonstrated his romantic comedy chops in CLAUDINE (’74), in which he turns on the charm as a carefree bachelor garbage collector who begins dating 36-year-old welfare mother (Diahann Carroll) of six. Diana Sands was originally cast as Claudine, but learned she was dying of cancer and insisted her good friend Carroll get the role. She ended up earning an Oscar nomination for lead actress and she and Jones received Golden Globe nominations.

Judith Crist in New York magazine wrote that she thought Jones gave the “performance of his career as the bright, charming chap who chose to be a garbage man so that nobody would envy or dislike him.“

Jones received his honorary Oscar in November 2011 while he as appearing on the London stage with Vanessa Redgrave and Boyd Gaines in Driving Miss Daisy. The Academy of Motion Picture Arts and Sciences’ has a clip of the event on YouTube. At the curtain call, Redgrave announces Jones is receiving the Oscar on stage and introduces Sir Ben Kingsley who has Jones’ Oscar. Jones looks like a little boy filled with joy and surprise.

Clutching his Oscar, Jones says beaming: “I just want to ask you a question, if an actor’s nightmare is being on stage buck naked and not knowing his lines, what the heck do you call this? I’ve been on stage, a great audience and thank you. I had my clothes on. I knew my words and then out from the wings steps Sir Ben Kingsley and he hands me an Oscar. Frankly, what else would you call this but an actor’s wet dream!”

[monbbgang]

Professor Minhyuk and Kihyun with Student reader, smut? if you're taking request, please. I've been dying thinking of it skdhkakkknj

Professors (NSFW)

New semester, new professors, new experiences. That’s the mantra you’ve told yourself at least a dozen times already on your first day at your new university. Your nerves were buzzing as you entered the campus and tried to find the building and classroom you were to have your first class in. When you finally did find it, you entered the large auditorium and was greeted by a handsome face paired with a husky voice the like of which you’ve never heard before,

“Hi, are you lost?” he asked.

“Umm… I think this is where my first class is, Art History 101?” you asked with a smile.

“Yeah, this is it. Have a seat anywhere you like, umm…sorry, what’s your name?”

“I’m Y/n.” you reached out a hand and he took it, holding on a bit longer than necessary,

“Minhyuk. Nice to meet you.” he said brightly “I don’t remember seeing you before, is this your first day?”

“Yeah, I just transferred.” you nodded, a few strands of hair falling into your face with the movement. He reached out and tucked it behind your ear, your face going a pale shade of red. “So, where do you sit? Maybe we could sit together?” you asked boldly, hoping to make a new friend. He looked a bit uneasy and chuckled a little, staring down at his shoes and scratching a temple with a long finger. “I-I’m sorry…I just… I don’t know anyone yet and thought that maybe we could be friends..?” you tried to explain.

“Ah, I would love to be your friend, Y/n.” he said, emphasising the word and running his eyes over your body, “Maybe we could…” his voice trailed off as more students entered and you were carried away by the rush of students trying to get to the seat they want. You sat down at the nearest desk and looked around to find Minhyuk when you realized he stayed at the front and walked over to the professor’s desk, picking up a bottle of water and taking a sip before raising his voice,

“Good morning everyone! My name is Professor Lee Minhyuk, you may call me Professor Lee or Mr Lee, and welcome to Art History 101.” your mouth fell open and you moved your hair to hide your face as you realized you had just tried to befriend/hit on your professor. Once you gained some of your composure back, you looked at him and found that he was smiling at you before he quickly looked away and went on to describe the syllabus. 

That was almost three months ago, the semester was now close to its end and your last class of Art History 101 was about to start. 

It being the last class you were not surprised that most of the students didn’t bother to come in. Assignments were due the previous class and this was meant to be a farewell class to end the semester. Always a diligent student, you didn’t even think about skipping it, something you were now regretting as it was just you and another student with Minhyuk. 

Throughout the semester, you have caught his eyes lingering on you, his lips smiling at you, tongue licking his invitingly pink lips as he looked your way before continuing with the lecture. But he never made a move. And neither did you. All the tension you felt between you two was only amplified now that you two were almost alone in the same room. 

“I think since it’s just the three of us, how about we simply cancel this class?” he suggests with a smile. The other student nods and leaves the room quickly, leaving you with him.

“Umm… I guess I should go too…” you say and make your way to the entrance.

“Wait, Y/n.” he catches up with you and moves to close the doors of the classroom, “We never had a chance to… become friends, as you wanted”

“Oh, I-I’m sorry, I mistook you for a student. I hope you know I never would have… if I knew you were my teacher…” you blush and avoid his eyes. 

“Y/n… do you still… want to be friends?” he asks as he closes the distance between your bodies, “You know… I want to get to know you more… if you’ll let me.” he licks his lips and looks down at you intently.

“I-I….” 

“Is that a no?” suddenly his voice is deeper, huskier.

“No… I’m just not sure if this is oka-“ he cuts you off with a kiss, his lips soft but hungry on yours. He grips your waist and walks you backwards until you hit his desk and his hands travel your body, touching you everywhere before they decide to squeeze your ass. You moan into the kiss and he licks your lower lip to ask for entrance. You open up for him and he massages your tongue with his. He tastes of coffee and croissants you think just as he moves his lips lower to kiss along your jawline before going down your neck, lips and tongue tasting your skin.

You moan a little when he sucks on the skin between your collarbones and he lifts up your T-shirt, you raise your arms to help him take it off and he tosses it next to the desk. His hands latch onto your chest, fingers digging into tender skin as his mouth trails down your abdomen and stops at the waistband of your jeans. He straightens himself and puts his lips to your ear, whispering,

“I saw you. I saw the way you looked at me during every class. And I know, you saw the way I looked at you.” he smirks and undoes your jeans while leaving a mark on your neck just below your ear. His hands push your jeans down and you step out of them, leaning down to pull your high heeled shoes off,

“Leave those on.” he groans into your neck and presses his body into yours. You can feel him hard and twitching through his pants and you bite your lip. Kissing your boobs, he trails a large hand down your back and slips it into your  panties and grabs a handful of your ass, squeezing over and over again. His other hand goes from your waist to your tummy and makes its way into your panties at the front, gripping your core in his palm. You squirm in his grip and moan a little,

“Profess-“

“Minhyuk. Please.” he corrects you.

“Min-“ your lips freeze as you notice the door of the class room opening and a handsome man, a professor for sure, comes into the room. Your whole body freezes and Minhyuk turns around too see what startled you,

“Oh, it’s you.” he says to the man, “Y/n, this is Professor Yoo Kihyun. Kihyun, this is Y/n.” he goes back to kissing your neck and you keep staring at Kihyun, trying to move your half naked body behind Minhyuk’s. “Oh, are you shy?” Minhyuk asks you with a chuckle, “Kihyun, would you like to join us?” your eyes go wide as Kihyun comes closer to you and you can feel your face getting red as he looks you up and down.

Suddenly, Minhyuk nudges you towards Kihyun, his fingers in your panties beginning to play with your folds. 

“May I?” Kihyun asks you and you give him a small shy nod. He gets closer to you and kisses your cheek before kissing your lips. He’s not as gentle as Minhyuk and his hands are more rough as they grab onto the flesh of a boob. Minhyuk, one hand still touching your core, moves behind you and kisses the back of your neck, trailing down your spine and hooking a finger into your panties to pull them down and give him direct access to your heat. He kneels behind you and gently spreads your legs to fit his head between and begins to lick your clit and eat you out. You moan, your lips parting from pleasure and Kihyun takes the advantage and enters your mouth with his tongue, his hands going to your back to unclasp your bra. 

Completely naked, you can feel your knees staring to buckle and Minhyuk leaves your core to stand up and undo his pants. His hard-on springs out from his boxers and he pumps himself watching as you kiss Kihyun before saying,

“Let’s put her on the desk.” Kihyun lifts you up and puts you on the desk, Minhyuk coming over to push you down on your back and taking up his place between your legs. Papers crunch underneath you as you lay down. He slaps his member to your core a few times making you whine before he enters you to the hilt and you gasp. 

“How about I fill this hole?” Kihyun asks as he’s undoing his own pants and pulls out his member. He walks over to you and drags your upper body closer to the edge of the desk. You lick your lips and he takes your chin in his fingers, pulling your mouth open and making you take him fully, your nose hitting his lower stomach. Minhyuk keeps a steady pace, pulling out and entering you deeply as his hands caress your thighs. You moan and gag at the same time as Kihyun hits the back of your throat, taking a fistful of your hair to keep you in place. He pulls out completely and you cough a little, trying to catch your breath,

“Don’t forget to breathe through your nose, kitten.” he tells you before entering your mouth again. He moves your head up and down on him by the back of your head and places his other hand on your throat, slightly squeezing. He keeps on hitting the back of your throat as Minhyuk gets deeper and deeper into your core. You moan around Kihyun and tears start to well up in your eyes as he gets more and more rough, grunting with every thrust. Minhyuk picks up his pace too, his hips snapping into yours and rattling the desk, some papers floating in the air before falling to the floor. 

You can feel yourself getting close and can tell they are too as they both thrust into you harder than anyone ever has. You clench around Minhyuk, a deep moan coming out of your throat, your body shaking with pleasure. Minhyuk follows and pulls out of you to release himself over your abdomen while Kihyun pulls out and pumps himself to cum on your chest. Both men pant and Kihyun sighs,

“I had no idea you had such great students, Minhyuk.” the other male chuckles as he replies.

“I think you’re gonna be the lecturer of one of her classes next semester.”

“Is that right?” Kihyun asks you as he brushes your hair out of your face, “I guess we are going to have a lot of fun next semester, won’t we, Y/n?” he says with a wink.

I’m not sure if you meant a threesome or separately but hey, the more the merrier, right? ❤️ Also, this is the longest I’ve written so far.

[acecorvid]

It would be really cool if you could do a spideypool prank war!

Peter honestly has no idea how it escalated to the point where he’s using his powers as Spider-Man to scale a dorm (that isn’t his), to sneak into a room (that isn’t his), with a web-filled explosive devise on his back (that one actually belongs to him). 

He shouldn’t be using Spider-Man for this. Spider-Man represents the good and just parts of him, the parts that want to save people and give people hope in times of hardship… not someone that sneaks into the room of a particularly annoying classmate to hide a device that will go off the moment that classmate has returned from his Art History class and cover both the room and the person in one of his most sticky solutions of webbing. 

That is, however, what he is using Spider-Man for this very instance. Because Wade Wilson started this prank war. And Peter Parker is most certainly going to finish it.

Physics class was meant to be a bird course for Peter Parker. He was bright and he’d already taken advanced courses in high school that covered most of what they were learning in this first year course at university. This course was going to be used for catching up on sleep that he missed out on from other courses and being a superhero.

Instead, he got stuck next to one of the most hopeless people he’d ever met. Wade Wilson. It didn’t make sense why this guy was taking a science course (except that he later explained it was mandatory for him to take at least two science courses) because he did not understand anything. Every two seconds the guy was learning over to Peter and asking him to re-explain everything the professor was telling them. The moment Peter closed his eyes, that raspy voice would wake him up, and Peter wasn’t even getting paid to be this man’s in-class tutor. It was ridiculous. 

After two weeks of this, Peter made the executive decision to arrive just in time for class and sit down in the front of the class - about eight rows in front of where he usually sat at the back next to Wade. And while Peter didn’t get to sleep, because he was right there where the professor could clearly see him, he did get a chance to zone out and not have someone asking stupid questions the entire lecture. It was amazing. It was exactly how Peter would be spending this class from then on.

That is until their next class when Peter went to sit down in his new front row seat and immediately fell to the floor as the chair broke underneath him. He felt it coming before it happened, his spidey sense tingling, but he didn’t have anything to grab onto. He picked up one of the perfectly good screws after the class finished laughing at him and the professor shushed everyone and asked Peter if he was okay. Peter turned around and his eyes found Wade. The man wasn’t looking at him but he was twirling a screwdriver between his fingers. Oh, he was going to be more than okay. 

The next class, Wade found himself glued to his seat but he managed to pull himself off and walked confidently out of class with his Hello Kitty boxers showing through the new hole in the ass of his pants. He winked at Peter as he sauntered by. 

It only took a whoopee cushion, an air horn, and a particularly loud shriek because of thumbtacks before their professor pulled the two of them aside and banned them from pulling pranks on each other during class. That should have ended everything… but Peter came home to vaseline on the door knob of his dorm room. This was the start of level two pranks.

But first, Peter had to figure out where Wade’s dorm was and he was making it exceptionally difficult. It was like he knew Peter was following him - and he probably did, because he would lose him every single time. So Peter took to pranking him at Meal Hall instead. Any food prank that Peter could google, he tried it on Wade. And they almost all worked - even though Wade should have been expecting it - because Wade loved food. 

Now that Physics was a safe space away from the pranks, Wade and Peter started talking. It started with Wade stopping by Peter’s new front seat to tell him how impressed he was with that last prank - or to let him know that his prank food was actually delicious and could he do something with pancakes next time?Which turned into Peter getting up and sitting in his old spot next to Wade to properly discuss how they managed to pull off their last pranks. 

It was strange how well they got along when they were relentlessly pranking each other outside of class, but now that they could have a space to banter and get to know each other… they were turning out to be pretty good friends. Sometimes they would go entire classes without taking about pranks and instead Peter would tell him things about Aunt May and, in turn, Wade would talk about his foster mom, Al. The more they talked, the milder the pranks got and the closer their friendship got. Peter was fairly certain he was going to gain a lifelong friendship out of this prank war. 

And then he came home to his dorm room to find all of his furniture attached to his ceiling. So now Peter was dressed as Spider-Man, inside Wade’s room (that he knew was Wade’s because he watched him as Spider-man), planting a non-lethal web-bomb that would leave Wade and his room sticky for several days. 

“Holy crap, Spider-Man is in my room!” 

Peter jumped up, hiding the bomb that he was about to put under Wade’s desk behind his back as he stood up straight. 

“Dude! You’re so cool! Can I get your autograph?” 

“Uh…” Peter was completely taken off guard. Wade’s class hadn’t ended yet. He shouldn’t be here. He also shouldn’t be seeing Peter as Spider-Man (not that he knew Peter was under the mask, though he’d figure it out if he did leave this web-bomb in his room). And Wade was a fan. An actual spidey-fan. 

Without waiting for an answer, Wade scrambled to his desk to grab a piece of paper and a pen. But before he could thrust them at Spider-Man, he hesitated and glanced around. “Wait, why are you in my room? I’m not in trouble, am I?”

Peter coughed and tried to do his best to lower his voice, “Oh, uh, no you’re not-”

“Is there a bad guy in my room?”

“What? No!” 

“You couldn’t be here because of my huge crush on you so-”

Peter’s heart stopped and he stared bug-eyed at his prank-friend before he managed to take a breath and realize that Wade had a crush on Spider-Man, not him.

Wade leaned in and whispered, “But don’t tell my friend, Peter. He’s so cute and easily flustered that pranking him is basically like flirting. I nailed his furniture to his ceiling to spell out ‘date me’ so we’ll see how that goes.”

“That’s why you flipped my room?” Peter shouted, forgetting to disguise his voice or not give himself away with his actual words.

“Wait. Your room?”

“Um. Nope. Nothing! Gotta go!” Peter immediately flung himself out of the open window, accidentally dropping the web-bomb as he dove into the empty air. He swung to the next building, landing on the wall just in time to hear the bomb go off and see sprays of web fly out of the open window. Wade shouted loudly, confused and disturbed. It was going to take a few hours for the webs to dissolve enough for Wade to escape his room which would give Peter plenty of time to come up with an excuse. And a chance to properly investigate whether Wade really tried to ask him out on a date with a bad prank. 

.

[part 2]

[stephenjaymorrisblog]

Love In Hell

By Stephen Jay Morris

Monday, February 25, 2019

©Scientific Morality

 It was the Summer of ‘69 and I was all of 15 years old. Life, at that point, had become a major exploration trip.  I’ve laid out the details of that summer in my manuscript entitled, “Hidden in the Rotunda.”  This article focuses on one Monday, that of July 28, 1969.

 I went to my first Love In at Griffith Park, which took place at the popular “Merry-Go-Round” area, in 1969.  During the Summer of Love, back in 1967, there had been a Love In at this exact location.  By that time, the term “Love In” was laughably passé.  About 500 people had shown up, clad in their head shop-slash-thrift shop, chic clothing, posing for the news media.  The gathering was comprised mostly of art fart types who hadn’t had enough time to grow their hair long.  But some of them had long sideburns and the females were sporting Carnaby Street fashions on their svelte, white bodies.  Groovy, baby!  

A couple of years later—1969—the unwashed masses amassed in this hilly, city park.  Not only did the so-called Hippies show up, but there were also Bikers, Chicano gang bangers, homeless people, Krishna devotees, drum circle freaks, Anti War activists, Black Panthers, and New Left activists.  It was an outdoor party and it was freaking me out, man!  Oh, yes—the pigs (cops) showed up in full riot dress.

I don’t recall how I initially found out about this event. Maybe it was through an ad in the L.A. Free Press, or a friend had told me about it.  In any case, I went.  It was summer vacation and what better way to spend it than by going to my very first Love In!?  I asked my friend, Philip, if he wanted to go, but his parents said “No!”  My parents?  I just told my mom I was going to visit my friend and I’d be back in time for dinner. What I didn’t tell her was that I’d be with a few thousand friends!  My dad, well he couldn’t give a rat’s ass about what I did on vacation.  Matter of fact, the longer I stayed out of the house, the happier he was; shit breath didn’t love me at all.  Only my mom cared.

It was mild for a summer day; the temperature topped out at 71 degrees.  One thing I hated about summer in L.A. was the humidity.  It was typically cold in the morning, so you’d end up having to carry your jacket around almost all day.  I remember wearing a work shirt that once belonged to my grandfather. In knew my dad resented me for wearing it, but he never said anything.  Go figure.

I left my house on Martel Avenue.  Looking north to the Hollywood Hills, there was the familiar, brown haze of smog.  In the wintertime and early spring, and sometimes in autumn, the view of the hills was crystal clear.  Once, a few years earlier, I saw snowcaps on those hills, just after a rainstorm.

I walked eastward down Beverly Boulevard toward La Brea.  I was planning to take the public bus to the event, using my student discount card.  I wore my Levi’s jeans, a black Tee shirt, and black deck shoes.  I’d put on boxer shorts as well, although a lot of “hip kids” didn’t wear underwear.  I had my grandfathers work shirt on over my Tee shirt.

Now on weekends, buses kept different schedules than they did on weekdays.  They came just once every hour and stopped running at midnight.  By then, the oil companies had ruined public transportation in Los Angeles.  I waited and waited on the northeast corner of Beverly and La Brea.  Four gas stations flanked the intersection:  Texaco, Chevron, Exxon, and Gulf.  L.A. was indeed a “car town.”

Hitch hiking was the standard “hip” mode of transportation. It was viewed as an expression of collective sharing among your brothers and sisters; just like sharing a jug of wine or a joint.  Taken to the extreme, there was the sharing of your boyfriend or girlfriend in the name of “Free Love.”  As a rule, I didn’t hitch hike much.  Middle-aged perverts who wanted to suck my cock would often pick me up.  On the other hand, I didn’t want to wait another hour for a bus, so I stuck out my thumb and hoped for somebody who was heading for the same destination as I was.

Ten minutes later, a 1949 VW Beetle ambled up the street toward me, a trail of smoke behind it.  At the time, a lot of young people painted their VW bugs with colorful floral designs and symbols, such as the Peace sign.  Well, this little car was a real wreck!  It looked like it had been entered into and ejected from a demolition derby.  One taillight was cracked, a door was taped up, and the paint was peeling with age.  The body was covered in dents.

But, you know what they say:   “Beggars can’t be choosers!”

The door opened and the driver asked, “Griffith Park Love In?”

I said, “Yep!”

He jubilantly replied, “Get in!”

A passenger closed the door behind me.  The driver looked like a college professor from the 80’s. He was a white guy in his 40’s with shaggy, curly hair and an unshaven face; his specs sat halfway down his nose. The radio was on; a vintage A.M. model with one speaker.  It was tuned in to some Top 40s station; a teenybopper song was playing.  I think it was “Baby I Love You.”  When it ended, the DJ announced loudly, “That was Andy Kim! Going up the charts like a shooting star!  Now the news!  Headlines:  Nixon says 25,000 troops will be withdrawn out of Vietnam in a couple of days!”

What I hated about VW Beetles was that noisy, sputtering engine and the smell of gasoline.  I prayed we’d get to our destination soon, before I got asphyxiated! Thank Buddha, somebody lit up a doobie, which effectively covered up the gas odor.  Hey, I would have been happy if somebody had simply burned some incense!

Someone from the back seat addressed the driver, “Hey, Dean! Are you going to that Woodstock Arts and Crafts festival?”

He blissfully replied, “Hell, yeah. I’m going!”

I asked, “What’s Woodstock?”

He laughed and answered, “Only the biggest concert in the history of humanity!  It is going to be bigger than the Monterey Pop Festival two years ago.  I heard the Beatles are showing up!”

Somebody said from the back seat, “I heard the Stones and Dylan are coming, too!”

I asked, “Where is this going to take place?”

“Upstate New York!”

I replied, “Oh.”  I thought to myself, ‘They’ll be lucky to get Joni Mitchell to play at an arts and craft festival.  Whenever I think of an arts and craft festival, I think of the Renaissance Fair. My dad took the family to that fair once and it reminded me of an outdoor mental institution.  No thanks!’

Driving south on Los Feliz Boulevard reminded one of how poor they are.  There were these giant mansions built in the 1930’s, worth millions upon millions of dollars!  Even the Art Deco apartment buildings looked luxurious.

Finally, upon arriving at the Mulholland Memorial Fountain, I knew we’d arrived at the entrance to Griffith Park.  Just a right turn on Crystal Springs Drive and then north to the park.

Today, though, was different.  For the first time since I’d driven there with my parents, there was a traffic jam.  Lines upon lines of vehicles, of all different shapes and kinds, were backed up to Los Feliz.  Those inside were mostly collage-aged kids, smoking grass and banging on tambourines. Crystal Spring Drive was a two-lane road next to the side of a hill, a distance of about a mile and a half to our destination, the Merry-Go-Round.  At a grueling 10 miles an hour, it took us about 25 minutes to get there!  It was 11:35 a.m.

Only three bands were scheduled to play the Love In. They were “Ace of Cups” (stupid name), “Sons of Chaplin,” and the “Jefferson Airplane.”  In December that year, I would see The Airplane perform at Altamont Speedway’s tragically-iconic, free concert in Northern California.

Behind the Merry-Go-Round, there was a small meadow in which hundreds, if not thousands of people, had gathered.  An area had been set aside where the band would play; not an elevated stage or platform, just open, flat ground.  This area was on an incline, so mostly people who located themselves far from it could see the bands.  All of this was set up behind the public bathroom building.

I walked alone among the throngs of smelly Baby Boomers. There were peddlers selling everything—and I mean everything!  I came across one member of the Black Panther Party selling his party’s tabloid, “The Black Panther.”  I’m glad for that; all of the misinformation I’d been told was dispelled later that night.

Cops were strolling among the crowd.  There were some kids walking around butt naked. This was supposed to be for making a political statement.  If you’d asked me, I’d have said it was just good old fashioned expositionism!  If you’d seen their bodies, you’d have hoped they were arrested!  A cop would yell to one nude dude, “Hey!  Cover up or you will get busted for indecent exposure!”  The lawbreaker quickly tied a shirt around his waist. As soon as the fuzz left the area, he got naked again.  It was the same thing with pot, which was still illegal in those days.  Some cops would tell a pot smoker, “Put that stuff away or I will have to run you in!”  Overall, the cops wanted to avoid any rioting.

The Chicano gangs were drunk on wine and barbiturates, or “Reds.”  The Bikers stood by their Harley Davidsons while they got drunk on beer.  The more they drank, the more pugnacious they got.  Fights broke out everywhere.  Ultimately, the event was more like a “hate in” than a Love In. What I could never understand was why Bikers attended every Love In or Antiwar protest if they hated Hippies so much! I suppose it was for the dope and the chicks.

The Hippies were just toking on weed and passing around gallon bottles of Red Mountain wine.  Sharing like this was a sure way of getting Hepatitis C.  I avoided the ritual as much as possible.  The Hippie chicks had this proclivity of dancing by themselves.  They looked like blow up dolls in the wind.  Alas, everybody was compelled to express themselves in those days.  It was a great argument for Fascism.  

Oh, there was music…sort of…kind of.  Two bands were playing your generic twelve-bar blues. Then came the Airplane.  But, every song they attempted to play was stopped in the middle.  Why? Because the sound system sucked shit!

I got bored and left.  As I looked at the crowd for the last time, I thought, ‘This is not going to last.  Most of these kids will get married and have kids financed by their careers.  By the 1980’s, they will become Republicans.’  I wish I’d written that down.  Who is going to believe I ever had those thoughts?  No one.

I took a bus home, had dinner, and went into my room. I read “The Black Panther.”

I’ll say this, it was the most interesting Monday I’d ever had.  

[thesmutshewrote]

A Man Who Can Do Both - Pt 1

Warning: This fanfic contains smut in some parts

Pairing: Reader x Kihyun

Genre: fluff, smut, college!au, mature language, mild angst

Word Count: 1.5k

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5

Summary: Your best friend Kihyun is known for his cotton candy pink hair and being a good boy. He always does his homework and obeys all the rules. After you both graduate from high school, you’re both anticipating going to the same college. You know that Kihyun wanted a fresh start and a new look, but you weren’t prepared for this kind of change. College will definitely be interesting with this new side of Kihyun, a change that will effect your friendship forever.

You were excited to finally graduate from high school and move on to better things for your career. You graduated as a talented art student well known for your charcoal pieces. In the art wing was where you met your best friend, Yoo Kihyun, a photographer. The school knows you two as art freaks, but he’s more reserved and quiet than you are, so they think. Only you can hear his witty sarcasm and playful remarks. He thinks he has a reputation to uphold as the cotton candy haired good boy with incredible grades, which he does. We both were quite good in school, which is how we got into the same university. You like to be more mischievous than he does. You go out to parties and come home slightly too drunk, but your parents don’t care as long as your grades are high and you don’t end up pregnant. You’ve drunk called Kihyun multiple times and he’s taken care of you so you don’t meet your parents at the door totally wasted. He’s a good friend. Sometimes you feel bad for the hell you put him through on weekends, but you know he can handle it. He’ll make fun of you the next morning anyway. It’s a give and take sort of relationship.

“Y/N, how many times do I have to take your ass home like this. You’re a total mess! How am I supposed to clean you up?”, Kihyun complains as he walks you out of a house which wreaked of alcohol and sweat.

“Oh my God, you’re so funny, Nancy. I can’t believe you said that to him”, you replied without realizing you were already separated from your best friend.

Kihyun walks you to his car and puts you in the passenger seat carefully before getting in the drivers seat. He starts to put on his seat belt until he realizes that you’re too drunk to put yours on. He sighs and reaches over you to get the seat belt. Without realizing he was so close, you turn your head to see if Kihyun was in the car yet. Your noses slightly touch and you look into his eyes. Kihyun freezes in shock from being so close to you.

“Y/N, what are you doing?” Kihyun asks without moving.

“Kihyun, hi”, you giggle. “When did you get here.. and why are you so close?”

He sighs and moves past you to get your seat belt. You lay back in the seat and look at the roof of the car as he buckles you in.

“You know, I really wish you had a window on your roof. I can’t see anything like this and it’s no fun. Sometimes you’re no fun, Kihyun. Why can’t you come to parties with me?” You pout and wait for an answer, but he doesn’t reply. “It was so much fun tonight.”

“It’s called a sunroof, Y/N.” Kihyun mumbles, “but you wouldn’t know that because you were too busy getting drunk and dancing with Minhyuk. You probably don’t even know that either. Psh..”

“Oh, I don’t feel so good,” you whine, gripping your stomach.

“I swear, if you ruin my car..” and before he could finish his sentence, your vomit was between your legs on the floor of his car.

Kihyun drives to the nearest gas station and tries to clean up his car as much as he can. You try to wipe it all off your pants, but it was no use in a drunken state like this. 

“Ugh, I hate pants!” You whine as you pull your shorts off and throw them on the ground.

“No, no, no, n- ugh, Y/N, what am I going to do with you?” Kihyun tries to look away from you as he finishes cleaning up the car, but finds his eyes wandering. 

“Kihyun, she’s your best friend,” he whispers to himself, “you can’t do this.” He cleans up the car as quickly as possible and starts driving back to his house to get you cleaned up and wash your pants. 

The two of you arrive at Kihyun’s house and he helps you out of the car. Avoiding eye contact with your lace panties, he ties his sweatshirt around your waist and you walk inside. He takes you to his room, where you had been many times before to hang out and work on art projects together, and gently sits you on the bed. He brings you a cool glass of water and puts your shorts in the washer.

“Y/N, we have to get you cleaned up now. You wreak and I’m not going to let you stink up my bedroom. Now, can you walk with me to the bathroom?”

“I’m feeling better now,” you say after drinking some of the water. “I think I’m okay.” You stand up to walk, but your legs are still weak. 

Kihyun holds you up and helps you to the bathroom. He sits you on the ledge of the bath tub and swings your feet over. He brings you a wash cloth and some soap to clean off your legs, but before he can leave, you grab his wrist.

“Um, thanks for all this, but do you have any pants I can put on since I don’t have any? Maybe some sweatpants, or even boxers. Just something.”

He looks down and realizes the sweatshirt had fallen off. “Oh, I’m sorry. I wasn’t looking, I just- I’ll go find pants.” He quickly averts his eyes and walks to his bedroom. He looks through his drawers for something suitable and finds a pair of sweatpants you complimented before. 

Meanwhile, you wash your legs and dry them just in time for Kihyun to come back with something to wear. He cracks open the door and hands them to you. You smile because you remember how cute he looked in these. You put them on and stumble back to his bedroom.

“Thanks, Kihyun. Did you remember I liked these? Well they’re mine now.” You lay on the bed and close your eyes.

“Yes, I remember. You can’t have them though, okay? I like those sweatpants too! They really suit me, don’t they?” He turns around and looks at you, noticing that you had fallen asleep. “Ugh, she owes me.” 

You thought back to all the moments that you and Kihyun had spent together during your senior year. It was usually you getting into trouble and him saving you. He saved you from your parents, from bad friends, from bad boyfriends. Kihyun was there through it all. You were excited to go to college with him. The season was approaching and you were happy. Kihyun went on a trip with his family for the whole summer so it was time for a reunion. 

You texted Kihyun a few days before classes would start and asked when you could see him. He described his plans which conflicted with yours, so it looked like you would see him again during an art history class you both had to take.

You spent a little time trying to catch up so you could actually pay attention to the class instead of trying to talk. He talked about how much fun his trip was and how beautiful the country was. He also mentioned that he had a surprise for you. You were excited, but nervous. Kihyun wasn’t the type to surprise you, so the day of your first class couldn’t come soon enough.

Finally, today was the day. Only a few days had passed since your conversation with Kihyun, but you miss him so much that it feels like hell to wait this long. The summer was so boring without him and your drunken evenings were much messier. You walk down the hallway towards your art history class and hear a lot of voices from one room. You walked in and there were groups of people talking in different corners of the room waiting for the class to start. You scanned the room for your pink haired friend, but saw no one. You hear a familiar voice call your name and approach you from behind. You turn around and there stands a man with dark brown hair, shaved on the sides, but long in the front and messily styled back in a way that was irresistibly charming. He was wearing black skinny jeans and a black button down shirt.

You stood there mesmerized. He looked like Kihyun, but he surely wasn’t the Kihyun that you had always known. But then you remembered, Kihyun said that he had a surprise. It couldn’t be this. This isn’t Kihyun, is it?

“Aren’t you going to at least say hello?” He rolled up his sleeves to his elbows as he talked. You looked him up and down until your eyes finally landed on his. He smirked at you in a devilish way that riled something up inside you. Something you had never felt before. Something you couldn’t control.

“Kihyun?!”

[joshuazev]

On spanning time:

Today was as low-key an uneventful as I wanted it to be and it was nice to have a day like that because I hadn’t had one for a while.  From a stripped down perspective, I saw two movies, ate some pizza, met up with a buddy from UW, and ate some Italian.  I didn’t need anything more from the day.  The first movie was, “The Florida Project,” a movie that a lot of people that I knew liked and one that had received favorable reviews.  I didn’t know what to expect at all and in the first few minutes wondered whether I would enjoy it, but after settling in my seat and keeping my focus, I came out of the theatre really grateful that I had stayed the course and am still ruminating over its contents while I write.  It followed this motel right outside of Disney World in Orlando and was centered on these young kids and their families in what a Brazilian tourist described as a “favela.”  The cinematography was absolutely incredible and almost all of the images were so rich with color and vibrancy that even without the story and the sounds it would have looked beautiful.  The performances were stellar, from the young kids (the main young girl) to Willem Defoe, to the mother.  They were real.  Real and rugged.  And in many ways the movie reminded me of a movie called, “American Honey” because it focused on a part of the country that we don’t really hear about, know much about, or pay attention to.  When you live in a big city it can feel like everyone else is just on the periphery.  That was the case in this movie, for sure, and I loved how they used Disney World as a backdrop because you don’t think of anything outside that area.  Truthfully, what percentage of people going to visit Mickey Mouse are thinking of traveling or driving through the neighborhoods directly outside.  In other ways, the camera angles and style of shooting reminded me of the first part of “Moonlight,” when Chiron is a young kid.  Whoever is finding these young kid actors deserves a wage increase.  I wonder if the business of kid acting is a little exploited to some degree, but maybe that’s a question for a different day.  Regardless of whether or not that’s true, I am constantly baffled at how young actors can give such brilliant performances and interpretations of such complex characters.  I don’t remember being an over-thinker when I was super young.  Maybe that’s their key.  They are so in tune with their emotions.  Still, these kids go to such depths as these characters.  It’s unbelievable.  The last couple of scenes of the film take you on a roller coaster that I think you can expect, but still can’t be entirely ready for.  I don’t want to ruin the movie for any potential viewers, but every character is captured so perfectly and even the ending, which I’ve been thinking about since the credits start rolling is as exceptional as it is memorable.  These kids do not live easy lives, so when one of the characters, who is so young, starts crying for the first time despite everything she’s been through, you start to really get hit hard.  The more I think about the movie, the more I like it.  

The other film started off in a slower fashion for a couple of reasons.  First off, I tried using my Movie Pass for the second time, but apparently you can’t use it for more than one movie a day.  My soul had been dealt a crushing blow.  Just kidding, but it did kind of defeat the purpose of seeing a second movie.  Whatever.  Two movies for $15, $7.50 a pop ain’t that bad.  It was funny because I could tell that the idea of me using my movie pass and not paying anything and my buddy, who didn’t have it, paying $15 bucks kind of bothered him a little bit.  Maybe I got what I deserved.  I had to laugh because it was a similar reaction to when I asked my roommate if he wanted to see a movie with me and he said no because I wasn’t going to be spending any money.  It seems like this movie pass is only compatible with people who also have movie pass.  The ones that don’t seem to get a little sensitive…and for good reason.  My buddy Neil and I were having so much trouble deciding on a movie.  Either I didn’t want to see a movie he wanted to see or vice versa.  Finally, he suggested Shape of Water which, I’ll admit, I didn’t really wan’t to see, but I hadn’t seen him for so long that I thought, why not, I’ll see it if he wants to (I mean I’m not paying anything, right?).  At the end of the movie, he tells me how he saw the trailer for the movie we just watched and didn’t like it, and I’m thinking, “What the fuck!”  We had a good laugh and exchanged some shit talking.  I told him, “Why didn’t you wanna see one of the other movies?”  He goes, “They all kind of looked like shit.”  I go, “There were like 15 movies!?”  He goes, “Eh, yeah, no.”  It was beautiful.  Anyway, he received some karma and I paid $15 bucks to see this movie with him.  The trailers for the movie sucked.  Like really bad, which I’ll get to a little later.  The start of the feature was a little slow and after going in and out for the first fifteen minutes or so, he nudged me and I was back on track with him.  Hopefully I didn’t offend him by dozing off.  The movie had its good moments.  I like Guillermo Del Toro even though I don’t think he’s been able to match the greatness of Pan’s Labyrinth, but luckily the movie had Octavia Spencer, Richard Jenkins, and my man Michael Shannon, who finds new ways to be sickening and evil and truly just a psychotic son-of-a-bitch in every subsequent movie.  His ability should never be questioned, but I think it’s almost a curse that he has to be as good as he has been in the evil roles that he’s been cast as.  What will the depths be for him?  He was the highlight of “Nocturnal Animals.”  He was the best part of “Take Shelter.”  The best part of “Revolutionary Road.”  Heard he was great in “99 Homes.”  Will he ever be cast as a kind father though?  As a quote on quote “good guy”?  Or is he not drawn to those roles?  Without those actors the movie would have failed.  Instead it was just a pretty good movie, with one scene that was particularly melodramatic that I didn’t think needed to be in there at all and I actually thought took away from my appreciation of the movie as a whole.  Both movies had particular scenes that were risky and made them what they were.  One failed and one succeeded.  Without them they would have been solid, good movies.  Because of them, one was great and one wasn’t.  

This is a perfect segue to my problem with reviewers nowadays and I think there are plenty of ways to look at the current state of movie reviews.  In general, movies aren’t doing as good as they once did with respect to non-blockbusters.  If you aren’t a summer comic movie then your road is that much harder, but all of these so-called really really good movies that have been really well reviewed have not been very good, in my opinion.  “The Disaster Artist.”  Great reviews.  Poop.  “The Shape of Water.”  Great reviews.  Meh.  What are people looking for anymore?  Or are the reviews even reflections of what the critics are looking for and more so what they need the people to read in order to go spend money to go to the theaters and watch the movies?  This has been a weak year, in my opinion.  I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again.  Hollywood and independent cinema are having a tough time of it, but shouldn’t honesty and integrity still be honored?  Enough of the bullshit.  Now…on the flipside, you could argue that it’s necessary.  Especially in New York.  I might have mentioned this again, but a bad review from the Times or the New Yorker can single handedly end a movie’s ability to grow, sprout, and flourish.  That’s completely fucked.  It’s one person’s viewpoint but because they are the two most widely respected and recognized publications in the countries arts capital it carries more than the normal weight.  So, in that sense, you can see why they are a little more lax.  It all feeds into the awards machine.  The globes.  The oscars.  Movies have a long way to go.  And it starts with “The Florida Project” seeing more light.  Long live the festivals.  Long live independent cinema.

My dad has a friend, Hal, who is about ten years older than him and another friend, Don, who is about ten years younger than him.  He’s known them forever.  The guy I was hanging out with today, Neil, is about ten years older than I am.  I’d imagine that beyond just getting along and having similar personalities, the same reason that my dad connects with Hal and Don is the same reason that I connect with Neil.  Younger brothers.  Older brothers.  It’s a cool thing to be close with someone that is from a different generation, a different decade.  Neil is the most Italian person I know.  Today I woke up with my face planted down in the pillow and I get a call from him and we start shooting the shit, him talking in his perfect Italian accent, rich with family history and the rest from impeccable observation and me in my best imitation New York Italian voice.  I think that talking through half of the pillow really locks in the accent, if you ask me.  We got some Spaghetti and Meatballs at this famous spot in Soho called, “Fanelli Cafe,” a classic joint with the checkered red and white tables, pictures of old school boxers on the walls and one sip water glasses that need to be refilled every two seconds but aren’t for about every five-ten minutes.  He’s going upstate to Rochester to see his family for Christmas and invited me to go with him.  His dad apparently is heating the oven up and making a seven fish stew or something or other.  I could smell the aroma from the description.

Christmas is Monday.  2018 right around the corner.  Chopping it up and shooting the shit with my brother.  A movie a day makes the time go away.  

[healthnotion]

How to Give a Toast

For each of the last four years, my wife and I (Jeremy) have hosted a Friendsgiving dinner the Sunday before Thanksgiving. It’s a chance to gather our social group together for a potluck turkey dinner and give thanks for all the good things in our lives (like friends!). Each year, I’ve been called upon to say something before we all sit down and eat, and each year, I slightly dread that short block of time in which I’m supposed to articulate something memorable. I don’t remember previous years, but this year I didn’t take any time to think about or prepare a good toast, and I fumbled through trying to recite that toast that Will Smith gives in Hitch. No joke. It was awkward. And although our friends have assuredly already forgotten (or at least forgiven) that moment, I obviously haven’t. It didn’t elevate the room or brighten people’s hearts, which is exactly what a toast is supposed to do. Rather, my toast was sort of an off note in the “music” of an otherwise wonderful evening. Wouldn’t it have been far better to have had just the right words that would have perfectly suited the occasion and enhanced everyone’s mood?

As we talked about previously, toasting has a long (and often manly history), and we really ought to revive it more in the present age. But the tradition is so rare these days, that most of us have had little instruction and practice in it. If you’d like to help bring back toasting, how exactly do you do it?

The instructions below will help you raise a glass with real confidence, style, and event-enlivening effect.

How to Give a Toast

Be Prepared

“Flubbing the toast is like serving stale champagne: it flattens the mood.” –Paul Dickson, Toasts

First, you need to be prepared. While toasting is meant to be improvisational, that doesn’t mean working entirely off the cuff in the moment; as Mark Twain once said, “It usually takes three weeks to prepare a good impromptu speech.” Even if you plan to give your toast extemporaneously, you ought to have a repository of some famous toasts/quotes in mind, and/or have been thinking about a theme for a few weeks and can pick just the right length and specific words once the occasion comes.

If you don’t trust yourself to do even that, go ahead and write something out. As you’re doing that, ask yourself the following questions:

Who/what is being toasted? If it’s a best friend, it can be a little more informal. If it’s a grandparent, something sweet and sentimental is obviously far better.

What is the reason for the toast? Is it an anniversary? A college graduation? A wedding? A promotion? Heck, even a breakup? The specific occasion will guide much of what you say.

What type of event is it? The event type guides the formality of the toast more than anything else. A work party? Better keep it pretty straight-laced. Cocktail hour with college friends? You’re safer going off the cuff and/or with an inside joke or two.

Who is in attendance? Related to the above point, but you really want to know your audience in order to craft your toast. You don’t want to say things that only make sense to one group of people. At a family event, you’ll say something quite different than you would at a work party. At a large, diverse gathering, you want to keep statements very broad and centered on the toastee so that everyone can get what you’re saying.

Along with these specific tips, in general, brush up on your public speaking and improvisation skills. The art of toasting deftly combines both of those things, and provides a great opportunity to practice those skills which naturally transfer into numerous other areas of life. (Also, giving a toast is a requirement for the Orator Badge in The Strenuous Life!)

Decide on Your Format

“A toast is a basic form of human expression that can be used to convey virtually any emotion, from love to rage (although raging toasts tend to cross the line into the realm of curses). They can be sentimental, cynical, lyrical, comical, defiant, long, short — even just a single word.” –Paul Dickson, Toasts

You can choose to make the whole toast an original composition, or to recite a classic set toast (see the ideas we’ve gathered below).

Arguably the best kind of toast, though, is one that combines the two elements: a brief, original introduction directed at the specific occasion and attendees, followed by a classic set toast to end things on a strong note.

Keep It Short

As Dickson notes above, toasts can involve just a single word; indeed, in ancient times, it was common to simply raise a glass “To health!”

You don’t have to keep your toasts quite that pithy, but they should always be short — about 30-60 seconds, erring on the shorter side versus the longer. Get to the point, and quickly. Only at particular gatherings should a toast exceed that, such as at a wedding, anniversary party, or other event where a longer tribute is more appropriate — and even then, you don’t want to go past a couple minutes or so.

Lean Towards Sincerity Over Humor

A lot of guys try to be funny at social gatherings, believing themselves to be far more humorous than they really are. This is especially true when giving a toast. Think about how different best man speeches are from maid of honor speeches. The former almost always tries to insert some funny story or joke that inevitably falls flat. Why is this?

Humor is very hard to get right, especially with a large and diverse crowd. At weddings especially, you have folks of all ages, all different careers and life experiences, and different social circles. The best man trying to be funny is likely doing so for his own circle of friends, and that’s all who will laugh. So with the vast majority of toasts, avoid seemingly humorous topics like exes, failures, and inside jokes; while covering such territory is common, it’s overly dicey to do.

Humor can work if you’re with a smaller, perhaps all-male group of comrades. In those informal instances, inside jokes and even some “colorful” remarks are acceptable, and even expected. In general, though, aim for sincerity. That’s sometimes harder for guys to do (which is why we lean on humor in the first place), but if you’re prepared — it all comes back to being prepared! — you’ll be able pull off a sentimental salute without a hitch. Sincerity is far better remembered by a toast’s recipients than an ill attempt at humor.

Be Sure That Everyone Is Involved & Has a Drink

While it’s obviously most traditional to toast with alcohol, you can of course toast with anything, as these boxers who would soon be squaring off against each other in the ring demonstrate.

Toasts are all about inclusion. Nobody is to be left out — children, the elderly, non-drinkers, all should be able to be part of the toast. At a dinner party, be sure that everyone is seated with their food and drink. If food isn’t part of the gathering, or if the toast is happening during cocktail hour versus the dinner hour, be sure everyone has a drink to toast with (ginger ale or something else that’s bubbly makes it special for kiddos; and here’s a list of fun mocktails for the teetotalers out there). Also, as much as is possible, ensure everyone is present. As the host, keep an eye on things; if someone is off to the restroom, wait until they’ve returned. You don’t want someone to have to awkwardly walk into the middle of a toast.

Don’t Toast Before the Host

If you aren’t the host of an event, don’t give a toast before they’ve had the chance to do the honor. If it’s been mutually decided that you’ll toast first, then go for it. Otherwise, wait until the host has had their say.

Announce Your Intentions With Both Words and Behavior

At a boisterous party or gathering, it can be hard to know the right time and way to make your toast. How do you get everyone’s attention? At the start of a dinner party, it’s a little easier: as host, you should be waiting to get your food until everyone else has already done so. So when you approach the table, theoretically everyone else is already seated or in the process of doing so, and you can simply stay standing and say something like, “I’d like to propose a toast.”

If people are milling about, or you’re giving a toast in the midst of a meal, you’ll need to get the room’s attention. Don’t do so by clanging your glass with a utensil, which isn’t very tasteful, and might break the glass to boot. Instead, signal your intention by standing up and raising your glass to shoulder level, with your arm pointed towards the center of the party. If people still don’t notice your gesture and quiet down, just loudly say something to the effect of “If I can have everyone’s attention.” A loud throat clearing or “Ahem” is a bit informal and just never comes across quite right; it almost reads as sheepish and shy.  

End With a Clear Invitation

You’ve surely seen toasts that end amorphously; the audience isn’t sure if you’re finished or not. So when ending your toast, make that fact clear and demonstrate what everyone should do next. Say something like “Cheers!” or “Let’s a raise a glass to ___,” and then lead the way by finding someone near you to clink glasses with (if you’re in a small gathering) or going ahead and taking a sip from your glass (if you’re in a large gathering).

When to Give a Toast

So now you know how to give a toast, but when should you do so?

In our modern, generally toast-free society, it’s hard to know when it’s appropriate to offer a toast. Luckily, there are numerous occasions where giving one would not only bring a smile to everyone’s face, but elevate the general mood and environment — always the goal of a good toast!

Below you’ll find a sampling of times where it’s appropriate to offer a toast; the list is certainly not meant to be exhaustive, and there are many other fitting times to offer one as well.

Weddings

While weddings are generally a carefully orchestrated affair, there are a couple times during the celebratory events where a toast might be appropriate. At the reception, there is often the formal giving of toasts by the best man, maid of honor, bride and groom, and/or parents. This is not a point where you want to add your own toast (if you haven’t gotten permission from the couple first). You might instead give your own “unauthorized” toast at the rehearsal dinner before the wedding, or on the day of the wedding itself, you might do so at your individual table or with a group of friends during the cocktail hour. The happy couple should of course be the object of your toast.

Dinner Parties With Friends

While dinner parties are a dying breed of their own, they’re the perfect occasion for a toast. If hosting, it’s easy and can really be given anytime, though during a cocktail hour when everyone has a drink or at the start of dinner is ideal. Toasts here can focus on your thankfulness for the group involved, and perhaps even an inside joke (if everyone would be privy to it, of course). You can also toast even if you aren’t hosting, though, remember, you shouldn’t be the first to do so.

Holiday Gatherings

Holiday parties, whether they be filled with coworkers, friends, or family, are perfect occasions for toasting. You can toast to the good year behind you, the upcoming year ahead, your thankfulness for the holiday, and/or the reason it exists in the first place (Thanksgiving, 4th of July, Easter, etc. — those all have pretty clear meanings). A prayer is often part of religious holiday observances, but there’s certainly room for both that and a sincere toast.  

Graduation, Retirement Parties, Post-Funeral Gatherings

This really encompasses any occasion that’s been put together for a specific life transition, and also includes promotions, engagements, and anything else you can think of too. Toasts at gatherings like these should of course focus on the life transition at hand, reflection on past memories, and well wishes for the future. Note that while toasts don’t happen at funerals, or even typically at wakes, they are appropriate if you get together with a small group of friends at a bar or pub after these more formal events to pay more intimate respects to the dead.

Anniversaries and Date Nights

Toasts well suit the marking of romantic milestones, and that’s true even if you don’t throw a big anniversary party, and the only audience for the toast is your partner. You can offer a nice toast to your gal if you go out together to celebrate your anniversary, or even simply during the course of a normal date night. Either way, toasting to the woman you love is a great way to express sincere affection, wonder, and gratitude for her presence in your life.

Casual Social Events

Getting together with old friends at a bar? Having a bonfire with the neighbors? Tailgating at the big game? This is where you can really harness the spirit of our ancient manly ancestors. (Whether or not you drain your vessel is of course up to you and your good — or not so good — judgment.) Offer up an informal toast; this is where your wit, humor, and inside jokes can be unleashed, which isn’t the case with many of the events listed above.

Toast Ideas for Various Occasions

Having some classic toasts memorized is a great way to always be prepared to offer a fitting tribute when the opportunity presents itself; classic toasts are such for a reason — they encapsulate strong, pithy sentiments and enduring wit. But don’t do a general online search for toast ideas to add to your brain library, as those you’ll find are generally just about drinking or center on crass jokes. To solve this dearth, below we offer a nice treasury of classy and genuinely humorous toasts for a wide range of occasions.

Anniversary/ Date Nights

[For a 50th wedding anniversary] “With fifty years between you and your well-kept wedding vow. The Golden Age, old friends of mine, is not a fable now.” —John Greenleaf Whittier, “The Golden Wedding at Longwood”  [For the 25th wedding anniversary] “Love seems the swiftest, but it is the slowest of growths. No man or woman really knows what perfect love is until they have been married a quarter of a century.” –Mark Twain

“Wine comes in at the mouth And love comes in at the eye; That’s all we shall know for truth Before we grow old and die. I lift the glass to my mouth, I look at you, and I sigh.” –William Butler Yeats

“Here’s to you who halves my sorrows and doubles my joys.”

“Were’t the last drop in the well, As I gasped upon the brink, Ere my fainting spirit fell, ’Tis to thee I would drink.” —Lord Byron 

Baby

“A baby will make love stronger, days shorter, nights longer, bankroll smaller, home happier, clothes shabbier, the past forgotten, and the future worth living for.”

“A new life begun, Like father, like son.” —Irish

[Given by fathers with a son or sons] “Father of fathers, make me one, A fit example for a son.” —Douglas Malloch [Given by grandparents] “Grandchildren are gifts of God. It is God’s way of compensating us for growing old.” —Irish

“Trust yourself. You know more than you think you do.” —Dr. Benjamin Spock, Baby and Child Care 

Birthdays

“Do not resist growing old — many are denied the privilege.”

“Another candle on your cake? Well, that’s no cause to pout, Be glad that you have strength enough To blow the damn thing out.”

“Happy birthday to you And many to be, With friends that are true As you are to me!”

“Many happy returns of the day of your birth: Many blessings to brighten your pathway on earth; Many friendships to cheer and provoke you to mirth; Many feastings and frolics to add to your girth.” –Robert H. Lord

“May you live to be a hundred years with one extra year to repent.” —Irish

“To wish you joy on your birthday And all the whole year through, For all the best that life can hold Is none too good for you.”

Christmas 

“As fits the holy Christmas birth, Be this, good friends, our carol still— Be peace on earth, be peace on earth, To men of gentle will.” —William Makepeace Thackeray

“Then let us be merry and taste the good cheer, And remember old Christmas comes but once a year.” —From an old Christmas carol

“Blessed is the season which engages the whole world in a conspiracy of love.” —Hamilton Wright Mabie

“Heap on more wood!— the wind is chill But let it whistle as it will, We’ll keep our Christmas merry still.” —Sir Walter Scott

“Here’s to the day of good will, cold weather, and warm hearts! Here’s to the holly with its bright red berry. Here’s to Christmas, let’s make it merry.”

“Here’s wishing you more happiness Than all my words can tell, Not just alone for Christmas But for all the year as well.”

“Holly and ivy hanging up And something wet in every cup.” —Irish

“I have always thought of Christmas as a good time; a kind, forgiving, generous, pleasant time; a time when men and women seem by one consent to open their hearts freely; and so I say ‘God bless Christmas.’” —Charles Dickens

“I know I’ve wished you this before But every year I wish it more, A Merry Christmas.”

“I wish you a Merry Christmas And a Happy New Year A pocket full of money And a cellar full of beer!”

“May you be as contented as Christmas finds you all the year round.” —Irish 

Death 

“Oh, here’s to other meetings, And merry greetings then; And here’s to those we’ve drunk with, But never can again.”

Dinner Party

“Here’s to eternity — may we spend it in as good company as this night finds us.”

“It is around the table that friends understand best the warmth of being together.” —Old Italian saying

“To friends: as long as we are able To lift our glasses from the table.”

“A toast to our host And a song from the short and tall of us, May he live to be The guest of all of us!”

“Here’s to our hostess, considerate and sweet; Her wit is endless, but when do we eat?”

Friendship 

“May the warmth of our affections survive the frosts of age.”

“Friendship: May differences of opinion cement it.”

“Here’s to a friend. He knows you well and likes you just the same.”

“May the friends of our youth be the companions of our old age.”

“To our best friends, who know the worst about us but refuse to believe it.”

Going Away Party

“Happy are we met, happy have we been, Happy may we part, and happy meet again.”

“Here’s to good-byes—that they never be spoken! Here’s to friendships—may they never be broken!”

“The pain of parting is nothing to the joy of meeting again.” —Charles Dickens

Graduation 

“May you never forget what is worth remembering or remember what is best forgotten.” —Irish

“If you have an appetite for life, stay hungry.”

“May you live to learn well, and learn to live well.”

“May you live all the days of your life.” —Jonathan Swift

“’Tis not so bad a world, As some would like to make it; But whether good or whether bad, Depends on how you take it.”

“May you have the hindsight to know where you’ve been, the foresight to know where you’re going, and the insight to know when you’re going too far.”

“As you slide down the banister of life May the splinters never face the wrong way.”

New Year’s

“Another year is dawning! Let it be For better or for worse, another year with thee.”

“As we start the New Year, Let’s get down on our knees to thank God we’re on our feet.” —Irish

“Be at war with your vices, at peace with your neighbors, and let every new year find you a better man.” —Benjamin Franklin

“Here’s to the bright New Year And a fond farewell to the old; Here’s to the things that are yet to come And to the memories that we hold.”

“In the year ahead, May we treat our friends with kindness and our enemies with generosity.”

“May all your troubles during the coming year be as short as your New Year’s resolutions.”

“May it be the best year yet for you, and everything prosper you may do.”

“May the best of this year be the worst of next.”

“May the face of every good news and the back of every bad news be toward us in the New Year.” —Irish

“Ring out the old, ring in the new, Ring happy bells across the snow; The year is going, let him go.” —Alfred, Lord Tennyson

“Here’s to the present — and to hell with the past! A health to the future and joy to the last!” 

Thanksgiving

“Here’s to the good old turkey The bird that comes each fall And with his sweet persuasive meat Makes gobblers of us all.”

“To our national birds — The American eagle, The Thanksgiving turkey: May one give us peace in all our States — And the other a piece for all our plates.”

“When turkey’s on the table laid, And good things I may scan, I’m thankful that I wasn’t made A vegetarian.” —Edgar A. Guest

Weddings

“Love doesn’t make the world go ’round. Love is what makes the ride worthwhile.” —Franklin P. Jones 

“A toast to love and laughter and happily ever after.”

[Given by a parent] “It is written: ‘When children find true love, parents find true joy.’ Here’s to your joy and ours, from this day forward.” 

“May their joys be as deep as the ocean And their misfortunes as light as the foam.”

“May we all live to be present at their golden wedding.”

“May you grow old on one pillow.” —Armenian

“May you have enough happiness to keep you sweet; enough trials to keep you strong; enough sorrow to keep you human; enough hope to keep you happy; enough failure to keep you humble; enough success to keep you eager; enough friends to give you comfort; enough faith and courage in yourself, your business, and your country to banish depression; enough wealth to meet your needs; enough determination to make each day a better day than yesterday.”

“There is nothing nobler or more admirable than when two people who see eye to eye keep house as man and wife, confounding their enemies and delighting their friends.” —Homer, Odyssey

“To the newlyweds: May ‘for better or worse’ be far better than worse.”

Miscellaneous/Multi-Occasion

“Cheerfulness, content, and competency. Cheerfulness in our cups, Content in our minds, Competency in our pockets.”

“May the works of our nights never fear the day-light.”

“The three H’s: health, honor, and happiness. Health to all the world, Honor to those who seek for it, Happiness in our homes.”

“Love, life, and liberty. Love pure, Life long, Liberty boundless.”

“I wish thee health, I wish thee wealth, I wish thee gold in store, I wish thee heaven upon earth—What could I wish thee more?”

“It is best to rise from life as from the banquet, neither thirsty nor drunken.”

“Make the most of life while you may, Life is short and wears away!” —William Oldys

“May our faults be written on the seashore, and every good action prove a wave to wash them out.”

“May we be happy and our enemies know it.”

“May we live respected and die regretted.”

“So live that when you come to die, even the undertaker will feel sorry for you.” –Mark Twain

“To the riotous enjoyment of a quiet conscience.”

“While we live, let us live.”

________________________

Source of the information and the specific toasts above: Toasts: Over 1,500 of the Best Toasts, Sentiments, Blessings, and Graces by Paul Dickson. Consult the book for more insight on the history and art of toasting, as well as hundreds of more toast ideas.

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Maywather McGregor over hyped fight lagging ticket sales

The Floyd Mayweather Jr. Conor McGregor fight came together quickly, but the hype machine has really been put into overdrive. Ticket sales aren't quite reflecting all that hype though. Conor McGregor has been kept pretty much under wraps ever since his fight with Floyd Mayweather Jr. was announced, emerging occasionally to trash Mayweather only to disappear again behind the closed doors of the UFC training center. It's not by accident. The biggest selling point of the spectacle that is Saturday night's 154-pound fight is the unknown. Is McGregor good enough to land a big punch on Mayweather? Did he acquire enough boxing skills in just a few short months to make what should be a lopsided fight competitive? Inquiring minds want to know, and there are enough of them to make this the most watched fight in history. Some 50 million people in the U.S. alone are expected to gather with friends and family to see it all unfold. "I will be the king of both sports," McGregor crowed. "I'm already the king of fighting; I'll soon be the king of boxing." Not so fast, said Mayweather, who comes from a boxing family and famously began throwing punches before he could walk. "After 21 years I've been hit with everything, and I'm still right here," Mayweather said. "If you give it you must be able to take it." It's a fight that really makes no sense other than millions of people want to watch it. But the economics of the fight wouldn't make any sense, either, if people saw McGregor - the UFC star who has never boxed professionally - in action and decided he just wasn't good enough to be in the ring with a fighter like Mayweather. No mystique, no 5 million buys on Showtime pay-per-view. That's why there was never any chance of McGregor having a tuneup fight. And that is why the only boxing anyone outside McGregor's inner circle has seen was him hitting the heavy bag in a comical media day performance and a few seconds of a UFC clip purportedly showing him knocking down Showtime announcer and former fighter Paulie Malignaggi. No worries, said McGregor, who says his boxing talents shouldn't be underestimated. "I've been lacing up the gloves my entire existence," McGregor said. "Of course, we will come with a different approach than people are used to, we will paint many pictures inside the ring. It's not going to end well for Floyd. It's not going to end well for all the people who are doubting me and are so convinced that this is what it is." McGregor weighed in at 153 pounds Friday to 149 ½ for Mayweather. A crowd that nearly filled the T-Mobile arena - many waving Irish flags - cheered loudly for McGregor while booing Mayweather. McGregor's fan base is driving this fight, united in their fervent hope that the Irish UFC champion can muscle Mayweather around the ring and deliver knockout punches to his head. Sports books in this gambling city have taken so many longshot wagers on McGregor winning by a knockout early that they will suffer their worst loss ever should it actually happen. What should be a 100-1 fight began as 11-1 in Mayweather's favor. Now it's 5-1, though a lot of big money - including a few million dollar bets - has been wagered on Mayweather in recent days. "I don't see him lasting two rounds," McGregor said. "He messed up with the 8-ounce gloves. Keep your hands up, keep them down. I don't care. I'm going to break through whatever is in front of me." For the flamboyant McGregor, the fight is a chance to make money he couldn't dream of in the UFC and gain a fan base outside of mixed martial arts. Estimates vary, but he could take home $100 million for a challenge of Mayweather that seemed improbable when he first started talking about it two years ago. He's got youth on his side (he's 29 and Mayweather is 40), and he'll probably go in the ring much heavier than Mayweather after rehydrating following Friday's weigh-in. He's also got a reputation as a big puncher, and the prevailing wisdom is he'll try to maul Mayweather much like Marcos Maidana did in their 2014 fight. Other than that, everything favors Mayweather. He's unbeaten in 49 fights as a pro and has a chance to pass Rocky Marciano on the perfect record list with win No. 50. Not only has he beaten every fighter put in front of him but he's found ways to deal with big punchers like Miguel Cotto, Diego Corrales, and Canelo Alvarez. He's also a pure boxer with an innate ability to adapt to any fighter put in front of him. Mayweather is so confident of his chances that he's spent much of the week before his fight having meet-and-greets in the early morning hours at the strip club he owns not far from the T-Mobile arena where they will fight. Though he's made hundreds of millions in the ring, Mayweather has a tax lien of $22 million to the IRS, so the lure of $200 million to come out of a two-year retirement and face a novice boxer was great. But he said this will be definitely be his last fight, and he wants to go out with a dominating performance. "I gave my word to my children and once I did that it came to an end," Mayweather said. "What better way to go out than with a bang." The fight is expected to match or surpass the 4.6 million pay-per-views sold for Mayweather's 2015 fight with Manny Pacquiao at $99.95 a household. Industry observers say people across the country will use the telecast as an excuse to party in tense times and 10 people could watch each pay-per-view. Tickets in the arena haven't done nearly as well, largely because promoters wildly overestimated what people would pay to watch in person. Ringside seats were $10,000, and nosebleed tickets started at $2,500, though prices have been dropping rapidly as the fight approaches.

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We Spent a Week in Tokyo's Fight Scene

I'm at a world title fight inside a tennis stadium on the waters of Tokyo Bay, among 10,000 mostly Japanese fans, watching Frenchman Hassan N'dam, the winner by decidedly disgusting split decision, acknowledge those still in their seats on the south side of the ring.

Some have already left the place, shocked and confused and maybe indignant. But those who remain clap—and not passive-aggressively. Sure, politesse is the name of the game here, but plaudits for the guy who sucked the air out of this bubble called Ariake Colosseum by beating the would-be hometown hero, formerly undefeated Olympic gold medalist Ryota Murata, whose face has graced every Tokyo paper all week?

Unfathomable.

Finally, one Japanese man standing behind me renews my hope that the cultural gap can be bridged.

"Ie, ie, ie!" he shouts. No, no, no!

In total Bowe-Golota mode, I think, OK, good. Now let's charge the ring and dispose of these, at best, blind and, at worst, warped officials. But the shouting man goes quiet suddenly and shuffles out, a small prelude to the self-doubt some Japanese fans and writers begin expressing online within 24 hours that Murata wasn't as active as he should have been, he didn't press his advantages, he allowed the fight to be taken from him—the first two of which may be true.

But Murata, a probing man who ponders existence in ordinary fight interviews and often refers to the words of the eminent Holocaust survivor and psychiatrist Viktor Frankl, gave up nothing Saturday night.

Here, instead, is the story of the snatch.

It was supposed to be such an enjoyable, onigiri-filled voyage: Fly into Tokyo to watch 31-year-old Murata—at 160 pounds, the biggest Olympic medalist Japanese boxing has ever produced, by 46 pounds—ply his trade during a historic sports week in Tokyo.

Sure, Murata was no guaranteed winner. Some in his camp had wanted him to wait before challenging for a belt, but the powerful Japanese Boxing Commission grades every fighter who turns pro and compels the best, by virtue of the class of their issued boxing license, to compete at a high level immediately. Which may be fine for smaller dudes, whose divisions are thinner (how many 108-pound men do you know?), but isn't a great path for bigger pugs who should ideally face considerably more opposition before challenging the best. There are a hell of a lot of strong 160-pound men in the world.

But, per inflexible local combat law, Murata's career moved fast. He signed with two promoters, Teiken for his fights inside Japan and Top Rank for those abroad. He also began training in the Teiken Gym and let the firm, run by 69-year-old Akihiko Honda, manage his career. Unlike in the U.S., where it's illegal, in Japan, boxing stables host, promote, and manage fighters, in the tradition of sumo stables, which even prescribe meal times and ingredients.

Nike sponsored Murata—where his trunks once featured the words "Big Dreams," they now boasted a Swoosh. "He gave me a Nike shirt," Steve Martinez, a 27-year-old from the Bronx who was flown in to spar with Murata, told me after returning. "He's big out there."

Bigness was the issue all along.

Heading into May, Japan had produced exactly 80 men's champs. Only three had won in the 154-lb. class, and only one had taken a strap at 160: Shinji Takehara, who won it 21 years ago and then lost it in his first defense a half-year later; that you've never heard of Takehara says it all.

And size matters for reasons the Japanese rarely articulate aloud and almost never among foreigners. Several months ago, someone at Teiken, after I enthused about some of their stars, said, almost bashfully, that while their fighters have a lot of heart, they lack in technique. I heard nearly the same line—it might've been the same, verbatim—from a magazine writer inside Ariake, as we watched an undercard bout from a perch above our press area.

What they both left out or alluded to only indirectly is why Japan has had considerable boxing success at all: In the lower weight classes, you can take a hell of a beating and still win—the incoming punches aren't often one-shot tranquilizers.

From Fighting Harada to Eijiro Murata to the stars of today, they see their boxing luminaries as successful partly because of their weight limitations. Murata, by contrast, announced with his Olympic gold at middleweight that he could be the first Japanese fighter to win in the wider world, a world full of 160-pound antagonists.

For me, the Japanese focus on his size obscured some of his other intriguing traits, which I picked up in bits and pieces from older articles in Japanese. Murata resumed an amateur career he had abandoned year prior after a former boxer at Toyo University, his alma mater and employer (he was a boxing coach/general philosopher-dude), was arrested in 2009 for allegedly trying to smuggle illegal stimulants into the country. Murata has said he returned to the ring in order to restore his school's reputation. "It's a very Japanese way of thinking," one Japanese fight writer told me.

And the philosophizing itself was fascinating, though the language barrier prevents me from assessing whether Murata really knows of what he speaks or just drops names to legitimize whatever he wants to say next. Besides Frankl, he often brings up Nietzsche, the philosopher whom his father read most often, and theologian Reinhold Neibuhr. Did I mention that his degree is actually in business?

Anyway, my trip wasn't focused on this character alone. Murata was scheduled to headline the second of three title-topped shows on consecutive nights in the capital. The 19th was to be all female fighters, while the 21st was to feature 115-pound champ Naoya Inoue, aka "Monster," and Satoshi Shimizu, a featherweight who won a bronze medal in London just before Murata took home gold (that he's far less heralded demonstrates just how differently Murata, his larger Olympic teammate, has been treated).

If you're an otaku (or, more accurately, a lover of ukiyo-e and Japanese film) and certainly a fight fiend, how could you not go?

Issei Nakaya, the 38-year-old proprietor of a boxing gym outside central Tokyo, meets me at Narita Airport, and we navigate a series of sweaty, sardine-can subways westward, over two hours, to his neighborhood of Hachioji. We talk of crazy places fights can take a person, and he says has visited 50 countries.

Eventually, we reach the Hachioji Nakaya Boxing Gym, which is up a flight from the sidewalk. At the doorway, we remove our sneakers and don slippers, even though the floors are concrete and unlikely to be affected by shoes. (Incidentally, most Japanese gyms feature softer flooring, but Issei calls the concrete an American touch.)

I've been awake too many hours to count, but the small gym has a soothing familiarity, with its handful of heavy bags and single ring. Issei and I plop into his father's office for a moment just to regain our senses, post-subway smushing. The sound system plays reggae. Issei offers me a Pocari Sweat—a cloudy beverage akin to Gatorade—and I down it quickly.

A small boxing equipment store in Suidobashi

Issei tells me more about the gym, which is a small family operation compared to Murata's Teiken, which, besides being bigger and better-financed, also has branches across the country, in Osaka, Fukuoka and Hachinohe, that feature a modernist take on traditional Eastern architecture in glass and wood.

Here, the place is wonderfully grungy and everyone pitches in: Issei creates the fight posters (graphic design is his hobby, and he creates posters for the local soccer and basketball teams, too) and handles administrative work, while his father, Hirotaka, who recently turned 63, and one of his brothers, Kosuke, serve as trainers.

His father also sculpts in his free time, Issei explains, pointing to a few of his works—a bust, a funky desk—on view in the gym office.

Hirotaka is in the ring, teaching a kid to load up on the hook. Issei says they focus on power, not speed. Was he ever trained by his pops?

Issei says no. "My father isn't interested in his own kids," he adds. "Just sculpture."

"And other people's kids," I add, and Issei laughs.

There are a handful of pros in the building, including Musashi Yoshino, a super-flyweight fighting on the undercard of the Murata event. Whenever a fighter leaves, the remaining crowd says, "Otskare," short for "otsukaresamadeshita," or "Well done working yourself to the point of tiredness today, lord."

When I chat with Hirotaka, he tells me that training and sculpting are parts of the same art—forming something from nothing. Then he shows me a signed poster of a famous Japanese singer and, on his iPhone, a classical bath tub he fashioned in his own backyard. And then a photo of himself sitting in the tub next to two goats he owns (an image so humorous Issei created an illustrated version for his fight posters).

Issei and I depart for a local tiki bar, where we consume beer, peanuts, and garlicky rice while discussing the HBO-Showtime rivalry and other melodramas. Lou Reed's "Walk on the Wild Side" plays. We toast the mutual friend who set us up, a Japanese sports reporter currently based in New York who is still very much beloved in Tokyo: To Daisuke! Kanpai!

The fights begin with the all-women's card in Korakuen Hall, a wooden box on the fifth floor of a building near the Tokyo Dome whose intimacy—it seats 1,800—belies the venue's grand history. It is here that Joe Frazier won his heavyweight gold medal in the 1964 Games. The nearby Dome was the site of the greatest upset in heavyweight history, Buster Douglas' 1990 dethroning of Mike Tyson.

Issei isn't promoting tonight, but he gets me in and later introduces me to a manager wearing a silky shirt and aviators, with a pseudo-Jheri curl. He kinda looks like an underworld figure; Issei says he's very skilled at matching fighters.

The women deliver the goods. Fan favorite Chaozu, who has cultivated a hybrid punkish-cute persona with that handle—her actual name is Akiko, which is in line with the Japanese custom of giving girls names ending in "ko"—and short, bleached hair, emerges to the tune of a Japanese pop song alongside a furry mascot that resembles Syracuse's Otto the Orange.

She wins by second-round TKO, admittedly against a Thai fighter brought in to be the B side (aka, not have a chance of winning), and then, like many of the night's contestants, poses for pictures with attendees.

The main event gives me the sniffles. Kayoko Ebata, 41, has challenged for a world title five times unsuccessfully, including twice inside Korakuen Hall. She faces Erika Hanawa, an undefeated 26-year-old with little wallop but a nice record. Neither truly deserves a belt at 105 pounds (minimumweight), but one is at stake, and that's all that matters in the moment.

The taller Ebata uses her length to touch Hanawa constantly and set the pace. At an age when boxers not named Hopkins or Foreman are already seriously in decline or retired, Ebata shows exceptional stamina. She never seems any more tired than Hanawa over the fight's ten rounds (standard for women; for men, it's been 12 for the past 30 years). Ebata evades a few bombs thrown in desperation, and then the bell rings and scores are announced. She wins: 98-92 on two judges' cards, 97-93 on one.

Ebata falls to her knees and cries. Her audience chants her name: E-ba-ta. E-ba-ta. When the MC hands her the mic, after she has composed herself, she thanks the crowd wholeheartedly and then announces her retirement.

I dab my tearful eyes. Issei smiles. I wanted to show you Korakuen-style, he says, alluding to the inevitable emotional connection fans here make with fighters who are mere feet away. "Auld Lang Syne" plays over the PA system as we leave.

Murata enters the arena through a gauntlet of supporters waving banners featuring his likeness and the logo of Toyo University (consider yourself redeemed in full, Toyo). I sneak between these supporters and follow Murata nearly up into the ring. If only Madison Square Garden ushers were so permissive.

Just before the bell rings, after the seconds have been told to exit, Murata's trainer reminds him to keep his guard up very high. And then I'm clued in—at least at the start, Murata is gonna wear earmuffs, Winky Wright–style, and merely try to deflect punches while walking N'dam down, feeling him out physically and wearing him out mentally.

N'dam can't land a shot. Each one slides off Murata's gloves like melted ice cream at a matsuri (more on that in a moment). Five minutes into the bout, Murata opens up and begins throwing at intervals. He's slow and throws sparingly, but every punch lands hard, and sends N'dam sprawling.

It's a strategy of compensation: Time your shots so they can't be countered, no matter slow your own reflexes. Then N'dam goes down in the fourth round, and the fight seems like a sealed deal.

The morning after Murata's loss, hungover from life and beneath a blazing sun, I hightail it to Asakusa for the third and final day of the Sanja Matsuri, a Shinto festival that is held in the summer and attracts 1.5 million people each year. The event is part tradition (participants wear yukatas and other traditional garb) and part grubby tourist attraction, with an endless row of kitschy vendors leading to the Senso-ji Temple.

At the actual front of this human traffic jam, people buy keys to wooden drawers, in which omikuji (fortunes) are stored. They're read and then either tied to a tree if your luck looks to be bad, or kept.

Oh, and representatives of local neighborhoods jostle, shove, and sing in order to carry one of three mobile shrines called mikushi with which nearby businesses are blessed. I've seen the look on their faces before, those lugging these intricate wooden arks. These are the good soldiers, pushing through pain to make for themselves a better life (although it may just be artificial, residual—faces they saw their parents make and so mimic).

I head from the Shinto mosh-pit to the third and final show, also at Ariake Colosseum, which is headlined by super-flyweight champ "Monster" Inoue, who just turned 24. Until recently the Japanese fancy wanted to match Monster against fellow division-ruler Roman Gonzalez (whom the Japanese press call by the portmanteau Romagon similar to the way they call personal computers pasocon—"Gonzalez" doesn't exactly slide off of the Japanese tongue). But Gonzalez has lost his belts now and may no longer be Inoue's target. Tonight, Monster faces a Mexican without a chance, just to stay busy.

More exciting than the bout is Inoue's padwork before it begins, in his police-guarded dressing room, into which I slide my phone's camera at various points, before finding a monitor displaying the room's footage—then I shoot the monitor and get it all.

As for the actual contests: The difference between Japanese and American title bouts is officiousness—a condescending display that betrays the nature of the game. In a fight, after all, manners are crushed by matter.

For three decades, politicians and promoters both have advocated for the U.S. to install a national commissioner of boxing, if only for safety reasons. Right now, each state has its own commission with its own rules, some of which are so lax they permit seriously debilitated fighters who've been barred from the ring elsewhere to compete with nary a test.

Well, the Japanese have such an all-powerful body, but rather than enforce safety, it mainly exists to reinforce its own authority. I note before each title bout: When belts are stake, the Japanese commission also offers its own trophy—which basically looks like what you took home from little league, but bigger (as if the belt and status weren't reward enough). In fact, until a few years ago, the commission refused even to acknowledge the validity of two belt sanctioning bodies accepted everywhere else, the IBF and the WBO. A Japanese fighter wasn't allowed to fight for such a belt or had to do so overseas.

What rubs me the wrong way most is that before each bout an old man surrounded by other old men reads a proclamation detailing the status of the fight. Sure, that's part and parcel of the culture, to put an official stamp on nearly everything. But title fights possess such a stamp already in the belts on offer, the well-known records of the combatants, and, oh yeah, the Japanese version of Michael Buffer, who also announces who's in each corner and for what they vie.

These older commissioners, then, put their imprimatur on the bouts for themselves—not for the crowd watching, which might already know the cash at stake in what is, after all, a prizefight. On the plus side, Japanese promoters don't engage in the boorish bloviating of their American counterparts. So I suppose either way, people are going to say self-aggrandizing things. The difference is who and when.

Maybe all of the above is just another way of stating Murata's grand task: To escape the Japanese fight world's meaningless local pronouncements and ceremonies; to transcend its minor xenophobia, as exhibited by its general policy not to issue press passes to foreign reporters, unless I was white-lied to by the promoter who explained to me my own rejection before offering me a ringside ticket—basically, to leave home in order to become the hero home needs (#JosephCampbell #StarWars).

Murata would never dare tell Japan that to its face, though he has said his dream is to headline a Vegas show and the best fighter of all time was Harlem's Sugar Ray Robinson.

But a kid 11 years his junior who appeared on an undercard over the weekend already has, in a way. His name is Andy Hiraoka, and he's a 20-year-old, half-Ghanaian, half-Japanese junior-welterweight southpaw who turned pro at 17, won some matches in Japan, and then put his competitive career on hold for two years to hone his game in the Mayweather gym in Vegas.

That he knew he needed to leave to improve is a sign of his maturity, but it also touches on the aforementioned nativist attitudes. Not to cast stones from this awfully glassy American house, but Japan still treats mixed-race Japanese as others, no matter their birthplace. They term said people "hafus"—as in, half and half—and there's a heartbreaking documentary by that name on the phenomenon I recommend.

Which isn't to say I caught any glimpse of it during Hiraoka's fight. Just the opposite, in fact: he is a clear favorite among the fans, including a group of little kids with inflated Thunder sticks who repeatedly shout, "Ganbare, Andy-san!"—ganbare meaning, basically, go get 'em.

Rather, Hiraoka's hafu status is likely what allowed him to slip out of Japan in the first place without creating a stir. In January, I interviewed top-flight Japanese 130-pounder Takashi Miura in California, before his second appearance on HBO Boxing (his first was the previous calendar's fight of the year, and his next is just scheduled to be held in July in LA).

I figured Miura's global rise was being hailed back home, and said as much. His response, without hesitation: No, it doesn't help my reputation to fight abroad. I'd be more popular if I stayed home. I do it because it makes me better.

Four months later, that line of thinking is perhaps why I sense an urgency to Murata's fight never quite addressed in the press and yet perhaps its underlying point: If Murata wins, the Japanese won't feel a protectionist urge to keep him at home. A win means he can take on the world—enter it—and his fans, therefore, can open themselves up to it, too.

A win means: We are all good enough.

Is that total projection? Maybe.

A week before the title fight, Murata told a Japanese reporter the importance of the middleweight class is an American idea—because Americans are physically middleweights by nature, they pay more attention to those guys on-screen. Then he said the Japanese had absorbed the American idea that middleweights are what boxers should look like, so Japan's best talent flowed to baseball and soccer and ignored the fight game.

Of course, that second line means Murata would indeed be breaking a major social psychological barrier with a win.

After the fourth-round knockdown, Murata continues apace. In the fifth, N'dam raises his left glove high momentarily—he is wary now of Murata's right. But when he opens up to punch, he lets his guard down and gives Miura a swell path to the jaw. N'dam breathes through his mouth in the sixth, while trying to stay upright on unsteady legs.

In the seventh round, I scribble in my notes that a ref could call a knockdown each time N'dam is held up by the ropes alone and not his own power "but doesn't. It shouldn't matter."

I have Murata winning the eighth, but he appears fatigued now, waiting for that second wind.

My note on the 11th: Murata takes some shots—but makes sure to return fire each time, as one of his sparring partners told me he did in the gym.

Final note in my pad: Eventually Murata will need to add the 3—a left hook—to his 1-2 combos. But it's impressive as hell that he won tonight and entered the sport's top 10 with his limited artillery. It speaks to his potential. Then the ring MC announces the split decision in favor of N'dam. Only the American judge, Raul Caiz Sr., scores it, widely, for the pride of Nippon.

The other two judges are lucky the match was held in Japan and not anywhere else on the planet. Tennis fans have rioted over far less.

Murata, The Big Humble, refrains afterward from complaining about the decision. "The result is the result," he says. He doesn't demand a rematch, but the WBA orders one anyway (as it should). In the final two rounds, Murata recalls, he was thinking just how lucky he was just to be in a title fight, on this stage. And now he's ready to take some time off, he adds.

It really wouldn't shock me if he never came back at all. A smart, thoughtful guy with a college degree who told the Weekly Asahi in 2014 he was only gonna box for four or five more years anyway. Not a shock at all. Then again, there is a rumor he'll come back straight away this summer or fall to face English beltholder Billy Joe Saunders. It seems like it has always been this way with Murata—all or nothing, retirement or a gold medal. Retirement or a championship bout. A great win or an epically unfair loss.

Almost as if he's too pensive to commit without question to the brutal game, and so is treated as warily by the game itself.

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