#condescending claudio

[paradoxunknown]

They serve Cunt every time ☺️🤭

i love heel bcc btw i am enjoying every second of it...

[paradoxunknown]

Heel BCC

[malakaie]

media literacy or lack thereof continues to be one of the biggest thorns in my side

i've been watching older episodes of nxt and the number of reviewers etcetera who just.... flat out refused to understand that they had to do a gradual heel turn with bo dallas in 2013 is wild, to me. i think it could have been better executed - more than anything it seemed as though commentary didn't get the memo, they were still talking about him in face terms - but for weeks prior to his nxt title win he was acting more arrogant, full of himself, dismissive of the people around him. he defends his title against leo kruger and in the backstage interview immediately before it he's condescending to renee and calling claudio and sami zayn "inexperienced kids".

immediately after his title win he told fans to their faces he was too cool and busy talking to the media and going to fucking disney to appear on tv. that's not face behaviour. but you have to do it gradually when you introduce someone as a cute little all-american boy and then realise people don't like him so you have to pivot him into a weirdo to hate. that has to happen over time, not overnight, and the number of "why is he still being pushed as a face!!!" remarks from the time makes me feel insane. did we watch the same show.

yes, i think heel and heel-adjacent spots is probably bo's strong suit, and i think they realised that perhaps a little late in his debut run... but an inability or refusal to understand more subtle storytelling is like. well. no wonder these same "reviewers" and "commentators" don't think aew has storylines when more subtle and gradually paced storytelling is most of what they do.

[sequentialprophet]

I've had the theory that Claudio is betraying Mox first since All Out and Yuta could easily be the reason

I have been wrong 1000 times and idk if this is just wishful thinking, but I've been wondering about Claudio. Mox has been mocking and condescending about Yuta. Marina and PAC actively hostile. Claudio is the only one to try and talk him down. The only one to go straight to him in the ring when he does what is required to be a current BCC member. And they exited out different doors after that attack on Bryan when you'd think safety in numbers would be the priority.

Tl;dr I see what you're saying and I think you might be right. Or at least I hope you are.

[youremyheaven]

I LOVE SALMA HAYEK oh my gosh and something just clicked for me when you said developed saturnian women because i was born into my saturn mahadasha so that might be why

oh and in that case, i'm the lady archetype

and your examples make so much sense?? from the motherly and sweet nature of some saturnian women and that ketuvian influencer

omg lowkey you are so right about frame dominant women with like bigger bust sizes automatically being categorised as curvy because for the longest time ever i was so confused because i am small-ish (not sure... everyone seems to be getting shorter these days so maybe im seasian avg now) but i have tyla-ish waist definition but slightly more prominent front and side curves and YOUR posts were what helped me actually understand what made some women be FNs an the others in R/TR (i remember one post where you mentioned that romantics would look curvy even without wearing anything revealing whereas FNs would just look there? even if they had bigger bust sizes and stuff and it really clicked for me then... what i'm trying to say is that you're my claire nakti basically)

your explanation of how planets manifest in appearances is really accurate, but is it just me who feels like it's also an environmental thing? i have friends that are ketuvian and saturnian and they're tall... here, but they'd be average anywhere else. same way i have planets that make me avg to short but anywhere else id just be short. and like i have friends with lots of jupiter naks, and they have to shop in plus sized here... but they're probably like an M anywhere else in the world

also girlie... you mentioning that you like men who tell you things? in detail, without making you feel condescending? that mercury dk is starting to make some sense (in the nicest way possible <333)

and trust me, i'm 100% that insane. i think i can confidently say that a majority of my life now is all manifested by me, so i'm staying that way, regardless of what people say (did not mean for that to rhyme)

born into Saturn MD??? girlll u strong as hell

(i remember one post where you mentioned that romantics would look curvy even without wearing anything revealing whereas FNs would just look there? even if they had bigger bust sizes and stuff and it really clicked for me then... what i'm trying to say is that you're my claire nakti basically)

lmfaooo aww thats sooo sweet 🥺🥺

i swearrrr that distinction is KEY to understanding Kibbe and literally everybody gets it wrong 🤦🏻‍♀️

When Kibbe talks about curve, he's talking about the way your body actually curves, not having big tits or a big ass.

Here's an example:

Sofia Vergara, verified SD and Scarlett Johansson, verified SN

Look at how prominent Sofia's bustline is, you look at her and you see her boobs and the curve of her hips, you see the outline of her curves. Scarlett is also a busty woman but you literally cannot tell that she is when she's all covered up because as a Natural type, she is FRAME dominant, so you dont see her curves at all, it does not stand out. You just see her.

size and height is super tied to where we live. im average to tall in india but anywhere else i'd be short to average (for context, the average height for a woman in india is 5'0, so by those standards, i am tall and the average height for a woman in europe is 5'7, so over there i'd be short to average)

sizes vary everywhere so yes its 100% tied to our environment. but i also feel like there is such a thing as broadly universally accepted definitions of big and small, or tall and short but our perceptions of everything is sooo warped by the media

we see people like Lily Rose over represented in the media, so when we look at someone like Sabrina Claudio (right) we think she's "plus sized" or "thick" or whatever when in fact, Sabrina's average sized and Lily is extremely thin. So how we perceive "sizes" is very much dictated by the media.

also girlie... you mentioning that you like men who tell you things? in detail, without making you feel condescending? that mercury dk is starting to make some sense (in the nicest way possible <333)

KSKJSJDHHDHHD GIRLLL CALLED ME OUTTT

yeah i 100% am guilty ,, i dont like Mercurial men as such bc theyre such horndogs BUT if the man does not have that Mercurial smooth talking ability?? the wit, the charm, the flirtatiousness??? if he cant tell me things??? GIRLLL BYEE

"and trust me, i'm 100% that insane. i think i can confidently say that a majority of my life now is all manifested by me, so i'm staying that way, regardless of what people say (did not mean for that to rhyme)"

ME AFFF,, queen ur Jyeshta is showing (with that rhyme hehe) but letss goooo and make all our dreams come trueeee<33

its all in ur head, quite literally, what we make of life is ENTIRELY up to us. watch this vid my girlieess

[banannabethchase]

That scene in Clueless where Christian asks Cher if she likes Billie Holiday and she says "I love him", but make it ....Claudio and Danny.

(Don't) Like 'Em Young

~

Danny's in the middle of the a text to Sammy when he sees the Adonis make his way down the hallway. Shoving the phone in his pocked haphazardly, he scrambles to his feet.

"Hey," he says. "Claudio."

The Adonis turns around and looks at him. He doesn't look disgusted, so Danny thinks he can count it as a win. "Daniel," Claudio says. "What can I help you with?"

Danny leans against the wall. "So much." He keeps his voice low. "Maybe you could help me work the kinks out of my lower back, if you know what I mean." He decides against the wink.

Claudio's expression doesn't change. "Are you proposing we sleep together?"

"You said it," Danny says. He goes for the wink. "What do you say, big man?"

"I say you're half my age and I'm not that depraved." Claudio's smile goes condescending.

"Not technically half!" Danny says. Claudio turns away and Danny hustles after him. "And you're, like, fucking Yuta, right?"

"Yuta's an older soul than you, dear."

Danny frowns. "I'm 24, and you're, what, 40?"

"42," Claudio corrects. "Are you really chasing after me like a lost puppy?"

"I'm walking beside you," Danny fires back. "Can't a man walk?"

"I'll tell you what." Claudio stops and Danny follows suit, only to find himself crowded into a corner. "If you think you're enough to keep up with me, we'll go to my locker room and I'll share you with my boys while we play Billie Holiday and pretend it's romantic."

"I love him," Danny says, fluttering his eyelashes, "and that idea."

"Wait, him?" Claudio says. He steps back. "Do you think Billie Holiday is a man?"

Danny feels the opportunity slip away. "What? He isn't?"

Claudio laughs so hard his face turns read, smile across his lips and head thrown back. "Oh, sweetheart, you are far too young for me."

Danny watches Claudio and his chuckles fade away down the hallway, and is suddenly determined to find himself in what he's now calling the Billie Holiday scenario.

He pulls out his phone. "Huh," he mutters. "She's a girl singer."

[bright-thehawksflight]

Yes! This is what makes him go from "not for the wide world" to "think you in your soul that Claudio hath wronged your cousin?" because it's like op said in the tags he has no proof so he needs to know she's sure. He knows she's serious, he's not trying to talk her out of it (no more "Is Claudio thy enemy?", no more condescending to her) but he still has to ask, he has to hear her say it again because if she says it again calmly then it proves that she's not just lashing out in anger. He needs her to be sure so he can be sure of her. And as soon as she tells him "yea, as sure as I have a thought or a soul" then it's settled. He needs nothing else.

But there is one more reason why this scene is so amazing, I think, so be warned there's a change of topic incoming. This is when we see Beatrice properly, truly, righteously angry. And seeing this we can tell that back in act 1 and 2 Beatrice was never truly angry at Benedick, she never truly hated him as she now hates Claudio. In fact I'll tell you what I think. I think that when she learns Benedick is back from the war the whole show she puts on for the messenger, the absolute firecracker of wit that she lets loose, is her way to show how happy she is that he made it back safe. And it may be that I'm biased and it may be that I've seen three different productions of much ado over the last 24 hours, but. But.

okay but "would i were a man, i would eat his heart in the marketplace" is like. The Line of the play. it's beatrice's anger and frustration and, most importantly, her complete lack of power as a woman. her best friend and cousin was humiliated, abused, and left for dead, and there is nothing that she can do, because, even if she's allowed to make fun of the men when people find it funny, she ultimately has no power as a woman. and no one understands, no one believes her, no one gets the absolute rage that she feels on behalf of hero. to the men it's all a game. and it's this line that makes benedick understand. after that line, he goes from refusing to hurt claudio to promising to fight him, because he understands. he sees when no one else does that beatrice has no power. and he agrees to fight his friend, not because he wants to, but because he sees that she can't.

[branchedman]

In theory I am currently doing a rewatch of Eddie/Daniel matches because I want to make a gif compilation but life is getting in the way and YEAH it's A Lot™ I only watched the matches because I don't remember when/in which episodes they did promos? Is there any list/guide for that?

Oh I would love to be tagged if you post the fics! Thank you! （●＾д＾●）♡

I like Yuta, Lee and DG on AEW but I know almost nothing about them in indies (I have no access to their indie matches). What I hear about them sounds great though. Like that photo of Lee patting Yuta's head condescendingly I am obssesed <3

Knowing that Lee watched that match of Yuta vs DG in ROH makes me giddy. I hope Lee will get his big push in AEW soon.

By the way do you think Lee will also end up joining BCC? Because Bryan mentioned him when he [scratch]proposed to[scratched]/[scratch]tried to babytrap[scratched] asked Mox to be his ally early this year?

ough yeah the promos are pretty hard to track down without an episode list... too bad cagematch doesn't keep track of promos as well as the card lol

yuta and lee on the indies oh man where to even begin... yuta absolutely deserved those condescending headpats what an asshole (affectionate)

i really really do still want lee in bcc bc i want him to have big sexy violent bloody matches like he deserves but i'm also kinda interested to see where this storyline with stokely is going so i am willing to wait things out for now. but yuta had his match with bryan and joined the bcc and won the pure belt, and danny had his match with bryan and joined jericho and is getting his big storyline, so i am very much judge judy tapping her watch at the fact that lee hasn't gotten his push yet!! there is a limit to my patience! (and also claudio is right there, protege-less, and i think it would be very funny if mox & wheeler and claudio & lee had normal(-ish) mentor/mentee relationships and meanwhile bryan & daniel are out here being Like That)

[the-uncounted-star]

Voice: Haesphoros Daed’alion

Bold what applies to your muse, italicize situational ones. Feel free to add your own suggestions and carry it on.

► ACCENT “country” │ “backwoods” │ “sailor” │ “noble” │ “merchant” | foreign speaker Though it’s not heavily snooty, Haes definitely has a nobleman’s accent, specifically a city accent as opposed to those in other areas of Quel’Thalas. 

► ELOQUENCE

educated │ uneducated │ doesn’t use conjunctions │ shortens words │ just makes up their own words! │ old English │dependent on mood or setting Well-educated, Haes forgets that not everyone knows all the big words he does and he’s not afraid to use them.

► TONE loud │ soft │ room volume │ high pitched │ low pitched │seductive │velvety │ speech impediment │ abrasive │ gruff │ shrill │ booming │ matter-of-fact │ toneless │ husky │ gravelly │ breathy │ nasal │ barking │ chatty │ condescending │ musical │ suave │world-weary │ brash │ authoritative His tone is typically soft-spoken with the occasional very mild stutter if he’s terribly embarrassed. Husky tones enter his voice when he’s flirting, though it’s not particularly intentional.

► HABITS

refers to self in third person │ incorporates different languages/terms/sayings │ uses gender-specific terms │ adapts to audience │ changes pitch around animals or children│ shifts tone when lying │ gives others nicknames │ uses terms of respect towards others

He has been known to use the occasional Draenei term or saying in his speech.

► VOICE REFERENCE  

I don’t actually have a voice reference for him. Because I have a very limited repertoire of media to draw on, I rarely have voice references for my characters. Perhaps most like Claudio, the lovestruck youth here: https://youtu.be/aWjvJOIe09k

Tagged by: @sunspell-wra

[liggytheauthoress]

english majors as portrayed in stereotypical media: pretentious, constantly quoting british literature, highbrow senses of humor, condescending af

me, an actual english major: *talks about how benedick and claudio from much ado about nothing would never have lasted in a sexual relationship because they're both obviously bottoms*

[unanimouslalablah]

Monty Household; Patrizio and Isabella question Bianca about her lack of family success (Early-Mid 2000s)

Claudio and Olivia's deaths (as well as the 5th Monty grandkid) affected the family in another way that wasn't talked about. Patrizio and Isabella got worried that there would be no grandchildren, and Bianca would grow up to be a spinster. Ariel's birth also reminded them of the grandchild they lost. Patrizio and Isabella offered to arrange Bianca's marriage in desperation, and she didn't like the condescending conversation. Isabella told her daughter to go to the doctors to check if her uterus works properly.

Bianca was over the conversation, and found the proposal of an arranged marriage to be COMPLETELY insulting. Isabella mentioned that her parents and Patrizio's parents didn't arrange them, but helped with their relationship. She told Bianca that she has been difficult and is wasting her life away. Bianca refused to deal with the nasty fight, so she quit the restaurant, and moved out of the Monty Ranch that day.

[aschalone]

Why Do You Mourn?

Why do you mourn?

Why did you feel at ease amidst your disappointment?

Why? Why was it not your blade that pierced this mortal flesh and crushed my heart whole?

Why? Why? Why!?

There's no helping but to inquire the questions whose answers were laid before your eyes.

Was it not your form of selfishness for hoping he would unleash his wrath against you? 

Was it not your desire so you would feel alleviated and not burdened with more guilt?

You were more than prepared to have Claudio turned his blade against you, but he didn’t.

You were more than prepared to have his gaze condescended at you and treated you like you were a mutt, but he didn't.

Until the end, he was still the kindest person ever.

Why was mercy given when all you gave was pain, pain, and more pain?

You spent these years trying to build up some kind of a skin, so you wouldn't drip with blood every time you brushed up against loss and departure. In the end, it was futile.

This is the second time you turned your blade against someone you held so close to your heart. The tragedy has recited itself, and both of them were by your choice.

Goodbye, he said. Everything played in a slow motion which felt like an eternity looped over and over again. His warmth eventually subsided, replaced with the cold breeze and cradle of snow. You wished, you could savor that time longer, you wished it would last for eternity. But what right a sinner could request in the face of God you betrayed so terribly?

Deep in your heart, you wished this is not the end even though you'll have no right to face him ever again. Were you not there to slander the person who gave you his trust, would you turn your back to the person whose dreams chained with your oath when you first stepped into this land? Poison starts to seep into your mind, and you always think that you'll be prepared to swallow it all for the second time. but there is no cure for remorse.

During those splitting seconds, you began to wonder. If you wished this never happened, what would happen?

What would happen if you did nothing and turned a blind eye to everything else and chose one person over the world?

A utopia sealed behind coulds, but wouldn't it only trample his feelings even more to dwell in it now? Wouldn't it be the same to betray your goal and intention? You looked at his figure, blurring and advancing to his doom. No matter how hard you try to reach him, he's forever out of your grasp.

Was it because of your betrayal that Claudio chose to advance to his end this way? He doesn't deserve this — never deserved what you had done to him. It should be you who was crushed under the mighty avalanche, burned in the flame of purgatory, and never returned. You wished you could trade places with him, but it was mere what ifs.

Deep inside, you know you've always been selfish. A very selfish person, for hoping your feelings will reach, hoping your feelings got through to him, hoping he would understand over and over again. You have always been aware, your feelings are abusive all along.

Once your burned back collided with the pavement, the pain doesn't compare to what chips away at your heart.

With the last remaining strength you had, you tried to crawl and return to the battlefield even though the fight had ended. Your voice is no more, but you screamed his name over and over again; the true name he bestowed to you and not the name known in public.  You tried to push away the hand that tried to drag you away. At the very least, you should dig his body out from hell. At the very least, you need to confirm with your eyes that your goal is accomplished; the pulverization of the Serpent. At the very least... at the very least...

When does a war end? When can I say your name and have it mean only your name and not what you left behind?

Those untold questions were left unspoken and only the wail of your tears and agony could escape from that mouth of yours. You do not require rest, but your consciousness is nigh fading and you wish to never wake up ever again.

 Who will you be when you wake after enduring?

[michaelbartram]

Illusion

Chapter 3  (previous chapters plus Prologue below in reverse order)

After the overnight train across the pampa, they changed to a branch-line. The rails curved through forest, gleaming in the morning sun. One or two windows were open. The air in the carriage was soon saturated with woodland scents. In time forest gave way to fertile valleys and flower-strewn meadows.

There were all sorts in the carriage. Old and young, smart and shabby. Some wore trainers and sported logos, others had tailored coats and expensive luggage. Besides being all apparently middle-class, what they had in common was enjoyment of the passing scene and a sense of anticipation.

‘Look at that!’

‘Can’t complain yet.’

‘Exactly what we wanted.’

The train rumbled on. After a while, the pointing out and chatting subsided. People read quietly or did the crossword. In time most, including Claudio and Felicia, dozed off.

Around midday, after a long, gentle climb, the train finally juddered to a halt. There were murmurs of ‘We’re here.’ Those still sleeping awoke to a charming and novel scene. An old Spanish colonial town with tiled roofs and painted facades lay cradled in the mountains around whose peaks clung wisps of cloud.  

‘All change for Arcadia!’

Assembling themselves, the travellers got down from the train. Luggage was loaded on to a truck. They were informed that they would be re-united with their bags in the main square. Would they kindly make their way there on foot, the point of departure for the final stage of the journey. Claudio and Felicia’s group headed down the street, slowly coming back to life. Taking in delightful details, one or two pointed and murmured.

‘I’ve never heard of this place. Why isn’t it in the guidebooks?’

‘So well preserved.’

New people appeared from side streets. Had they left the station by another way? Or had they come to this distant outpost by bus, or perhaps even car? Whatever the explanation, together with Claudio and Felicia’s companions, these others soon formed a silent throng which caught the attention of the townspeople, who broke off conversations and lowered their shopping bags and stared as if they had never seen anything like it in their sleepy town. Motorists wound down their windows and had a good look too.

Finally the newcomers reached the square. Primitive carts fitted with solid wooden wheels and crude platforms for luggage were neatly lined up. The air was filled with horsey champing and the clinking of metal shoes on cobble stones.

Claudio peered underneath one of the carts. ‘As I anticipated,’ he said, ‘No suspension. We’re in for a bumpy journey.’

‘But there’s all that,’ said Felicia pointing to straw bales and cushions. ‘Don’t worry about your precious arse, Claudio.’

Office workers crowded at the upper windows, shouting down.

‘You lot! Do you know where you’re going?’

‘There’s nowhere after here.’

‘It’s bandit country.’

‘Hey townies, stay and spend your money here. Then you can fuck off.’

A menacing mood was starting to prevail as some of the travellers began to shout back. A dustbin lid was thrown from a top storey. It was only plastic but it could have hurt somebody. A group of policemen stood by, fingering their revolvers.

Claudio shook his head. ‘Look at that, Felicia. Provincial cretins relieving the boredom of life in the sticks. Their Spanish is practically incomprehensible.’

She dug her fingers into his ribs. ‘Come on, you old snob. Live and let live. Remember, we’re here for something different.’

‘Not this, I trust.’

At a signal the cart-drivers jumped down from the pillions, helped the guests up and loaded their suitcases and boxes. With everybody on board, at last all was ready.

‘Holloah!’

‘We’re off.’

‘Hold tight!’

With shouts and whip-cracks the carts rumbled out of the square. The office workers let go parting insults, then turned from their windows.

Up at the main road, the police held up the traffic while the carts crossed. The file wound through back streets and, after a climb through a suburb, came to open country. The carts trundled through scrubland for twenty minutes. At a turning marked ‘Private Road’ the file peeled off.

Further up they went. The country opened out on to a plateau dotted with bushes and wind-bent trees, with scraggy cows and sheep.

Claudio, like everyone else, was stunned into silence. The lumbering carts and primitive discomfort annoyed yet intrigued him. This was what travel used to be. The carts had the authentic note. Perhaps they really were going to be stepping back into the past.

He glanced at Felicia, who, after a lively interlude, seemed to be glazing over with tiredness. How could that be? She had slept for hours on the train. Was this some wretched comedown from the cocaine that she wasn’t supposed to have with her? At this point he would have liked to have a conversation with a historically-minded person, not be with a woman who could only dig him in the ribs or lean over him in drug-induced exhaustion. He reflected that there were people in the world who would appreciate just how ‘pre-modern’ this holiday was already turning out to be. But not Felicia. She knew it was ‘different’ but she couldn’t have been less interested in the historical perspective. She and her generation had no grasp of the past.

Against hope, he murmured to Felicia, ‘These carts are pretty damned authentic, you know.’

‘Mm?.. I’m sleepy, Claudio.’

‘Felicia, you lack…’ He broke off since every word could be heard. ‘Oh, never mind,’ he whispered. ‘You can sleep for a week if you want to once we’re there.’

His spirits sagged. If only his wretched sexual obsession didn’t determine everything he did. Then he could be here with a woman more on his level. He reflected that his desire had to run its course, which it would, except that he couldn’t imagine it.

And with that thought, the landscape which a moment ago had delighted him pulled him down. He glowered at the sky beyond the barren scrubland. For the first time he began to experience real doubt. Where were they going? What would they discover? What was he doing there with Felicia? Who was in charge?

When he came to himself, the terrain had changed. There was still an impression of vastness but softer undulations, grassy verges and tidy clumps of trees suggested a domestication confirmed by crops laid out in fields of comfortable proportion, separated by neat tracks. They passed a carefully stacked pile of tools and equipment. Wheat had just been harvested. The sun came out and spread a golden carpet at far as Claudio could see. Now, from all around came shouts from gleaners grouped round circulating oxen. The animals lumbered round, brushed by the whips, casting shadows against the yellow stubble.

The scene took his breath away. The biblical illustrations from his childhood had come to life.

The unresponsiveness, not just of Felicia, but of all his companions annoyed him. He had noticed that that they had seemed happy enough when they got off the train. Couldn’t they get over the discomfort and appreciate they were looking at something like Palestine in the time of David and Solomon? To Claudio, an experience like this was beyond price.

‘Wild,’ he said out loud to anybody who might be listening. ‘Primitive.’

An over-dressed man with a small moustache who had led the field in groaning and tutting with each lurch of the cart, fixed him quizzically. ‘Primitive? These people work for Arcadia. Don’t they, driver?’

The driver nodded.

‘I meant it in a complimentary way,’ replied Claudio. ‘You know, like the illustrated Bibles of our childhood.’

He aimed at friendliness but everyone could see the two men were about to lock horns.

‘My parents were atheists and I went to a progressive school,’ said the moustache.

‘Ah, well, lucky you. My parents were Jewish, come to that.’

‘A little patronising, don’t you think.’

‘Forgive me,’ said Claudio, ‘I am not patronising you.’

‘I didn’t say you were patronising me. No, it’s the “primitives” you are condescending to.’

Claudio bridled. ‘I wasn’t saying the people were primitive. The scene, maybe… in some sense.’

‘They are people like us. We are safe in the hands of familiars, don’t you worry about that.’ Was this man being sarcastic or did the gleaners really make him feel secure?

‘If that’s your attitude,’ Claudio responded with a shrug, not in fact fathoming the man’s attitude at all, only that it was flavoured with hostility.

The other drew himself up. ‘I have no attitude. I am only interested in facts, rather than romantic distortions.’

‘It seems to me,’ said Claudio, ‘distortion is your strong suit. You’ve read plenty into my simple observations.’

This unfriendly exchange was a signal for everyone else to start talking if only from embarrassment.

[apsbicepstraining]

Claudio Ranieri supports nice guys do not ever enter second | Owen Gibson

With grace and unshakable bond with his participates the one-time Tinkerman has proved his critics spectacularly incorrect with Leicesters first top-flight title

Claudio Ranieri? Really? As much of the planet now knows, with the worlds media condescending on Leicester, that was how Gary Lineker last summer received the news that the ex-serviceman Italian had been appointed to given the responsibility of a back that narrowly escaped relegation the previous season.

Now the attractiveness 64 -year-old has masterminded perhaps the greatest fairytale in boasting biography, attesting a force of doubters incorrect and triumphing is not simply the undying gratitude of all those in Leicester but esteem and no little adore from around the world.

Lineker, who until Jamie Vardy exploded on to the incident was Leicesters best-loved centre-forward, was not the only one to disbelieve the credentials of the peripatetic Italian when he took up the 15 th fraternity managerial berth of a rollercoaster career.

Harry Redknapp uttered his surprise Ranieri had territory a Premier League job following a disastrous four months in charge of Greecethat came to a demeaning halting with overcome by the lowly Faroe Islands.

Another former Leicester striker, Tony Cottee, said he was astonished. Beneath a sceptical Guardian blog, perhaps the politest of a batch of explains was simply: Disappear by Christmas.

Twelve months on bookmakers are facing a 15 m payout to punters, including a lucky few who backed the side at 5,0001, and a different kind of feeling abounds.

In truth the Italians CV is ornamented with huge achievement but undercut by a series of near-misses and a sense he has tended to lay the foundations for others to claim the recognition. No longer.

Having become his refer at Cagliari, success at Napoli and Valencia eventually preceded him to Stamford Bridge, where he delivered the Champions League qualification that persuasion Roman Abramovich to buy the club. But he was sacked one season afterward by the Russianfollowing a stunning blow-out in the semi-finals of that competition.

Sorry, your browser is unable to play this video.

Walt Disney wouldnt script this Leicester City champs.

With yummy incongruity his quicksilver counterattacking Leicester side travel to Chelsea on the final day of the season as champions with last-place seasons title-winners languishing in mid table.

In an added turn Jos Mourinho, who had superseded Ranieri at Chelsea first time around and publicly maligned Ranieri as yesterdays follower when his Internazionale side beat Roma to the title in Italy five years later, was sacked mid-season as Leicester embarked their unlikely ascent to the summit.

Since leaving England ten years ago much liked but just adored Ranieri took Juventus and his childhood favourites, Roma, to second-place finishes in Serie A and masterminded a resurgence at freshly moneyed Monaco in France. But by the time he arrived at the King Power Stadium Mourinhos drooping assessment of Ranieri was received wisdom.

With usual good mercy and a seemingly unshakable attachment with his participates the one-time Tinkerman has set about attesting his reviewers spectacularly wrong.

Ranieri has been magnanimous about the foundations laid by his pugnacious precede, Nigel Pearson, who against the peculiars saved Leicester from relegation in 201516 with a flow of seven acquires in their last nine activities but was sacked amid the fallout from a scandal that punched the fraternities post-season tour.

Recognising the team spirit and fitness regiman established by his predecessor was second to nothing, Ranieri resolved to change little regarding the teams preparation.

Much has been made of the 200 m-plus rift in value between the Premier Leagues self-styled elite and a Leicester squad that melds journeymen like Robert Huth and hitherto unsung heroes such as Danny Drinkwater with well-sourced agreement buys in Riyad Mahrez, Jamie Vardy and NGolo Kant.

In a Premier League where, historically, finishing berths have correlated almost exactly with compensation invoices, Ranieris band of friends have switched preconceptions.

But Leicesters billionaire Thai owner, Vichai Srivaddhanaprabha, has also invested heavily in the clubs infrastructure, ensuring the side want for little when it comes to all the accoutrements of modern conduct analysis used to draft and train players. Ranieri has said that it formed his jaw plunge when he arrived.

In contrast to his nickname, Ranieri has balk the suggest to tinker with his side and has had some luck along the way with a lack of harms to key players. Yet his interventions, both between and during competitions, have often been decisive.

Recognising that his Italian reputation for tactical complexity extended before him, he told Il Corriere della Sera that he made a pact with his surface on his arrival: Always show me everything youve got and every now and again I will clarify a little football to you.

Eschewing the trend for possession football exemplified by the great Barcelona backs of the past 15 years Leicester have been resolute in defense and lightning quick to attack.

When they destroyed Manchester City 3-1 at the Etihad Stadium in February, one of various defining moments in this designation hasten, they did so with exclusively 35% possession.

As well as being a captain tactician Ranieri has also perfectly judged the psychology. He remained circumstances simple-minded, lifting the pressure from his line-up and focusing relentlessly on the next tournament, acknowledging only recently that the designation was in sight with his Dilly-ding, dilly-dong rallying cry.

Jamie Vardy celebrates scoring against Manchester United. Image: Oli Scarff/ AFP/ Getty Images

In the age of the individuals veneration in football Ranieri, like Diego Simeone at Atltico Madrid, has stirred cooperation fashionable again. And, paradoxically, in the process he has constructed unlikely adepts of Vardy and Mahrez.

His side hindered their managers as all around were “losing ones”, clicking off a series of close-fisted success and reacting every question posed of them even as the rest of the world hold expecting them to fade, very recently following a 2-2 home stretch against West Ham United in which their talismanic striker Vardy was cast off.

At the King Power Stadium, where the stands have rocked all season, sect “ve never” fluctuated. For proof that Leicester has taken Ranieri to its nerve, gaze no farther than the two-minute film exhausted last week of him welling up as he watched tributes from its streets.

From staff at Leicester Station to pensioners at the market and tracksuit-clad boys on its browsing streets, all offered up everlasting grateful to the man who has masterminded a sporting miracle.

In that initial drooping appraisal Lineker, whose enthrall and disbelief have spiralled as the season has developed, enunciated Ranieris appointment was uninspired. He could not have been more wrong.

Canny to the last, Ranieri even managed to negotiate a clause in his contract that guaranteed him 100,000 for every neighbourhood his surface finished above 18 th and a thought 5m bonus for triumphing the title.

The debates over whether Leicesters triumph surfaces the employs of Brian Cloughs Nottingham Forest in a modern era when coin and world branding have cleared the established guild harder to topple will storm long and hard in the eastern part Midlands.

For now, adherents who could never in their wildest dreams have imagined the season returning out this method and who have long mourned as numerous near-misses and untrue dawns as Ranieri know exactly whom to thank. As do those well beyond the city for whom he has come to represent a succes that cut through so much of the cynicism that grasps to modern football.

The post Claudio Ranieri supports nice guys do not ever enter second | Owen Gibson appeared first on apsbicepstraining.com.

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[dolcefarniente-publicacao-3]

No mundo como um café

CLAUDI MAGRIS | Público | 08/2012

De frente para o Adriático, nas margens do Danúbio, no mundo total de um louco, Claudio Magris persegue a identidade do centro da Europa a partir de Trieste, cidade que todos quiseram e que resiste a deixar-se possuir. No limite, este mundo pode caber num café. Mas um café de verdade, como o San Marco.

O mundo pode caber inteiro num café. Não um pseudo-café, exclusivo, para pares. Não é isso. Um café de verdade, para casais e solitários, artistas com muito ou pouco génio, escritores em angústias criativas, estudantes em exames ou em desamores, bebedores de cerveja ou de vinho, conversadores ou contemplativos. Um café em L, com mesas de mármore sobre pés de ferro a acabar em patas de leão.

Por entre essas mesas, as pessoas deslocam-se formando ângulos rectos como cavalos num tabuleiro de xadrez. A imagem é literária, usada por um homem que costuma sentar-se a uma dessas mesas, entregue a si ou mirone descomplexado. Esponja de histórias dos outros e ele mesmo contribuinte para narrativas alheias, a ver quem entra e sai, os batentes das portas a oscilarem no rasto dessa gente que passa. Muitas vezes ele estudou ali, tantas vezes falou ali da história de Trieste e da cultura centro-europeia enquanto alguém jogava cartas, numa mesa ao lado. "Enquanto existirem cafetarias, a ideia de Europa terá conteúdo", escreveu George Steiner, outro frequentador de cafés, outro pensador da Europa e da sua geografia, território que tem a particularidade de poder ser percorrido a pé. Pode-se calcorrear a Europa. Questão de tempo. Um caminhar contínuo, a pé, entrando e a saindo de cafés. "Desenhe-se o mapa das cafetarias e obter-se-á um dos marcadores essenciais da ideia de Europa", desafiou ainda Steiner num pequeno volume de ensaios publicado em 2004. Ele explica e exemplifica: "A Europa é feita de cafetarias, de cafés. Estes vão da cafetaria de Pessoa, em Lisboa, aos cafés de Odessa frequentados pelos gangsters de Isaac Babel. Vão dos cafés de Copenhaga, onde Kierkegaard passava nos seus passeios concentrado, aos balcões de Palermo."

Os cafés de Steiner são como os do escritor de Trieste. Formadores. Cafés de verdade que, como a cidade à beira-mar, são lições de tolerância. O vizinho da mesa ao lado condescende com os tiques e os defeitos do outro. Roer as unhas, abanar a cadeira. Na café de verdade, e não naquele onde só cabem iguais, a fidelidade é conservadora mas há um pluralismo libertador entre champanhe e bolos de fruta, e um ruído de fundo que é o conjunto de todas a vozes e talheres e louças e passos e tosses e risos. "Um mundo é cheio de vozes", e aquele café tem o mundo. O lugar dos poemas, da boémia, dos brindes ao momento feliz de um amor, à gritaria do louco que paga a rodada. Lêem-se os jornais, comunitários, partilha de civilidade, presos à haste de madeira. E escreve-se.

O San Marco é um mundo. Essa a ideia a não perder nunca. O café a que já chamaram uma "academia platónica", "onde não se ensina nada, mas se apreendem a sociabilidade e o desencanto"; o café onde é possível conversar, "contar casos", mas onde não se pode fazer comícios. "Nesse lugar de desencanto, no qual já sabemos como o espectáculo termina, mas nem por isso perdemos o gosto de assistir a ele, ou a indulgência para com os lapsos dos actores, não há lugar para falsos mestres, que seduzem com falsas promessas de redenção aqueles que têm uma ansiosa e vaga necessidade de falsa e imediata redenção." Este café "é o lugar da escrita": "Estarmos sós, com papel, caneta, e uns dois ou três livros no máximo, agarrados à mesa como um náufrago sacudido pelas ondas." Tudo sem a ilusão de que não tenha havido pecado original, o que dificulta a venda de bilhetes para a terra prometida.

Quem escreve, como Claudio Magris escreve e tem vindo a escrever nas mesas do Caffè San Marco, em Trieste, sabe que não está na terra prometida e que jamais se poderá chegar lá, mas mesmo assim segue caminho. "Sentados no café viajamos. Como num comboio, num hotel ou pela rua temos connosco muito poucas coisas, não é possível opor a coisa alguma qualquer vaidosa marca pessoal. Não somos ninguém. Naquele anonimato familiar, podemo-nos dissimular, livrar-nos do eu como de uma casca." E escrever sem saber do tempo, com todas as interrupções de um café. O riso dos outros, uma conversa curta, "o perfil de uma mulher".

Um rio de muitos nomes

Reduzir o universo de Claudio Magris a um único sítio seria concentrá-lo no Caffè San Marco. O mundo. Fica em Trieste, a cidade o escritor onde nasceu em 1939, onde vive, onde estudou e se especializou em estudos germânicos, onde ensinou; a cidade a partir da qual se fez viajante por não haver quem resista ao mar, ao que há para lá da massa azul de água, ainda que ele mesmo tantas vezes tenha seguido por terra, Europa dentro, costas para o Adriático - o seu mar -, Danúbio abaixo, da Floresta Negra ao Mar Negro, ligando a Alemanha à Grécia (uma união cada vez mais errática). E tantas cidades e tantas línguas pelo meio.

O Danúbio dos muitos nomes visto a partir daquele microcosmos que é Trieste, por onde ele não passa, mas onde a viagem de Magris pelas letras começou. Um ponto tão disputado num mapa de guerras com fronteiras em desalinho. No seu café, Magris não espera a terra prometida, mas continua como se ela existisse. Há quem diga que um dia virá um Nobel para ele, um dos homens que melhor sabem conjugar literatura com Europa, ou Mitteleurope, num momento em que a Europa está a precisar de livros. Mas se o Nobel não vier, Magris há-de continuar no café, a escrever e a falar de Trieste e de literatura e de romance e de viagem, e não há-de ser nada. Tantos foram os grandes que nunca o tiveram. Ele continuará nesse microcosmos a construir a sua cosmogonia.

O rio dos tantos nome é um mundo e tanto. "Entre vários povos, Danúbio e Istro indicavam respectivamente o curso superior e o inferior mas por vezes também o rio inteiro: Plínio, Estrabão e Ptolomeu interrogavam-se onde acabava um e começava outro, talvez na Ilíria ou nas Portas de Ferro. O rio "bisnomis", como lhe chamava Ovídio, arrasta a civilização alemã, com o seu sonho da odisseia do espírito que orna a casa, para oriente e mistura-a com outras civilizações, noutras tantas metamorfoses mestiças em que a sua história atinge a consumação e a queda." Magris é um germanista e sabe do que fala quando fala do curso deste rio e do caudal que ele transporta. Como ele, outros germanistas viajam "intermitentemente", como e quando podem. "Ao longo de todo o curso deste rio que liga o mundo, transporta atrás de si a sua bagagem de citações e de ideias fixas; se o poeta se confia ao barco embriagado, aquele que o reveza procura seguir o conselho de Jean Paul, que sugeria que se recolhessem e anotassem de passagem imagens, velhos preâmbulos, cartazes de teatro, conversas locais, poemas e batalhas, inscrições fúnebres, inscritos metafísicos, recortes de jornais, editais fixados nas estalagens e paróquias."

Tudo pode começar por uma placa com a inscrição hier entspringt die Donau(aqui nasce o Danúbio), no Parque dos Fürstenberg, em Donaueschingen. Cena para fotografar, já que certezas não existem. No limite, há quem diga que o Danúbio nasce de uma torneira, mas na Floresta Negra há outra nascente assinalada, a mais distante do Mar Negro, a que faz o Danúbio ter 2888 quilómetros até à foz, ou seja, mais 48,5 quilómetros do que teria se nascesse no Parque dos Fürstenberg. Essa, a mais longínqua, fica em Breg, perto de Furtwangen. É de anotar. Magris tomou nota neste livro onde não só deus, mas sobretudo a viagem, está nos detalhes. Façam-se as malas e pouco importa o lugar de saída. Haja espaço para a imprevisibilidade, que hão-de vir peripécias.

A partir do banco de pedra junto ao hotel Neu-Eck, na Floresta Negra, ou da cadeira de madeira do San Marco, em Trieste, a cidade que nunca se deixou possuir, que já foi austríaca, que a Jugoslávia quis para si, que a Itália ganhou. Croata, eslovena, alpina, austríaca, italiana... as marcas dos tempos e dos povos estão nela. Fixam-na, como o San Marco que apareceu ao fundo da rua Battisti, diz-se que a 3 de Janeiro de 1914. Destruído pelas guerras, reconstruído depois delas, muito vivido durante, enquanto ponto de encontro de "jovens irredentistas", "laboratório de passaportes falsos para patriotas anti-austríacos que queriam fugir para Itália". Por essa altura alguém disse que se o "civilizado" império austro-húngaro tivesse continuado o mundo teria permanecido um Caffè de San Marco. E perguntava o homem: "Acham pouco?"

Magris vai buscá-lo à memória para falar de um mundo à sua imagem. "No San Marco triunfa, viçosa e impetuosa, a variedade", escreve, como que para dizer que é o mais que se pode querer para o espaço que vai da nascente à foz do Danúbio, o rio que em 1986 deu nome a um dos mais marcantes livros da sua carreira: "Este Danúbio que é e não é, que nasce em vários lugares e vários progenitores, recorda-nos que cada um de nós, graças à trama múltipla e oculta a que deve a sua existência, é um Nonteentiendo, como os praguenses de nome alemão ou de nome checo." Continua Magris, num presente que eterno: "Esta tarde, ao longo do rio que de Verão, dizem-nos, desaparece, o passo junto ao meu é insofismável como o curso da água, e na sua onda, seguindo a curva das margens, talvez eu saiba quem sou".

A identidade nunca é dissociável da viagem, sobretudo da viagem do viajante solitário, a sós, num curso interior, como Magris se vê percorrendo as margens do Danúbio. Em Viena, Bucareste, Budapeste. Mas também fora do rio. No universo de Às Cegas (2009), todo o espaço no tempo que uma viagem pode abarcar - coisa que na cabeça de um louco ou de um inventivo fica perto do infinito. Para Magris, é o mundo e o Homem nele. O que, no limite, cabe num café de verdade.

De passagem

Tome-se a literatura como transporte, viajantes sós ou bem acompanhados a ver o mundo. A testemunha, no papel ou na palavra dita, na imagem partilhada, é tão fundamental como o leitor na literatura. Faz-se a mala como quem escreve o livro. Desfaz-se a mala como quem dá o texto por terminado. O incomportável. Com a dimensão, com a estrutura, com a bagagem, com a memória. O intransmissível. Sabendo o que ficou para sempre noutro lado, sabendo que, mesmo assim, no regresso vão faltar coisas; nunca há suficientes blocos, nem malas, nem suportes, nem sabedoria para eliminar esquecimentos; "como em qualquer viagem, em qualquer mudança", há perdas.

Para alinhar a ideia da inevitabilidade do falhanço do transporte, Magris pede ajuda ao poeta. "Na verdade caminhamos quase órfãos, diz Hölderlin na poesia Nas Nascentes do Danúbio - o rio corre e cintila ao sol como o fluir da vida, mas o sentido que reluz é uma ilusão óptica do olhar deslumbrado que vê inexistentes manchas luminosas na parede, esplendores do néon que se dissipa, sedução da aparência, capas ilustradas." Não há como carregar cada pormenor. "Entre uma e outra viagem, de regresso a casa, procuramos distribuir os volumosos cadernos de apontamentos na superfície plana do mapa, transpor envelopes, blocos, desdobráveis e catálogos para folhas batidas à máquina." Mesmo assim, há que rumar a Sul, tal como o Danúbio. "Movermo-nos é melhor do que nada. Olha-se da janela do comboio que se precipita na paisagem, oferece-se ao rosto um pouco da frescura que desce das árvores do caminho, misturando-se à gente, e alguma coisa corre e passa através do corpo, o ar insinua-se entre as roupas, o eu dilata-se e retrai-se como uma medusa, um pouco de tinta transborda do tinteiro para se diluir num mar cor de tinta." À partida, o rio e o escritor olham o mesmo objectivo: o mar. No Adriático, Magris aprendeu que o azul pode ser impiedoso; no Negro, o Danúbio encontrou a foz. "Em toda a viagem há pelo menos um fragmento de Sul, horas que se alargam, abandono, fluir da vaga. Sem querer saber dos órfãos das suas margens, o Danúbio corre para o mar, para a grande crença."

Como o escritor no fio da sua narrativa. Ele, Magris, corre, mas sem pressa. Ou se a tem não se nota. Um livro leva anos de notas, de atenção aos outros. O Danúbio continua como metáfora. Segue-o, como a si mesmo. Entra, a pretexto dele, nos cafés de Viena, mas sabe que cada café vale por si. O mérito da leitura do colectivo está nessa capacidade de formar o puzzle da experiência solitária, de se perder em cada um dos cafés de Viena como se estivesse no San Marco. Neles, aprendeu que a sabedoria vienense se pode resumir a uma máxima linear: "Vive e deixa viver". Parte dessa sabedoria veio-lhe de ser um meticuloso observador de esplanada. "No Café Central estamos ao mesmo tempo no interior e ao ar livre, numa ilusão entre ambas as coisas; as altas vidraças da cúpula, cobrindo uma espécie de jardim interior, derramam uma luz diurna que faz esquecer os vidros, mas não deixam passar a chuva. A grande chuva vienense desmascara a crescente abstracção e irrealidade da vida, devorada cada vez mais pelos mecanismos da informação colectiva e transformada na sua própria encenação", observa, sem nunca esquecer a gente que povoa os espaços.

A cada sítio, os seus protagonistas, factor humanizante de uma escrita atenta ao modo como cada um ocupa e deixa as suas marcas no espaço. Aqui, estão Musil e Altenberg, mas também Robert Altman. Numa única página. É ler para perceber. Descobrir o que pode ser o sabor de um gelado em Budapeste, a mais bela das cidades do Danúbio, atreve-se, correndo apenas o risco de levar com a sensibilidade alheia, do outro enquanto viajante, como ele observador. "Budapeste dá a sensação física da capital, com uma altivez e uma imponência de cidade protagonista da História, apesar do lamento de Ady pela vida magiar "cinzenta, cor de poeira"."

Enquanto mimese de Viena, ou seja, mimese de uma mimese de Paris, Budapeste é um poema. Podia ter sido escrita à mesa de um café. Existe nas margens do Danúbio e ainda o rio vai longe da sua foz, no negro tido como pouco hospitaleiro do mar onde desagua, antes de passar por Bratislava, Timisoara, pela Transilvânia, por tantos nomes míticos de uma Europa nunca como agora carente de mitos. "Nas margens do Danúbio domado, que corre lento e repleto de serenidade para o seu fim, mulheres ajoelhadas na água lavam tapetes e estendem-nos a secar." Estamos em Sulina, o fim. Navios de ferro e ferrugem oscilam sobre as vagas, sugerindo o movimento de um porto activo, mas a cidade dormita num desarmamento impreciso, varanda de uma hospitalização apática e prolongada cujo motivo se perdeu da memória clara. Nas lojas e nos armazéns não há quase nada, algum toucinho e comida em lata, e do mesmo modo no mercado as bancas estão vazias enquanto uma oferta supérflua de profusos rabanetes parece uma paródia da abundância."

O caminho é o do mar, a vontade é a de "mergulhar a mão e o pé nas águas mistas da transmutação ou de tocar a solução de continuidade, o ponto hipotético da dissolução." Magris estava de passagem. Sabia-o quando embarcou na viagem, desde a nascente, ou mais atrás, desde o café de Trieste. Vê-se sempre passageiro, talvez a mais precária das condições, mas também a que o transforma num intérprete do que vê, quanto mais não seja o rasto dos que entram e saem do Caffè San Marco, fazendo balançar os batentes das portas, na sua Trieste natal.

[banannabethchase]

"Did you just growl at me?" ClaudioNick

What's In Your Hands - also on AO3

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Nick wants his goddamned coffee and everybody in the venue is in the way. Claudio intervenes.

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This is Sarah's fault. I claim no responsibility. But, hey, bingo square I1 Hatesex is done! Title from Fuck by Snow Wife.

~

Nick ducks through the crowds, intent on getting back to the food. He's not in the mood to socialize. Matt, even an entire bed away, snored so bad the night before Nick barely slept, then he overslept and didn't have time to get coffee.

He needs coffee. He needs coffee right now, and all of these assholes are standing in between him and concessions.

"Oh, are you effing kidding me," Nick snarls. Claudio is at the coffee station, probably making infuriatingly cordial small talk. It makes his skin crawl.

"And then, you would not believe it, the TSA agent claimed it was shampoo in my bag!" Claudio finishes his sentence with a stupid European sexy laugh, and the barista laughs with him.

Nick isn't proud of what he does next.

In response, Claudio turns around. "Nicholas," he says pleasantly, "did you just growl at me?"

"You're taking too effing long," Nick says, folding his arms across his chest. "Get your dang coffee and move on."

"Elizabeth," Claudio says, "if you would, could you procure for my friend - "

"I am not your friend."

"For my friend," Claudio says again, glaring at Nick, "an iced vanilla latte?"

"Of course," the barista says, beaming.

"On me," Claudio says. He tucks a few dollars into the tip jar. "Add it to my order, if you please."

Elizabeth the Barista begins making her coffee.

"You," Claudio says, in a voice low and dangerous, "need to watch your tone when speaking to service workers."

"I wasn't speaking to service workers," Nick says. "I was speaking to you, who was in the way of me and my coffee." He pauses. "Thanks, by the way. I guess. You didn't have to do that."

"Clearly I did," Claudio scoffs. "You were about to steamroll the entire room for your coffee."

Nick shrugs, unsure whether to feel touched or condescended to. He decides to feel both.

He shuffles behind Claudio until their coffees are ready, then takes the coffee Claudio shoves into his hand.

"Come now, Nicholas," Claudio says, and Nick is way too cool with it when he puts his hand on the back of Nick's neck to steer him. "I'll get you out of the way of the unsuspecting innocents in order to protect them from your caffeine deprived rage."

"It's not rage," Nick snaps, and he doesn't know why he's okay with being pushed around. He gets guided into a locker room that is thankfully empty. "What are you doing?"

"Like I said," Claudio says, and he kicks the door closed behind him as he sips what is probably some stupid French fancy coffee thing, "you are not in a mood other people should suffer."

"And you're willing to put up with it?" Nick chugs half his coffee in one go of it, and he does feel a little better as the caffeine hits his tongue.

"My goodness," Claudio chuckles. "You do like your coffee."

"It's coffee," Nick says, rolling his eyes. "Of course I like it."

"The moaning was a surprise."

Nick blinks. "Moaning?"

"You moaned when you took a sip," Claudio says, and he locks his eyes on Nick's when he takes his own sip. “Quite a lovely sound, really.”

Nick breaks eye contact and downs the rest of the drink. “No, I didn’t,” he mumbles as he wipes at his mouth.

“You did,” Claudio says. “You are full of surprises.”

“Okay, I’ve had my coffee now,” Nick says, and he’s beginning to wonder if this is how Matt feels, like, all the time. Too seen, too obvious, too noticed. Matt likes it. Nick doesn’t. “Let me out.”

Claudio’s smile is soft as he takes another sip. “I don’t think I will.”

Nick thinks for a second. There’s a window he could jump out of, in the corner. He could manhandle Claudio out of the way, but there’s an element of surprise necessary that he doesn’t have.

There’s the Matt strategy, but he’s not that desperate yet.

He strides toward Claudio and snatches the coffee out of his hands, throwing it back. It’s burning hot and bitter as hell.

“What the hell!” Claudio says. He dissolves into swearing in what Nick can only assume is German.

Nick hands the empty cup back to Claudio. “There. Is that enough caffeine to let me go?”

“Absolutely not,” Claudio says, glaring. “Why on earth would you do that?”

Nick shrugs. “Took you off guard, didn’t it?”

Claudio licks his lips. “Did you really think,” he says, and his voice is dark in a way that gets Nick’s dick way too interested, “that would work?”

Before Claudio can move, Nick walks up to him, closing the distance. “No, but it was funny.”

Nick truly doesn’t know what Claudio’s next move will be. He might smack Nick in the face. He might shove him to the floor. He might move to the side and let Nick leave.

Or, and this is where he curses his relation to Matt, there’s the other move. The one he secretly really wants to happen.

There really is nothing like sex with someone you kind of hate.

“Come on,” Nick says, grinning. “What are you gonna do?”

Claudio makes an exasperated sound, something uncontrolled and spontaneous in a way Nick had never expected before. He puts his hand around Nick’s throat and walks him backward until Nick’s back hits the wall.

Perfect.

“You drank my coffee,” Claudio growls.

“Are you growling at me?” Nick mocks, trying his best to sound like Claudio. It snaps something in Claudio.

He leans down and kisses Nick with fury, with frustration, and it’s the best kiss Nick’s had in ages. Nick fists his hand in Claudio’s shirt, trying to give back as much as he’s getting.

“You absolute prick,” Claudio snarls. “It’s infuriating how you still manage to be attractive.”

“It’s the eyes,” Nick says, angling for casual but sounding, even to his own ears, a little breathless.

Claudio rolls his eyes. “Insufferable,” he grumbles, and then his mouth is back on Nick.

Hands are everywhere, and when Claudio’s giant hand cups Nick’s dick through his jeans, Nick’s knees give out.

“Oh, no,” Claudio murmurs, biting at Nick’s neck. “You stand or we’re done.”

“I – what?” Nick asks. His head is spinning. All he wants is for Claudio to get his hand back on his dick. “Fine. Whatever. Get – come back.”

“Gladly.”

With a single hand, Claudio deftly flicks the button to Nick’s jeans open and pulls down the zipper. He dips his hand in Nick’s pants and Nick has to fight to stay standing.

“Good boy,” Claudio says, and Nick whines so high pitched he wonders if he’ll ever live this down. “I’m going to grab your dick now.”

“Good,” Nick gasps. “So good. Please.”

Claudio looms over him and slides his hand into Nick’s pants. “There you are.” He laughs as Nick bucks up into his hands, too far gone to feel embarrassed about being this desperate. He pulls his hand out and offers two fingers to Nick, who sucks them into his mouth before he can stop himself.

“Look at you,” Claudio says, almost reverently. “You can be so sweet when I shut you up.” He pulls his fingers out and wraps his hand around Nick’s dick.

He knows, he knows, this is going to be over embarrassingly fast. The caffeine is starting to build in his brain, settling a focused weight over his mind that tells him just how effing stupid this whole situation is. He doesn’t care.

He thrusts up into the circle of Claudio’s hand, open mouth pressed against Claudio’s in something that can’t be called a kiss.

“Oh, my god,” he whimpers as Claudio changes his angle. “Claudio – I – I hate you.” He comes so hard his knees do give out, but Claudio’s second hand on his waist pins him to the wall.

Claudio laughs. “This tells me otherwise, Nicholas.” He presses a biting kiss to Nick’s lips.

“Wait,” Nick says. “Wait, I have to…” He trails off and shoves Claudio’s track pants down his hips. He’s momentarily stunned by the size. But he can make this work. He threads his fingers with Claudio’s hand, ignoring how bizarre it is to be using his own come to ease the way of a hand job, but Claudio exhales so shakily that Nick thinks he’s doing something right.

“Turn around,” Nick demands, and shoves Claudio up against the wall. He strokes furiously, quickly, trying to pretend he doesn’t want to feel Claudio’s cock in other places. He’s probably just in a post orgasm haze.

An orgasm brought on by Claudio, his brain reminds him.

“Shut up,” he grumbles.

“I’m not speaking!” Claudio laughs and gasps. “My goodness, are you a handful.”

Nick snorts. “That’s funny. That’s a funny joke. Shut up and come already.”

Claudio pants and they both watch as he pushes his hips up. Nick is fascinated – he’s never seen a dick this big before. When Claudio comes, it’s emphatic and messy and Nick is weirdly smug about how Claudio slides down the wall.

“Hah-hah,” Nick says. “You fell down.”

Claudio stares at him. “You just gave me the – what do the Americans say – hand job of a lifetime, and that’s your response?”

Nick shrugs, hopping to get his pants back up his legs. He’s sticky, but he can shower after his match. “Look, you’re on the ground now, man. I can leave.” He saunters over to the door, then pauses. He turns to Claudio and licks up the come still all over his hand, sure to keep eye contact with the man getting to his feet. “Stop by next time, though. Maybe next time I’ll let you fuck me.”

Claudio scoffs, undignified and real in a way Nick didn’t know he was capable of. “Let me,” he says, shaking his head. “You should be so lucky.”

Nick shrugs as he cleans up the rest of his hand, wiping it on his shirt. “Later, dude. Thanks for the orgasm.” He’s got a new pep in his step as he makes his way down the hallway, waving to people.

“The fuck is wrong with you?” Mox asks, passing him. His eyes widen. “And why were you leaving the Blackpool locker room?”

Nick grins at him. “Because Claudio bought me a coffee.”

Mox’s mouth opens, then closes, then opens again. Then he closes his eyes. “Fucking – of course.”

Nick would ask for more clarification, but Mox walks away. He makes it to the room labeled Elite and pushes his way in.

“Hey,” he says, flopping on the couch. “What’s up?”

“Why are you so chipper?” Matt asks, frowning as he scrubs at a sneaker with a cleaning rag. “What – oh, god.”

“What?” Nick asks. Everything’s back in his pants. He doesn’t looked freshly fucked, he doesn’t think. “What’s your issue?”

“We can tell why you’re in a good mood,” Adam says, nose in a book. He shoves his glasses up his nose, and looks at Nick over the top of his glasses.

“What – yeah, I got coffee,” Nick says. He wills his face to stay neutral. “And?”

“And,” Adam says, and Nick hates it when he uses his teacher voice, “you have come on your shirt.”

Matt wrinkles his nose and goes to his bag. “Shameless,” he says, shaking his head. He chucks a clean shirt at Nick from his luggage. “And right before a title match.”

Nick catches the shirt and pulls the dirty one off over his head, generously avoiding the urge to throw it at Matt’s face. “Title match?” Nick asks. “For the RoH belts?”

Adam nods.

“Against who?”

Matt sighs. “BCC, duh. It’s in the email.”

Nick can’t stop himself from going pale.

“Oh, no,” Adam says, finally putting the book down. “Oh, which one. Please tell me you didn’t fuck Mox.”

“I – no,” Nick says. “God, you two are acting like my parents. Leave me alone.”

“I can’t believe you effed the enemy,” Matt says, shaking his head. “Worst brother ever.”

~

Mini Playlist: Brat - Chrissy Chlapecka Fuck - Snow Wife Treat Me Like a Slut - Kim Petras Go Fuck Yourself - Two Feet