#fantasy football (derogatory)

[lunaticamic]

who should pick for fantasy football ?

[firefly-in-darkness]

Make It Right

Pairing → Bucky Barnes x Female Reader

Summary → Bucky Barnes broke your heart, can he fix it? Can he make it right?

Word Count → 1.6k words

Warnings → angst, heartbreak, swearing.

Beta → none.

Prompts/Bingo Cards

AFG Square Fill → “I don’t want you to be with anyone else.” - @anyfandomgoesbingo

AF Angst Square Fill → smudged makeup - @anyfandomangstbingo

Writer's Note → well, this is a little angsty one that's been sat in my drafts for a while… hope you enjoy! ✨

“I hate you,” you slurred down the phone, “I wish I'd never met you!”

Bucky’s heart broke at your words but he couldn't do anything about them, he hated himself for the pain he was causing you. He realised long ago that you weren't just friends with benefits. A few weeks into the arrangement, all of the rules went straight out the window.

What was wrong with spending time together, going to the college football games, studying in the library until darkness had fallen or hiding out at house parties when it was too rowdy for either of you to handle?

How could he not let you stay over when you looked like an Angel sleeping in his arms? The post-sex glow, the warmth of your body and the so-familiar scent of peach and vanilla filled his head with fantasies of the casual relationship being so much more.

It was perfect, you were perfect.

Until your ex-boyfriend started making threats.

The corridor was empty and it was just typical that your snivelling ex-boyfriend, Brock Rumlow, decided to make an appearance. Bucky didn’t engage with him, just brushed straight past him. In an instant he was pinned against the wall, winded by the blow.

Brock’s grip on Bucky’s collar tightened, yanking him forward and back against the wall. He growled and snarled at Bucky to retaliate but he just smirked at him.

“Oh, you think this is funny do you?” Brock spit out, “Well, you won’t find it funny when I tell the Dean that you were the one that caused that fight with Alex."

Bucky paled at the thought of being used as a scapegoat, he’d already had a few run-ins with Alex Pierce for making derogatory comments about you. If the Dean heard of this, Bucky was certain he’d lose his scholarship.

“Oh and if you go near my girl again, I’ll make sure that she gets caught up in all that mess too,” Brock shoved him again, “I’m sure she’d love to know how much of a violent person you really are.”

Brock walked backwards, laughing as Bucky dropped to the floor.

The words of your ex-boyfriend had taken over his mind and fuelled Bucky’s actions. It was all to protect you, he couldn't care less what happened to him. He wasn’t going to let you suffer because things went too far.

It pained him to see Rumlow’s arm draped around your shoulders at the last Panthers game. His eyes stung as he watched you kiss in the depths of the library. It broke his heart when you tugged Rumlow into a bedroom at Grant’s frat party, the seductive smirk on your lips.

“Saw you with Yelena. I came by your dorm today,” Your voice cracked over the line, “she's pretty, smart and witty.”

Bucky's mind raced, you had come to visit him? What has Yelena got to do with this conversation? You answered for him.

“Just wanted to give you back your leather jacket.” You hiccuped then your tone changed, “She's more your type, better than me.”

“I'm not-” Bucky tried to interrupt you to no avail.

“I thought you loved me.”

He heard the signature sound of the call ending. Without a moment spared, Bucky shoved on his combat boots and grabbed the leather jacket that Steve had found on their doorstep earlier.

It smelt of you, it was intoxicating. It encouraged Bucky to do what he needed to do. To tell you everything. He couldn't let you think he didn't care, that he didn't love you. Fuck Rumlow.

Bucky raced to your dorm. He should have come to you first, told you what happened and come up with a plan to stop Rumlow’s threats from coming true. Now you were drunk and vulnerable. He stopped in his tracks, he didn't know where you were. Scrolling through his contacts, he called Wanda, fully expecting an earful from your best friend.

“Barnes?”

“Wan, where’s Angel? She called and sounds wasted.”

“Why should I tell you?” Wanda snapped.

“Please? I need to tell her the truth.”

“Oh shit.” The sound of the phone being dropped echoed in Bucky’s ears, the panic rushed through his veins.

Your voice, the person he was looking for could be heard at a distance, “tell him to ‘fuck off.’”

“I wanna go to bed now.” You whined, Bucky could imagine the pout and blurry eyes you were giving your friend.

He started to walk to your dorm in the hopes that you or Wanda would give away your location if you weren't at home.

“It's okay,” Wanda's soothing voice was louder, no doubt comforting you.

“Need blanky please.”

“I'll get it in a minute, let's get you cleaned up first.”

The mention of your childhood blanket kicked Bucky into gear. You were at home. He ran. his legs moved as fast as they could to get to the shared apartment.

He was a panting mess by the time he reached the building. No clue what he was going to say. The stairs were neverending, the physical pain pressuring his body to stop. It was nothing compared to the thought of losing you forever.

Bucky pounded on the door, attempting to catch his breath at the same time. His fist didn’t stop hitting until he almost fell through when it was opened by Wanda.

She shook her head, “this is not a good idea, she’s a mess.”

“I’ve got to make this right. I fucked up,” Bucky pleaded with her.

Wanda opened the door wider for Bucky to enter and he sighed in relief.

You were sat on the couch with the blanket wrapped tightly around you, but even with the comforter, he could see your frame had shrunken in on itself. Your head was resting on a cushion, eyes closed as the sobs wreaked havoc.

Bucky’s heart broke at the sight and rushed to your side, wiping your hair away from your face.

You pushed at him, “Go away, Wanda.”

“It’s me, it’s Bucky.”

Your eyes burst open and he felt your shoulders go rigid. The crying had been silenced but tears still streaked down your face along with the mascara and eyeliner you must have been wearing earlier.

“Why are you here?” Your voice cracked.

“I’m so sorry,” Bucky cupped your face, his thumbs brushing away the tears, “I should have told you about Brock, and what happened with Alex. I couldn’t let you get hurt.”

Your eyebrows knitted together, “What are you talking about?”

“Brock said he’d get us both kicked out of college, you know it would only take one conversation with his stepdad.”

You listened intently with tears in your eyes.

“I got into a fight with Alex, over something stupid.”

Wanda interrupted, “It wasn’t stupid, he called your girl a slut. He deserved it and more.”

You winced, “You did that, for me?”

“Yes, and I’d do it again,” Bucky reassured her.

You couldn’t stop the hiccups but tried to speak, “Brock’s -hic- gone. He was transferred. Something about his dad -hic- getting a better job at a better school.”

Wanda passed you a glass of water, “I’ll be in my room if you need anything.”

You lifted your legs to sit up straight. Bucky took the seat beside, afraid of what would come next. A scholarship-sized weight had been lifted but he still felt the pressure of you wanting to be with Brock, that you might not choose him after everything.

“I ended it. That’s why I came to see you, not just about the jacket,” You dipped your head.

Bucky’s index finger lifted your chin to look into your eyes and show you that he meant his words with all his heart and soul, “I want to be with you.”

“But what about Yelena?” Your gaze didn’t waiver, giving Bucky hope.

“We’re working on a project together, I am not interested in her like that.”

“I don’t want you to be with anyone else,” You whispered as if uncertain that you wanted him to hear.

“I was an idiot, I thought I could do this whole fuck buddies thing with you,” he shook his head, “I was wrong, I want to be your boyfriend, I want to show you how much you mean to me and tell anyone that will listen.”

“Are you sure?” You looked down, your hands anxiously twisted together.

Bucky took your hands in his. He was a fool, a fool in love with an amazing woman who thought he didn’t care.

“I love you, with all my heart.”

“I love you too.” You whispered.

Bucky felt like the pieces of a puzzle were falling into place. He should have known all along that this was where he was meant to be; with you.

“Can I kiss you now?” He asked, wanting to show you how much he loved and cared for you.

Bucky leant forward, giving you the power to make the decision. It might hurt his ego for a moment if you chose to pull away but he wouldn’t hold it against you. As he waited, he vowed to do whatever you wanted, whether that was to be your partner or friend. If you asked him to leave, and even though it would be hard, then he’d go.

“Well, are you going to kiss me or just stare at my lips?" You quipped, snapping Bucky out of his thoughts.

Bucky pressed his lips to yours, sealing his promise to be with you ‘til the end of the line.

~ Tag List ~

@aeo10fan @capsgrl @charmedbysarge @coffeebooksandfandom @eclipses-and-moondust @emmabarnes @escapingthoughtsandsecrets @foxyjwls007 @gooddaykate @guera31 @ihatecats123 @im-squished @impala1967dwinchester @justagirlinafandomworld @justanotherblonde23 @justile @kalesrebellion @leyannrae @mishkatelwarriorgoddess s @nekoannie-chan @queenoftheunderdark @quinjetboi @redbarn1995 @selen-o-phile @starryeyeseunbyul @stuckonjbbarnes @stuckysavedmylive @suchababie @supraveng @valsworldofcreativity @vicmc624 @vintagepigeon @weird-mumbling @wiccanmetallicrose @writerwrites @doasyoudesireandlive @princessmisery666 @rainbowkisses31 @little-diable @ajaviary @pottahishotasf @itsamarvelfan-writes

[windyfiend]

Call fanfiction fanfiction.

Even if there’s no romance. Even if you’re only altering the events of the original story and demonstrating what might have happened differently. Even if you’re writing a completely original literary novel clearly set in the established world of a media franchise. Even if you’re writing an alternate universe in which preexisting characters, which are not yours, embark on a completely original adventure in your own original world. Even if the only point of your story is to identify how you think the plot should have happened. Even if you recorded your story and posted it on YouTube with fancy animations.

This is fanfiction.

By refusing to identify transformative fiction, what if hypotheses, and plot rewrites as fanfiction, you contribute to the derogatory label of fanfiction as inherently juvenile, poorly written stories. By separating your work from the label of fanfiction you imply that your writing is more sophisticated than any author who has ever published their stories under the label of fanfiction.

Let’s assume that a great majority of stories written as fanfiction are not well-written. Let’s assume a decent percentage of fanfiction contains subject matter and opinion that is disagreeable, socially deviant, or disturbing. Where is the equivalent in commercial publishing?

There are plenty of original published novels that are written so poorly they would make the most tolerant reader weep. There are plenty of original published novels full of horrific, extremely weird, and socially unacceptable content.

When you publish an original story, do you refuse to call it a novel because novels are associated with floods of awful stories? When you write a romance novel, do you refuse to call it romance because monster-romance novels exist?

Maybe it’s the word fan that contains the problem.

The word fan conjures images of conventions, cosplay, merchandise, passionate treatises on fictional concepts, and deep emotional investment. It also means sitting in the snow-covered bleachers of a football game with team colors painted on your bare chest, but a novel about a fantasy football game, written by a self-described fan, is not called fanfiction.

We have to conclude that the term fanfiction is a cultural badge.

By willingly labeling your story fanfiction, you identify yourself as a member of fandom. You embrace fandom and the squealing, writhing, hyperventilating mess that comes with it. Feel free to capslock in the comments. I am one of you.

By decidedly not identifying your story as fanfiction -- it is transformative work, it is a plot rewrite, it is an alternative concept derived from a published work, it is a correction of the original writers’ mistakes -- you declare yourself unassociated with fandom. You do not engage with nor support the fandom community, and the fandom community is not invited to interact with your work.

Maybe the term fanfiction belongs to us, the community. Through its use, we identify one another, we scream together, we cry together, we capslock together. Refusal to call fanfiction fanfiction indicates the author is not in fandom. Fandom culture is not a prerequisite for transformative fiction.

Non-participation in fandom is not an excuse to demean fandom works as inferior to otherwise identical works. The fact remains that published plot-rewrites and What-If speculations on YouTube gain high praise while the exact same stories, published on AO3, are considered embarrassing by the general public. A more widespread labeling of all fanfiction as fanfiction would expand popular understanding and respect for the robust diversity and intellectual skill of transformative fiction.

So what’s the conclusion? Should all transformative fiction be labeled fanfiction to celebrate identical creative works on an equal field, or does fanfiction belong only to fandom?

[heung-mins]

kady i want to present an important question to u. i consider conte a hag because of both his looks and his general hag energy....... like i think of something like a swamp hag and there's drippy gross hair involved but maybe i simply consumed a lot of fantasy books as a child fkhefkkjrkof BUT i wouldn't consider pep a hag because........ the looks and energy aren't aligning in a hag direction for me SO my question is - what parameters must a man meet to be a hag in your eyes

ok so being a hag has a little to do with age... it is a state of being... sometimes you see a man and you are like Wow! why do they make me feel weird? why do they have this weird aura and energy around them? why is it that if their aura was a smell, it would be mothballs? like maybe some hags have swampy energy.. men in football may be different from men in other areas of life... but what hags in the football world have in common are: 1) being washed 2) mothball energy 3) being delusional (derogatory) 4) stuck in the past 5) are often like 40+ but it mainly depends on their energy… i may have forgotten a couple of criteria but yea. pep does not give off hag vibes.. yet!

[pepto-x-abysmal]

Overlord & Tarn HCs

Overlord and Tarn are found family (derogatory) upon first meeting

They both refer to the other as his brother with annoyance

Overlord is Tarn’s older jock brother who grew up popular and would have been a quarterback in football

Overlord’s 2nd in command would be Deathsaurus, a fellow jock who likes to bully Tarn (re: tarn holding a crate of explosives Deathsaurus gave to him)

Overlord is that older brother who has all of his friends gang up on Tarn (Damus) and bully him, and does things solely to spite Tarn

Tarn is the nerdy outcast younger brother who got shoved into lockers or something [insert mandatory Enemy by Imagine Dragons here]

Also, if you’ve watched/listened to Fantasy High ep 5 by CollegeHumor, Tarn is Gorgug, specifically when he’s shoved against a locker by Ragh and he starts singing in response [Ragh would be Blitzwing, whose bully neurons would be firing off insanely at this]

Overlord and Tarn both have like a southern accent, but Tarn hides it with a fancy vernacular and accent training to sound kinda British

Overlord also purposefully likes to piss off Tarn and grate his metal by flirting with MS right in front of him.

In my AU, Overlord agrees to become a Phase Sixer bc his LI (oc, Sulphur) convinced him that if he joins, it’ll royally piss off Tarn bc that means that Overlord gets to be closer to Megatron than Tarn

Overlord just out here pointing and laughing at Tarn fr

Their only uniting factors are Megatron (when they both wanna beat his ass in canon) and Morningstar (my oc)

Also, does not help Tarn’s status in Deceptico hierarchy that his only “friends” are the DJD who are all basically outcasts as well

[thexgrayxlady]

What I Read in July 2024

The Adventures of Amina Al-Sirafi by S.A. Chakraborty - 4.50/5.00

If you could synthesize a book in a lab, just for me, this would be very close to the end result.

This was a fun, swashbuckling adventure, staring a retired pirate and her middle-aged crew. I love how despite being older, the characters are all still hot messes and absolute menaces to society. Amina, despite trying to reform for her kid, is still an adventurer at heart and you feel how much she loves being back on the sea, getting into misadventures. I was having too much of a good time to take too many notes.

Also Raksh sucks so much. He's just the worst. I love him. I want him to keep trying to serve Amina magical divorce papers forever.

It's really just held back by its ties to her previous series, which is mainly a personal grievance because I'm finding interconnected universes, especially when they don't need to be there, increasingly uninteresting. The part on the Peri's island drags a lot and they take a lot of the tension out of the ending.

The book has a fun, Raiders-esque feel to it. The plot unfolds at a pretty fast pace and I never got tired of the hijinks the characters got into getting the band back together.

Voyage of the Basilisk by Marie Brennan - 3.00/5.00

I'm always weirdly disappointed by these books. Like, they're not unenjoyable, but I always feel like there isn't enough focus on the speculative biology of dragons. The pacing for this book is a lot better than the previous entries, it gets right to business on Isabella's voyage around the world to study dragons. It's very accessible and easy to read. When the dragons are on page, they're really interesting. I really liked the illustrations. Unfortunately, I'm just not terribly interested in the politics of this world.

Wicked Beauty by Katee Robert - 3.50/5.00

I gave Katee Robert another chance and I liked this so much better than Electric Idol. Wicked Beauty made for a fun and easy beach read. The characters are less annoying, except for Hermes and Dionysus, who are, yet again, just so irritating. I hated every second they were on page. Fortunately, there was not very much of them.

I really liked Helen, Achilles, and Patroclus. They had a fun dynamic between them. I appreciate that while they come to care about each other, they have incompatible goals at first and they eventually work to figure out how to make their relationship work. They're all messy bisexual assholes and I loved watching them being messy bisexual assholes.

The ratio of porn to plot was a lot better in this book. The plot is kind of dumb, but it's entertainingly dumb and, let's be honest, you're not reading this series for the plot. There are some things from the plot that I would have changed, one of them is genuine and the other is just a personal preference. I wish that Helen defeating Paris had been from her POV and had more time and weight dedicated to it. It felt like the author was rushing to the end here. I also wish there had been more drama around Patroclus' injuries in the second trial, but that's just my preference. Hiding injuries is my catnip. It was dangled in front of me and then jerked away. Like the football. Jail for Katee Robert. Jail for 1000 years!

Mistborn by Brandon Sanderson - 2.75/5.00

I see the appeal of these books. They do not appeal to me.

To it's credit, it is very accessible. Maybe a little too much so for my taste. I am, admittedly, a pretentious asshole. This could have been a fun book. At times, it is very close to being a very fun book. Unfortunately it settles for being the MCU of fantasy in both a complementary and a derogatory sense.

The language is very simple, to the point where the few times where complex vocabulary was used, it was somewhat jarring. I think I can count on one hand the number of times figurative language was used. Everything is very surface level, if it's what you're in the mood for, I could see it being very easy to turn your brain off and enjoy this and not have to worry too much about missing out on subtext.

That being said, everything is explained so often that you have to ask yourself if Sanderson thinks his readers are stupid. You just want to tell him that yeah, you got the point like three paragraphs ago, just get on with it. The over explanation of the, admittedly interesting, magic, the simple plot, and the beyond simple characters lead to the book feeling tensionless and bloated.

I actually like the magic system. When it wasn't being explained every other paragraph. Learning about Allomancy became very repetitive fast and I think at least half of it could have been kept in the appendix for a much tighter book. And because it was so overstated, I became kind of pedantic about it. The magic system doesn't even go as far as it could with its own logic. Why can they push and pull non-magnetic metals? Why is that road copper when it could be a much cooler magnetic metal? You could have a road made out of cobalt or neodymium or even nickel if you wanted something more mundane. Why is pewter the metal that makes you stronger when it's really soft and malleable in real life?

The world itself feels more like a themepark version of itself than an actual lived in world. I wouldn't care about this so much, but Sanderson gets so much praise for his worldbuilding and I do not get it. This is due at least in part to how flat and lifeless the characters are.

Vin is wildly inconsistent. She says over and over and over again that she doesn't trust people and she expects to betray her. Yet every time she encounters someone betraying someone else and she becomes surprised pikachu. Like, she should not need to have what noblemen do to Skaa women explained to her. She should not be shocked and appalled by it. She grew up with that threat constantly hanging over her head. She should not like or trust the nobility as much as she does, as quickly as she does. From the very beginning, she feels more like a sheltered noblewoman than a homeless orphan who makes a living by stealing.

I've very rarely encountered a character as annoying as Kelsier. You can practically see him tip his goddamn fedora and hear him say, "M'lady." I'm not sure a whole chapter goes by without one character or another extolling the virtues of the goddamn Mary Sue. He has one pretty good moment, when he returns to the Pits of Hathsin, and another when Sanderson has another all too brief flash of really good writing with Kelsier's death. The first is nearly immediately undercut when Kelsier single-handedly destroys the Pits in two pages and meets so little resistance in doing so that it feels like he could have done that whenever he wanted to. If he could so easily do this, why does the rest of the plan even need to happen?

Sazed's the best character and even then, he's still wish.com Alfred Pennyworth.

Because the main characters are so overpowered and the antagonists have very little presence on the page, plot has no tension. Everything just feels too easy for the characters. Everything more or less goes according to plan. And when it doesn't, it doesn't feel like they have to struggle to get things back on track. At the end, I had to ask myself what was the point of 2/3 of the book spent gathering the army when Vin and Kelsier were going to solo everything.

The tension is not helped by calling the oppressed underclass The Skaa.

The logbook bits at the start of the chapters are the most interesting part of the book because they're allowed to stand more or less on their own and they don't tell the reader everything that happens, then explain it in the narration, then have the characters discuss it again just to make sure that the reader knows what happened.

Admittedly, the last fifty pages are a blast, but you shouldn't have to slog through six hundred pages of repetitive, annoying, beige prose to get there. The Lord Ruler's entrance is really cool and creepy. What Vin does with the metal arrowheads is creative and frankly just nifty. Unfortunately, my copy had several misprinted pages right when it was getting good, so I couldn't really even enjoy that.

At the end of the day, it honestly feels like Sanderson would rather be writing manuals for a TTRPG than a novel.

Mirrored Heavens by Rebecca Roanhorse - 3.50/5.00

The cover is less criminally ugly than Fevered Star!

I want so badly to like this book more than I do. Unfortunately, it inherits too many problems from the previous book to land as effectively as it could. The author still has to scramble to move characters into place because of how much time the previous book wasted futzing around.

The whole Teek storyline feels rushed and I feel like Xiala should have gone through most of it in the previous book. If her mother, aunt, and the matrons were given more time to develop, then their massacre would have had more of an impact. The scene on the beach where she starts to Sing is really good and I wish that it had the impact it deserved. That being said, once it gets off of the Teek islands, watching her come into her powers is pretty cool and her storyline moves much more smoothly. Her reunion with Serapio is very cute and I love their relationship.

Naranpa's storyline ultimately feels superfluous and hastily tacked on as the conflict pivots away from the Crow God and the Sun God. At the end of the last book, I thought we would get at least something interesting happening at the Graveyard of the Gods and it just never happens. I feel like you could cleanly excise her parts from the book and very little would be lost. It's ultimately just so shallow and disconnected from everything else that it's hard to care.

None of Balem's flashbacks were needed and just leave the book feeling bloated. Frankly, I don't think that Balem's POV is needed to begin with. You could get just about everything you needed from that with some minor tweeks to Iktans.

Serapio's POV is easily one of the strongest. There's a scene with the man he thinks is is father that's so good. You get such a strong sense of his religious trauma and why he feels like his destiny is his only option. You really understand why he latches so strongly onto anybody who treats him like an actual human, like Okoa and Xiala.

Like. I loved the first book in this series. I love these characters. This is such an interesting world. I know it doesn't seem like it from this review, but I like this book. There's a lot of very good stuff in here. It's just held back too much by mistakes made in the previous entry and I wanted it to be better.

[the-brandboy]

680+ Raunchy Fantasy Football Team Names

It is a custom that predates football itself. Owners have been using derogatory names for their fantasy teams since someone first called their squad Show Me Those TDs. The game of fantasy football is woven with obscene names. At least, we hope that’s glue—they’re what keeps the pages of Pro Football Weekly together. Some fantasy team owners like intentionally offensive team names, while others…

[lavenderbexlatte]

day 13 - uniform

soloist 1k words gender neutral reader insert Reader x Wonho (Lee Hoseok) NSFW

🖤 warnings: d/s dynamics, use of pet names/derogatory names (incl. slut), references to american football, slander of theater kids, assplay (m receiving), i might have a thing for men in stockings??? 🖤

kinktober masterlist

connect with me! / masterlist

"It's not even real."

That doesn't matter to you.

"It's close enough," you tell him, hands wandering farther down his thighs in their skintight pants.

"I don't even know who this player is," he laughs.

You're probably tickling him, as you feel up his muscular legs and ass indulgently, velvety-smooth under your hands and even smoother with the thick spandex layer between you.

"What's the big deal about this outfit, anyway?" Wonho smirks. "I've worn way less."

"I dunno," you muse.

He laughs again, as you hook your fingers into the extremely tight band of his pants. "The man in uniform thing?"

"It makes you look like a jock," you tell him. "Instead of a theater kid."

"I look like a theater kid?" he asks, nearly offended.

"Just enough."

He doesn't look that much like a theater kid, anymore, not with a body like his. And wearing this American football uniform, thick numbers emblazoned on his even thicker chest and stacked lower half jammed into a pair of those much-too-tight game pants, he just looks like a run-of-the-mill professional athlete. Strong, fit, and way out of your league.

Or he would be, if he wasn't currently letting you sit him down on the edge of the hotel bed and settle yourself over his sturdy lap. His hands find purchase at the dip of your waist, and you let him hold on, broad hands fanning out over your back.

"I've always wanted to fuck a hot jock," you say.

Wonho chokes, sputters. "Excuse me?"

"Yeah, y'know. Nothing like that kind of fantasy, for someone who wasn't cool in high school."

"I wasn't cool in high school, either," he argues.

You stare at him, his pretty face so close to yours from your perch on his broad thighs. You grab him around his sharp jaw with two hands, squishing both of his cheeks up.

"What?"

"Ulzzang," you deadpan, squeezing the so-called perfect face for emphasis.

"That doesn't mean anything-"

You're tired of his excuses, though, so you kiss him on the nose just to see him fluster, and when his cheeks have tinged sufficiently pink, you tilt his face in your hands and kiss his lips, instead. He's so easy to rile up; just an innocent kiss, fully clothed, sat on him gently, and he's already starting to roll his hips up into you. It would be sad if it wasn't so cute.

"Careful, if you get all excited, you're gonna have to be late for practice," you tell him seriously.

"Fuck you," he complains.

"Is that how you talk to me?"

"You called me a theater kid," he pouts.

You'll never get over this enormous man's ability to make faces like this. Wide eyes, pursed lips, an aura of the utmost demure ignorance.

"I'm so sorry," you coo. "I'll fix it."

Matching the pouty jut of his lower lip, you stand up again, even as he scrabbles at your waist to keep you there. He leans back slightly without you on top of him, relaxes, and you gaze at his gorgeous body, his spread legs and his pecs under the thick material of his jersey and his thin pants doing nothing to hide the shape of his hard cock against his thigh.

"You really went all out," you comment, "Right down to the socks."

"All for accuracy," he replies.

"Harder to take off. Too many layers."

"You haven't even tried, yet."

"True," you hum.

He's right, you should try first.

You stand him back up just long enough to peel the pants down his legs, and since the skintight fit leaves no room for another layer, he's bare to you from the waist down. Carefully, you untuck the cuffs from the calf-high athletic socks.

"What're you doing?" he asks, as you push him gently to sit again. "Aren't you gonna..."

"Kinda like these," you say.

"The socks?"

You nod. There's something inexplicably obscene about the vision that he is now, jersey stretched over his broad shoulders and neat white socks up his legs and his cock bare to the room. Innocent sexy, schoolgirl sexy.

"Okay," he mutters, obviously embarrassed.

"Don't get shy on me, now," you tease.

"Can't help it."

He's so lovely.

You step between his open legs, looking down at him fondly, and as you kiss him again, you take his erection in hand and stroke him leisurely, aided by the precum that he's already leaking. The contact makes him groan against your mouth, jumping under your touch as if it's the first time.

It's far from the first time, but it only gets better.

"Turn over for me," you say.

His name is written on the back of the jersey, you note with a grin, as he flips easily onto his stomach and melts into the covers. It's not all fours so much as it is knees and chest, his ass in the air and his cheek pressed to the bed.

"Eager," you say, pinching the back of his thigh playfully.

"Hey!" he yelps.

You're not sure what you're gonna do with him, yet, but fuck does he deserve it. He needs to be spoiled, you know that. He's had a long day of shooting in this godforsaken outfit, and now he needs to relax.

"I know the real reason you wanted this uniform, anyway," you say conspiratorially.

"Oh, do tell," Wonho murmurs, good humor and presence strong even facedown in the duvet.

"You just wanted to get fucked like this."

He doesn't argue with you. He couldn't even if he wanted to, you think, judging by the way he keens and presses his hips back into you, where you stand behind him.

"Football captain," you say, condescending, "Is this what you wanted? In your gameday jersey?"

"Yes."

"I know," you soothe.

Your fingers play over the perfectly-maintained soft skin around his hole. He's clenching around nothing. Eager little slut.

"It's a good thing they wrote your name on this goddamn jersey," you say, unable to resist the joke so plainly in front of you. "Because you're not gonna remember it by the time we're done."

[phrogs-anime-imagines]

jjk men as straight guy icks

gojo - “haha shower?? without me?? *unsolicited dick pic*

yuji - thinks axe body spray is an acceptable replacement for showering

megumi - leaves the toilet seat up no matter how many times you ask him to put it back down

inumaki - low effort thirst trap tiktoks that get a stupid amount of likes

yuuta - fantasy football player (derogatory)

nanami - moves women out of the way by grabbing them instead of just saying “excuse me”

geto - chronic mansplainer

mechamaru - discord daddy to several kittens

toji - clips nails and leaves clippings in the carpet

noritoshi - complains about you leaving a single hair in the shower but his pubes are everywhere in the bathroom

todo - "where’s my hug at ahaha”

naoya - incel

mahito - his ass has never been wiped nor washed

sukuna - calls women females

choso - 3 in 1 shampoo

junpei - this says STRAIGHT guy icks, mr fruit by the foot is exempt

[lonelylaws-blog]

Protecting her honour

Becca x MC (Quinn)

You rest your back against the door frame, wedging the door open with your foot as your guests begin to arrive. Your hands are tucked under the small of your back in an effort to retain some heat. A convoy of cars, almost identical with their pink fluffy steering wheel covers and matching fluffy dice hanging from the mirrors, had pulled into the street a few minutes ago. You’d decided greet your guests as they arrived, not wanting anyone to have to wait on your doorstep in the bitter cold. It seems Becca had gone to the trouble of ensuring the entire sorority turned out, a small olive branch held out to Madison, even if they weren’t ready to speak to each other yet, at least they were able to be in close proximity. One by one, in small groups and large, familiar faces began to enter your home, Chelsea, Madison, and Claire. Others began to wander in, too. Tyler, Zig and Aaron, the entire football team. As your house filled up and guests arrived more sparsely, you decided to leave door duty and mingle among your friends. Before you had chance to scan the room for her, a pinkie finger hooked through your own for a lingering second, before releasing you. She found you first, of course she did.

“You’re freezing, Quinn, and do not tell you don’t own gloves. You wore them to the library the other day. They’re those vulgar rainbow things that look childish even on five-year olds.” Becca said, trying not to stand obviously close to you.

“If this is your way of offering to warm me up, you only have to say,” You lean in and speak softly in Becca’s ear.

“Like you could handle this heat,” Becca’s gaze seems to wander away, running off to some fantasy land, before snapping back to herself. “Anyway, when you’re done playing ‘hostess with the mostess’, come find me.” Discreetly, and almost imperceptibly she spanked your ass, and with a sly grin, disappeared back into the crowd.

You try not to bite your lip, then compose yourself as best you can, before setting off through the crowd yourself. Across the room Abbie and Tyler keep stealing glances at each other, both unsure how to approach the other. Ugh, this love Guru deserves a break tonight. Maybe next time, guys. You smile at Tyler across the room and offer him a little wave, he offers you a meek smile in return. Yeah, this love Guru is definitely off duty. Zack better have some shots lined up for me. You head in to the kitchen, your eyes roaming until finally they rest on his all too familiar ice-cream shirt. In his hand, thrust above his head, is a bottle. The Bottle. Tonight, that bottle is the symbol of your salvation.  

“Oh, sweet Tequila. It’s been too long, my love. Bestow yourself upon me, for I have suffered in your absence…” You think back to recent events, Battle of the Bands, James’ graduation, Becca’s stunt at the sorority. Yeah, tonight I deserve to let loose for a change, and not worry about other people’s problems. Mom is off duty, kids.

“Well, I can clearly see your degree hard at work. ‘What did you learn in your four years of college, Quinn?’ ‘Well, Ma, I can wax lyrical about tequila.’” Zack sniggers, but pours you both a shot anyway.

“Shut up.” You punch his shoulder lightly.

“No elegant come back? Way to prove my point.” Zack clinks his glass against yours and unison you drink your shots. Zack winces, and struggles to retain a cough. “Poison. This stuff is poison. Why?”

“Woo!” You slam your glass down and bite on a wedge of lime, while you pour yourself another shot. Zack covers his glass with his hand, his eyes still squeezed shut. You quickly down another shot of tequila, savouring the sting of alcohol as it burns its way down your throat.

“Try and save me some.” You grin at Zack and make your way over to where Zig is stood in a corner, keeping a watchful eye over Manny.

“Hey,” you lean in and give Zig a small hug, but he’s barely able to reciprocate. “That bad, huh?” You say, as Zig turns his attention to you.

“I’m not sure yet. Maybe.” Just then, Manny’s voice rises above the others in the kitchen.

“I don’t ask what you and your sorority sisters do together when you’re not hosting all your prissy parties…” Manny’s arm was wrapped around Chelsea’s waist, pulling her uncomfortably into his side, as he grinned at a couple of the more forgettable football players.

“Um, you asked if we had sexy sleepovers like last week.” Chelsea grimaces, moving to disengage herself from his grip.

Manny’s presence at these parties is inconvenient at the best of times, but tonight he seems out to antagonise. He’s intolerable at the best of times, but tonight he seems especially malicious.

“I mean, I heard that Becky chick who got kicked out is pretty freaky.” Manny smirked.

“Oh, that’s it.” Zig says, as you both make your way across the room to Manny and Chelsea,

Under your breath, you mutter “This isn’t your fight zig.” You catch Zig’s arm as he surges towards the self-proclaimed ‘Manny the Man’, putting yourself between the two men.

“And, like I said- Chelsea began.

“Manny, I think it’s time for you to leave.” You say, you can feel your throat closing, sweat forming on your brow. Get the fuck out of my house and stop making derogatory remarks about my girlfriend, you dick! No Quinn. Stay calm. Don’t say that.

“Yo, sweetheart, can you chill? We’re trying to have a conversation here.” Manny scoffed.

“Yeah, back off!” Chelsea hissed.

“Wait, why are you taking his side? He was being a jerk to you. And objectifying you, not to mention Becca. She was supposed to be your friend, Chelsea. Besides, you’re standing in that ‘Becky chick’s’ house right now, so you better check your manners, Manny. And while you’re in our house, you do not get to pass derogatory comments about anyone, especially not my girlfriend. You know what? Get out. Seriously, Manny, get out of here. You’re not welcome here.”

“I’m outta here. C’mon babe.” Manny huffs, muttering under his breath, but ultimately storms his way through the sea of guests, Chelsea following at his heels. You stare at Manny until he and Chelsea have fled through the door.

“Girlfriend?” Zig chokes out. Oh shit. You wince, pinching the bridge of your nose. Well, maybe nobody else noticed? You urge your eyes open in time to see Becca storming up the stairs, the rest of the room stood staring at you.

You feel the heat of the room run into your cheeks, a burning sensation running from your face and travelling down your neck. So much for secrecy. The room has gone silent at your outburst. Beyond the crowd of friends, you hear the stomp of footsteps climbing the stairs before you see Becca ascend, her brow creased, neither angry or upset, but definitely not happy, either. On your way past, you feel fingers curl around your bicep.

“Really, Quinn? Becca?” Kaitlyn’s fingers dig into your arm, holding you in place. Her eyes glistening as she speaks.

“I don’t have time for this.” You shake your arm free, and carry on walking, heading up the stairs. You can’t deal with Kaitlyn’s unresolved issues tonight. She’s been blatantly flirting with Anissa all night, but god forbid you move on.

You stand in front of Becca’s door, hands balled into fists, trying to steel yourself before you enter Becca’s room. This is the calm before the storm. What am I going to say? ‘I don’t want this to end’? It might be too late for that. You can hear whispers rise up from downstairs. Shit, shit, shit. The previous song cuts out as an Alyssa Griffin song starts up, the volume turned higher than before.

“ZACK, DANCE WITH ME!” You hear Abbie awkwardly shout. Thank you, Abbie. You can hear the gentle shuffling of feet, presumably the awkward dancing of your best friends trying to detract attention from your drama.

“YES! GRANT! JOIN US!” Those two are the best. You can hear the panic in both their voices, trying to pull the focus away from whatever drama may be unfolding upstairs. Slowly, but surely, you can hear bodies start to move again downstairs, and eventually the rumble of conversations restarting.

Time to grovel. You don’t bother to knock, you walk straight in to Becca’s room, ready for resistance. Instead, as soon as you enter the room, she throws herself against you, her lips crashing against yours as you both fall back against the door. I wasn’t expecting this. Your hands cup her neck, roaming through her hair and pulling her closer to you. Eventually, you have to pull away in order to catch your breath.

“Becs, I’m so sorr-” You search her eyes, looking for some indication of what she’s thinking, what she’s feeling right now.

“No one has ever stood up for me like that before.” Becca cuts your off.

“I’d take on the world for you, even if you hated me for it.” Please don’t break up with me.

“I could never hate you, Quinn. It’s just…”

You run your thumb across Becca’s cheek, and press your foreheads together. “Talk to me.” She takes your hands and starts playing with your fingers.

“Your stupid friends, then nerd herd, what if… no. They will tell you that you can do better. That you deserve better. And they’d be right. Look what I did to Madison the other week? What kind of friend am I?! I’m never going to live up to their impeccably high standards. I’m scared of how much I love you and how protective your friends are and that you deserve so much better than me and that one of these days you’re going to wake up and realise that and you’ll kick me out of your bed, and then you’ll probably kick me out of the house too and you make me feel so vulnerable, but that’s okay when I’m around you, because when I’m with you I know I’m safe and I can let my guard down and... shit.” Becca finally pauses to catch her breath, the horror of what she’s said finally reaching her eyes as she shifts her gaze to the floor beneath your feet. Her eyes flick up to meet yours for a brief second, before flicking away again. Her cheeks are flushed. You’ve never seen her look so – so scared. She clasps your hands in hers, her fingers and yours entwined and pressing into her chest.

“You love me?” Out of all the words Becca has just thrown at you, they’re the ones you caught and held on to. Love.

“I… No?” Becca says, her face drains of colour. She obviously didn’t mean to say those three little words, not yet, but she definitely meant them.

“You love me.” You can feel your smile spreading across your face, your jaw aches with the force of your happiness.

“I do not! You mean nothing to me!” Becca stomped her foot.

“If that were true, you wouldn’t be gripping my hand so tight.”

Becca looks at your intwined fingers and quickly thrusts your hand away, only for you to immediately lace your fingers back with hers.

“I love you too, Becca.”

“Ugh, you’re so romantic I could vomit. Fine. I accept your declaration of undying love for me.”

You roll your eyes and lean in, gently pressing your lips to hers.  

[colesartandbooksandstuff]

We Contain Multitudes- Sarah Henstra

Background: I bought this back when I worked at the bookstore and all of the copies were being returned to the warehouse either due to it not selling well enough or the paperback coming out. I try to buy as many LGBTQ+ books as I can not only because I want good representation (and it can be hard to come by) but also because if more diverse books sell the more will be published. I bought this book because it sounded okay; nothing out of the ordinary, not main plot other than 2 guys liking each other. I didn’t realize that it was written completely in letters between the two main characters until I started reading this. I’m not 100% a fan of that style and I probably wouldn’t have got it if I knew this, but 50 pages in I don’t hate it.

First Half: I am almost halfway done with this book and it is rubbing me the wrong way. Let me preface this with that I have never not finished a book since I started getting back into reading during the junior year of high school. I have finished everything even if I didn’t like it. This book might change that. The main characters are 15 and 18. One is a sophomore and the other is repeating senior year. They had sex. That is statutory rape. Also the younger character is out but the older isn’t. We don’t know if he has had experiences in the past but it doesn’t seem like it. He is pressured to come to terms with his sexuality and it isn’t handled well. This book was written by a straight woman based off of what she thinks gay teens want. (In this case her demographic being fem bottoms). The plot so far is the resident bad boy football player who is repeating senior year has to write letters for English class to the only out gay boy in school. They fall in love. It’s the ultimate straight fantasy (to the topic of which I could write a thesis on why that is predatory and fucked up on so many levels). I don’t like this book so far. The format of letters is redundant as you have each character repeat and contradict events from the previous letters. It now not only had one of the boys be raped by the other but now the rapist is an abuse victim. This book had a lot of potential and isn’t living up.

Second Half: This book worries me. On top of all the issues that were brought up in the first half the second half continues to pile them on. One character is kicked out for being gay, the other one falls off of a bike and takes percocets before going to a party. He is 15 and taking prescriptions that aren’t his own. The abused character is forced to talk about his experiences when he isn’t ready. There are so many issues that the characters go through and I honestly don’t think that any were handled sensitively in the way that they should have been. The word queer isn’t used in an excessively derogatory way, but it isn’t positive either- instead of an adjective or label its used as a noun- if you understand that. The book ends on a happy note that defies logic. Jo saves the day and gets Kurl into college, but in the real world it would be nearly impossible to apply to college for another person.

Overall: The only good part about this was the writing (and I mean the language, not the plot). The format of letters is also very unrealistic. It is good in theory, as it allows 2 different perspectives but both characters write things that they shouldn't have to for the reader's sake. Why can’t I have an unproblematic simple mlm romance. I am so sick of homophobia, the coming out process, unnecessary age differences, a lack of bi male representation. Even some very good books have issues. They Both Die at the End both the characters die (yes I know its in the title). Simon vs The Homo sapiens Agenda the main character is blackmailed and loses his friends after coming out. Leah on the Offbeat one of the characters comes out as bi and breaks up with her boyfriend to be with a girl instead. Call Me By Your Name the age difference also constitutes statutory rape. The list goes on. The most unproblematic one was What if its Us but it doesn’t have a happy ending (fingers crossed for the potential sequel) and Red White and Royal Blue which is amazing for a multitude of reasons. I don’t want to have to pick and chose between reading a book that offers good representation or has good writing and a plot. I understand that as a bi guy with a preference for men that’s pretty rare. To be honest I’m still confused on what I identify as but at the end of the day I want something that feels authentic.

1.5/5 stars- rounded up to 2.

*I also don’t want to leave out The Music of What Happens by Bill Konigsberg. This book really helped me work through some trauma. On a platform like my blog where no one can see my face, I’m fine talking about this. A character in the book was raped and I went through a near identical experience. It can be triggering for some people but on my behalf I can say that it saved my life. **On a lighter note- drop some good queer recs down below: Ive read the following (CMBYN, Simon vs., Leah on the offbeat, WIIU, once and future, Loki: where mischief lies), RWRB, we set the dark on fire, swipe right for murder, girls of paper and fire, carry on/wayward son, TBDatE, Infinity son

[lunaticamic]

mi sembra obbiettivamente ridicolo

[davidfostercomedyblog]

My Trip to Paris: A Review

Like any typical heterosexual male the idea of engagement photos seemed as appealing to me as that of a fantasy football league might to most heterosexual women. Nevertheless, I am happily engaged to the latter, and in cliché fashion conceded to said photo shoot, and have never been so grateful for a decision.

It was a week before our European vacation, and our (French) photographer asked us: “Where will you be staying when you go to Paris?”

“We got a hotel in Nice, Airbnb in Paris.”

“Oh, you better make sure they have air conditioning,” she informed us. “Most Parisians don’t have A/C’s. The units are considered ‘unsightly.’”

Umm… seriously?

The forecast for our upcoming trip was to reach record highs in temperature. Not record highs for July or our particular dates. Record highs. It was going to be 109… degrees! The hottest two days in the history of Paris, on which we’d scheduled a walk to the Louvre, then down the Seine River, and up the gabillion steps of Sacre Couer, at the end of which I’d implicitly scheduled a good night’s sleep, which would be impossible without air conditioning.

I reviewed our booking on Airbnb, and sure enough there was no A/C. When I emailed our would-be host to confirm this preposterous notion she responded: “I have a great fan though.”

Good for you.

Our late cancellation was the happiest we’ve ever been to eat $240. We had a hideous air conditioner in our otherwise lovely, entirely red suede hotel room in Villa Opera Drouotin Montmartre. There was red everywhere. Red wallpaper, red blankets, even a 360 red velvet seat in the red lobby. But it was cool, literally. It was the greatest continental breakfast we’ve ever had in our lives, and we were happy.

The first thing I noticed upon arrival at the airport was the urinals. I’ve never seen bulls’ eyes of such small diameter. Do the French have better aim?

Second was the plethora of friendly assistants at the train station, all of them fluent in English, all eagerly awaiting the opportunity to help even the most dumbfounded of tourists, which pin-pointedly described us. Can you imagine such an experience with a New York MTA worker? They look at you like instead of “Excuse me,” you opened with a derogatory slur and are requesting they literally carry you on their back to your desired destination. Paris: 1. NYC: 0

Next we sat on the train, which was faster and cleaner than New York’s, though that goes without saying, as every train on the planet, I imagine including those of third world countries, is much cleaner than New York’s. Paris: 2. NYC: 0.

We sat next to college kids, two French and one British, who were making fun of American tourists’ stereotypical ideas of Paris being this “romantic town, where everyone just gets cheese and wine and a baguette and eats it all on the streets.” When we got off the train I swear to God all I kept seeing were locals walking along the sidewalk eating baguettes or sitting at outdoor restaurants drinking wine and smoking cigarettes.

Baguettes were everywhere. I saw old men walking along the street chewing away at them, sometimes plain, others with ham and/or cheese stuffed inside. I saw young girls with grocery bags full of baguettes, others with just the one long one they’d need for that evening, way too large to fit in the designer pocketbook held in their other arm. Older women, young men, apparently poor people, rich people, black, white and Hispanic people (just kidding, there’s no Hispanics in Europe) – it seemed everyone had a baguette. I digress.

We weren’t sure if the cliché college kid pontifications were for our benefit, but I chose not to respond, a) becausewe weren’t sure, b) engaging in philosophical debate with college kids makes as much sense as engaging in confrontation with the schizophrenic homeless guy on the 6 train, and c) I was so jetlagged that they probably could have spread brie cheese all over my face and put their cigarette butts out in the mush and I would have let it slide. Whoever can get more than a few hours sleep on those red eyes are as gifted in my mind as Michael Jordan or David Blaine. Finally, the kids’ insults were at “Americans,” which I don’t identify as anyway. We’re New Yorkers - not Americans. There’s a difference.

We were two hours early for check-in, so decided to maximize our tourist time by taking the 20-minute walk from Montmartre to Sacre Couer.

Jesus, was it hot. It was 105 degrees. The walk was perpetually uphill and when we finally arrived there were more staircases than in the MTA’s latest atrocity, the 86thSt. Q train. What a moronic architectural disgrace that is.

We bought water from a local store and the lady didn’t even offer us a plastic bag. None of the stores did for entire whole trip. They all had them behind the counter if you needed, but I never saw anyone take one. Paris: 3. NYC: 0.

I could feel sunburn setting in. I took off my long sleeve shirt and threw it over my head to protect myself. The Asian tourists kept their umbrellas up for protection (though when do they not?), and the Italians were next to naked (though when are they not?). The heat was inescapable. It felt like the temperature was climbing along with us up the steps. Instead of a church, it was as if we were making the pilgrimage in Egypt. We had to take regular breaks and be mindful to breathe and stay hydrated, and constantly remind ourselves: “This is vacation, we’re having fun. This is fun. It’s vacation. This is… this is… this hot as fucking hell. Let’s take a lap around this church and go home.”

Sacre Couer is gorgeous: Incredible view of the city outside, and even better art inside. A local came over and requested I remove my hat, and I wasn’t sure whether my Americanism or Judaism was more apparent. We put hats on intentionally in our place of worship.

Finally checked in the hotel, we passed out for two hours in the coolest bedroom in Paris and woke up rejuvenated. We had dinner reservations at Derriereat 19:30, which was the earliest possible reservation because 19:30 is what time Derriere opens, which is just about the fanciest thing I’ve ever heard of.

Our table wasn’t even ready yet, but the maitre’d was friendly.

“Please, have a seat, we’ll get you a glass of wine and let you know when the kitchen’s open.”

Lovely!

Even my fiancée, who is rouge-exclusive, opted for white because of the climate, and it was the best white wine either of us had ever tasted in our pathetic American lives. Pouilly Fumé, crisp, minerally, dry and perfect and it was 6 euro, half what it would be back home.

We waited and waited, watched a few other parties get ushered into the restaurant ahead of us, and wondered if we should say something. I got up to remind the host of our presence, and he was flamboyantly sweet, super pleasant and matter-of-factly excited to seat us.

Ahh, Europe. Is it possible for a constant intake of alcohol, tobacco, bread and cheese to be physiologically offset by a complete lack of urgency and adherence to time?

When we finally got inside we found an adorable, almost hipstery chic spot that had apparently been someone’s home converted into a restaurant. We each sat in our own cushiony love seat across from one another in a spread out living room/library/game room as an active ping pong table was set about three feet behind my head.

Our waiter, Tyler, was from Canada, hence boasted the perfect hybrid of debonair French style with a western work ethic. We were relieved that he spoke English, but soon discovered so does 90% of the country. Tyler was jovial and handsome and encouraging of our order choices. The duck was insane – the best we’d ever had – the braised beef with zucchini was even better.

“Fuck you,” my fiancée kept exclaiming at how blown away she was by the food. I was happy we were able to show the local Parisians how New Yorkers applaud quality – by cursing it out.

We could have returned the knives, as the meats would have fallen off their bones with even the side of the same soup spoon we used to eat the best Gazpacho I’d ever tasted. With dinner we had the best rouge in the house for only 14 Euro per glass, and as a reward Tyler and the sommelier came over and insisted we all do a shot of rum. We were adequately buzzed with bellies full of beef… and bread. The whole experience was magnefique.

We followed Tyler’s recommendations for the night (we would have followed Tyler into the gates of Hell), on to cocktails at The Little Red Door, and although neither my fiancée nor I are very much into cocktails you couldn’t help but trust in the elitist mixology menu. Drinks were fantastic. We ended up yukking it up with some gay New Yorkers coincidentally seated next to us on the couch, mostly over how superior the culture everywhere else in the world is to America, with the exception of New York – one of my favorite topics of conversation.

We walked the mile home because time flies while walking through any city. We stopped twice for some nightcaps and allowed the city lights to fuel our way. Although New York is the “city that never sleeps” Paris is apparently the city that always eats. 1:00 in the morning on a Wednesday night and it seemed almost every restaurant with outdoor seating was not only open, but practically filled with locals literally and figuratively chewing the fat. Any potential for jet lag and heat exhaustion had been instantly healed by meat and alcohol, but still we were spent, and a had a long next day ahead planned.

It’s possible I was woo’d by the air conditioning as I’m not much of a museum guy, but the Louvrewas great, definitely our favorite tourist attraction of the trip. We’d bought tickets beforehand and it took about 60 seconds to enter. Almost everyone there was quite pleasant, though the best part was the security guards at the Mona Lisa who were anything but. Groups of us at a time were being yelled at for not moving fast enough – like waiting on line to view the classic piece of art was a local crime and we owed a cowering apology while running and ducking for cover. They could have been instantly beamed to the central bookings jail in downtown Brooklyn and not missed a beat. One of them was the first white guy I’d seen in France with that pathologically rosy facial complexion that screamed alcohol, hypertension and New Jersey; and although it was clearly his job there to be an asshole we believed it to be a case of chicken or the egg.

I’d love to tell you it was beautiful, that Monawas beautiful and a magical experience of tourism, but I don’t think I ever got a good look. It was pure chaos, herded into a swarm of fellow tourists, and one of the only contexts where typical Asian good manners actually fell by the wayside as they refused to be denied the perfect photographs. Spun into confusion and shitted out the other side of the room we much preferred the rest of the less popular parts of the museum.

Before leaving my fiancée insisted on taking pics by the Pyramid outside and I… I just cannot tell you how hot it was. There were other people out suffering as well, but most were huddled in the shade, massaging their skulls with frozen water bottles and drinking from another. We muscled through it, took photos with fake smiles, feigning joy or even comfort so that everyone on social media could see that we had fun at the Louvre. Indoors we did. Outdoors was about survival.

Next door we passed by the other popular museum, D’Orsay (What is this, the museum district?), and fiancée asked if I wanted to go in. As I generally visit one museum per decade at home, my rule overseas is one per trip.

We walked along the Seine River,which was beautiful and I imagined on any day under 109 degrees would have been crowded with other cute couples cut from similar cloths. They’d be eating cheese and baguettes, as everyone had instructed us to do, but ours was a different kind of trip, and I’d surely have jumped into the river before sitting along it with quickly melting brie. There were benches where I could picture us sitting, but even the mental effort of creating said picture was burning calories at an alarming pace. We passed through the Tuileries Garden, got a croque monsieur and more gazpacho.

On the way home I bought a suit for our wedding! It wasn’t the plan, but hey… we’re just some hot shot New Yorkers flying by the seat of our pants in Paris. Beautiful pants as it were, as I never thought I could make such a baller move.

Of course going into the store was wifey’s suggestion, but I went along with it. “Should we go in and see if they have any nice suits?” she asked.

“We should go in and see if they have any nice air conditioning.”

They did.

And before we knew it we were whisked away into the back room as if we had a reservation for two. Everyone there’s faces were beautiful and their outfits even more beautiful. I felt a bit underdressed in my Marcus Camby Knicks’ throwback jersey (while sweating like Patrick Ewing) and my crooked Yankees cap, but before I knew it I was Julia Roberts with Roy Orbison blasting in my head, as one of the most charming men on the planet, Tomas, put together ensemble after ensemble, creating his own Mona Lisa out of me.

Me, the sweaty asshole who just walked in the door in his gym clothes. Instead of angry security guards yelling at us, Tomas took his time with me, like a true gentleman, never allowing me to put any of the jackets on myself. His assistant brought us bottles of water and suddenly I began to suspect I was on a hidden camera show and Richard Gere was going to come out of the back room and ignore my sexual advances.

One fabulous suit I tried on was apparently made of some high-quality but more delicate fabric that Tomas warned me of: “A suit like this – you can only wear this to work maybe two or three times a week… otherwise it will not last.”

Two or three times a week? Who the fuck does this guy think I am? I’m sorry, Tomas, I love you, but in case you haven’t heard it’s only about 1% of the professions in New York these days that even require a suit at work… and those guys can afford enough suits to wear them two or three times a year. I’m not worried about it.

After about an hour of trial and error, mixing and matching and texting photos across the pond to Mom and others for feedback, finally we came to a unanimous decision. Tomas even threw in the pink tie from his own personal stash, and when we said Au revoirI could feel that none of us really wanted to. What we really wanted was to buy four more suits, then two giant homes in New York and Paris respectively where we could all live out the rest of our years together as the most stylish commune of love. Unfortunately that’s not how life works. But I found more than my wedding suit in the Paris SuitSupply. I found one of my favorite people, one of my fondest memories from the trip, and finally, a hell of a deal! Weeks later my (Jewish) fiancée did her research and discovered after the conversion rate I’d gotten a $1000 suit for almost half the cost. Paris: 4. NYC: 0.

When we got outside it was still 109 degrees. We went home and hosed down in preparation for another night on the town…

Bofingerfor dinner: An apparently pork forward venue that seemed to specialize in shellfish and sauerkraut dishes. I’d never had to de-shell my own snails before, and if you would have told me at any point in life I would twice in one day feel like Julia Roberts in Pretty Woman I would have at least figured one of the two would involve prostituting myself on Hollywood Blvd. Thankfully, none of the “slippery little suckers” went flying across the room into any waiters’ hands. A now experienced acupuncturist I figured I could successfully navigate this previously foreign task and eventually I was right (although two of them were stuck super deep inside and I resorted to simply brutally cracking them open). Absolutely drowned in the plate’s bath of garlic and oil they were delicious!  

The chilled cream of asparagus soup with mascarpone was the best I’ve ever had in my life. I understand this superlative is beginning to sound like a broken record, but hey, we’re discussing food and wine in Paris. It isn’t like I’m telling you I heard the greatest hip hop song of my life there.

Unfortunately the sauerkraut dish was anti-climactic in taste, overwhelming in size. A beast of a platter, and we figured the reason the runner brought burners to light underneath it must have been because no one could possibly finish this plate in less than three hours. Most of my family has hefty appetites and within my family I am generally the one most derided for overeating; but my fiancée and I couldn’t even make a visible dent in the dish. We left full sausages just hangin’ and neither of us even broached the monstrous pork knuckle that looked like too much to tangle with. What was most fascinating was the gentleman next to us ordered the same dish, had it arrive after ours, and absolutely demolished it before we’d thrown in our towel. “Was he overweight?” you ask.Absolutely not, he was handsome and slim, fit. This is Wonderland.

We had nowhere to take our leftovers, but figured better to gamble on running into a homeless person then just throw it out. We saw some poor man seated on the train station floor on our way to Latin Quarters, and bestowed him with what I assume was the best meal he’d had in years.

We passed by Notre Dame, and I felt kind of like an asshole - like the tourists in NYC taking pictures in front of Ground Zero before the new tower was built: Odd locational tone for a photo opp.

Latin Quarters sucked. Think Bleecker Street meets Time Square, and in case you thought bro-douchery didn’t exist outside of America think again. Lots of pubs and sports bars, novelty shops and loud partyers, and you could skip it. A friend of us warned it would be like this but was worth seeing once. Another friend told us of a cocktail bar there on the Holiday Inn rooftop, from which you could see the whole city. Sounds lovely!We passed by only to be told the roof was closed as a result of the heat. Night Deux was a bit of a letdown.

The next day was a more of the same, only to reinforce a lesson that as New Yorkers we should have already known: Avoid tourist traps. The elevator at the Eiffel Towerwas broken which greatly appeased my fiancee’s terrific fear of heights, however I’m still awaiting my refund for the aloof purchase. Champs Elysseswas… ehhhh… like Fifth Avenue meets Soho, but not even the nooks and cranny side streets of old Soho of the 1990’s – more like vomit-up-your-ass chain retail, Broadway Soho of 2019. My fiancée got to take some nice pics of that other humongous fuckin’ old thing, but besides that the marathon distance walking through the desert level heat was beginning to wear on me… and by this time my neurology had shifted to a degree of alcohol dependency which is not my norm. It was time to call it a day and begin the night.

We closed more similarly to how we opened, in a more cultured reverence for gluttony in a local spot we’d been recommended that happened to be right down the block from our red suede hotel room.

Le Bouillon Chartierdidn’t take reservations and had not one, but two lines wrapped on to the sidewalk of mostly locals waiting to get in. We wondered, with gratitude, why our wait was only about ten minutes, and were inadvertently given our answer once inside. It was packed and fast-paced, pretty noisy, though not much to look at. It had the gritty feel of Katz’s Deli or Barney Greengrass and the waiters were curt and void of pleasantries. Ahhh… we felt right at home.

The most expensive bottle of wine on the menu was 23 euro. And it was great! The prices of everything were dirt cheap – like fast food cheap - which only partially explained the line around the block. The duck confit was excellent, as was the whole sea bass (I felt I needed something just a touch lighter than incessant pork and red meat), and I think the whole meal with the full bottle of wine came out to 58 euro. I think it was during this meal that my fiancée began suggesting another “quick trip back” next month. “We can just come for a few nights and eat in places like this!”

We closed the night as we had every other, with drinks on the sidewalk at Café Le Brebant, which faced out on to the corner of the main strip, Poissonniere Blvd., constantly serving us a nice hybrid of the authentic Paris experience with familiar comfort of New York. Also, constantly serving us lovely wines until the early morning hours, though I always closed with a nice, cold IPA in a chilled glass, as I now suffer from alcoholism. The servers were still mostly God-awful and we always had to walk over to place orders, but they were all pleasant and we rationalized it was worth it to be absolved of gratuity.

The next day we took the train seven hours to Nice. It should have been six but Mercury was retrograde and shit was fucked. Nice was OK. Glad we did it – would never do it again. It’s a beach town, which in spite of its historically fancy reputation means the same thing it does anywhere in the world: More plastic surgery, less culture and nuance. Saw some boobs on the beach, but as is customarily the case, none of the boobs you wish to.

The water was beautiful but the rocks were painful and expensive. We had to buy special mats and shoes in order for the beach experience to be at all relaxing and I highly doubt I’ll ever use either again. From now on I’m sand exclusive.

We saw a great band one night, coincidentally named Bofinger, and had one amazing meal at Terres de Truffes, which translates as Truffle Land where they (predictably) put truffles on everything! White truffles over burrata cheese and sundried tomatoes as a “caprese,” summer truffles on the lamb confit and black truffles littered across the porcini mushroom ravioli! We downed a bottle of our new fave, the Margaux, and finished with the crème brulee with truffle infused caramel drizzle. It was fucked. Up.Suddenly we suspected maybe there was reason to come back to Nice after all. That was until my fiancée searched and found the spot had another location in Paris. So like, why ever go to Miami for a restaurant that exists in NYC?

To exhaust a cliché, we loved Paris. Who wouldn’t? Who doesn’t? I’ve literally never heard a negative report. It’s like New York but with its own twist and flare, and without our recently vampired cultural extraction by transplants only to be replaced with the vapidity of chain stores and pharmacies that once were implicitly prohibited from the once greatest city in the world.

It took me a full week to recover from the neurological storm of jet lag and alcohol withdrawal, though having to spend double the price for half the quality wine eventually ensured my sobriety. Sadly the same can be said for our food quality… even in New York! It’s an awful shame the farming practices our government permits in this country, and in my opinion reason enough to kneel for the Star Spangled Banner should you feel indifferent around the racial issues. Never say never, though I still doubt I could ever make a home across the pond, as I just don’t think anywhere in the world can offer the vibe of New York, nor our diversity. It’s possible that Paris and many other cities may come close in cultural diversity, though never in variety of style, subcultures and psychology. This was my one critique from an admittedly brief first visit – that Paris appears a bit more of a one-trick pony than NYC. In fairness, where doesn’t? They probably do their one trick better than anywhere in the world but it’s just not New York. The weekend after I came home I went out to dinner at Kyklades Greek restaurant in Astoria, then took the train uptown to the EPMD concert in the park in the South Bronx, where my boy, Ed and I were two of seven white people of the 800-1000 there. We watched the legends and devoured some dope, authentic Jamaican food for 8 euro (J/K, it was $10). Afterwards we got drunk at a bar by Yankee Stadium and watched the Yanks beat Boston. The next morning my fiancée and I had the best bagels, lox and cream cheese in town at the Upper West Side institution, Barney Greengrass. Our city is dirtier, as is our food. Our leader is dumber, our drinks are pricier. Still it’s always nice to come home.

[burnthcwitch]

— wow, i haven’t seen LAURENT TAVELLE in ages!  HE look(s) just like DAVEED DIGGS now.  did you hear the rumor: he’s an actual witch. it’ll probably come to light at the reunion!

tw death

BASIC INFORMATION

full name: laurent michael tavelle

species: witch (supressed)

date of birth: february 15th 1987

occupation: business consultant (traveling)

gender: cisman

pronouns: he/him

languages spoken: english, some french

PERSONALITY

positive traits: problem solver, idealist, warm, charismatic, loud

negative traits: prone to jealousy, hubristic, secretive, self-serving

fears: death, lonliness, himself

hobbies: whittling, candle making, fantasy football

habits: rubbing of his palms together (calls it energy circling)

FAVOURITES

weather: a warm summer day

color: blue

music: old school rap, dabbles into indie alt

movies: final destination series 

beverage: seven up (derogatory)

food: ice cream bars

animal: definitely parrots

FAMILY

father: roman tavelle  (✝)

mother:  nana (alana) tavelle 

BIO

-

THEN

he really was the sun, wasn’t he? laurent felt like he existed through shady grove halls as neither student nor teacher, but a secret third thing. he skipped classes, but would stay way into the late hours until one of the janitors would offer him a ride home, and laurent would take it without showing there to be anything wrong.

when home, his father would start on one of his tirades, again. seeing things that weren’t there, destroying the house and expecting laurent and his mother to clean it up-laur especially. claimed he had an advantage over all of them, almost like it was his fault, or his burden to bear. 

never did laurent understand the drunken accusations until his father finally died. it looked like an accident, that’s all his mother had said. at the time it didn’t come as a shock, laurent seemingly unfazed.. until that same night, where he felt the change. it was this golden silky feeling swimming inside of him, one that felt so familiar, the one that illuminated figures in corners so well he almost questioned what was real and what was a figment of his imagination. his father’s journals revealed more, contained things akin to spells, things that at the time seemed silly, or like words of a mad man.

life went on even without the supernatural influences, still having trouble distinguishing what was new from what had always been there. he was lost—until her. Juliet had always been around, close by, but somehow still on the outskirts. It was more of a crush, almost an obsession to get her to talk to him. He knew she was much more than what other people thought of her.

She practically lived in the auditorium and so, Laurent did as well. He left her anonymous notes telling her how badly he pined for her, how his heart ached for her. Burned, even.

And then the auditorium burned down. For real.

He’d figured it his fault, must have had something to do with his newfound power, right? And even if it was a horror show for Shady Grove, it gave him the courage to finally ask Juliet out. With just a little bit of attention from laurent, he had brought her in to his circle, and secured the crown. 

-

THERE

He’d never really taken it seriously until the night before graduation. It was a massive party, a last hurrah thrown by his best friends where he’d suggested the idea of a seance. It was meant to be silly fun with a ouija board, but it connected to Laurent in a different way. A “channel” was the way he described it, not multiple, just one. One spirit in particular who felt laurent was the one to confide in, consult, and occasionally give advice to. 

The spirit drove fear deep into Laurent’s heart, driving him to care little for his real life. Losing his first love, losing his way. 

It took years to recover from the emotional toll of having someone on your back, literally, all of the time, trudging through a 4-year school in a town not too far from Shady Grove.

Still, Laurent fell in love, and fell in love again, eventually crowning yet another queen. But that spirit on his shoulder always had a way of messing things up. 

It took practice, but slowly the voice grew quieter. However, so did his connection with the things around him. Nothing glowed, nature didn’t breathe against his touch anymore. It was dulled, but still there. Somewhere.

-

NOW

well into his thirties and still he keeps the ring on his finger. It’s more of a buffer than anything—much easier than explaining the mess that went down with him and his ex. He’s returned to Shady Grove as he feels he has to. It would be a pretty lousy reunion without their reigning Homecoming King, right? And in a town as small as Shady Grove, there was sure to be a plethora of people who could use his advice, or at least a much needed tech upgrade. Laurent would shove abilities down further, keep them close to his chest so not to further any rumors about this haunted cabin. All in the hopes that he could keep his own demons at bay.

-

WANTED CONNECTIONS

The first love: Juliet

ex from college: jack

The long lost bff:

Ex Wife:

Fellow witch:

enemy: rachel

I always wanted to be friends but it never happened:

anything else!

[toonatic92]

Mickey Character Profile

More character profiles. This time, it's Mickey, another well developed character and a favourite of mine. TW/CW: Ableist language, suicide mention

Full Name: Michaela Abigail Montague Pronunciation of their name: Mihk-ay-lah Abih-gayl Mont-agyoo Title: Mx. Nickname(s): Mickey (preferred name), Micks (family/friends only), Sparkles, Smiler, Mental Mickey (derogatory), Mickey Mouse (derogatory)

Gender: Agender (they/them, she/her) Race: Black Species: Human Sexuality: Biromantic Asexual

Height: 5'6"/167cm Weight: 12st 6lbs/78.9kg Age: 22

Eye colour(s): Hazel Contacts?: No Glasses?: No

Face shape: Triangle, prominent cheeks, narrow at the top, widens towards the bottom, prominent chin, cleft chin Describe their eyes: Large, round, eyelids slope downwards, long dark eyelashes, slight bags under eyes, permanent sparkle in eyes Describe their nose: Flat bridge, wide, slightly bulbous at the tip Describe their lips: Cupid's bow, bottom lip is fuller and paler than top Ears: Small, attached lobes

Body build: Pear-shaped, narrow shoulders, wide hips, long legs, short trunk, prominent stomach, thick thighs, flat chest, average length neck, average length arms, average length fingers, short toes, small hands and feet Disabilities: Schizoaffective depression, focal epilepsy, autism, tuberous breasts, flat feet Extra extremities: None

Hair colour(s): Pale pink (dyed, natural redhead) Hair length: Short Hair style: Undercut

Skin/fur colour(s): Dark red brown Complexion: Dark, oily/sensitive skin Patterns/designs: None Scars: Various small scars from accidents during childhood (Mickey was a rough-and-tumble tomboy as a kid, most of these scars are from fights or playing football.) Birthmarks: None Tattoos: The Red Clover Fairy from the 'Flower Fairies' book series on right shoulder (Mickey's hair in its natural colour has been said to resemble red clovers, so as a child they gravitated to the Red Clover Fairy.) Piercings: One in each earlobe

Personality snapshot: Cheerful, idealistic tomboy with a vivid imagination Most prominent personality trait: Idealistic Best traits of their personality: Kind, imaginative, idealistic, friendly, helpful, generous, creative, just Worst traits of their personality: Fantasist, moody, reckless, insecure, deferential, fatalist, quick to judge, quick to anger, secretive, easily swayed by emotions, overprotective

Current faith: None Current superstitions/quirks: TBA

Alignment: Neutral Good

Marital status: Single

Occupation: College student (studying law), private detective

Good habits: Looks after friends, keeps self busy, always kind, always helpful, politically active Bad habits: Drinks heavily, isolates self, doesn't let people help them, lies to people, loses self in fantasy, acts rashly

Abilities: Can see supernatural creatures ('The Sight') Special skills: Can draw, plays football to a professional standard, social butterfly, expert in folklore/supernatural subjects, fluent in the subject of law Hobbies: Drawing, football, blogging, clubbing, reading fantasy books, watching TV, gaming, sewing, shopping

Random facts:

Mickey loves all supernatural creatures, but loves fairies the most. These stories have always represented an attractive alternative to their unhappy real life.

Mickey's cheeriness is a facade. They have always been desperately unhappy because no one around them understood them and their later mental illness made things worse.

Mickey wanted to be a police officer like their parents and because they have a strong sense of justice, but they are questioning this decision now that they are aware of police corruption.

Mickey has spent time in a psychiatric hospital when they were a teenager after a suicidal, paranoid breakdown that lead to them threatening their parents with a kitchen knife. The whole experience was very traumatic and Mickey has tried very hard to put it behind them.

Mickey's favourite food is chocolate.

Mickey's personal style is girly with a tomboy streak with lots of pinks and blues and purples, sparkle and fantasy imagery. They favour sweaters, t-shirts, leggings, sneakers and ugg boots and they patently refuse to wear skirts, dresses or high heels.

[gadgetsrevv]

Liverpool’s Harvey Elliott banned for Harry Kane impersonation

Trent Alexander-Arnold is taking things one game at a time for both England and Liverpool.

Craig Burley says Roberto Firmino’s health will be a key factor for Liverpool in the Premier League title race.

An angry Jurgen Klopp says Hazma Choudry should have been sent off for his tackle on Mohamed Salah.

Liverpool teenager Harvey Elliott has received a 14-day club football ban for a social media video in which he appeared to perform an offensive impersonation of Tottenham striker Harry Kane.

The Football Association handed the punishment down on Friday, citing a breach of FA Rule E3 as it included reference to a disability.

– ESPN Premier League fantasy: Sign up now! – VAR in the Premier League: Ultimate guide – When does the transfer window reopen? – Premier League winter break: All you need to know

The 16-year-old must also complete a face-to-face education course and pay a £350 fine.

The clip, posted on Snapchat during the Champions League final, showed Elliott — then at Fulham — using derogatory language to seemingly mock Kane.

The footage spread online at the end of July, leading the youngster to “wholeheartedly apologise for any offence caused.”

In a message posted on Instagram, he continued: “The video was taken whilst messing around with friends in a private environment and was not directed at any individual but I realise that my actions were both immature and senseless.

“I would like to stress that the contents of the video do not represent who I am as a person or how I’ve been brought up, and I am truly sorry.”

Reacting to the suspension, a Liverpool spokesperson said: “Harvey’s apology was sincere, immediate and unequivocal. He has acknowledged privately and publicly his actions were wrong.

“Given his age when this indiscretion was committed — in a private setting and prior to signing for us — we will continue to work with Harvey on an educational basis as relates to his conduct.

“He has already demonstrated to us a willingness to learn and live up to the values and conduct expected of a Liverpool player.”

Liverpool confirmed the signing of Elliott on July 28 after he turned down the opportunity to remain at Craven Cottage, with his youth contract expiring a month earlier.

The winger, who became the youngest player to feature in the Premier League when he came on as a substitute for Fulham against Wolves in May, aged just 16 years and 30 days, was also tracked by Barcelona, Real Madrid and RB Leipzig.

Elliott featured during Liverpool’s preseason tour of the U.S. and made his debut in the 2-0 Carabao Cup victory at MK Dons.

He was named in the squad as Jurgen Klopp’s side extended their perfect start to the league season with a 2-1 win over Leicester City.

//due to VPPA compliance we can not send keywords through URLs implicitly in the US var countryValue = $.cookie("country"); if(!!countryValue && countryValue !== "us") {

(function() { var _fbq = window._fbq || (window._fbq = []); if (!_fbq.loaded) { var fbds = document.createElement('script'); fbds.async = true; fbds.src = "http://connect.facebook.net/en_US/fbds.js"; var s = document.getElementsByTagName('script')[0]; s.parentNode.insertBefore(fbds, s); _fbq.loaded = true; } _fbq.push(['addPixelId', '1587432981493230']); })(); window._fbq = window._fbq || []; window._fbq.push(['track', 'PixelInitialized', {}]);

$.ajax({ url: '//pixel.mathtag.com/event/js?mt_id=694557&mt_adid=137010&v1=&v2=&v3=&s1=&s2=&s3=', dataType: 'script', cache: true }); } (function(d, s, id) {var js, fjs = d.getElementsByTagName(s)[0];if (d.getElementById(id)) return;js = d.createElement(s); js.id = id;js.src = "http://connect.facebook.net/en_GB/all.js#xfbml=1&appId=116656161708917";fjs.parentNode.insertBefore(js, fjs);}(document, "script", "facebook-jssdk")); Source link . More news

via wordpress https://ift.tt/2ooQYTG