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sunlightmurdock · 2 years ago

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Blow by Blow | 0.6 | Bradley Bradshaw x Reader au

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Synopsis: Bradley’s washed up before his career has even really begun. He doesn��t want to fill his father’s shoes and he doesn’t want someone else to either. Stuck in limbo, living the same way he always has, the opportunity to step up wanders through the door of his gym in a mini dress and heels that are a size too big. Boxing au.

Warnings: unspecified age gap, violence, probs boxing inaccuracies somewhere along the line, blood and injuries throughout the fic but will be specified in the warnings of the chapter. Smut and other 18+ content, minors dni, oral (m receiving)

“He’s in a good mood this morning.” You comment. Bradley’s grinning, light on his feet as he dances around the ring. He lets Jake draw closer to him and steps quickly out of the way, taunting him in his every move. Your lips quirk up slightly.

He’s not even trying. If he wanted to, he could’ve caught Jake in the ribs just there. Instead, he quick-steps back and sways his body to the music in the background. Steve Winwood’s Higher Love is blasting over the speakers, filling the gym with upbeat lyrics. Bradley dances, unfazed as Jake puts his guard back up and steps towards him — he sidesteps, slams his glove into Jake’s ribs and continues to sway, mouthing the words.

Jake rolls his eyes and steps into Rooster’s space just as quickly.

“Uhg… help.” Mickey grunts under you.

Your eyes widen, looking down quickly and remembering yourself all of a sudden. A soft gasp slips your lips as you catch the bar seconds before it hits his chest. Your combined strength is enough to lift the bar and set it back on the rack, saving him from being crushed.

“Shit, sorry.”

Mickey sits up quickly, brows furrowed, dark curls sticking to his forehead, mock-betrayal on his face. Your cheeks burn as you shoot a quick glance back to Rooster and find him looking right at you. Shit, he absolutely caught that exchange.

“Who, Rooster?” Mickey pants, wiping the sweat from his forehead with his arm. You turn your gaze away and give a small nod. “Yeah, he got a fight confirmed this morning. It’s his first gig in like eight months — that’s why he’s showing off.”

Mickey rolls his shoulders back and grabs his water bottle from the ground.

“Why hasn’t he fought in eight months?” You ask, leaning forwards to rest your hands against the bar, tilting your head as you watch Rooster and Jake sparring. Nat always takes it easy on you, which you should probably appreciate, but it’s interesting seeing Jake and Rooster fight — because neither one of them is taking it easy on the other.

Mickey gulps down around half of his bottle’s worth of water and then settles down with a sigh, his skin glistening and sticky under the gloomy white overhead lighting. He pushes himself up from the bench and glances across at Rooster, then grimaces.

“Mm… I probably shouldn’t say. Ask him, he might tell you.” He shrugs his shoulders and then lifts his arms out, flexing his biceps. “So, do you see a difference?”

You smile at him and nod, patting his side as you step past him. “I see that your fly is down.”

He looks down quickly, smile faltering — then realizes that he’s wearing gym shorts, there isn’t a fly for it to even be down. He groans and turns to tell you off. You’re already wandering away, walking over to the ring and resting your hands against the ropes.

“Ugh, fuck.” Bradley grunts as Jake catches him in the stomach.

“Keep dancing, bird boy.” Jake taunts, stepping back to put some space between them again. Now doubled-over, Bradley is at your eye level. His eyes glint mischievously as he catches sight of you, smiling at him from the ringside.

“What’s up, Bambi? — Wanna jump in?” Bradley offers, lips quirking up into a confident smirk as he stands upright again, running his fingers over the affected area of his toned stomach. He begins towards you, Jake turns in interest to watch the conversation.

You smile softly up at him. “I wanted to ask if you were free later.

Jake’s brows raise slightly, he glances across at Bradley and then back at you. Bradley wets his lips with his tongue and takes a step closer, leaning onto the ropes.

“Like a date?”

Jake almost scoffs at the certainty in Rooster’s voice. He knows that he’s cockiness embodied himself, but he still finds himself amused at how sure Rooster is.

You smile softly, then shake your head. “Like the interview that you owe me — you’re the only one I’m waiting for.”

He almost sighs. Instead, he glances quickly back at Jake and shrugs his shoulders, then checks the clock on the wall. “Uh — if you let me finish up down here, I can stop by upstairs when I’m done?”

Jake does scoff this time. He has said some pretty forward stuff to girls in his time, but watching Bradley invite himself up to your apartment is just embarrassing.

“Well, are you busy right now?” You ask, looking up at him through your lashes as he stands on the canvas. His brows furrow.

“Kinda.” He answers back, adjusting the gloves on his wrists. You frown at him.

“Mav said that you have to do the interview before tomorrow, he wants the website to—“

“Mav isn’t my boss.” Bradley reminds you. It’s swift, calm and it shuts you down in four syllables. You close your mouth, still looking up at him. “I said I’ll stop by later.”

Swallowing softly, you nod your head. A few sheepish steps back away from the ring, you’re still nodding at him dumbly. Perhaps you should apologise. You don’t. “Okay. Thanks.”

Jake watches you turn and walk away, shaking his head softly.

“What?” Rooster frowns.

“I just don’t get how you can look at that sweet face and be such an ass,” Jake answers amusedly, giving a small shrug of his shoulders. He takes a step back and brings up his guard as they get ready to go again. “It’s like being mean to—“

“I said I’d do her interview!” Bradley defends himself, taking stance and shrugging his shoulders. They should really be focusing more than this with the fight coming up, but he really doesn’t see what he did wrong.

Bradley takes his time finishing up his training. Fashionably late or whatever. He knocks on your apartment door and waits, clearly learning from his past experiences with Tank.

You answer the door in another cute patterned sundress, having ditched the workout gear after your shower.

“Bob asked if Tank could come downstairs to play.” Rooster explains, trying to finger through the mess of his curls. Headgear always fucks up his hair.

“Oh. Sure — let me just-“

“He’s at the bottom of the stairs waiting. She said it’s okay!” Rooster relays back.

You smile and lean past Bradley to look at your friend. He grins and waves as Tank brushes past Bradley with a small growl, and then pads happily down the stairs towards him.

Rooster settles down onto the couch, you sit directly in front of him, resting on the coffee table. The interview begins.

“How would you describe yourself in three words?” You ask.

He takes a while to consider it. You stretch your legs out in front of the coffee table and look up at the dust on the ceiling fan — you should clean that. Even after eleven full rotations of the ceiling fan, he still hasn’t presented you with the slightest hint of answer.

“Is there a right answer to this?” He asks back, his eyes on you. One of his arms is draped along the back of the couch, the other resting against his thigh. He nudges his foot into yours and pretends that it’s an accident.

“I guess not.” You shrug. His lips quirk as he raises his brows at you.

“You guess not?”

“Well, there are good answers and bad answers, don’t you think?” You reply, not really feeding into his game as much as he would like you to. Parting his knees further, his body mass stretches over more of your couch unapologetically.

“So, what are the good answers?” Rooster challenges you.

“I can’t tell you that until you’ve answered, otherwise it won’t be genuine.” Professional, polite, holding back from just calling him an ass and making him answer — you probably have a future in journalism.

“What’s this for, again?” He taunts. You both know that he knows exactly what this is for. He’s just being pedantic.

“A meet the staff page. I want people to know your faces, know who they’re coming in to see. It’ll make this place seem less… scary.”

“This place is scary?” He’s outright avoiding the question at this point. You sigh, giving a small shrug of your shoulders.

“It can be.”

He nods his head. He doesn’t understand what you mean — he was raised in this place and the only thing scary about it is that he’ll probably be here for the rest of his life too.

“So… three words?” You remind him gently.

Rooster sits at a crossroads in your living room. He has two options before him, to sit in the afternoon sun and annoy you further, or to just give in and answer your silly little questions.

“Organised, loyal… handsome.” He decides finally, smiling across at you. The second time, perhaps another accident, he nudges his foot into yours.

“Jake said the same thing.” You answer immediately, giving a soft chuckle as you turn your attention towards your notepad.

This goes on for a while. The back and forth. The excessive way he spreads his limbs out over the couch just to remind you that he’s a big guy. The bullshit answers.

You check the time on your phone, then squint at him seriously. An hour has passed and you’ve gotten him to answer only four out of your ten questions.

“Why haven’t you fought in eight months?”

His eyebrows raise calmly, biceps flexing as he crosses them over his chest. He stares back at you. “Is this part of the interview?”

You shrug your shoulders, “Yeah.”

“Who said I haven’t fought in eight months?” He asks you, sitting forward in the seat and leaning closer to you.

“Couple of people, actually,” You lie to him, which isn’t untrue, they would have let it slip eventually. It doesn’t seem to be a secret. “What’s up with that?”

His eyes are russet under the afternoon sun streaming in through the window to his right, bright and shining. Somehow colder under this warm light than they had been the other night by the arena.

His eyes trail, slowly looking down and then back up over your form. He sits closer again, leaning his broad form forwards and resting his hands against his knees.

You know instantly that you’ve probably overstepped, but he was being an asshole too.

“I got suspended from competing for six months.” Sitting so close that every breath you take is the cedarwood, cypress and nutmeg of his cologne, you’ve got a front row seat to how he feels about that.

He doesn’t give much away, but you can tell that he accepts the judgment. He knows that he did something wrong — that’s good, right? — that he knows he screwed up and maybe feels bad about it.

“Then after that, no one would fight me for two months because of what happened before.” He doesn’t have to reach far to be touching you, his arm barely stretches before his hand is tucked around your knee, stroking at the curve of the joint with his thumb.

You keep your eyes on him, studying his features, looking for a crack in that exterior for just a moment.

“What did you do to get suspended?” You shift closer with him, his fingertips smoothing against your skin, staying below the thigh, near the knee.

His lips quirk softly. It’s clear that he’s not going to answer you from the get go.

“You ask a lot of questions.” He comments.

“This is an interview.” You quip. His eyes roll as he throws himself back against the couch, chuckling dryly — bested again. When he looks at you again, you’re smiling softly.

You probably wouldn’t be if he told you what he had done. With the way you’re looking at him, he debates not keeping it from you. His thumb strokes softly over your bare skin, eyes on yours.

He thinks he’s got you right where he wants you, you can see it in that mischievous look In his eye. You reach out and rest your hand against his knee.

This time, instead of looking at each other, you both watch your fingers move along his skin. At first, tracing small patterns on his knee, similar to what he’s doing to you. Innocent enough.

His eyes dart up to your face, then back down, as your fingertips smooth along his skin, brushing well past his knee and dangerously close to the hem of his shorts. His brows scrunch softly.

Kissing him down by the marina two days ago, that was one thing — he doesn’t think that you’re bold enough to do this. So, he calls your bluff. He parts his knees further and sits back comfortably against the couch.

Rooster is an attractive guy and he knows it. More attractive than Jett was, undeniably. Tanned skin, broad shoulders — but a soft smirk on his face that just makes you want to prove him wrong.

“Everyone else knows why you were suspended?” You ask, raising your brows at him as your nails skim along the inside of his thigh. Rooster watches your fingers move, feeling the delicate touch on his warm skin.

“Sure, but I didn’t tell them.” He answers calmly. It would be easy enough to tell you the full truth right now, it’s just a couple of words. I beat the shit out of a guy who wouldn’t shut his mouth. But, your ex-boyfriend was a violent prick and Bradley doesn’t want you to look at him like that.

The others were all at the fight that night, Rooster doesn’t really have a choice about them knowing or not knowing. You’re different.

You tilt your head just slightly. He looks at you again. You pout your lips in consideration, watching your fingers breach under the grey confines of the left leg of his shorts. Bradley glances down and then back up.

“Is this the first time you’ve been suspended?” The question seems to come out of nowhere, and Bradley almost winces when you ask it because he knows that his chances are getting lower and lower. He sighs softly and shakes his head.

“No, not the first time.” He replies calmly.

You lift your gaze to look at him through your lashes, fingers stilling against his skin. “Then, I think I should probably know what you did. Right?”

“Broke the rules,” He shrugs his shoulders softly, hoping that you’ll accept that answer but knowing that you won’t. Your lips purse, hinting at a slight frown. “It’s a long story, but my last fight kind of turned into a real fight instead of a boxing match, it was a mess. That’s all.”

“Did you hurt him?” You ask.

Rooster’s hand skims from your knee to the edge of the coffee table that you’re sitting on, fingers curling around the underside of it. “Yeah.”

“Badly?”

He shrugs his shoulders once more, “He recovered, if that’s what you’re asking.”

“Why?” You press.

“If you ask Nat, she’ll tell you it’s because I was dropped on my head too much as a baby.” Bradley tries to spin this back, make it light hearted again. The meekness in your voice worries him.

Your face doesn’t soften. “I’m asking you.”

“He said some stuff that I didn’t like and I got angry.” Bradley says quietly. You sit back, straightening your spine and crossing your ankles. It’s not quite a recoil, it’s something much more low-key than that, but it has the same effect.

Bradley’s brows knit together as he opens his mouth to defend himself.

“Okay — it’s deeper than him just saying something I didn’t like, I want you to know that,” Bradley rushes out, he can tell that the suddenness of it surprises you. There it is, the gap in that hard exterior. He wants you to like him.

He rubs a hand over his jaw, his eyes soft as he looks at you. “There’s kind of a history with this place, y’know, some stuff that went down between my dad and Mav and some of the guys in the circuit. People giving me a hard time for stuff that happened before I was born. It’s — just, complicated.”

“Did it make you feel better after you hurt him?” You ask softly, fingertips coming to life on his skin. He glances down as you trail your fingers back along the curve of his knee.

It takes him a moment to consider what you have asked. At a base level, yes, it felt good to make that asshole finally stop running his mouth. He definitely didn’t like the consequences that came after, but that’s not what you’re asking him. Did he feel better after he beat that guy up? — No.

He remembers the bruising around his knuckles. He sees it every day in the way that Mav looks at him know — Mav has barely spoken to him since it happened.

“No. Didn’t solve anything, really.” Bradley mumbles.

Just like with the first question you had asked him, there were good and bad answers to this question. The answer he gave is satisfying enough.

He rests his elbows on his knees and leans forwards, head hung slightly to watch your fingers on his thigh. You sit forwards slowly, leaning in and pressing a delicate kiss to his warm cheek.

He looks up, you’ve surprised him again. He was sure you were going to ask him to leave.

You kiss his lips. He rushes, reaching for your skin, ready to pull you against him. Instead, you stay where you are, both perched on the edges of your seat, leaning forwards to kiss. Fingers smoothing softly over the scar on his cheek, you hum gently against his lips, contented.

Impatient, fingers curl into the fabric of your shirt. He’s pulling you forwards, urging you closer until you’re on the couch, straddling his hips. Knees on either side of his clothed torso, you match his energy, curling your fists into his shirt and pulling him into you. Deepening the kiss, his hands in your hair, your tongue running rampant against his own.

The taste of mint passes between the two of you. His is spearmint, yours is peppermint. It’s a quick and shocking revelation that you had both been planning for this kiss to happen.

His fingers curl around your hips, tugging you forwards, grinding himself up against your core. The second that the bulge in his shorts touched you, you stiffen. It’s hard to miss.

“You alright?” Rooster murmurs, pulling back brows scrunching in slight concern. You look over his features, then nod hurriedly. His brows scrunch tighter together as you push yourself up and away from his lap.

There’s a calm silence as you settle between his legs, pressing your plush lips to the inside of his knee. His tongue darts out to wet his lips with his tongue as he settles back against the couch. You just keep on surprising him.

Surprise after surprise as you tease your mouth along the inside of his thighs until he’s rock hard and straining against the inside of his gym shorts. Even after that, when his shorts are down by his ankles and his eyes are closed in anticipation, you don’t give him what he wants.

Instead, your nails rake softly along his sensitive skin, followed by your lips. Open-mouthed, gentle kisses onto the most tender parts of his skin.

When you finally work up the confidence to curl your fingers into the sides of his boxers and pull them down, your breathing shudders. So relieved that his sigh almost becomes a whine, he readily lifts his hips for you to guide his boxers down. Both his boxers and his shorts pool around his ankles as he tugs his shirt up and over his head.

He’s so hard it seems painful, the head of his dick flushed the same way that his cheeks do when he gets embarrassed.

You’ve talked a lot with your girl friends, and you had known that Jett was around average — nothing special, but Bradley is. Before now, you’ve never seen a dick that looks heavy in the same way his does.

Admittedly, you’ve thought about this a couple of times since you had come across Bradley on the floor of your apartment in those damn near sheer white boxers of his.

Sitting nestled between strong legs, warm, tanned skin. He rests his arm along the back of the couch, letting you look as much as you’d like. It’s been a long time since he was insecure about his body.

You sit forwards and look up at him. Rooster considers for a moment whether he should stop you or not. The second your fingers curl around the base of his cock, his mind is made up.

Your warm tongue tracing his dick up and down, eyes on him for reassurance as his thumb strokes in time against your cheek. Your lips wrap expertly around the tip, sucking on it like a lollipop, the tip of your tongue tracing over the slit.

His breathing quietens, brows furrowing as he watches you. It’s good, it feels good — he’s had better, but he probably shouldn’t have been expecting too much from a meek little mouse like you anyway.

Rooster hums softly in approval when you lick a stripe up the underside of his shaft. Testing the waters, you skim your hand along his thigh. His head rests back against the couch as your main focus shifts to his balls.

Your tongue lingers on the head, darting over his slit to collect the precum that had seeped out. It makes him dizzy, the needy way you lick at his cock, the experienced way that you touch him.

Everything after becomes less about what you should be doing, and more about his response to it. He pants hard when you pull back and pepper kisses along his shaft. He groans loudly when your nose brushes his pelvis and you’re looking up at uk with those doe-eyes, all brimming with tears. He jolts when your nose presses into his thigh as you tease open-mouthed kisses along his balls.

It’s good. So fucking good. He’s lost track of what he’s saying in his head and what he’s saying out loud, unsure of if he should slide a hand into your hair. He doesn’t need to, somehow you’re right where he needs you, right when he needs it.

Rooster shudders, fingers curling into the couch cushion as he involuntarily bucks his hips, feeling your throat squeeze around him. “Shit, fuck —- I’m gonna cum, I’m — I’m—“

You look up at him, drool-soaked lips quirking at the corners. He’s pretty when he’s right on the edge like this. Knuckles whitening, muscles shaking under the intensity. Head thrown back, lips parted, deep groans spilling from his lips.

His body jolts, fists curling hard into the sheets. Every aching muscle in his body contracts, tightening and trembling as his orgasm tears through his nerves. He comes with a strained groan. His dick twitches against your tongue before releasing his load down your throat, leaving you with little choice but to swallow. Luckily for him, that was the plan anyway.

You guide him through his high, not stopping until he’s a trembling wreck under your fingertips. Rooster grunts, mouth hanging open, brows furrowed tightly as the aftershocks of his orgasm tear through his nerves.

Finally, you sit back on your knees and wipe the spit from your chin with the back of your hand.

He swallows, taking in a shaking breath and pushing the base of his palm into his eye socket, trying to make those white splotches in his vision go away. You wipe the smudged mascara from under your eyes.

His legs are still shaking as he pulls his shorts and boxers back up in one move, draping an arm over his eyes. “Fuck, where did you learn how to do that?” — it’s a stupid question, but he just can’t imagine that this kind of expertise came from your ex.

“I read about it.” You answer softly, smoothing your fingers tenderly along the hair on his thighs. His brows furrow as he feels you move to sit down beside him.

He turns his head. Every line on his face deepens as he scrunches his features up, lost. “You… read about it? — Like in a book?”

“Something like that,” You answer him, trailing your fingers over the ridges in his bicep. Your gaze flickers up to meet his. “Was it okay?”

Rooster’s brows lift. He chuckles breathlessly and pulls the covers up over his waist, then brings his hand up to rub at his eye. “Okay? — It was — that… Wow.”

You smile softly at him. “Can I ask you for a favour?”

“Trust me, sweetheart, I’m going to take care of you. Just, let my hands stop shaking.” Rooster breathes out, still recovering as he squeezes your knee. You press your knees together and shift back.

“Oh, no, not that. I’d prefer it if we left it at that today.”

He turns his head and frowns — Bradley has never not reciprocated in his life, and he doesn’t intend to start now. “But…”

“You can make it up to me another time, just not today… if that’s okay.” There she is again. That meek little mouse. As if you didn’t just give him the most earth-shattering blowjob. He shakes his head and sits up.

“So what’s the favour?” He asks calmly.

“I want to do a fight like you guys do. Like a real one.”

….

#bradley rooster bradshaw #bradley bradshaw #top gun: maverick #bradley bradshaw au #bradley bradshaw x reader #bradley bradshaw smut #blow by blow

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forensicated · 10 months ago

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Episode 462: Dan Boxing

Dan has a little friend joining him today for half his shift, his opponent for that nights boxing match, PC Kevin Sharp! He's coming over from Woodham Station to collect a prisoner who isn't yet ready to travel. (The character says he's Barnsley born and bred and moved down for his wife. The actor who plays him is from my home town - I'm easily amused 🤣) She tells him to come and see him later on and they can sum him up together. "It's true what they say, folk aren't as friendly down here." (He's not wrong 🤣!)

Dan's day doesn't get much better when he has to climb into a pond to rescue a drunk girl who is taking a nap after wandering a few houses down from a house party. The man fishes one of his fish out of the pond as Roger calls for an ambulance for the girl. "It's too late for that!" he scolds Roger, holding up the dead fish. The girl then wakes up and vomits on Dan's shoe! As if that isn't enough, they're then landed with the baby of the girl taken away in the ambulance!

Kevin tells Dan he was South Yorkshire Boxing Champ for 3 years in a row. Dan tells Will and worries that he's going to get slaughtered in the ring. Will reassures him the steroids problems are all in the past and he's trained hard and he deserves to win. Unfortunately it's not quite the case though as Dan removes a bottle of steroids and a needle from the pocket of his gym bag.

"Can't you turn that thing off?!" Gina comes through to find that Emma can't settle the woman's baby," Have you tried feeding it? Always works in my experience with men." The boy who handed it over has returned to the station to collect the baby. It's clear that he has no idea and no experience with the child and doesn't even know his name. Gina and Roger investigate further, finding drugs hidden in the baby's pram.

Kevin's prisoner is finally ready to travel and he heads back to his station with him. Gina updates Dan on their 'Friend From The North', telling him that he hasn't raised a trophy in three years. "Win or lose, it doesn't matter..." she assures Dan. "Just make sure you win!" she adds, walking off. Dan's clearly psyched out and takes himself into the toilets. "Good luck tonight, Danny Boy!" Tony pats him on the back as he leaves. "We'll all be there cheering for you!" Dan sighs and looks sad. "No pressure then..." he says almost under his breath, letting himself into a cubicle where he removes the needle and steroid bottle from his pocket, injecting some in a cubicle.

Later, at the boxing gym, Dan is all pumped up and ready to go, warming up in the changing room when Kevin arrives. He asks Dan if he's nervous and he says no, not yet - besides, Kevin is the favourite and Dan the outsider. Kevin moves to get changed. "How much to take a dive then....? £150? £200?" Dan looks surprised. "You are kidding?" he asks, when Kevin smirks. "Northern humour. Forget I said it, OK?"

Ringside, Sun Hill are all placing bets on Dan winning, a huge cheer going up as both men appear. As they touch gloves, Kevin says "Easy mate, it's been a while." Kevin has a good start, knocking Dan down onto the ground round one. Dan gets back to his feet during the countdown. Dan goes back for him with full steroid rage, having to be pulled off by the referee. Will tries to calm him down before he gets disqualified and he can tell by looking at him - Dan's back using steroids again. Round two starts and Dan only has to land a few punches before Kevin hits the deck and doesn't get up during the countdown. ... He also doesn't get up after it either. It's become clear there's a serious problem. Kevin is completely out cold and not moving and a medic is called for him and they begin CPR.

#gina gold #roberta taylor #Dan Boxing #Chris Jarvis #Dan Casper #Episode 462 #Will Fletcher #Gary Lucy #Matt Kennard #the bill

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testormblog · 11 months ago

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The Show

The biggest event of the year was the Beenleigh Agricultural Show. The community eagerly looked forward to it for months beforehand and talked about nothing else. It happened each September after the westly winds blew winter’s frosts away. The local farmers entered the show’s competitions with their animals and spring’s harvest. They also keenly awaited the latest machinery for sale even if they weren’t buying. The car dealerships promoted their newest cars they’d display at the show. They rubbed their hands in anticipation of the vehicles they’d sell by peer group pressure. Women baked for competitions to protect or to gain their reputations as the best bakers in the surrounds. They also grew the brightest flowers for their floral arrangements. The young women vied with each other to be crowned the Show Princess.

The show and its gala ball kept Mother busy for weeks ahead sewing ballgowns and day dresses for clients. She laid yards of coloured fabric out on every spare surface at home. Her wealthier ladies planned their outfits well in advance and insisted theirs surpass everybody else’s in style and discussion amongst the community. When they came for their fittings, Mother carefully hid other works in progress. As the women gushed over their beautiful dresses, she beamed with delight.

Sadly, she never saw the gowns, she sewed, worn to the ball. Dad wouldn’t take her. He insisted that dancing was against his religious conviction. I thought what conviction given his acquaintanceship with lowlifes. Besides, Mother wasn’t a Lutheran. She could dance respectably too.

Going to the show was really about been seen there and seeing others. Everybody who was anybody went. The event added colour to people’s otherwise drab existence. Women wore their best frocks and accessorised these with stylish shoes, handbags and hats. Mother’s outfit was always resplendent. The women walked around the Exhibition Hall appearing to be interested in the exhibits. In reality, they were exhibiting their outfits; using each time they stopped to chat as an opportunity to do so. Mother revelled in the envious glances hers gained. Me, I preferred to watch the Grand Parade where the farmers showed their horses and cattle. As a young boy, I imagined a bull escaping its handler and causing uproar amongst the audience. This never happened.

The bright lights of sideshow alley always lit my eyes up. Mother called the alley the money pit. She said carnies fleeced showgoers. She was right! Every game was rigged. I often watched the teenage lads try their luck at the duck target shooting. They never won any substantial prizes. Yet, I knew some were crack shots and could shoot a duck flying overhead. When I was young, Mother allowed me one ride on the merry-go-round. When I was older, I kept an eye on the ground for tickets dropped by the ticket collectors and squandered very little of my hard earnt pocket money on rides.

At lunch time, Mother and I met her sisters to share a picnic and to watch the woodchopping competition. I think they liked to see the woodchoppers’ bare shoulders, rippling muscles and arms glistening with sweat. Being of Scottish descent, they also liked to hear the Scottish pipe bands play. I loved this especially. I thought the bagpipes were such a weird looking contraption and was fascinated by their ability to produce noise.

Mother always left Dad at the front gate. When she disappeared; he snuck off to the bar tent to join his disreputable mates. Early in the afternoon, once the bar crowd had consumed sufficient liquid courage to be full of bravado, the fights promoter opened the boxing tent. The men jostled, with their admission fees in their hands, to be at the front of the line, keen to stand ringside. The spruiker stood in the ring, goading local hopefuls to fight the show’s boxers for a few pounds prize money. The audience made bets amongst itself as the fights promoter didn’t run a legal tab. The competition was set up to entertain the crowd rather than be a fair game. Most of the hopefuls were hopeless and fell to the mat quickly. They didn’t have a soft landing either. The mat was merely a tarp covering hard ground. My father fantasised about boxing in the ring though he was now too old and sensible to be so stupid. In his younger days, he saw success in the boxing ring as a ticket out of poverty. He had trained ready for his turn on the mat but saved his face by misfortune. He fell off a bicycle and broke his arm beforehand. By the time, I was old enough to enter the boxing tent, I valued my brain and my body too much to fight.

When I was nine, the show opened another door for me. The Show Society ran drawing competitions in concert with the local schools and gave free entry passes to exhibitors. I drew a rural scene of a barn with pastels. A cow stood in its yard behind a slip rail fence, and in the background, was a haystack. At that time, haystacks dotted farms everywhere. I was excited to receive my free entry ticket. I had never received anything for free before. Mother and I checked out the exhibits in the pavilion. I wanted to see my drawing on display. I had made a decent effort with it. We couldn’t find it anywhere amongst the pictures of cats, dogs and flowers. I felt despondent. Mother turned toward a huge wall. Displayed prominently on it was my drawing! She exclaimed in surprise. Next to it, a blue ticket was pinned. It had won first prize! I was surprised too and chuffed with myself. We looked around to see if other Waterford students had won prizes. Zilch! Only me! My teacher even walked up to us to congratulate me.

Apparently, I had a natural eye for spatial dimensions and perspective and could replicate these on paper. My talents were beginning to reveal themselves to me.

Seeing my picture and my name proudly displayed in front of the whole community meant I was somebody, not a nobody hardly anybody cared about. I didn’t think about besting other people. I was just hungry for approval and recognition. Over the coming years, various show competitions gave me this. A child of no hope became one of hope.

#The_Show #Beenleigh Show #sideshow alley #boxing tent #child of no hope

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orlandccantu · 2 years ago

Text

✦ DAVID CASTAÑEDA, CISMALE, HE/HIM ✦ ORLANDO CANTU the THIRTY-THREE year old has been in Hidehill for SEVEN MONTHS and was a STRANGER to Miyeon Kang, the murder victim. Whispers on the streets are that the PERSONAL TRAINER AT BIG GUNS who lives in HIDE SQUARE are said to be CHARMING and SPITEFUL but I guess we’ll find out for ourselves. { CAIT, 29, CST, SHE/HER. }

musings ! visage ! wanted connections ! starters ! aesthetics ! orlando !

🅢🅣🅐🅣🅢

⊹˙⋆ 𝙛𝙪𝙡𝙡 𝙣𝙖𝙢𝙚 ! orlando delgado cantu ⊹˙⋆ 𝙣𝙞𝙘𝙠𝙣𝙖𝙢𝙚 ! orly&lando ⊹˙⋆ 𝙖𝙜𝙚 ! 33 ⊹˙⋆ 𝙙𝙤𝙗 ! october 13th 1989 ⊹˙⋆ 𝙥𝙖𝙧𝙚𝙣𝙩𝙨 ! esther cantu ( mother )&unknown father ⊹˙⋆ 𝙨𝙞𝙗𝙡𝙞𝙣𝙜𝙨 ! none ⊹˙⋆ 𝙝𝙖𝙞𝙧 𝙘𝙤𝙡𝙤𝙧 ! black ⊹˙⋆ 𝙚𝙮𝙚 𝙘𝙤𝙡𝙤𝙧 ! brown ⊹˙⋆ 𝗵𝗲𝗶𝗴𝗵𝘁 ! 5'11" ⊹˙⋆ 𝙥𝙞𝙚𝙧𝙘𝙞𝙣𝙜𝙨 ! basic ears ⊹˙⋆ 𝙩𝙖𝙩𝙩𝙤𝙤𝙨 ! various little outs and ends tattoos scattered across ⊹˙⋆ 𝙨𝙚𝙭𝙪𝙖𝙡𝙞𝙩𝙮 ! heterosexual ⊹˙⋆ 𝙤𝙘𝙘𝙪𝙥𝙖𝙩𝙞𝙤𝙣 ! trainer at big guns ⊹˙⋆ 𝙥𝙤𝙨𝙞𝙩𝙞𝙫𝙚 𝙩𝙧𝙖𝙞𝙩𝙨 ! charming , loyal , protective , outgoing . ⊹˙⋆ 𝙣𝙚𝙜𝙖𝙩𝙞𝙫𝙚 𝙩𝙧𝙖𝙞𝙩𝙨 ! jealous , spiteful , impulsive , perfectionist .

🅐🅔🅢🅣🅗🅔🅣🅘🅒🅢

worn out gym shoes held together by duct tape , dancing in the kitchen at one in the morning , flowers on a doorstep , small little smiles , finding dog hair on your favorite hoodie , a small ring box full of things that could have been locked in a drawer , the smell of fresh coffee .

🅑🅘🅞

⊹˙⋆ he was raised by his mom and a string of guys that treated the cantu household as a revolving door . after just about every break up they found themselves moving . they never had a lot but they had each other and roof over their head .

⊹˙⋆ school was school he went through the motions , he made friends each one he went to but never got too extremely close knowing what very well might and did happen . he showed interest in sports but never stuck around enough to actually participate .

⊹˙⋆ in high school his mom finally found someone that stuck and they found themselves grounded . his mom was happy , his new father figure was good , and he was finally able to join in on things that he envied others for being able to do before . at sixteen he met a girl he adored the relationship went on for the rest of high school and while she went to college and he tried to get a footing in mma .

⊹˙⋆ six years larer they were living together and she'd finished school and he found himself no closer to his goals . he was stuck ar ringside and training . everything was good it was love and familiar but he made no move to take it further .

⊹˙⋆ another six years and he can see something new on her face , it was something begging for something new so he got a black lab named kota . it wasn't what she was looking for and he knows that now but it took him two more years before he figured it out and by the time he did and got things in order she was gone and he was blocked .

⊹˙⋆ almost two years went by in a seeming blink of an eye . he dated and found no sign of what he was looking for in any one of his dates . it became a pattern to work , bar some nights and taking kota to the beach on others , and have dinner with his mom on sundays .

⊹˙⋆ he needed something new and he found it in the form of an article about hidehill he found , there was appeal to just slipping away into a new environment and trying to break a tired rutted out pattern .

🅠🅤🅘🅒🅚 🅕🅐🅒🅣🅢

still goes on blind dates but they typically don't pan out into a second date . they do sometimes end with him ghosting people .

requires coffee to survive and has a massive sweet tooth .

his protective nature can be perceived as being overbearing and somewhat controlling . he just worries about what he can't control .

tries to spoil whoever he's taken a liking to .

can cook . it's something his mom instilled in him at a young age .

he was born in texas and moved just about all over it . before hidehill he'd found himself settled in galveston he misses moody gardens .

talks to his mom every other day and finds himself at cadillac lounge at least once a week .

#filedunder . ɪɴᴛʀᴏ .#hidehillintro

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i-got-these-words · 6 years ago

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all thats missing from ringside is some smexy fanart

P R E A C H

#19 days #tianshan #ringside #fanfiction #fanfic #one day I will save up enough to commission someone #Im not broke just really bad at managing my allowance #my friends are a bad influence #I spend most of monies on shoes #and drinks #there so many incredibly talented artists in this fandom #its unreal #the only art I can do is a badass wing liner #disclaimer it only looks badass if Im drunk enough #ask-box

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topboxingshoes · 4 years ago

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high top boxing boots for women (20) von Frank Steven Über Flickr: High Top

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hollerace · 4 years ago

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The Hockey Fan--February 12, 2021

The bar was low. Dark, smoky, smudged, on the border of the North End. Thacher Street. I discovered it, via a Connecticut guy who had moved nawth. I avoided the fern-laden, brassy, high-end watering holes filled with people who spoke in chilled whispers, getting louder only to feign laughter.

That's how I found this place. It was faintly Irish—this was Boston, after all—but no shamrocks or leprechauns danced on its walls. A sooty Guinness sign blinked forlornly through the smoke. When I first saw her, she sat, or perched, on a bar stool. She was slight, almost petite, and, except for her porcelain skin, very black. Clothes, stockings, shoes, hair, purse.

The hair, I noticed first. Done up in a longish page boy. Luxuriantly raven, falling in even cascades, framing the bone face, landing perfectly. When she swung her head, I saw harpstrings moving in great sheets, in planned arpeggios. The luster was palpable; it mesmerized me. I wanted to smell her.

The second time I saw her, she approached me. It was a Thursday, I was off the road. The Bruins were on TV, with no sound, as always. There was no juke box. Clinkety glass, jangling silverware and strums of conversation were the backdrop.

“Do you like the hockey?” she said.

Her fragrance washed: icy and clean. Not like an applied scent, it was something she carried. She took the seat next to me and sat on its edge. Her hands fluttered.

“I do,” I said. Hawkey. The accent, richly Bawstin, the ah's, the aw's for short o's.

“I've never been,” she said. “I should like to go sometime.”

I mulled her way of speaking. It was halting, as if tethered, yet old-timey sounding, like that of a fussy maiden aunt. I wondered if she wore powder or had a hanky in her sleeve.

Her black boots gleamed as I stooped to pick up a fallen napkin. I fought speaking further; she was staring at the TV.

“May I buy you a drink?” I said.

“No,” she said. “Certainly not. But that doesn't mean we can't speak. Mercy me. You seem nice.”

“I like the Black Bush, rocks,” she said, naming the upscale brand of Bushmills Irish whiskey.

I grinned and opened my mouth.

“No,” she said. “Don't make light. Yes, I see the double meaning. But I don't think you are a man who'd make such a joke. Would you?”

“No,” I said. “I wasn’t going there. But it is good whiskey. It's aged in Spanish Oloroso sherry casks and bourbon barrels. Seven years old.” She said, “So, you are knowledgeable.” After coaxing one out of a black leather case, she lit a Virginia Slim.

I grinned. “Not really. You see, I have a buddy who works for the importer. I can even get you some product or glasses.”

She finally allowed me her first soft smile. Her mouse-mouth moved slightly. A hint of small, even, white teeth. The parentheses at the corners sidled slightly.

“And you are honest,” she said. “But I drink it only here. Never elsewhere. Allow me to buy you one, however.”

And she did. Should I tell her I was a drummer, having moved here for a gig that might take me elsewhere? I avoided this path.

We sipped quietly. Her eyebrows, perfect arcs, hunched over her glass. Dark eyes; perhaps the smallest of wrinkles dancing around them. She may have been older than I, early thirties. She wore many black layers. When she shifted, ever so slightly, hints of black, not-sheer-not-opaque stockings peeked between boots and skirt. I tried to imagine her legs.

I drank with her. Without touching me, she pulled me in, her gravity extending toward me, grasping, holding on. I think our stools moved closer.

A new period commenced; the screen snapped her head back. “Oh,” she would say every once in a while. An almost-goal. A breakaway. A skirmish.

“Oh,” she said, again. A quiet, mouse-oh, barely escaping her thin, reddened lips.

I turned at an oblique angle, seeing her in a little compartment from my eye-corner, pretending to watch the game mere blocks away, played by ant-men on ivory ice.

“The Bruins are going to lose,” she said during the third period. “Yes,” I said. “They are. Would you like to go to a game?”

“Very much. With you?”

“Yes,” I said.

“Even better,” she said. “I come here on Thursdays.”

Her departure was also small and tidy. She shrugged on her coat (black leather) and said a hint of good-bye.

And was out the door.

Iggy, my friend the barkeep, rolled his eyes at me. “Not for you, boyo,” he said.

“Why?”

“Not for you.”

<><><>

I went on the road for a while. In New York, I leaned on a record-company guy I knew. He was crazily connected, especially for sports seats. I traded him a ringside table at Max’s KC for a pair of Bruins ducats, which he mailed me.

When that Thursday came, I had been away for a few weeks and knew I was taking a crazy chance. I made sure to stop in Rozzie Square for a few nips of Black Bush, which I stashed into the pocket of my pea coat.

I waited at the bar, hoping, nursing a Rolling Rock.

She came in, a wave of black. I smelled her first. A dress this time, suitably short, with black pumps. Leather gloves. Her legs were sturdier than her remainder, gleaming through the hose. I liked them. It was a different leather coat, a larger bag.

Her Black Bush was ready before she sat down next to me. That small smile, perhaps a hair wider, again. She carried the cold in with her; it added to her scent.

“We have time for just one,” I said.

“Before what?” said the eyebrows.

I slid the tickets onto the scarred walnut next to her coaster.

“Is it the hockey? Tonight?” she said. The hawkey. I loved it.

“It is.”

“And you would like me to accompany you?”

“I certainly would.” Now I was mimicking her without thinking. She didn't seem to notice.

She looked at me, almost schoolgirl-shy. “Then we shall go. I’ll leave my bag with Iggy. I was hoping to see you.” A bigger smile; the only part of her face that moved was her pinched mouth.

We walked the few blocks up North Washington Street to the Garden. The NY-connected seats were quite good. Near one corner, only a few rows back from the glass.

“We just made face-off,” I said.

“What's that?”

“That's how they start the game.” I tried not to sound expert or exasperated.

She looked at me, icy and stern. “I don't claim to know about the hockey. I just like it.” From thereon in, I explained only when she asked a question.

“Oh,” she would say from time to time, lightly tapping my wrist. She did this as she spoke--digital punctuation. “They move so quickly.”

“They hit the white barriers hard. Do they mean to hurt each other?”

“It's faster, louder and better,” she proclaimed.

During the first break, I asked her if she wanted Bushmills.

“You surprise me,” she said.

I showed her the airplane nips. “I can get some cups and ice,” I said.

“No matter. This way is fine.”

She took bird sips, her pinksilver tongue darting to lick her lips after each sampling. I found this alluring, sensual.

When the Bruins scored, she stood regally and emitted a small, “Yay.”

What affected her most was a fight. In the third period, Terry O'Reilly squared off against the oddly named Larry Playfair of the Sabres. Very close to our seats.

She stood with the rest of us and jerked left and right, as if a player had jumped into the stands and was pummeling her. I heard her grunt, just a bit. When the referees finally separated the combatants, she sat back down, seemingly exhausted, wrapped into herself.

“Have you ever seen such a thing?” she said. “Heavens. They were really fighting.”

“In a hockey way,” I said.

She said, “I abhor violence, but nonetheless, that excited me.”

She took my right hand and placed it between her breasts. “See?”

See? I think my pulse was outracing her gallop.

She then daintily situated my hand in her lap, where she held me gently. Her fingers were long and cool, her manicure seamless and perfect. We sat that way for a while.

“Have you any more Bushmills?” she asked, returning my hand.

She caught me staring at her once. A full profile. A puckish nose, the proper chin that extended just short of proud. Limned by the confetti, raucous crowd, she glimmered softly—with seemingly no edges. I felt succor. I lost track of the game.

We finished drinking just as the game did. Without discussing it, we walked back to the bar. She removed her right glove and took my left hand.

As I was about to walk into the bar, my hand on her upper arm, she delicately twirled away. She said, “I truly like you.” She gave me the smallest possible kiss on the cheek. Almost a child's kiss, innocent and wan.

Indoors, she said, “Come back by the coatroom with me. I need to fetch my bag.”

I followed blindly.

“I want to kiss you,” she said. And did so. Quickly. On the lips.

Outside, she flagged down a cab. And dragged me into it.

She told the driver, “19 Cornwall St., Jamaica Plain.”

Then she looked at me, “I can come over. If you want.”

I squinted. How did she know where I lived? This was not a time for rumination.

“Yes,” I said. “That would be nice.”

As I dug in my pockets, she paid for the cab.

I was thankful that my second-floor flat was somewhat presentable. I asked her if she would like a drink as I threw mail from the sofa and socks from the coffee table.

Then I turned to look for her.

“In here,” she said.

My bedroom.

“Join me,” she said. “Love me, please.”

It was angular and concise. It was fencing, thrusting, parrying, folding. It was quick motion, dekes and backpedals. It was gently primal. It was violent, then prim, wordless, tender, gruff, almost emotionless, yet simmering. It was engulfing, releasing, joining, separating. It was familiar, yet foreign. We moved in concert, then wildly out-of-tune. Finally a daub of a sigh floated from her. In the end, the music subsided, with no coda.

We drowsed. She broached the soft stillness. “I must go,” she said.

As I rose to protest, she was already wearing a black silk something.

She said, “I used your phone.”

I said, “Please. Stay the night. It's almost three. How will I get you home?”

“That has been arranged.”

She moved toward a window, parting the curtains, looking out over Flaherty Park.

She said, “Please kiss me good-bye.”

Then she gathered me in and kissed me for real. For the first time, it seemed. A whole, coiling, languorous, steamingly wonderful kiss. It lasted a minute or an hour.

Dressed, she moved toward the door. Half-turning, she said, “Janet.”

“What?”

She said, “My name is Janet.”

And was gone.

After throwing on my robe, I went to the window. I could see a large Lincoln Continental heading away. It was black.

<><><>

On April 1st, I called all over town, trying to score for the game that night. Just before lunch, my phone ...

“It's Janet,” said the voice.

“Janet,” I said. How did she get my number? “I've been trying to get tickets for tonight. It's the last home game and the playoffs will be impossible for me to handle.”

She said, “This doesn't matter. I cannot go, anyway.”

I said, “Then could we meet another Thursday?”

“Season's over,” she said. I heard a voice in the background.

“Thank you for loving me,” she said, and she hung up abruptly. I felt a chill.

<><><>

Like a religious zealot, I made the pilgrimage back to Iggy's place for a few Thursdays. There was no sign of Janet. I kept at it, wanting to worship at the altar again, wanting to celebrate the rite. Wanting to smell her, hear the tinkling voice, see the miniscule smile. The parentheses. Everything.

<><><>

That summer, another phone call changed my life. It was from Sammy McGuane, an old bandmate. He had managed a record deal and wanted me to bang some tubs. Along with some other projects.

In LA. The timing beckoned.

Before I left Boston, I went back to Iggy's and left him a forwarding address.

I said, “If she ever-”

Iggy cut me off. “Awright, awright. But I doubt it.”

<><><>

The letter didn't come until over a year later, in August. Iggy's name and the bar's address were scrawled, almost indecipherably, on the crinkled envelope.

It wasn't actually a letter, but a newspaper clipping. It was from the Globe, dated about three weeks prior. A brief story followed the photo. I read first.

REPUTED MOBSTER SENTENCED TO 15 YEARS

Johnny “Gigs” Giambalvo, seen leaving the Suffolk County courthouse, has been found guilty of seven counts of racketeering, and money laundering after a short trial. He was given a fifteen-year sentence by Judge Felix Herrera. Giambalvo, who will be serving his time in Walpole Penitentiary, is also due to be tried on two counts of aggravated assault, which could lengthen his sentence. He is alleged to have assaulted members of the Boston Bruins hockey club after he found his wife in attendance at a team party.

His wife of seven years, Janet Cutrone Giambalvo [pictured on left], had no comment. Despite rumors of the couple's estrangement, she sat with her husband every day in court.

It would be none other than The Hockey Fan in the photo, trailing a stout, grim, dark man out of the courthouse.

She wore black.

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10point-must · 5 years ago

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SMF Classics Volume XXI: Mike Tyson - Bruce Seldon 09.07.1996

Now famous for being the boxing match that Tupac attended before being gunned down, it is often forgotten that the Mike Tyson - Bruce Seldon fight was a massive, star-studded event in Las Vegas, bringing in over $100M in revenue in PPV revenue (adjusted for inflation) making it among the top 25 fights of all time from that perspective.

Tupac and Suge Knight ringside:

Tyson wore his standard black trunks with familiar patches to those in past fights:

However he also had a small logo on his back right thigh that was less typical for Tyson:

He wore his usual black shoes

and both fighters wore red gloves by a brand that I do not recognize and cannot make out - does anyone know what make these are?

Bruce Seldon had a nice white, red and blue set -

and a nice little red and blue action along the side:

He wore white socks and footwear:

The fight didn’t last that long. Seldon took 8 years off and then attempted a comeback at age 37 - boxing from 2004 through 2009 until he retired. This was the last time Tyson would win a title fight (he had vacated his WBC belt to take Seldon’s WBA belt). He would lose it in his next fight to Evander Holyfied (see SMF Classics Volume XIX), and he would not wear a belt again. He retired in 2005.

Respect box.

#mike tyson #tysonseldon #bruce seldon #tupac #classic fights #boxing gloves #boxing

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the-scenic-route-no-25-blog · 5 years ago

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Sumo Westling

A traditional sport that you must see as Japan is the only country where it is professionally played. This sport holds a lot of history with numerous rituals stemming from Shinto. There are sumo wrestling tournaments held six times a year.

January: Hatsu Basho - Tokyo

March: Haru Basho - Osaka

May: Natsu Basho - Tokyo

July: Nagoya Basho - Nagoya

September: Aki Basho - Tokyo

November: Kyushu Basho - Fukuoka

here is a link to the Japan Sumo Association’s official sumo schedule. Sumo wrestling is a very popular sport and tickets get sold out quickly so purchase your tickets in advance. Also, there are three different types of seats that you can purchase: Japanese style box floor seats, arena style chair seats, and ringside floor seats. The ringside seats are not usually offered to the general public. The box style seats are relatively small and many people prefer to split a four seat box between two people. You take off your shoes and sit Japanese-style on floor cushions. The arena style seats are typical chairs which are less expensive but a bit farther away. These tournaments begin in the morning, however, most people do not show up until the afternoon and typically ends around 6:00pm.

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boxinglasvegas · 4 years ago

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boxschuhe fuer frauen online bestellen deutschland schweiz oesterreich kostenloser versand (8) von Frank Steven

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honkellujah · 5 years ago

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>Gamzee, lead the festivities.

You'd been awake all day and night, genuinely nervous about the holiday celebration. The meeting with the elders had shaken you a little. They'd been very specific, that if you fucked this up, it would end poorly for you. Sure, you'd spent the last several Hallowtides in the church headquarters, sure, you'd given a sermon once, but you'd never actually led a holiday mass. This mass, one of the black masses, was an important one.

You take extra care in painting your face, having your handmaid braid your long, wild hair back so that it fit properly in the hood of your subjuggulator attire. You get dressed, slipping the skull onto your head very last. You never bother with shoes during rituals. That was your brand.

You dismiss your maid for the evening. Asking her to just enjoy herself, before you ask that she leaves. You were honestly uncomfortable with the idea of anyone serving you so directly, but the old man had insisted.

You sigh as you look at yourself in the mirror. The old man......dressed like this, you looked almost exactly like him. Was that why it was always a Makara on the throne? Were you just supposed to be some clone of your ancestor?

The more you think about it the more it makes you angry. So angry in fact, you pick up your new, spiked club and smash the fuck out of your mirror. Letting out a horrific sound that could vaguely be described as a honk, you club everything off of your vanity, smash at the walls, at your lounge couches, anything that's in your way. When you catch your reflection again, multiplied in the jagged fractals of mirror still hanging on the wall, you become hysterical.

You really were just like him, weren't you?

Tutini must have heard the commotion and come in at some point because she's leaning against the door, a cigarette in her hand.

She holds it out to you, and you take it between your lips, inhaling deeply as she lights it.

"You good now? We gots to get hoppin on down to the three rings, it be time for shit to get underway."

"Yeah, I know."

You smoke while you walk, Tutini following closely behind you, carrying your club. You were sort of surprised she wasnt flicking you any shit. She walks in silence, and even lights up another smoke for you.

Your cold blood grows colder when you approach the rings. You weren't here to spectate, but be the spectacle. While usually you would relish the attention, you've had a sinking feeling in your guts for days. Your cigarette butt is casually flicked to the side and your club handed back to you before you make it to the ring.

Stepping into the center of the largest ring where the canvas and collection vessels waited, you take a deep breath.

"A wicked hallowtide to thy all, my siblings. As y'all be knowin, this most holy of nights be marking the beginnings of the dead times. The lord's times. The lord be rage, the lord be wrath, the lord be wicked as the muse is wild. We know what we gotta give him yeah? What do the lord want mine brothers, sisters and sibs?"

The clowns echo back.

"Blood for the lord! Blood for the carnival!"

"That's right mine wicked fam! And who the fuck is gonna be all giving the lord what he wants? Who volunteers to meet the judgement of the messiah raging? Who's gonna all get goin up to the motherfuckin dark carnival? If thee wish to meet the gods, stand the fuck up now. Motherfuckers what brought others as offerings too, get the fuck in line. I'll be punching tickets all motherfuckin night!"

Volunteers line up first, mostly older clowns. Clowns who want to meet their gods. Then those who brought offerings come next, simply paying tribute.

You stand, both hands on your club. The large spiked weapon leaning against one of your bare feet.

The first clown approaches and bows their head, opening themself to your influence. You make sure their desire is true, and without doubt before you swing.

"To the carnival, my sibling. May the lord judge thee worthy of shangri-la."

You bring down your club on the top of their skull. You can feel it break with the force of your blow, their brain matter splatters, some of it hitting the skull on your head. Their blood, deep and purple stains the ring where their body landed. Acolytes come to collect the corpse and you lean down to collect the blood. Turning and adding a mark to the canvas behind you.

It goes on like this, again and again and again. You bless the offering, cull them, then add their blood to the canvas to honor each and every one.

When the last body has been collected and the last drop of blood is placed in its place of honor you sigh in relief. You're pretty sure you did your ancestor proud tonight. You could feel him, staring at you from his little hidden ringside box.

The canvas is taken away by more acolytes, off to dry somewhere and then be added to the hall of artwork dedicated to the messiahs.

You step up again to speak. Telling the fam it was officially time to party. Party in honor of those brave enough to punch their tickets, in honor of those sacrificed as offerings. And of course to get wicked fucking lit.

Once the party starts. You make yourself scarce for once. Wandering around and schmoozing only until you find Kezato, who of course took pictures of every minute. You tip up the skull and roll your eyes, telling him to shut the fuck up about his dumb pictures, you don't care. He smiles and hands you a joint, lighting it up for you, your hands are fairly thoroughly coated in several colors of blood. It's all the way up to your elbows and almost to your knees too.You find a corner and sink down to the floor, leaning against your empire appointed companion and wishing Tavros was here with you instead. You're exhausted and for once in your life, not in the mood to party.

#action post #blood//#sacrifice//#ritual//#religion//#gore//#ask to tag//#long post//

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batwomanandmotherpanic · 6 years ago

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(Updated January 1, 2020)

I've mentioned a few times across various posts here that I strongly believe Kate Kane was officially involved in boxing at West Point, but I haven't really explained the reasons for that, at least not all in one place (apart from a few fanfics). So that's what I'll attempt to do now.

But there's a larger point here, too. This is a specific example, but it works to illustrate how a lot of information about a character can be gleaned from reasonable extrapolation and a bit of research, even if that information may not have been intended by the authors. It's a window into how I tend to read characters, and I think the principles described here can be applied in many different cases. I certainly don't claim to have invented it (especially since it's strongly related to Watsonian textual interpretation), but I do think it's a valuable exercise.

So first, let's look at the scene where this all spiraled out from, in Batwoman: Rebirth #1:

I try to research as many avenues as I can about Kate and the things she has probably done or experienced, but this was particularly interesting to me because it overlapped with a sport I love.

The first order of business was to establish a timeline. We know that Kate left the Academy early into her final fall semester, that DADT was repealed in September 2011, that Kate was 20 when she left, that Kate is 27 as of her 2017 series, and that there needed to be at least a year between her dismissal and the repealing of DADT, or else she would easily just have re-enrolled.

I really don't like that Kate was de-aged in Rebirth, but it does still work out; this scene with Sophie has to take place in fall 2010.

The next question then became: could women participate in boxing at the Academy at that time? After all, on the surface this scene says nothing about that one way or another. Maybe Kate and Sophie were just renting out some of the Academy's trunks and shoes for some private, unofficial sparring.

The answer to this question proved to be more complicated than one might think.

Through various articles, I found that female cadets were not required to box until fall 2016... but prior to that, if they completed all PE requirements in their plebe year, boxing was available to them as an elective, provided that they were each paired with another female cadet of similar weight (co-ed sparring was strictly prohibited).

I also found that West Point's women's boxing club started up in mid-to-late 2009, and that early 2010 was when some of their members competed for the first time, before they officially achieved club status. So that worked out as well. There was also, unfortunately but unsurprisingly, quite a bit of sexism from Academy officials regarding the formation of the club; this potentially serves as a valuable subtextual parallel to the homophobia already present in Kate's time there. Like her potential military service, it is yet another thing that became officially integrated and accepted after her time. Thematically speaking, this seemed like a right thing to include in her story.

With all this in mind, other things about that initial scene started to click into place and confirm that I was on the right track. And the beauty of it was that, like so many such things in comics, I don't know if any of it was intended to stack up this way. But it did.

There's Sophie's first line to Kate, which implies that Jacob helped her in a similar situation:

That is to say: a previous fight. Looked at from an internal perspective, why else would Sophie be saying this? What else could it be about in this context? It can't be a reference to Kate's kidnapping and rescue, because A) wow that would be a super inappropriate thing to be talking about in this situation, especially so flippantly, and B) Sophie says "help," not "save."

So, if Jacob helped Kate in a previous fight, it had to have been at a public event, which, based on the established timeline, would have been the 54th Brigade Open. And given the context of the line, since Kate is losing to Sophie here, it means Kate won in part due to Jacob's help. He gave her ringside coaching, in other words.

There's also the matter of the clothes each woman is wearing, if we circle back to the possibility that the gear was rented. Not so, it seems. None of it looks like West Point's own boxing gear (whether circa-2010 or present-day), meaning that it's almost certainly Kate and Sophie's personal attire. And why would they bother with that if they weren't involved in the sport somehow? Those articles I referenced earlier even speak of this very thing; due to budgetary constraints, many members of the fledgling club purchased their own gear.

And there are smaller, prior bits of evidence that also fit. Kate mentioning in her New 52 #0 issue that even before her Batwoman training she felt confident in her fighting ability, implying she had fought often:

(Bonus: Note where Kate describes getting beaten up.)

There's Simone's Batgirl #12, where Kate is shown jabbing as Barbara narrates that Kate is testing her reach, which is indeed one use for a jab:

Barbara's first line here also strongly ties into this discipline: boxing is at least as mental as it is physical (when done well, that is), so it's fitting that Kate would have that as a foundation for her future combat skills to rest on.

But most importantly, this participation falls in line with a few aspects of Kate's character.

Her sense of service: participating in boxing this way, at this specific time, would mean Kate was part of something that helped open up new opportunities for future female cadets at the Academy (a sentiment that a few of the real members of the club have expressed in interviews). The service aspect also ties into Kate's intended future as a leader of soldiers. A big reason boxing is required at all the service academies is not just for its obvious physical benefits, but also that it helps instill all sorts of disciplines into future troops. If you read or listen to interviews with the head coaches of the academies, they mention things like strategic thinking under stress, the ability to adapt to physical fear, perseverance in the face of hostility, etc. These are all things that would clearly translate to a battlefield situation and any good leader on that battlefield. I think Kate would have been savvy enough to seek out extra benefit in this way, and the fact that she would have had to go out of her way to do so sounds like her to me.

Dovetailing with that a bit, it also reflects her ambition: this would have presented Kate with the opportunity to be one of the first champions in a new and permanent athletic landscape at the Academy (though not the absolute first). Given the way she excelled in all other areas up to that time in her life, I imagine that this would have been another attractive point for her.

To sum this all up, the logical conclusion from all this evidence is that Kate was a member of the newly-formed women's boxing club at West Point, and won a match at the 54th BBO.

So. That was all very long-winded and thorough. Why is it important?

Well, in particular, it offers a new (if not totally revelatory) facet to Kate, and any information about a character has value.

But in a larger sense, this exercise demonstrates what I mentioned earlier: that researching a detail about a character, no matter how small, can yield a wealth of new info, even if that info was unintended or remains subtextual. To use another example for Kate: we can know a great deal about her academic skillset just from the medals she earned. Not because we're shown or even told any of that information, but because the qualifications for each of those medals can be looked up.

And this ties into a final, even more important point: this concept is a great strength of comics and other collaborative fiction. It allows for the sum to be greater than all the parts.

Even in this relatively minor case, the individual pieces built on each other and interlocked to such an extent that what they point to is pretty airtight, it seems, even though that endpoint may not have been considered by anyone involved.

Does this always happen? No, of course not, and often the exact opposite can occur, resulting in little more than a pile of narrative rubble. But when it does work, it’s incredibly cool. And if it can work for something like this… imagine the potential it can have when applied to weightier character details.

What all is still out there waiting to be uncovered like this?

#batwoman #kate kane #fiction #writing #characters #boxing #comics #analysis #research #watsonian #continuity

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ashitanomars · 6 years ago

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Yoko’s Solitary Plan pt. 4

Yoko arched a fine brow at the mention of waffles. She also couldn't help but smile. Of course Yabuki-kun would indulge himself on sweet, baked goods.

"Okay then," she began, "Do you know any places that make them very well, Yabuki-kun?" Yoko inquired. "They aren't all that common here, especially around Namidabashi, you know."

"Yeah... its not the particular Hometown Flavor." Joe replied. "Ah, wait just a second, I think I may know a place! I've been there once or twice before." Joes eyes lit up at the memories, and he continued rubbing his chin and contemplating.

Yoko, still sitting at ringside took the trousers that Joe had thrown to her, and as he stood in thought, she threw them back at him and hopped off the ring. Hitting him square in the head, the pants uncrumpled, wrapping a leg around his neck, they hung around his face.

"Hey!! What's the matter?" Joe asked.

Yoko sauntered toward Joe slowly. With each step, she swayed her hips a little extra, and watched Joe's gaze as he was surely noticing this.

"Just because I'm wearing your sweater, Joe..." Yoko started, still moving towards him. "that doesnt mean I'm wearing the rest of your clothes too!" she almost laughed.

Joe watched curious as ever, as Yoko quickly scooped up her lavender dress, and backed into the shower room.

"Just give me a moment to change back... I think it would raise more suspicion if there appeared to be two Joe Yabuki's having a quiet breakfast together.."

Yoko closed the door to the shower room, and quickly began to change back into her dress. Joe's thoughts drifted for a moment to the idea of there being two of himself. A wide smile crept across his face. He imagined sparring himself for almost a full day straight, neither Joe wanting to stay down no matter how many times the other would knock him down... the idea of literally fighting against himself never occurred to Joe before, and he found it incredibly thrilling.

Yoko emerged from the shower room, once again wearing her usual stylish finery. Joe looked up to the door as Yoko emerged. Seeing her again like this, was like a different personality or something, Joe thought to himself. Everytime he'd ever seen her, she was almost always dressed very keen, or made up nicely or something. Joe never thought she was the kind of girl to scheme and then sneak into your boxing gym to peep on you and then make-out. He blushed a tiny bit with that. In any case, Joe wasn't sure "which Yoko" he liked better yet. All these thoughts of dopplegangers and double personalities were making Joe's head spin, as if he wasn’t already light-headed enough as it is from these curious events today. While inside the shower room changing, Yoko had carefully folded up Joe's old sweater and then placed it down on the nearby table, lightly patting it down as she did so. Casting her gaze over to Joe now, she straightened up, and lightly brushed the front of her dress a bit.

"So, Yabuki-kun what is this place you're talking about?" she asked.

"It's called the Rocking-Horse. It's a coffee shop." Joe replied, as he slipped on his shoes, and already grabbed his coat, flinging it over his shoulder. "Let's go! I'm so hungry, I could eat an actual Horse." He said.

"I believe I know that place as well, Yabuki-kun." she replied sunnily, she then added, "You don't expect to walk there, do you?"

Joe looked over his shoulder to her and said "No, I don't expect *you* to walk there." he grinned. "We don't have a telephone, I'm gonna run to the phone booth, and call a taxi down to Namidabashi for you, Shiraki Ojo-sama." he quipped.

“Just a moment, Joe...”

Yoko smiled and laughed along with Joe, as she reached into her dress pocket and produced a small folded note. She approached him and took his hand, placing the note into it. She then closed his hand around the note, and holding it she pulled him close to whisper softly near.

"Call this number, let it ring once and then hang up. A car will arrive within half an hour..." she paused to bite her lip before explaining further

"If you hurry, we'll have more alone time.." as she finished, she gave a small sigh, and stole a kiss.

Joe, astonished, simply blinked as Yoko softly kissed his bottom lip. She then smiled warmly, her eyes seemed to sparkle and her cheeks rosy. Letting go of his hand, she gave Joe a playful nudge, towards the front door of the Tange Gym.

"Go on Yabuki-kun, breakfast is waiting for us!"

Joe's eyes widened a bit and his jaw dropped a little. Then he smiled, chuckled a bit, and started off toward the stairs up to the main road. She really knew how to put a plan together...

Yoko watched Joe, skipping a little bit and hooting as he lightly jogged, punching at the air, along the road towards the phone booth. Her warm smile, slowly turned to a more lustful grin. Taking a few steps outside the Tange Gym, the sun had risen enough to cast brilliant light on the nearby river, and more importantly, it cleared the overpass, illuminating the front lawn of the gym, if you could call it that. Yoko turned to look at the opposite riverbank, over to where she had instructed the driver with a company car to wait.

The driver stood outside of the car, leaning against the hood, watching Yabuki depart through a pair of binoculars. Glancing down toward the Tange Gym, he could see Yoko standing out front, waving toward him slightly. Reaching into his sport coat pocket, he produced a stopwatch. Yabuki shrank a little further into the distance, as the driver continued his surveillance. Before long, the mobile car phone rang a single time and the driver clicked the stopwatch, which would count down 35 minutes. Through the binoculars he could see Yabuki return to the gym, where Yoko stood just outside the door. When he approached, the driver could see Yoko take Joe’s hand, they embraced one another disappearing into the Tange Gym. The door closed so quickly and loudly behind them, the driver could hear it across the river. He let out a sigh and slowly got into the car, lit himself a cigarette and turned on the radio to wait before picking Yoko and Joe up in half an hour.

#ashita no joe #fanfic #joeko #joe yabuki #yoko shiraki #text

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