#tapping microphone aggressively does this make sense to anyone

[hofftrans]

ocd gang idk if this is just me but do you ever get the thing where you're like "I can't think about (x) oc or character because I'm fixated with a different character at the moment and so if I start to pay attention to a new character it will ruin my enjoyment of other character and also be/feel wrong and it is not the time right now to enjoy other media u have to enjoy (x) specific media right now"

#also just got diagnosed with adhd so its an adhd ocd combo thing #but like i get it with what videogames im allowed to play to bc like i feel like playing fnv or skyrim because id like to work on ocs for #them but i just got tears of the kingdom and ive wanted it for ages so now i feel like im not allowed to play anything but that #tapping microphone aggressively does this make sense to anyone

[thatbanjobusiness]

One of the reasons I love watching Flatt & Scruggs and the Foggy Mountain Boys perform (instead of just listening) is because you see how much they enjoy the music and the company they’re in. 

This group of musicians (Lester Flatt, Earl Scruggs, Jake Tullock, Josh Graves, Curly Seckler, and Paul Warren) played with one another for double-digit numbers of years. Even though there was some turnover and coming in-and-out, these guys played with one another tons.

Below Read More cut: pictures labeling who’s who.

Lester Flatt | guitar and lead vocals Played in this band 1948-1969 (21 years*☆)

Lester was the lead vocalist, rhythm guitarist, and emcee for the group. As his name indicates, he’s one half of the Flatt & Scruggs duo. He was always welcoming and homely when he talked to audiences. It’s hard to get some of the humor from him in gifs because lots of his jokes were verbal.

Some reasons I love watching Lester are: 

He usually looks so relaxed and makes me feel relaxed.

When he gives introductions for the other bandmates, it’s usually a bunch of clever insults. For instance, “He represents Knoxville, Tennessee. If you’re not acquainted with the area, he goes to show that you can raise just about whatever they want to down there.”

When the announcer of the show, T. Tommy, introduces Lester, it’s usually some sort of joke or insult, too. The pure delight that pops on Lester’s face at a good joke is beautiful.

He straight out says into the microphone when someone makes a mistake. So much for “musical performance professionalism means pretending you did it right.” XD

Earl Scruggs | banjo (default), lead guitar (often enough), and baritone vocals Played in this band 1948-1969 (21 years☆)

Earl tends to keep a solemn poker face when performing. Hilariously, while he was known for being a very shy man of few words, and while Earl let Lester do ALL the talking in their performances... in these TV Shows, Earl is the number one most likely person to toss comments at bandmates in the middle of a performance.

Some reasons I love watching Earl are:

His comments mid-song are genuinely hilarious. I swear he’s sometimes trying to troll his bandmates to lose their composure in the middle of the song. It’s things like a bandmate singing a line complaining about their romantic interest, and Earl piping up, “Who? Me?” I don’t think he was trying to make it sound gay, but does it sometimes sound gay? Yes.

There’s a quiet charisma in how he plays, straitlaced, staring straight at the camera. He was a very humble guy, but you can feel the indisputable authority of his banjo mastery in his posture and notes.

Every single time they switch up the show (musicians playing alternate instruments, guests coming in), you can tell Earl loves it.

I may or may not have developed a celebrity crush on him. Shut up.

Burkett “Josh” Graves | dobro (usually), bass, rarely guitar, lead vocals (on duets with Jake) Played in this band 1955-1969 (14 years*)

Josh is one of the comedians for the band. When Jake was in the band, the two of them would work together as a duo, both to sing fun novelty songs together, and as a comedian act. Josh would play the straight man to Jake.

Some reasons I love watching Josh are:

He is an open book of emotions. I’d say he’s the easiest to smile and laugh of the group. I saw one song where, the entire performance, he was on the verge of breaking down laughing. Earl was off-screen making stupid jokes after every line Josh sung. Every time Josh started to regain composure, Earl said something new and broke the guy down again.

He is an extremely, extremely talented dobro player with great technical skill. Josh pioneered a new style of playing the instrument that hadn’t been done before. He combined multiple different ideas of musicianship together, including a lot of three-fingered banjo technique.

He’s very handsome, especially when he sings. 

English “Jake” Pierce | bass and high baritone vocals Played in this band 1954-1955, 1958-1969 (12 years*)

For those of you who are like, “What the fuck are high baritone vocals?” this means that Jake is singing the baritone part but up an octave. So, Jake is singing the highest part, higher even than the tenor. Jake’s voice is a distinct, shrill, piercing sound and I love it. Jake is one half of the comedy duo and always plays the rascal. From the stories I’ve heard, Jake and Josh and their shenanigans were not that different offstage.

Some reasons I love watching Jake are:

Usually when he’s not doing a comedy routine or a novelty song, Jake has a serious expression on his face. However, he’s got a specific invested drive to him when he plays the music. And then other times, he’ll decide to be silly, such as the wild running across the screen you see in my last gif.

Jake and Josh have this perfect chemistry to them. They know one another so well and you can feel it in their body language.

Jake has a really good cadence and sense of timing when it comes to his comedy delivery.

It’s always exciting when a bass player gets a solo. That’s just a rule of bluegrass. And Jake has an aggressive sound I find unique.

John “Curly” Seckler | mandolin (usually), guitar, tenor vocals Played in this band 1949-1951, 1952-1958, 1958-1962 (12 years*)

Sorry I didn’t have any gifs with Curly in the forefront this round (though around the time I took this screenshot, Curly stuck his tongue out at Earl, responding to something Earl said). Curly tends to chill in the background a lot for these shows, playing rhythm mandolin and singing harmony. He’s one of the main vocalists for the group, doing duos, trios, and quartets. He’ll also pop in as a featured soloist, which is always a treat.

Some reasons I love watching Curly are:

I already mentioned the featured soloist, but I mean... those are a treat. He has a unique, simultaneously soft and piercing voice. Whether he’s singing harmony or a solo, his voice is something I pay attention to a lot. I remember reading in his biography that at one early point in his career, he was called “Radio’s Gift to Women.” AMAZING.

His mandolin solos are rare, and the group tended to tease Curly off-screen about his mandolin playing. But it’s legitimately fun when the mandolin FINALLYYYYYY gets featured in this band.

Paul Warren | fiddle, guitar (almost never), and bass vocals Played in this band 1954-1969 (15 years*)

Paul is the fiddler that made me want to fiddle. His style of playing is the old-time hoedown style, filled with double-stops and finger flurries.

Some reasons I love watching Paul are:

HE IS SO FREAKING BOINGY!!!! BOINGY BOI!!!! Paul’s a chronic foot tapper. In live performance recordings, you can sometimes hear him thumping away. I heard that during rehearsals, Earl tried to get Paul to stop by standing on Paul’s foot... but that would only result in Paul’s other foot tapping. Eventually Earl had to give up. Paul also throws himself up and down, bouncing energetically in the direction his bow is going.

You can tell how much he likes going fast.

I think Paul is one of the first people to laugh and gawk when another bandmate makes a mistake. Maybe I have selective memory on this, though.

* Anyone with an asterisk (aka everyone except Earl) played in Lester Flatt’s follow-up band, too, Lester Flatt and the Nashville Grass.

☆ Lester Flatt and Earl Scruggs played with one another in the band that came before this. They met as fellow musicians playing for Bill Monroe and the Blue Grass Boys. They were in the band together for over two years.

#I tried making captions for the gis #guess we'll see if they stick #thatbanjobusiness #that banjo business #music #hush I know I have a disproportionate number of Jake and Josh gifs in this set #I LIKE them okay #their body chemistry and the way they look at each other and play off one another is just #wholesome #General Banjo Business #Haddock Deep Dives #Dudes Behind The Music #One Of Those Fans #Flatt & Scruggs #hggg my boys #earl scruggs my beloved

[mail-me-a-snail]

Stardust of a Song

Chapter 1:  Sero Maaviks tag list: @starl1ght-child​ tw: violence, swearing The first chapter of the mafia AU :3c 

On any given night in the Last City, the lounge that goes by the name Luna is packed full with patrons drinking their worries away and listening to the nightingale tone of the lounge’s singer.

No patron that dines or drinks there lives in the rich districts of the City; they all come from the back alleys, looking to make connections or strike up a deal. Any rich patron that comes comes with a posse of bodyguards and a poorly veiled aura of disgust. The lounge is nice--silver tiles, dark blue wallpaper, comfortable sofas, and mahogany shelves lined with spirits--but more often than not it’s the people that puts a damper on the ambiance. Rich folk like to mingle with their kind, because they have all the connections to more money.

Washed up gamblers with debts hanging over their heads have a reason to go to Luna, however, because it’s not just a lounge--it’s the Hive. Dredgen Yor, owner of the establishment and boss of said Hive, walks through the doors from his personal office. He surveys the room and catches the eye of several clients.

Some of these people will want someone dead; others just want a job. It’s not Yor’s place to question it. All he asks for is money, unwavering royalty, and a when and a how. No job is too bloody, no amount of cash too great. You want someone dead?

Done. Quick, clean, and best of all--entirely discreet.

Dredgen Yor is considered the golden standard of the back alleys. A gentleman who's all business and ambition, who's heart softens only for the love of his life--the lounge singer, an Exo by the name of Avidan-9. He sings something from the Golden Age, maybe even well before it, and Yor is entranced. He is enthralled, has been ever since they met. They are, as everyone knows, partners in crime.

--

The lounge is peaceful tonight. There are two, three patrons, none sitting together, drinking their worries away and shooting billowing clouds of smoke out of their parched lips. They’re waiting out the storm. The band play something appropriately soft; chimes of the piano, deep plucks of the bass, and soulful trumpet remind those lonely drinkers that they’re not so alone after all.

The owner of the lounge sits at the bar, swirling golden whiskey in his glass. He is not alone, unlike the midnight crew. The prettiest thing sits beside him, not drinking or smoking, in order to keep that nightingale voice of his in pristine condition. He has never heard an Exo sing more beautifully than this one. On the surface, he might not look like much to anyone but Yor; grey and what had once been white paint, now yellowed with age; green, almost blue optics; tall build, enough to rival even Yor’s stature; all tucked into one midnight blue suit. Always with the clean cut suits of muted colors.

“Yor, darling,” he says, laying the adoration on thick, accent emphasizing; dar-ling. He brushes Yor’s hair out of his face. “promise me you won’t get blood on the tiles tonight. You know how hard it is to get blood out of leather soles.”

It isn’t hard at all; take soap and dump it in some water, lukewarm, just right. Stir it until it’s sudsy and you take the foam with a sponge and gently wipe the leather. Easy as pie and just as clean. For his love’s sake, Yor indulges him.

“I know, dear,” Yor sympathizes, taking an amused sip, trying not to sigh as the Exo’s hands move through his hair. “I promise. Whatever business might go down--”

“--business always ‘goes down’ in this lounge--” The singer removes his hands from his hair and Yor tries not to groan. How can metal hands feel so good?

“--I will handle it,” Yor cuts him off. He cups the Exo’s cheek. “in the backroom. Will that suffice?”

He grins, takes the glass from Yor’s hand, and sips. One drop never hurt nobody. “If I say no, what would happen?” He challenges, “You’re the big, scary mob boss; what would you do to this buzzing bee of the Hive?” His hands, always moving, always gentle, tug at his tie. Black, tonight; Yor had gotten an earful about getting blood all over his green one.

“Always such a tease,” Yor tuts, his hand now holding the other’s chin, thumb stroking gently. He leans close, just close enough to smell the whiskey on his metal and hints of cologne here and there. “Honey, if I did what I wanted to you, what I have always wanted to do to you, you wouldn’t be able to sing. And we don’t want that, do we?”

The Exo visibly fidgets in his seat. He can dish it, but he can never take it. That’s what Yor has always loved about him. Even with limited expressions, he can tell he’s struggling not to overheat.

“Is that a threat?” He snorts and puts the whiskey glass down. “Besides, there’s nothing that can keep me quiet. You of all people should know that.”

“You’d be surprised.” The doors of the lounge swing open and in walks his clientele, all sharp suits, all business in black and white. Not an ounce of color. They’re just in time.

The one at the head of the posse is holding a shiny leather briefcase with gold clasps. He can smell the abundance of Glimmer from here. They’re not Guardians; no Light on any of them. Guns, maybe, tucked into their suit jackets or strapped to their legs. Their leader is Sero Maaviks, an Awoken man with light blue skin and white hair in a braid over his shoulder. He’s one of the few to come from old money, being Reefborn, however his status as a City dweller and the scorn of his fellow Reefborn has diminished that repertoire considerably.

All three patrons stir. They didn’t come in together, but they sure are leaving together; they know danger when they see it. Nevermind the hail outside. The band stands at attention.

Yor slides off his stool, as does his love. Before they separate, Yor grabs his hand, relishing the smooth metal grooves for just a moment. “You can start off gentle, if you’d like, but in ten minutes’ time,” he advises under his breath, “it’d be better if it’s big, loud, and extravagant. You know how these things go.” He raises his voice loud enough for the clientele to hear. “Remember, Avidan, you are the beauty of this Hive.”

Avidan grins, or as much as an Exo can. “Like me, it’s hard to forget.” Reluctantly, they part, and Avidan goes to the stage. He talks with the band for a moment. They nod along to his every word. Both know exactly what to do.

Avidan’s been in this business as long as Yor has--they had started this lounge together, after all, when he had first met the Exo in Spinam Gorge, those many, many years ago, when the Exo had been down on his luck. It hadn’t started out as love, but does it ever really start at the best part? It had taken a while (several proposals, in fact) until Avidan had said yes. The wedding had been private, of course. Yor takes off his ring and slips it into his pocket. Avidan keeps his on--he won’t be dealing in blood tonight.

“Gentlemen,” he addresses his clients at last, downing the whiskey in one go, and giving them the best smile he can. One of them shivers. They must be the replacement for the one who’s fingers got broken; he had had it coming, touching Avidan in a way that would’ve garnered all ten fingers broken, not just the five, had he had gone any farther. “Shall we?”

Yor gestures to the backroom. He always makes good on his promises. Avidan flashes him a wink from the stage. Yor resists grinning. The Exo steps up to the microphone and taps to test it. The piano player picks up a violin, as does everyone besides the bass player, and they begin. Their strums are gentle and sweeping, but they’re loud. They don’t call it big band music for nothing. Avidan reels the microphone stand in to waltz. He holds it close, as close as he had held Yor on their wedding night.

“And now the purple dusk of twilight time,” Avidan starts, soft, but not quiet. His mouth glows green, though not the sickly green of the Hive. A vibrant green, and it is easily the brightest thing in the lounge. The clientele stop to gape. His voice floats without a care in the world. It’s soothing--almost like a drug. It tells you everything will be just fine. “steals across the meadows of my heart. High up in the sky, the little stars climb...”

Yor feels sorry he won’t be able to hear the rest of the song as he leads the gentlemen into the backroom. It’s one of his favorites; the one they had played on that night years ago on a record they had found in the City archives dating back to long before the Golden Age. Avidan’s voice fades behind them as they go past the deserted kitchen and into his personal office.

It’s a lived in, yet professional office. One mahogany desk, leather chair behind it, and unimportant documents--bills, mostly, for the lounge--piled on top. A cart with his own personal whiskey stock sits under a painting. A bottle of that horrible swill vodka is next to it. Four pristine and polished glasses sit in a tray beside it. A couch sits across the room. Yor leans against the beautifully cut edge of the desk and crosses his arms.

“Care for a drink?” Yor gestures to the vodka. Unfortunately, it’s just the kind of drink for business. Poisonous for the liver and mouth, as all business in the backwaters is, and clinically impersonal enough with its clear white color.

“You know I don’t drink on the job,” Sero says, then adds, almost begrudgingly, “sir.”

“The only thing I know about you, Maaviks--” Yor reluctantly pours himself vodka. He doesn’t take a sip right away; a clear sign of his distaste of the drink-- “is your insufferable pride. Then again, I can’t blame you for keeping it so close. It seems to be the only thing you have to offer.”

Sero bristles and growls. He moves towards Yor, fangs bared. “If you would just accept my offer on the Vanguard job--”

It’s a shame to crumple such a nice tie but Yor grabs Sero’s tie anyway and pulls him forward, bearing his own fangs. The Awoken man gulps, aggression evaporating. “And if you would just hear sense,” Yor snaps, “you wouldn’t still be coming to me about that. I told you: I won’t do it. Tell your bodyguards to lower their guns.”

Sero waves them away and the guards holster their guns. They stand at attention. Yor releases him and the man stumbles. Sero fixes his tie, tucking it back into place and dusting off his suit.

“It isn’t as crazy as you make it out to be,” Sero argues, though with more caution, “I have the floor plans. I’ve got moles in the Praxic and the Vanguard. Nothing will go wrong.”

“Apparently, you’re a terrible gambler, too,” Yor snorts, then gestures to the couch. “Have a seat.” Sero does not and stays standing, as if he didn’t hear him. Yor rolls his eyes, rubbing his temple with his thumb--prideful and stubborn.

He goes around his desk and takes a seat. There’s no reason for him to stand when Sero is already doing plenty of it for the both of them. He sinks into the comfortable leather. He swirls his drink around in one hand while the other taps against the mahogany surface.

“I have all the winning cards. I think I’m more than inclined to play them. Don’t you want to share the winnings, Yor?” He sweetens his tongue with charisma. “I’m sure we can find something in that vault that could work for you.” Yor doesn’t appreciate the patronising tone, as if he’s a child being asked to pick out a toy. “There could be any number of items that might...interest you.”

“Maaviks. I already told you. There is nothing I want in that vault.” Guns and gadgets to sell, maybe, but there is nothing rare enough to risk so much. It would be so much easier if Sero had just been asking for an assassination, but a heist? “It’s a suicide mission. If either of us get caught, we’re done for. The Praxic vault is one thing, but the Vanguard vault? You must be more arrogant than I thought. It won’t succeed.”

They’ve been over this countless times. From the first day Sero proposed it, Yor has had no reason to say yes and he’s not seeing anything promising now. Every time he asks, Sero doesn’t have a convincing argument.

“I’m not so arrogant as to think I can do it alone.” Sero crosses his arms. “I’m putting aside my pride to ask for your help. You are the one and only Dredgen Yor...”

“The flattery won’t get you anywhere.”

“...and besides, if what’s in the vault doesn’t interest you now, it might look appealing in just a few moments; if you don’t accept my offer, that is.”

Yor puts his glass down and smiles at the nerve this little punk has. He stands, pushing his chair backwards, and laying his palms flat on the wood, leaning forward to look Sero right in the eye. His fingers go to the holster on his hip. The Thorn hums.

“Are you threatening me, boy?” He says quietly.

“Am I?”

Just as he whips the Thorn out, the band explodes with sound, rattling the walls with percussion and bass, Avidan’s voice commanding every listener’s attention.  The volume masks the gunshots; two for each of them. They fall, a dark red splatter blooming across their white shirts. It’s a good thing they wore black suits. Sero barely flinches, even as a graze on his ear bleeds and drips onto his shoulder.

“Are you threatening me,” He growls, louder now, “boy?!”

Sero pauses to look at the two corpses behind him. Puddles of blood grow under them, staining the soles of his shoes and the rug. He looks wholly uninterested. The man smirks.

“Not you,” He answers, “specifically.”

He turns, swings open the door, and runs down the hall. Yor takes a second to register these actions, then slides over the desk with a curse, hearing his glass shatter on the floor, and chases after Sero. He splashes the puddle of blood on his way out; there goes his promise to not get blood on the tiles.

The band has stopped playing when he rounds the corner. He only realizes why when he sees Sero behind Avidan, holding the Exo at gunpoint. The blood in Yor’s veins turns ice cold. He comes to a halt. Avidan stands statuesque, rigid with tension. Only the piano player remains of the band; the rest have hidden behind the bar. He sits on the stool, shaking hands poised over the keys.

“Blood on the tiles,” Avidan says, nightingale voice faintly warbling,  “I thought we talked about that.”

“No choice, darling,” Yor says through gritted teeth, then swings his glare around to Sero, who is still fucking smiling. “No choice.”

“Your answer, Yor: yes or no?” The gun clicks as it’s loaded.

“You’re fucking insane; you’re not going to walk out of this bar alive.”

“I’m not going to walk out of here alive?” Sero snorts, “That’s rich. Considering your boyfriend is at the end of my gun, you’re gonna wanna rethink that.”

“Husband,” Avidan corrects him tersely, “Didn’t you see the ring, asshole?” He wiggles his finger. The ring glints in the low light.

“It hardly matters.”

“So, this is your plan?” Yor keeps him distracted by talking as he inches closer to the stage. “Threaten me with my husband’s life to force me to work with you just to repair your goddamn reputation with the Reefborn?”

“It’s not about them,” Sero hisses, but it’s not very convincing. Yor can see right through him. He’s now inches away from the stage. “There is something in that vault I need, something that would benefit all of us, every gang, especially yours. So what’s it going to be, Yor?”

Yor remains silent. Just as he formulates a plan, Sero cuts across his thoughts.

“Yes or no? Come on, Dredgen, your boyfriend is waiting.”

He opens his mouth to speak, but Avidan interrupts him.

“For the last time,” the Exo growls, “he’s my husband.”

He swivels right around, catching both Yor and Sero off guard, and grabs the man’s wrist. They wrestle for the gun, Sero pushing back, struggling to keep his grip on the weapon. Avidan pulls his arm this way and that but the man won’t budge. Sero wrenches free. He strikes Avidan’s jaw with the gun. It knocks the Exo back and he stumbles. The microphone topples off the stage and the feedback disorients all. He nearly falls off the stage, but Sero grabs his arm, pulling Avidan towards him.

The gun slips under his chin, presses against his neck--there is no music or song to mask the gunshot now. There will never be any music or song, ever again. 

Yor climbs the stage but always, always he is too late.

In a way, this is all music. The click of the gun, the pulling of the trigger, the release, the... 

BANG!

The thud.

Then, the deafening silence.

part two coming soon :)

#dredgen yor #fanfiction #rezyl azzir #ocs #avidan-9 #fanfic #destiny #destiny 2 #destiny 2: shadowkeep #writing #my writing #my ocs

[emarislaughsmaniacally]

Finders Keepers

Warning for blood, gore, dismemberment, references to torture, electrocution, disassociation, and murder. 

Helmet tilts his head and stands very still, observing him from a reasonably safe distance away.  Derek ignores him and stays sitting on the floor, back pressed tight to the wall as his ribs slowly start to shift and snap.  

The most unpleasant part of healing misplaced bones is definitely how his skin rolls and shifts with them. 

 Plus the pain.  

Yeah, that's crap too.

"You gonna be alright?"  The voice is mechanical enough that he's tempted to sniff the air again but his eyes catch on the puddle Derek's sitting in.  

It's admittedly a lot of blood so he just jerks his head in a sharp nod, barely feeling the fresh gush of blood from his chopped up larynx.

"You got anyone you can call?  Friends?  Work?"  

Derek shakes his head.

“Want me to call the cops?”

He gurgles angrily and shakes his head hard enough to spit up more blood.

“Right.”  Helmet relaxes, shifts his torso like he's stretching and then starts checking the bodies scattered about the dingy apartment. 

Derek flexes his jaw, eyes glued to where Helmet is systematically rifling through wallets, taking photos of everything inside and pressing phones to a thick tablet-looking thing.  It's fast and efficient as hell.

His jaw creaks when it fuses in place, face no longer looking like a dented can.  Nerves along the cheekbone start reminding him to press the hanging flap of skin back up to knit together faster.

Finished with the bodies and quickly sticking a few more holes into someone playing possum, Helmet straightens and stares at him again.  

He absently thinks it would be unsettling if he bothered to give a shit anymore.

"Change before you leave, you look like a murder victim." 

Derek's eyebrows climb up as he pointedly sweeps a glare over the destruction.

"Huh.  Yeah okay, maybe don't take clothes from an actual murder victim."  The man makes a buzzing noise that Derek interprets as a hum and then there's a sudden crackle of victory.

"This jacket's good, yeah? Uh. Yeah, just snapped his neck.  Hope it's dark enough outside no one'll notice your pants."  Helmet says conversationally as he strips it off the guy and stuffs an enormous wad of stolen cash into the pockets.  

This is probably one of the best rescues Derek's ever had and not just because of the considerate donation of money.  Hemet waves, presents the jacket and drapes it near the door, not even trying to approach him.  Minutes later, there's a collection of household cleaners that Helmet is liberally mixing and splashing around, concentrating on areas where Derek's been.  It's reassuring that the guy doesn't gas them out with the chemicals.

It's all so professional and solicitous that Derek lets himself relax a bit, focuses on his repairing body to make sure it heals properly.

Then again, -he flexes freshly grown fingers- he's got to find the box.  

He tries to be discreet, surreptitiously eyeing the chaos for it before he gives up.  Helmet probably wouldn't want to leave the box behind either.

Derek makes to speak but the sound is harsh, choked and painful, gristle barely stitched together.   

Helmet pauses where he's kicking liquid over cracked linoleum.  "Christ, you're a regular Judy Garland."

"Box."  Derek shakily mimes out the size of it and swallows down a clump of blood.  "Can't leave it." 

"Ooh, a box." Helmet shifts debris about, eventually digs out a duffel and crams three laptops inside.  "Missing anything else?"

Derek checks to find his wallet is still there before he remembers what happened to his phone and keys.

"Sewer." 

"Shitty."  There's a loud buzz like maybe he coughed or snorted.  “What’d you do to get them this pissed?”

He points to his healing face.  “Existed.”

"Riiight.  This Wolverine shit is kinda creepy.”  His speaker crackles a little more, like it’s having a hard time picking up his voice.  “You got anyone who can pick you up?"

Derek closes his eyes at a tangle of crushing emotions and shakes his head.  

"Okay."  The man's body language seems less aggressive, a little more careful to move.  "You got anyone who's lookin for you?  Anywhere you can go?"

Derek opens his eyes and stares at his dirty feet and clean toes, thinking about the little town in California and the arguments before he left.  

"Not anymore."

Helmet sighs expansively as he wanders deeper into the apartment.  "Right.  I'll find a place.  Just, ah, keep on with that healing thing.  You're doin great."

The man is still searching for the box when Derek's spine pops back into place.  He can't stop a yelp from the shock of it or the agonized groan when the nerves to his legs link up.  

He almost forgot they drilled screws into that bone.

Shit.

Shitshitshitshitshitshit

He pushes against the wall like it's the only thing holding him together, blinding pain burning through like acid until his nerves finish healing.

"Hey."  His rescuer is suddenly there and looms a little closer than before.  "You gonna be alright?”  

Derek takes a ragged breath, eyes him warily, and… decides getting the metal out with help is more productive than not.  

He tilts his leg a little to let the heads of the screws in a neat row down his shin catch the light against the dark of his jeans.

"Gotta get ‘em out."

The helmet is silent but Derek can still hear the faintest murmur inside. "Jumpin Jehoshaphat…"

Derek silently agrees and motions to the duffel bag now resting by the door.

"The drill there?"  

Hemet's hands start clenching and relaxing at his sides, mechanical voice buzzing with a jerky negative exhale.

"I'll find it too."  His fists shake.  "We'll have to take em out somewhere else though."

There's a protest building in his chest but it slowly dies, pressed down by the pains in his body as the smaller hurts start closing up.

Derek grunts in acceptance, the bone would be weak and take a little longer to fill in anyway.

They're silent for a moment before the man starts his search again.

"So.  What's in the box?"  He probably means to distract him with a chat but the box is… 

Derek looks at his hand and the clean pink skin on the new growths.  

The room wobbles a bit.

"Me."

A stretch of silence.

"Well, okay then."  The man flicks a switch on the helmet and Derek realizes the microphone is shut off, which would only make sense if the guy didn't know about Derek’s enhanced senses.  He hardly has to strain to hear that there's a series of clicks before another mechanized voice rasps out a greeting.

"O, imma need a room.  I've got a witness I need to stick to and I don't wanna spook him."  The man's actual voice is raspy, almost gruff, and seems surprisingly young.  “So I’d appreciate it if everyone would leave me the hell alone for a while.”

Whatever the response is, the mechanical tone is so strange Derek can't understand it so he just sags against the wall and rests.  

Helmet guy is going to let him stick around and he's warning others away.  

That's pretty great.

A small part of himself is soothed, comforted even, that this man who ripped through eight men like wet paper, has taken an interest in Derek’s wellbeing.

He slips down the wall a little and just… zones out for a while. 

The big hurts have righted themselves so there's just a mild ache in a few spots.  If he weren't so tired, Derek would be standing, anxious to leave, but Helmet doesn't seem rushed in the least and that confidence bleeds into him too.

He’s still worried though.  "Cops don't investigate shootouts around here?"

"Wow, that's an entire sentence.  You must be feeling better." Helmet is somewhere in one of the bedrooms still tossing things around.  "People would have to call the cops first but, this is Crime Alley so, you know, they don't."

He feels a burble of puzzlement rise through the haze of fading pain.

"I've never heard of Crime Alley in New York."  That's a ridiculous name for a place, but New York was filled with them. 

"Yeah?  Well, that's because you're in New Jersey.  Welcome to Gotham, man.”  More creepy laughter.  “I'd say this is an unusual way to end up here but I'd be lying.  You're lucky they came into my turf, anywhere else in the city and no one might've noticed."

"Your turf?”  Derek echoes the term curiously.  It gives the impression of a gangster or the mob.  It seems reasonable because the guy has pistols strapped to his legs and another pair under his jacket.  Also the professionalism reinforces the theory. 

There's a pause in the sounds then a heavy scrape over carpet. 

"It's just a little slice of this shit hole, but it's mine."  There's more rustling, then a familiar clatter, like beads. 

Derek registers the sound and waits. Hears the scrape of the lid.

"You."  More sounds, louder and faster than before.  "Hoo boy, can you take some damage."

Derek doesn't respond until Helmet stomps back into the kitchen, stained orange shoe box tucked under one arm, drill clenched in the other.

"Still hurts."

"I bet it does."  He shakes the box enough to rattle.  "There's more teeth in here than can fit in one mouth."

The atmosphere is tense now and Derek wishes the room didn't smell like death so he could better gauge Hemet's mood.

“I’ve been here a few days.”  He shrugs minutely.  “Electricity doesn’t really stop the healing, just makes it really slow.”

“So all of this... is from you.”

"Probably."  He says, hoping that's the end of it, doesn’t feel like he’s calm enough to talk about the various bits of him in the box.

The man taps with the drill, a muffled beat against his leg like he's thinking it over.

“Police won’t like any of this.” 

Derek shakes his head.  

“You don’t have a place to crash here.”  

Another shake.  

“You got money though.  You could get a hotel room, get a ticket out tomorrow.”  

Derek lowers his eyes to Helmet’s shoes. 

“I can do that.”  He agrees quietly.

“You don’t want to though.  Why?”

He lets his eyes flick back to the batteries.  “Doesn’t matter where I go.  They always find me.”  He stares at a red terminal, almost feeling the current again.  “Them or something like them.”

"Right.  You're staying with me until you got somewhere to go and we know these fucks won’t come for you again.  In the meantime, I need to replace my accountant.  Thanks for volunteering."

"Am I being kidnapped again?" It comes out sardonically enough that the guy laughs.

“This sort of thing happen a…”  Derek’s already nodding in response.  Looks over at the car batteries before his eyes skitter away.

"Okay.  Sure.  No one lookin out for you means you're mine for now."  He pauses at Derek's shudder.  "Just for now, understand?”  He waits for Derek to nod before he goes on.  “My territory reaches down to the docks North East of here.  Don't go outside of it.  Anyone gives you shit, tell ‘em Red Hood's watching you.  Not watching out, just ‘watching’.  You see any more’a this crew and you let me know, they ain’t leaving this city with a heartbeat.”

Derek barely stops himself from looking away, from tilting his head to expose his throat.

He nods instead.  A little more secure that this beast of a human has offered protection. 

"Do I call you Boss now?"  He means it as a joke but says it quieter than intended.

"You workin for me?  Got a head for numbers?"

Derek nods again.  “Bachelor’s degree says so.”  Even the mob appreciates degrees, right?

"Oh yeah?  Bonus.  Then sure.  Now get the jacket and find some shoes. We gotta go, someone's gonna come looking for these guys eventually."  Red Hood snags a few more bags and goes to drop them at the door.

It takes him a minute to get his bearings, he’s pretty sure he’s got some sort of repressed emotional response that Derek’s just gonna… yeah, he’s just going to leave it alone and maybe never think about it again.

The puddle he’s sitting in is dark and tacky enough now that he isn’t afraid of slipping but it’s still unpleasantly damp along his back and the seat of his pants.  Makes a sticky slurp as he stands and he tunes his hearing to Red Hood’s heartbeat instead.  

“Ready?”  The speaker suddenly sounds like the intro to some techno song and he inanely wonders if the guy sings in the helmet.  Derek smiles a bit at the thought because the guy is taller than he expected and stacked like a tank.  He probably would sing.

“Yeah.  Found my own boots too.”  He says for absolutely no reason.  It feels momentous though that he didn’t lose all of his belongings.  

“That’s great man. Never know what kinda fungus strangers got.”  Red Hood hefts a few bags and hands over another.  “I’m gonna drop you off first and bring back some Chinese.  You like egg rolls?”

Derek gives another barely-there smile and very firmly doesn’t think of his blood soaked clothes or who’s got the bag with the box.

He wonders instead if Red Hood will judge him for the mountain of food he’s about to order.

#derek hale #red hood #Jason Todd #teen wolf #whump

[fangirlauthor]

All Sold Out Chapter 1

Sorry, the grammar is a little weird, I think I shifted between tenses and point of views a little bit, bear with me. The next chapter is coming out soon!

The wind was blowing ferociously, forcing larger-than-normal splashes of water to eat at the shore and bitter chills to descend upon anyone brave enough to watch as the Lapping Lily - a surprisingly overused ferry that goes to other parts of the Earth Kingdom - reached shore. Standing on the bow of the ship, waving his arms excitedly at a nonexistent crowd, was a young man dressed in vibrant greens and with hair the color of chocolate. 

The boat took a few minutes to dock; once it did, Mako headed over to the ramp to greet the only passenger in not in a mood as gloomy as the weather. 

Once Mako was in the young man’s line of sight, he said, “Hello, Prince Wu. I’m here to take you to your hotel, sponsored by Top Innovate, selling the latest and greatest inventions for your convenience..”

Mako hadn’t been expecting much of an answer, but he shouldn’t have been surprised that Prince Wu’s speech patterns mimicked his enthusiastic demeanor. “Hello!” said the prince, shaking Mako’s hand vigorously. “I’m Prince Wu, and I’m so excited to be here! Is it true you have talking birds? Or that the police department is made up of metalbenders? Or that-” Prince Wu kept on like that for some time, until Mako had long since decided he wasn’t being paid enough for this, and had spent several minutes debating whether Wu would get along with Bolin or if they’d talk over each other and get annoyed, before Wu stopped talking. Actually, he - quite literally - passed Mako a microphone that he had pulled out of who knows where to signify that it was Mako’s turn to speak. 

Biting back a sigh, Mako gestured at a company car that had been sitting by the curb for the better part of half an hour. “This way, your highness.”

Mako opened the door for Prince Wu and waved his arm to let Wu know he could get in first, then held back a sigh as he tried to prevent his mood, as gloomy as the weather, from showing on his face. 

It was only a twenty-minute ride to the company hotel, where Mako would be allowed to leave Prince Wu alone and head back to the company office building where he worked. Hopefully, he’d get his first assignment soon - if he did well, he’d get a small bonus, as is the custom at Top Innovate - and maybe he’d even be able to take a break from work for a while. He did have some money saved up, so maybe he could even-

Before he could finish his thought, the company driver slammed on the breaks, coming to a screeching halt as the light turned red. This wouldn’t have been much of a problem if Prince Wu had bothered to follow safety regulations and buckle himself in; unfortunately, the Prince seemed as clueless as he looked, and the force with which the driver hit the breaks sent him flying. 

Gritting his teeth as the Prince collided with Mako full-force, Mako did his best to help Wu back to his feet. Unfortunately, the driver chose that particular moment to aggressively press the accelerator, effectively launching Wu back at Mako. 

As the driver’s speed became steadier, Wu - Prince Wu, Mako reminded himself - slowly sat up. They sat there for a moment, their faces inches apart - close enough for Mako to notice how Wu’s brown eyes looked like golden honey in the light and deep pools of chocolate in shadow - until Prince Wu’s face flushed and he leapt back into his seat. Mako wasn’t sure what had just happened, but he couldn’t help noticing the blush present on Mako’s face - nor keep his mind off the matching blush on his own. 

“Mako!” someone shouted, their voice quiet and distant-sounding, snapping Mako back to the present moment. “Mako, get over here!”

He turned, keeping his arms to his sides so I wouldn’t hit anyone, especially people carrying expensive materials and machinery. “Where’s here?” He shouted back, hopefully loud enough for whoever was yelling to hear. 

“By the water fountain, idiot!” yelled the person again, their voice quavering like they’re trying not to laugh. 

He turned to head that direction, doing his best to look apologetic as he pushed past people, failing miserably at being polite. It’s a few minutes of people looking at him as though they expect him to apologize, avoiding oddly-colored stains on the floor, and otherwise navigating the busy entry hall of Top Innovate, Asami Sato’s new company. 

When he does arrive by the water fountain, a smile tugs at his lips. Waiting for him and looking like he’s about to pee his pants due to all of his nervous, bouncing energy, is Bolin. It’s been a few months since Mako’s last seen him, since he’s been traveling with his girlfriend Opal, who’s a nurse for Doctors Without Borders. Mako had forgotten, actually, that he’d been on his way back and was planning on me giving him a tour of the company. He’d gotten clearance to do so - at least for most areas - and he’d otherwise prepared, but work had still gotten so busy that the subject had flown from Mako’s mind. 

Well, it was kind of work that had kept him busy. Kind of. Mako thought. I mean, it’s not like it wasn’t rooted in work. Technically-

Thud. Dull pain and a sound to match brought him back to his senses; he had been so focused on convincing himself not to think about - well, what it was doesn’t matter - that he had walked straight into the wall next to where Bolin was standing. 

Biting his tongue to prevent himself from cursing in the quiet entry hall, he took a step back and glanced at Bolin, who hadn’t been making as much noise as Mako had been expecting.

Lying on the floor is Mako’s brother, tears streaming down his face and his breaths coming in huge, shaking gasps. Mako rushed over to see what was wrong - he couldn’t handle losing another family member so abruptly - only to see that Bolin was in perfect health, save that he could barely breathe from laughing so hard. 

“The… first… thing,” Bolin tried to say. “The first thing you did… was walk… into... a wall.”

Rolling his eyes, Mako helped Bolin to his feet. It hadn’t been that funny.

As if Bolin could read his mind, he clapped Mako on the back and burst out laughing again. “It’s been so long since I’ve seen you… besides, it would have been just as hilarious if you had done it when we were younger and spent every moment of every day with each other.”

Mako let out a hefty sigh, shaking his head slightly. He’d forgotten how much Bolin enjoyed a good laugh, and how much he himself enjoyed hearing Bolin laugh. 

They walked in silence for a while before Mako said, “We should meet up more often. I missed you.” 

Bolin looked at Mako out of the sides of his eyes. “Who are you, and what have you done with aloof Mako?” They stared at each other for a moment, neither laughing but both still walking, before Bolin added, “That was a joke, Mako. I agree with you.” In response, Mako nodded his head - he had been aware that it was a joke, but the comment had still gotten him thinking about how aloof he could be, how much he regretted not laughing more or participating in Bolin’s fun activities. It was an aloofness born of necessity, but Mako regretted it, and the fact that he was still not as open as he would have liked, more than he ever admitted. 

It was only a few minutes until they reached the doorway to the rest of the building. Waiting there was Mako’s division head - the person who oversaw all of his work and reported to the CEO of the company, Asami Sato. 

Mako and Bolin made to walk past her, assuming that she was waiting for someone else, when she reached out and tapped Mako on the shoulder gently. 

“Mako, I need you to convince a client - Prince Wu -  to buy,” she squints at her clipboard. “an advanced toaster?” She shakes her head and adds, “You know what? Doesn’t matter. Pick something and sell it, fast.” With that, she walks away, leaving Mako scowling at her back. Of all the people to be assigned to. He thinks, but shrugs and waves Bolin on nonetheless.

“Don’t you have to work, Mako?” Bolin says, glancing around nervously.

“Technically, no. I’m on break right now, which means I’ll work later.”

“I know what a break means, Mako,” says Bolin, sounding like he was pretending to be annoyed. After a slight pause, he added, “I’m joking. I mean, not about knowing what a break is, but I’m not annoyed or anything, I mean, why would I be annoyed? It’s not like-”

“I know, Bolin, it’s fine.” Mako held open a door for someone as they walked deeper into the building. “I know what you were saying, no need to clarify.”

As Mako gave Bolin a tour of the building, he couldn’t help but remember a few days ago, when he had first met Prince Wu at the docks, by chance, and how strange that encounter had been…

Masterpost Next Chapter 

#wu #mako #prince wu #wuko #wu x mako #mako x wu #lok #legend of korra

[therainroguefanfiction]

🔥 ℝise Ⱥbove I̾t ◈ Chapter 014 [Social Interaction? Effort.]

📑 Table of Contents | ◂Backward

Word Count: 2,680 ☁

⊱ ────── {⋅. 🔥 .⋅} ────── ⊰

〈“All I want is a place to call my own. To mend the hearts of everyone who feels alone. You know to keep your hopes up high and your head down low.” A Day to Remember, “All I Want”〉

⊱ ────── {⋅. 🔥 .⋅} ────── ⊰

Bzzt. Bzzt. Bzzt.

I groaned, forcing my eyes open. My hand shot out, feeling around for my annoying ass phone. I had three unread messages. The first was, surprisingly, from Aizawa.

✉ ‘Careful on your way to school.’

Weird, but okay. The next was from Toshi.

✉ ‘The school entrance has been swarmed by reporters. Ignore them, please.’

Reporters? Is that a normal thing for U.A.? The last message was from Murder.

‘Ur face sux’

My eye twitched as my fingers flew across the keyboard. ‘Uve never even seen my face fool’ I stood up, throwing my phone onto the couch before getting ready for school. After grabbing a bottle of Dr. Pepper from the fridge and scarfing down a bowl of cereal, I grabbed my phone again and slipped my sneakers on. A message was waiting for me.

‘Doesnt matter ur face still sux’

I rolled my eyes, ‘Ur an idiot‘

As I got closer to U.A., I heard the chaos before I saw it. The entrance was swarmed by at least two dozen people, some holding microphones, others holding large cameras on their shoulders. They were screaming at the students as they tried to enter the school, blocking their path. Talk about being a hindrance.

“Strange. I’ve never heard of such a thing happening in the past.”

I glanced over at Fumi as he stopped beside me, arms crossed firmly over his chest. “So this ain’t a normal thing, then?”

“Not to my knowledge. Though, if I were to make a guess, I’d say this has to do with All Might being a teacher.”

“You think so?” I scratched my cheek, watching as a female reporter roughly grabbed a student’s shoulder when he ignored her. “He’s the top hero, huh? So heroes are practically celebrities that people go nuts for here… how fucking annoying.”

He tilted his head, looking at me curiously. Right, he doesn’t know anything about me not being from here.

I cleared my throat. “Should we get it over with? Don’t wanna be late… again.”

He nodded, “Yes, they will only become more aggressive over time.”

The fucking vultures spotted us before we even got close, shoving microphones into our faces and screaming over one another to be heard. The only thing I could clearly make out was the name ‘All Might’. Fumi didn’t even spare them a glanced as he headed for the gate, but a woman grabbed his arm and shoved a microphone in his face, demanding an answer.

I felt a surge of annoyance and I grabbed her wrist, my hand turning red as I increased the temperature until she let go of him. “Keep your fuckin’ hands to yourself, bitch. The fuck is wrong with you, grabbing a kid like that. Grow the fuck up and get a real job!”

She cried out in pain and frustration and I released her hand. Muttering profanities under my breath, I put my arm through Fumi’s and tugged him past the archway.

“Thank you,” Fumi spoke softly, his feathery cheeks turning a light shade of pink.

I didn’t even know it was possible for him to blush but this world keeps fucking surprising me, don’t it? “Don’t worry about it,”

“If you won’t bring All Might out, I’ll get him myself!”

I glanced over my shoulder as a loud buzzing filled the morning air. Sheets of metal shot out of the ground, blocking the entry and towering above the stone walls that surrounded the school. The woman screamed in surprise and I scoffed. “That’s what you get, invasive bitch.”

Fumi sighed, placing his hand over his beak. “Your vocabulary is quite vulgar, Jen-san.”

I grinned at him. “Pretty sure I was a fucking sailor in my past life.”

A breeze blew past us, ruffling my hair. A shiver went down my spine, but I didn’t feel cold. I felt… exposed, in danger. What is this strange sense of dread that I’m suddenly feeling? Why do I have the urge to run? I suppressed another shiver, glancing back at the metal sheeting.

“Is something wrong, Jen-san?”

I snapped out of my daze, giving Fumi a forced smile as I followed him into the school building. That feeling lingered in the back of my mind, like someone breathing down my neck.

⊱ ────── {⋅. 🔥 .⋅} ────── ⊰

“Decent work on yesterday’s combat training, you guys.” Aizawa stood at the front, his eyes sweeping the room. “I saw the video feeds and went over each of your team’s results. Bakugo – you’re talented, so don’t sulk like a child about your loss, okay?”

“Yeah, whatever.”

Pft, that bitch is totally sulking. I glanced around Big Boobs, but I could only see the back of his head since he was sitting in the same row. Truth be told, I had been a bit worried about him, but he seems to be in better spirits. His aura ain’t as dark as it was, anyway. I wonder what Midoriya said to him yesterday.

“And Midoriya – I see the only way you won the match was by messing up your arm again. Work harder! And don’t give me the excuse that you don’t have control over your quirk. That line’s already getting old. You can’t keep breaking your body while training here.” His voice softened. “But your quirk will be really useful if you can get a handle on it. So show a little urgency, huh?”

“Right!”

I snickered at his caring tone and his eyes snapped to mind. Shit, is he gonna call me out, too? I didn’t do that bad, did I? I slowly moved my body back behind Big Boobs, slumping over the desk so he couldn’t see me. I still haven’t apologized for the other day, either. Damn, I should really have a talk with him and Toshi, but effort. Emotional effort, too.

“Let’s get down to business,”

I breathed a sigh of relief.

“Your first task will decide your future.”

The classroom grew tense at his words, but I had the distinct feeling that he was trolling everyone again.

“You all need to pick a class representative.”

He said that so seriously, what the fuck. Still, the classroom started to erupt, overflowing with excitement and energy. I hate it.

“Pick me, guys! I wanna be class representative!” Do you even know what this job takes, Red?

“I’ll take it!” Sparky is definitely not smart enough for this.

“Yeah, you’re gonna need me.” Somehow I doubt that, Punk Rock.

“Someone with style should be -”

“Ooh! I’m totally the right pick!”

I guaran-fucking-tee you that Alien does that to French Fry on purpose. She’s going for the record of how many times she can interrupt him in three years. Or she just hates his guts, which I can understand.

Everyone’s voices started to overlap and I slammed my forehead onto the desk. What the fuck is wrong with these idiots, seriously? Don’t they realize how much work and responsibility that role entails? No fucking thank you. Oh, great taco god, even Bakugo wants the job. Depending on who gets the role, my school life could become hell. I’ve seen plenty of school anime to know that class reps and the student council give students hell.

“Silence, everyone! Please!” Prep shot up, his voice booming over the others. “The class representative’s duty is to lead others! It’s not something just anyone can do.” Especially not most of these dipshits. “You must first have the trust of every student in the classroom. Therefore, the most logical way to fill this position is democratically. We will hold an election to choose our leader!”

That’s a great idea and all, but… that hand of yours is raised higher than anyone else’s. It’s pretty obvious he wants the job.

“Is this really the best idea?”

“We’ve only known each other a few days, how do we know who we can trust?”

That’s a bit dramatic, isn’t it? It’s not like the class rep is gonna be trying to bring nations together or some shit.

“‘Sides, everyone will just vote for themselves.”

“Most people will, but that means whoever does receive multiple votes must truly be the most suitable person for the job. It’s the best way! Right, sir?”

Aizawa had slipped back into his sleeping bag at this point, looking bored out of his mind. “Do what you want. Just decide before my nap’s over.” And with that, he fell to the ground, hidden behind the long lectern.

I sweatdropped. For someone that can show so much care for his students, he certainly loves to act like he hates his job. I wonder… is Zawa part tsundere? Is that even a thing? It’s gotta be.

“Thank you for your trust!” Prep turned to the class, pushing up his glasses. “Everyone, please write your vote on a piece of paper and fold it!”

With a sigh, I dug through my bag for my notebook and a pen. So far, it had only been used to draw cute tacos and the sacred taco bra. I swear, I’m gonna take this fucking grudge to the grave and then come back to haunt that bitch. I tapped my pen on the paper, scanning the room.

I don’t really have a relationship with any of these people. I had that one awkward moment with Bakugo; Ochako introduced herself to me; I helped Midoriya to Granny, but he probably don’t even know about that; Peppermint likes to glare at me for no reason, but he has a really nice voice; Then there’s Fumi.

I glanced over at him, watching his pencil scratch across his paper. Did he even want this job? He hadn’t said anything about it, and he doesn’t seem to be especially social or extroverted. He’s the closest thing I got to a friend here, though.

Damn, I’m really shit at interacting with people. Now that I’m thinking about it, the only people I ever interacted with during school was Travis, and even that was limited to a few times a month, and then there’s Skye and Heather, but something tells me those two are invalid. And twats. They’re definitely twats.

Maybe I should make more of an effort to get to know these people, but that sounds like a serious pain in the ass. Most of these people annoy me, anyway, and the only one that’s made an effort with me is Ochako and Punk Rock, but I blew her off.

“I will collect the votes now!”

Well, shit. I stared at the blank piece of paper and hummed thoughtfully. Oh… a grin split my lips as an idea popped into my head. I quickly scribbled down the name and balled the paper up, tossing it at Prep as he walked by. After collecting them all, he headed to the front of the room and started to calculate the results, writing names and numbers on the board. There were a lot of single votes. Guess people really did vote for themselves. Losers~

“Who voted for Aizawa-sensei?!”

“Pffft,” I bit my lip hard to stop from laughing, but his offended tone really fucking got me, man. Big Boobs and Peppermint turned to look at me, one with a weird expression, the other glaring in annoyance.

Prep slammed his hand on the lectern repeatedly. “This is an important decision, please take this seriously, Winchester!”

“Che. It ain’t that serious, fam, take a chill pill.” I huffed, leaning back in my chair. “One vote ain’t gonna make a difference.”

“Every vote matters!”

“For fuck’s sake, fine.” I scratched my cheek, glancing at the students as they looked back at me, some snickering. “I vote for Fumi,”

“Fumikage Tokoyami,” Prep nodded in satisfaction, turning to the board to add the vote. I caught Fumi’s eye and he smiled, sending me a nod.

Thankfully, I got zero votes.

Midoriya was in the lead with three votes, while Big Boobs, Momo Yaoyorozu, got two. Man, that name is hard for me to say, I hate it.

“How did I get three votes?!”

“Okay, you idiots!” Bakugo shot up from his seat, angrily slamming his hands on the surface of the desk. “Who voted for ’em?!”

“What, did you honestly think anyone was gonna vote for you?”

I mean, I thought about it doing it just for shits and giggles, but the risk that he would win, no matter how low, prevented me from doing so. Imagining that loud ass as the class rep makes my head hurt.

“What did you just say?!”

Prep sat down at his desk, his body shaking. “Zero votes… I feared this might happen, but I can’t argue with the system I chose!”

“So you voted for someone else, huh?” Yaoy… what was it again? I squinted at the board, eyes narrowed at her last name. Fuck it! I’m calling her Momo whether she likes it or not.

“But you know it was best to vote for yourself, right?” Sumo asked. “What were you trying to prove here, Iida?”

Iida, huh? I leaned back in my chair, folding my hands behind my head. I don’t know, I like the name ‘Prep’ better, honestly.

Midoriya stood up, his whole body shaking like a leaf as he headed to the front of the room, Momo standing beside him.

“Alright, the class rep is Midoriya. And our deputy is Yaoyorozu.”

“R-Really? It’s not a mistake?” Midoriya squeaked in disbelief. He’s such a timid little shit. How did someone with such little self-confidence become All Might’s successor? Makes no sense to me.

“This might not be so bad!”

“Yeah, I can get behind Midoriya, I guess.”

“Yaoyorozu was totally on top of it when it came to our training results.”

I glanced out the window at the azure sky, tuning out the class. That sense of dread is getting stronger and it’s making my fucking stomach turn. I guess I can add fucking paranoia to my list of issues.

⊱ ────── {⋅. 🔥 .⋅} ────── ⊰

Lunch arrived and students poured out of their classrooms toward the cafeteria. I hung back, not wanting to get stuck in the crowd of hungry teenagers.

“Hey, Winchester!”

I paused, glancing behind me. “Oh. Hey Rin.”

He gave me a bright smile when he finally caught up and we started down the hall. “I’ve been trying to find the right time to say hi. I’m glad you passed the exam!”

I grunted, shoving my hands into my pockets. “I only passed because of you,”

“What do you mean?”

“I didn’t know you were there,” I muttered with a shrug, looking away from him. “I just wanted to test my power, I completely forgot about the exam and about getting points. I only got in because they thought I saved you.”

He nudged my arm, smiling when I looked at him. “Whether you knew I was there or not, you did save me, but that’s not important. We both got in, right?”

“Guess you got a point. Thanks for saving me, by the way.”

He nodded. “You’re in 1-A, right?”

“Yeah, what about you?”

“1-B and guess who’s in my class~”

My brow furrowed as I thought back to the exam. “Uhh… wait, not that blonde idiot.”

“Yup! His name is Neito Monoma and he’s certainly an interesting character.”

I opened my mouth to respond, but a loud yell from in front of us stopped me. “Get the fuck outta my way, Deku!”

“You guys got the arrogant prick, Monoma. We got the loud chihuahua, Bakugo.” I commented, sending him a blank look.

Rin chuckled as he watched the blonde stomping away from Midoriya. “I think we’re a bit better off. But only a little bit.”

“Probably are. My class is fucking nuts.”

“Sounds fun,” He paused for a moment, tilting his head. “Do you mind if I join you for lunch today?”

“Hmm, sure.” I usually just sit at the end of the table, listening to my classmates ramble on and argue about stupid shit. Wait… if he sits with me that means I have to put in the effort to try and carry on a conversation with him.

Fuck my life.

⊱ ────── {⋅. 🔥 .⋅} ────── ⊰

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[cinnaminsvga]

going for the gold | yoongi (m)

→ summary: yoongi is ecstatic when they win the bbmas; some might even say too elated → genre: the absolute WORST crack/smut you will ever read → warnings: masturbation, ass play, trophy play, don’t take this seriously lol → pairing: yoongi x trophy (HHHHHH) → words: 5.2K → a/n: thanks @comfyeol for being my biggest anti i love you comrade (but for reals: thanks for supporting my kinks you’re the best) also, dialogue in italics is said in english k bye please don’t kick me out of the fandom peace

t.k.t. masterlist here

“And the Billboard Music Award goes to...”

The air in the T-mobile area is filled with electricity. The tension is almost tangible as Yoongi can sense his band mates holding in their breaths, their pupils shaking from the nerves. Yoongi’s eyes happen to glance in the direction of their leader, the two of their gazes meeting. Yoongi watches as Namjoon attempts to swallow down his nerves, making Yoongi reach for his friend’s shoulder for a comforting nudge.

If they didn’t win, it would be a huge disappointment for sure. After all, they have travelled all the way here just to possibly accept an award that would put them in the international spotlight. So many of their fans would be enraged, saddened, and dejected because all their effort would have gone to waste. But in the end, life would just return to normal, wouldn’t it? They didn’t need to win, or at least that’s what Yoongi tried telling himself.

But if they did win, however... so much could change. Their lives and careers would change, and Yoongi isn’t a hundred percent sure whether that is an entirely good thing or not. After rising higher and higher at speeds unlike any other K-pop group has known, what would happen when they reached the top? None of these musings would come true anyway, because they couldn’t possibly win, could they?

Could they actually win the BBMA—?

“BTS!”

The crowd immediately implodes, and Yoongi isn’t sure at first whether he hears it right.

Even as the booming overhead speakers start playing Blood Sweat and Tears, Yoongi really couldn’t believe his ears. The crowd is going wild, making Yoongi assume that his loyal fanbase has actually taken over the arena. He sees the sections to his left and right screaming his friends’ names; their fans from all over the world have come to witness their achievement happen before their very eyes.

Soon, the disbelief fades and euphoria rises to take its place. A giddy smile envelops his face as he pats his brothers on the back, all of their eyes crinkling with unrestrained joy. Even as Yoongi follows his band mates to the stage, he can’t help clapping over and over to himself, the rush of adrenaline and electricity finally entering his system and making him want to scream in triumph.

All the years of trials and tribulation have finally led them to this moment, and Yoongi would be damned he wouldn’t let himself have a little happiness. He is going to hold that damned trophy in his hands if it’s the last thing he does.

It isn’t much a surprise, to be honest—Yoongi has been known to be a bit of a trophy hoard. He can’t help himself; he needs a bit more time just digesting the information that ‘wow, we actually won something after so many years of people putting us down!’ The trophies give him an acute sense of accomplishment and contentedness, because it is physical proof that they have succeeded, despite what their haters said. Also, it is always nice knowing that all those shitheads who spat at him are all probably pissing themselves in shock.

So even as Namjoon starts saying what he assumes is a wonderfully sentimental speech, he can’t help but be too distracted to properly understand the words coming from his best friend’s mouth. His eyes flit from Namjoon to the trophy in his hand, his fingers already itching to touch the cool metal.

Yoongi is so distracted that he barely catches Namjoon saying “Please ARMY, remember what we say: love myself, love yourself.” Yoongi fights to keep the grin off his face, smirking internally at the tiny and discreet spoiler Namjoon had just dropped. He can already imagine the uproar it will cause when their fans realize that Namjoon had really revealed the next album’s title.

Eh. The album’s release was still a bit too far into the future. He had other concerns at the moment, and that included getting his hands on that beautiful, microphone-shaped trophy.

The moment the group starts dispersing to go backstage, Yoongi immediately dives for Namjoon. He taps Namjoon’s wrist to get him to pass their beloved award to him. Namjoon hands it over almost immediately, his own two hands shaking from the adrenaline and probably unable to hold the slightly heavy metal for any longer. Yoongi is more than fine with that, because that just meant more time with the trophy for him.

There’s something just so elegant and powerful about trophies. There are sleek and thin ones, like the ones Music Bank usually give. There are more intricate ones, like the one they had received from MAMA.

Oh, don’t get Yoongi started on the MAMA trophy. That thing felt so lovely in his hands, he was pretty sure he could’ve gotten off to just holding it.

This BBMA trophy, on the other hand? Completely different from anything he has ever held. It is weightier than most of the trophies they have received, and the ribs along the microphone figure feel pleasant to his touch. The golden plaque, along with the black base, provides a great place for his fingers to find purchase on.

In short, Yoongi is fucking enamored.

Their walk to backstage is as noisy as per usual, but what did anyone expect with BTS? He can hear his band mates all hooting and jumping in glee, even high-fiving the presenters and other staff they pass by. But Yoongi remains quiet, his eyes only trained on the love of his—

“HYUUUUUNG WE DID IT!” He hears Jimin scream, who runs toward him to hug him semi-aggressively. Yoongi curses, the sudden weight of his dongsaeng almost making him lose his grip on the trophy.

“Jimin! You almost made me drop the trophy,” Yoongi chastises, but the grin on Jimin’s face is anything but apologetic.

“So what? We got this cool pop-up thing as proof enough! Isn’t this prettier than that lump of metal?” Jimin snorts, holding the aforementioned card with pride. Yoongi isn’t sure what type of drugs this kid was on if he even considered the thought that a piece of paper was worth more than this golden statue.

“Are you even hearing yourself speak? How can that arts and craft piece of paper even begin to compare to this wonderful masterpiece?”

Jimin only laughs harder, his absolute happiness only making his giggle rise to a cute squeak. “Oh hyung, you and your trophies! You’ve always liked them better than anything else in the world, huh?”

Yoongi recoils, the comment searing itself into his brain. “What did you say?” he splutters, but Jimin has already walked ahead of him.

While the rest of his members have all walked away to the interviewing sections, his feet grind to a halt instead. He stands stuck to the wall, his eyebrows furrowed in confusion.

What had Jimin meant when he said ‘he like them better than anything else?’ That is absolutely ridiculous! He likes a lot of things more than trophies: his family, music, lamb skewers, sleep, his members (most of the time), and...

The trophies...

Ok, maybe he holds trophies quite high up in his list, but there’s no harm to that, is there? It’s ok to like material things once in a while, especially since he has earned it fair and square. Yoongi decides to just shrug off the thought, and instead he laughs nervously at himself for even hyper analyzing Jimin’s passing comment.

Why had he been so bothered?

“Oy, Yoongi-ah! Why are you still standing there? We’re making the kind interviewer wait!” Seokjin appears from behind a crowd of media team members, his hands on his hips in his trademark motherly stance. He can hear his other members giggling, always excited to see their eldest hyung scold the second eldest hyung.

Taking a deep breath to calm himself, he gives his roommate his most deadpan stare. “Yeah, yeah. No need to nag so much. I was just tying my shoe.” He lies, but it seems to appease the elder.

Yoongi is about to follow Seokjin when one of the BigHit managers taps him on the shoulder.

“Oh, Yoongi-ssi! Let me take that trophy from you; it must be heavy.” The well-meaning hyung says, not waiting to hear Yoongi’s protests as he promptly takes it away. The manager-hyung slaps him good-naturedly on the back, but Yoongi just wants to scream in anguish. “Wouldn’t want you to carry the heavy thing while doing your hundreds of interviews, huh?”

Yoongi would not, in fact, have minded very much. But there isn’t much he can say on the matter, because the manager-hyung has already walked away.

So when Yoongi finally joins the rest of his members, they all immediately sense the sudden drop in his mood. (Yoongi has the tendency to let his pout become a hundred times more prominent when things don’t end up his way; Namjoon says it’s cute.)

“Aww, hyung is pouting again!” Namjoon laughs, draping an arm around his shoulder. The lady interviewer smiles at the display of camaraderie, despite not understanding the Korean words being spoken.

“Wow, it looks like all of you are really close to one another!” The interviewer squeals, causing the others to laugh congenially. Yoongi does not laugh.

“Oh, we are! I was just saying how he,” Namjoon points at Yoongi, who frowns even more, “is pouting more so than usual today.”

“Why is he pouting? I’m sure you all should be smiling until your mouths fall off, especially after that phenomenal win!”

“It’s because he can’t flaunt the trophy off to the cameras!” Jimin shouts giddily, making Yoongi’s head snap at him.

“You little--!”

“Anyway,” Namjoon cuts him off, a stern glare on his face. Yoongi’s mouth clamps shut, and he forces a smile (a grimace) on his face. “Of course we’re ecstatic! Mr. Suga over here is probably just pouting because he wasn’t able to introduce himself to Nicki Minaj earlier.”

“Oh! You saw her? Who else have you met?”

And so, the interviews go on and on, with most of the questions being generally about the same thing. Eventually, Yoongi is able to take his mind off the trophy for the rest of the night, since the general giddy atmosphere from his group mates have slowly affected him as well. By the end of the night, he has forgotten all about the trophy, and even dances along to the remaining performances by the other western artists.

It is only when they return to the hotel room does he finally remember.

“Hey hyung! The manager-hyung says that they want to take some group pictures of us with the trophy for promotional pictures. Let’s go!” Taehyung enters the room without knocking, immediately rushing up to Yoongi and pulling him away from his unfinished meal without so much as waiting for a response.

“Wait, you brat! I haven’t even put my chopsticks down yet,” Yoongi grumbles, but Taehyung only laughs, grabbing the chopsticks out of his hand and just placing them on some random table.

“Too slow, too slow! And shit, your suit is already wrinkled! The coordi-noonas are going to get pissed! They need to do some touch-ups before we take those pictures,” Taehyung hums, grabbing Yoongi’s hand to pull him faster to the other room. “C’moooon why are you so slow!”

“Why are you so annoying?” Yoongi retorts, but he is too distracted by Taehyung’s words to really be too irritated.

They are going to take a picture with the trophy again.

When they reach the room where they will be having their mini photo shoot, everyone has already gathered. The coordi-noonas immediately pounce on him, all of them tutting at his messy suit and the small piece of rice still stuck to his upper lip.

“Hey, at least I haven’t taken my suit off!” He defends himself, but his mind is elsewhere. More specifically, where the fuck is—

“You looking for this, hyung?” Jimin appears out of nowhere, holding the trophy in front of Yoongi’s face. Yoongi restrains himself from making grabby motions for the object, fighting to keep a calm and collected stare despite his mind screaming ‘take it take it take it take it!’

If Jimin is fazed by Yoongi’s tense glare, he chooses not to comment. Instead he says, “It’s a beautiful trophy, isn’t it? Nicer than even the MAMA trophy, huh?” Jimin sighs dreamily, pretending to use the trophy like a barbell. Yoongi’s eyes follow the motion like a pendulum.

“Heck, it even has a greater grip too! My hands wrap around it perfectly, almost like it’s made for it.” He says, and Yoongi has to suppress the choked gasp from coming out of his mouth.

“What the fuck Jimin?”

Jimin raises an eyebrow at him. “What? Was it something I said?”

Saved yet again by circumstance, Yoongi doesn’t get to reprimand Jimin for his “unintentional” innuendo since the photographer-hyung was already calling them to go to their places.

“Alright, you’re good to go Yoongi-ssi.” The coordi-noona pats him on the back, breaking him from his slight reverie. Yoongi remembers to thank her before going to join the rest of his friends, where Jimin has already situated himself in the middle (with the trophy no less.)

“Look at Jiminie! He’s in the middle again,” Jungkook laughs, earning a soft slap from Jimin.

“That’s Jimin-hyung to you! And fine, I’ll get out of the middle. Who wants to stand here with the trophy?” He asks, before his gaze lands on Yoongi.

Yoongi isn’t sure if he had actually seen Jimin smirk or not.

“Ah! Yoongi-hyung, you should be in the middle this time! After all, you’re as short as I am anyway,” he teases, and Yoongi’s signature pout makes another appearance.

“Hey, I’ll have you know that I am at least 1cm taller—“

“Aw sheesh hyung, let’s move it! I’m ready to get back to my room and drink!” He hears Hoseok whine, earning a whistle of agreement from Seokjin.

Jimin then shoves the trophy in Yoongi’s hand, which he almost drops in surprise. Luckily, the trophy indeed has a good grip, so Yoongi manages to hold it steady in his hands.

Yoongi barely gets to relish in the feeling of the magnificent weight in his hands before the photographer was calling them to focus.

“Alright boys, I need your best smiles for the camera! Yoongi, make sure to face the trophy just right—no, tilt it a bit to the left—perfect.” He raises a thumbs up, and he immediately starts the session.

Out of all of them, Yoongi was probably smiling the largest.

“Thank you everyone for your hard work! You can all go nuts now; just know we have to wake up at 6AM tomorrow so don’t go too wild, alright kids?” their manager-hyung jokes, causing everyone to chuckle lightly.

“Oh, don’t worry hyung! We’re responsible. Can’t say the same for Yoongi-hyung, though!” Jimin laughs, making Yoongi shoot another glare at the younger.

“Why do you keep trying to pick a fight, huh?” He growls, but he can never really stay mad at the cute kid, so the threat pretty much dies at the sight of Jimin’s mischievous grin.

Before Jimin could reply however, their manager-hyung intercepts the conversation. “Yoongi-ssi? You can give me back the trophy now; the photoshoot is over.” He says, his hand already extended to reach for the trophy.

Yoongi panics, fear seizing him at losing touch with the trophy again. ‘Think, think, think...!’

“Um, can I return it tomorrow instead? I want to take some pictures of the trophy to send to my, uh, parents. They want to see how the trophy looks like, you know?” Perfect, Yoongi! Sounds just about believable.

Manager-hyung’s eyebrows furrow. “You can just take a photo right now though?”

Fuck. “Um... I want better lighting?”

Luckily or unluckily, Jimin saves him (unintentionally or not). “Aww, don’t mind him! He’s not gonna do anything bad to it. I’m sure Yoongi-hyung will return it good as new tomorrow.”

(Yoongi makes a mental note to buy something nice for his dongsaeng when they get back. Maybe treat him to some barbeque.)

“Well, I suppose.” Manager-hyung acquiesces, but not before giving Yoongi a stern look. “I want that trophy back tomorrow morning, ok? No tomfoolery, or else Bang PD-nim will have both our heads, understood?”

Yoongi barely manages to shoot him a discernable nod before he was already out of the room in a flash, almost slamming the door on the way out. Despite the room being close to his own hotel room, Yoongi’s out of breath by the time he locks his door.

With his heart beating frantically, Yoongi strides over to his bed, placing the trophy with extreme delicateness on the soft linens as if it were ready to crumble in any second. Yoongi sits beside it in wonder, his eyes never leaving its shiny tinge for even a moment.

He finally has the trophy all to himself.

...now what?

Well, he supposes he should take those pictures for his parents; they would probably want to print the pictures to display in their restaurant for everyone to see. Yoongi whips out his phone and snaps the few shots, taking care to take pictures from different angles to give his parents an array of choices.

Once he finishes, however, Yoongi is back at a loss. What does he do with a trophy for a whole night to himself? Why had he even wanted “alone time” with it anyway? In retrospect, he supposes he must have sounded weird when he asked to keep the trophy for a whole night. What could he even do with it?

Well, he guesses he should probably clean it, as he notices the numerous smudged fingerprints adorning the shiny paint. He grabs a small towel from his bathroom, wetting it slightly and begins to wipe the dirt away gently.

Even through the towel, he could still feel the ribbed texture of the microphone statue against his fingers, the rough feeling almost soothing to his touch.

After a few minutes of rubbing away however, Yoongi starts to get frustrated, seeing that almost none of the fingerprints were fading away.

“Fucking hell,” he mumbles to himself, furiously scrubbing the surface to no avail. “Maybe if I clean all the sides all at once...?” he trails off, forming a circle with his hands and rigorously just—

Starts pumping the trophy. With the towel. And his hands.

Yoongi pauses in his ministrations.

This is definitely not a good mental image that he wants people knowing about.

At once, Yoongi drops the towel and trophy as if they were boiling, flinching slightly when the award almost bounces off the bed. He just barely catches the trophy before it hits the floor, cradling it to his chest.

“Phew, that was close.” He sighs, glancing briefly at the trophy before placing it on his bedside table, still slightly spooked.

It’s not like Yoongi hasn’t done anything like that before. After all, he is a young man, and young men always have certain needs attended to. But why was he so affected by just touching the trophy like that? Sure, it sort of those look phallic, if you squint hard enough—

Woah there, Yoongi. You’re going into some serious kink territory right now. The fact that he just openly admits to himself that the trophy even looks remotely dick-esque is pretty bad, but it’s not like he’s going to fuck the trophy, right?

...right?

Holy shit, Yoongi is definitely not considering that. No fucking way. Sure, he hasn’t gotten off in a while, but that didn’t mean he is desperate enough to shove a trophy up his ass. He could always rub one out like a normal dude, which is definitely what he’s going to do. Right now.

He’s definitely not putting down his pants because he’s going shove the BBMA up his ass. He isn’t stupid.

Clad now only in his very rumpled dress shirt, Yoongi pauses as he stares at his still mostly flaccid dick, unsure how to start. He hasn’t exactly done this in a while, and he isn’t necessarily in frantic need or anything. But he already has his pants off and dick out, so he might as well just get this show on the road.

His usual spank bank usually consisted of old exploits with old partners, most of which really got his mind reeling and did the job well. But as he tries remembering one of his typical sexcapades, he finds that none of them seem to be working. He even tries thinking of some of the people he saw today (he had met a lot of people today, and majority of them were pretty good-looking) but he really couldn’t get Yoongi Jr. to cooperate.

By sheer coincidence as he tries to get his cock to respond, his eyes shift to the trophy that may have started this whole ordeal in the first place. He eyes the trophy warily, until he feels it—

Blood is actually rushing southwards. ‘What the fuck what the fuck what the fuck—‘ Yoongi curses internally, but he can’t deny the strangely arousing idea of taking something so huge. OK, he fucking said it. He will admit it; he kind of wants to take the thing up his ass.

Yoongi is definitely no stranger to the wonders of his prostrate. In fact, whenever he has time to properly take care of himself, he often wanders south to pleasure himself, relishing in the sweet sensation of letting go completely untouched.

He’s definitely never taken something that wide before, and he’s honest to God scared to even attempt trying.

But it was there, staring at him. Urging him, tempting him.

Oh, fuck it. If it didn’t work out, he could always just stop anyway. Right?

Without thinking too hard about the consequences, Yoongi dives over his bed to his suitcase, rummaging quickly for his emergency bottle of lube and a condom. He stares dubiously at the pack of condoms for a second, wondering if the latex could properly cover the wide head of the award.

“Well, if people can wear condoms on their heads, I guess this will work.” He shrugs, before finally preparing his makeshift dildo.

He begins by brushing his fingertips over his back, the softness of his own touch sending shivers down his spine. He flips the cap of his lube with his other hand, fumbling to get some of it onto his fingers, trying to warm it up a bit before spreading it all around his rim.

He can already feel himself loosen in anticipation, his hole already awaiting the welcome intrusion. He chooses not to prolong it any longer and promptly presses a single finger into his ass.

“Ahh... nice.” He hisses, a grin already forming on his face but the night was barely over. He feels himself arch slightly as he wriggles his finger experimentally. Oh boy, he is going to need a lot more fingers to prepare himself for the upcoming storm.

By now, his dick has reached full mast, the anticipation making him almost shake like a leaf. His head is leaking profusely, but he refuses to touch himself. Instead, he starts pumping his finger in and out of his hole, loosening himself up even further before deciding he is ready for another finger.

Yoongi is generally a pretty quiet guy, especially during sex. So even he surprises himself when he lets out a loud gasp at the entrance of his second finger, causing him to bite his lip to suppress the following whimpers.

He never used to go crazy over two little fingers. It usually took thicker objects to get him very worked up, but he guesses that it all had to do with not having pleasured himself in so long.

He still needs more preparation, however, so the cycle continues until he is pretty much four fingers deep. His breaths have gotten heavier and heavier as time goes on, his teeth wearing his lips almost thin as he tries to stop his moans from escaping. He isn’t very sure how thin the walls around here are, and he isn’t really looking forward to someone finding out what he’s doing.

Eventually, he decides he can’t take it anymore and wants the trophy up his ass now. His dick is still crying for his attention, but he grits his teeth harder, wanting the pure sensation of release without any external help (because everyone knew that Yoongi was more of an ass man anyway.)

He pops his fingers out of his hole, barely muffling his groan as the feeling of emptiness makes him feel a little uncomfortable. He grabs one of the condom packets he had placed on the bedside table, taking his time as he tries to fit the rubber around the statue.

“How do those idiots on the internet do it?” Yoongi grumbles impatiently, having snapped the condom by accident as the thin elastic on the bottom could not properly encase the large head. It takes a few more tries before Yoongi finally gets the stupid thing on, before promptly drizzling a huge amount of lube all over it.

Yoongi knows that he would be stupid trying to fit the entire thing in his hole, so he is only really aiming to get the ribbed microphone head inside. He hopes that the rough texture feels as good in his ass as it does on his fingers, because he would really regret his life the moment things go awry. And oh boy, a lot of things can go awry (a complete understatement.)

With the trophy sufficiently lubed up, Yoongi takes a deep breath, mentally preparing himself on what he is about to do.

Holy fuck. He really is the stupidest motherfucker alive.

“God, don’t reject me when I try to enter heaven,” he pleads to no one in particular, before grasping the award in his hand and positioning it over his waiting entrance.

Rightly so, he starts very slowly, the head of the microphone almost sliding past his hole before Yoongi positions it more properly. The first intrusion makes his eyes bug out almost comically, a stead strings of “holy fuck holy fuck” sounding almost like a mantra as Yoongi takes a moment to right himself.

When he feels he can do more, he trudges on, easing more of it in until he finally feels the—

“HOLY SHIT!” He all but screams, no longer caring about how loud he is about to be because the ribbed texture has just entered his system and he isn’t sure how much more he could take.

It isn’t exactly entirely too pleasurable just yet, what with Yoongi still too tense from the big ass makeshift-dildo up his ass, but it definitely didn’t feel bad. If the way his dick twitches is any indicator, he’s pretty sure he’s enjoying it.

Like the true trooper that he is, Yoongi doesn’t stop. He goes on and on, while more of his louder and louder whines escape his lips. He doesn’t even fucking care that Jimin is in the next room over and can probably guess what he’s doing—he’s too lost in this weirdly good sensation that he just can’t give a damn.

By the time the trophy was inserted deep enough that only the plaque and base were left, Yoongi was pretty much dripping every type of liquid from every available orifice on his body. His cock was weeping, his mouth was drooling, and his ass was wet as the ocean. Only thing left was if his nose started bleeding and his ears started leaking his liquefied brains all over the bed.

Yoongi couldn’t move; he wasn’t sure if he should. He tries shifting from his kneeling position into something more comfortable, but his movement jostles the trophy in just a way that it touches his prostrate, making Yoongi cry out in pleasure.

“Fuck!” He screams, instinctively going to grasp his cock to prolong the pleasure. He pumps himself a few times before managing to gather enough mental fortitude to stop himself. He forces himself to move his hand instead to grasp the base of the trophy.

After a few seconds of mentally debating himself, he realizes that he’s already too far-gone not to forge ahead. On the count of three, he slowly pulls out before plunging shallowly back in, his pleasure skyrocketing off the roof.

Shit, why hadn’t he done this much sooner? What else could he do with the other trophies they had back home? The Music Bank trophy always looked kind of phallic anyway...

All semblance of proper thoughts leaves him the moment he pulls out farther and pushes back even faster than before. His eyes squint so hard that tears almost start to flow, making him look like he is in pain. But oh boy, that could not be any farther from the truth.

“Yes, yes, yes!” He chants, the slow rhythm he has started making him lose his brain to mouth filter, not even properly aware of anything other than the euphoric feeling of having the trophy filling him to the brim.

He is so gone from this earthly plane that he doesn’t even hear the loud knocks coming from his door. He is still in the midst of rocking his hips back into the trophy when the person from the outside finally decides to shout him out of his trance.

“YOONGI-HYUNG! PLEASE HELP! JUNGKOOK JUST TOOK THE BIGGEST SHIT IN MY ROOM AND NOW THE TOILET IS CLOGGED BUT I REALLY GOT TO USE THE TOILET! LET ME USE YOURS PLEASE!” Turns out, the person disturbing his alone time is none other than Taehyung. Yoongi splutters a symphony of expletives to himself, trying to extract the trophy out of his ass as quickly as he can.

“I’m busy, you ass! Go to Seokjinnie-hyung or something!” He calls back, groaning when the trophy is finally removed. God, he’s never felt so fucking empty, and now he’s just 100% more pissed than he normally is.

“SEOKJIN-HYUNG IS OUT WITH HOBI-HYUNG AND NAMJOONIE-HYUNG AND JIMIN WON’T LET ME IN FOR SOME REASON! PLEASE HYUNG, I’M REALLY GONNA—“ Taehyung is still in the midst of his rant when Yoongi finally opens the door.

Yoongi had to hastily put on his pants and hide the, er, evidence away from prying eyes as quickly as he could, all while willing his painfully hard erection to go away. But the more Yoongi looked at Taehyung’s “I-got-the-massive-shits” face, the more quickly his arousal faded away.

“Do your fucking business then leave, you ass.” He growls, but Taehyung doesn’t even register his anger with how thankful he is to relieve himself.

And so, Yoongi is forced to listen to Taehyung’s loud grunts as he lets out what he assumes is the best shit of his life while he ponders the state his life has gone in just a mere 24 hours.

He is part of one of the most well renowned K-pop groups in the world, who just won a BBMA. And he had almost gotten off to aforementioned BBMA. Keyword: almost.

“Fuck.” Yoongi groaned.

(“FuCK!” Taehyung groaned in unison. “YES! Mission accomplished.”

At least one of them was happy.)

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[ggooljam]

insubordinate

“This is the most boring stakeout ever.” 

The four figures sat on benches in twos across the street from each other, mumbling quietly into the microphones attached to their shirts to communicate with each other. The girl with a shoulder-length bob cut – the only female of the group – jabbed the boy beside her with her elbow to shut him up. 

 A man who looked like he was in his early 40s entered the café, and the tallest of the four got up from his seat slowly. “That’s him,” he asserted. 

 The male beside him nodded, closing his eyes in concentration. “Head Office was right – he’s another Insubordinate. It hasn’t been long since he joined the small gang. He’s got the power of sleep inducement.” He frowned. “We might be getting company soon, guys. Let’s get a move on. Eunhee, call H.O.” 

As Eunhee left to make the call, the three others stalked over to the entrance of the café. “You go in this time, Dongmin. Maybe you won’t be so bored then.” 

The youngest boy nodded, fixing his spiked hair before walking through the wall into the coffee shop. 

 It wasn’t long before Eunhee came back, giving them a thumbs up. “They’re on their wa-” She tapered off and suddenly snapped her head over to the window of the café. “Chan, does the Insub already have backup. I’m sensing two of them.” Her eyes scanned the café. She pointed to a lone female seated in the corner of the room. “She just blanked on me. I could see her future just a moment ago, but now I can’t. Is she blank for you too, Jin?” 

Chan’s eyebrows furrowed in confusion as he peered over at the girl in the café. “I…I can’t read her memories.” The normally stoic male almost looked panicked as he realized his powers didn’t work on her. “Whether she’s human or one of us, I should be able to tap into them.” He turned quickly, about to head into the café in fear that Dongmin would be in danger. 

The taller male blocked the two of them with his arm urgently. “She’s not one of them.” He looked down at Chan and Eunhee, shaking his head. “I’m able to get into her mind. She has no suspicious thoughts.” 

“She could be blocking her thoughts right now! They could have known you have the power to enter people’s minds,” Eunhee argued. 

“I can only enter human minds, Eunhee,” he said calmly. “I wouldn’t be able to read her mind if she wasn’t human.” A frown appeared on his face at that moment as his eyes flitted over to look at her. “She senses that something’s wrong.” 

 “How can sh-” Eunhee was cut off as the low thump of the barista at the till falling to the floor abruptly reached their ears. It wasn’t long before those around her were induced to sleep. The three of them could see Dongmin working to move hazardous objects out of the way all the while preventing the Insubordinate from getting any closer to the register.

The possessed man turned, glaring at Dongmin who grinned cheekily as he waved. “When did you get here?” the man growled.

“I’d never miss a slumber party,” Dongmin jested, noticing the man’s gaze shift. He looked behind him to see a girl shaking – her eyes wide in fear. “And…I guess you wouldn’t either?” 

“She can hear Dongmin, but she can’t see him,” Jin noted, trying to fill in Chan and Eunhee as he tried to piece everything together himself. 

At that moment two men in black suits materialized between Dongmin and the Insubordinate. Without a word and swift movement of their hands, the Insubordinate left the host body which fell to the floor. 

“Good work,” one of them said in a low voice as his partner cuffed the Insubordinate, disappearing into the air with him. He looked around the coffee shop at the unconscious customers. “Let’s hope they wake up soon. The café’s manager will be here soon.” There was a moment of hesitation in his scanning when he reached Dongmin. He took a step to the side, wanting to get a better look at the person behind him when the boy with the spiked up hair shifted his position suddenly, blocking the girl behind him.

“Jin wanted to ask you about that position at Head Office,” Dongmin said quickly to which the man rolled his eyes in annoyance and disappeared promptly after without another word. Dongmin sighed in relief, turning around to find the girl who had been wide awake just moments ago, collapsed over in her seat. 

“She must have fainted,” Jin explained, as he entered the building with the other two by his side. They all crossed their arms in front of them as they stared down at the peculiar girl. 

Eunhee groaned in frustration as she “What is she? I clearly remember being able to see into her future just like I can with all the other humans here and now I can’t.” 

“I’ll admit, it’s really hard to read her mind; it’s like the connection is unstable,” Jin pointed out. “And it is odd that Chan isn’t able to see anything either.” 

This bit of information seemed to make Eunhee more irritated. “So is she one of us then? Is she a supernal?” she demanded, glaring down at the mentioned female. She was about to see if she could take over the girl’s body, but got intercepted by both Chan and Dongmin who pulled her back. 

“Let’s just leave,” Dongmin spoke up, uncomfortable with how aggressive Eunhee was being. “If Jin can enter her mind, I’m sure she’s no harm.” 

Eunhee was about to snap at the youngest of the quartet when the café door opened with a ring. 

“What’s going on here?” a young lady inquired, rushing over to the counter where the employees were slowly getting up from the ground. Her light gray eyes hastily skimmed the remaining areas of the coffee shop where everyone had started to wake up save the girl surrounded by the four invisible figures. 

Jin flinched as she hurried past him to check on the girl who lay passed out on the couch seat. He placed a careful hand on his elbow – he could have sworn he felt her bump into him which shouldn’t have been the case in his current concealed state. “That’s the manager. We should leave,” he muttered quietly, pushing the other three out through the closest wall. 

Chan took one last look behind him, staring intently at the girl who was beginning to gain consciousness so he could remember her face. He had never encountered anyone – human or supernal – whose past he could not see and he had a feeling this wouldn’t be the last time he saw her.

#supernal!au

[junker-town]

Jimmy Butler and the 76ers need each other, now more than ever

This is a gamble that both sides needed to take. It’ll either succeed wildly or fail horribly.

Late in the summer of 2016, Joel Embiid was fuming. According to ESPN’s Kevin Arnovitz, Embiid was stomping around the Sixers’ old practice facility, at one point chucking a basketball across the hardwood. He had a workout scheduled with a marquee college big man prospect, but it got cancelled at the last minute. Instead, he had to face off against a 37-year old Elton Brand who was on the last legs of his NBA career.

”The night before, I’d been watching Shaq’s highlights, and I wanted the competition,” Embiid told Arnovitz. “I needed someone to go back at me.”

It sounds like he needed a competitor like Jimmy Butler, but Butler was 750 miles away at the Chicago Bulls practice facility, busy exchanging profanities with Rajon Rondo over who got to defend Isaiah Canaan, the hottest scorer on the opposing scrimmage team.

Two years since then, the number of people the business end of a Butler profanity-laced rant has gone up, ranging from teammates in Chicago and Minnesota -- who he chastised in private and in front of cameras -- to the Wolves’ front office. When he first returned to practice after demanding a trade from Minnesota, Butler challenged Karl-Anthony Towns to post him up, schooled the starters, and turned to GM Scott Layden.

“You fucking need me!” he screamed. “You can’t win without me!”

Meanwhile, Embiid got paired with Ben Simmons, who sat out a season due to injury and then won Rookie of the Year. In 2017, the 76ers drafted Markelle Fultz at No. 1 by trading the No. 3 pick — who became superstar-in-waiting Jayson Tatum — to Boston, in hopes of rounding out a homegrown Big Three. A shoulder injury held Fultz out most of his rookie year and infamously prompted the destruction of his once-perfect jumper.

Sam Hinkie, who led the Sixers into the Process era, was forced out, and Bryan Colangelo was ushered in. At least three burner Twitter accounts, an internal investigation, and an exhausting search for a replacement later, Colangelo was fired and Brand, now a front-office executive, was promoted to the big job.

Butler and the 76ers both had to take their hits. On Saturday, they merged out of necessity.

The Sixers traded Jerryd Bayless, a second-round pick, and two Process babies who had been handpicked by Hinkie -- Robert Covington and Dario Saric — to the Timberwolves for Butler and sophomore Justin Patton. Despite their meticulous planning, the multiple draft picks, and reserved cap space, the Sixers still needed a third star, so they took a gamble on the 29-year-old Butler, who is a free agent at the end of the year.

They didn’t trade for him to put the sputtering Process era to an end, but to refuel it.

They didn’t trade for him to put the sputtering Process era to an end, but to refuel it.

Built unconventionally around a 7-foot shooter in Embiid and two point guards who can’t shoot in Simmons and Fultz, the 76ers are prone to bouts of offensive malaise, compounded by envelope-pushing plays that too often end in multiple turnovers. They needed Butler, a nightly 20-point scorer and stabilizing on-court force.

And Butler, whose reputation for being old school has teetered into infamy over the past few months, needs a team like the 76ers — modern and analytics-obsessed, but also defensively inclined — to drag him into a version of the 21st century that aligns with his values.

Butler was consistently at odds with Towns and Andrew Wiggins, the young pillars of Minnesota’s rebuild. That’s why it came as a surprise when Embiid told ESPN’s Tim MacMahon that he discussed his new potential teammate with them and “they thought we were definitely going to get along.”

It makes more sense if you separate personality from persona.

The kid from Tomball, TX -- who used to strut around Chicago in cowboy boots, blast Garth Brooks from the locker room, stan Taylor Swift, and imitate wrestling moves on his teammates -- is more famous for his 5 a.m. workouts, locker room tirades, and throwback attitude. Meanwhile, Embiid, the NBA’s best tweeter and troll, is known as the class clown.

But it’s easy to forget how serious Embiid is and how funny Butler can be. At their core, they’re both hard-boiled workers with a nose for mischief. There’s a reason why Butler is arguably the NBA’s most meme-worthy star, and why Embiid relishes roasting big men on the floor as much as he does online. Their jokes don’t offset their intensity. Instead, the jokes are an extension of that competitiveness.

After getting blown out by the Raptors on the eve of Halloween, Embiid stewed in his own frustration. The Sixers’ new switch-happy defensive scheme was out of sorts.

“I’m the guy behind, so if I call something, my teammates gotta respect it and they gotta honor it,” he told me that night. “We have a lot of communication problems. That’s the key to a great defense.”

Later, he added, “I gotta communicate better. “If our defense is not good, I feel like I’m not doing a great job so I gotta do a better job. I don’t ever allow someone to give up 129 points. That’s bad. I’m pissed about it.”

The message was not dissimilar to what Butler has tried to get across in Minnesota: stern, public, focused on effort, disappointed in the gulf between who they are and who they could be. But Embiid has a less explosive (read: less profane) way of communicating, and he put himself on the list of people who needed to be held accountable.

And unlike Minnesota, where Butler was supposed to imbue work ethic by osmosis to a franchise that hadn’t made the playoffs in more than a decade, Embiid isn’t alone.

Bill Streicher-USA TODAY Sports

When 76ers head coach Brett Brown took over in 2013, he deliberately hung posters all over the walls of the practice facility that read, “Philly hard, Philly real, Philly edge.” The goal was to constantly remind the team what it meant to be a 76er, evoking memories of Allen Iverson stepping over Tyronn Lue in Game 1 of the NBA Finals, or Charles Barkley crashing against floorboards for loose balls. A few days prior to the Raptors game, after the 76ers dropped back-to-back road contests against the Bucks and Pistons, the coaching staff convened with the players, hoping to remind them who they were supposed to be.

“They didn’t call out anyone as a person but they called us out as a team,” T.J. McConnell told me. “We all took it personal and decided it’s not good enough and that we need to be better.”

In Butler, Embiid now has an aid and kindred spirit: a dogged, prideful defender who will call out perimeter switches and funnel opponents into his towering 7-foot frame. A core of Simmons, Butler, and Embiid could wreak havoc defensively for years.

But Butler will have to adjust to Philly’s culture.

Simmons and Embiid are not Towns and Wiggins, but they’re still young players: prone to inconsistency and still figuring out who they are on the court. When things momentarily go off the rails, Butler will have to be patient and measured, especially if Fultz — whose road to reclaiming his potential, let alone tapping into it, looks long — sticks around. And if Butler chides, he must do it behind closed doors. The microphone never helps him.

Butler is a rare combination: an open book, easy to read, but hard to manipulate. His intensity does not flood onto the court and blur his decision-making ability. Instead, it is defined by Butler’s need to assuage his anxieties. When something is wrong, his first impulse has always been to consider what more he can do.

Butler’s instincts turned him from a near-homeless 13-year-old to a JuCo standout to a first-round draft pick to an NBA All Star, so you can see why he hangs onto them. But in the fragile ecosystem of a locker room, Butler’s aggression rarely translates positively to others.

He has always known that, even if he hasn’t been able to help himself. When I profiled him at the 2016 All Star game in February, he joked that he had to stop telling the truth (i.e. criticizing his teammates) in the media, because it always got him in trouble. He led the NBA in minutes at the time, and he liked presenting himself as an archaic heel, the foil to a league charging in the direction of rest and injury prevention. That didn’t lend much credibility to his insistence that he was sitting out games in Minnesota because his body needed it.

But even back then, he admitted his own intensity wasn’t healthy.

“I say that I don’t wanna sit down, I wanna play all those minutes, but I really be tired of playing like I’m Superman or something” Butler told me then. “They hit me with Kryptonite, then I hurt my knee.” He hurt his knee again last year, tearing his meniscus and missing almost two months.

Butler’s mentality may run in opposition to the way analytics have transformed the game, but he isn’t ignorant to their benefits. The question is whether he can lean into those moments of rationality. The Sixers, a numbers-obsessed franchise that wants to hang their hats on being tougher, longer, and grittier than their opponents, could provide the happy medium that allows his aggression to thrive and his joints to heal. At the very least, they’ll field one of the most intense locker rooms in the league.

Butler’s favorite pop star put it best: It’s gonna be forever, or it’s gonna go down in flames.

[realmotionxi-blog]

Kanye West - The Lyrical Genius - Biography Full HD 2018

Kanye West - The Lyrical Genius - Biography Full HD 2018 I got ta follow with these rappers, but you know I'm your favorite, but I'm not safe mmm. But that's why love me when someone comes up and says something like I am a god everybody says who does he think he is just told you who I thought I was? Oh God imma. Let you finish, but Beyonce had one of the best videos of all time, and I immediately knew in this situation that it was wrong. I got the answers. You ain't even doing education.   Y'All Had me scared of myself of my vision. Do do you feel down being free and I'm thinking your own, take no follow. Okay, Tania Omari West was born on June, 8th 1977 to a middle-class family in Atlanta, Georgia. His father Ray was a photojournalist for the Atlanta Journal newspaper and he was politically active within the Black Panther movement and he later became a Christian counselor. Kenya'S mother, dr. Don de West, was an English teacher at Clark, Atlanta University, and she was offered a similar position elsewhere, which meant young Connie was moving to Chicago Chicago. So that's what it is that I should cancel from Chicago and very sincere. They got a heart like that, but when they don't give a fuck about what everybody is saying small, this is from the heart. By the time, Kanye was three: his parents had divorced amicably and his mother are called that by the age of five. He was. Writing. Poetry, we were coming back from a short vacation in Michigan when he was 5. He composed a poem in the backseat. The one line that sticks with me is the trees are melting, black, it was late fall and the trees had no leaves he saw how those limbs were etched against the sky and he described them the way a port would, when he was 10 Kanye would go With his mother to China for a year as she had entered into a teaching exchange program with Nanjing University, we know now that Kanye is someone who's, always wanting to change and evolve into grow as a person and having him raised by a mother who was an Educator she was like petrol into a car and taken him somewhere like China and taking a risk and doing something completely different, which no one would ever expect. That happened set a precedent that he would continue fro his life by the third grade. He was rapping by the seventh grade. He was making peace, he co-wrote a song called green eggs and ham, and he even got his mother Donder to pay 25 dollars for an hour's. With the studio work lately record, it cheers doctor good mama ward. Now this is something that Kenya said on his childhood in Chicago you're, going to do one of three things: you're, either gon na be sports, straight basketball or football or you're gon na be in the hip-hop, like really focus on hip-hop and the culture. Oh you're gon na be gangbangers. You may be doing all of this on gangbang and at the same time, because 99 % of people in Chicago is gone. London by the seventh grade, kanya told his PA each other, I'm not coming in next semester. I'M gon na be signed to a record label. You could just imagine him sitting kanye started taking things more seriously at 14, when his dad got him a Korg keyboard, but his mother still forced him to work to earn money. I found myself just wanting to work on that keyboard. All the time I found myself running home from school. Could I have an idea like looking at the clock, meaning that two-thirds I beat down now if you're a Kanye West fan at this point, the story should become more familiar because Kanye would meet the producer known as no ID as it happens, the moms knew each Other gangster no idea was the producer on a lot of Commons early records that he would mentor Kanye and school him on how to some of Saul records and cultivate his love of hip-hop, and this was a key moment in his development. As a producer of hip. Hop music after finishing school Kanye was awarded a scholarship to the American Academy of Art, where he would study. Painting for lit are transferring to Chicago State University to study English at 20, Kanye West dropped out of college, a decision that would greatly frustrate his mother. It was drummed into my head that college is the ticket of a good life, but some career goals don't require college. It was more about having the guts to embrace who you are rather than following the path society has carved out for you. That was his mother. Don OS, I don't think she would have said that, right after he told that just I guess that could have been an easy decision to make for Kanye I mean for a start, he's disappointing his mother, then he's got at work at the gap and telemarket and Salatin insurance just to pursue his music. He even apparently considered a career in porn. He was talked out of by his girlfriend of all people. That must have been an interesting conversation as a bit of a fan of Kanye. It is a relief he didn't do that, because otherwise we would've all been listening to the college full up that would not have been there didn't have the ring to it sort of speak all. Joking aside, this was really beginning to take a toll on Kenya. He was staying up until 4:00 in the morning grind and make and music pray and for the day where he wouldn't have to work a regular job. And all this time Connie has been getting encouraged to move away from Chicago to New York City, the birthplace, and, at that point, everything sort of fell into place. Two of his friends who had been producing for told them they will leave in him. His landlord comes to him saying too many people are hanging around your apartment. You'Ve got a goal: you're evicted. He threw everything into the u-haul truck and made his way in New York and doing store, put all his eggs into one basket. So Kanye winds up in Newark, New Jersey and through his connections. His beats make their way to Jersey. The first song that these two ended up working together on was a Rockefeller song and Kanye wasn't blown away by jay-z others. He wanted like the New Jersey, the swag jay-z. Basically not the old-school in prospective reasonable doubt jay-z. He was hoping for a record that would blow his reputation and that wasn't what he was getting from jay-z at all, but the connection was made and Kanye ended up. Producing some songs for The Blueprint album, which, in my opinion, is the greatest album jay-z has ever made so Kanye would literally build the tune, build the chorus. Have the melody, ready and all jay-z would have to do? Is Canyon City go and he'll actually, then fill that with the word. So it started by Kanye playing heart of the city to Jersey, which is actually meant for DMX. Jesus was like that I'll. Take that and then it's a play, another one play another one playing it on and within two weeks the blueprint was done. I'M off the train, I'm from Chicago. I got $ 10 in my pocket right now and I'm just having an opportunity to play. Ds beat so I'm it's like I'm just. This is like the moment of truth. For me, Reyes and I play another - beat, don't play another D for me that that album was peak Jersey. That was classic Jersey because it was a perfect blend between conscious rapper and you know so I basically take over is one of the hardest records to ever. Be released in rap music is pure aggression. It was one of the biggest dis records ever made. It sort of goes under the radar, because now's made ether which is seen is the better lyrical song, but as a musical district would take over in its fucking evil forms and ten years I could divide, that's one every let's say like he just broke him down And with upbeat in the background it was like, even though nas came back from it, it's unbelievable that he'd managed to because that was one of the most underrated diss records of all times, two or three minutes later I don't know you know it was like this. He just tapped me on a show. He said: hey shit, it is, though, featured it is a Kanye made the main song on the blueprint. It was the hit single issue that is all and that sort of set the tone for the entire album Jersey stumbled across a formula of a contrast between kids sounding singing with a grown-ass man rappin and for some reason, with his sound advice and with his tone Of the song it just gels like peaches and cream, it's almost like a kid's song, but then Jesus arrived in on it basically and because of that you're appealing to a mass audience, you've got anyone can listen, it would basically and enjoy it. I feel like heart of the city and never changed just go hand in hand because they're both classic songs like they're, both is pretty much as good as anything jay-z will make, and you can hear it never change the influence of Kanye. When you see him, I'm still fucking with clown, because grandpa's like it even sounds like Anya's voice, you can tell Connie is set on fucking, say it like this part of the city is a classic jay-z song in the sense that he's not really talking about anything That emotional or that deep it just sounds good and the reason it sounds good. It'S cuz fucking Kanye made it sound good. He made that sound amazing. For me, it says a lot about Kanye when you look at the best version of jay-z we've ever seen was produced by an early version of Kanye. Kanye gave the album a sound like no one else, huh, despite Kenya being respected as a producer. Now he still wasn't getting the respect as a rapper. He was going for a record label after record label performing a play in his songs to them. He had jesus walks, punked that was done, and people weren't interested that wasn't mainstream rap at the time. This was 50 cent. He'S shouting see you Nick not Jesus walked on year was even had a Rockefeller party, where everyone was just playing songs, having a good time dancing and enjoying themselves. He stops the music, but Jesus walks on and performs it in person. No microphone. Just shout me in front of everyone to impress people he was desperate. He really wanted to show people what he could do from what I've heard. It didn't have the desired effect. Her party people were a bit like weirded out by he would be. He was close to getting signed by Capitol Records and damn realized just in time that if Rockefeller loses him as an artist, we also lose him as a producer, and so Kanye was given his Rockefeller chin and welcome to the team. At that point. Granted Kanye only went from being a nobody to jay-z's mate, but still in the eyes of the public. That'S massive that gives you an opportunity to grow off of somebody else's Fame. It was just what he needed and just as everything was not enough for Kenya, he was driving home one night in October 2002, after a long recording session in the California studio when he fell asleep at the wheel and was involved in a near-fatal crush. This nearly killed him. This changed his face forever. He was on an interview talking about how, when he used to smile, you'd, see both sets of teeth, and now you only see the top set of teeth. This is how much has changed it. The accident was so painful. The first two or three days were like some of the worst pain in my life. I would not wish this on anyone, except maybe three people, I'd love to know who those three were by the way. I was scared because you hear about people dying in surgery and this injury is dealing with my breathing. I had so much blood coming out of my mouth every twenty minutes. I had to have one of them suction type things. It would be so much mucus and blood up until this point, Kanye had been surrounded by some serious people in hip-hop people who'd suffered and made other people suffer, people have been stabbed and shot and had to sell drugs to get by and knowing what it's like To have nothing, and can he, on the other hand, living with a well-educated mother and being raised the right way just wants to make music? He just wants to bounce around on stage and he's happy to be there. He couldn't relate to what other people had been through, but I'm a rapper from the heart like I got something to say you don't say and people like you. What'S your friend a rapper bad, you never so crack out your house and put a gat to a mouth and put your fist to your spouse, so how you gon na move the crowd. I bet a thousand that you get booed out and now. Finally, he himself was in pain. He himself was suffering when you go through pain like what Connie is in and you're in agony. It teaches you a lot about life that you can only find out if you go through something like that and that brought new levels to who he was as a person a place he can now go to which he couldn't have gone do before, and he channeled That into his music, if you nearly died - and you realize your own mortality - and you know that I've only got one shot, and this is such a short period of time, I'm going to be on on it. It makes you think about everything differently. They even wire. My jaw wrong, so they'd have to break it again and wire it back in the right place. Two weeks after the accident, kanya returns to the studio with a jaw headshot and records a career-defining song called through the wire. I got a do a joint that if it wasn't for this one right here, I would have never made it this far. What I like about Kenya is is very good at the first line of a song getting you in so the point where, in ten years time, when no one ever is heard through the way that we've people watching this right now haven't heard through the wire in A long time and I'll City I'm say, are drinking loose for breakfast and insurer for desert. Like those straightaway. You constantly know the rest of the song because it he's just he's. Fucking got you I'm not like what happened that I read that I think what the fuck happened story on MTV, but I'm trying to make a bonus where this right here history in the make and one like to say that on your first song, that's coming off The album your first fucking album and call it history in the make in that request and fuckin self believe, most first songs, even Eminem hi. My name is like he wasn't going out history in the making. You know that sums can yield for me, like I remember where I was when I first heard through the wire. I was it one of me: mates houses, he loved Kenya from day one. I was more of like a gangster, a farmer. I would just remember: yeah you had to take notice of it. It was such a distinct, sound and different than what everyone else was doing at the time and the fact that he was telling such a compelling story, and it was documented on the video, the the car accident. You knew so much about him from one song. I'Ve heard Eminem say he always try to get who he was across in that first, like that's, why I did hi. My name is, and the real Slim Shady honey. I did that in a different way, by telling such a fuckin good story and bringing it a life on the video yeah. I can still picture now coming down the banister, I'm a grown ass when I should be like that for stupid idea, but I'm a champion. So what tragedy to try after releasing through the wire Kanye, would get to work on his first album. You would also release a mixtape in the meantime called get well soon because he delayed his album three fucking times. Didn'T you Canyon, perfectionist from day one this lad, but when we got it, we could see why this album cut the pulled the car near to the top-ten rappers in the world overnight. If he came in overnight celebrity, that's trust I would say, and the world received the college Talib Kweli try Called Quest De La Soul like all of those type of rappers. He definitely took inspiration from me on this, but the difference was his rut was like that. They don't really get the beats. The music behind them to turn them into Superstars and Kanye created his own. The biggest rapper in the world at the time was 50 cent. He was coming out wearing a bulletproof vest Connie who came out wearing a pink polo t-shirt and dressing up like a teddy bear. Rappers at the time are talking about killing people and selling drugs. Kanye comes in. He talks about selling clothes at the gap. His car accident, he talks about talking to God, he talks about being self-conscious. He even takes the piss out of rubbers with Ludacris at one point that is Kanye showing he's different and that you can do rut differently and still be successful. Nobody believed that at this time, Rockefeller and even basically said this - is a write-off like if it, if it isn't successful and halfway through, we realize that we'll just get a rapper to take the beats off him and we'll get someone else to not get album out. Like since then Carney has gone full-on Louis Vuitton Donna, but like at the time. He was really quite humble in this and more talking about regular problems that regular people have there's a certain type of person who gravitates towards a 50 cent or a Tupac or an aggressive rapper. Maybe people who think like an alpha male type and I think Kanye just provided a totally different option for people who didn't necessarily want tautly, aggressive music but loved rap for what it was. Women would no doubt be more of a fun than Kanye than 50 cent and people like that, a lot the timing. He opened the market up massively and crossed over amongst many different genres and really has never stopped doing that. Since then. I love the story that Jamie Foxx told when he said how he went in and tried to sort of do it in an R Read the full article

#Celebrity #FocusKanyeWest #KanyeWest

[twentysomethinginorlando]

MegaCon Part Two: Meet Your Heroes

New Post has been published on https://twentysomethinginorlando.com/megacon-part-two/

MegaCon Part Two: Meet Your Heroes

Memorial Day decided it wanted to be even busier than usual this year. Rather spending my Thursday night finishing my cosplay preparations, I found myself at a movie in full pirate garb with my friends before our trip to MegaCon on Friday. You can read about this, and the morning’s adventures in MegaCon Part One: But First, Cosplay.

Thankfully, it didn’t take me too much longer to find the most important booth at MegaCon: Karen Hallion’s. If you’re not familiar with her work, Miss Hallion does amazing art. She is most famous for her crossover art with Disney characters and Doctor Who, but she does so much more than that. Lately she’s developed an original character named Celara that I really like. My favorite part of her is this cute little orange fox/cat/critter sidekick who reminds me of a cross between Duffy and my cat. I can’t wait to see what kind of adventures the little guy goes on. I’ve met Miss Hallion at the last two MegaCons. She’s just the nicest person and takes time with everyone even though her booth is always slammed. The best part is I somehow manage not to turn to Jell-O when I talk to her. I picked up a print of Celara and the TARDIS. I was torn between that one and the Hamilton one, but that’s just because the little fox looks so darn cute in his outfit. I like Hamilton but I’m much more a Whovian. I asked her if the fox has a name yet, and she told me the two she’s debating between but she’s stuck because she wants it to be just perfect.

I completely understand. This blog had a whole lot of titles before I settled on this one.

As I was finishing talking to Miss Hallion and putting my print away, someone tapped me on the shoulder. I turned around expecting it to be someone asking for a photo and there was a guy with a microphone asking if he could interview me. Okay. That’s different. Well, why not.

He asked me about why I was Korra with a keyblade, and then he asked me about how I felt about the lesbian undertone of the ending of the series. I might have slightly bitten his head off without meaning to when I corrected him that Korra and Asami are bisexual, not lesbians. I get really angry about that. I also talked about how annoyed I am that is literally all anyone wants to talk about now that it ended that way. The show stood on its own well before that final scene.

Frozen Gaming interviewing me.

I think my aggressiveness sort of scared him and the interview ended quickly. At least I think it did. Apparently I do better when you put a camera in my face than I do when trying to talk to celebrities. The guy with the camera man was dressed as Ash from Pokémon and he apologized for their ambushing me, and gave me a card with their YouTube information. Their name is Frozen Gaming and much like me, I think they’re just starting out and I wish them luck.

You can see the interview here, but they cut most of it. Warning: Some of the language in the video is NSFW.

The new print wouldn’t fit in the bag with the first two prints, so I stopped at a random booth to see if they had a bag. They did, and she was very nice, and I wound up buying three postcard prints from her. Pikachu and Barry Allen for me, the Punisher for Jay.

We wandered the floor until a little after two when I was starting to get over whelmed with the crowds. I have worked in one of the world’s busiest theme parks and yet MegaCon phases me, because that makes sense. We headed back to the food area to find a place to sit for a bit and I rechecked the schedule. I had forgotten about the Improvengers show and now it was too late to line up. There were only two other panels I wanted to see: the Hillywood Show and James Marsters’. Sadly they were within half an hour of each other, and James Marsters obviously won.

I wasn’t sure what the line would be like for his panel, but I remember how crazy the Firefly panel lines were two years prior so we went ahead upstairs to line up. Basically this meant we got to camp on the floor for a while and rest and recharge, and look at our phones for the first time all day. I reached out to a couple of friends I knew were there, but hadn’t seen yet, and we agreed to meet after the panel. I had also been looking for a particular booth all day in Artist Alley and hadn’t seen it, so I went to their Facebook to ask the booth number.

While we were waiting, I saw a Black Widow and Star Lord walk by with their own keyblades, and I had to chase after them to get a photo. I didn’t want to interrupt them before they got in line, and we got some nice person in line to take photos on both Black Widow’s and my phones. We compared construction techniques, and I have a few ideas I want to steal to improve mine in the future.

Kingdom Hearts crossovers are popular this year!

They let us into the room around 3:30, and, boy, do I like walking around a keyblade on my shoulder. It makes it really hard for people to move past you. Having an intimidating pirate next to you also helps. We wound up in the second row after the VIP section and I left the keyblade across our laps until the row was filled. We talked through what all we still wanted to do before we left and made a list so we wouldn’t miss anything.

The panel actually started exactly on time to my surprise. I thought he might be late again. They played a highlight reel of his many roles over the years, and I was extremely disappointed the shot of him jumping on top of the coffin in “Once More, With Feeling” was not in there. The host welcomed him out and went over the rules for questions. Before he took the first question, James asked everyone in the audience to put their hands in their air and “scream like your team won the thing”.

Someone asked about a charity he just won an award for, and he talked about CASA, which is an association that helps foster children. Someone asked about how he got into acting, and apparently when he was fourth grade he played Eeyore in a school play. The live action Winnie the Pooh film Disney is doing got brought up and now someone would want him to do Eeyore’s voice. His response was absolutely perfect, in the exact voice, “Oh, Pooh.” Now I will be heartbroken if anyone but James Marsters plays Eeyore. He was asked about his work on the audio books of the Dresden Files, which Jay tried to explain to me and I quickly shushed him. I have never gotten around to reading them, but I know about them. “I have no idea why Jim Butcher picked me. No idea whatsoever.” He was asked about the hardest episode he had to shoot on Buffy, and he talked about how difficult the bathroom scene was, and the toll it took on him. “It put me in therapy. Which actually turned out to be a good thing because I’m much happier now.” He talked about where that story line came from, and the struggle and triumph of Spike gaining his soul. He talked about some of the struggles of going from stage acting to film, and “trying not to lie to the audience”.

Someone asked about his role on Torchwood. He had been on tour with his band, Ghost of the Robot, and his road show manager refused to go out to dinner with him because Doctor Who was on. So they ordered room service and watched it in her room, and within fifteen minutes he was hooked. He went down to his agent’s room and asked him to try to get him a role on Doctor Who. Russel T. Davies said no, but they had a perfect role for him on Torchwood, and they had been looking for someone to fill it. He also talked about being interviewed by the BBC for the homophobic backlash against Torchwood, and his response was apparently, “We’ve got a backlash!? That’s great!”

He was asked his favorite role he had ever played. Without hesitation he said, “Spike. Absolutely Spike. If you asked me to pick between Hamlet and Spike, and Joss is good but Shakespeare’s just a little bit better, sorry Joss, but I’d pick Spike. Absolutely.” Then my favorite question was about his favorite episode, because it turns out we have this in common.

Apparently the cast was very nervous about the musical because they thought Joss was “flushing the show”, but they decided to do the best they could anyway and hope it didn’t suck. Well, it certainly doesn’t suck. It’s my favorite episode of anything that has ever happened.

He also loved killing the Anointed One.

The time was up far too quickly, but I’m so happy this was the one panel I made time for. Three years ago, I had never seen Buffy. Then I didn’t understand why Spike was so popular when he was such a bad guy, then I was cheering as he and Buffy kissed at the end of “Once More, With Feeling”. His line to Buffy at the end of the series about how he loves her was one of my favorite quotes long before I ever saw the show, and I was so beyond happy it was his line.

We filed out of the panel and I stopped for a picture with a spot-on Buffy cosplayer before we went to find my friend Kimberly. Sadly she was in the South Concourse and I was in the North, but she was leaving soon and I was determined to find her. Tradition must be upheld and I have pictures with her at every MegaCon.

It thankfully didn’t take us too long to get across the building and I found her as Black Widow with our friend Mihn as Chirrut. I finally got to introduce Jay to her and we talked for a few minutes before we headed back to the floor. It was already five and we still had several things to cross off our list.

Our first stop was the Hillywood Show table. I had been putting this off because I wanted to meet them, but didn’t know what to say. They’re two sisters who do parodies, and while they aren’t the only reason I started making them myself, they definitely influenced me. Going up and telling them that would be awkward though, and probably giving them too much credit. So I decided I would just ask for a photo, because then I could meet them and it wouldn’t be weird, right?

Wrong.

The only way to get a photo was to buy something, which is fine except they only had merchandise from their three latest parodies: Sherlock, Supernatural and Suicide Squad. Three fandoms I am not a part of to begin with, and I like their older parodies better. I told them as much when they asked which was my favorite, “Harry Potter Deathly Hallows Part 2.” “Oh but that one’s so old!” Long story short, I wasn’t getting a photo without paying ten dollars and it just wasn’t worth what I make an hour to me. Not when I just wanted to talk to them for a moment. Lesson learned, never meet your heroes. (Well, sometimes. Miss Hallion and Robby Cook were great!) I tried not to tear up when I walked away. It wasn’t that upsetting, it was just a very long day without a lot of sleep and it hurt my feelings a little.

Author Nick Braker.

Our next destination was the booth whose number I had to track down on Facebook. Nick A. Braker is a science-fiction writer from my hometown, and his son Chris was one of my best friends in college. Last year I’d been posting on Twitter about heading to MegaCon and he’d texted me I should go see his parents. Well I did, and then I had dinner at their house when I was home for my birthday last year, so I wanted to go say hi.

He’s one heck of a writer. He’s turned out three books in a very short time and he’s got two more coming. If everything goes according to plan, I’ll hopefully be venturing back into video production to produce some book trailers for him.

Now all we had to do was find the three booths we wanted to buy things from and we could leave. This should have been simple. It was not.

I wanted to find Brandon Kenney’s booth so I could buy his Lilo and Stitch Splash Mountain print and the booth with the Disney Parks style buttons. Jay wanted to find the independent fairy tale comic so he could get the preview issue. After wandering in circles through the aisles for twenty minutes with no luck, I went back to Karen Hallion’s booth because I knew I could find her. She collaborates with Mr. Kenney on occasion so I knew she would know where his booth was and her sister and business manager gave me directions. Miss Hallion happened to be standing in front of his booth when I got there, and I said, “Oh, I could have just followed you!” I couldn’t decide if I wanted the big or small Splash print, and Jay told me to just get the big one. I also picked up the pack of three Stitch stickers he had.

We resumed our wandering and I still had the change in my hand, which proved dangerous as I impulse bought a big Pikachu sticker for my bullet journal. Well, at least it has a purpose.

I straight up lucked into finding the Disney Parks buttons booth. I even followed him on Instagram earlier in the day and wasn’t smart enough to look there to see if he had his booth number posted. They were two for five so I picked Gaston and BB-8. I could have happily bought them all, and some of his prints, but I was trying not to go overboard. The artist’s name is Joey Quintin and he had a series of Disney characters dressed as cast members that was just fantastic. I asked him why Anna got to be a Skipper, and admittedly his reasons were good. He asked who I would want to see. “I don’t know, but I am a Skipper so I’m a little picky!” “That’s fair.”

Jay was ready to give up on finding the independent comic booth, but I was determined. It was the only thing he had really wanted all day, and it did look extremely cool. One of the main characters was the son of the Big Bad Wolf and he was on the cover with a brunette Aurora. We thought we knew the general area and we knew they had black and white sketches hanging on either side of the booth, but of course after a while everything just blends together. We went in circle after circle, and I must have passed the Brakers ten times now that I knew where they were. I was getting increasingly frustrated, but I do not give up easily. The warning message played that the show floor would be closing in half an hour, so we were almost out of time. Neither of us had been smart enough to take a picture of the booth or the name of the comic to look in the program.

ARGH.

Hero Cats!

I got distracted by the Hero Cats booth and wound up buying a comic and a button, but it’s literally about cats saving the world so I feel like that was another good impulse buy.

After about fifteen more minutes of circling, I finally spotted the booth and raced over to them. “Oh thank goodness.” The artist had returned and I honestly think we confused him and the nice woman we’d spoken to earlier, but I was so out of breath.

They had two comic options, the normal one which was one out of five hundred, or the variant which was one out of a hundred. The normal was $10, and the variant was, well Jay heard $50 and I heard $15 and I don’t which one of us was right because I bought the normal one. It came with a free black and white print, but of course the one Jay wanted wasn’t actually a print.

It was an original sketch. He offered to make a print of it and we could pick it up at a future con, but I elected to take the Beast print home and buy a second comic in the future. The series is titled The Chronicles of Zelaria: Dynasty of Darkness and Jay now owns #106 out of five hundred of the preview issue. I haven’t looked at it much yet, but I am already looking forward to seeing more after the description the author gave us while we were there.

We could finally head out, and began the long trek back to the car. I had tried to be good about switching which shoulder I carried the keyblade on throughout the day, but my back was aching. Jay’s pirate boots were killing him, and we were very happy to start stripping off the outer layers of our cosplays. I hadn’t realized how little my vest breathed until I took it off.

I hadn’t wanted to try to carry Duffy and the keyblade so he had to stay in the car. He didn’t seem too mad at me thankfully, I did let him watch Pirates the night before.

MegaCon is absolutely one of my favorite things about living in Orlando. I’m a little sad I didn’t get to go more days, there were other celebrities I would have liked to see like the Flash stars and Stan Lee. I’ve seen Stan Lee twice before, and he’s wonderful but this is his final Florida appearance. Getting off work on a holiday weekend is just too difficult in the hospitality industry, but I’ll be there at least one day next year. I never plan on missing it.

A pretty good haul!

Cost: A one day ticket purchased in advance was $41 after tax. The four day option I was looking at previously was $99 before tax. My portion of the photo op was $35. I probably spent close to $40 on cosplay supplies, and another $30 towards the keyblade, but a good chunk of that was the jigsaw which we won’t have to purchase again. I came home with a little less than half of my original spending cash. Parking was $15.

Duration: All day, whether you go for one or four.

Value: Absolutely worth it. Can’t wait to see who they announce for next year.

Add Ons: There are VIP ticket options, autographs and photos. The prices change from year to year based on what guests are attending.

#cosplay #megacon #Adventure Report