#george just smiling at paul for a solid minute just gets me

[with-eyes-closed]

The Beatles live at the Paris Theatre, 16 January 1964.

#they're just real cute #george just smiling at paul for a solid minute just gets me #paul mccartney #george harrison #george + paul #ringo starr #john lennon #1964 #the beatles on tour #beatles edit #the beatles

[if-you-fan-a-fire]

"Convicts Have Own Ideas of Life's Values," Montreal Star. June 7, 1933. Page 3 & 11. ---- Words Of Wit And Wisdom Are Gleaned From Evidence In Recent Trials ---- THE trials of various St. Vincent de Paul convicts, in connection with last November's rioting at that institution, which have just been completed before Mr.Justice Wilson, in the Court of King's Bench, were not without their words of wisdom and various offering of humor and sarcasm from various prisoners from the great convict station heard in the witness-box.

One after another they took the oath and told their respective stories, either for the Crown or for the defence. Some of them appeared to be human derelicts indeed, but others, either by smart bearing, a flashing smile, a turn of phrase or evident ambition to ingratiate themselves, gave proof of light undimmed by long years of imprisonment.

To begin with, they are not "convicts"; the word is never used. They are "Inmates" to officialdom and "cons" to one another. There are some 1,100 of them in the great penitentiary just outside Montreal and it is very evident that social scale exists within its four grim walls, in just as marked a degree as "outside."

The "stool," or stool-pigeon, for whom the "con" has a name not used in polite society, bears the brand of Judas among his fellows. Then,too, your ordinary, common-or-garden criminal, thug, stick-up man, burglar, thief or what have you, has a bitter contempt for the man committed for statutary offences and unnatural crimes. A man with a long record, even among hardened criminals, stigmatized one of these degenerates from the witness-box.

CHESTER Crosley, with 10 previous prison and penitentiary terms to his discredit and self-admitted ringleader of part of the trouble, who pleaded guilty to setting fire to the trades' building of the penitentiary, provided the court with a bright 20 minutes while he told his own story of the affair. He gave his crime record with pride, but staunchly insisted that he had never committed perjury and did not intend to.

Asked by the Court what had happened to him after the fire broke out and he had seen to its spreading by sprinkling gasoline, Crossley said: "Then I got cut off. I was taken out of there two hours later, with my body all burned. The remains stand before you now!" "Pretty solid remains," said Mr. Justice Wilson, when the laughter had subsided.

Incidentally, "Jazz" Crossley, as his fellow-prisoners call him because there is always a song on his lips, lays all his troubles at the feet of fate. "You have not been very lucky," said the Court when the negro's history had been told.

"That's what comes of being born at midnight," answered the witness, showing two perfect rows of teeth. GEORGES BOIVIN, serving life term for manslaughter, star witness for the Crown in several cases, came under fire of defence counsel for his very apparent willingness to help the authorities. He had just finished a somewhat dramatic recital of one of the incidents of the trouble and of his own share in it. "You read detective stories; Sherlock Holmes and that sort of thing?" suggested the lawyer. "Oh no, Sir," retorted the "lifer" fixing his interrogator with a knowing eye, "I would not go as far as that!"

A BURLY negro, who, according to his own evidence was beset with "breakin' an' enterin'" was being loaded into the patrol wagon of the Royal Canadian Mounted Police for the ride from the penitentiary to the court house. He lagged in the line. "Come on, Rastus! Get a move on!" said the red-coated corporal in charge of the party. "Who is you callin' Rastus?" was the smiling retort.

When the party unloaded at the court house cells, the police officer asked the convict "What is your name, anyway?" The answer came in the same clear, slow modulated voice in which the man later gav eevidence in court. "Ma name is Arthur Morton an' I may tell you that I was very much offended when you call me Rastus!"

Another bright spot in a sordid business was Howard Macdonald, who began a considerable career of crime in Calgary, some years ago. He broke out of Burwash and in prepared to "argue the point" with almost anyone who wants to discuss his affairs; even judges. But there is something about this 6 foot 1 3.4 ins. giant that catches the eye and the sympathies. Here is a bad lad, but with the indefinable "some-thing," which one saw in "king's hard bargains" overseas: the same "something" which brought them from detention to be star performers in tight corners. "Mac" will be heard from, yet!

#montreal #court of king's bench #prison riot #st vincent de paul penitentiary #sentenced to the penitentiary #1933 prisoner trials #chester crossley #black canadians #words from the inside #long criminal record #prisoner autobiography #great depression in canada #crime and punishment in canada #history of crime and punishment in canada #1932 laval pen riot

[stylesnews]

“Feeling good in my skin/ I just keep on dancing,” Harry Styles sings in his latest single, “Treat People With Kindness.” And in the song’s exuberant music video -- which has garnered 17 million YouTube views and counting since its debut on New Year’s Day -- he does just that: Wearing a sequined jacket and bow tie, he chassés, spins and flutters jazz hands like an MGM musical star (with a little help from his equally debonair partner, Fleabag’s Phoebe Waller-Bridge).

Styles shot the video in early 2019 after several weeks of training with choreographer Paul Roberts, a collaborator since his One Direction days. “I think somewhere in the back of my mind, I knew this could be something special,” says Roberts, a veteran stage director and choreographer who’s worked on videos and tours for the likes of Sam Smith, Katy Perry, Diana Ross, and the Spice Girls (their Spiceworld stadium tour).

Watching the explosive fan reaction to Styles’s little known dance talents -- including from the Spice Girls, who've “sent lovely messages" about the video -- Roberts says it seems like "Treat People With Kindness" arrived at the precise right moment. “Most people’s comments are, ‘I’ve not felt that happy for three and a half minutes in a long time,’ or ‘I smiled from ear to ear the whole way through.’ It’s a positive light.”

He spoke to Billboard about Styles’ intensive training process -- and why he wouldn’t be surprised to see him dancing onstage again.

There’s been one pretty overwhelming reaction to this video: “This is the guy who was in the group that insisted they couldn’t dance?!” Did you expect this kind of reaction to Harry dancing? I’ve been with Harry for 10 years: I was with the One Direction boys from the beginning the whole way through their career before they took the hiatus, and they always made a very conscious decision that they didn’t want choreography as part of their brand -- but they did want a kind of disheveled organization in order to allow the cameras and the lighting to stand a chance in terms of presenting them in the best manner possible.

What was very evident to me was that all five of them, and then it obviously became four, they’ve all got their own magic. The only time I’ve experienced that was when I worked with the Spice Girls. I always knew that they had special skills aside from what they were in One Direction, whether it was movement, songwriting, being able to handle the business side of things. For such young lads they were very astute and very decisive.  So, getting together with Harry -- he’s a bit of an alchemist, is Harry. Everything he turns his hand to turns to gold. Where did the initial dance-centric concept come from? Harry and the directors, Ben and Gabe [Turner], sent me a video link to the Nicholas Brothers scene from Stormy Weather and Harry asked me, "How long do you think it would take to dance like this?" I was like, "OK, are you being serious?" "Yeah, I’m being serious."

That is probably one of the most standout dance sequences ever captured on film -- so I knew we were aiming high. I said, "Why don’t we go into a studio and let’s workshop some choreography, some moves, some short sequences, and see what your ability is, see how we can tailor this to make you look the best you can possibly look." Obviously it would take some investment in terms of rehearsal and commitment, I told him it would be mentally and physically exhausting, but I thought, "My God yeah, let’s do it; this will be an adventure."

How long did the whole process take? We started in mid-January 2019, and we rehearsed and workshopped for about four to five weeks before the shoot, every day. Both Harry and Phoebe had other things going on, so, for instance, Phoebe was working on the new Bond movie in Canada, so I sent my assistant to Canada to work with her. I stayed in the U.K. with Harry, and then we went to L.A. where Harry shot two more videos, for “Watermelon Sugar” and “Falling.”

At the end of the “Watermelon Sugar” shoot, he wrapped, got in his car, came to the dance studio and we rehearsed into the night. Knowing how short a time you sometimes get with artists even for really big performances, I thought the rehearsals would dilute and we’d lose momentum, but both Phoebe and Harry were so committed.

What was the process in the studio like with Harry? We didn’t even use his [vocal] track to begin with -- we used different big band songs, some contemporary alternative music. It was just about finding his [movement] language first and foremost.  Then we developed the choreography and sent it to the directors, who gave us feedback. We enhanced the work a bit more, and then once we had some really solid sequences, Ben and Gabe storyboarded the scenes against the timeline of the music.

At this point Harry and Phoebe were still working separately, and then we joined forces in London, where we really started to refine these sequences of choreography we’d developed, trying to find the finesse and the style, almost making sense of the movement for them so they felt they had a dancer’s way of working the movement through the body. You’ve worked with a wide variety of artists, many of whom aren’t dancers first. How do you find, as you put it, the “language” of movement that makes sense for each of them as individuals?

I think the general answer is really communicating -- listening and understanding what the artist’s desire is. And also collaborating, so you don’t get too lost in yourself as a choreographer. What looks good on you might not transcend to the artist, or even necessarily the dancers.

With Harry, what was important within the language of the choreography was that it felt joyful and had personality. Him and Phoebe, with the work she’s done with Fleabag, you associate them and what they do with a sense of style, a real confidence, but at the heart of it it’s entertainment. And with the amount of time and budget we had, which was such a luxury in this day and age, we wanted to do something that pushed both of them out of their comfort zones. We tried to make it as athletic as possible but without compromising them as artists and becoming too comedic. We wanted it to be a bit quaint and cute in places, but we definitely didn’t want it to be thought of as nonsensical or silly.

Harry’s movement in the video is so crisp and precise, even his hands and arm extension look very dancerly. Did that come through a lot of specific work with you? As a songwriter and artist, for Harry it’s about detail, about pushing yourself to be the best. He’s always got questions: "Why are we doing that? Should we be doing this?" We got to a point during the rehearsal period where I brought in a ballet teacher, really to just get Harry and Phoebe to open themselves up from behind their shoulder blades, have an idea of extension, the lines that extend from your center all the way to the tip of your finger. I’d be saying, “Your arms Harry, your arm line!” Asking him to push his shoulders down, lift his carriage up, extend through his breast. And when he hit those lines, he’d be like, “Oh yeah, that feels different.” It’s funny: We spent a couple days apart -- he had to go off and do a gig somewhere -- and I was like, “I hope you’re rehearsing when you’ve got some downtime, dude!” And he sent me a picture in the gym with his arms in the most beautiful balletic arm line! I was like, "Yes, by George, you’ve got it!" Besides the Nicholas Brothers, did you have any particular dance references in mind for the feel of the choreography? I just delved into the MGM archives. Obviously [Fred] Astaire and [Gene] Kelly, the two greats -- especially with Astaire, we loved how sometimes it seems so effortless yet a bit throwaway, not totally totally perfect always.  We enjoyed the moments from him of “I’ll just do a bit of this,” “I’ll just walk off camera left,” the dropping in and out of movement.  We loved the duet “Moses Supposes” from Singin’ in the Rain, for Gene Kelly and Donald O’Connor -- we loved the camaraderie between them, which felt a bit goofball at times, and just that wry smile, the look to the left, knowing your partner is there and has got your back. It feels fizzy, it feels joyful.

And yes, there was a massive core of MGM-ism, but at the same time an absolute huge dollop of Harry-and-Phoebe-ism. It was important to us to feel a bit more contemporary, so again we stay true to Harry and Phoebe as artists. Has Harry indicated any interest in dancing more going forward?

We had a conversation back at the end of the summer about how much we enjoyed the process, and I know he was doing another project where choreography was involved, so we were just talking about it and how he felt. Coming from where he came from to what he was about to do, he felt he could be pushed even further. I don’t know if he got the bug, or if it’s just the way he is as a person, very inquisitive and wanting to keep elevating himself. There’s now been some talk on social media that it can’t be long before Harry does Broadway. What do you think?

I mean, I think with Harry Styles, anything is possible, is it not? I mean, I’m sure because he’s tasted the dance, he’ll inject that along the line in his career. It won’t necessarily be out-and-out dancing, but I guess it’s a bit like Bowie used to do, isn’t it? It’s the showmanship and presentation of the performance. Who knows? He’s just so open-minded and open-hearted — and because he’s so open it allows the universe to come back at him and he’s able to do anything he sets his mind to.  

#harry styles #jan21 #paul roberts #billboard #article #tpwkmv

[kingstylesdaily]

How Harry Styles Found His Inner Dancer For 'Treat People With Kindness'

“Feeling good in my skin/ I just keep on dancing,” Harry Styles sings in his latest single, ��Treat People With Kindness.” And in the song’s exuberant music video -- which has garnered 17 million YouTube views and counting since its debut on New Year’s Day -- he does just that: Wearing a sequined jacket and bow tie, he chassés, spins and flutters jazz hands like an MGM musical star (with a little help from his equally debonair partner, Fleabag’s Phoebe Waller-Bridge).

Styles shot the video in early 2019 after several weeks of training with choreographer Paul Roberts, a collaborator since his One Direction days. “I think somewhere in the back of my mind, I knew this could be something special,” says Roberts, a veteran stage director and choreographer who’s worked on videos and tours for the likes of Sam Smith, Katy Perry, Diana Ross, and the Spice Girls (their Spiceworld stadium tour).

Watching the explosive fan reaction to Styles’s little known dance talents -- including from the Spice Girls, who've “sent lovely messages" about the video -- Roberts says it seems like "Treat People With Kindness" arrived at the precise right moment. “Most people’s comments are, ‘I’ve not felt that happy for three and a half minutes in a long time,’ or ‘I smiled from ear to ear the whole way through.’ It’s a positive light.”

He spoke to Billboard about Styles’ intensive training process -- and why he wouldn’t be surprised to see him dancing onstage again.

There’s been one pretty overwhelming reaction to this video: “This is the guy who was in the group that insisted they couldn’t dance?!” Did you expect this kind of reaction to Harry dancing? I’ve been with Harry for 10 years: I was with the One Direction boys from the beginning the whole way through their career before they took the hiatus, and they always made a very conscious decision that they didn’t want choreography as part of their brand -- but they did want a kind of disheveled organization in order to allow the cameras and the lighting to stand a chance in terms of presenting them in the best manner possible.  

What was very evident to me was that all five of them, and then it obviously became four, they’ve all got their own magic. The only time I’ve experienced that was when I worked with the Spice Girls. I always knew that they had special skills aside from what they were in One Direction, whether it was movement, songwriting, being able to handle the business side of things. For such young lads they were very astute and very decisive.   So, getting together with Harry -- he’s a bit of an alchemist, is Harry. Everything he turns his hand to turns to gold. Where did the initial dance-centric concept come from? Harry and the directors, Ben and Gabe [Turner], sent me a video link to the Nicholas Brothers scene from Stormy Weather and Harry asked me, "How long do you think it would take to dance like this?" I was like, "OK, are you being serious?" "Yeah, I’m being serious."

That is probably one of the most standout dance sequences ever captured on film -- so I knew we were aiming high. I said, "Why don’t we go into a studio and let’s workshop some choreography, some moves, some short sequences, and see what your ability is, see how we can tailor this to make you look the best you can possibly look." Obviously it would take some investment in terms of rehearsal and commitment, I told him it would be mentally and physically exhausting, but I thought, "My God yeah, let’s do it; this will be an adventure."

How long did the whole process take? We started in mid-January 2019, and we rehearsed and workshopped for about four to five weeks before the shoot, every day. Both Harry and Phoebe had other things going on, so, for instance, Phoebe was working on the new Bond movie in Canada, so I sent my assistant to Canada to work with her. I stayed in the U.K. with Harry, and then we went to L.A. where Harry shot two more videos, for “Watermelon Sugar” and “Falling.”

At the end of the “Watermelon Sugar” shoot, he wrapped, got in his car, came to the dance studio and we rehearsed into the night. Knowing how short a time you sometimes get with artists even for really big performances, I thought the rehearsals would dilute and we’d lose momentum, but both Phoebe and Harry were so committed. What was the process in the studio like with Harry? We didn’t even use his [vocal] track to begin with -- we used different big band songs, some contemporary alternative music. It was just about finding his [movement] language first and foremost.  Then we developed the choreography and sent it to the directors, who gave us feedback. We enhanced the work a bit more, and then once we had some really solid sequences, Ben and Gabe storyboarded the scenes against the timeline of the music.

At this point Harry and Phoebe were still working separately, and then we joined forces in London, where we really started to refine these sequences of choreography we’d developed, trying to find the finesse and the style, almost making sense of the movement for them so they felt they had a dancer’s way of working the movement through the body. You’ve worked with a wide variety of artists, many of whom aren’t dancers first. How do you find, as you put it, the “language” of movement that makes sense for each of them as individuals?

I think the general answer is really communicating -- listening and understanding what the artist’s desire is. And also collaborating, so you don’t get too lost in yourself as a choreographer. What looks good on you might not transcend to the artist, or even necessarily the dancers.

With Harry, what was important within the language of the choreography was that it felt joyful and had personality. Him and Phoebe, with the work she’s done with Fleabag, you associate them and what they do with a sense of style, a real confidence, but at the heart of it it’s entertainment. And with the amount of time and budget we had, which was such a luxury in this day and age, we wanted to do something that pushed both of them out of their comfort zones. We tried to make it as athletic as possible but without compromising them as artists and becoming too comedic. We wanted it to be a bit quaint and cute in places, but we definitely didn’t want it to be thought of as nonsensical or silly.

Harry’s movement in the video is so crisp and precise, even his hands and arm extension look very dancerly. Did that come through a lot of specific work with you? As a songwriter and artist, for Harry it’s about detail, about pushing yourself to be the best. He’s always got questions: "Why are we doing that? Should we be doing this?" We got to a point during the rehearsal period where I brought in a ballet teacher, really to just get Harry and Phoebe to open themselves up from behind their shoulder blades, have an idea of extension, the lines that extend from your center all the way to the tip of your finger. I’d be saying, “Your arms Harry, your arm line!” Asking him to push his shoulders down, lift his carriage up, extend through his breast. And when he hit those lines, he’d be like, “Oh yeah, that feels different.” It’s funny: We spent a couple days apart -- he had to go off and do a gig somewhere -- and I was like, “I hope you’re rehearsing when you’ve got some downtime, dude!” And he sent me a picture in the gym with his arms in the most beautiful balletic arm line! I was like, "Yes, by George, you’ve got it!" Besides the Nicholas Brothers, did you have any particular dance references in mind for the feel of the choreography? I just delved into the MGM archives. Obviously [Fred] Astaire and [Gene] Kelly, the two greats -- especially with Astaire, we loved how sometimes it seems so effortless yet a bit throwaway, not totally totally perfect always.  We enjoyed the moments from him of “I’ll just do a bit of this,” “I’ll just walk off camera left,” the dropping in and out of movement.  We loved the duet “Moses Supposes” from Singin’ in the Rain, for Gene Kelly and Donald O’Connor -- we loved the camaraderie between them, which felt a bit goofball at times, and just that wry smile, the look to the left, knowing your partner is there and has got your back. It feels fizzy, it feels joyful.

And yes, there was a massive core of MGM-ism, but at the same time an absolute huge dollop of Harry-and-Phoebe-ism. It was important to us to feel a bit more contemporary, so again we stay true to Harry and Phoebe as artists. Has Harry indicated any interest in dancing more going forward?

We had a conversation back at the end of the summer about how much we enjoyed the process, and I know he was doing another project where choreography was involved, so we were just talking about it and how he felt. Coming from where he came from to what he was about to do, he felt he could be pushed even further. I don’t know if he got the bug, or if it’s just the way he is as a person, very inquisitive and wanting to keep elevating himself. There’s now been some talk on social media that it can’t be long before Harry does Broadway. What do you think?

I mean, I think with Harry Styles, anything is possible, is it not? I mean, I’m sure because he’s tasted the dance, he’ll inject that along the line in his career. It won’t necessarily be out-and-out dancing, but I guess it’s a bit like Bowie used to do, isn’t it? It’s the showmanship and presentation of the performance. Who knows? He’s just so open-minded and open-hearted — and because he’s so open it allows the universe to come back at him and he’s able to do anything he sets his mind to. 

via billboard.com

#kingstylesdaily #Harry Styles #hs: tpwk #January 2021 #hs: news

[hlupdate]

“Feeling good in my skin/ I just keep on dancing,” Harry Styles sings in his latest single, “Treat People With Kindness.” And in the song’s exuberant music video -- which has garnered 17 million YouTube views and counting since its debut on New Year’s Day -- he does just that: Wearing a sequined jacket and bow tie, he chassés, spins and flutters jazz hands like an MGM musical star (with a little help from his equally debonair partner, Fleabag’s Phoebe Waller-Bridge).

Styles shot the video in early 2019 after several weeks of training with choreographer Paul Roberts, a collaborator since his One Direction days. “I think somewhere in the back of my mind, I knew this could be something special,” says Roberts, a veteran stage director and choreographer who’s worked on videos and tours for the likes of Sam Smith, Katy Perry, Diana Ross, and the Spice Girls (their Spiceworld stadium tour).

Watching the explosive fan reaction to Styles’s little known dance talents -- including from the Spice Girls, who've “sent lovely messages" about the video -- Roberts says it seems like "Treat People With Kindness" arrived at the precise right moment. “Most people’s comments are, ‘I’ve not felt that happy for three and a half minutes in a long time,’ or ‘I smiled from ear to ear the whole way through.’ It’s a positive light.”

He spoke to Billboard about Styles’ intensive training process -- and why he wouldn’t be surprised to see him dancing onstage again.

There’s been one pretty overwhelming reaction to this video: “This is the guy who was in the group that insisted they couldn’t dance?!” Did you expect this kind of reaction to Harry dancing?

I’ve been with Harry for 10 years: I was with the One Direction boys from the beginning the whole way through their career before they took the hiatus, and they always made a very conscious decision that they didn’t want choreography as part of their brand -- but they did want a kind of disheveled organization in order to allow the cameras and the lighting to stand a chance in terms of presenting them in the best manner possible.

What was very evident to me was that all five of them, and then it obviously became four, they’ve all got their own magic. The only time I’ve experienced that was when I worked with the Spice Girls. I always knew that they had special skills aside from what they were in One Direction, whether it was movement, songwriting, being able to handle the business side of things. For such young lads they were very astute and very decisive.  So, getting together with Harry -- he’s a bit of an alchemist, is Harry. Everything he turns his hand to turns to gold.

Where did the initial dance-centric concept come from?

Harry and the directors, Ben and Gabe [Turner], sent me a video link to the Nicholas Brothers scene from Stormy Weather and Harry asked me, "How long do you think it would take to dance like this?" I was like, "OK, are you being serious?" "Yeah, I’m being serious."

That is probably one of the most standout dance sequences ever captured on film -- so I knew we were aiming high. I said, "Why don’t we go into a studio and let’s workshop some choreography, some moves, some short sequences, and see what your ability is, see how we can tailor this to make you look the best you can possibly look." Obviously it would take some investment in terms of rehearsal and commitment, I told him it would be mentally and physically exhausting, but I thought, "My God yeah, let’s do it; this will be an adventure."

How long did the whole process take?

We started in mid-January 2019, and we rehearsed and workshopped for about four to five weeks before the shoot, every day. Both Harry and Phoebe had other things going on, so, for instance, Phoebe was working on the new Bond movie in Canada, so I sent my assistant to Canada to work with her. I stayed in the U.K. with Harry, and then we went to L.A. where Harry shot two more videos, for “Watermelon Sugar” and “Falling.”

At the end of the “Watermelon Sugar” shoot, he wrapped, got in his car, came to the dance studio and we rehearsed into the night. Knowing how short a time you sometimes get with artists even for really big performances, I thought the rehearsals would dilute and we’d lose momentum, but both Phoebe and Harry were so committed.

What was the process in the studio like with Harry? We didn’t even use his [vocal] track to begin with -- we used different big band songs, some contemporary alternative music. It was just about finding his [movement] language first and foremost.  Then we developed the choreography and sent it to the directors, who gave us feedback. We enhanced the work a bit more, and then once we had some really solid sequences, Ben and Gabe storyboarded the scenes against the timeline of the music.

At this point Harry and Phoebe were still working separately, and then we joined forces in London, where we really started to refine these sequences of choreography we’d developed, trying to find the finesse and the style, almost making sense of the movement for them so they felt they had a dancer’s way of working the movement through the body. You’ve worked with a wide variety of artists, many of whom aren’t dancers first. How do you find, as you put it, the “language” of movement that makes sense for each of them as individuals?

I think the general answer is really communicating -- listening and understanding what the artist’s desire is. And also collaborating, so you don’t get too lost in yourself as a choreographer. What looks good on you might not transcend to the artist, or even necessarily the dancers.

With Harry, what was important within the language of the choreography was that it felt joyful and had personality. Him and Phoebe, with the work she’s done with Fleabag, you associate them and what they do with a sense of style, a real confidence, but at the heart of it it’s entertainment. And with the amount of time and budget we had, which was such a luxury in this day and age, we wanted to do something that pushed both of them out of their comfort zones. We tried to make it as athletic as possible but without compromising them as artists and becoming too comedic. We wanted it to be a bit quaint and cute in places, but we definitely didn’t want it to be thought of as nonsensical or silly.

Harry’s movement in the video is so crisp and precise, even his hands and arm extension look very dancerly. Did that come through a lot of specific work with you? As a songwriter and artist, for Harry it’s about detail, about pushing yourself to be the best. He’s always got questions: "Why are we doing that? Should we be doing this?" We got to a point during the rehearsal period where I brought in a ballet teacher, really to just get Harry and Phoebe to open themselves up from behind their shoulder blades, have an idea of extension, the lines that extend from your center all the way to the tip of your finger. I’d be saying, “Your arms Harry, your arm line!” Asking him to push his shoulders down, lift his carriage up, extend through his breast. And when he hit those lines, he’d be like, “Oh yeah, that feels different.” It’s funny: We spent a couple days apart -- he had to go off and do a gig somewhere -- and I was like, “I hope you’re rehearsing when you’ve got some downtime, dude!” And he sent me a picture in the gym with his arms in the most beautiful balletic arm line! I was like, "Yes, by George, you’ve got it!" Besides the Nicholas Brothers, did you have any particular dance references in mind for the feel of the choreography? I just delved into the MGM archives. Obviously [Fred] Astaire and [Gene] Kelly, the two greats -- especially with Astaire, we loved how sometimes it seems so effortless yet a bit throwaway, not totally totally perfect always.  We enjoyed the moments from him of “I’ll just do a bit of this,” “I’ll just walk off camera left,” the dropping in and out of movement.  We loved the duet “Moses Supposes” from Singin’ in the Rain, for Gene Kelly and Donald O’Connor -- we loved the camaraderie between them, which felt a bit goofball at times, and just that wry smile, the look to the left, knowing your partner is there and has got your back. It feels fizzy, it feels joyful.

And yes, there was a massive core of MGM-ism, but at the same time an absolute huge dollop of Harry-and-Phoebe-ism. It was important to us to feel a bit more contemporary, so again we stay true to Harry and Phoebe as artists. Has Harry indicated any interest in dancing more going forward?

We had a conversation back at the end of the summer about how much we enjoyed the process, and I know he was doing another project where choreography was involved, so we were just talking about it and how he felt. Coming from where he came from to what he was about to do, he felt he could be pushed even further. I don’t know if he got the bug, or if it’s just the way he is as a person, very inquisitive and wanting to keep elevating himself. There’s now been some talk on social media that it can’t be long before Harry does Broadway. What do you think?

I mean, I think with Harry Styles, anything is possible, is it not? I mean, I’m sure because he’s tasted the dance, he’ll inject that along the line in his career. It won’t necessarily be out-and-out dancing, but I guess it’s a bit like Bowie used to do, isn’t it? It’s the showmanship and presentation of the performance. Who knows? He’s just so open-minded and open-hearted — and because he’s so open it allows the universe to come back at him and he’s able to do anything he sets his mind to.  

#harry styles #articles #tpwk #120121

[likesomekindofcheese]

Will You Accept This Rose? Chapter One (Queen and Beatles Crossover/Bachlorette AU!)

Word Count: 2K

A/N: Hello! She’s up! I know this idea has been done with BohRap so I thought it would be fun to try my hand! The Bachlor/ette is my ultimate guilty pleasure show!! I got a lot of inspiration from @freddiesaysalright​;s Bachlorette AU and the @bohrapbachelorette​ blog, so check them out and their beautiful writing too! Enjoy!

Warnings: swearing and some drinking.

 Heels clicking, you took a deep breath and walked downstairs. Right outside the doors, Chris Harrison stood in his tan suit with a big smile that wrinkled at the ends of his tan skin. His large eyes sparkling as he saw you in your blue evening gown that slinked to the floor.

“Well, Y/N, are you ready for tonight?” he asked, rubbing his hands.

“I…I’m so nervous!” you confessed with a laugh. “Actually…I’m shaking I’m so nervous!”

You took out your hands to show the tremor. He took them in his and he smiled.

“You have nothing to be afraid of. The guys are all wonderful. It’s a smaller group…I’m sorry. The last Bachelorette made her decision and she is now happily engaged. Thank you so much for popping in last minute…This is a lot, but it will be fun. Do you feel ready for this?”

Taking in a deep sigh, you admitted, you did not feel ready. But honestly, when would you ever be? There was a cold breeze, and you felt a shiver despite the balmy California air.

“I…I am…” you made yourself say.

“Have you ever been in love?” Chris asked, he shepered you to walk around the rose bushes to get out the nervous evergy you had left.

“I…I honestly don’t know! Maybe a couple times, but never…never passionately. Deeply.”

“Well. Y/N. I’m about to help change all of that. In fact, your husband might be here in less than an hour. Are you ready to meet him?”

“As I’ll ever be!”

 ----------------------------------

Meanwhile in Garden Lodge, Freddie let out a yelp as the credits rolled. Jim hurried in with his bowl of popcorn to see what the matter was.

“It’s on! Already! Oh-it…it’s time!” he muttered, gathering his things.

“Oh! Darling-look at her-she’s glowing!” he commented.

They got the blanket ready and sat on their places on the couch, well-reserved for Tuesday nights and The Bachlorette.

“I was so excited they announced her! Pass the popcorn, Fred…” Jim said. He made sure the wine bottles were pre-opened and ready to be poured at the right moment.

“She’s so beautiful I got chills seeing her walk out-here you go…” Freddie said, smiling proudly as Y/N beamed on the screen with a happy, hopeful smile.

“Thanks love” Jim stuffed kernels in his mouth as Miko hopped beside him, purring loudly.

 --------------------------------

The first limo pulled out slowly. You stood still, hands propped before you. Trying to slow your breathing, you made yourself look then try to flee from nerved.

The door opened. You could feel your heart pounding a mile a minute and your breathing shallowed.

You were ready to see a man, not a little boy. But at least he was cute.

Then out stepped a little boy with auburn hair and a pale, smiling face with round cheeks. He wore a small tux and held one red rose in his hand.

Behind him walked a taller man, slender, with auburn hair, hazel eyes, and a gentle smile.

“OH, hello there?” you asked, squatting down to be at the boys height.

“Will you accept this wose?” he asked, showing you the rose in his chubby, grubby hands.

“Of course! Thank you!”

 --------------------

“Awwwwwww,” Fred and Jim said in unision. Delilah meowed as if in agreement.

-------

“What do you say, Rob?”

“You’e welcome!”

“This..is this your son?”

“Yes, this is Robert Deacon!”

“Hello Robert!”

“Hello Y/N! Are you gonna marry my daddy?”

The man turned the color of the rose and pushed him to the side.

“Ah…a little esoon for that, I think…

Luahing yourself, you reached out to hug him.

“I’m Y/N”

“And I’m John Deacon. It’s lovely to meet you, Y/N.”

He gently handed him away to a young assistant from the camera who guided the little boy back to the limo to go home.

“I’ll see you soon, Rob!” the man waved. He gave him a kiss on the forehead before sending him off.

Hmm, he’s already a good father… you noted.

The next limousine pulled up and you heard the strumming of a guitar. A voice with a slight twang, but light and playful sang along to it.

“Love me tender, love me sweet

Never let me go

You have made my life complete

And I love you so”

A handsome young man with long dark hair, stark eyebrows, and high cheekbones walked out, singing along to the Elvis ballad. When he smiled, you could make out slight fangs. But nonetheless, he gave you a grin you could not resist.

Cheering, you applauded and he took a playful bow before walking up to you.

“That was wonderful!”

He placed the guitar over his head, putting it away. He pulled you in for the softest hug you had ever received so far in your life.

“Nice to meet you, I’m George, George Harrison. Like the song?” he asked, gesturing to his guitar.

“I’m Y/N and I love it! You play guitar!?”

“I have for years!”

“That’s amazing!”

“Not half as amazing as the sight in front of me” he said with a wicked grin again. 

 ---------------------------------

“Alright, time for the wine…” Jim announced, pouring it into the glasses.

“You know what they say about a man with a big guitar, eh?” Fred laughed before his first sip. “Y/N might be a lucky woman if she takes him to the fantasy suite, darling.”

 ------------------------

You smiled and glanced at your folded hands, feeling yourself get hot.

“That was lovely! Please play for me some more during the party!”

“Well, if Y/N asks me, who am I to say no?” he replied with a wink. “I will If you’ll give me a snog on the cheek…”

Obliging, you pecked his soft cheek.

He then walked out, strumming a chord here or there.

The next limo that pulled up had an odd noise. You turned to the side to a camera person.

“Is…is that a bark?”

You were right. Out popped a large English Sheepdog walked over, wiggling in a happy dance as it wagged its tail in front of your gown.

“No! No Martha! Don’t get dog hair all over that gown!”

You laughed, reaching a hand down to scratch her head “She’s fine! It’s just a dress! I don’t mind a bit of hair!”

“Oh, well…that’s good.”

Looking up, you saw the prettiest pair of green eyes you had ever seen. His hair was brown and soft and his lashes were so thick, long, and dark you wondered if he used a mascara and where you could get it.

He reached down and kissed your hand gallantly, “I’m Paul, Paul McCartney. And I see you met me dog already!”

“She’s lovely!”

“She is-“

“And I’m Y/N Y//N!”

“Well, it’s pleasant to meet you. And I hope to see you in there soon…”

“Martha’s a sweetheart!”

She sat in front of you as you scratched her head.

“Martha can tell a good heart when she senses one, but I think mine has room for another lady in me life” he said with a wink.

The next man walked out. Another young man with brown hair and a square jaw and bright eyes that sparked with intelligence. His pants looked a little tight around his thighs and he smiled as soon as he saw you.

“Hello there, Y/N. I’m John, John Lennon.”

“And I’m Y/N.”

He took your hand into his and lifted it up to his lips. He then cupped yours with his other hand and kissed it so tenderly it made you melt on the inside.

“Are you enjoying your evening so far?” he asked.

“I…I am a lot more now,” you answered back.

“Well good, and Y/N….you look really beautiful tonight. Right from even when I peeked at you from inside the car, you were glowing like the sun…”

“Oh, that’s…that’s beautiful! Thank you!”

“Mind if I ‘ug you?”

“Sure?”

He wrapped his arms around you, then lifted you up and twirled you around, you burst into laughter.

He hugged you one more time and then headed over to the party.

The next limo arrived and out walked another man. He had dark hair with a slight white streak but bright blue eyes and soft, puffy lips that burst into a charming smile when he saw you.

“Hello there!”

“Hello! And you’re…”

“I’m…I’m really Richard. But you can cuse me stage name, Ringo…”

“Oh, sure! Hello Ringo-I’m Y/N”

You naturally hugged him.

“Y/N, I hope you don’t mind but…I bought you some gum. Thought you might like it after all that drinking-alright?”

He pulled out a packet of your favorite gum. You gasped as you accepted it.

“Why…yes! Yes I do!”

 ---------------------------

“Not exactly roses, darling”

“Well, it is a little early, Fred. And she’s the one giving roses.”

“But the song isn’t fucking ‘Chewing Gum is a Girl’s Best Friend’ for a reason!” Fred huffed, downing half of his glass.

 ---------------------------------------

Next appeared another car and out stepped another guitar with one of the prettiest boys you had ever seen. His blonde hair glowed like sunbeams and his eyes were the color of the summer sky. He strummed his guitar and sang in a rasp that thrilled you:

“I…just wanna testify!

Whaaaat Y/N does to meeeee!”

Changing up the rhythm enough to sing your name. He then added a bunch of “doo wops” with an impressive falsetto “yeeeeeeah!”

“That’s amazing! You play and sing!”

 --------------------------------------

Jim kept his face down in his hands for a solid minute.

“Doesn’t take much! You’ve already seen another guitarist!” he complained.

 ----------------------------------

“Yeah-write too. I’m Roger-Roger Taylor.”

He gave a half-lidded look that made your stomach churn.

“And I’m…I’m Y/N! I mean- you know I- I am Y/N!” you began giggling out of nervousness and hugged him.

Then in drove a car…or it sounded like one. But there was a Rocketship constructed over the car like a parade float. And the door read “YOUR FUTURE HUSBAND.”

Laughing, out stepped a space suit with a different flower: a tulip. He handed it to you and you laughed.

He removed his helmet and revealed a mane of curly, dark hair. His cheekbones were high and his eyes hazel and soft. Despite the largeness of his hair and height there was a gentle demeaner on him.

“Hello there!” you said with a laugh “are you my future husband?”

“I…I mean, I hope I might be” he said with a little blush in his cheeks. You hugged each other, he was warm and soft and smelled of fresh deodorant.

“That was amazing! Who are you?”

“I’m Brian, Brian May…”

“Wonderful, I’m Y/N…”

You walked over to the main living room of the mansion, happy and a little overwhelmed. Already they were all wonderful. Though George and Roger stared at each other with fire in their eyes at the two acoustic guitars. Roger gently put his down and shoved his hands in his pockets. George took a deep breath and held onto his carefully.

You walked in, each with your own glass of wine to begin with.

“Gentlemen, to finding love!”

“To finding love!” they raised their glasses and clinked them.

“Ey Y/N, let me steal you for a minute…” Roger offered, he slinked forward, eyes bright and confident.

“Oh, sure!”

You found out that Roger had written songs before. They were all lovely. His lyrics bright and honest. Your favorite was one about being in a small town, of laziness, frustration, and ambition and hope. It made you teary eyed.

 ------------------------------------------

“A guitar competition…would be interesting this season….no, Lily! That’s not cat food!” Fred said, shooing her away from the bowl.

 -------------------------------------

John showed you a card his kids worked on. He was a single dad, widowed. His heart had been broken by the sad passing of his dear wife, but he was ready to move on and was sure he found new love.

George strummed you a few songs he found out were your favorite. You tapped your feet and sang along. George himself smiled.

“Thanks Y/N, it’s wonderful to play for you!”

John walked over. They both began playfully “fighting” over you. Dancing each other around, doing a couple silly “fight” moves.

“Well, y/n can decide, can’t she?” John said, turning over.

“I, uh, of course!”

John then took you away as you caught your breath.

“There boys are like me brothers! What you saw was natural, was all but…Y/N, you like to read, don’t you?”

You gave your honest answer. You both wound up chatting about books and television. He was well-read, could give opinions on plot holes and the best actors, and even told you about the poetry he wrote. You both walked back inside the mansion holding hands naturally.

Brian noticed a record player in the corner and walked to it.

“Hmph, feels a little quiet…”

He placed the needle on the record and soon some jazz was crooning around the room. In a flash, Ringo was on your side.

“C’mon Y/N, let’s dance!”

He took his hand in yours and you moved away to the music, forgetting everything. He spun you around, you shook and kicked your legs and laughed so hard. You hardly cared how silly you look.

 -------------------------------------

“Look at all the other blokes, they’re ready to punch him in the gut any minute!” Jim chuckled.

Fred nodded, hypnotized. He poured another glass of wine as Delilah settled on his lap for cuddles.

 --------------------------------

Brian took your hand and walked you out.

“See there, the stars are out tonight…” he said, pointing up.

“Oooo, beautiful!” you sighed. “There’s Orion!”

“Orion?”

“Yes! He’s the easiest one! I still see him!”

“Yes! Well, he’s like my old friend: always there.”

“That’s cool Brian, that you have a friend who’s always there in the stars.”

 ----------------------------------

“Pretentious, darling.”

 ------------------------------

“That way, when you look up, imagine I’m there. Even if you send me home or whatever, I’ll be there, your friend, looking after you, protecting you.”

 --------------------------------

“Bloody stalker!” Jim hissed.

 -------------------------------

It was indeed a beautiful night. He led you back as you sat on the couch with the other gentlemen.

“Oh, what did you do?” Lennon asked, sipping his wine carefully.

“It’s a starry night! You should see it-it’s beautiful!” you said.

Martha stood on the corner, panting happily as Deaky and Roger petted on her. Though you noticed Paul was looking at you. Your eyes went over to him and he paused, batting his eyelashes in false innocence, and tilting his head.

“Wha-what is it, Paul? You’re quiet?”

“Nothing, it’s just you’re looking beautiful tonight, that’s all. Can you blame me for wanting to have a look at you?”

Giggling more, you leaned your head down and smiled. The others stared daggers in Paul.

Chris Harrison walked in.

“Hello lady and gentlemen, enjoying your evening?”

You noticed he had a plate, and you froze.

----------------------------------------

The couple screamed at their television.

“Oh, now the shit starts!” Freddie declared with a wicked laugh.

---------------------------------------

“Yes, yes we are!” Paul said with a pleasant smile. “You know, drinks, a fine night, a dog, a pretty lady-what could be better?!”

He then saw the plate and his charming smile dropped.

“Well, it’s now the part of the evening where Y/N must make her first decision…”

He set a short, red rose on a silver plate before you. Looking around, you saw them swallow nervously or smile despite the anxiety in his eyes.

There was clever John, adorable Ringo, sweet Paul, dashing John, romantic Brian, hot Roger, or soft Deaky to consider.

But only one could get the first impression rose.

Reaching down, you placed it between your thumb and forefinger, other hand cupping the petals gracefully, and thought about your options before settling on the right one.

    Who should get the first impression rose? Vote in the Google Docs Poll below!!

https://docs.google.com/forms/d/e/1FAIpQLScQHKdQiABhf7ukQvwu6xjMsff-ggtnlNV0rr7_PKy6aSEUUQ/viewform?usp=sf_link

Taglist:  @queenlover05​ @youcanbemyhoneychile​ @seraphicmercury​ @ewannmcgregor​  @gwiilymslee @cherry--coke @queen-paladin @yourlocalmusicalprostitute @isitstraightvodka @coincidence-ithinknots-blog @rhapsodyrecs

[spaceyantique]

five’s a crowd [the beatles x reader] part two

series summary: You’re two seconds away from strangling John, three from a total breakdown over midterms. Paul won’t stop using up all the hot water in the mornings and George is determined to beat him there one way or another, godammit. Ringo doesn’t deserve this clusterfuck. And you all live together in a shitty, shitty apartment.

modern beatles x reader au (with some developing george x reader)

notes: not sure if y’all are aware of @kalypsichor​ (if you follow this blog you should be lmao) but she created the first part of this masterpiece late one night, and this mess of writing followed. so this is our first collab! fitting that it’s a crackfic. it’s gonna go back and forth by chapter and it’ll live on both of our masterlists.

originally inspired by this post :)

warnings: literal pure crack, almost no plot. bad characterization of the bug boys, swearing

 part one | part three | part four

masterlist

Being packed into Paul’s tiny car with three obnoxious boys is already not the ideal way to start your morning. Said shitty stick-shift car stalling every eight seconds on top of that morning being during your midterms week is even worse. Being en route to the hospital with one of the three boys in tears and the other two at each other's throats is just the fucking cherry-on-fucking-top. 

“Just use the CLUTCH, for God’s sake, John!”

“ExcUSE me, I don’t see YOU helping!” John snarls at George, who glares right back from the passenger seat.

“It’s not MY fault you can’t fucking-”

“‘M doing fine!” John protests as the car whines, but George continues over him. 

“-not MY fucking fault you can’t drive stick!”

“Well-” John splutters. “You can’t either!”

With a loud, metallic creak, the car jerks to a stop, and Ringo whimpers, still clutching his swollen wrist to his chest. You rub his back and stare balefully at the boys in the front seat, still shouting at each other as John rams the gas pedal.

“Why are you even fucking driving? You can’t see!” George waves his hand aggressively in front of John’s face, and John, in all his crackhead energy, snaps at his fingers with his teeth. George withdraws his hand with a horrified look and pulls himself to the absolute furthest he can be from John while staying in his seat.

The rest of the ride to the hospital is mostly silent, punctuated by poor Ringo’s sniffles and John cursing wildly with each lurch and grumble of Paul’s pathetically old car.

---

You’re all quite a sight when you stumble into Urgent Care. Ringo, with his bed-hair and likely broken wrist and red-striped pyjamas. George, wearing a scowl and a white button-down that’s soaked to his skin because he didn’t have time to dry off before you all rushed out the door. John, with a bloody nose, not from George punching him (though it got close), but from his face colliding with the steering wheel when he shifted gears too quickly and the car stopped suddenly. And you, in sweatpants and a messy bun and clutching your textbook like a velociraptor. 

After nearly a quarter of an hour in the waiting room, a nurse calls Ringo to see the doctor. He smiles weakly at you as you hand him a tissue before disappearing into the exam rooms.

“It’s all Paul’s fault,” George says dryly after a few minutes of silence. Good lord, here we go. You look up from the open textbook on your lap at him. He’s still scowling at the floor. His dark eyes lend him an aura of mystery, and his cheekbones look spectacular under his curly, still-damp hair, and the soaked white button-down is more see-through now than white over his biceps and shoulders, and- 

You try to tear your eyes away to answer him, but you really do have no self-restraint, so your useless brain just supplies a supremely intelligent “huh?” 

Fucking genius.

“It is. If he hadn’t used up all my fucking water, I wouldn’t have come out of the bathroom. And I wouldn’t have been standing there for so long if John-”

“Watch it, poodle boy,” John growls through the paper towel he’s clutching to his nose. In twenty minutes of reading, you’re hardly three pages through your chapter (the correct unit this time, you checked). You sigh, resigning yourself to a solid C on the midterm. Anyway, C’s get degrees, right?

“It’s true,” George argues in a half-whisper. “You were being such an arse that I stayed there longer to listen to your shit. I KNOW you knew that Paul knew that-” 

“I didn’t know SHIT, Geo!” John exclaims, and a middle-aged woman from across the lobby gives him the dirtiest look you’ve seen since you binged Keeping Up With the Kardashians in a weak moment during last year’s finals. George fixes him with an equally withering glare, and you’re glued to his cheekbones again, fucking hell. 

John makes a pissy face and throws his hands up, and God, how long does it take to choke someone out? It can’t be too long, can it?

Ringo would probably be sad if you killed John, your brain tells you, and fuck you, brain, but it’s right.

“Well,” you say, making an effort to not murder John. “At least we know Paul’s very clean.”

A tiny smile breaks George’s face and in only a few seconds, the three of you are giggling uncontrollably in the waiting room of your local A&E. 

“Oh, fuck,” John says, because his nose has started bleeding again, but you can’t stop laughing.

Ringo’s very confused when he emerges only a minute later to see his friends sitting on the floor in the Urgent Care lobby, crying of laughter, but you all attempt to contain yourselves and sign his wrist cast. It’s a pretty, light blue. 

“It matches your eyes,” you tell him, and he beams at you. George’s smile drops a little at the one you return to Ringo, but you’re too busy making your signature as fancy as possible to see it. 

You all bundle into Paul’s shitty car once again, this time with John driving and Ringo in shotgun.

It isn’t until you’re nearly home that you check the time to see it’s nearly two in the afternoon. As the four of you pull into the alley beside your apartment building, you realize with mounting horror that Paul must be home from class by now, completely unaware of the car-full of boys on their way to beat his arse.

“He must be back by now,” George mutters, peering out the window at your second-floor apartment with all the controlled rage of a fucking comic book supervillain. “I’m gonna throttle that clean bastard.”

God help that poor boy, you think.

#beatles x reader #beatles fanfic #five’s a crowd #george harrison x reader #john lennon x reader #ringo starr x reader #paul mccartney x reader #oops still no paul #modern au #college au

[harrimoon]

you can’t do that

pair: john lennon x female reader (requested) warnings: swearing, some jealousy angst, and implied smut word count: 1,997

Sweat beaded upon your eyebrow not long after wiping it a second time. The music was loud and vibrant, and you felt your feet moving as fast as the beat that drove it. John’s face was glowing with sweat and a cheeky grin while jerking his limbs about in the silliest way possible. His moptop was a bit stringy and stuck to his forehead and his cheeks were flushed with red. You both erupted into laughter that quickly ran you out of breath. With a cramping belly from giggling, you stopped dancing and tried to affectionately latch onto John’s arm, but now that your legs had finally stopped moving, you found they felt rather heavy. You ended up crashing into him instead, and he responded with more laughter and an arm lovingly wrapped around your shoulder, steadying you and your aching soles.

“Let’s have us a seat,” John said through chuckles while guiding you away from the dance floor and to the table where the other Beatles and their girls sat. George was speaking with Pattie, a protective arm around her waist as she leaned in. Paul, with Jane on his arm, brightened and raised the glass he was drinking from as he saw you and John approach the table.

“The two lovebirds ‘ave returned!” Paul announced and chuckles were heard around the table. John pulled your shoulder a little closer and gave his best shit-eating grin to Paul before pulling out a chair for you. You practically collapsed onto the chair, happy to rest your legs. John sat beside you and threw an arm over the back of your chair.

“See, ’ad I known she was a lightweight, we wouldn’t be lovebirds at all,” John deadpanned, raising an eyebrow at you, waiting for you to smile. You playfully smacked his arm, trying your hardest to fight the grin he was looking for.

“Am not a lightweight! My feet just feel awful from all that dancing,” you said through the smile that somehow crept onto your face despite your attempts to hide it.

“You pair were dancing for ages! For a moment we thought you left,” Pattie said, glancing at George who nodded along.

“No, no. Leave it to Ringo and Mo to be dancing ‘till their feet fell off,” John quickly answered, wiping the sweat from his forehead with a napkin on the table. He carelessly tossed it in your direction and it gently hit your scrunched up nose.

“Ew, John, that’s all sweaty,” you complained, swiping the napkin out of the way and laughing at his silliness.

“No shit!” he retorted while standing up from his chair. “I’ll be back, I’m off to ’ave a piss.” He wiggled his fingers at you and the rest of the table before he strode away, back into the large crowd.

You playfully rolled your eyes at him, picked up the cold glass in front of you and drank whatever was in it. You bobbed your head to the music and chatted about the release of the latest movie they filmed. They were very busy during the filming and recording, and the time away from John placed more of a strain on your relationship than you anticipated. As much as you wished for John to be more of a steadfast lover, you knew he was no angel. You often worried about what he was up to and whether he had another girl in those days.

But since returning, things have been smooth sailing. It wasn’t very often that the boys were able to do this together with their girls these days, but you were buzzing at the fact that you were all able to that night. So far, it had been a night with fantastic vibes around it - just solid fun with your lover and friends. Who could ask for more?

“Y/N?” Someone called out your name and tapped your shoulder. “Can we have a dance?”

You flicked your head around and you found yourself looking up at man maybe a few years younger than you. His face looked familiar but you couldn’t place a finger on who he was. You were nearly about to decline his offer before it clicked. He was a regular at the club who John insisted had a crush on you. You never put much thought into dancing or talking with him because you always felt it was harmless. You weren’t even really attracted to him - let alone remember his name - but you knew dancing with him would make his night.

You shrugged and looked over at the couples around the table. “Can’t hurt, can it?” you said, reaching toward the hand the boy stretched out to you. Before you knew it, another hand reached over the boy’s to grab yours.

“Well, I think it can,” John said, helping you out of your chair, his brown eyes glued to the boy who approached you. “What could we possibly help you with?”

“I was just asking f-”

“Right,” John cut him off and nodded sarcastically, placing a hand around your waist. “Let’s have a chat, love.” He began to guide you two away before anything else could be said.

“John, wait, he just wanted to dance,” you remarked, trying to glance over your shoulder at the boy who looked over at you with confusion.

“Yeah, well I’m sure that’s all ’e wanted,” John retorted under his breath, continuing to walk you over to the door. You stopped in your tracks and tugged his arm off of you.

“What is your problem?” you asserted, cheeks hot in embarrassment.

“What’s my problem?” John scoffed in response, placing his arm back where it was. He tugged you along again - this time, out the door and into the chilly night air. The cold air was a shock to your warm and slightly damp skin.

You shoved his arm off of you again, this time more forcefully. “What are you on about, John? The boy just wanted a dance, it was harmless!”

“Oh, and what? ’ave you in his bed by the end of the night?”

“Have you lost your mind?” You asked, eyebrows raised. “Why would I even-”

“This is the second fuckin’ time I’ve seen you with him, Y/N!” His volume began to rise as he cut you off. “And all you do is flirt with ’im! Makes me look like a fuckin’ arse.”

“I don’t even like him! If I want to dance with him, I will! If anything I should be the one screaming my head off because all girls do is-” You began before being interrupted again.

“I can’t control how girls act! But you just can’t do that! Just flirting with whoever.” John began to ramble on. “I’ll find meself another bird to flirt with too, then!”

“Christ, let me fucking speak, John!” you said, clearly frustrated. “You flirt all the time and I say nothing! But if want to dance with a boy, who - mind you, I don’t even find attractive - all hell breaks loose? It’s embarrassing!”

“Embarrassing? What’s embarrassing is the way you were gonna go’ed and dance with ’im!” He angrily raises his arm and gestures at the club you were just in. “What, I haven’t got the right to be jealous?”

You opened your mouth, but you weren’t able to squeeze anything out. He seemed to miss the point every time. You always knew John was the jealous type - always getting fidgety or a little annoyed if any of the boys showed you affection. He was even quite jealous when he came back home months earlier, as if you had another boy around you weren’t telling him about. You began to wonder if the strain on your relationship was more damaging than you initially thought it was. It was just frustrating that he didn’t trust you. Not to mention - he created a whole scene in front of your friends.

You took a deep breath, exhaled and watched your fog of warm breath disappear into the cold air. Turning on your heel to walk toward home, your strides were long and fast. John trailed behind, unsure of whether or not to go after you. It was such a great night, and what a shame it was that it had to be ruined like this. Of course it had to be John to ruin it, you thought.

“What, are ye just gonna run off?” He called after you. You could hear the annoyance in his raspy voice. What does it look like?, you thought. You just wanted to go home. There was no way you were going to walk back into that club with John as though nothing happened.

But it wasn’t long before John caught up, quietly keeping pace at your side. It was a silent walk home, and the cold night air seemed to have sobered you up; you were no longer buzzing like you were minutes earlier. The heat of the argument seemed to have cooled down in the crisp air of the night.

“Just go home, Lennon,” you said softly without looking up at him. Wrapped up in your jacket, you continued staring straight ahead, maybe down at the sidewalk a few times or so. “I can take care of myself.”

You were only a few doors down from home now, and you knew you’d be fine. But part of you wanted his company anyway.

“I’m not letting you off alone at this hour,” he replied, his voice a lot lower than it was a few minutes ago. He’d been trying to get you to look at him. Finally at your door, you unlocked it and you turned around to finally look at him. You sighed for a moment to gather your thoughts.

“Look, I love you, John. I really do,” you relented, placing a hand on his shoulder. “But you made me look a complete idiot in front of everyone.”

“I’ve told you that I don’t like seeing you with ’im, Y/N,” he explained with a tinge of condescension in his voice. “And everyone knows what I’m like, it’s nothing new.”

“You’re a prick, John.”

You saw a tiny smirk sneakily creep onto his face at your words. It was hard not to do the same, after seeing his little dimple make an appearance.

“Don’t you worry your pretty little head, I really like you too,” he said, the grin growing wider. He placed a hand on your hip and drew you in closer to plant a gentle kiss on your lips.

“Oh, fuck off,” you said, rolling your eyes at his humor and stifling some laughter. You returned your attention to the door, opened it and walked inside, with John behind you, hand at your waist.

You hung up your coat and he pulled you closer to him, his arms wrapped around you from behind. He leaned in close, his warm, beery breath by your ear. “I can show you how much I like you if you want.”

“Can you?” you teased, untangling yourself from his grip and turning around to raise your eyebrows at him. If anyone could turn this night around again, of course it’d be John.

“Oh, sure,” he nodded, fiddling with the hem of your shirt. “I think I’ll start with something like this.”

He pressed a kiss on your lips, followed by smaller kisses leading to the spot where your neck meets your collarbone, giving you goosebumps. He lingered there, leaving a tender, purply mark where his lips had been. You knew it would be a pain to cover up later, but you didn’t pay any mind to it as your body grew hot. Softly sighing, your fingers ran through the tufts of his light brown hair at the nape of his neck.

You soon found yourselves on your sofa with your warm skin pressed to his.

Pity the poor neighbors. You and John were quite loud.

#this was my first req!! #and listen #i tried rlly hard #john is kinda hard to write #posting this made me v nervous lol #pls be gentle w me #i hope u like it!! #feel free 2 request more! #john lennon x reader #beatles x reader #beatles angst #the beatles #george harrison x reader #ringo starr x reader #paul mccartney x reader #requests

[georgeharris0n]

Blisters On His Fingers- Chapter 1 “Eskimo”

Rated: PG-13

Word Count: 2.9k

Pairing: Ringo Starr/George Harrison (Starrison)

Chapters: 1/25

Plot Summery:  George can’t help but watch Rory Storm and The Hurricanes play, but John and Paul know he just has his eyes for their drummer. Ringo has some problem with his hands, and George may just see his perfect opportunity to talk to the handsome drummer. (Hamburg Beatle Era) Note: Based on @cirilee ‘s  adorable Starrison art!!!! Here  Check it out! You won’t be disappointed, they are precious. :’)

I hope this fic isn’t an absolute mess- just bare with me.

The thick air and beat of the band had George completely out of his head. They weren’t the best, George knew him and the lads were much better, and could really bring down the house, but that didn’t mean he wanted to miss a second of that steady tempo. It was past midnight now, and the set was nearly done, but George ought to have left by now. Their set had been finished hours ago, but here he was, sitting at the furthest table he could find watching a particular pink suited fellow bash away at the skins. The back beat, his quick wrists, the way his head bobbed back and forth, messy Teddy curls bouncing about with that cute white streak on the sides-

“George!”

A startlingly familiar voice broke George’s attention.

“Geez Paul! What do you want?

George turned to his bandmate, trying very hard to not to shove him off the chair beside him. He was being way too distracting. Too distracting from the beat of those heavy drums, either that or the beat of his heart at the moment.   

“Geo, I’ve been calling you for the past five minutes. It’s getting late, we need to head back to the theater for some sleep.”

“But, can’t we-”

“Sorry George, but it’s getting real exhausting watching you gush over the Hurricane’s drummer, and y’know Paulie needs his beauty sleep.”

George stared wide eyed, opposite of Paul was John lounging with his boots rucked on the table. Had he really forgotten they were both here?

“We usually don’t mind it Geo, but you’ve done this same thing the past two weeks, and you haven’t tried once to talk to Ringo.” Paul added, shoving John’s boots off the table, and standing up to look down sympathetically at the young guitarist.

George felt his throat go dry. He hoped that the other lads hadn’t noticed, but he supposed it was strange now that he thought about those two weeks.

“I don’t know w-what you’re both on about. I don’t have a thing for him! I just appreciate his… drumming that’s all. He’s 10 times better than Pete is.” George figured he could snipe about Pete considering he wasn’t here anyhow. George definitely saw Ringo as a superior drummer, and took plenty of opportunities to point it out, though the lads may think he has other motives for it, he really saw Ringo’s talent for drumming, not just for… well, Ringo.

“Sure you do Georgie, and I’m sure you’d get to appreciate a lot more than just his drumming, if you stopped starin’ at him, and tried talking to him. Alone.” John smirked, now standing beside Paul who was sporting a very uncomfortable glare John’s way.

“What John means to say is, maybe you could give it a try, huh? Just give it a chance? You clearly fancy- or um… appreciate him, so why not at least try?” Paul affirmed with an encouraging smile.

“You both act like we’ve never spoken before or something! We see them every week after all.” George murmured, running out of excuses. It was true that the infamous Beatles knew Rory Storm and The Hurricanes. They all occasionally shared drinks or chats between sets, but it was true. George hadn’t spoken with Ringo alone with out someone else facilitating the conversation around them as a group.

“Well then! Guess we’ll leave you to it then! Paul and I are going to go get some well needed shut eye, but don’t you come home until you’ve figured out what little drummer boy’s favorite type of snog is.” John teased, while he tugged on Paul jacket sleeve who looked almost like he had half a mind to stay with George if it meant not having to hear anymore of John’s lewd banter on the walk back to their crummy sleeping arrangements.

The two left a wide eyed wreck at the table by himself. George knew from listening to each gig that the band would be done after this one last song. There was no way George was going to be able to do it. He was already petrified by John’s teasing. If he fucked this up, they’d know as soon as they saw him. The embarrassment would be plastered on his face.

No, after this last song, I’m leaving. No more of this.

Of course, it was hard to know if that were true. Considering George could melt watching Ringo hammer on those drums for the last number, a particularly loud one with a crushing drum beat. George hadn’t recognized it from his last visits, so it must have been a new edition to the Hurricane’s repertoire.

If anything George liked it a lot, he liked seeing the drummer smile as he hit the symbols with fever, clearly energized by the feel of the new song, even in the dead of night. It only made it even more disappointing when the song ended, and the band already started to disperse from the stage.

Once again, George was going to leave regretfully. He almost wished it didn’t have to end, and that he could stay and watch Ringo play forever.

George stood up from the back table, and was ready to make a beeline for the door when he heard a small familiar voice back at the stage.

“Aw shucks…”

He glanced for barely a second, and knew right away it was Ringo. He was looking down at his palms from the side of the stage. They must have been aching from those heavy drum sets of the night, especially with that last number being so raucous.

George can’t be sure where it came from, but before he could get even get to the door, he found himself sneaking away to the back of the bar counter.

It was a bit messy, but behind countless bottles of old beer, was a familiar first aid kit. A ratty white box, probably standard issue for the establishment. He remembered Paul borrowed it from the barkeep after John busted his nose in a typical bar fight. That had been real messy, John’s blood was still stained on the floor boards, nasty business that had been.

He shook away the thought, and quickly looked for something to help. Rummaging past old dried bandaids, and some empty disinfectant. George got a hold of a roll of untouched wrapping bandages. Once in hand, he took a quick peek over the counter. Ringo was alone right where George last saw him. The place was practically empty, save for the bartender and the other Hurricanes having after show drinks.

George straightened his shoulders, took a few breaths, and quickly checked his reflection on the nearest bottle of stale liquor. George ran his fingers through the tuff of hair tall upon his head making sure he didn’t look like a complete mess . With shaking hands, he gave himself one last glance, and prepared for the embarrassment of a lifetime.

Ringo sat about on a red stool, still having a look at his calloused palms. George had to admit, he looked cute, even in a dirty shit club like this. George sucked in his next breath, strode over to the handsome drummer, and pulled up a stool beside him. George attempted to give a suave smile, but quickly dissipated when he met eyes with his subject of interest.

“Hey there George! Whatcha got there?”

George went mute for a solid five seconds. That’s it. No words. He forgot how to use his vocal chords.

You daft git!

If the fellas could see him now. A fool, that’s right, a bleeding fool. Can’t even talk, doesn’t even know what to say.

“Uh..George?”

“-Thought you could use a hand.” There, he did it. A bit late, but he did it.

Might have cut him off too, but let’s just ignore that for now.

George, now finally catching up with reality pulled the end of the bandage tape.

“I mean- you’re hands bothering you?”

Ringo smiled, then looked at his palms again. “Just a few blisters, you don’t have to…”

“No really, it’s no trouble, you really were gear on those drums tonight! It’s the least I could do Ritchie.”

Ritchie? Why would you call him that? You don’t even know if he likes that? What are you-

Shaking away his inner monologue, Geo took Ringo’s palm into his hands, and started wrapping it up.

Ringo was watching George as he cared for him, he looked rather comfortable. Legs outstretched a tad. With a calm… almost endearing expression. George figured it was just his tired eyes from the long gig. Those eyes, looking now, were even more blue up close. Bluest eyes he’d ever seen alongside those drooping lids. George tried to avoid them, he wanted to make sure his wrap on Ringo had a firm hold. But they were so pretty…

“So, who’s the bird?”

All the way from left field, was the most confusing question Ringo could’ve asked. George’s eye squinted a bit, and his head tilted as if trying to find this mysterious “bird”.

“Bird?”

Face gone red, Ringo looked flushed, and slowly took his bandaged hand back. “ Oh! I just assumed- that, um… I mean, you’ve come to every gig these few weeks. I figured you might have your eyes on a girl.”

“I- no! No, girl, I mean- I don’t fancy a girl. N-no girl.” George stammered, reaching for Ringo’s other palm. Ringo seemed to relax at the statement, and allowed Geo to continue the wrap. George was only now aware of how close the two had gotten. He wondered if Ringo could hear his heart beating like it was, or if he was counting the seconds until Geo was finished and could leave.

“Almost done, promise.”

“Not too quickly I hope.” Ringo quipped with a toothy grin. George about swooned. Here he was with Ringo Starr. The lads would have field day if they saw him right now. Saw how smiley he was, or knew how much his cheeks hurt from it.

“Trust me, this is probably the highlight of my week.” George chuckled, clearly getting more courageous. Ringo somehow made it so easy, he was calm, collected, and that goofy grin was real easy on the eyes, as was everything else about the fellow. Despite Ringo being older than him, he didn’t feel like a child like he did with John and Paul sometimes. He was 19 now, not some kid, and Paul was barely any older than him anyhow. What if Ringo did see him as some kid though? George had a young face after all. Ringo was scruff n’ruff lookin’. He and the boys were even scared of him at one point before actually having the pleasure meet him.

George was nearly done, and with another quick look he noticed those pretty grey streaks on Ringo’s temples. Without thinking, George’s hand reached up to the side of Ringo’s cheek, and gently smoothed the temple streak down. Ringo flinched, not moving away, and George was just now realizing what his hand was doing. He didn’t move though, he couldn’t, he wasn’t quite sure what Ringo was thinking, or what he himself was either.

Ringo was so flustered, but the hand by his cheek and temple was so… tender, that he couldn’t help but lean into the touch.

The bandage roll fell to the floor. George’s other hand came to rest on Ringo’s lower jaw, his index finger traced the softness of his skin. He could feel Ringo’s breath exchange with his own, and gently he saw the hooded blue eyes of the drummer he so admired all these weeks.

“T-these make you look real handsome y’know.” It wasn’t really a question, just some of those weeks of frustration, and gawky coming out in the open. Geo was barely keeping it together, but he’d come this far, and Ringo seemed to be… comfortable, with all his touches that is.

Those teddy curls, and those parted lips. His eyes rested on them, and he could feel his cheeks blush. He didn’t want to ruin it, this atmosphere filled with tension, he hesitated, but those blue eyes drew him in, and soon his own closed, and he pressed his lips softly onto the other lad’s. There was no pull away, and they pressed on, testing the feeling, relishing it, actually. It was unbelievably gentle. Ringo’s lips were so soft on his, and could feel him smiling into it too.

George felt Ringo’s hands rest on his seated waist. He could feel the stubbling beard on the drummer’s chin tickle his own, causing a fit giggle to escape his mouth. They drew back, now both red faced, and clearly awe struck. Ringo leaned forward, and rested his forehead on George’s, still sporting that smile that had just rested on his very own lips. Geo could feel a chuckle in his throat. He should have done this much sooner. Had he known this would have resulted with a kiss like that…

“It’s you Ritchie.” George lamented.

“Hmm, me?” Ringo murmured, still dazed, trying to wrap his mind around that kiss…

“You’re the reason I’m here. Every night I mean, I love to watch you drum, and- I was just too scared to talk to you without the lads around.” George now moved his cupped hands from Ringo’s face. Allowing these confessions to come out in the open.

“You… like to watch me drum?” Ringo said.

“Well yes, but not really, I like… to see you.” George quickly avoided Ringo’s eyes, ringing his hands together in his lap as he scooted away slightly. George couldn’t believe he’d just told Ringo that. It sounded so stupid for him to say out loud, and Ringo probably thought he was a creep, or something. George thought he ought to just leave. He sounded pathetic-

George felt a finger hooked under his chin, gently turning his head to meet with fond eyes, and once again breaking his train of thought.

“Well, I’m right here aren’t I? Might as well have a look.”

George almost wanted to pinch himself. This was like a dream he once had, of course with less open mouth kisses on his neck… and cake, he remembered there was a cake somewhere. Seemed like a good cake, chocolate maybe? Does a Ringo like chocolate? Should he ask? Maybe he should? It would be a little off topic to say the least. Maybe he should ask about those kisses? Probably not- that would would be a little forward of him. Maybe he’ll just go with the cake.

“Gosh, looks like the bands’ left.” George broke from his recounting to turn back at the bar. Ringo was right, Rory and the gang seemed to have already hightailed it out of here without im’. It was rather secluded back here, definitely a darker spot in the place. The bartender himself was far to busy sweeping away behind the counter to even notice the two of them settled in the back.

“You probably should be off then, I still got to pack up me drums.” Ringo said standing from the stool.

George, though disappointed at the idea of leaving, felt pretty exhausted. He wished he could fall asleep right here beside Ringo but- well, this place is filthy, so not exactly the most ideal spot to pass out beside the lad you fancy.

“You don’t need any help with those?” George yawned, trying desperately to extend the time he had with Ringo as much as he could.

Ringo chuckled. “No, you go on, and get some sleep. I’ve got it. But-”

Ringo shuffled a bit, and he cleared his throat. “Will I see you again tomorrow?”

George felt his mouth open agape. Tomorrow! He wanted to see him again? Him? George Harrison? Tomorrow- wait.

“You don’t have a gig tomorrow.” George said, clear confused to how Ringo could forget he wouldn’t even be playing tomorrow.

“I know, but… will I see you?”

Oh. OH-

George smiled the dumbest smile he had ever smiled EVER.

“YES- I mean! Yes, yes I’d love to see you tomorrow.” George gushed. John was right, he was gushy wasn’t he? Who cares, Ringo Starr just may just asked him on a date, how would he not be gushy?

“Great! I’ll see you then Georgie.” Ringo quirked his lip up, and gave him a wave with a bandaged hand.

Georgie, he called me Georgie, that’s the cutest shit I’ve ever heard.

Walking out the bar entrance onto the street, George was already fantasizing of what he was going to tell John and Paul when he burst into-

Oh, wait. One last thing.

He sprinted back like mad through the bar door, and straight to Ringo and his drum kit.

“Ringo! One last thing, please don’t ask why, just know John is an absolute pain in my arse- what’s your favorite type of… kiss?” George could practically die, but the confused look on Ringo’s face faded changing into a mischievous grin.

Before he knew it Ringo’s hand slid behind his lower back, and they were pulled flush together. George gasped at the suaveness of the motion, and stared straight into those blue hooded eyes. Suddenly, Ringo leaned up to meet Geo on his tippy toes, and sweetly nuzzled his nose against George’s, then promptly pulled away with a cheeky wink, leaving a gaping George barely standing on his feet at Ringo’s answer.

“Eskimo.”  

Read Chapter 2 here!

#starrison #Ringo Starr #George Harrison #beatles fic #cirilee #starrison fic #geo reaLLy likes Ringos blue eyes #ringo gets flirty at the end

[junker-town]

Nobody can stop the Thunder’s three-guard lineup

The Thunder’s three point guard attack has been the most effective lineup in the NBA.

The story behind the Thunder’s potent three point guard lineup.

The seeds of this NBA season’s most effective, fun, and convention-bucking trio were planted in July, when Oklahoma City Thunder head coach Billy Donovan quickly realized three of his five best players were point guards: Chris Paul, Shai Gilgeous-Alexander, and Dennis Schroder.

Donovan initially read the positional overlap as an extremely convenient dilemma. He fantasized about their compatibility and all the different ways their offense could swarm. But none of it would be possible unless all three embraced selflessness in an environment that, in the aftermath of Paul George’s trade request, was ostensibly defined by an every man for himself ethos.

“I gave a lot of thought in the summer to playing those three guys together,” Donovan told SB Nation. “I didn’t know how it would work because as a coach you have a vision of how you want them to play, but you also, inside that vision, have to make sure that all three of them are playing to their strengths.”

Even though the very idea of a position is increasingly antiquated in today’s NBA, selling those who expect to orchestrate offense with the ball in their hands on minutes where that might not be the case wouldn’t be easy. Before training camp, all three sat with Donovan to discuss the benefits of sacrifice, ball and man movement, and the myriad ways they can make life easier for each other when all are on the floor, particularly in crunch time.

“We had to come on the same page,” Schroder told SB Nation. “We had to talk to each other.”

In training camp, Donovan remembers an instantaneous chemistry. Paul, Schroder, and Gilgeous-Alexander had an immediate desire to get each other involved. They were constantly aware of who was hot, or had the best matchup.

“I saw an incredible unselfishness by all of them, to make sure that they all knew from each other: ‘I don’t have to have the ball all the time. We can all play together,’” Donovan said.

Some basketball teams never discover their best self. They can’t find the right offensive system, rotation, or defensive strategy. For any of a million different reasons. In an alternate universe, Oklahoma City could’ve easily seen their three point guards as an unplayable hindrance. Instead — at 21-16, five games ahead of the eight seed and four games back of the two seed — they might be the NBA’s most potent triumvirate. There are 536 three-man lineup combinations that have logged at least 200 minutes this season. Paul, Schroder, and Gilgeous-Alexander lead all in net rating, outscoring opponents by 26.7 points per 100 possessions, with an offensive and defensive rating that would rank first by a country mile.

As a group of pragmatic improvisers that realize mismatches created by their own speed, gravity, and rhythmic perception will inevitably appear on every possession, they’ve helped turn Oklahoma City into a basketball intelligencia.

They’ve had success regardless of who else is on the court, but when paired with Danilo Gallinari and Steven Adams there may not be a team in the entire league that can slow them down. Think about it: how many rosters have three players who can competently cover Paul, Gilgeous-Alexander, or Schroder, and what are the chances that at least one won’t muck up their own crunch-time offense?

“Most teams have one or two really good defenders,” Gilgeous-Alexander told SB Nation. “It’s rare you find a team with three really good defenders. It’s hard for them to guard all three of us at the same time. It’s something I’ve adjusted to and it’ll make me better in the long run.”

Gilgeous-Alexander, Paul, and Schroder are all in different stages of their careers, but each one is having an incredible individual season without stepping on another’s toes. They can run effective pick-and-rolls and score at all three levels, but do it in their own way, at their own speed. Schroder is blurry, Paul is under control, and Gilgeous-Alexander exists somewhere in-between, an off-balance, 6’5 wunderkind whose unpredictability meshes neatly with the other two.

Matching up against them as a set defense is hard enough, but trying to get organized in transition is almost impossible. Look what happens when Patrick Patterson and Landry Shamet fail to match up correctly in the crunch-time play below:

Or, how the Charlotte Hornets think their transition defense is perfect ... until Gilgeous-Alexander notices that Miles Bridges has picked Paul up:

A 24-second possession is an eternity for defenses trying to keep three resourceful, creative ball handlers from turning panic into opportunity. Plays don’t break, they evolve.

When all three share the floor Oklahoma City’s effective field goal percentage is 58.7 percent, which is nearly three percent better than the first-place Milwaukee Bucks. But what makes them so fascinating is how frequently they operate from the mid-range, where more shots are launched than at the rim or behind the three-point line.

That’s mostly thanks to Paul’s galaxy brain, puppeteering pick-and-roll coverages with elite sense, anticipation, and a pull-up jumper that basically never misfires. At 34 years old and the heartbeat of these units, he’s somehow still able to rollerskate in and around defenses to get a bucket whenever he wants one, and is currently drilling 66.2 percent of his pull-up twos in the fourth quarter. (Nobody has attempted more of them this season.) He’s also scored 103 points in the clutch, which is 20 more than any other player.

“Dennis and all us, we have a joke,” Paul said. “When we get to the elbow we yell ‘layup’ because that’s our version of a layup.”

After a two-year sabbatical in Houston, where he conducted fewer pick-and-rolls and wasn’t earmarked to marshal the offense how he normally would, Paul is once more coasting on the tried-and-true Point God formula that made him a first-ballot Hall of Famer. Right now, 49.3 percent of his possessions end as a pick-and-roll ball-handler. On the Rockets it was 36.4 percent.

The timing couldn’t be better, as more and more teams feel incentivized to play the percentages. Long twos are welcome with a door mat, and Paul is more than happy to walk all over it.

When the defense hugs up to take his shot away, that’s when everybody else’s instincts are able to shine:

Paul has been essential, an actor and director at the very same time. But the genius behind OKC’s sets whenever they go small is how interchangeable the roles are. Gilgeous-Alexander and Schroder average more pick-and-roll possessions than Harden, Jimmy Butler, and LeBron James; Schroder is making 52 percent of his long twos and Gilgeous-Alexander is their leading scorer. Everybody cuts. Everybody drifts. Everybody understands timing and angles and where to be, with or without the ball.

“We’ve got elite point guards who can go and make decisions, so it’s kind of unique,” Schroder told SB Nation. “But I like it. It’s really, really hard to guard.”

Offense isn’t a problem, and, unlike most three-guard lineups that tend to deflate on the other end, neither is defense. Steven Adams helps as a back-line defender who gobbles up rebounds, but the three guards have also done an admirable job on their own assignments. When asked why these lineups have had so much success this season, defense is all Paul wanted to talk about.

“We’re so versatile in that we can put all different types of defenders on you. Shai finally learned how to defend the post, it only took him maybe 25 games,” he said, smiling. “But me and Dennis mix it up too. Dennis is a pest, picking up 94 feet.”

They allow 97.3 points per 100 possessions. The gap between that number and the first-place Milwaukee Bucks is also what stands between the Bucks and the 14th-ranked Brooklyn Nets. But their margin for error is probably more narrow than it would otherwise be. Adams is solid, but also stretched thin in certain matchups. Look at this play against Denver, where Gilgeous-Alexander fails to rotate off the weak-side corner, causing OKC’s center to crash back and then race out to contest Nikola Jokic’s three.

This is what that same play looks like when the Thunder switch. In both, Paul can be seen telling his 21-year-old teammate where to be.

Some of the Thunder’s success with this lineup is due to opponents only hitting 28.5 percent of their threes, and teams that can play small with more muscle on the wing may be a problem going forward. But thanks to how well OKC takes care of the ball, and the frequency with which why get to the free-throw line, they’re able to get back on defense and set up in the half-court.

In general, Donovan is much less concerned with any size-related disadvantage than a desire to keep at least two of his point guards on the floor at all times. When two of the three are on the bench it’s been a disaster.

Since Thanksgiving, lineups featuring Paul, Schroder, and Gilgeous-Alexander have averaged 7.7 minutes per game. Before it, they only tallied 4.9. (The Thunder were 7-11 before Thanksgiving, and have been a Western-Conference-best 15-5 since.) They close just about every first half and fourth quarter with those three guards — who, by the way, rank second, third, and fourth in clutch plus/minus — but are trying to figure out ways to utilize them in the third quarter, too.

“For Chris he’s generally coming off like about six minutes and Dennis is coming in playing with Shai so you have those guys and you kind of get through the first quarter and then you get into the second quarter and then you can kind of get them all in there to close,” Donovan said. “But you also have to look at how long a guy has been on the floor, how long has he been playing, is he well rested, and you’re trying to keep two of the three on the floor at all times.”

It’s the natural balancing act that comes with any personnel group this quirky. Over a month ago, I cast doubt about their three-guard lineup in my notebook, referring to the experience of watching them as a tightrope walk that made me lean forward in my seat, anticipating either a tragic fall or that first triumphant step on the other side. As great as they’ve been, the inherent volatility that’s tied to lineups this slight justified a bit of skepticism, and for some it still might. What they mean, from a big-picture sense, is also debatable. Can this work in the playoffs (which the Thunder are almost guaranteed to make)? Does it merit Sam Presti making a win-now trade before the deadline?

But until they stumble, the plucky Thunder and their three point guards remain a puzzle the rest of the NBA has yet to figure out. There might not be a more delightful story in the entire league.

[celebratorypenguin]

Fic: This Too, Too Solid Flesh

This Too, Too Solid Flesh

Rating: NC-17 for sexytimes

Summary: The Beatles watch the final cut of "A Hard Day's Night" and discover that Paul's solo scene ended up on the cutting room floor. Paul feels like a failure; the others want to help. But mostly John.

NOTE: There's no evidence that any of this happened. The only kernel of historical accuracy is that Paul did film a scene with actress Isla Blair that was cut from the film. The scene can be read here: http://www.beatlesinterviews.org/dbhdnscene.html

And obviously, the sex is just a product of my pathetic brain.

THIS TOO, TOO SOLID FLESH

"O, that this too, too solid flesh would melt, Thaw and resolve itself into a dew!" --Hamlet, Act 1, Scene 2

***

Smoke and dust motes danced in the brilliant light as the film began to run. John settled in his seat, smiling fondly as Ringo grinned and jammed his elbow into John's ribs. "Our big-screen debut, eh?" Ringo stage-whispered.

John adjusted his glasses and gave Ringo an answering poke. "Shush, or we'll be kicked out of our own preview," he said, but he heard the excitement and mirth in his own voice.

They'd worked so hard on their movie on top of everything else they were doing - the tours, the press conferences, writing dozens of songs, putting together a pair of albums. And here they were, part of a handful of people invited to see the final cut of "A Hard Day's Night" before the official premiere.

Paul was sitting on John's left. Paul had been the most anxious throughout the entire process, largely because he couldn't control what he didn't understand, and partly because his girlfriend was an experienced actress. None of the "Beatle Birds" was at this screening, for which John was grateful for Paul's sake rather than his own. After all, Cynthia would be proud of him no matter what he sounded like or looked like.

Jane, on the other hand...

John sighed. He wanted to like the girl, he really did, but her posh accent and dainty ways were a bit much for him to handle. Cynthia said she felt like a clumsy cow next to Jane. For once, John was in complete sympathy and agreement with his wife.

Wonders would never cease.

The film countdown had begun, taking his mind off of everything except how this movie was going to turn out.

It was a pleasant surprise. The movie was charming and funny, with enough absurdly impossible situations to make John happy, enough sardonic wit to please George, and enough music to gratify Paul. The bonus, as far as John was concerned, was how marvelous Ringo was in his role as beleaguered underdog.

Dark as the screening room was, John could swear that Ringo was blushing.

Spontaneous, happy applause greeted the closing credits. John beamed as the house lights came up and Richard Lester went to the small stage. "So, gentlemen, what do we think?" he asked.

It was then that John realized that Paul, and George sitting to Paul's left, were stock-still. Hadn't they enjoyed their movie? What was the matter with them?

George's voice broke the sudden, uncomfortable silence. "Is this the finished thing?" he asked, his voice tight.

"Yes, it's the final cut," Lester replied. He seemed nervous, as if he were waiting for a bomb to go off.

And it did, because George asked, "What happened to Paul's scene, then?"

John's heart sank. Of course, that was what was missing - Paul's solo turn with the young actress. He'd run lines with Paul for days, and he knew that Jane had coached him to within an inch of his life. But the scene wasn't there.

Lester ran a finger between his collar and this throat. "Yes. Well. I'm so sorry, Paul, but that...slowed the film down...and I'm afraid we had to cut it out."

"Well, put it BACK," Ringo bellowed. "Take a minute or two off my bit and give it to Paul."

Good lad, John thought. He glanced over at Paul, who was the picture of outward composure, as long as you didn't see how tightly he was folding his hands together. John listened to Lester babbling about Paul's "extra closeups" and "dramatic lighting" he had used to "even out the screen time," but John could see that his heart wasn't really in it.

"Doesn't matter," Paul said evenly. "It's a great film, Dick. Thanks for the preview." He stood up and motioned for the rest of the group to do likewise. "We have an early press conference tomorrow, and we're going to need our beauty sleep. So if you'll excuse us...?"

George's face was a thundercloud. He ushered the stiff Paul and bewildered Ringo out of the room with John on his heels. Brian tried to waylay them, but one look at the determined set of George's mouth and the dark flash of his eyes was enough to make him stand aside and let the four men go on their way.

They took a wrong turn and had to double back to find the exit. Lester was talking to Brian, explaining his decision. John strained to hear his words.

He wished he hadn't.

"I like the lad, Brian, I truly do. He's a charming fellow, but as an actor...he's a bit rubbish."

Thank Christ Paul was out of earshot, John thought. His blood was boiling and he wanted nothing more than to punch the guy's lights out. He turned back to fix Lester with a glare, then found himself colliding with Paul's back.

The group had stopped.

They had heard.

Paul had heard.

To his credit, Paul's only reaction was to set his shoulders even straighter and keep walking forward. The loud slap of his hand on the door handle was the only sign of how hurt and angry he must have been. He held the door for the other three, each of whom gave him a sympathetic glance as they passed.

They were in the alley now, where two unremarkable cars waited to take them home without crowds of shrieking teenagers. The four Beatles stood in a tight circle. Ringo slipped an arm around Paul's waist and hugged him. "The guy's dead wrong," he declared. "You look amazing up there. You were born to have that big baby face glowing twenty feet high as you sing your heart out."

Paul nodded his thanks, his eyes downcast.

"I won't go to that sodding premiere, that's for sure," George snarled.

Sometimes, John forgot that Paul had more history with George than himself. Sure, George and Paul could - and did - snipe at each other like brothers, but there was a bond between them that John envied.

"Yeah, we can strike or something, make them put Paul's scene back in." Ringo tightened his grip on Paul. "They're not going to fuck you over, not on our watch, are they? Maybe we can go to the press, even!"

John had never been prouder of his bandmates than he was in that moment. "Fellas, I think this is Paul's decision to make." He ducked his head so that he was in Paul's field of vision. "We're behind you all the way, you know."

Paul blinked, as if finally coming to grips with the fact that any of this had happened. He ran his hand through his hair. "I appreciate it, guys, I really do. But I think I'd better sleep on it. I'm too..." he made a vague, discontented face, then started over. "I'm surprised, is all. But thanks."

"Want to spend the night at ours, then?" George asked Paul, who shook his head.

"Thanks, but I wouldn't be much company. I'm better off at home." He started for one of the cars, leaving George and RIngo to get into the other one.

John would normally have gotten in with Paul, but he jerked his head in the direction of the back door. "Can you wait for me a minute, Paul? Need to spend a penny."

Paul sat back and waved John away. They both watched as Ringo and George were driven off, both men looking back through the window at Paul. Ringo looked sorrowful. George looked dangerous.

John sauntered back into the building. He didn't want the loo, he wanted justice, and he was going to get it if he to beat the shit out of someone. His hands itched to go around Lester's throat, or Walter Shenson's, or someone's.

He shoved past Brian and stood next to the director and producer. "Ah. John," Lester said. "I'm glad you stopped. I hope there aren't any hard feelings."

He had to be kidding, right?

"I mean, Paul didn't seem to mind. He didn't look upset..."

"You're wrong!" John shouted in the man's face. "When you see Paul looking like he's just eaten a cucumber, he looks so cool, that's when he's hurting the most!"

"John," Shenson began, but John cut him off with a wave.

"The only thing keeping my fist out of your faces is that Paul needs me not to be in jail."

Brian rushed up and started to say something soothing, but John turned on his heel and went to join Paul in the car.

Paul was staring ahead. Dry-eyed and still, it was no wonder that people thought he wasn't churned up inside. John would have thrown things at the screen, would have yelled and kicked up a fuss, but that just wasn't how Paul went through life.

John wondered why Paul didn't have an ulcer.

The car left them off at Wimpole Street, where the Ashers and Paul were living. Paul didn't seem to think anything of John's presence at his side; they had ended more than a few evenings here, after all. When he put the key in the lock, Paul said, "They've all gone to Scotland for the week."

Good, John thought, because one thing he didn't think he could bear was the sight of Jane telling Paul all about her day as a successful actress.

Paul went straight to the bar, dispensing scotch with a liberal hand and barely pouring any soda in it. He handed a glass to John and took one of his own, then seated himself on the couch with an exhausted sigh.

John sipped his liquid courage, then sat beside Paul, so close that their legs touched from hip to knee. Once again he peered into Paul's lowered eyes. "You're not rubbish, you know," he murmured.

Paul gave a slight nod and set his lips in a tighter line.

"You're not," John continued. His heart ached; he would do anything, anything, to make Paul smile. "You're an annoying perfectionist, you're a bit of a showoff, and frankly any bloke who spends that much money on clothes is a bit suspect."

There, the mouth turned up just a bit at the corners.

"But one thing you're not is rubbish. At anything." John grabbed Paul's hand and held it fast. Paul's fingers were cold, so John put his other hand on top. "Paul, look at me."

Paul's eyes were dark.

"I'm only going to say this once, so fucking enjoy it while it's happening." John took a deep breath. "You are the best musician - hell, the best ARTIST - I've ever known. And I love you for it, you daft git."

Paul said nothing, only wrapped his arms around John's shoulders and buried his face in John's hair.

"You're not going to cry, are you?" John asked, worried. Paul's tears were rare, which was fortunate because they always burned John like acid.

Shaking his head against John's, Paul held on tighter, his breathing deepening as he clearly struggled for control. John patted his back and smoothed his rumpled hair. Paul said something that got muffled in John's jacket. "What was that, Paulie?"

Paul pulled back, his posture defeated, his face ashen. "I'm a failure," he mumbled. "How many people does it take to make Paul McCartney an actor? None, because it can't be done." He chuckled dryly at his own weak joke.

"Paul," John started, but Paul waved him off.

"What'll I tell Jane? Or Dad, or Mike? God, they'll be so disappointed in me."

"They'll be furious, just like Ringo and George were. You heard them, they were ready to take these guys apart." Privately, John wasn't sure what Jane would do, but he knew the McCartneys better than his own family, and he wouldn't want to be whoever stood between Jim and his son's dreams.

Paul put his elbows on his knees and let his head drop into his hands. "Face it, would you? I'm a fucking loser. I'm not even entirely rubbish, for fuck's sake. Just 'a bit' rubbish. Can't even manage THAT."

John had never, ever, seen Paul so unhappy. It occurred to him that Paul had never failed at anything before.

"Christ, I need a fag," Paul gasped, patting his pockets and pulling out a pack of cigarettes. He dug out two of them and put them both in his mouth. John produced a lighter and Paul steadied John's hand with his own as he leaned forward. They had done this dance so many times, but the touch of Paul's hand on John's wrist was always a shockingly intimate gesture.

Paul sucked in the smoke, then took one cigarette out and passed it to John. "Ta," John said as he took a long drag. "Are you ready to listen to reason?" he asked.

"Maybe." Paul leaned against the sofa cushions. A veil of smoke obscured his face momentarily, then evaporated.

"You're a fast learner," John said between puffs on his cigarette. "You're always the first one with a rhyme, the first one to understand all the bits and bobs in the studio. You taught yourself the guitar, right side up AND upside down. So what if acting isn't something you pick up quickly? It's not who you are."

"Ah." Paul flicked a long cylinder of ash into a marble ashtray. "So tell me, who am I? Not just Paul McCartney of the Beatles. Who am I...to you?"

Was he really that insecure?

John started to make a wisecrack, but then he looked carefully at Paul's anguished face and saw that his composure was dangerously thin. He reformulated his answer and took a deep breath.

"You're part of me," was all he could say before he began to choke up. Paul's gaze snapped up to John's face at those words.

"Which part?"

Dangerous question, that.

John leaned forward, regarding Paul over the rims of his glasses. "The only part worth a damn," he whispered.

Paul's jaw finally relaxed and his eyes widened. "That's the nicest thing you've said about me in years," he said after a long, silent moment.

"Yeah, well, I mean it. I meant it that night in Paris when we were drunk off our asses, and I mean it now."

Oh, shit, he brought up Paris.

Paul's eyebrows shot up, two perfect arcs. "We weren't all THAT drunk, Johnny," he said, his voice low.

No, they couldn't have been, or else they wouldn't have been able to...to do what they had done.

John tilted his head to the side, asking Paul a silent question. Paul stubbed out his cigarette, sat up, and leaned over to John until they were forehead to forehead. John's breathing quickened and he let his eyes close.

"John," Paul breathed against him. "John, look at me."

When John opened his eyes, he saw so many things in Paul's expression: disappointment and embarrassment in his eyes, depression in the downward turn of the expressive mouth, a flash of longing in the blush that rose above his five o'clock shadow. John had to swallow hard and take a steadying breath to keep still and let Paul talk.

Paul brushed John's cheek with the back of one hand. "I do need something," he said, so softly that John almost couldn't hear him. "But what I don't need," Paul continued, his voice growing firmer, "is a goddamn pity fuck."

John leaned away from him and crossed his arms over his chest. "Is that what you think I'm doing?"

"Isn't that what you ARE doing?" Paul demanded.

"I'm - Jesus, no, that's not it, that's not it at all! I'm just saying that among the things you are not 'a bit rubbish' at doing, sex is right up there!"

They sat facing each other, staring each other down, neither one willing to be the first to speak. John noticed that Paul's fingers were twitching, playing an unheard melody the way he always did when he was deep in thought. From the rhythm, John realized that Paul was playing the bass line of "If I Fell."

"I'm not trying to hurt your pride," John said softly.

Paul started, thinking hard, then gave John a rueful smile and stilled his traitorous hand. "Oh, please," he said, but his voice wasn't as steady as it had been.

The ludicrousness of the situation seemed to hit both men at the same time, because they burst into a simultaneous fit of laughter. "What the bloody hell are we doing?" Paul gasped between chuckles.

"I was hoping you knew," John replied. He loved seeing Paul like this, loved the sparkle in his eyes and the way he wrinkled his nose when he was so amused. Eventually the laughter subsided and they were left staring at one another again. Paul was looking at John's face as if the answer to some eternal secret was just between his eyes.

"Johnny." The way Paul's voice said that one word nearly rocked John off the sofa. It reminded him of a musty hotel room in Paris, of rain on his tongue and the mingled flavors of two-year-old French wine and Paul's nineteen-year-old lips. He remembered the smell of ozone and Paul's sweat, could almost hear the rumble of traffic on cobblestones mixed with the sound of Paul crying out as he climaxed.

After their trip, like a fool, John had insisted they put away their childish things and behave like real men - in his case, by impregnating his girlfriend and almost destroying his career in the process. Paul had thrown himself into his music, forging a trajectory that seemed to be ever-rising.

"I still..." John began, then lost his train of thought. "There isn't...I mean..." Suddenly, John became aware that his cigarette was down to a nub and was burning his fingers. "Ouch! Shit!" he cursed, dropping the butt into the remnants of his drink.

Paul smiled indulgently at him. "You're such a poet, Johnny," he said, leaning forward and resting his palms on John's thighs.

Throwing caution to the wind, John cupped Paul's face in his hands and kissed him. They stayed like that for several long, lovely moments, re-learning the feel of each other after years of pointedly not-doing-this. Paul tasted like scotch and smelled like smoke and vetiver, and John couldn't get enough of him.

"I don't want to do this on the sofa," Paul murmured against John's lower lip.

"I don't want to do this in Jane's bed," John countered.

Paul pulled back, scowling, then he tangled his fingers in John's hair and started to laugh. "Thank you for that reminder. We'll go to my room, up in the attic. Jane hates it up there." Paul stood up, groaning a little at the way his pants hugged him in all the wrong places, and offered his hand to John.

John took Paul's hand and was, as always, surprised by Paul's strength. Paul was solid where John was wiry, steady where John was flexible.

Face it, John told himself as he followed Paul up the wide staircase, Paul was perfect.

He felt another surge of anger. How could someone as allegedly smart as Dick Lester not see, not intuitively KNOW--

Paul's mouth was on his, silencing that part of John's brain. The anger swirled away, replaced by a longing so powerful that John's whole body trembled at the sudden wave of it. Paul put his fingers in the loops of John's belt, holding him close. "I've got you," Paul soothed.

They stood eye to eye, appraising one another. Paul was breathing hard, face flushed, lips darkened from kissing. His eyes were dilated but still so, so sad, and John wanted to erase that sorrow more than he wanted his next breath. He stood on tiptoe and kissed the corners of Paul's eyes, then lightly bit the tip of his nose, making Paul hiss in an attempt not to laugh.

"Johnny."

"Call me that again," John gasped, "and I'll come in my trousers."

Paul arched his back, pressing his groin against John's. "Well now, we can't have that, can we?"

John gave him a warning growl that only made Paul grin cheekily and do it again. "Sodding sadist," John mumbled as he stumbled backwards and began unbuttoning his shirt.

That made Paul laugh. He was taking off his own clothes, somehow still looking graceful even with his trousers down around his ankles. John tripped over himself trying to get his pants off over his shoes, almost landing on the floor except for Paul's steadying hands at his waist.

"Let me," Paul cooed, pushing John to the bed and kneeling at his feet. He took off John's shoes and socks - John had never thought anything so mundane could be that erotic - and slid John's pants the rest of the way off, lifting first one leg and then the other until John was naked.

I am physically and metaphorically naked, John told himself, trying to keep calm while Paul kissed his way up John's right thigh. He wanted to touch Paul anywhere he could, his hair, his shoulder, the strong muscles in his back, as Paul slid up his body until they were lying side by side on the narrow bed. John tried to turn onto his back and nearly fell off. Laughing, Paul tugged his wrists and got him back into his arms.

"Bit virginal, this cot," John complained. He got a sudden mental image of Jane on this bed, titian hair running down her back as she rode Paul.

"Stay with me, Lennon." Paul snapped his fingers in front of John's nose. He traced the line of John's jaw with a callused finger. "It's been a long time," he whispered. "I've...I've missed this."

"God, me too." John turned his head and kissed the inside of Paul's wrist, touching it lightly with his tongue. Delighted with Paul's shuddering gasp, John took his hand and brought it downwards, brushing his chest before finally wrapping Paul's fingers around his cock.

Smiling, Paul took the very broad hint and turned his strong, sure hand to pleasuring his friend. Long hours of playing bass had strengthened his muscles and left the very fingertips just rough enough to feel extraordinary against the velvety head of John's penis.

"You're still so good at this," John said, tearing his gaze from Paul's hand to his face. Paul was biting his lip, deep in concentration. "Christ, Macca, do you have any idea what this does to me?"

"I would," Paul said conversationally, as if he weren't in the midst of trying to coax another man to orgasm, "if SOMEONE were doing the same thing to me."

Oh.

With a wicked smile, John returned the favor, enjoying the way Paul arched into his hand. Paul's familiar-but-different body was straining, the musculature more defined than it had been in those heady Paris days. He'd almost been a boy then, in John's thrall, but now they were equals.

John nudged Paul's knees and put his legs between them, changing the angle of his hand. Paul let out a little cry of pleasure that almost made John lose control. He leaned over Paul, stroking faster, urging Paul with quick thrusts of his hips.

Paul reached for John's face and removed his glasses, which had slipped almost to the end of his nose. His hand shook as he scrabbled around on the nightstand for a bare space.

"Now I can hardly see you," John whined.

"Should've worn your contacts."

It figured that they'd be having one of their half-assed arguments when John was a hair's breadth away from climax. He shifted again, and again, trying to gain more pressure because Paul's hands were shaking so hard that he could scarcely keep a grip on John's cock. Finally John got so desperate that he pulled Paul on top of him, letting Paul's weight add to the friction he needed. Paul's eyes lit up and he gave John a sloppy, open-mouthed kiss.

Somewhere in the depths of his brain stem, John knew he was moaning. If he had known how much the sound of his voice affected Paul, he would have sung an operatic aria on just the word, "Please," because that was the one driving Paul wild.

"Please, Paulie, please, please, I need it, oh God, please..." John's vision swam in a sea of blinding white light. He clutched Paul's bicep and threw his head back. "Paul!" he shouted, flailing in Paul's arms as he came, shuddering at the raw force of it.

Paul followed John's rhythm just as precisely as he did when they were in the studio together, timing his strokes with John's aftershocks, gentling him, then finally wiping the sticky mess from them both.

John opened his mouth to say something, failed utterly, and fell back on the bed as if he'd been punched in the gut. He was still shaking a little, which Paul misinterpreted as being cold. "C'mere," he murmured, holding John close and rubbing his hands up and down John's arms. Despite the cool breeze coming through the open window, Paul's body was warm and his eyes were fever-bright.

It was an effort to pull away from that delightful embrace, but John slid his mostly-boneless body out of Paul's arms and turned him over on his back. Never breaking eye contact, John pulled himself up on his haunches until he was just over the taut skin of Paul's cock.

"If you're tired," Paul began, but John silenced him by curling up at Paul's hip and taking him into his mouth. "Fuck!" Paul cried. "Warn a bloke before you do that!"

John snickered, noting that the vibrations made Paul buck into his mouth. As he decided to file that away for later use, he swirled his tongue around the shaft, then the head, surprised that Paul's bitter-salt taste hadn't changed in the last three years. Paul's hands were caressing his hair, bolder than the way he'd done it in Paris. Back then they'd both fumbled around, blindly guessing, but now they simply fit together in this as in everything else they did.

When he looked up, John saw Paul gazing at him with unabashed longing. "What're you staring at?" John asked after letting Paul's erection slip out of his mouth for a moment.

"Myself. Disappearing into you," Paul breathed.

John didn't say anything, just let his mouth go back to what it was doing before, but Paul's words burned themselves into his brain. He'd deal with them later, much much later. Afterwards. He concentrated on the head, where even the lightest touch of his tongue made Paul shudder, and on the pulsing vein on the underside. His jaw started to ache but he didn't care because hearing Paul calling his name was worth a few minutes of discomfort.

"John...John...I'm close," Paul moaned.

John knew, could tell from the thrumming pulse and the way Paul's cock stiffened and thickened against his tongue. He was beginning to wonder what that gorgeous organ would feel like in his ass when suddenly Paul cried out and started spilling into his mouth.

Paul's voice cracked as he babbled nonsense syllables and obsceneties. It was the most beautiful sound John had ever, ever heard, and he couldn't help joining in, almost harmonizing with the descending pitches of Paul's breath.

"I've got you, Paulie, you're okay, you're amazing, it's okay," John said in a quiet sing-song voice, pressing his aching mouth against Paul's hip. Paul tugged at John's shoulder, pulling him so that their heads were right next to one another on the pillow.

"Sorry about that," Paul panted. "Meant to warn you better." He rubbed a shaking hand along John's jawline, massaging the stiff muscles.

John, who hadn't minded a bit, arched into Paul's caress, greedy as a cat wanting attention. "Try again next time," he said, waggling his eyebrows at Paul.

Paul's eyes widened. "Next time? In another three years, or..."

"'Or.' Definitely 'or,' I should think." He reached for the sheets and pulled them up over both their bodies. He didn't ask if he could stay, partly because he could tell Paul wanted him to, but mostly because he didn't think his legs would support him. He snuggled closer to Paul, not minding the thin sheen of sweat or the musky odor of sex, and Paul held tightly to him in return.

"It melted," Paul said around a huge yawn.

John blinked short-sightedly at him. "What?"

With an impish grin, Paul pointed vaguely at the direction of their groins. "Our too-too solid flesh."

Pulling himself up on one elbow, John stared at Paul in disbelief. "We're lying here naked, practically glued together with my spunk - sorry about that, by the way - and you're quoting 'Hamlet' at me?"

Paul gave him a sleepy, shy smile. "Don't disparage my Shakespeare. It made the cut, didn't it?"

Even with his brain still reeling with everything he had just felt, John knew that Paul was really asking if he had 'made the cut,' if John found him worthwhile. If John loved him.

"It's our next A-side," he declared, tucking Paul's head under his chin and kissing the sex-mussed hair. "Double fucking platinum," he added, but Paul's deep breathing told him that he had fallen asleep.

John knew he'd be awake for hours to come. It would give him time to think of what he'd say to mollify Cynthia for staying out all night and not calling. Then there was the fact that he and Paul would have to get their stories straight for Ringo and George, who were sure to be over at the dawn's early light to check on Paul.

Perhaps it was best that he hadn't heard Ringo's car drive up earlier, didn't know that he and George had gotten out and had begun to ring the bell when the sounds of sex came floating through Paul's open bedroom window, hadn't seen the knowing smirk that passed between the two of them when they snuck quietly back and drove off into the cool evening.

*** END ***

#McLennon #McLennon fic

[lesbianrewrites]

Blood of Olympus - Chapter 42

*disclaimer* This is a project done for fun, and none of these characters/works belong to me. I do not claim to own any of the material on this page. This is a Lesbian edit of The Blood of Olympus by Rick Riordan. Chapters will be posted every day at 10am EST. Google doc version can be found here. The chapter can also be found under the cut. Enjoy!

PIPER’S DAD USED TO SAY that being in the airport didn’t count as visiting a city. Piper felt the same way about sewers.

From the port to the Acropolis, she didn’t see anything of Athens except dark, putrid tunnels. The snake men led them through an iron storm grate at the docks, straight into their underground lair, which smelled of rotting fish, mould and snakeskin.

The atmosphere made it hard to sing about summertime and cotton and easy living, but Piper kept it up. If she stopped for longer than a minute or two, Kekrops and his guards started hissing and looking angry.

‘I don’t like this place,’ Annabeth murmured. ‘Reminds me of when I was underneath Rome.’

Kekrops hissed with laughter. ‘Our domain is much older. Much, much older.’

Annabeth slipped her hand into Penny’s, which made Piper feel downhearted. She wished Jessica were with her. Heck, she’d even settle for Lorena … though maybe she wouldn’t have held her hand. Lorena’s hands tended to burst into flames when she was nervous.

Piper’s voice echoed through the tunnels. As they travelled further into the lair, more snake people gathered to hear her. Soon they had a procession following behind them – dozens of gemini all swaying and slithering.

Piper had lived up to her granddad’s prediction. She had learned the song of the snakes – which turned out to be a George Gershwin number from 1935. So far she had even kept the snake king from biting, just like in the old Cherokee story. The only problem with that legend: the warrior who learned the snake song had to sacrifice his wife for the power. Piper didn’t want to sacrifice anyone.

The vial of physician’s cure was still wrapped in its chamois cloth, tucked in her belt pouch. She hadn’t had time to consult with Jessica and Lorena before she left. She just had to hope they would all be reunited on the hilltop before anyone needed the cure. If one of them died and she couldn’t reach them …

Just keep singing, she told herself.

They passed through crude stone chambers littered with bones. They climbed slopes so steep and slippery it was nearly impossible to keep their footing. At one point, they passed a warm cave the size of a gymnasium filled with snake eggs, their tops covered with a layer of silver filaments like slimy Christmas tinsel.

More and more snake people joined their procession. Slithering behind her, they sounded like an army of football players shuffling with sandpaper on their cleats.

Piper wondered how many gemini lived down here. Hundreds, maybe thousands.

She thought she heard her own heartbeat echoing through the corridors, getting louder and louder the deeper they went. Then she realized the persistent boom ba-boom was all around them, resonating through the stone and the air.

I wake. A woman’s voice, as clear as Piper’s singing.

Annabeth froze. ‘Oh, that’s not good.’

‘It’s like Tartarus,’ Penny said, her voice edgy. ‘You remember … his heartbeat. When he appeared –’

‘Don’t,’ Annabeth said. ‘Just don’t.’

‘Sorry.’ In the light of his sword, Penny’s face was like a large firefly – a hovering, momentary smudge of brightness in the dark.

The voice of Gaia spoke again, louder: At last.

Piper’s singing wavered.

Fear washed over her, as it had in the Spartan temple. But the gods Phobos and Deimos were old friends to her now. She let the fear burn inside her like fuel, making her voice even stronger. She sang for the snake people, for her friends’ safety. Why not for Gaia, too?

Finally they reached the top of a steep slope, where the path ended in a curtain of green goo.

Kekrops faced the demigods. ‘Beyond this camouflage is the Acropolis. You must remain here. I will check that your way is clear.’

‘Wait.’ Piper turned to address the crowd of gemini. ‘There is only death above. You will be safer in the tunnels. Hurry back. Forget you saw us. Protect yourselves.’

The fear in her voice channelled perfectly with the charmspeak. The snake people, even the guards, turned and slithered into the darkness, leaving only the king.

‘Kekrops,’ Piper said, ‘you’re planning to betray us as soon as you step through that goo.’

‘Yes,’ he agreed. ‘I will alert the giants. They will destroy you.’ Then he hissed. ‘Why did I tell you that?’

‘Listen to the heartbeat of Gaia,’ Piper urged. ‘You can sense her rage, can’t you?’

Kekrops wavered. The end of his staff glowed dimly. ‘I can, yes. She is angry.’

‘She’ll destroy everything,’ Piper said. ‘She’ll reduce the Acropolis to a smoking crater. Athens – your city – will be utterly destroyed, your people along with it. You believe me, don’t you?’

‘I – I do.’

‘Whatever hatred you have for humans, for demigods, for Athena, we are the only chance to stop Gaia. So you will not betray us. For your own sake, and your people, you will scout the territory and make sure the way is clear. You will say nothing to the giants. Then you will return.’

‘That is … what I’ll do.’ Kekrops disappeared through the membrane of goo.

Annabeth shook her head in amazement. ‘Piper, that was incredible.’

‘We’ll see if it works.’ Piper sat down on the cool stone floor. She figured she might as well rest while she could.

The others squatted next to her. Penny handed her a canteen of water.

Until she took a drink, Piper hadn’t realized how dry her throat was. ‘Thanks.’

Penny nodded. ‘You think the charm will last?’

‘I’m not sure,’ she admitted. ‘If Kekrops comes back in two minutes with an army of giants, then no.’

The heartbeat of Gaia echoed through the floor. Strangely, it made Piper think of the sea – how the waves boomed along the cliffs of Santa Monica back home.

She wondered what her father was doing right now. It would be the middle of the night in California. Maybe he was asleep, or doing a late-night TV interview. Piper hoped he was in his favourite spot: the porch off the living room, watching the moon over the Pacific, enjoying some quiet time. Piper wanted to think he was happy and content right now … in case they failed.

She thought about her friends in the Aphrodite cabin at Camp Half-Blood. She thought about her cousins in Oklahoma, which was odd, since she’d never spent much time with them. She didn’t even know them very well. Now she was sorry about that.

She wished she’d taken more advantage of her life, appreciated things more. She would always be grateful for her family aboard the Argo II – but she had so many other friends and relatives she wished she could see one last time.

‘Do you guys ever think about your families?’ she asked.

It was a silly question, especially on the cusp of a battle. Piper should have been focused on their quest, not distracting her friends.

But they didn’t chide her.

Penny’s gaze became unfocused. Her lower lip quivered. ‘My mom … I – I haven’t even seen her since Hera made me disappear. I called her from Alaska. I gave Coach Hedge some letters to deliver to her. I …’ Her voice broke. ‘She’s all I’ve got. Her and my stepdad, Paul.’

‘And Tegan,’ Annabeth reminded her. ‘And Grover. And –’

‘Yeah, of course,’ Penny said. ‘Thanks. I feel much better.’

Piper probably shouldn’t have laughed, but she was too full of nervousness and melancholy to hold it in. ‘What about you, Annabeth?’

‘My dad … my stepmom and stepbrothers.’ She turned the drakon-bone blade in her lap. ‘After all I’ve been through in the past year, it seems stupid that I resented them for so long. And my dad’s relatives … I haven’t thought about them in years. I have an uncle and cousin in Boston.’

Penny looked shocked. ‘You, with the Yankees cap? You’ve got family in Red Sox country?’

Annabeth smiled weakly. ‘I never see them. My dad and my uncle don’t get along. Some old rivalry. I don’t know. It’s stupid what keeps people apart.’

Piper nodded. She wished she had the healing powers of Asclepius. She wished she could look at people and see what was hurting them, then whip out her prescription pad and make everything better. But she guessed there was a reason Zeus kept Asclepius locked away in his underground temple.

Some pain shouldn’t be wished away so easily. It had to be dealt with, even embraced. Without the agony of the last few months, Piper never would have found her best friends. She never would’ve discovered her own courage. She certainly wouldn’t have had the guts to sing show tunes to the snake people under Athens.

At the top of the tunnel, the green membrane rippled.

Piper grabbed her sword and rose, prepared for a flood of monsters.

But Kekrops emerged alone.

‘The way is clear,’ he said. ‘But hurry. The ceremony is almost complete.’

Pushing through a curtain of mucus was almost as fun as Piper imagined.

She emerged feeling like she’d just rolled through a giant’s nostril. Fortunately, none of the gunk stuck to her, but still her skin tingled with revulsion.

Penny, Annabeth and she found themselves in a cool, damp pit that seemed to be the basement level of a temple. All around them, uneven ground stretched into darkness under a low ceiling of stone. Directly above their heads, a rectangular gap was open to the sky. Piper could see the edges of walls and the tops of columns, but no monsters … yet.

The camouflage membrane had closed behind them and blended into the ground. Piper pressed her hand against it. The area seemed to be solid rock. They wouldn’t be leaving the way they’d come.

Annabeth ran her hand along some marks on the ground – a jagged crow’s-foot shape as long as a human body. The area was lumpy and white, like stone scar tissue. ‘This is the place,’ she said. ‘Penny, these are the trident marks of Poseidon.’

Hesitantly, Penny touched the scars. ‘He must’ve been using his extra-extra-large trident.’

‘This is where he struck the earth,’ Annabeth said, ‘where he made a saltwater spring appear when he had the contest with my mom to sponsor Athens.’

‘So this is where the rivalry started,’ Penny said.

‘Yeah.’

Penny pulled Annabeth close and kissed her … long enough for it to get really awkward for Piper, though she said nothing. She thought about the old rule of Aphrodite’s cabin: that to be recognized as a daughter of the love goddess, you had to break someone’s heart. Piper had long ago decided to change that rule. Penny and Annabeth were a perfect example of why. You should have to make someone’s heart whole; that was a much better test.

When Penny pulled away, Annabeth looked like a fish gasping for air.

‘The rivalry ends here,’ Penny said. ‘I love you, Wise Girl.’

Annabeth made a little sigh, like something in her ribcage had melted.

Penny glanced at Piper. ‘Sorry, I had to do that.’

Piper grinned. ‘How could a daughter of Aphrodite not approve? You’re a great girlfriend.’

Annabeth made another grunt-whimper. ‘Uh … anyway. We’re beneath the Erechtheion. It’s a temple to both Athena and Poseidon. The Parthenon should be diagonally to the southeast of here. We’ll need to sneak around the perimeter and disable as many siege weapons as we can, make an approach path for the Argo II.’

‘It’s broad daylight,’ Piper said. ‘How will we go unnoticed?’

Annabeth scanned the sky. ‘That’s why I made a plan with Frances and Hazel. Hopefully … ah. Look.’

A bee zipped overhead. Dozens more followed. They swarmed around a column, then hovered over the opening of the pit.

‘Say hi to Frances, everybody,’ Annabeth said.

Piper waved. The cloud of bees zipped away.

‘How does that even work?’ Penny said. ‘Like … one bee is a finger? Two bees are her eyes?’

‘I don’t know,’ Annabeth admitted. ‘But she’s our go-between. As soon as she gives Hazel the word, she will –’

‘Gah!’ Penny yelped.

Annabeth clamped her hand over her mouth.

Which looked strange, because suddenly each of them had turned into a hulking, six-armed Earthborn.

‘Hazel’s Mist.’ Piper’s voice sounded deep and gravelly. She looked down and realized that she, too, now had a lovely Neanderthal body – belly hair, loincloth, stubby legs and oversized feet. If she concentrated, she could see her normal arms, but when she moved them they rippled like mirages, separating into three different sets of muscular Earthborn arms.

Penny grimaced, which looked even worse on her newly uglified face. ‘Wow, Annabeth … I’m really glad I kissed you before you changed.’

‘Thanks a lot,’ she said. ‘We should get going. I’ll move clockwise around the perimeter. Piper, you move counterclockwise. Penny, you scout the middle –’

‘Wait,’ Penny said. ‘We’re walking right into the whole blood-spilling sacrifice trap we’ve been warned about, and you want to split up even more?’

‘We’ll cover more ground that way,’ Annabeth said. ‘We have to hurry. That chanting …’

Piper hadn’t noticed it until then, but now she heard it: an ominous drone in the distance, like a hundred forklifts idling. She looked at the ground and noticed bits of gravel trembling, skittering southeast, as if pulled towards the Parthenon.

‘Right,’ Piper said. ‘We’ll meet up at the giant’s throne.’

At first it was easy.

Monsters were everywhere – hundreds of ogres, Earthborn and Cyclopes milling through the ruins – but most of them were gathered at the Parthenon, watching the ceremony in progress. Piper strolled along the cliffs of the Acropolis unchallenged.

Near the first onager, three Earthborn were sunning themselves on the rocks. Piper walked right up to them and smiled. ‘Hello.’

Before they could make a sound, she cut them down with her sword. All three melted into slag heaps. She slashed the onager’s spring cord to disable the weapon, then kept moving.

She was committed now. She had to do as much damage as possible before the sabotage was discovered.

She skirted a patrol of Cyclopes. The second onager was surrounded by an encampment of tattooed Laistrygonian ogres, but Piper managed to get to the machine without raising suspicion. She dropped a vial of Greek fire in the sling. With luck, as soon as they tried to load the catapult, it would explode in their faces.

She kept moving. Gryphons roosted on the colonnade of an old temple. A group of empousai had retreated into a shadowy archway and appeared to be slumbering, their fiery hair flickering dimly, their brass legs glinting. Hopefully the sunlight would make them sluggish if they had to fight.

Whenever she could, Piper slew isolated monsters. She walked past larger groups. Meanwhile the crowd at the Parthenon grew larger. The chanting got louder. Piper couldn’t see what was happening inside the ruins – just the heads of twenty or thirty giants standing in a circle, mumbling and swaying, maybe doing the evil monster version of ‘Kumbayah’.

She disabled a third siege weapon by sawing through the torsion ropes, which should give the Argo II a clear approach from the north.

She hoped Frances was watching her progress. She wondered how long it would take for the ship to arrive.

Suddenly, the chanting stopped. A BOOM echoed across the hillside. In the Parthenon, the giants roared in triumph. All around Piper, monsters surged towards the sound of celebration.

That couldn’t be good. Piper blended into a crowd of sour-smelling Earthborn. She bounded up the main steps of the temple, then climbed a section of metal scaffolding so she could see above the heads of the ogres and Cyclopes.

The scene in the ruins almost made her cry aloud.

Before Porphyrion’s throne, dozens of giants stood in a loose ring, hollering and shaking their weapons as two of their number paraded around the circle, showing off their prizes. The princess Periboia held Annabeth by the neck like a feral cat. The giant Enceladus had Penny wrapped in his massive fist.

Annabeth and Penny both struggled helplessly. Their captors displayed them to the cheering horde of monsters, then turned to face King Porphyrion, who sat in his makeshift throne, his white eyes gleaming with malice.

‘Right on time!’ the giant king bellowed. ‘The blood of Olympus to raise the Earth Mother!’

#heroes of olympus #hoo #lesbians of olymous #lesbian #lesbiansafe #gay #lgbt #lgbtq #sapphic #wlw #lesbian rewrites #lesbian rewrite project #the blood of olympus

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The Outlet Pass: Teodosic, The Bulls, IT Impressions, and Toronto's Defense

1. Reconsidering Aaron Gordon’s Offensive Strategy

We still don’t know Aaron Gordon’s ceiling. With the addition of a steady three-point shot to his repertoire, his potential is as limitless as his athleticism. He turned 22 in September and is averaging 19 points and eight boards with a True Shooting percentage that’s nearly at 60.0. He also has a pair of 40-point performances and zero games where he’s scored in single figures—maybe he’ll be an All-Star someday.

Maybe he’ll win Defensive Player of the Year. Maybe he’ll be a vanguard for true positionless basketball, a walking Extinction Level Event for traditional centers who can’t match up with him on either end.

Watch Gordon play and you quickly get a sense that he feels all this will eventually come true. He wants to accomplish everything at the same time. Shoot, dribble (a lot), drive, launch unnecessarily difficult shots and prove to himself, and everybody else watching, that no defender can stop him from doing what he wants to do. (I experience a similar feeling walking around my neighborhood’s Dekalb Market Hall during lunch. Let me have it all.)

When he’s in the half-court with the ball in his hands, Gordon experiences choice overload. It’s in this way he’s become his own worst enemy. His handle is nearly good enough to bring him wherever he wants, and, now that he’s at the four full-time, whoever’s guarding him probably can’t keep up. But sometimes less is more. Instead of potentially molding himself into a high-volume scorer, the Paul George 2.0 that Frank Vogel evoked when he first took the job in Orlando, Gordon should instead focus on being more of a reactive, energetic presence—someone who shoots, passes, cuts, and stays engaged off the ball.

This sounds blasphemous, but maybe pull-up threes and baseline turnarounds just aren’t for him. Perhaps a vast majority of his baskets should be assisted, and he can use his physical gifts to snatch lobs, intimidate five positions, rebound, elevate off screens to get his shot off over any defender’s contest, and attack closeouts with a supercharged first step few his size can keep up with. Whenever only one option sits on the table, Gordon usually makes good things happen.

Now that he’s making outside shots—a quarter of all his attempts are "wide open" threes and nearly half go in—and forcing bigs to close hard, Gordon can afford to subsist off action that’s generated by a teammate’s pass or penetration. He’s also a deadly screener who can test the defense by either popping or diving whenever he wants.

Unfortunately, some of Gordon’s shot chart looks the way it does because he plays for the most depressing team in the league, and if he doesn’t end a possession himself (even if it’s with an off-balance contested fadeaway) Mario Hezonja will probably just wind up head butting the ball out of bounds. The fat in his game is necessary for this reason, among others. But it wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world if Gordon ultimately became a more polished Shawn Marion (one might argue that, with the fifth-highest usage on his own team, he's already on that track).

That doesn’t mean he shouldn’t be allowed to/can’t create for himself, or that he doesn’t project to be the second option on a good team. Just that it’s okay if how he’s ultimately utilized doesn’t line up with how we believe second options on good teams should serve.

I believe Gordon’s ceiling is that of a perennial All-Defensive team member who annually ranks as one of the five most efficient players in the league. That’s a damn good piece, and whichever team he’s on next year should do their best to plot the most intelligent course to get him there.

2. Harden Has Great Timing

James Harden's strained hamstring is a bummer that will test a Rockets organization that hasn't really experienced his absence for any extended time since he became James Harden. This also robs us of watching a brilliant tactician at the peak of his powers. That stinks. But I still want to highlight a play that illustrates why Harden is so freaking amazing, from Houston's collapse in Boston last Thursday night.

There are a handful of qualities that separate Harden from a majority of first and second options throughout the NBA, but it's his ability to hone in on the defense's second layer and anticipate what they'll do that places him above everyone not named LeBron James.

Watch above. Even before Boston switches Jayson Tatum onto Harden, Al Horford positions himself directly in the middle of the paint. Brad Stevens calls for his All-Star big to get out and avoid a three-second violation, and the exact second he starts to move towards Nene, Harden takes off. Without warning, Horford has to jump back to where he was and thwart the drive, leaving his man all alone for the dunk.

This is what happens when a Hall of Fame talent is complemented with unprecedented spacing. A serious Defensive Player of the Year candidate is rendered about as resistant as a scarecrow.

3. The Pistons Should Go Small

Detroit isn't the only team in the league that always has a big man on the floor who can't/won't shoot outside the paint, but they're one of very few. Andre Drummond, Eric Moreland, and Boban Marjanovic (who started against the Miami Heat on Wednesday night and was burned alive once Hassan Whiteside's foul trouble forced Erik Spoelstra to play Kelly Olynyk at the five) are Stan Van Gundy's centers and he's sticking to them.

This makes sense. Rim-running roll men who protect the paint, rebound, and set solid screens are a lynchpin of Van Gundy's basketball philosophy. And recent injuries to Avery Bradley and Stanley Johnson have forced him to go even bigger than normal, with Tobias Harris spending more time than he should at the three.

The Pistons have an average offense and the 10th-best defense in the league, and it's unlikely Van Gundy will try and downsize while Reggie Jackson is out. An Ish Smith-Avery Bradley backcourt is small enough as it is. They're okay now and will make the playoffs. But once everybody is healthy, there are intriguing lineups that can give the Pistons some punch, featuring Anthony Tolliver at the five. (Van Gundy closed with Tolliver at center against Miami, but that was mostly a failed attempt to match up against Olynyk.)

Van Gundy played Jon Leuer at the five a tiny bit last year, and once he's healthy a Leuer, Harris, Kennard, Bradley, Jackson lineup could be pretty damn fun. Leuer served as a decent stretch-five for the Phoenix Suns two years ago, and imagining him open driving lanes for Jackson, Harris, and Bradley should make a frustrated fanbase smile.

Drummond is obviously fine getting the 33 minutes he deserves, but it's that other 15 where the Pistons can do some really interesting things. Johnson is strong enough to guard most fours and that may ultimately be his best NBA position, while Harris is by far his best self when slower players try and guard him. Kennard and Bradley can shoot. Small ball would be a refreshing experiment in the Motor City.

4. Don’t Switch Out on Tyler Johnson

Seven years ago I started a blog called Shaky Ankles that allowed me to scribble random NBA-related thoughts in between clips of crossover-dribble-induced carnage. Good times. This hesitation move by Tyler Johnson that nearly disintegrated Maxi Kleber from the waist down is an ode to that once glorious site.

5. Who Would You Rather Have: Otto Porter or Andrew Wiggins?

This is a fun debate, for no other reason than we get to compare the value of a reliable tertiary option who’s grown comfortable developing in the backseat on a good team his first five years in the league, with a prodigious phenom whose responsibilities were abruptly ceded to an incoming three-time All-Star and pseudo-MVP candidate.

Comparing these two also calls into question what should be valued as desirable traits in a modern day wing, particularly one on a max contract. The contrast is clear.

Wiggins is way more athletic, superior at setting up his own shot with enough confidence to get it off over literally anyone on Earth; he possesses rare physical abilities that lift his ceiling, on both sides of the ball, much higher than Porter’s will ever be.

Against the Brooklyn Nets on Wednesday night, Wiggins zoomed coast to coast in crunch-time to create something out of nothing in a way very few players can. These sequences are gold stars on his resume and it’s hard to shake them from memory whenever anyone labels Wiggins as a disappointment.

But an iffy outside shot and the inability to consistently impact a game without the ball in his hands complicates Wiggins’ place on a great team. His usage is down dramatically this year, but so is his effective field goal percentage. That's...not supposed to happen. If he doesn’t make those around him better and isn’t efficient enough scoring the ball to rationalize placement as a go-to option, then, particularly within the context of Minnesota’s long-term hierarchy (assuming Jimmy Butler re-signs), what is he?

That question is probably too harsh. In NBA history, only LeBron James, Kevin Durant, Carmelo Anthony, Shaquille O’Neal, Kobe Bryant, and Tracy McGrady have scored more points before their 23rd birthday. He is clearly a unique talent. He's played more minutes than anyone in the league this season; adjusting to life as the third wheel can’t be easy for someone who’s only been a headliner.

Photo by Geoff Burke-USA TODAY Sports

A year ago, comparing him with Porter wouldn’t be taken very seriously, but the Wolves might agree to swap the two if Washington called with an offer tomorrow. That said, even though Porter is a more comfortable fit, moving on from Wiggins would probably be a mistake three or four years down the road, when Minnesota is actually ready to win a championship.

But Porter isn’t a finished product, either. He’s only 18 months older than Wiggins and, assuming his role doesn’t take on too much water, may have a 50-40-90 season in his back pocket. Three years ago he shot 33.7 percent from beyond the arc. Right now he’s at 46 percent on 2.7 more attempts per game. Unlike Wiggins, who plays unsure of when he should be aggressive and when he should placate his more skillful teammates, Porter already understands that Washington can’t be its best self unless he punishes the defense whenever it leans too hard towards John Wall and Bradley Beal.

The Wizards are a juggernaut when he plays power forward (a position Wiggins has never spent much time at) and his offensive repertoire has bled into different areas beyond just being a stationary catch-and-shoot threat. Last year 70.1 percent of his shots were launched without taking a dribble. This year that’s down to 54.5 percent. (Wiggins has never gone higher than the 36.6 percent he submitted as a rookie.)

Porter is a natural complement. He’s ketchup on a cheeseburger. Wiggins is...another cheeseburger. There’s nothing wrong with having two cheeseburgers, and ketchup by itself is disgusting, but which one of these players, outside the context of their current role, would you rather having knowing a roster had to be filled out around them? I’ve gone back and forth on it and, as lost as he looks sometimes, would still take Wiggins, with the hope that someday (he’s only 22!) he’ll figure out how to make the opponent worry about him on every single possession.

Wiggins doesn’t have to play with Russell Westbrook rage, just pick his spots, be quick to the ball, and unleash the All-NBA talent that simmers within. He’s ultimately a jewel too valuable to pass on. That said, it wouldn't shock me if a majority of his current contract was spent playing for a different team.

6. Milos Teodosic is Fearless

Blake Griffin is healthy, Lou Williams is really taking advantage of the brightest green light he’s ever seen, and the Los Angeles Clippers have spoiled themselves with a two-week stretch in which they played (and beat) the Phoenix Suns, Houston Rockets, Memphis Grizzlies, Sacramento Kings, Charlotte Hornets, and Los Angeles Lakers.

Bruce Bowen is singing “It ain’t no fun if Ralph can’t ha-a-a-a-a-a-ve none” to his 79-year-old broadcast partner during ad reads. Danilo Gallinari is on the mend from a partially-torn glute. Austin Rivers narrowly avoided a torn Achilles. Life is wonderful.

In the middle of it all is a 30-year-old rookie who lives in a parallel universe that exists 0.5 seconds ahead of the one everybody else knows. Milos Teodosic is responsible for half a dozen thrilling moments every night, and his borderline-belligerent shot selection deserves some credit as a catalyst for L.A.’s reversal. If you’re guarding him and go under on the screen, he’s firing away. There’s no hesitation. No time for questions. The second his man spins/dips/slides under a screen, that ball is getting flung towards the basket.

Sometimes he’ll shoot because everyone on the court expects him to pass. Leave him open at your own peril.

This is simultaneously a concern for Los Angeles—among all players who average at least 2.5 pull-up threes per game, only Tim Hardaway Jr. and D’Angelo Russell are less accurate than Teodosic—and the other team.

Even though he’s barely shooting over 30 percent from beyond the arc, there hasn’t been much downside to Teodosic believing he's Kyle Korver. Stats only matter so much when a guy rises up behind the three-point line without hesitation to nail one in your face.

The Clippers are basically the best team ever when he’s on the floor (though an unreasonably low opposing three-point percentage probably has much to say about that).

All that’s wonderful, but it’d be a crime to write anything about this man and not take a brief 300 words to gush about his passing. Teodosic has been a shaggy Santa Clause for years, and Clippers roll men are reaping the benefits, shooting over 70 percent when he slips them the ball (fourth highest among 93 players who’ve fed/tried to feed a roll man at least 30 times this season. That’s impressive, but doesn’t compare to the fact that he’s yet to turn the ball over in these situations, per Synergy Sports.)

No matter where on the floor they begin, his bounce passes are received like thoughtfully gift-wrapped cashmere sweaters.

Teodosic’s no-looks tend to be dressed down, so normal and effective that there isn't any room for elegance. Instead, they're just logical decisions, like, Deyonta Davis thinks I’m throwing one up to DJ so I’ll just stare at DJ! until the ball is suddenly on its way to Griffin as he plunges into the paint.

Teodosic’s anticipatory vision is a miracle. Relative to what he faced in the Euroleague, the NBA’s intensified athleticism is, so far, no match for it. And so long as he doesn't lose confidence in his jumper, Los Angeles' offense will be pandemonium whenever he's on the floor.

7. Chicago Has Reached a (Minor and Welcome) Fork in the Road

After their first 38 games, the Bulls are 13-25 with the fourth-lowest point differential in the league. They entered the season as the favorite to finish with more ping-pong balls than anyone else, which is what many people in the organization wanted.

There’s still a lot of basketball left to be played, but if the season ended today Chicago would only have a 15 percent chance at a top-three pick; six teams have a lower winning percentage and they’re within a game of passing three more. The Bulls aren’t good (too much of their surge has been reliant on piping hot mid-range accuracy) but they also aren’t Luka Doncic/Marvin Bagley III bad. This creates an obvious dilemma.

Last week, I tweeted that several parallels exist between these Bulls and the 2014-15 Boston Celtics, a team that was also 13-25 after their first 38 games. In reality, Chicago is somewhere between them and the 2013-14 Phoenix Suns, a 48-win Little Engine That Could (Not Make The Playoffs) that unexpectedly accelerated a rebuild that clearly needed more time.

Boston, after a few franchise-altering mid-season transactions were completed, finished with 40 wins and made the playoffs. Rajon Rondo was traded to the Dallas Mavericks for a first-round pick, Jae Crowder, Jameer Nelson, and Brandan Wright (who was then dealt to the Phoenix Suns for two second-round picks—one which recently turned into Semi Ojeleye); Jeff Green was ludicrously swapped for a first-round pick from the Memphis Grizzlies; and Isaiah Thomas and Jonas Jerebko were scooped up in a three-team trade where the Celtics actually surrendered a first-round pick.

Not sure if anyone has ever told you this but at the time Boston owned 19 first-round picks via the Brooklyn Nets. For the purpose of comparing them to any other team going through a rebuild, those picks are essentially an asterisk that allowed Danny Ainge to add someone like Thomas with the hope of then flipping him for even more assets down the line, sacrificing Boston’s own draft position in the process. They didn’t have to tank. Two years later they made the Eastern Conference Finals and were good enough to lure a max free agent in back-to-back summers.

The Bulls do not have any draft picks from the Nets, but they still find themselves in a similar situation, with a head coach who was highly reputed from college basketball at the helm of a young, impressionable roster. Chicago also, unexpectedly, already has blue-chip prospects in Lauri Markkanen and Kris Dunn, with Zach LaVine’s return on the horizon.

Photo by Mike Dinovo-USA TODAY Sports

But Nikola Mirotic, who’s shooting 46.6 percent from deep on over six attempts per game, is the distinct difference between their pitiful early-season play and what's happened since his fractured face healed. Despite losing their last three games, since Mirotic’s return on December 8th, the Bulls have the seventh-best win percentage in the NBA. They rank fifth in defensive rating, second in pace, and second in assist-turnover ratio. They’re annihilating opponents when Mirotic is on the floor.

Again, though, Chicago doesn’t have any Nets picks. They can’t afford to draft Terry Rozier when someone like Myles Turner or Devin Booker is plucked a few spots ahead. Their hopeful underdog story is ultimately a mirage, and continuing to play as well as they are could have devastating long-term effects.

Trading Mirotic—he can’t actually be dealt until January 15th—makes sense. He isn’t good enough to push anybody over the edge into title contention, but could be useful for the right team, maybe one that isn't guaranteed a playoff spot right now. The Clippers could view Mirotic as Gallinari insurance, but dealing a first-round pick (the first they could surrender won’t yield until 2021 at the earliest) would be shortsighted for a franchise that can’t win it all and may be mired in their own rebuild by then.

The Oklahoma City Thunder, Portland Trail Blazers, Detroit Pistons, Washington Wizards, Milwaukee Bucks, New Orleans Pelicans, and possibly even the San Antonio Spurs would all enjoy having Mirotic in their rotation, especially knowing they’d hold a $12.5 million team option for his service in 2018-19. But of those teams that are even able to, would any surrender a lottery-protected first-round pick? Would Portland give up someone like Zach Collins? It feels unlikely, though not totally insane.

Now let’s go the other way for a second. What if the Bulls keep Mirotic, get LaVine back, and make a push for the eight seed, of which they’re currently six games back with four teams standing in their way (the Nets, Knicks, Philadelphia 76ers, and Charlotte Hornets). This isn’t ideal but, assuming they make it, wouldn't single-handedly plunge their franchise into the dark ages, either.

Chicago is an attractive free agent market with a clean cap sheet two summers from now—even if they re-sign LaVine—when several interesting free agents, like Klay Thompson, Kawhi Leonard, and Kevin Love, will enter the marketplace.

If the Bulls focus on developing their mainstays (this probably doesn’t include Mirotic) in a winning environment, actualize a promising culture, and turn organic momentum into a spear for free agent fishing, it’s not impossible to envision a scenario where they land a couple significant pieces and are able to maintain status as a competitive organization for the foreseeable future, at a rate much faster than anyone thought possible back on the day they traded Jimmy Butler.

I’m all for a good tank job, but self-sabotage for the sake of the seventh overall pick and a future asset that may not ever produce at the level Mirotic currently is probably isn’t worth it when a serious opportunity to make the playoffs presents itself. There’s no right answer here, though. Luck goes hand in hand with the consistently shrewd decisions Chicago’s front office will need to make, no matter what they choose to do.

But dealing Mirotic and/or any other helpful pieces on this team would be super depressing.

8. Mike Beasley’s Passing is the NBA’s Own Black Mirror Episode

Ever since he heroically wrapped Lucky the Leprechaun's neck in a noose on national television, faint cries of “M-V-P” have echoed across the upper bowel of Madison Square Garden whenever Michael Beasley does just about anything that looks kind of nice.

This is cool. Even though Beasley remains a master of the mid-range (the word “master” is probably a little strong but let’s just roll with it) and as inefficient as ever, his enthusiastic attitude towards ball movement—even when it won’t directly lead to an assist!—is fun. When, for whatever reason, the defense decides to trap Ron Baker or Frank Ntilikina 25 feet from the basket, Beasley will slip into the middle of the floor and show off the unselfishness he isn’t known for.

He occasionally senses which defenders are helping from where, and who he should pass the ball to.

In these moments he is still 3500 miles from being the MVP, or even one of the league’s top 100 players. At the end of the day, Beasley still feasts on faceups, one-on-one sequences that bog New York’s offense down and come dangerously close to memeifying Jeff Hornacek’s gameplan. But he also isn’t a punching bag, and sustained play above that label is a win for the oldest 28-year-old in the world.

9. WELCOME BACK, ISAIAH!!!

Isaiah Thomas is a national treasure, and if you don’t like watching him play basketball then we can’t be friends. In his debut with the Cavaliers, we witnessed a few call backs to last year’s MVP candidate who enjoyed one of the most effective individual offensive campaigns in NBA history. Thomas wasn’t shy pulling up off picks whenever his screener’s defender dropped back for fear of getting roasted off the bounce.

But Thomas also has yet to reveal the same burst that routinely torpedoed defenses a year ago—the hypnotic hesitation dribble and last second eruption as he nears the basket are an unstoppable combination. That’s A) expected, and B) fine so long as defenders let him shoot.

He was still slippery enough (against Damian Lillard, Shabazz Napier, and C.J. McCollum) to go middle when defenders tried to keep the ball on the sideline, a nice trait that opens up the floor for teammates who need him to tilt the opposition one way so they can gain an advantage.

This is what he did on his first touch as a Cavalier. It made Jae Crowder very happy.

There were defensive miscues in which he let Lillard pull up to his right a couple times off a screen, but for the most part Thomas dug in and held his own. He trailed ball-handlers around picks and fought in the way those who routinely watch him play are familiar with.

Apart from a few minutes in the first half, most of Thomas’ action was spent with the second unit, ostensibly allowing Ty Lue to lessen LeBron James’ load (the league’s minutes leader heading into Wednesday night logged his lowest total since November 28th in Thomas’ debut). We’ll see how that dynamic plays out as the season drags on; how Thomas’ presence impacts James’ workload, Dwyane Wade’s touches (Wade logged his fewest minutes since Veteran’s Day), etc.

We’ll see if IT is still able to scamper around traps—particularly useful when Tristan Thompson is the screener—and whether his body will consent to all the aggressive drives to the basket that elevated his efficiency to an All-NBA level last season.

Thomas’ motor is irrepressible, though. He’s a special player who can single-handedly turn the tide of any game and wrestle momentum away from any opponent. If he’s the same player he was before the hip injury, Cleveland will waltz into the NBA Finals.

10. Trevor Booker’s Twitter Profile

Entrepreneur, NBA, A taller TJ McConnell. Beautiful.

11. Is Toronto’s Defense For Real?

For all that’s made of Toronto’s ballyhooed ball movement, DeMar DeRozan’s sudden transformation into Reggie Miller, and a group of non-lottery pick youngsters (Jakob Poeltl notwithstanding) who function as tradable assets and helpful contributors, it’s the most impressive defense of Dwane Casey’s tenure—which ranked first in December and is up to sixth for the season—that should make people believe this team is overlooked as a legitimate championship contender.

Or...not? The Raptors have enjoyed an impossibly easy schedule since Thanksgiving, squaring off against several teams that range from basement dwellers to borderline playoff participants: The Sacramento Kings, Charlotte Hornets, Phoenix Suns, and Philadelphia 76ers (each twice), plus the Atlanta Hawks, Memphis Grizzlies, Brooklyn Nets, and Los Angeles Clippers (without Blake Griffin).

The Oklahoma City Thunder tore Toronto’s defense to shreds a couple days after Christmas and on Wednesday night they allowed Justin Holiday, Nikola Mirotic, and Lauri Markkanen to alone combine for 68 points. Are their defensive numbers a mirage or will they hold up against stiffer competition when games actually start to matter?

I’m cautiously leaning towards the latter. The bench units are a vice grip and most of the reason for their dominance on that end, but Kyle Lowry, Serge Ibaka, and DeRozan are locking in at the right times and O.G. Anunoby has been a godsend.

Numbers are great, but watch their effort.

After struggling to stay in front of Dennis Smith Jr. all night, Dallas forces a switch to try and get Kyle Lowry on Harrison Barnes in his sweet spot near the nail. Lowry does a great job pushing Barnes a few feet further out, though, then boxes him for a few dribbles before DeRozan comes off Wes Matthews to help.

Normally this would end in disaster, but the Raptors rotate on a string. Fred VanVleet (Van Fleet forever in my heart) races off J.J. Barea in the corner to take that away. DeRozan then books it to Barea and runs him off the line, forcing Jonas Valanciunas to step up and Ibaka to drop down on Salah Mejri.

Everything up to this point deserves an A, but Toronto receives an A+ for what happens next. Knowing the shot clock is at three and that the ball will have to go up soon, Ibaka hustles out to smother Smith Jr. and force a drive right towards Valanciunas. The Mavericks then commit a 24-second shot-clock violation. This is perfection. The Raptors have all the right ingredients to make opponents sweat, and if they can continue to eliminate good three-point looks while making life hard at the rim, their offensive attack won’t be what people gush about during the playoffs.

The Outlet Pass: Teodosic, The Bulls, IT Impressions, and Toronto's Defense published first on http://ift.tt/2pLTmlv

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The Outlet Pass: Teodosic, The Bulls, IT Impressions, and Toronto’s Defense

1. Reconsidering Aaron Gordon’s Offensive Strategy

We still don’t know Aaron Gordon’s ceiling. With the addition of a steady three-point shot to his repertoire, his potential is as limitless as his athleticism. He turned 22 in September and is averaging 19 points and eight boards with a True Shooting percentage that’s nearly at 60.0. He also has a pair of 40-point performances and zero games where he’s scored in single figures—maybe he’ll be an All-Star someday.

Maybe he’ll win Defensive Player of the Year. Maybe he’ll be a vanguard for true positionless basketball, a walking Extinction Level Event for traditional centers who can’t match up with him on either end.

Watch Gordon play and you quickly get a sense that he feels all this will eventually come true. He wants to accomplish everything at the same time. Shoot, dribble (a lot), drive, launch unnecessarily difficult shots and prove to himself, and everybody else watching, that no defender can stop him from doing what he wants to do. (I experience a similar feeling walking around my neighborhood’s Dekalb Market Hall during lunch. Let me have it all.)

When he’s in the half-court with the ball in his hands, Gordon experiences choice overload. It’s in this way he’s become his own worst enemy. His handle is nearly good enough to bring him wherever he wants, and, now that he’s at the four full-time, whoever’s guarding him probably can’t keep up. But sometimes less is more. Instead of potentially molding himself into a high-volume scorer, the Paul George 2.0 that Frank Vogel evoked when he first took the job in Orlando, Gordon should instead focus on being more of a reactive, energetic presence—someone who shoots, passes, cuts, and stays engaged off the ball.

This sounds blasphemous, but maybe pull-up threes and baseline turnarounds just aren’t for him. Perhaps a vast majority of his baskets should be assisted, and he can use his physical gifts to snatch lobs, intimidate five positions, rebound, elevate off screens to get his shot off over any defender’s contest, and attack closeouts with a supercharged first step few his size can keep up with. Whenever only one option sits on the table, Gordon usually makes good things happen.

Now that he’s making outside shots—a quarter of all his attempts are “wide open” threes and nearly half go in—and forcing bigs to close hard, Gordon can afford to subsist off action that’s generated by a teammate’s pass or penetration. He’s also a deadly screener who can test the defense by either popping or diving whenever he wants.

Unfortunately, some of Gordon’s shot chart looks the way it does because he plays for the most depressing team in the league, and if he doesn’t end a possession himself (even if it’s with an off-balance contested fadeaway) Mario Hezonja will probably just wind up head butting the ball out of bounds. The fat in his game is necessary for this reason, among others. But it wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world if Gordon ultimately became a more polished Shawn Marion (one might argue that, with the fifth-highest usage on his own team, he’s already on that track).

That doesn’t mean he shouldn’t be allowed to/can’t create for himself, or that he doesn’t project to be the second option on a good team. Just that it’s okay if how he’s ultimately utilized doesn’t line up with how we believe second options on good teams should serve.

I believe Gordon’s ceiling is that of a perennial All-Defensive team member who annually ranks as one of the five most efficient players in the league. That’s a damn good piece, and whichever team he’s on next year should do their best to plot the most intelligent course to get him there.

2. Harden Has Great Timing

James Harden’s strained hamstring is a bummer that will test a Rockets organization that hasn’t really experienced his absence for any extended time since he became James Harden. This also robs us of watching a brilliant tactician at the peak of his powers. That stinks. But I still want to highlight a play that illustrates why Harden is so freaking amazing, from Houston’s collapse in Boston last Thursday night.

There are a handful of qualities that separate Harden from a majority of first and second options throughout the NBA, but it’s his ability to hone in on the defense’s second layer and anticipate what they’ll do that places him above everyone not named LeBron James.

Watch above. Even before Boston switches Jayson Tatum onto Harden, Al Horford positions himself directly in the middle of the paint. Brad Stevens calls for his All-Star big to get out and avoid a three-second violation, and the exact second he starts to move towards Nene, Harden takes off. Without warning, Horford has to jump back to where he was and thwart the drive, leaving his man all alone for the dunk.

This is what happens when a Hall of Fame talent is complemented with unprecedented spacing. A serious Defensive Player of the Year candidate is rendered about as resistant as a scarecrow.

3. The Pistons Should Go Small

Detroit isn’t the only team in the league that always has a big man on the floor who can’t/won’t shoot outside the paint, but they’re one of very few. Andre Drummond, Eric Moreland, and Boban Marjanovic (who started against the Miami Heat on Wednesday night and was burned alive once Hassan Whiteside’s foul trouble forced Erik Spoelstra to play Kelly Olynyk at the five) are Stan Van Gundy’s centers and he’s sticking to them.

This makes sense. Rim-running roll men who protect the paint, rebound, and set solid screens are a lynchpin of Van Gundy’s basketball philosophy. And recent injuries to Avery Bradley and Stanley Johnson have forced him to go even bigger than normal, with Tobias Harris spending more time than he should at the three.

The Pistons have an average offense and the 10th-best defense in the league, and it’s unlikely Van Gundy will try and downsize while Reggie Jackson is out. An Ish Smith-Avery Bradley backcourt is small enough as it is. They’re okay now and will make the playoffs. But once everybody is healthy, there are intriguing lineups that can give the Pistons some punch, featuring Anthony Tolliver at the five. (Van Gundy closed with Tolliver at center against Miami, but that was mostly a failed attempt to match up against Olynyk.)

Van Gundy played Jon Leuer at the five a tiny bit last year, and once he’s healthy a Leuer, Harris, Kennard, Bradley, Jackson lineup could be pretty damn fun. Leuer served as a decent stretch-five for the Phoenix Suns two years ago, and imagining him open driving lanes for Jackson, Harris, and Bradley should make a frustrated fanbase smile.

Drummond is obviously fine getting the 33 minutes he deserves, but it’s that other 15 where the Pistons can do some really interesting things. Johnson is strong enough to guard most fours and that may ultimately be his best NBA position, while Harris is by far his best self when slower players try and guard him. Kennard and Bradley can shoot. Small ball would be a refreshing experiment in the Motor City.

4. Don’t Switch Out on Tyler Johnson

Seven years ago I started a blog called Shaky Ankles that allowed me to scribble random NBA-related thoughts in between clips of crossover-dribble-induced carnage. Good times. This hesitation move by Tyler Johnson that nearly disintegrated Maxi Kleber from the waist down is an ode to that once glorious site.

5. Who Would You Rather Have: Otto Porter or Andrew Wiggins?

This is a fun debate, for no other reason than we get to compare the value of a reliable tertiary option who’s grown comfortable developing in the backseat on a good team his first five years in the league, with a prodigious phenom whose responsibilities were abruptly ceded to an incoming three-time All-Star and pseudo-MVP candidate.

Comparing these two also calls into question what should be valued as desirable traits in a modern day wing, particularly one on a max contract. The contrast is clear.

Wiggins is way more athletic, superior at setting up his own shot with enough confidence to get it off over literally anyone on Earth; he possesses rare physical abilities that lift his ceiling, on both sides of the ball, much higher than Porter’s will ever be.

Against the Brooklyn Nets on Wednesday night, Wiggins zoomed coast to coast in crunch-time to create something out of nothing in a way very few players can. These sequences are gold stars on his resume and it’s hard to shake them from memory whenever anyone labels Wiggins as a disappointment.

But an iffy outside shot and the inability to consistently impact a game without the ball in his hands complicates Wiggins’ place on a great team. His usage is down dramatically this year, but so is his effective field goal percentage. That’s…not supposed to happen. If he doesn’t make those around him better and isn’t efficient enough scoring the ball to rationalize placement as a go-to option, then, particularly within the context of Minnesota’s long-term hierarchy (assuming Jimmy Butler re-signs), what is he?

That question is probably too harsh. In NBA history, only LeBron James, Kevin Durant, Carmelo Anthony, Shaquille O’Neal, Kobe Bryant, and Tracy McGrady have scored more points before their 23rd birthday. He is clearly a unique talent. He’s played more minutes than anyone in the league this season; adjusting to life as the third wheel can’t be easy for someone who’s only been a headliner.

Photo by Geoff Burke-USA TODAY Sports

A year ago, comparing him with Porter wouldn’t be taken very seriously, but the Wolves might agree to swap the two if Washington called with an offer tomorrow. That said, even though Porter is a more comfortable fit, moving on from Wiggins would probably be a mistake three or four years down the road, when Minnesota is actually ready to win a championship.

But Porter isn’t a finished product, either. He’s only 18 months older than Wiggins and, assuming his role doesn’t take on too much water, may have a 50-40-90 season in his back pocket. Three years ago he shot 33.7 percent from beyond the arc. Right now he’s at 46 percent on 2.7 more attempts per game. Unlike Wiggins, who plays unsure of when he should be aggressive and when he should placate his more skillful teammates, Porter already understands that Washington can’t be its best self unless he punishes the defense whenever it leans too hard towards John Wall and Bradley Beal.

The Wizards are a juggernaut when he plays power forward (a position Wiggins has never spent much time at) and his offensive repertoire has bled into different areas beyond just being a stationary catch-and-shoot threat. Last year 70.1 percent of his shots were launched without taking a dribble. This year that’s down to 54.5 percent. (Wiggins has never gone higher than the 36.6 percent he submitted as a rookie.)

Porter is a natural complement. He’s ketchup on a cheeseburger. Wiggins is…another cheeseburger. There’s nothing wrong with having two cheeseburgers, and ketchup by itself is disgusting, but which one of these players, outside the context of their current role, would you rather having knowing a roster had to be filled out around them? I’ve gone back and forth on it and, as lost as he looks sometimes, would still take Wiggins, with the hope that someday (he’s only 22!) he’ll figure out how to make the opponent worry about him on every single possession.

Wiggins doesn’t have to play with Russell Westbrook rage, just pick his spots, be quick to the ball, and unleash the All-NBA talent that simmers within. He’s ultimately a jewel too valuable to pass on. That said, it wouldn’t shock me if a majority of his current contract was spent playing for a different team.

6. Milos Teodosic is Fearless

Blake Griffin is healthy, Lou Williams is really taking advantage of the brightest green light he’s ever seen, and the Los Angeles Clippers have spoiled themselves with a two-week stretch in which they played (and beat) the Phoenix Suns, Houston Rockets, Memphis Grizzlies, Sacramento Kings, Charlotte Hornets, and Los Angeles Lakers.

Bruce Bowen is singing “It ain’t no fun if Ralph can’t ha-a-a-a-a-a-ve none” to his 79-year-old broadcast partner during ad reads. Danilo Gallinari is on the mend from a partially-torn glute. Austin Rivers narrowly avoided a torn Achilles. Life is wonderful.

In the middle of it all is a 30-year-old rookie who lives in a parallel universe that exists 0.5 seconds ahead of the one everybody else knows. Milos Teodosic is responsible for half a dozen thrilling moments every night, and his borderline-belligerent shot selection deserves some credit as a catalyst for L.A.’s reversal. If you’re guarding him and go under on the screen, he’s firing away. There’s no hesitation. No time for questions. The second his man spins/dips/slides under a screen, that ball is getting flung towards the basket.

Sometimes he’ll shoot because everyone on the court expects him to pass. Leave him open at your own peril.

This is simultaneously a concern for Los Angeles—among all players who average at least 2.5 pull-up threes per game, only Tim Hardaway Jr. and D’Angelo Russell are less accurate than Teodosic—and the other team.

Even though he’s barely shooting over 30 percent from beyond the arc, there hasn’t been much downside to Teodosic believing he’s Kyle Korver. Stats only matter so much when a guy rises up behind the three-point line without hesitation to nail one in your face.

The Clippers are basically the best team ever when he’s on the floor (though an unreasonably low opposing three-point percentage probably has much to say about that).

All that’s wonderful, but it’d be a crime to write anything about this man and not take a brief 300 words to gush about his passing. Teodosic has been a shaggy Santa Clause for years, and Clippers roll men are reaping the benefits, shooting over 70 percent when he slips them the ball (fourth highest among 93 players who’ve fed/tried to feed a roll man at least 30 times this season. That’s impressive, but doesn’t compare to the fact that he’s yet to turn the ball over in these situations, per Synergy Sports.)

No matter where on the floor they begin, his bounce passes are received like thoughtfully gift-wrapped cashmere sweaters.

Teodosic’s no-looks tend to be dressed down, so normal and effective that there isn’t any room for elegance. Instead, they’re just logical decisions, like, Deyonta Davis thinks I’m throwing one up to DJ so I’ll just stare at DJ! until the ball is suddenly on its way to Griffin as he plunges into the paint.

Teodosic’s anticipatory vision is a miracle. Relative to what he faced in the Euroleague, the NBA’s intensified athleticism is, so far, no match for it. And so long as he doesn’t lose confidence in his jumper, Los Angeles’ offense will be pandemonium whenever he’s on the floor.

7. Chicago Has Reached a (Minor and Welcome) Fork in the Road

After their first 38 games, the Bulls are 13-25 with the fourth-lowest point differential in the league. They entered the season as the favorite to finish with more ping-pong balls than anyone else, which is what many people in the organization wanted.

There’s still a lot of basketball left to be played, but if the season ended today Chicago would only have a 15 percent chance at a top-three pick; six teams have a lower winning percentage and they’re within a game of passing three more. The Bulls aren’t good (too much of their surge has been reliant on piping hot mid-range accuracy) but they also aren’t Luka Doncic/Marvin Bagley III bad. This creates an obvious dilemma.

Last week, I tweeted that several parallels exist between these Bulls and the 2014-15 Boston Celtics, a team that was also 13-25 after their first 38 games. In reality, Chicago is somewhere between them and the 2013-14 Phoenix Suns, a 48-win Little Engine That Could (Not Make The Playoffs) that unexpectedly accelerated a rebuild that clearly needed more time.

Boston, after a few franchise-altering mid-season transactions were completed, finished with 40 wins and made the playoffs. Rajon Rondo was traded to the Dallas Mavericks for a first-round pick, Jae Crowder, Jameer Nelson, and Brandan Wright (who was then dealt to the Phoenix Suns for two second-round picks—one which recently turned into Semi Ojeleye); Jeff Green was ludicrously swapped for a first-round pick from the Memphis Grizzlies; and Isaiah Thomas and Jonas Jerebko were scooped up in a three-team trade where the Celtics actually surrendered a first-round pick.

Not sure if anyone has ever told you this but at the time Boston owned 19 first-round picks via the Brooklyn Nets. For the purpose of comparing them to any other team going through a rebuild, those picks are essentially an asterisk that allowed Danny Ainge to add someone like Thomas with the hope of then flipping him for even more assets down the line, sacrificing Boston’s own draft position in the process. They didn’t have to tank. Two years later they made the Eastern Conference Finals and were good enough to lure a max free agent in back-to-back summers.

The Bulls do not have any draft picks from the Nets, but they still find themselves in a similar situation, with a head coach who was highly reputed from college basketball at the helm of a young, impressionable roster. Chicago also, unexpectedly, already has blue-chip prospects in Lauri Markkanen and Kris Dunn, with Zach LaVine’s return on the horizon.

Photo by Mike Dinovo-USA TODAY Sports

But Nikola Mirotic, who’s shooting 46.6 percent from deep on over six attempts per game, is the distinct difference between their pitiful early-season play and what’s happened since his fractured face healed. Despite losing their last three games, since Mirotic’s return on December 8th, the Bulls have the seventh-best win percentage in the NBA. They rank fifth in defensive rating, second in pace, and second in assist-turnover ratio. They’re annihilating opponents when Mirotic is on the floor.

Again, though, Chicago doesn’t have any Nets picks. They can’t afford to draft Terry Rozier when someone like Myles Turner or Devin Booker is plucked a few spots ahead. Their hopeful underdog story is ultimately a mirage, and continuing to play as well as they are could have devastating long-term effects.

Trading Mirotic—he can’t actually be dealt until January 15th—makes sense. He isn’t good enough to push anybody over the edge into title contention, but could be useful for the right team, maybe one that isn’t guaranteed a playoff spot right now. The Clippers could view Mirotic as Gallinari insurance, but dealing a first-round pick (the first they could surrender won’t yield until 2021 at the earliest) would be shortsighted for a franchise that can’t win it all and may be mired in their own rebuild by then.

The Oklahoma City Thunder, Portland Trail Blazers, Detroit Pistons, Washington Wizards, Milwaukee Bucks, New Orleans Pelicans, and possibly even the San Antonio Spurs would all enjoy having Mirotic in their rotation, especially knowing they’d hold a $12.5 million team option for his service in 2018-19. But of those teams that are even able to, would any surrender a lottery-protected first-round pick? Would Portland give up someone like Zach Collins? It feels unlikely, though not totally insane.

Now let’s go the other way for a second. What if the Bulls keep Mirotic, get LaVine back, and make a push for the eight seed, of which they’re currently six games back with four teams standing in their way (the Nets, Knicks, Philadelphia 76ers, and Charlotte Hornets). This isn’t ideal but, assuming they make it, wouldn’t single-handedly plunge their franchise into the dark ages, either.

Chicago is an attractive free agent market with a clean cap sheet two summers from now—even if they re-sign LaVine—when several interesting free agents, like Klay Thompson, Kawhi Leonard, and Kevin Love, will enter the marketplace.

If the Bulls focus on developing their mainstays (this probably doesn’t include Mirotic) in a winning environment, actualize a promising culture, and turn organic momentum into a spear for free agent fishing, it’s not impossible to envision a scenario where they land a couple significant pieces and are able to maintain status as a competitive organization for the foreseeable future, at a rate much faster than anyone thought possible back on the day they traded Jimmy Butler.

I’m all for a good tank job, but self-sabotage for the sake of the seventh overall pick and a future asset that may not ever produce at the level Mirotic currently is probably isn’t worth it when a serious opportunity to make the playoffs presents itself. There’s no right answer here, though. Luck goes hand in hand with the consistently shrewd decisions Chicago’s front office will need to make, no matter what they choose to do.

But dealing Mirotic and/or any other helpful pieces on this team would be super depressing.

8. Mike Beasley’s Passing is the NBA’s Own Black Mirror Episode

Ever since he heroically wrapped Lucky the Leprechaun’s neck in a noose on national television, faint cries of “M-V-P” have echoed across the upper bowel of Madison Square Garden whenever Michael Beasley does just about anything that looks kind of nice.

This is cool. Even though Beasley remains a master of the mid-range (the word “master” is probably a little strong but let’s just roll with it) and as inefficient as ever, his enthusiastic attitude towards ball movement—even when it won’t directly lead to an assist!—is fun. When, for whatever reason, the defense decides to trap Ron Baker or Frank Ntilikina 25 feet from the basket, Beasley will slip into the middle of the floor and show off the unselfishness he isn’t known for.

He occasionally senses which defenders are helping from where, and who he should pass the ball to.

In these moments he is still 3500 miles from being the MVP, or even one of the league’s top 100 players. At the end of the day, Beasley still feasts on faceups, one-on-one sequences that bog New York’s offense down and come dangerously close to memeifying Jeff Hornacek’s gameplan. But he also isn’t a punching bag, and sustained play above that label is a win for the oldest 28-year-old in the world.

9. WELCOME BACK, ISAIAH!!!

Isaiah Thomas is a national treasure, and if you don’t like watching him play basketball then we can’t be friends. In his debut with the Cavaliers, we witnessed a few call backs to last year’s MVP candidate who enjoyed one of the most effective individual offensive campaigns in NBA history. Thomas wasn’t shy pulling up off picks whenever his screener’s defender dropped back for fear of getting roasted off the bounce.

But Thomas also has yet to reveal the same burst that routinely torpedoed defenses a year ago—the hypnotic hesitation dribble and last second eruption as he nears the basket are an unstoppable combination. That’s A) expected, and B) fine so long as defenders let him shoot.

He was still slippery enough (against Damian Lillard, Shabazz Napier, and C.J. McCollum) to go middle when defenders tried to keep the ball on the sideline, a nice trait that opens up the floor for teammates who need him to tilt the opposition one way so they can gain an advantage.

This is what he did on his first touch as a Cavalier. It made Jae Crowder very happy.

There were defensive miscues in which he let Lillard pull up to his right a couple times off a screen, but for the most part Thomas dug in and held his own. He trailed ball-handlers around picks and fought in the way those who routinely watch him play are familiar with.

Apart from a few minutes in the first half, most of Thomas’ action was spent with the second unit, ostensibly allowing Ty Lue to lessen LeBron James’ load (the league’s minutes leader heading into Wednesday night logged his lowest total since November 28th in Thomas’ debut). We’ll see how that dynamic plays out as the season drags on; how Thomas’ presence impacts James’ workload, Dwyane Wade’s touches (Wade logged his fewest minutes since Veteran’s Day), etc.

We’ll see if IT is still able to scamper around traps—particularly useful when Tristan Thompson is the screener—and whether his body will consent to all the aggressive drives to the basket that elevated his efficiency to an All-NBA level last season.

Thomas’ motor is irrepressible, though. He’s a special player who can single-handedly turn the tide of any game and wrestle momentum away from any opponent. If he’s the same player he was before the hip injury, Cleveland will waltz into the NBA Finals.

10. Trevor Booker’s Twitter Profile

Entrepreneur, NBA, A taller TJ McConnell. Beautiful.

11. Is Toronto’s Defense For Real?

For all that’s made of Toronto’s ballyhooed ball movement, DeMar DeRozan’s sudden transformation into Reggie Miller, and a group of non-lottery pick youngsters (Jakob Poeltl notwithstanding) who function as tradable assets and helpful contributors, it’s the most impressive defense of Dwane Casey’s tenure—which ranked first in December and is up to sixth for the season—that should make people believe this team is overlooked as a legitimate championship contender.

Or…not? The Raptors have enjoyed an impossibly easy schedule since Thanksgiving, squaring off against several teams that range from basement dwellers to borderline playoff participants: The Sacramento Kings, Charlotte Hornets, Phoenix Suns, and Philadelphia 76ers (each twice), plus the Atlanta Hawks, Memphis Grizzlies, Brooklyn Nets, and Los Angeles Clippers (without Blake Griffin).

The Oklahoma City Thunder tore Toronto’s defense to shreds a couple days after Christmas and on Wednesday night they allowed Justin Holiday, Nikola Mirotic, and Lauri Markkanen to alone combine for 68 points. Are their defensive numbers a mirage or will they hold up against stiffer competition when games actually start to matter?

I’m cautiously leaning towards the latter. The bench units are a vice grip and most of the reason for their dominance on that end, but Kyle Lowry, Serge Ibaka, and DeRozan are locking in at the right times and O.G. Anunoby has been a godsend.

Numbers are great, but watch their effort.

After struggling to stay in front of Dennis Smith Jr. all night, Dallas forces a switch to try and get Kyle Lowry on Harrison Barnes in his sweet spot near the nail. Lowry does a great job pushing Barnes a few feet further out, though, then boxes him for a few dribbles before DeRozan comes off Wes Matthews to help.

Normally this would end in disaster, but the Raptors rotate on a string. Fred VanVleet (Van Fleet forever in my heart) races off J.J. Barea in the corner to take that away. DeRozan then books it to Barea and runs him off the line, forcing Jonas Valanciunas to step up and Ibaka to drop down on Salah Mejri.

Everything up to this point deserves an A, but Toronto receives an A+ for what happens next. Knowing the shot clock is at three and that the ball will have to go up soon, Ibaka hustles out to smother Smith Jr. and force a drive right towards Valanciunas. The Mavericks then commit a 24-second shot-clock violation. This is perfection. The Raptors have all the right ingredients to make opponents sweat, and if they can continue to eliminate good three-point looks while making life hard at the rim, their offensive attack won’t be what people gush about during the playoffs.

The Outlet Pass: Teodosic, The Bulls, IT Impressions, and Toronto’s Defense syndicated from http://ift.tt/2ug2Ns6

[clogwearingspacepoodle]

You’re Gonna Lose That Girl  Chapter Seven

The next few weeks were hectic in both Anna and George's lives. She was so busy with photo shoots and he was busy being in the world's biggest band. He needed to find a time to tell her about their upcoming tour, but they couldn't get a second where it was just the two of them. Their dates consisted of eating together outside George's recording studio.

The positive side for Anna was that she was also avoiding Paul and the feelings that surfaced when she saw him. When she did go to see George, she checked to make sure Paul was out. She had successfully avoided him for a solid 10 days. Yes, she was counting.

Anna's thoughts, however, those were a different story. No matter what she was doing, Paul kept finding a way back into her mind. She would be sitting and reading a book by the window and her mind would start to wonder what it would be like if she were sitting in Paul's lap. Anna, of course, shook these thoughts from her head and scolded herself, picturing George intensely.

George. Sweet, wonderful, gorgeous, caring George. He was everything that she could have ever asked for in a boyfriend. He wanted to spend time with her, hold her hand, and spoil her. He made her laugh, smile and made time stop when she was with him. Anna had never felt so deeply for anyone like I did for George. Naturally she knew that Paul was going to interfere with that if she didn't stop thinking about him.

Anna convinced herself that she was so attached to Paul because they had an amazing night together and she hadn't slept with anyone since.  All she thought had to do was sleep with George and then Paul would stay out of her head. Anna had tried many a time to get George in bed, but something seemed to happen or come up every time. They had kissed passionately and started to make their way to something more, but George would have to go to a show, the phone would ring and Anna would have an audition to run to, Ringo would show up and want someone to hang out with or something of the sort. In Anna's twisted, obsessed, sleep and sex deprived mind, she was sure that Paul was somehow sabotaging them, even though it made no sense.

That, of course, would bring her thoughts back to the beautiful bastard.

It was a vicious, exhausting cycle.

But not tonight, no. Anna was sure tonight would be perfect.  She smiled to herself as she began to plan their evening and how she would surprise George. He had planned a nice evening out for them, as he usually did, dinner and a movie.

Anna phoned him about an hour before their date.

"George?" She smiled when he picked up the other end.

"Hullo beautiful" His thick scouse accent replied, turning her legs into jelly.

"Is it okay if I change our plans a little bit? I thought maybe we'd just stay at my place tonight, I'm not really feeling like going out." Anna tried to mask her excitement.

"Sure luv, whatever you'd like to do. Are you feeling okay?" His voice held the slight undertone of concern and it make her blush.

She leaned against the wall, twirling the cord of the phone around her finger seductively, as if it mattered "I'm feeling just fine, I just wanted it to be just us for a night."

She could hear the grin on his face as he replied "Sounds great, can't wait to see you darlin'" Anna blushed again as they said their goodbyes and hung up. As soon as the phone left her hand, she sprinted up her stairs, giggling, to get ready for George. She felt as if she were just a teenage girl again, so excited for the boy she was crushing on to come over.

Anna picked the sultriest, hottest piece of lingerie she could find in her closet. A black babydoll piece with light pink lace accents. She spent about 30 minutes in front of the mirror, perfecting her hair and makeup, giddy the entire time.

When the doorbell rang, she looked at the clock and smirked when she saw George was early. She did one final primp and then leaned out the door of her bedroom to call out.

"Come in!"

Anna was surprised when she began to feel herself get so nervous for him to walk through the door and she panicked when she realized she didn't know if she should try to be sexy on the bed or greet him at the door. Anna had never had such a hard time with this sort of thing. She didn't have time to make up her spazmatic mind and the door to her bedroom opened with her sitting shyly on the edge of my bed, lots of skin exposed.

On the other side?

Paul McCartney.

In an instant Anna saw his eyes widen and his mouth drop open as he stared at her choice of clothing. Anna was completely frozen, so in shock that she couldn't move a muscle.

"Um, I'm guessing you weren't expecting it to be me?" Paul stammered, still staring at her barely clothed body.

Anna tried to form words and nothing came out. She stuttered and sat there, looking into his deep brown eyes. Again her feelings betrayed her as she felt complete relief and happiness when her locked eyes with his. Anna was so incredibly happy to see him.

Anna felt a grin spread across her lips and she began to laugh, throwing him off completely. Paul raised an eyebrow and looked at her like she was a mental patient.

"Why on Earth are you laughing?" He asked, standing timidly as if he wanted to be ready to run out the door at any second. When she didn't reply, he reached over to the robe lying on her vanity chair and held it out to her. "You need to put this on, that yer wearing is very distracting..."

Anna laughed again loudly, doubled over at her sides, making him jump back in shock. He took a few steps towards her slowly, before finally sitting down next to her on the bed.

"Anna, are you alright in the head?" Paul grabbed her face with both hands, and looked into her eyes.

"I'm so happy to see you" Anna smiled softly. She couldn't believe she admitted it as the words left her lips, but they felt right, she really was elated.

"Anna, it's Paul." He shook her head back and forth gently. "Paul!" He repeated louder when she just laughed again.

"You drive me insane!" Anna finally caught my breath. He winced at the giggling girl's words until he saw a smile was still gracing her cheeks.

"I was all ready to be sexy and then you come walking in, like you always do, and...and... you make it so hard to do absolutely anything I plan! You're impossible!" She giggled again and when she looked up and saw him looking down at her outfit, her laugh stopped short. His eyes were dark and intense.

"I know you're avoiding me, I just had to see you." He said softly. "I didn't mean to see this much of you" He joked lightly and both laughed again.

Once Anna was finally done laughing at the situation, she became aware of how naked she was and reached for the robe that Paul offered earlier. Paul's hand grabbed her arm and stopped her mid reach, and her head shot up to see his expression.

"I practiced the speech I was going to give you the whole way over and now I can't remember a single word of it." Paul said gently, his hand reached out, and he placed his fingertips on her, starting at the hem of her babydoll and tracing down to her knee. Anna was instantly turned on, a fire igniting between her legs.

A soft wanton moan escaped her lips and she bit her lip, suddenly wanting Paul more than ever as she looked into his lust filled eyes. Anna was about to lose control and let him take her right there on the edge of her bed, but the doorbell rang and everything came flooding back into her jumbled mind.

George!

Anna shot up from the bed and grabbed Paul's wrist, yanking him to her bedroom window.

"You've got to get out of here!" Anna scolded, pushing him roughly. "George cannot see you here, especially when I'm dressed like this!" Anna felt guilty, like she was having an affair and it made her feel terrible, her stomach becoming physically sick.

"Alright, alright" Paul sighed as he slid the window open.

The front door opened.

"Anna? I'm comin' in luv" George's voice echoed up the walls from downstairs.

"Okay! Just a second!" Anna called back, still pushing at Paul as hard as she could. She heard George's footsteps start to come up the stairs and realized Paul would never make it out the window in time. She started to pull him back the other direction and he looked at her incredulously.

"Get in the closet, there's no time!" She yelled in a hushed whisper.

Paul nodded and ran to the girls stuffed closest and as she was kicking shoes and clothes out of the way so she could shut the door behind him, George appeared in the doorway.

"Wow" He said softly, smiling at her, a light pink blush gracing his bony cheeks. Anna had completely forgotten what she was wearing and that she was supposed to be sexy. "You look...ahm...you look stunning babe" He stepped into her room and leaned into her, placing a soft kiss on her cheek.

"Thank you" Anna blushed, wrapping my arms around his neck. Her eyes kept flickering back to the closet and she hoped he wouldn't notice how paranoid she was.

George placed his hands on her hips and kissed her softly.

"Y'know this outfit of yours...it makes me want you." George leaned and whispered in her ear. Anna gasped when she felt the same heat that had she felt earlier return, flushing her cheeks and making her body feel hot. It was the first time that George had talked to her that way and with his accent adorning the words, Anna was like putty in his hands.

"Let's go somewhere" Anna said, suddenly, not okay with this happening with Paul leering in her closet.

"What are you talkin' about? You said you wanted to stay in. And you're certainly not dressed to go out" George chuckled, brushing his thumb across her hipbone.

"O-oh, well we could go downstairs then." Her voice wavered and she knew she didn't sound convincing.

His dark eyes looked puzzled and he raised an eyebrow at the nervous brunette, waiting for her to explain her odd behavior.

A loud thump came from the closet and Anna's heart stopped. George's head snapped to look at it and in a moment of desperation, she grabbed his face with both hands and pulled him in, kissing him deeply and passionately.

When she felt him smile through the kiss, she knew she had successfully distracted him.

#fanfics #the beatles #you're gonna lose that girl #ygltg #the beatles fanfiction #george harrison #paul mccartney #chapter seven #fanfiction

[hairterminator]

http://blog.hair-terminator.com/charming-outlook/

The 20 Greatest Trainers Of All Time

#Quarterback", "#AssociationFootball #http://blog.hair-terminator.com Some trainers blaze a trail and burn-out. Some never go away. Take the Chuck Taylor All Star: introduced 100 years ago, in 1917, today Converse still sells around 270,000 pairs every day. So if any sneaker deserves the label

#Quarterback", "#AssociationFootball #http://blog.hair-terminator.com Some trainers blaze a trail and burn-out. Some never go away. Take the Chuck Taylor All Star: introduced 100 years ago, in 1917, today Converse still sells around 270,000 pairs every day. So if any sneaker deserves the label of a ‘classic’, it’s those, closely followed by the other 19 named here. Sure, none of these lists will ever be objectively ‘correct’, but in judging the cream of the crepes – from feats in feet-protective engineering to cultural icons – longevity, mixed with style and practicality are often the common denominators in determining the greatest trainers of all time. Oh, and a whole lot of white leather…

Nike Cortez

The first trainer ever designed by Nike and a key part of its early success, the Cortez was the brainchild of Olympic coach and sneaker demi-god Bill Bowerman. Introduced as a running shoe during the 1972 Games in Munich, the all-American colours and revolutionary construction helped the company coast to victory and into Hollywood films, most famously as the pair Tom Hanks laced up in Forrest Gump. Originally, Nike founder Phil Knight wanted to call the sneakers the Aztec, but rival Adidas (which already made the Azteca Gold spikes) threatened to sue: “Bowerman took off his cap, put it on again, rubbed his face,” wrote Knight in his book Shoe Dog. “‘Who was that guy who kicked the shit out of the Aztecs?’ he asked. ‘Cortez,’ I said. He grunted: ‘Okay. Let’s call it the Cortez.’”

New Balance 998

Introduced in 1983 as the premium edition of the market’s first $100 running shoe, the 998’s streamlined (for New Balance, anyway) shape, luxe materials and split-colour midsole made it an instant icon and brought the brand out of its trainers-for-posh-dads phase. (Related: Iconic Men’s Trainers Worth Owning)

Common Projects Achilles Low

The new classic, the Common Projects Achilles, was dreamed up on two separate continents at the same time. New York-based art director Prathan Poopat and Italian creative consultant Flavio Girolami fired design ideas back-and-forth across the Atlantic. Eventually, the pair settled on the zenith of simplicity: a solid white leather, low-top sneaker with a subtle gold serial number on the heel. (Related: The 6 Best Minimalist Trainer Brands)

Nike Huarache

Yes, they’ve since been hijacked by shuffling lads with bad haircuts, but the Nike Air Huarache was a bold, futuristic shape upon its release in 1991, and somehow hasn’t aged a minute. It looks a bit like someone stuck two trainers together, but the shoe’s water skiing-inspired fit (Tinker Hatfield was really into water sports, apparently) means it still looks like little else around. (Related: Why It’s Time To Embrace ‘Ugly’ Trainers)

Converse Jack Purcell

The most famous badminton shoe in the world, the Jack Purcell – named after the Canadian player who became world badminton champ in 1933 – is now a men’s wardrobe essential. You don’t need to bother whacking a shuttlecock around to make them work either, as many greats like Messrs Dean and McQueen proved throughout the years. Just team the signature ‘smile’ marking on the toe with a pair of chinos for a look that serves an ace every time.

Adidas Superstar

Forever linked to pioneering rap group Run D.M.C. (and the cool one million dollars they got from Adidas to wear them), the shell-toe and contrast stripes marked out the shoe as an instant hit. Originally made famous by basketball legend Kareem Abdul-Jabbar, the Superstar became the only trainer to be seen in in the late eighties and early nineties for kids who wanted to spin around on their backs on a busted cardboard box. In 2015 Adidas claimed to be still selling 15 million pairs a year – how’s that for staying power?

Nike Air Force One

Streetball legend and chunky, all-white work of art. We’ll let Nelly’s 2002 ode, ‘Air Force One’, take over here: “I said give me two pairs, ‘cause I need two pairs. So I can get to stompin’ in my Air Force Ones, big boys stompin’ in my Air Force Ones.” Thanks, Nelly.

Vans Era

Introduced in 1975 as the Vans #95, the Era quickly became a go-to shoe for the burgeoning skate community in the brand’s home state of California. More than four decades on, the kick still offer the same much-needed grip and versatility thanks to its padded collar and signature waffle outsole.

Reebok Classic

Beloved UK Garage icon and one of the comfiest trainers ever produced, Reebok’s Classic range has kept things simple for more than 30 years. Intricate panelling, a jagged tread with gum finishing and a padded lining made the Classic a trainer for the gym that you wanted to wear outside, way before the athleisure trend.

Adidas Gazelle

The only Adidas shoe to come close to meeting Stan Smith’s ubiquity. The endless colourways and pure wearability of the Gazelle have seen it favoured by everyone from the football casuals of the eighties, to Britpop coke-heads in the nineties, to every cool, gallery-loving Instagrammer since.

Air Jordan I

In 1984, Michael Jordan’s barn-storming final year of college basketball saw him sign a bumper $2.5m (£2m) endorsement contract with Nike. Everyone thought the Oregon brand had lost its mind, but the next year he was Michael Jordan, and Nike brought out his own signature shoe. The Air Jordan I lacked the tech of Tinker Hatfield’s later models but had the instantly recognisable design of an icon ready to spill off the court and onto the street.

Chuck Taylor All Star Hi

Chuck Taylor All Stars are to sneakers what Levi’s is to denim; a bona fide icon that still shifts at a rate of roughly 100 million pairs a year. While they’re totally out of place on the basketball courts they once dominated, for fans of white T-shirts, blue jeans and classic style, the high-top version will always be a winner. (Related: 10 Iconic Men’s Shoes & Boots)

Reebok Workout

The first shoe to jump on the aerobics trend in the eighties, the Reebok Workout was the trainer that helped the Bolton-born brand overtake Nike (even if it was just for a little while). The Classic’s beefier older brother is wider and meaner, leaving dancercise classes well behind, and are now more likely found on the feet of (fairly anti-aerobic) rapper Rick Ross.

Onitsuka Tiger

The trainer favoured by The Bride in Kill Bill came to the West from Japan thanks to Nike’s Phil Knight, whose business started solely distributing Tiger sneakers to athletes on the West Coast. The shoe may never have found the ubiquity of Nike’s greatest shoes despite its vast colour selection but, having not changed much since their 1952 introduction, they still feel like a unique piece of throwback style.

Asics Gel-Lyte

Gel cushioning and shock-absorbing insoles helped make the Asics’ Gel-Lyte range an enduring favourite for fans of high performance, functionality, and an endless array of mix-and-match colours and textiles.

Vans Old Skool

The Old Skool debuted in 1977 as the catchy Style #36 and became the first skate shoe to incorporate leather into its design with the now-iconic ‘jazz stripe’, itself starting life as random doodle by founder Paul Van Doren. It’s rather less throwaway now, having successfully transitioned from skate staple to the off-duty shoe for everyone who’s ever worked in the creative industry.

Adidas Samba

Designed in 1950 with indoor football in mind, the Samba’s design has barely changed because it hasn’t needed to: leather upper, contrast accents, gum outsole, suede overlays. Along with the Stan Smith, the Samba is possibly the quintessential distillation of the Adidas design ethos – evoking hardwearing practicality and timeless style. (Related: This Year’s Biggest Men’s Trainer Trends)

Nike Air Max

When Tinker Hatfield designed the Air Max back in 1987, he was inspired by the Centre George Pompidou in Paris. “It’s almost punk,” Hatfield said of the building in the Netflix docu-series Abstract. The exposed heel-bubble (the invention of ex-aeronautical engineer M. Frank Rudy) that featured in the Air Max 1’s sole drove crazy on release – they thought it was going to explode.

Puma Clyde

It’s funny what a bit of gold-leaf lettering can do for you. Introduced in 1973 for legendary NBA player Walt ‘Clyde’ Frazier, at the time they exemplified Frazier’s colourful style and quickness. Today the model is relatively low-profile (in both silhouette and attitude) in comparison to what fellow basketball shoes have become. The cursive ‘Clyde’ typography by the final eyelet will always excite fans of the original sports style icon, as will the shoe’s historic ties to the fledgling punk and hip-hop scenes. (Related: The 15 Best Trainers Of 2016)

Adidas Stan Smith

When it comes to creating sneakers that deliver on mass hype, you can always count on Adidas. Launched in 1963 as a tennis shoe, the Stan Smith was originally branded the ‘Robert Haillet’, after the French tennis player. When Haillet retired, the company replaced him with Smith. After two years off the shelf, Adidas brought back the all-white kick in 2014 and, in turn, created the ultimate fashion shoe. While you won’t find a single tour player in tennis who wears these now, the Stan Smith has been reinvented without being redesigned. The sign of a true icon. (Related: The 5 Most Versatile Leather Shoes A Man Can Own)

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