#and then rubbing salt in the wound because it turns out the artist just cut and paste different parts of other peoples art to make it

[zapsoda]

i dont think the issue with ai art is that it simply exists, or that its made by scrambling preexisting works of art, the issue is that it does so without 99% of the artists' consent or even crediting them. its the equivalent of making a collage

[ohblackdiamond]

till it shines (peter/paul, nc-17)

"Look, I'm not gonna quit, I swear. If we have to end the tour, we have to end the tour. We get dropped from the label, we get dropped from the label. We lick our wounds and we try somewhere else. But until then, we got awhile in this hotel." "And no shows." "Yeah." During a five-day lull in concerts, stranded in an Atlanta hotel, Peter and Paul find a means to entertain themselves.

Notes: Inspired and based to a heavy extent on a very lovely, NSFW fanart concerning Paul's on-tour artistic endeavors. No, not the ones he showcases in galleries. 

“till it shines”

by Ruriruri

It was the last day of the Gay Kitchen, with honorable maitre d's, cooks, servers, and busboys Peter Criss and Paul Stanley manning KISS' dwindling hotel fridge and supply closet. At least, it was supposed to be. Peter didn't know if after last night, it was still on the table.

At first, they'd really wanted to go all-out with the band dinners, but their budget hadn't permitted it. One last hurrah before they had to limp back to New York, with a single failed record to their names and all the notoriety of four strays in a junkyard. Back to Lydia for Peter-and Lydia wasn't so bad, Lydia wasn't so bad at all; she'd supported him through worse screw-ups and disappointments, but it was what she represented. A guy who still wasn't paying the bills four years into the marriage wasn't any better than a bum. She'd thought she'd found somebody who'd be going places. She'd been wrong.

For Paul, the prospect of going home was just as disastrous. At least, that was how he made it out to be. He'd get into these depressed rambles about his parents and his sister and his niece and how coming back just wasn't an option.

"Not an option? C'mon, you were in college, what, a couple of quarters-"

Paul had winced and licked his lips, a quick, nervous tic Peter had gotten far too accustomed to seeing as the band's money situation worsened.

"I only went a week. Don't tell Gene." And a swallow. "Look, it's stupid. I know. But I was born to play rock and roll, okay?"

"You're preaching to the fucking choir."

"I mean. if I can't do this, if I can't make this happen, I might as well not be here. This is the only outlet I've got."

Peter had rubbed the back of his neck and tried not to groan. Overblown as ever. Paul thought Peter was the dramatic one, the tetchy one, just because he had enough balls to address what was pissing him off instead of keeping it to occasional bitchy comments. Paul never seemed to hear his own whines.

"You think you're the only one with a dream around here?" Peter couldn't even bite back the rest. "How old were you when the Beatles got on Ed Sullivan? Ten?"

"Twelve," Paul had grumbled back. "Don't make this an age thing-"

"I was just out of high school. And I was already in bands-"

"Pete, I know, I know already. You keep telling me." Paul heaved a sigh. "You keep telling all of us."

"You've got to pay your dues, that's all it is."

"Got to pay your dues if you wanna sing the blues." The right edge of Paul's mouth was starting to perk up.

"Yeah." Peter tugged absently at his bangs, trying not to let himself get too good a look at what he'd been seeing since before he even auditioned for KISS. The semi-permanent dye they all used worked fine on brown hair, but past that first wash, it was useless on gray. The streaks were more obvious against the jet-black backdrop than they'd ever been when he left his hair alone. "Look, I'm not gonna quit, I swear. If we have to end the tour, we have to end the tour. We get dropped from the label, we get dropped from the label. We lick our wounds and we try somewhere else. But until then, we got awhile in this hotel."

"And no shows."

"Yeah." No shows for the next five days at least. Their last pitiful handful of concerts, they'd opened for some redneck band. Outlaws or something. That was another depressing thing. Peter had always expected to at least be friendly with the bands they were the lead-in for, but they'd only been met with indifference at best and hostility at worst. Never ended up opening for the same band more than a few times, either. It just made the whole tour all the lonelier.

He realized after a second that Paul was staring at him. The guy had a weird stare. Kind of like a broke bagboy waiting on his tip, or maybe just like a girl who was really hoping for a proposal. Big-eyed, eager, and not remotely calculating. It might have pissed Peter off, if Paul didn't always follow it up with an abashed grin once he was caught.

"You're thinking about something," Paul said, before Peter could make the accusation himself.

"Yeah. I'm thinking we all need cheering up."

"You need cheering up, Peter."

"You just finished telling me you'd die if you didn't make it, Paul." He paused, still staring at the fridge. "And fuck, I'm gonna die if I have to eat at McDonalds one more time."

"Well, they've got Steak 'n Shake here, if you'd rather."

Peter groaned.

"Not when you're in a fucking blouse and heels. The crowd thinking we're fruits is bad enough." Before Paul could even stammer out a protest, something about it being rock and roll, or about needing more practice in the heels-God, c'mon-Peter continued. "No. I thought we could make our own dinner while we're here. Really make it, not just sandwiches and shit. Real food. We got the kitchen for it. And it'd save Bill some money. You know how to cook, right?" He knew Gene didn't. Ace just wouldn't.

"I'd hope so. My mom started leaving us home alone when I was eight."

"Poor, poor little Paulie." Peter rolled his eyes. "We could-we could make it themed, even. Make out like it's a restaurant. Menus and shit. Invite the guys down for dinner."

Paul brightened, which surprised him. Usually he'd be sore for hours over the slightest crack at his expense, like some spoiled, anxious kid. But for once, he actually seemed excited.

"Like Italian one night, maybe? We could make pizza."

"Yeah, sure, lemme get a shopping list going."

After three beers apiece, they'd named their restaurant the Gay Kitchen, decided they'd act the part of its bent proprietors, and written up a menu full of double-entendres. An hour later, still drunk, they'd pooled their money and ventured out to town in jeans and the lowest of their heels. They'd bought twenty bucks' worth of groceries, which should have been plenty. Then they'd started in on meal prep.

Strange how fun it was. Especially that first night, working on a poor man's casserole, with the radio on and Paul standing next to him chopping up onions, his hands encased in Ziploc sandwich bags because he didn't want the smell on his skin, while Peter cut half-frozen chicken breasts into ragged little cubes. They'd tossed the whole thing into the pan with some salt and pepper, dumped a can of cream of mushroom soup on top, stuck it in the oven and hoped for the best. He knew they should've gone with canned stuff entirely, especially for the meat, if they'd really wanted to save money, but the Gay Kitchen experience demanded the expenditure. At least, that was their excuse.

Besides, Ace and Gene had loved it. Not for the food so much. Peter figured their dinners were decent, maybe even good, sometimes, but he couldn't kid himself. There was nothing impressive about a dessert course that included Hostess cupcakes "with fresh Cool Whip." But the makeshift restaurant had done the job. Cheered them all up. No one said a word during any of the dinners about the tour ending or going back home. Not a single word. And he and Paul had screwed around, too, acting faggy, hitting on each other and the guys indiscriminately throughout the meals. Last night, Paul had even groped his ass while he was mincing around plating everyone's food.

"I had to take him off the menu." Peter could've sworn Paul was deliberately making that annoying lisp of his even worse during each dinner. Pitching his voice into a whine, too. Some commitment. Peter had glanced up, questioningly, but Paul had just ignored him and continued. "You see why, right? He's got such a nice ass-all the boys were looking, I couldn't help but get jealous-"

"Course you're jealous. You dieted yours off, Paulie," Ace had retorted with a laugh. Peter had been vaguely surprised Paul didn't break character at that, just clicked his tongue disapprovingly, his hand still on Peter's ass. Not squeezing anymore, thank God, but Peter had still felt the ghost of Paul's fingers there hours later when they'd both turned in for bed.

Looking back, maybe that was where it had really started. Glancing over at Paul on the double bed next to his, watching him, knees up, with the pad of hotel stationery in his lap and a pencil in his hand, Peter had cleared his throat. Paul lifted his head from where he'd been scribbling.

"Yeah?"

"What're you drawing?"

Paul held up the stationery without a hint of embarrassment. The usual weirdly accurate assortment of veiny, disembodied dicks covered the page.

"What do you always draw those for, anyway?"

Paul shrugged.

"I dunno. Why does Gene refuse to shower?"

"Because his mom told him even his B.O. was sacred." Peter rolled his eyes. "You got a fixation."

"<i>You've</i> got a fixation. You're the one always getting your dick out."

"Getting it out's not the same as drawing it. . That's not even your dick. Whose do you keep on-"

"I went to art school, asshole." There wasn't much of an edge to Paul's words, Peter noticed. "Life drawing comes with the territory."

"In high school? Jesus." Peter cocked his head, trying to decide if Paul was bullshitting him, but Paul was already back to doodling, his eyes averted. "You ever gonna attach them to anybody, or are they just gonna keep floating around?"

"Well, I thought I'd attach them to you, but then I realized that'd mean I'd have to draw your face."

"Oh, fuck you, Paul." He didn't know why, but he got up then, moved to sit on Paul's bed. Paul stopped scribbling just long enough to shift over for him. Peter leaned in, vying for a better look at the sketches. Six, no, seven dicks, from a couple different angles, all varying levels of erect. The balls were so accurate it was almost disturbing. "Ain't even mine. They're too small."

"These are scaled down."

"The shape's wrong, too. Was that one supposed to be bent like that?" Peter pointed at the offending cock, right in the center of the paper. He kind of thought it was intentional. There was something uncanny about Paul's artwork-well, the dick drawings, anyway. His other offerings, at least the ones Peter had seen-splattery acrylic abstracts from his high school portfolio, and the occasional insulting cartoon of his bandmates on the back of a paper napkin-lacked that attention to detail. And that enthusiasm. It was weird. Forget the rockstar shit; Peter almost wondered if Paul's true calling was illustrating gay porno mags.

Paul shifted the paper, blinking at him slowly.

"Are you really critiquing my doodles here?"

"Well, yeah. If you're gonna draw dicks, at least don't draw them bent."

"What's wrong with drawing them bent? Some guys have fucked-up dicks."

"Who do you know with a fucked-up dick? Gene?" Paul's was fine. Smaller than his, sure, but there wasn't anything the matter with it. Peter got a good look at it in the showers after concerts, and during occasional threesomes with college girls that didn't qualify as groupies. Paul didn't care about nudity any more than he or Ace did, which was a relief. Especially since Gene was so weird about it. Months on the road and he still wouldn't strip down in front of the band. Peter had asked Paul why. Paul had said something about Gene going to some Jewish school and that giving him hang-ups, which sounded ridiculous to Peter. If Jewish school was anything like Catholic school, then it was a flimsy excuse for changing in closets and behind closed doors like some chick. Gene probably just had something terribly, shamefully wrong with his dick. Smallness or herpes or both.

"What? No."

Pete scooted over some more. Paul's posture was slightly stiffer than it had been before, but he still moved to give Peter room. Not that the double bed had much space to begin with.

"Does that mean you've seen it?" Peter wasn't sure why he was pressing the issue. Probably because Paul didn't seem all that uncomfortable. In fact, ever since the start of the Gay Kitchen, he'd been more relaxed, more talkative. It'd been nice. Peter watched Paul's lips purse for a second before he replied.

"Come off it. I don't have the right equipment for the privilege."

"Just eat some more and you'll get the tits down."

"Oh, fuck you, Pete." Paul jabbed his elbow into Peter's ribs, just hard enough for Peter to jerk back, but after a second he was scooting in closer again, just to prove he couldn't be nudged off that easily.

Maybe it had been a lower blow than Peter had meant to take. God knew the poor guy worried more about his weight than a chick. Lydia once said Paul was shaped like a rectangle. Just thick, straight lines from his shoulders all the way to his ass, and no definition anywhere. And he had been, but that wasn't the case these days. Paul had ended up with a bad bout of stomach flu about a month and a half into the tour. He would pull himself together enough to do the night's show, but afterwards, Peter'd had to listen to him get up, agonized and grunting, at two in the morning, and hear him retching into the hotel toilet. Paul had probably dropped fifteen pounds since then. Maybe more.

He looked better now. His abdomen still wasn't flat and he still cinched in his waist with a corset onstage, but Peter figured Paul did look a little closer to-well, whatever the hell a frontman was supposed to look like-and a little farther from the shy kid from Queens who drove the band's milk truck to and from gigs. Shouldn't be something Peter was already nostalgic about, especially since they were probably right about to head back to the milk trucks and ballrooms, but he was.

He could hear the scratch of Paul's pencil against the stationery. Paul wasn't going to retort. He'd just sulk and doodle more dicks until he got tired enough to turn off the lamp and tell Peter to get off the bed so he could sleep. Peter licked his lips, mouth suddenly dry, and he spoke.

"You know what? Maybe you should draw mine."

He hadn't thought the comment through. It just splattered from the corner of his brain to his mouth. Maybe he was just trying to get a response out of Paul, see if he could come up with an insulting way to put him off, or if he'd just stammer out a refusal. Instead, all Peter got in return was a raised eyebrow.

"Your dick?"

"Yeah, my dick."

"You're volunteering?"

Shit. Shit, now he had to commit to it. Peter shrugged, somehow managed a tilted sort of grin, and leaned back on his hands.

"Why not? Least that'd keep you from doing all those crooked, veiny ones."

"Yeah, 'cause yours is fucking Adonis,' right-"

Adonis must've been some underground rocker only college kids had ever heard of. Peter wasn't about to admit to his own ignorance.

"Nobody's complained yet. C'mon, Paulie, how about it?"

Paul hesitated visibly. Peter almost didn't think he was going to agree to it. Too nerved-out by the suggestion. But then Paul nodded, his black curls-somewhat limper without the Aquanet and teasing brush forcing them into bushy, puffy proportions-bouncing slightly as he did.

"Yeah, sure. Go ahead."

Peter yanked off the ratty pajama pants that were all he ever went to bed in, tossing them to the floor. Turned around so he was facing Paul head-on, legs stretched in front of him. He could feel Paul staring at his face, and then at his cock, as he tore out the doodle-covered paper and started on the fresh one beneath. He hadn't gotten more than a few scribbles in when Peter realized-

"Hey, wait a minute. You're not drawing it soft."

"I'm just gonna draw what I see."

"No, you aren't. Hang on."

"Hang on?"

Paul blinked, the beginnings of a mild smirk edging across his face. The expression didn't really sit right on him, somehow. Paul's mouth seemed to Peter to only really look okay when it was either pursed in a pout or spread in a hopeless kind of smile.

Luckily, that smirk of his dissolved as soon as Peter closed his hand around his dick, starting to pump. He didn't look at Paul while he was doing it, not at first, his gaze veering more towards the pad of paper and the burnt orange florals of the covers. His breath wasn't hitching yet, but the pleasure was starting to seep through on practiced automatic. A little harder. A little faster, and Peter's brow was furrowing, eyes glazed, focus on anything but his own dick starting to fade.

Except it couldn't fade completely. Not with Paul barely a foot away from him, his big brown eyes furtively darting between Peter's cock and the pencil, his mouth tight. Looking over at him, Peter could almost swear he saw the faint start of a blush cropping up on Paul's cheeks. "Jesus, relax, would you? I'm not gonna come here."

"Wow, isn't that a relief," Paul mumbled, rolling the pencil back and forth between his finger and thumb.

"'S not like you haven't seen this before." A solid five or six times by now, minus the fact that it was usually a girl's mouth or hand on Peter's cock instead of his own. They weren't great at sharing the not-quite-groupies yet. It had taken awhile before they figured out positioning that'd get all three of them off, and that always hinged on whether the girl was down for it. Once they'd ended up with a chick who'd gotten too intimidated by two guys at once, and after a round of debate over who'd go first, Paul had ended up slinking off to the shower while Peter made it with her. Unsurprisingly, she'd been so satiated she'd fallen asleep by the time Paul returned, and they'd both had to lug her out of the hotel room and into the hallway. Paul had been pissed off. Peter just found it funny.

Paul looked as if he were about to say something, but then he shut his mouth. Peter exhaled, letting his eyes shut for a second while he kept pumping, no fantasy in mind, just the simple mechanics of pleasure. Jacking off was mindless, with or without an audience. Nothing meaningful. Nothing to consider. And Paul, for whatever reason, was still just watching him do it. That pencil lead hadn't even touched the paper. Peter took a sharp breath before he spoke again.

"Good enough?"

He'd stopped himself once he was fully hard, but before any precome could dribble out from the reddened tip. He could feel his face getting flushed, a little sweat starting to trickle on his forehead, but he was all right. If things got too bad, he could always head over to the shower to finish rubbing it out, after Paul was done drawing. But he didn't think it would come to that, though his cock twitched in protest. Paul gave a distracted nod.

"Yeah. It's fine."

Then he finally started to draw again. Peter leaned over, trying to get a glance in, but Paul kept covering up the pad with his other hand, swatting at him when he got too close. Peter snorted.

"C'mon, you're not drawing the Mona Lisa here."

"You throw me off watching."

"What'm I supposed to do, just sit here?"

"That's exactly what you're supposed to do." Paul was erasing now, but carefully. One of those cheap pink erasers. He brushed the residue off the paper, and it landed on the covers, tiny black streaks of rubber against the orange comforter. Deprived of watching Paul at work, Peter tried to focus his attention on the eraser remnants, flicking them.

It didn't really help. Despite himself, Peter was starting to squirm. He didn't think Paul was drawing anything past his dick, but he'd been trying to stay still anyway. His thighs kept twitching involuntarily. The ache in his balls was getting irritating enough that he gave in to a few more strokes, shoving his hand in the covers as soon as he heard Paul laugh.

"You having trouble keeping it up?"

"Fuck you, you know that's not it-"

"Gimme a couple more minutes, all right, Pete?" A pause. "And get a little closer, there." He reached his hand out, fingers curving lightly around Peter's bare knee, just for a second. Immaculately manicured nails, bizarre for a guitarist, even one who hadn't played a gig in almost a week. The black nail polish hadn't even chipped. But Peter only really noticed how the warmth against his skin seemed to linger on after Paul had withdrawn his hand. "There."

Peter got closer. His legs were flat on the bed and spread slightly, toes touching the wall by the time he got closer; he'd ended up more to Paul's side. His painfully hard, flushed dick stood out sharp against the rest of his body, craving attention he couldn't-wouldn't-give yet. He'd get that touch in later. He'd get off on his own. A couple more minutes, like Paul said. Yeah.

The amused expression on Paul's face had shifted, gotten focused and intent. The way it did when he was trying to pull a riff together, or a set of lyrics. Peter didn't much care for that look-usually it meant Paul would try to banish whoever was in the same room, whether it was him or Ace or even Gene, so he could be alone with whatever brilliant thoughts he had. But now that look was locked on him instead. Partially. Flattering, maybe, to be mulled over like a rhyme that didn't flow, or a chord that wasn't right yet, but Peter knew that if he thought too hard about it, he'd get disgusted. So he just let his mind wander to the sound of Paul's pencil scraping across the page.

Peter didn't really notice at first when that sound stopped. Or when Paul put the pencil down. The pad of paper was still resting on his lap. Peter inhaled, waiting, figuring Paul would hand it over-with a joking autograph, probably-any second-but then a mass of dark curls ended up right in Peter's face. Paul was leaning in, heavily, breaths hot and heavy against Peter's neck. He pushed away the pad of paper, his bare chest pressed up flush against Peter's. Peter opened his mouth, started to say something, and then swallowed it down when Paul's hand wrapped around his dick.

Peter couldn't believe it. Didn't protest or argue-didn't want to. He was surprised, that was all. Surprised Paul would go for it. Have that kind of nerve. Paul didn't pull back enough to look him in the eye. Didn't say a word.

His palm was sweaty against Peter's cock, fingers only a little callused. The first few strokes were too slow, unintentional teasing, but then Paul got steadier, built up a rhythm. Like doing it to yourself, Ace had told him once, lazily, in the worst and best advice Peter had ever gotten on handjobs, but different. Different. Peter could feel Paul's heartbeat against him, like a pinball smashing against the bumpers. Each breath was getting more tattered, soft curses forcing their way from Peter's throat; each inhale pushed more of Paul's Aramis cologne into his lungs. Peter's hands, curled up into the covers, flew up desperately as he got closer, warmth and need pulsating inside him, threatening to burst-clenching Paul's shoulder, his back-holding him there, right there, as he spilled into Paul's hand.

Paul let go as abruptly as he'd started. His whole body froze up, and he shifted backwards, brushing away Peter's hands, dark eyes wide, almost scared. He scrambled off the bed and onto Peter's, yanking the covers around him like a little kid caught up too late.

"Paul?"

"I'm sorry," he said, and shut off the lamp.

--

Peter got up early the next morning, before the alarm clock, but it didn't matter. Paul was already gone-got a cab, evidently, leaving everyone else with the crappy tour bus. Peter could hear Ace and Gene grumbling about it through the wall before he got out of bed, stopping short of the pad of paper and pencil on the floor. He picked both up and took a look.

The drawing was immaculate. Paul had gotten the balls just right. Everything. Taken the time to shade it, even, like it was a serious study. He'd signed it, too-initialed it, rather, P.S. nestled in a forlorn corner. No date. Peter tore the sheet carefully from the pad of paper, looking at it, unsure of what to do with it. Whether to keep it or not. He ended up setting it on the nightstand, face down, before crossing over to what had been his bed up until last night. He didn't have to pull back the sheets to see the semen stain from where Paul had wiped off his hand.

He could've used some washing off himself after last night. No Paul hogging the shower was an empty comfort right now, as Peter turned on the water, letting it get blisteringly hot before stepping inside. It didn't really help.

Paul was back before lunch, anyway, quiet and withdrawn. Bill was talking about booking them a couple more shows further down South-a terrifying prospect, but better than heading home-and Gene was chatting about it with all his usual enthusiasm, while Ace added vodka and ice to his coffee. Paul just looked sunk. Gene kept throwing questioning looks Paul's way, and glancing at Peter, but if he ever asked outright, Peter never heard it.

The band meeting drifted off into nothing after awhile. Paul got up abruptly, saying something about a headache, and excused himself with about as much subtlety as a dying animal. It was a few minutes before Peter got up the nerve to follow him back to their room-and, as expected, Paul had locked the door.

"Paul, c'mon-"

The sound of the knob turning was almost gratifying. Paul was standing there, looking awkward, mouth pursed. Peter noticed, belatedly, that for all Paul had gotten up early that morning, he hadn't shaved, stubble poking hopelessly all around his jaw. His t-shirt and jeans-one of maybe ten street outfits he'd rotated over the tour, same as Peter, same as everyone else-were rumpled past what Paul usually would allow for.

"You didn't have to come check on me."

"I did, we share a room."

Paul swallowed.

"Look, if you wanna change rooms, go ahead, just don't tell Gene about-"

"I ain't telling Gene nothing. And I don't wanna change rooms." Pete exhaled. The look on Paul's face twitched just a bit, but Peter didn't give him a chance to respond before plowing back in. "Are we gonna do Gay Kitchen tonight?"

Paul flinched. Almost like he thought Peter meant it badly, or was making fun of him, or something. Like one of those Japanese trees, the ones with flat leaves that folded up after the briefest brush of a hand. One word and he'd curl back up. One touch, leaving Peter all out of sorts, trying to undo the trick, get those leaves to unfurl again.

"Do you want to?"

"Ace was asking earlier."

"Oh." Paul turned away, walking over to the kitchenette on the other side of the room. He pulled open the fridge, getting out the last can of Coke, popping the top before he really answered. "I guess."

"C'mon, it's our last night here. It'll be fun."

"We're almost out of food."

"We've got enough. Still have those hot dogs." Peter felt awkward, still standing there, barely past the doorframe, as if he was a visitor to his own hotel room. He stepped over to sit on one of the beds. The drawing wasn't on the nightstand anymore. "Hey-"

"What?"

Peter's throat was suddenly a little dry. The words were out before he could hold them back.

"You didn't have to get rid of it."

"It was stupid."

"No, it wasn't. It-it was good, Paulie."

Paul was still all tensed up. Like a battery coil on the verge of springing. Peter almost thought he was going to walk out, more prepared to face Gene and Ace or another lousy cab ride than spend the rest of the day with him, but instead, Paul sat down on the other bed.

"You really don't wanna change rooms." He said it flatly, borderline disbelieving, clasping the Coke can in both hands. He looked strangely young, sitting like that. The six years between them never felt like much except when Peter really let himself give it some thought. At twenty-two, he sure as hell hadn't been on the road with a record, however indifferently-received. Hadn't made it-with threesomes, even-with a whole bunch of girls. He resented it when he considered it, but right now, all Peter was considering was the tightness of Paul's lips and the way he was staring at the floor.

He was just a kid, really. Scared of getting rejected as any other kid, hell, as any other adult. Putting on onstage, putting on during their dinners, only ever peeling back how he really was during all the time in between. The worries and frets, the painful, painful shyness behind every sharp retort. The panicked heartbeat against Peter's chest last night as he'd pushed past his nerves for something he wanted.

Something Peter wanted, too.

"Fuck, no. You and me are the only ones around here that know how to pick up our own shit."

"Pete, that's not it-"

"No. No, it's not it. C'mere. C'mere," he said, quietly, scooting forward on the bed, hands resting awkwardly on either side of him, those orange covers clashing badly with his chipped black nail polish and cheap silver rings. He watched as Paul set down the Coke can and stood up, crossing the tiny threshold between their beds. He still looked like he was about to flee. One wrong word, one sudden movement and it'd be over.

So Peter was slow, agonizingly slow to take his arm and tug him forward. Paul let him do it, didn't go rigid at all, though the fear in those wide eyes was still there. Peter wanted it to fade; suddenly, he wanted it to fade more than anything, as he got to his feet, palm hot against Paul's arm. As he leaned in, pushing Paul's dark curls behind his shoulder, and pressed his lips to Paul's neck.

Paul didn't respond at first. Then, just as Peter was about to pull away, he felt Paul's other hand close around his. Too shy to even lock their fingers together. But that was all right. That was all right. Peter did it for him, shifting his hand in Paul's until their fingers were laced. He raised his head, and Paul's mouth met his, cautious and careful. None of that too-eager fooling around like with the girls. None of that silent desperation from last night. Peter liked this better, every second feeling warmer and fuller than the last. As if he was just on the brink of discovering something grand as his tongue slid across Paul's lips and he let go of Paul's arm to trace the stubble on his jaw, cup his chin in his hand. Paul parted his lips for him, Peter tasting cereal and toothpaste when his tongue slipped inside, but he didn't care. Paul was opening up for him. Finally opening up.

It wasn't too long before Paul started pressing up against him, hips rocking meaningfully against his. Somewhere along the line, he'd ended up with Paul's hair in his fist, and he tugged, lightly, urging him forward as he sat back down on the bed. Tugged his hand, too, as if he needed to. Paul got the picture, following him down, timidity shifting to urgency, until Peter's back was pressed against the mattress. Peter thought about yanking his hair hard for that one, and he might have, except Paul kept kissing him all the way down, except Paul's knee was rubbing against his crotch, his thin blue jeans barely a barrier at all.

Peter's breath hitched as Paul shifted lower, moving off of him enough that Peter could shuck off his own shirt and toss it to the floor. Paul was unzipping him, those long, thin fingers hooking around his belt loops and pulling down his jeans. Freeing his cock, already far too hard, worse than last night, easily. Peter took a sharp inhale when Paul sank down, pushing his thighs apart with his knee, and started to lick at his cock. All the way down, pouring on the attention, fingers pressing hard against his hips, keeping them steady. Peter watched, dazed, breaths hitching, until Paul's warm mouth was around just the tip of his cock.

"Paul, hold on."

Paul pulled back, lifting his head like he'd done something wrong.

"What?"

"You don't know how to do it, don't worry about it." It was just a guess, but Peter figured it was a good enough one. And that wasn't all of it. He didn't think Paul would give himself enough leeway for a screw-up. Perfection or nothing.

Paul hesitated.

"But-"

"It's okay, man." It was hard to think past the blood pumping straight to his dick, going untouched for now, but Peter was managing, barely. The brief image of Paul with his lips around his dick was promising enough, the lead-in for a dozen jerk-off fantasies already. Maybe more than that. "Just-c'mon, let me-"

He tugged Paul back up, helping him peel off his t-shirt, then his jeans and underwear. Taking him in like this, with no girl between them, didn't feel strange or wrong or any of that bullshit; it felt good, every shed layer lending Peter more skin to touch, making him more certain of everything. Despite the concert performances, despite the threesomes and the locker room showers, he'd never really gotten a sense of Paul's physicality before. Now that Paul was straddling him, hair hanging in his face, mouth pressed to his neck, his ear, Peter could really see it all, the wide, powerful build of his chest before it bore down against Peter's, his arms, taut and muscular, tensing as Peter's hands tightened around them. Paul's cock brushed against his, sending a jolt of electricity through Peter, and then he was grinding up against him, their hips flush, flesh against flesh. Peter was cursing before long, the stimulation maddening, almost agonizing because it wasn't quite enough. Paul seemed like he sensed it, reaching over, taking both their cocks together in one hand-but Peter shook his head.

"I've got a better idea."

"Yeah?" Paul's fingers rolled up against his cock just so, the pressure of his hand and his dick incredible enough that Peter almost changed his mind. Looking up at him, that slightly-sweaty brow, those dark eyes, dilated and needy, Peter nodded, fingers closing on Paul's wrist.

"Yeah. I already know you can jack me off." An exhale. "Get on your back and I'll show you what I can do."

Paul let go of him. There was a little consternation somewhere in his expression, a hesitancy Peter tried to erase, hand running down Paul's hairy chest, fingers tweaking a nipple, but Paul did as he'd asked, grasping Peter by the shoulders and rolling them both over. Peter shifted, repositioning himself on top of Paul, putting his hands beneath his thighs. Almost immediately, Paul stiffened up, started to try and lift up his legs. Peter pushed them back down before he could.

"Nah, we're not doing that. Don't worry." Peter watched some of the tension fade from Paul's face, curiosity replacing it. "Spread your legs out a little. there, now." He slid his dick between Paul's thighs, tip right up against Paul's taint. He didn't need to instruct further. Paul's mouth tilted in a distracted grin, his thighs closing tight around Peter's dick-and from there, Peter started to thrust, the soft warmth surrounding his cock nearly overpowering.

Paul was finally making a few sharp sounds as Peter's thrusts sped up, thighs squeezing hard against his cock. The sounds got louder, turned into curses, turned into strangled attempts at Peter's name. Between Paul's moans and his own urgency, Peter couldn't think, his pace speeding up, every brush against Paul's cock, every tensing of Paul's thighs pushing him closer to the brink. He came with a cry, spurting hot between Paul's legs, Paul still urging him to keep going, just a few more, a few more. He managed, grunting, shuddering with exertion as he kept thrusting. Beneath him, Paul looked out of it and focused all at once, dick throbbing against his. So close. Too close. It was seconds before Paul came, quieter, spilling all over them both, head lolling back in the aftermath. Peter was still panting as he slid his cock out from between Paul's slick thighs, as Paul put an arm around him, pressing a kiss to his jaw, his cheek, before finally meeting his lips again.

--

The Gay Kitchen's final evening went well. Ace and Gene had brought dessert-a box of oatmeal creme pies and a gallon of cheap Neapolitan ice cream-and they'd served it along with the hot dogs and stale chips. A beer apiece, except for Gene, who got a Sprite from the machine downstairs in a rare spendthrift moment. Paul's come-ons and gropes weren't any heavier than the night before, but there was a warmth and a relaxation in him that was new to Peter. A softer look to his expression he'd only been privy to late, late at night in the hotels, just before he drifted off.

Peter liked that. He liked that a lot. Feeling that, maybe, something of Paul's might be reserved for him. That maybe he'd be let in for more than an afternoon. He thought he might be. He figured he would be.

They didn't fool around that night. They didn't really have the time to. Once dinner was over and Ace and Gene had gone back to their room, Peter took a shower, and then he started packing, too-aware of how quick check-out came. Particularly when they were headed straight down to the bottom edge of Florida tomorrow, a solid ten or eleven hours on the road, to play at some college or auditorium or-something. Peter was just glad Bill had secured them another handful of tour dates, no matter the location.

He tossed his makeup kit and street clothes and shoes back into his suitcase, fiddling with the wobbly latches, tracing the crack down one side. Ten to one the damn thing would break before they got out of Atlanta, but maybe he could tie a scarf around it or something to hold the luggage together. He turned to Paul, who was sitting on the floor next to him with his own ratty suitcase half on his lap, about to ask him, but Paul spoke first.

"You forgot your heels."

"I didn't. They're in the laundry bag with everyone else's."

"Not the ones that go with your costume. The other pair." Paul pointed under the bed. There they were, three-inch platforms he'd barely worn all tour, neatly placed. He didn't remember putting them there.

He pulled them out, a piece of paper under one heel catching his eye. Setting the heels aside, he picked up the paper.

"Paul?"

It was the drawing of his dick. Paul hadn't thrown it away after all. He glanced over at him, and Paul smiled, a little bashful. That hopeless smile he hadn't been able to plaster on a single promo picture, more endearing and elusive than any sketch.

"It's for you. I don't know if I'd frame it, but."

Peter felt himself grin back.

"Are you kidding? It's the best drawing of my dick anyone's ever gonna give me. I'll keep it forever." Peter held it up, examining it anew. "There's only one problem."

"I thought you were done critiquing my art."

"Hell, no." And Peter handed it back. "You gotta sign it for me."

"I initialed it-"

"Sign it. Make it worth a million bucks someday." Peter didn't think he'd stop smiling as he leaned over, tousling Paul's hair. "You can even add the star."

[helpmewriteright]

Bro - Zoned (KBTBB) Chapter 1 : We’re Just Bros

Eisuke X OC 

Romantic - Comedy 

PG - 13 for language used

Eisuke, the powerful and proud owner of the Ichinomiya Group, with Tres Spade, the biggest and most luxurious hotel chain in Japan and possibly in the world, is well, on a cross roads between friendship and love with Andie, one of his “bros”, the only lady in the gang of bidders, and head interior designer of his hotel empire. 

*The story would have 2 point of views. To be honest, I don’t even like Eisuke, I mean he’s not obviously my fave, but with the story, I believe he is the best suited. 

As for the setting of the story, it takes place 4 years after season 1, so expect the characters to be older haha! We can say that they are moving past those old times and really trying to get serious with their lives. But still, we know our boys, they’ll always have fun.

So please enjoy this light romantic comedy story of two people confused between love and friendship.

"I want the first option. Good job." 

Eisuke pointed out the first perspective out of the two options that I presented, the room perspective that shows all shades of purple in a bedroom. We are here in his office discussing the final design for the lobby of his new hotel in Osaka, Japan, after countless, tedious revisions. I can’t let his hotel and my design to suffer for his horrible ideas.

 “Eisuke, are you sure? I think as a designer, this, in particular is the best lobby design for your hotel.” 

Still trying to be patient because he still is my boss, I tried to convince him once more. I presented the second design again which I find the most appropriate for his vision. Sighing, He looked at me with authority in his eyes and no intention of backing down. 

 “Who owns the hotel? Me. So I get the final say. ” 

Pointing to himself. He stated that matter of fact, with his legs and arms crossed. Growing impatient, I grabbed the rendered perspective board of the other option and almost shoved it in front of his eyes. I stated my opinions as an interior designer in what is best for the hotel.

 “This design is the best in the lot! Remember, this is a seven star! Not some cheap love hotels!” 

Growing irritated himself, Eisuke being stubborn, stood up and walked towards me. He grabbed the rendered perspective of his choice in his one hand and the other pointed at it.

“No. This will go through. Only this. This discussion is over.” 

And my patience meter, snapped. hard.

He placed the board in his desk with the papers ready for him to sign for finalization. As he is seated in his chair, grabbing his pen for him to sign the necessary papers, My body automatically moved forward, across his desk, and took hold of his right hand to stop his terrible, terrible decision. F*ck this. 

“What are you doing?“

Eisuke, shocked from my actions and stared at me hard with daggers in his eyes, looking completely irritated. Unbothered by his menacing stare and tone, I stared hard with all my pent up frustrations venting right through my eyes and voice.

“Stopping you from making the most stupid, dumbest decision in your fucking life.”

“Hands. off.“

“Never. I was patient enough to even hear your ugly shitty ideas, Even my eye bags have bags in them! So I can’t let those sleepless nights be in vain! And I freakin’ swear I’m not gonna let you ruin your damn hotel and my reputation. Not on my watch.“

“Again, hands. off“

“Consider your business dead if you want your guests to kill themselves in your hotel.“

“...“

“....“

Eisuke and I had a staring contest on who would back down and admit defeat. This is a battle I won’t, ever, ever, back down.

“...“

“Eh-ehemm” 

Breaking the deafening silence and over flowing gaze exchange of tension from one another, Baba, who was relaxing on the couch intentionally coughed. Turning our attention on what he has to say, he stated his opinion.

“Boss… I think Andie’s right… her take on the interiors is good, probably the best design I’ve seen. I mean.. even better than Ota’s lobby designs were for your previous hotels. No offense man.” 

Looking straight to his enigmatic artist buddy. Ota, who was seating beside Baba checking his phone for emails then spoke his views. 

“None taken. I mean as an artist, I would say the other option is not only better but God, it looks amazing! Great job on that Andie! I mean the neutrals and the purple, and from the ceiling to those intricate wall details, and even the floor design!” 

“Thank you Ota and Baba, that’s very sweet.” 

Throwing a huge smile and a thumbs up on my direction. Still holding Eisuke’s right hand, I said my gratitude to the two gentlemen with a smile. To break more of the tension, Baba then again gave his opinion. 

“Anyway, even I would have a headache with a room made out of purple.” 

But I think it wasn’t the best idea as Eisuke then shifted his glare to Baba and Ota for not backing him up. Not wanting to add more salt in his wound, both Baba and Ota then continued to chat with themselves. After silencing the two, he’s gaze was back on me. After minutes of cold war, he finally sighed with his head low, admitting defeat. 

“Fine, you win, Ms. Young. Now, let go.”

Feeling great upon winning the war, I enthusiastically let go of his hand and throw my hands in the air! I’ve never felt so great!  I grabbed his hand again and shook it enthusiastically.

“Yes! Yes! Yes! You finally listened! For the love of God! There is a miracle!! Thank you Eisuke! Thank you Thank you!!“ 

“Okay okay, let’s get this over with, where are the papers.“

After my winning moment, I immediately gave the necessary paper works to get the proposed design finalized and approved. He signed my proposed designs gave back the documents but not without laying down his terms..

“I don’t want any problems. No buts, good won’t cut. I want it perfect.”

“No worries Boss, I know the drill. I got this. Thank you for acknowledging my vision.” 

Holding the documents close to my chest as it was like the most precious possession I have, I gave a reassuring smile and bowed to him. With my designs approved I hurriedly went to the door to head outside and go to the next phase. Before leaving I said my farewells to the gang.

 “Got to go! I need to schedule meetings with the contractors and engineers to start with the construction. Bye guys!” 

Almost at the door, Baba then said a reminder that almost slipped my mind. “Wait Andie don’t forget! Party at the penthouse. 8pm. You have to come okay?“

“Yeah I’ll go! I have reasons to celebrate too!“ Pointing to my trophy, my designs sealed with Eisuke’s signature. 

Seeing Eisuke scoffed and continued to review other files, I turned my head to the two gentlemen who helped me tame the lion. I mouthed “Thank you guys.” to Baba and Ota for supporting my ideas and quickly exited his penthouse office.

________________________________________________________________

As Baba heard the door clicked and Andie’s footsteps gone, he walked towards me and sat on one of the chairs in front of my desk then spilled his thoughts.

“Have some faith on Andie, Boss! I mean she’s THE Andie Young that bagged numerous awards from her designs on your last hotel.” 

Still reviewing other business files on my desk, I sighed still feeling defeated from the previous discussion, 

“I know that. I was the one who gave her a chance... I was just testing her like I used to before.”

Ota then chimed in, still on his phone for his emails, on what he remembered before. “She was just starting back then, but now look who she became! I think she is entitled to treat your ideas like that.” 

“Look at her now, she’s like the only female member of our gang. Minus the wives. It’s good to have a muse.” Stated by Baba with a seal of his approval.

 “Muse my ass. Look at her, she’s like one of us. And we don’t need a muse.”

Ota, still checking his phone for emails then spoke:  “I think that’s her charm. The laid back quality. It is her take on her individuality.”

“At least you like her, boss.” Baba whispered and winked at me as he slipped some of my secrets.  

Crap. What the hell is he saying! 

I fully stopped reviewing the documents, catching me completely off guard,this moron! I immediately glared at Baba who in turn just smiled. Like a fool. I quickly glanced at Ota’s direction to check if he heard the convo. Okay Ota’s still on his phone. I need to stay calm. God this lad needs to shut his mouth. This piece of crap needs to go. I glared coldy, menacingly at Baba for fooling around then spoke to end this conversation once and for all. 

“Instead of pestering here in my office, are you done with the tasks that I gave you? Both of you?”

“...”

“...“

Sensing my irritation and anger, both Baba and Ota became silent and looked to one another. Making them stand on their feet and ready to exit my office.

Ota: “Okay Eisuke, have fun with your work!“

Baba: “Yeah, we’ll be off boss! See ya!“

But before completely closing the door, Baba gave me a cheeky wink, then hurriedly closed the door and left, leaving me no chance to respond to his childish teasing. Now all alone in the office, I let go of the documents and started rubbing my forehead. I sighed, releasing stress from the morning banters and arguments.

What a morning. I recalled the events that lead to my early morning stress.  the arguments with Andie, and especially the conversation with Baba. “That sick bastard.“ whispering to myself, remembering what happened awhile ago.

Andie, why do I even think of her. There are a lot of women far more suited for me. She isn’t even my type. Look at her, she’s too laid back, too stubborn, and she doesn’t even listen to me! I’m a freakin’ billionaire for God’s sake. This shouldn’t even be a problem! Why does Baba have to put words on my mouth. What does he even know? I don’t like her. Period. We’re just friends, bros even. Yeah, that’s right, I don’t like her! That’s the truth. And the---

*Knock knock 

A knock on my door stopped my inner thoughts and let me get back on the reality. Now that’s great timing. Before I lost myself to thoughts she stopped me from being crazy. My secretary, Ms. Hori, then entered.

“Mr. Ichinomiya, the preparations are done. Let us proceed to the meeting board of directors.“

Now this is what I should be focusing about. Expanding my empire. This is what I’m meant to do. Not thinking some lady who I shouldn't even like.

“Okay. Thank you Ms. Hori.“ I stood up, fixed my suit, forgetting those trivial matters, then completely regained my composure and confidence, and left for my meeting

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

This proved to be a very busy day. With the new hotel almost finishing up and is getting ready for the grand opening in Osaka, I went from one meeting to another and before I knew, it’s already 8:30pm,  so I sent Ms. Hori home from today’s work. I almost forgot that there’s some party in the penthouse. As I was entering the elevator, my thoughts immediately remembered what Baba told me this morning. That bastard. And now, I’ve got to see Andie. Just great.

“You know when you’re in love, It actually happens in the most unexpected moments, I knew I was in love with my wife Emi while I was brushing my teeth. I just thought ‘oh I love her’. That’s it. Stupid right? But it feels so right.”

Wait what?...

What?!

Why am I remembering Baba’s old stories? What the fuc--

*Ding

The elevator stopped at the penthouse floor. Still weirded out by that random thought, I exited the elevator and headed towards the gang. God, my head is completely all over the place. I think I need a drink. Before entering through the doors, I stood up there, trying to reassemble my thoughts and letting out a sigh.

*Ding

My thoughts were interrupted once again by the sound of the elevator. I turned around to see who it was whose later than me.“Really? Someone’s late too?” As the elevator doors opened, I was surprised as I did not expect that she is behind that doors.

“Oh? Heyy! Your late!“

Andie.

Andie Young, the one who just exited the elevator. Of all the people who can be late, why her? She quickly walked towards me with a smile on her face, the type that shows her gums. I was just staring at her, registering how, of all people, she is with me, at the same moment, just when I was thinking about her. Still weirded out by the universe’s work, I answered her shortly and quickly.

“Yeah, meetings. You?“

“Meetings. Come on! I’m hungry and I want to drink!“

“...“

I can tell how tired she was, her back slightly slumped, walks by dragging her feet, and still see those bags under her eyes even with her makeup. But even with all those, her smile, her eyes... still glows. I just continued to stare at her. I couldn’t say anything back. I just let her take my arm and drag me to the rest of the journey.

And now I’m staring at the back of her head.

Why is my heartbeat weird?

Why is everything in slow motion?

What’s wrong with her?

What’s wrong with me?

....

This... This cannot be!

What the fuck is happening to me?

________________________________________________________________

Thank you so much for reading the first chapter! I never knew writing would be this hard! I’ve been imagining this story for quite some time now, and to translate it into a literary from is really hard work! Kudos to the people who can finish their stories!

So please do appreciate and support our writers!!

Again, thank you very much! Hope you’ll stay tune for the later chapters of these duo. Don’t hesitate to message me regarding your opinions and other stuff hahaha! Thanks guys! :)

[hoseokisamood]

truth left untold

—pairing: yandere!taehyung x reader

—premise/au: modern kidnapping / did you deserve this?

—wc: 1.1k

You were tired. So, so tired.

Taehyung licks his lips as he looks at you, taking a break from carving whatever weird wood figure he was making now to stare at you. You sighed, your hair falling further out of the tie holding it together as you turned to the side to avoid his gaze.

This put you in direct eyesight of the door, which served nothing more to ruin your mood. A callous, heartless reminder that you were a captive but only on your own terms. The door lay wide open, taunting you, almost an extension of Taehyung himself. You want to leave, Y/N? Then why don’t you?

You sneak a look at the knife your captor is holding. The whittle is curved dangerously, and Taehyung wields it well; the strokes he makes up the wood are so smooth, it was easy to mistake his hand for a gentle one, used to cutting vegetables. That’s not a mistake you can make, however, when you saw the same knife covered red just days ago.

Fresh tears come to your eyes, making you ashamed. You thought you had run out of tears the day of your parents’ murder, when Taehyung had walked into the living room in the middle of a family dinner and stabbed your father in the neck. In shock, you had sat there, speechless, as your classmate turned to your mother as she got up to flee.

The boom that had sounded out when he shot your mother in the skull had you shaking even now, your tears held chiefly in your lower lids as you shook. The look he had given you back then changed everything: you had never known that a murderer could look so warm and content.

“I wasn’t sure if I would need both, but I guess it was a good idea in the end.” His eyes had sparkled back then, waiting for you to laugh, to react to the inside joke. You had sat there, your eyes moving between your parents at the opposite ends of the table, slowly gasping as bile started to rise in your throat.

His hands had encircled your small shoulders, his nose resting in your hair as he purred, actually fucking purred, the madman: “There, there, baby. You don’t have to look if you don’t want to.”

He had slowly pulled you out of the chair, steading your trembling legs. All your life, people had told you that you processed things too slowly, and that it would come back to haunt you one day. You had never understood what that meant more than when Taehyung wrapped his hand around your waist and pressed his palm to your nose and mouth to restrict your air, squeezing tightly as you started to shake uncontrollably. Your hands flew up to try to dig his hands off, but he wouldn’t budge.

“Shh, shh. It’ll be all right.” He cooed into your hair, allowing your body to go slack and vision to blur over as you stilled. “One day, you’ll be just like me and everything will make sense then.”

Days later, you had still not gotten over the pain associated with the event. It didn’t help that Taehyung loved rubbing salt into your raw wounds; bringing up the fact that your parents were dead and reminding you that he was all you had constantly. Ever since the day you woke up in his car only to remain silent, he had taunted you with his intense stares and adoring, situationally inappropriate wooing. He was loving this, the fact that you didn’t need ropes, didn’t need to be watched. You wouldn’t go anywhere while he was here.

He stood up suddenly, breaking you from your thoughts. Your dull, barely-alive eyes took him in as he walked over to you, that damned smile still on his face. Crouching in front of you, he leaned in, smile bright like a kindergartener as he held your fist in his hand, pointedly removing each finger from your palm and kissing the figurine in his hand before pressing it firmly into the middle. You stare at the figure with resigned discomfort.

Much to your surprise, there were two different figures laying in your hand—you must have not seen him switch between the two. The duo looked almost identical, both being vaguely hominid-looking, with a torso, legs, and feet. They were on the beastly side, ugly things, though you supposed maybe Taehyung was just an artiste with a flair for horror. With disgust, you took note that the one on the right had small, upturned eyes—a feature you most certainly recognized as being your own.

Upon that realization, it wasn’t hard to figure out what the figurines were meant to represent. Especially now that you noticed the eerie boxy grin the other figure possessed, a wide, cheeky thing that you had seen too many times in the past few days.

Suddenly, he startled you, voice deep and booming and he ran a smooth finger across your palm.

“One day, you and I will be the same.” He toyed with your figurine, moving it around. “You will understand me like no one else can, and you will love me, just like I love you.” He leaned forward to kiss you, but you moved away. He paused, and instead moved to press his lips to your cheek, taking that if he could have nothing else.

His voice dropped to a whisper. “You can angry with me if you want, Y/N. I know it must be hard. People used to call me a monster too. They said something was wrong with me because I didn’t react to things like I should. If people saw you as I did when your parents died, they’d assume the same things about you.” You bristled as his hand swept through your hair, thumbing the soft strands. You wanted to correct him, tell him that you were upset, that the loss of your parents had hurt you, but your useless mouth couldn’t find the words. You just stared ahead, blankly, exhausted, as you always did.

“That’s why it has to be you. Only we can understand each other.” He pulled your hands to his, pressing your fingers down until you formed a fist around the figurines before covering them with his own hands. “One day, we’ll get away, far from here, far from people who hate us for being the way we are. We’ll make love, and you’ll become pregnant with my children, and we’ll raise them away from everyone else. We’ll make the perfect family of monsters.”

The tears from earlier fell now, running down your cheek smoothly as you processed his words. Slowly, like you did everything else.

He was right. That’s why you could never escape. Escaping was something that adequate people did, and you were not one of those people.

You were stuck with him forever.

[freshwater--mermaid]

Ersatz Ch 23: They Don’t Know They’re Dead To Me

Danny woke suddenly to the sound of screaming. He barely had time to process this before his body hit the bed with a dull thud.

He grimaced, rubbing at his eyes as he rolled out of bed. Another bout of yelling woke him up fully, and he quickly unlocked his door, flinging it open.

He looked out into the hallways and instantly spotted his mother, standing in the doorway to Jazz's room. She held up a small ecto gun, pointing it inside.

"Get down, Jazz!" she yelled as she took aim.

She fired a single shot, causing Jazz to cry out.

"Mom, you're going to set my room on fire!" the teen protested from within.

Danny wanted to approach and see what his mother was shooting at, but the sight of the active ecto gun kept him rooted.

Jack came bounding up the stairs, holding a mostly-finished ecto rifle in his hands, its wires still exposed.

Maddie glanced toward him and frowned.

"Jack, you're not firing that in the house." she said. "It's far too strong; it'll singe through the walls!"

Jazz squealed out, and all attention was turned once more inside the room.

"Just get these things out of here!" Jazz shouted unhappily.

Danny guessed correctly that it had to be ghosts, and his thoughts turned briefly to Vlad's warning about increased activity.

Maddie dove into her daughter's room, firing off several times despite Jazz's protests.

Two small ghosts suddenly burst through the wall and sailed in random directions. They looked like animals of some kind, but their rapidly darting forms were hard to distinguish.

Maddie ran into the hallway and fired her gun repeatedly at the fleeing spectres, green beams arcing across the walls, fizzling out harmlessly against anything non-ghost they hit.

The two spirits streaked past Danny and Maddie's gun crossed over him as well, still firing.

With an unintended shout, Danny fell back from the doorway, barely dodging one of the stray blasts.

He could hear Maddie and Jacks' footsteps beat down the hall as they pursued their prey. He continued to lay upon the floor, unable to get back up.

That single, small beam of charged energy had conjured up far too-clear memories of pain and peeling skin. The bloom of sharp light, the burning and the sensation of falling. All of it crashed over Danny, and the teen could only lay there and hope his parents didn't come back.

Thankfully, as the minutes passed it seemed that the ghosts had tried to flee outside. Jack, of course, had preemptively set the shield, trapping the little spirits.

As he finally began to calm down, Danny sat up, pulling his knees up and resting his arms upon them. He raked a hand through his hair, frustrated and confused by his own actions. What had come over him?

Sure, the ecto gun would've stung, but it wasn't as powerful as the one that had blasted him out of the sky weeks ago. So why had he been so petrified moments ago?

Danny groaned in annoyance at himself. He couldn't afford to get jumpy around his parents; Maddie would undoubtedly pick up on it, and the last thing he needed was her attention.

Danny stood up, silence ringing out as the shooting ceased. Then Jack's boastful voice could be heard downstairs. They had definitely been successful in capturing the ghosts.

A lumbering gait thundered excitedly downstairs, while a second set of steps padded lightly back up to the second floor.

Danny turned and walked away from his open door as Maddie passed by, heading to Jazz's room.

Danny listened to the muffled conversation between mother and daughter as he looked out his window. The shield blinked out of existence as Jack shut it off, and it took Danny's eyes a moment to adjust to the black night sky.

A quiet knocking from behind beckoned Danny to turn, and he wasn't surprised to find his mom's concerned face looking at him.

"Danny, are you alright?" she asked.

"Yeah, Mom." Danny answered casually.

Maddie paused for a moment, looking caught between thoughts before speaking again.

"I'm sorry I scared you, honey." she said, her voice almost as quiet as the silent house. "I guess I just wasn't thinking, and…the ecto gun can't hurt you, sweetie. You know that, right? I know that, but I suppose I…"

Maddie was at a loss for words, obviously trying very hard to assure Danny that she had meant him no harm. This at first alarmed Danny, as he wondered why she'd be so stressed over this unless she knew his secret.

And then it hit him, like a bolt from the sky.

More images from the past flickered across his mind. His mother. Not his mother anymore. Possessed by some unknown entity. The feel of her sharp nails as she dug her fingers into his hair, striking his head against the ground.

Stars danced across his vision briefly as he came back to the present. With a start, he stepped forward, coming to stand before Maddie.

"I wasn't scared," he insisted. "I was just caught off guard. Still half-asleep, and all…sorry for worrying you, Mom."

Maddie smiled at her son, moving forward, arms reaching out in the beginnings of a hug. Alarm bells sounded in Danny's head, and he quickly took two steps back, arms half-raised. He couldn't let her feel how cold he knew he was.

And like that, his words were undone. The smile was gone, and Maddie's face had drawn back up into a look of sadness and worry.

"Okay, honey…" Maddie said, her voice somehow even quieter. "Sorry this whole thing woke you up. Get back to sleep, sweetie."

With those parting words, she turned and went to join her husband in the lab, no doubt to observe their newly captured subjects.

Danny closed his door quietly and locked it. But instead of going back to sleep, he lifted off the ground cautiously and slowly flew out of his window, careful to remain invisible.

The freedom and solitude of roaming the dark skies of Amity Park helped ease the unwanted memories and thoughts from Danny's mind.

~* ~* ~* ~* ~* ~* ~* ~* ~* ~* ~* ~* ~* ~* 

Laughter echoed down the empty halls of Casper High, as the group of teenagers stood around a large table in the cafeteria. Various craft supplies littered the table's surface.

Nearly everyone present was engaged in conversation as they cut, glued, and folded paper into different Halloween themed decorations.

Two individuals, however, were completely silent, and Tucker's gaze swept between them both.

Danny looked completely absorbed in his own thoughts. The only reason he was attempting to cut out little ghosts from white paper is because Tucker had given him the task, hoping the inside joke would bring a smile to his friend's face.

No such luck. Danny had taken the supplies and got to work without comment.

Tucker looked to the opposite end of the table, where his other best friend stood. Unlike Danny, Sam wasn't absorbed in thought. She was instead absorbed in her own sour mood, brooding as she created a glitter-coated skeleton out of black paper.

Tucker sighed quietly at Sam's childish attitude. He supposed she was still stung over Dash's comments from the day before, and the fact that the very jock in question was now joking with Star as he made paper pumpkins was apparently salt in the wound for Sam.

Paulina had heard of Dash's mistreatment of Sam, and had very angrily talked the boy into helping out with decorations for the haunted house. She had invited Star along as well, and managed to convince the principal to let them borrow the cafeteria after school hours.

Tucker guessed that also contributed to Sam's mood. Paulina had managed to organise this entire get-together, while Sam had still been mulling over a theme to go with.

Tucker just hoped that she stopped sulking and lightened up, or Dash would soon give in and call her out on her attitude. That would not go well.

The teen looked down at his own little project, a vampire made from several glued-together pieces of paper. Tucker knew he wasn't that great an artist, but he was actually proud of how it was coming along.

"Wow, nice job, Tucker." Paulina commented from across him. She held up her own work; a cut out banner depicting little orange pumpkins.

"What do you think?" she asked with a beaming smile.

"Dang." Tucker replied. "That's really good! How'd you learn to do that?"

Paulina gave a flattered laugh at the obvious awe in Tucker's voice.

Tucker could feel Sam's glare burning into the side of his face as he listened to Paulina go on about her art class at her old school.

Tucker continued to ignore her stare as he got back to his own work. Just because she was angry over Dash and Star being there didn't meant that he was going to ignore everyone too.

Another hour flew by as the group, save two, continued to chat and show off their crafts. Dash was surprisingly amiable, but Tucker suspected it was mostly a front to impress Paulina, since the blond didn't talk directly to him, Sam or Danny.

Still, Tucker sure wasn't going to rock the boat. As long as the ol' Bone-Cruncher stayed docile, there'd be no issues.

Soon enough it was time to head home. Everyone gathered the finished decorations and piled them in front of Sam, like some kind of Halloween offering to their goth queen.

Tucker was happily surprised when Sam looked up and thanked everyone for helping out. Paulina grinned and hugged Sam before bouncing off with Dash and Star in tow.

Tucker walked over to his friend, who was looking down at the pile with a blank expression.

"Don't set it on fire." he smiled. "We worked hard on those."

"I'm not gonna torch them." Sam huffed, hands at her hips.

She gave Tucker the same odd look as the crafts, and Tucker was about to question it when Sam's eyes widened and she looked around the room.

"Hey, where's Danny?" she asked, already worried.

Tucker hadn't even noticed Danny's absence, and joined Sam in walking around the large room. As Sam moved toward the entrance, calling Danny's name, Tucker stepped over to the large windows.

"Sam," he immediately called. "He's over here."

The girl jogged to him as he walked toward the back door. Opening it, the two stepped out into the evening air and walked over to their lone friend, who was staring silently off toward the distant buildings that neighbored the school grounds.

"Hey, space cadet." Sam greeted, standing beside Danny. "What're you looking at?"

Danny didn't answer for a moment, but then raised a hand and pointed out toward where he was looking.

"There's ghosts flying around over there." he said. "They came close to the school earlier, bit I think they felt me here, because they left fast. They're still in the area, though."

"Really?" Sam asked, tense and on alert as her eyes swept the vicinity.

Tucker felt the same apprehension. They really didn't need another ghost attack. But one part of Danny's explanation grabbed Tucker's focus.

"What do you mean by 'they felt you here'?" he asked.

"Ghosts can sense-" both Danny and Sam began at the same time, only to stop short and blink at each other.

Sam shrugged sheepishly.

"Hey, I've been reading through tons of books on ghosts, remember?" she said.

"Yeah," Danny replied, looking surprised. "But who knew they'd actually get some of their information right."

"Not all of them are written by hacks." Sam countered with a frown. "Some of them have been very helpful, in fact."

Danny raised an eyebrow at her, and Tucker worried that he might insist on seeing the very book that Sam was obviously talking about. Tucker himself had only skimmed through the first chapter, but even that was full of enough theories that he doubted Danny would appreciate.

But Danny only turned his gaze back out, quiet once more.

"Okay guys, we should be heading home now." Tucker spoke up after several seconds of silence.

He turned back toward the door, only to groan at his own mistake. He'd forgotten to prop the door open, and thus had locked the three of them out of the building.

"What?" Sam asked, before realisation hit her as well.

"Great." she muttered. "Now how are we gonna get our stuff?"

"We can always come over early-" Tucker began to suggest.

Danny stepped between them, interrupting Tucker with a raised hand. Smiling, the teen then proceeded to stretch his arm out toward the door. As soon as his hand collided with the metal surface, it fell through, making it appear is if Danny's hand had been taken at the wrist.

His smile grew as Tucker smacked himself over the forehead.

"We're such idiots." Sam groaned.

"Yeah, kinda." Danny replied.

The others gave him annoyed looks, but couldn't help but share in the lifted mood, smiling as well. Despite Danny's increased weirdness, it was still easy to forget that he was actually a ghost, Tucker mused.

His thoughts and smile both froze as he saw Danny take Sam's hand before holding out his second for Tucker to take.

"Uh uh, no way." the boy protested, stepping back. "I said never again."

Danny gave Tucker an amused look before shrugging.

"Have it your way." he said, looking at Sam. "You ready?"

Sam nodded, doing her best not to look nervous.

Tucker watched as the two became translucent before Danny stepped through the school wall, pulling Sam in behind him. Tucker shivered at the memory of becoming intangible. The cold numbness and the inability to breathe greatly disturbed him. He wondered if that was how Danny felt all the time now. No wonder the kid was in a bad mood so often.

Standing alone at the back of the school was also not ideal, and Tucker cast his gaze around the empty area. Tiny dots of color caught his attention, and he squinted his eyes, trying to get a better look.

As Danny had said, small spirits could be seen flitting about around the distant buildings. Tucker was glad that most of said buildings were closed down old shops, otherwise people would surely be running around in a panic by now.

Danny appeared with Sam, fazing back through the building. Sam's arms were full of decorations while Danny held both his and Tuckers' bags. His attention focused immediately on the distant figures, and he held out Tucker's bag wordlessly.

Shrugging his own on, Danny began walking out across the grass toward the road. Sam called uselessly after him as she quickly folded up the papers and placed them within her backpack.

Tucker waited with her, watching Danny as he reached the sidewalk. Danny's posture didn't change much, and neither did his stride, but something had become off about him. It raised the hairs on the back of Tucker's neck, reminding him of that documentary Sam had made him watch once. A lioness had walked out toward a gathered group of zebra in much the same way. Like she was already calculating which angle was best to move in from, and which zebra looked like the optimal target.

Sam and Tucker jogged to catch up to their friend, and the little spots of color could be seen again further away, before once more turning invisible. Tucker wondered if they lacked the strength to go unseen for more than a few moments at a time. Sam's book had said something about smaller ghosts typically being weak.

As Danny neared them, they swirled rapidly through the air, shooting off and going invisible again. Danny responded by moving to stand behind a building, allowing his friends to catch up to him. He leaned against the brick wall, looking around for any potential pedestrians nearby.

"One of you look out there and tell me what you see." he said.

Both teens gave him matching odd looks, to which he shrugged.

"What? I don't want them to spot me." he reasoned.

"But they already sense you." Sam pointed out.

"Yeah, but they don't know exactly where I am, or they'd have run by now."

Sam moved to the corner of the building, stepping out into the open and casually looking around. She could see a couple walking into a store farther down, but no ghosts.

"I think they might already be running." she said, turning back to the boys.

Danny frowned, looking down at the ground in concentration.

"They are moving." he said, "Come on."

He stood away from the wall and proceeded to walk at a normal pace down the pavement, friends in tow. And then suddenly he turned a sharp right, heading down a long, narrow alley.

"This way." he called over his shoulder, breaking into a light jog.

The small passageway seemed to go on forever, the light dim, and Tucker fought off claustrophobia as he followed after Danny. The boy was obviously sensing that the ghosts were getting closer, his steps picking up speed more and more.

Tucker really hoped that Danny would remember that they were in public, and wouldn't automatically leap onto the first ghost he saw.

Danny burst out into the daylight, halting so abruptly that Sam and Tucker ran right into him. They lay on the ground in a stunned pile before Sam began righting herself.

Tucker shot up as soon as she was off him. Laying over Danny was like being on top of an ice sculpture, and he quickly began rubbing the warmth back into his arms.

Danny picked himself up without comment, his eyes turned toward the road.

Two figures walked down the sidewalk in their direction, not noticing the looks they got from passerbys as they searched about.

"Just great." Danny muttered lowly, frowning heavily toward his parents.

They hadn't spotted the group yet, too focused on tracking down their quarry.

'Probably the same ones Danny's after.' Tucker thought.

For a moment he wondered if Danny would duck back into the alley to avoid them, but instead the pale boy just shoved his hands into his pockets and walked toward them.

Maddie spotted him quickly, her determined expression lifting into a bright smile.

"Hi, sweetheart." she greeted, propping her ecto rifle against her hip so she could wave at them.

"What are you guys doing out here?" Danny asked, an accusatory undertone lacing through his words.

Thankfully Maddie didn't pick up on it, and Jack wasn't listening to the conversation as he continued down the road.

"We found another cluster of ghosts near the house." Maddie answered. "We've been following them since, but they keep managing to slip away. By the way, you should be heading home; it's getting late."

"Actually, I was gonna stay over at Sam's." Danny replied. "We still have her haunted house thing to work on."

The quick lie appeased his mother somewhat, but Maddie still gave the three a disapproving frown.

"Then you should be heading to Sam's home. It's going to be dark soon and I don't want you out on the streets."

"Got it, Mom." Danny said.

He quickly stepped around her, keeping out of arm's reach, and continued down the sidewalk.

Tucker and Sam gave quick goodbyes to the Fenton parents as they followed Danny, who was looking toward another alley.

Upon reaching it, he ducked into the shadows, glancing back at the adults before turning to his friends.

"There right here somewhere." he whispered.

Tucker really wanted to suggest that they just leave and go to Sam's place, but he knew he wouldn't be able to convince Danny to drop the pursuit. And Sam was too busy being supportive to side with Tucker, despite how much she didn't like the whole ghost-eat-ghost thing.

The concept itself didn't scare Tucker. Heck, he ate meat all the time, and figured it was kinda the same thing.

But the way Danny had changed when he'd eaten that ghost in Sam's room. Not just his eyes but his expression as well. Now that had scared Tucker, as much as he hated to admit it.

Pulled from his thoughts by the sound of Danny quietly cheering. Tucker spotted the boy, Sam close behind, near the end of the alleyway.

Danny suddenly went invisible, causing Sam to jump back slightly. She stood completely still, eyes looking around for any sign of movement.

Both teens startled when a group of little ghosts flew up from behind a discarded pile of boxes and began flying around. They obviously wanted to stick close, and spun together in random directions.

Now that he could view them up close, Tucker realised that they looked like little rats, in shades of dim green and sickly yellow.

A bright stream erupted from nowhere, and the tiny spirits gave warped squeaks as they flew past Sam and Tucker, back toward the street.

One, however, became caught in the beam, and was quickly pulled into the thermos. A now visible Danny capped the device and shoved it down into his backpack.

An ecto gun firing sounded not a moment after, and the three ran out into the open to watch Jack and Maddie. The former was firing off his weapon at the fleeing ghosts, while Maddie had lowered her rifle to the ground and was taking aim with her own thermos.

She managed to capture the remaining ghosts in two shots as they fled about in a panicked circle.

She capped the thermos with a satisfied smile, Jack grinning as he ran up to her.

"That's my gal!" he exclaimed. "Did you kids see that?"

"Sure did, Mr F." Tucker smiled back.

"Danny, did you use your thermos?" Maddie asked her son, who stood at the back of the trio.

"Yeah, but I missed." Danny shrugged. "We should head to Sam's now. It's getting dark out, after all. Bye!"

Danny gave a short wave to his mom before turning on the spot and walking quickly down the street.

Tucker internally winced as he followed. The Fenton adults were certainly distracted by their catch, but Danny should've tried to not be so obvious. Then again, Danny had been pretty obvious about his ghost status since the beginning, in Tucker's opinion, and no one had found out yet.

'This city is full of morons, I guess.' he thought.

Danny practically ran the entire way to Sam's house, casting impatient glances over his shoulder occasionally at Sam and Tucker, who lagged a few paces behind.

He didn't wait for them to catch up before entering the large house, fishing out the thermos as he climbed the stairs.

"Man, Danny, are you starving or something?" Tucker asked as he and Sam entered her room, locking the door behind.

The question made Danny look up sharply at them from his spot in the middle of the room.

"What? No, it's just…these opportunities don't exactly come around that often." he said, throwing his bag into a corner.

"Maybe that's going to change." Sam suggested, staring at the thermos. "There seems to be more and more ghosts popping up."

Tucker silently agreed, but was surprised when Sam's words only seemed to make Danny nervous.

He quickly turned his attention back to the thermos in his hands, and the mood in the room became tense. Most of it was coming from Sam, who stood half-turned toward the door, frozen in mid-decision.

"Sam, you get grossed out just from watching Tucker eat a burger." Danny said, rolling his eyes at her. "You don't have to stay in here. I won't cry over it."

The last bit was said with a teasing smile, easing Sam into a more relaxed stance. She still looked unsure, but then took a deep breath and turned, leaving the room quietly.

Tucker bottled up the urge to follow her as he locked the door once more, walking across the room and sitting down on her bed.

Danny looked at him briefly before uncapping the thermos, letting the lid drop to the floor with a bounce. He was turned away from Tucker, so that the other boy couldn't see his face.

Tucker could see, however, that he held his shoulders tensely, still nervous like he'd been the first time. Maybe he too was aware of the change that overcame him? The manic way that he had moved and the look he had worn on his face?

Tucker had subconsciously been bracing himself, hands digging into the blankets beneath him, and he jumped when Danny spoke up.

"You know you don't have to stick around, either." Danny's voice came quiet and steady, offering no hint as to what he might be thinking. "It's not like you could do much if it got away."

Tucker cast about for a joking comeback to explain why he was remaining in the room. His mind drew a blank, with not even a serious reply available to him. Tucker honestly had no clue why he didn't just join Sam in whatever room she was surely pacing around in.

The silence stretched out awkwardly, hovering over them both until Danny finally accepted the non-answer.

Pressing his thumb over the release button, light streamed out momentarily, before vanishing as a small green shape manifested on the floor.

Without hesitation, Danny took advantage of its confusion, reaching down and grabbing the creature around its middle. It squeaked and struggled as Danny held it up to eye level. He watched it for a moment, eyebrows drawing together.

"Stop whining." Danny said, frowning in agitation at the rat's increasingly loud shrieks. "You could be on your way to my parents' lab right now. You're the lucky one."

[thinkingaboutsanfrancisco]

Dodging my way through this drunken and dangerously inattentive congregation with only one guy backing up and almost bumping his drink into me, my eyes fixate on the white, retro-futuristic, chair on the corner by S and I rush to claim it as if the one to his right wasn’t also available. There’s a couple open, actually. It’s a long counter and more customers are concentrated on the other side, where there’s a spot designated for people standing around while waiting to get their not-free-at-all refills, and I’m grateful S picked a good spot. It’s a stretch to say it’s quiet over here, but it is quieter; the buzzing of voices is audible at least, so I think we’re further from the speakers, and we’re certainly tucked safely away from those godforsaken strobes. The soft violet and blue lights drenching the bar in dark calamity are enough to lull me into closing my eyes, briefly rubbing my lids and temples with my fingers as I try to calm down that raging headache and take solace in my resting spot. Thank God I’m not here solely to socialize with strangers, because I’m sure if I was sitting next to someone else, they’d probably be so offended by their proximity to my godawful posture that they’d make a point to comment on it and, while I wouldn’t do a damn thing about it, I wouldn’t bother blaming them either. Hunching my upper body over this counter like this is unsightly and the furthest from impeccable table manners, but it’s the only thing that’s comfortable to me right now. 

Don’t worry S, I won't kill our prospects. Just give me another second and I’ll leave.

Well, another two, but I realize that he’s been too occupied to keep count; adjusting himself in his seat and turning to reveal the slim menu he swiped from a spot or two down from him while brandishing a playfully large and bright grin like he’s committed the heist of the century before he catches my squint. I was only trying to figure out what the fuck he was doing, but he has the audacity to think I’m actually judging him for snatching it and I roll my eyes. 

That’s about the last thing anyone’s going to call the cops on here, man. 

Especially since he has to elaborate on what would draw the attention of any authorities, tapping his nose to unnecessarily further the point and...yeah, now I am judging him because that’s discreet, that’s real fucking discreet, S. Let’s flippantly announce to the entirety of this uncharted territory our mission statement before I can even pull anything off so we can either get kicked out, threaten anybody else who could be selling here, or, worst of all, have me thrown in fucking jail since I’m the one holding an 8-ball in my pocket. It’ll be quite the joking matter then, won’t it? 

I don’t know.

I don’t want to know and...and I’m not going to. I swear that I’m going to calm down, I’m going to get up out of this chair and take advantage of his gracious hint since...well, it is the best place to start and I’m going to make a lot of money and survive. I’m going to be okay, I will be, I just…need another second... 

Not like S cares. His job for the night is done. He’s gotten me here, he’s gotten me in, and has more than fulfilled his quota of embarrassing me for the night. Now his nose is deep in this menu, trying to find the perfect drink so he can celebrate. Lucky him. 

At the rate I’m going, I need a drink to even start mine. 

I scoff at my sardonicism because yeah right, I don’t drink. The mere scent of alcohol’s always made me gag and I’m nauseous enough as it is, but my throat is dryer than a desert from all of my hyperventilating so...I should at least get something else to drink. What that’s going to be is undetermined, but I’ll figure it out once he’s done with the menu. For someone as impulsive as S is, I’m surprised he didn’t go with the first thing he saw instead of engrossing himself in it like it’s a textbook like he has. Frankly, I’m surprised he bothered to look at all since he was so eager to get over here, but then again...this place is as new for him as it is for me. 

Sensing that, he brings the menu a little closer, angling it my way so we can look together and that’s when I get why he’s still studying. This thing is a textbook, filled with so many sections of different liquors that it’s rather overwhelming for someone who wants none of it. Merely reading about their beer and expensive wine offerings makes me sicker, whiskey sounds old and disgusting, I have no idea what the hell a cognac is, and the names of the cocktails are enough of a hieroglyphic on their own, much less whatever’s in them. The only thing that sounds remotely good is a rum and coke, but without the liquor so...basically a Coke, which, at least they have...

“What can I get you started on?”

Both of our eyes fly up at the bartender’s genial, patient but obviously expectant, smile but she’s focused directly om S, who’s beaming with excitement to tell her what he wants: a round of tequila shots...and whatever I want. 

Oh. 

Well, uh, I wasn’t...entirely ready, but he’s already directed her eyes towards me with his neon arrow of a finger and the pressure of the attention...fuck....what is he doing this for? What is he expecting me to say? What is he expecting me to make him pay for? What could I order to make it worth his while? What is she expecting me to have her make? A round of shots of my own? Something harder to ease how miserable I am? An actual rum and coke?  Why am I even contemplating it? I don’t drink. I fucking can’t…

“Yeah, uh…just a Coke, thanks,” I eventually order, flashing her the biggest grin of assurance that I can muster so she doesn’t press me on it. Ironically, this is one the most legal things I could do here, yet something about it feels almost felonious.   

I really don’t belong here, do I? 

S unintentionally points it out further with a joke at his own expense and my lips twist briefly in amusement because he does look like a real drunk in comparison, but I don’t have their capacity to find it that riotous. After all, he picked his own poisons here so I’m not going feel sorry for him for that and, ultimately, the bartender doesn’t either as she assures him that he’s far from the worst she’s seen before providing him his set of shots on a silver tray that already makes my modest Coke look even more silly and I haven’t even received the damn drink yet. Promptly, he takes out his wallet and pulls out a sleek credit card to formally arrange this tab, which she whisks away to do and leaves him to down one of the shots all while I just...sit here aimlessly, like the out of place kid I always am. 

It’s not that I want to get plastered nor that anyone outside of myself is necessarily preventing me from it, I just want to get it the fuck together and feel better so I can focus. I wish I had something to expedite that, something to make me feel easygoing and sociable like S and everyone else is here, something to bring me back down to Earth from my detrimental funk and get me through this night. Ideally, that little something would be a cigarette. My permanently festering craving’s worsening and I need to head out to the alley to satisfy it, but then I’d have to go through all of those people and have to get in the door again and God, that thought only makes me feel worse.  

“Well…” S begins and I look up at him right as he’s in the middle of downing another shot, which provides me a second to brace for the inevitable. Ready or not, this has to be my cue...

“If at any point in the night, you get tired of waiting for your Coke, I clearly have an excess of alcohol...” He offers, his shrug of nonchalance buying me just a little more time.  

Thanks, that’s very generous of you, but I don’t drink. I never have. I never wanted to...

Seventeen years of assurance primes the tip of my tongue with those words, but my eyes turn traitorous when they wander down to those remaining four tiny glasses of clear, clean, liquor that openly await my answer to his invitation. 

Before now. 

Their transparency is deceptive of what their true collective power can be, but individually they’re so small and can’t be too much to commit to. All it’d take is one quick swig and I’d get a taste of what I want. I’d get what I need...

“Thanks, that’s very generous of you, but...I’ll just take one. For good luck, y’know?” I tell him while I pick up my glass, attempting to still the nervous waver in my grin so he can see the gratitude beneath it. He didn’t have to share. Why did he? Is my misery that fucking noticeable? 

Must be. 

That would disgust me more if it weren’t for the tequila’s pungent smell wafting up my nose as I bring the rim of the glass to my lips and God...God, God, God, God... it’s---oh Christ, it’s that awful. How the fuck can S stand this? Not only that, how can he drink it without the slightest flinch? It’s so acridly acidic that I have to pinch my nose, which leads to my eyes closing as tight as I can when the bittersweetness cloaks my tongue and burns all the way down my throat. Not in the rough but ultimately benign way that carbonation does either; this lingers until it blisters, setting all of my senses ablaze with all of the raw, cutting, clarity of a slap in the face. My cheeks are boiling...everything in my body is and my first gasp for air fuels the pain like salt piling in the venomous bite’s wound.

The clink of my empty glass against the counter startles my eyes open again and I’m met with this unexpected sea of orange and yellow ravishing the pillars and bar like flames. I’m so hot that they feel like real ones to me, but it’s only the lights, which have changed to match the next song and... I groan when I recognize who’s responsible for the awful noise. It’s not hard since he fucking announces his presence with the stupid and inaccurate nickname he gave himself in the first fucking line. Mr. Worldwide? He’s been stuck rapping about  Miami and fucking every woman in it for the last decade! Yet, out of all of the artists, I don’t think there’s anyone more unfortunately appropriate than Pitbull to accompany my gross reeling:

Tell her, tell her baby, baby, baby, baby, baby, baby, baby, baby, baby I'm on fire.

[summer-binging-spn]

Gone

Word Count: 733 (Before lyrics)

Pairing: Lucifer x Reader

Tags: @lucifer-in-leather @ravengirl94 @wayward-mirage @helvonasche @mamaredd123 @myplaceofthingsilove

Warnings: Angsty, spoilers?, that’s about it.

Author’s Note: This is my very first time writing Lucifer, it’s kinda bleh and I’m so sorry about that. Please leave me feedback on things you liked, things I could improve on! Thank you for reading! This is my fic for @meganwinchester1999 ‘s 300 follower chllenge, congratulations! I’m so sorry I’m so late! I got the song Irresistable by Fall Out Boy.

Masterlist

Coming in unannounced, drag my nails on the tile

I just followed your scent, you can just follow my smile

All of your flaws are aligned with this mood of mine

Cutting me to the bone, nothing left to leave behind

“Hello Y/n,”  voice cuts through the thunder and lightning making you look up at him. His eyes glowing, the rest of his face dark.

“I’ve missed you,” you whisper, anger flaring at the thought of the last time you saw him.

“I know, I couldn’t come when I wanted to, I didn’t want them to find you or me,” he whispers, trying to soothe you.

“How did you find me?” you ask, thinking of the sigils Cas had given you.

“I followed your scent,” he grins.

“If you say so,” you mumble, rolling your eyes.

“The tattoo artist slightly messed up this one,” he says rubbing his hand over your shoulder.

“Damn it,” you mutter.

“I honestly thought I had killed you for good, it would’ve been one of my biggest mistakes,” he admits.

“I was thoroughly upset when Cas brought me back, I was content being dead,” you whisper.

You ought to keep me concealed just like I was a weapon

I didn't come for a fight but I will fight till the end

And this one might be a battle, might not turn out okay

You know you look so Seattle, but you feel so LA

 “I don’t want to fight with you,” you say cautiously.

“Why not? I thought you were a fighter,” Lucifer taunts.

“I don’t like fighting, but if I have to I will,” you whisper.

“Just tell me, why would you think it’s okay to sleep with Crowley?” he demands holding you against the wall.

“You were in the cage,” you struggle to breathe as his hands close around your throat.

“That’s no excuse,” he growls.

“Luci I’m sorry, he wasn’t even that good,” you cry and try to pry his fingers off your throat.

“You slept with him though,” he growls and throws you. You hit the opposing wall with a thud and lay on the floor.

“I love you, I’m sorry,” you whimper.

“You will be,” he growls.

And I love the way you hurt me

It's irresistible, yeah

I love the way, I love the way

I love the way you hurt me, baby

I love the way, I love the way

I love the way you hurt me, baby

You pull your legs underneath you in the booth and continue to research the monster you’re hunting.

“Hello,” Lucifer interrupts your concentration and you glare at him through your eyelashes.

“What do you want?” you demand.

“I wish for you to love me once again,” he whispers reaching across the table clasping your hand in his.

“Love isn’t something you can turn on and off, you could kill me again and if I came back I’d still love you. I would be upset, but I’d love you,” you say softly.

“I have a deeply affection for you,” he says and moves beside you.

“You hurt me,” you whisper, thinking back to his hands on your neck and you teach up to trace the bruises he left.

“I regret that,” he whispers, reaching towards your neck.

“Don't touch me,” you bark and shove him away.

“You love me, let me fix it,” he whispers.

“Fine,” you whisper and allow him to heal you.

I'm gonna get you to burst just like you were a bubble

Frame me up on your wall just to keep me out of trouble

Like a moth getting trapped in the light by fixation

Truly free, love it baby, I'm talking no inflation

Too many war wounds and not enough wars

Too few rounds in the ring and not enough settled scores

Too many sharks, not enough blood in the waves

You know I give my love a f-f-four letter na-na-name

“I'm going to place you in a picture frame so you cannot injure yourself,” Lucifer grumbles as he inspects your wounds.  You watch him as he heals you, the light coming from his hand and you reach towards his hand.

“I love you Luci,” you grin.

“Why must you call me Luci?” He groans.

“Because I adore you and calling you Lucifer seems so formal,” you say.

“You are too young to have this many scars,” he whispers.

“I'll be okay,” you mumble.

“And you have too many conflicts that have yet to be settled,” he mumbles.

“I'm fine Luci,” you say and hug him.

And I love the way you hurt me

It's irresistible, yeah

I love the way, I love the way

I love the way you hurt me, baby

I love the way, I love the way

I love the way you hurt me, baby

“Lucifer please don't,” you whisper and with a snap the poor woman is dead.

“She deserved to die,” he says.

“Why? She was innocent, she had nothing to do with this life,” you cry at him.

“She was in the way,” he barks and snaps you back to the hotel.

You're second hand smoke, second hand smoke

I breathe you in, but, honey, I don't know what you're doing to me

Mon chéri, but the truth catches up with us eventually

Try to say live, live and let live

But I'm no good, good at lip service

Except when they're yours, mi amor

I'm coming for you and I'm making war

“Lucifer I can't handle this anymore,” you sniffle into his chest, closing your eyes to the carnage around you.

“I know,” he whispers, rubbing your back.

“I can't,”you whimper.

“Maybe it's time to get you out,” he whispers, avoiding your gaze.

“I can't leave you,” you say.

“It would be the best thing for you, you wouldn't hurt anymore,” he states.

“I'll go,” you whisper and allow him to set you up in a new house.

And I still love the way you hurt me

It's irresistible, yeah

I love the way, I love the way

I love the way you hurt me, baby

I love the way, I love the way

I love the way you hurt me, baby

You dance around your new kitchen with Lucifer as you bake muffins.

“I cannot believe you asked me here,” he smiles.

“I missed you, I haven't seen you in months. I miss hunting too,” you admit.

“You wish to go back into that horrible lifestyle that will kill you?” he demands.

“Luci it won't kill me, I won't take big cases. Just salt and burns,” you promise.

“Don't pray to me when you are bleeding out,” he bites and is gone again.

[flauntpage]

Tactical Guide to Vasyl Lomachenko vs. Guillermo Rigondeaux

Tomorrow night Madison Square Garden will play host to a fight between two of the greatest boxers of the modern era. Between them they boast four Olympic gold medals, numerous world titles, and an armada of forum threads arguing over which man is the greatest pound-for-pound boxer today. Since the moment it was announced, this meeting between Guillermo Rigondeaux and Vasyl Lomachenko has been the must-see event of the fight fan’s winter season.

While it is technically true that this fight is taking place at Madison Square Garden, it is more accurately going to happen in The Theatre at Madison Square Garden—a considerably smaller venue. It is also being broadcast for free on ESPN rather than on pay-per-view—which would seem bizarre to those who know the quality of the fighters involved. Both of these decisions reflect the nature of the fight: it is one between the darlings of the hardcore fans and press, but it remains to be seen how much interest it can attract from outsiders. That might seem to be rubbing salt into the wounds in the year of "The Money Fight," but one cannot tell Guillermo Rigondeaux’s story without touching on his promotional woes and his status as perhaps the most under-appreciated fighter in combat sports today.

The Invisible Champion

After winning a pair of Olympic gold medals, Rigondeaux defected from his native Cuba and went professional in 2009. Winning the WBA-NABA super bantamweight title in just his third fight, Rigo was picked up by Top Rank and the future seemed bright. In 2013 Top Rank was able to work him into a career making match up with super-bantamweight star, Nonito Donaire. It was the most exciting knockout artist in the lower weightclasses versus a slick ring tactician—what could possibly go wrong? Well, Rigondeaux won convincingly by being the defensive savant he was billed as. Many fans hated it, some of the press weren’t enamored, and even Bob Arum—owner of Top Rank and Rigondeaux’s own promoter—was struggling to work out what he was going to do with Rigo. Arum mused:

“If Rigondeaux would stand and fight, [he] has a lot of power and a lot of skills, but running the way he does really makes it not a watchable fight.” Arum then foreshadowed Rigondeaux’s coming promotional woes by remarking: “I don't know what I'm gonna do […] I have to look for someone to fight him. He's one of the best defensive fighters I've ever seen, but it's not a very pleasing style. He's a very good fighter, but it's not pleasing, so we will have to see.”

Two fights later Top Rank and Rigondeaux had gone their separate ways. Since beating Donaire for the WBA and lineal super bantamweight titles in April 2013, Rigondeaux has fought infrequently and to the applause of only those who work to seek him out. When he met Jazza Dickens, in his sole fight of 2016 at an ice rink in Wales with a capacity crowd of 3,000 people, it became abundantly clear that Rigondeaux is the worst promoted elite talent in boxing. It didn’t help that many of Rigondeaux’s more exciting fights ended under bizarre circumstances. An accidental headbutt turned into a Mayweather-esque glove touch to knockout punch against Sod Kokietgym. After a tentative two rounds against Jazza Dickens, the fight was called off unspectacularly on the stool between rounds as Dickens’s jaw was broken. And in Rigo’s most recent victory (now a No Contest), he hit Moises Flores after the bell in the first round and Flores paused for a moment’s consideration, before dropping to the mat and seeking the disqualification. It seemed as though even Rigo’s knockouts couldn’t please a crowd.

Complaining that fans just don’t appreciate Rigondeaux’s style is old hat. A sportswriter is required to either call him a boring fighter who lacks killer instinct, or provide an impassioned rant insisting that anyone who doesn’t enjoy his fights clearly cannot know shit about boxing. The truth is, of course, that you can appreciate his genius and still wish he cared more about entertaining the crowds who could make him exceptionally wealthy if he were something more like Donaire.

For the fan trying to come to terms with what makes Rigondeaux so good: it is largely his sense of distance and his excellent left hand which seems to just go to openings without an effort from Rigondeaux himself. You will notice that it is very hard for fighters to effectively attack in combination against Rigondeaux because of his constant expanding of range when they attack, and stepping out the side door as soon as they get close. It is bread-and-butter boxing done very, very well.

There are a couple of stranger quirks to Rigo’s game that come out from fight to fight. The first is his cross step. Cutting the lead foot across the rear one and then stepping deep to that side to change angle—a useful means of escape and of getting off to the open side to line up a left straight. It involves the fighter sacrificing balance and the ability to hit for a moment so you won’t see it much. Were the "pivot blow," as Bob Fitzsimmons called it, still legal you would see it more.

Former Bellator light heavyweight champion Emanuel Newton used the cross step to set up spinning backhands in MMA.

When he’s feeling flashy, Rigondeaux will also begin slowly shadow boxing in front of his opponent, then change up the tempo to hammer them with a real punch. This is similar to the concept of milling the hands before launching into a jab—the hands are already in motion and simply change speed when the fighter wants to strike, rather than performing a cold start.

Angles for Days

Vasyl Lomachenko also owns two Olympic gold medals, making them rather blasé in this bout. Debuting as a professional six months after Rigondeaux defeated Donaire, Lomachenko has run his record to 9-1. Winning the WBO featherweight title in his third fight, Lomachenko stole the show on the undercard of Mayweather-Pacquiao as he boxed the ears of Gamalier Rodriguez. Lomachenko actually fought for the WBO title in just his second professional fight in attempt to do one better than Rigondeaux, but was roughed up by Orlando Salido in a performance which has been widely criticized as "dirty," or praised as "savvy." Salido introduced Lomachenko to the less than sporting world of the pro game, landing perfect right hooks and uppercuts to Lomachenko’s cup whenever Lomachenko’s back was obscuring the view of the referee.

Since that Salido fight, Lomachenko has been flawless. A sharp jab and southpaw left straight are good weapons on the outside, but Lomachenko does his best work cutting angles and letting his hands go in mid-range. "Angles" is the most overused term in combat sports, but Lomachenko’s are as vibrant and in your face as they can get. Stepping outside of his opponent’s lead foot he will pivot around them—often accompanied by a slapping right hook—and hammer them as they turn. The left uppercut to the solar plexus or under the jaw is his best blow in this situation and it works a treat. The opponent turns with his hands high to avoid being blindsided, and eats a blow straight up the center of his guard as he does so. Often that same right hook will follow and in many of his fights Lomachenko will continue his step, turn, fire sequence two or even three times in a row against a panicked opponent.

Another nice aspect of Lomachenko’s game is his control of the opponent’s head. Wrestling within boxing has always been an under-appreciated facet of the game but you only need to watch Floyd Mayweather’s bouts to realize that grabbing a hold of the opponent or leaning on them can hinder a fighter’s offense far more easily than attempting to block or slip each shot. Where Mayweather loves to lean on the back of his opponent’s head and then nail them if they slip out towards his armpit, Lomachenko will intentionally pass his opponent under his armpit at any time they duck down. Offensively, it can be used to line up punches as the opponent stands up. Defensively it allows Lomachenko to break away from his opponent and reset a few steps away.

The Match Up

Both Rigondeaux and Lomachenko are southpaws who enjoy surprising the many orthodox fighters they meet with unusual open guard looks: Rigo with his cross steps, Lomachenko with his pivots past the front foot. But both also hold vast wells of amateur experienced that they can draw on and are hardly going to be stumped for ideas when meeting another southpaw. Rigondeaux is three inches shorter, though he has a couple of inches in reach—ultimately meaning that neither man has a distinct natural advantage of range. What is interesting is that the bout is being contested at junior lightweight (or super featherweight, for the pessimists) which has a cut off of 130 lbs. Lomachenko has been competing at junior lightweight since last year, but Rigondeaux is coming up from super bantamweight (122lbs) where he is the champion. Rigondeaux looked undersized in some of his bouts in his home division—such as when he was dwarfed by Hisashi Amagasa, but has apparently been packing on some muscle for this contest.

For Rigondeaux it seems likely that the strategy will be the same as it has been in almost all of his fights: limit the exchanges, maintain the range, and only close to land his one or two good shots before returning to range. A slower paced fight is more in Rigondeaux’s wheelhouse—though as he is a gifted counter puncher it is of course the threat of his blows which settles his opponents into a slower pace, rather than no one having thought to put the pace on him. If there is one thing that Lomachenko does well, it’s drive a high pace but as a result he rarely escapes his fights unmarked as Rigondeaux does.

The southpaw versus southpaw match up will give both men a lot more opportunity to play with their jab. In an open guard engagement work must be done to either move the lead hand or shoot inside or outside of it. The angles match up better for jabbing when both men are in the same stance. Conversely this makes it a little harder to land clean rear straights as the shoulder and back can be placed in the way where before the fighter was shooting into the open side. As Rigondeaux scores many of his points by pot-shotting with the left hand, it will be interesting to see what adjustments he makes against Lomachenko—whether he can force the left hand leads just as well or if he falls back more on the jab.

Lomachenko might look to score with his jab on the outside, he does so decently against orthodox fighters, but his best blows always come after he has stepped into range and out of the side door. While going past the lead foot against orthodox fighters is his most common and colorful angle change, he has shown that he is happy to go both ways regardless of stance. In the few moments in his fights that Rigo gets nasty, he will often hold a collar tie with the right hand and blast in left uppercuts before breaking off with an overhand. Any time the two get close enough to exchange, it might well be worth Rigondeaux looking to grab the collar tie both to frustrate Lomachenko with rough-house tactics, but also to prevent him from stepping around to the side. That constant side-stepping is what forces Lomachenko’s opponents to play catch up in exchanges rather than work their own offense.

Continuing on that theme, Rigondeaux is hard to hit with a handful of rice but a couple of the occasions where he has been hit clean show a theme. Both Amagasa and Dickens were able to hammer Rigondeaux as he was standing up out of a crouch, and Dickens as he believed he was entering a clinch.

Going to Rigondeaux with feints and double jabs, encouraging the slip and then leaning on him might be a smart move for Lomachenko. Releasing Rigondeaux and looking for the lead hook as he comes up, or using the rear uppercut to stand him up for the lead hook as he comes up, might provide some chances to crack the Cuban with a good punch. Either way, against an evasive opponent who leans deep, the double jab can be a life saver—keeping the advancing fighter relatively safe and uncommitted while drawing the intention out of the defensive fighter without the need for a power punch.

Ultimately, each man’s ideal fight is the polar opposite of his opponent’s. If Lomachenko can drive the pace up and actually work some combinations and his brilliant bodywork, he stands a good chance of making the smaller, 37-year-old veteran tire. If Rigondeaux’s footwork and counter punches—along with the odd clinch entry to smother Lomachenko mid flurry—can prevent Lomachenko from working a pace effectively, Rigondeaux stands a great chance of outpointing Lomachenko. The chances are that Lomachenko’s perfect fight results in a more fan-friendly experience but if you have made it this far, the chances are you’re here for the sweet science and not so much the blood.

Whatever happens Saturday night, the winner will probably be touted as the pound-for-pound best fighter alive for the coming years. Get back here on Monday and we’ll discuss how the fight went and all the fallout.

Pick up Jack’s book, Notorious: The Life and Fights of Conor McGregor and follow him on Twitter @JackSlackMMA.

Tactical Guide to Vasyl Lomachenko vs. Guillermo Rigondeaux published first on http://ift.tt/2pLTmlv

[amtushinfosolutionspage]

Tactical Guide to Vasyl Lomachenko vs. Guillermo Rigondeaux

Tomorrow night Madison Square Garden will play host to a fight between two of the greatest boxers of the modern era. Between them they boast four Olympic gold medals, numerous world titles, and an armada of forum threads arguing over which man is the greatest pound-for-pound boxer today. Since the moment it was announced, this meeting between Guillermo Rigondeaux and Vasyl Lomachenko has been the must-see event of the fight fan’s winter season.

While it is technically true that this fight is taking place at Madison Square Garden, it is more accurately going to happen in The Theatre at Madison Square Garden—a considerably smaller venue. It is also being broadcast for free on ESPN rather than on pay-per-view—which would seem bizarre to those who know the quality of the fighters involved. Both of these decisions reflect the nature of the fight: it is one between the darlings of the hardcore fans and press, but it remains to be seen how much interest it can attract from outsiders. That might seem to be rubbing salt into the wounds in the year of “The Money Fight,” but one cannot tell Guillermo Rigondeaux’s story without touching on his promotional woes and his status as perhaps the most under-appreciated fighter in combat sports today.

The Invisible Champion

After winning a pair of Olympic gold medals, Rigondeaux defected from his native Cuba and went professional in 2009. Winning the WBA-NABA super bantamweight title in just his third fight, Rigo was picked up by Top Rank and the future seemed bright. In 2013 Top Rank was able to work him into a career making match up with super-bantamweight star, Nonito Donaire. It was the most exciting knockout artist in the lower weightclasses versus a slick ring tactician—what could possibly go wrong? Well, Rigondeaux won convincingly by being the defensive savant he was billed as. Many fans hated it, some of the press weren’t enamored, and even Bob Arum—owner of Top Rank and Rigondeaux’s own promoter—was struggling to work out what he was going to do with Rigo. Arum mused:

“If Rigondeaux would stand and fight, [he] has a lot of power and a lot of skills, but running the way he does really makes it not a watchable fight.” Arum then foreshadowed Rigondeaux’s coming promotional woes by remarking: “I don’t know what I’m gonna do […] I have to look for someone to fight him. He’s one of the best defensive fighters I’ve ever seen, but it’s not a very pleasing style. He’s a very good fighter, but it’s not pleasing, so we will have to see.”

Two fights later Top Rank and Rigondeaux had gone their separate ways. Since beating Donaire for the WBA and lineal super bantamweight titles in April 2013, Rigondeaux has fought infrequently and to the applause of only those who work to seek him out. When he met Jazza Dickens, in his sole fight of 2016 at an ice rink in Wales with a capacity crowd of 3,000 people, it became abundantly clear that Rigondeaux is the worst promoted elite talent in boxing. It didn’t help that many of Rigondeaux’s more exciting fights ended under bizarre circumstances. An accidental headbutt turned into a Mayweather-esque glove touch to knockout punch against Sod Kokietgym. After a tentative two rounds against Jazza Dickens, the fight was called off unspectacularly on the stool between rounds as Dickens’s jaw was broken. And in Rigo’s most recent victory (now a No Contest), he hit Moises Flores after the bell in the first round and Flores paused for a moment’s consideration, before dropping to the mat and seeking the disqualification. It seemed as though even Rigo’s knockouts couldn’t please a crowd.

Complaining that fans just don’t appreciate Rigondeaux’s style is old hat. A sportswriter is required to either call him a boring fighter who lacks killer instinct, or provide an impassioned rant insisting that anyone who doesn’t enjoy his fights clearly cannot know shit about boxing. The truth is, of course, that you can appreciate his genius and still wish he cared more about entertaining the crowds who could make him exceptionally wealthy if he were something more like Donaire.

For the fan trying to come to terms with what makes Rigondeaux so good: it is largely his sense of distance and his excellent left hand which seems to just go to openings without an effort from Rigondeaux himself. You will notice that it is very hard for fighters to effectively attack in combination against Rigondeaux because of his constant expanding of range when they attack, and stepping out the side door as soon as they get close. It is bread-and-butter boxing done very, very well.

There are a couple of stranger quirks to Rigo’s game that come out from fight to fight. The first is his cross step. Cutting the lead foot across the rear one and then stepping deep to that side to change angle—a useful means of escape and of getting off to the open side to line up a left straight. It involves the fighter sacrificing balance and the ability to hit for a moment so you won’t see it much. Were the “pivot blow,” as Bob Fitzsimmons called it, still legal you would see it more.

Former Bellator light heavyweight champion Emanuel Newton used the cross step to set up spinning backhands in MMA.

When he’s feeling flashy, Rigondeaux will also begin slowly shadow boxing in front of his opponent, then change up the tempo to hammer them with a real punch. This is similar to the concept of milling the hands before launching into a jab—the hands are already in motion and simply change speed when the fighter wants to strike, rather than performing a cold start.

Angles for Days

Vasyl Lomachenko also owns two Olympic gold medals, making them rather blasé in this bout. Debuting as a professional six months after Rigondeaux defeated Donaire, Lomachenko has run his record to 9-1. Winning the WBO featherweight title in his third fight, Lomachenko stole the show on the undercard of Mayweather-Pacquiao as he boxed the ears of Gamalier Rodriguez. Lomachenko actually fought for the WBO title in just his second professional fight in attempt to do one better than Rigondeaux, but was roughed up by Orlando Salido in a performance which has been widely criticized as “dirty,” or praised as “savvy.” Salido introduced Lomachenko to the less than sporting world of the pro game, landing perfect right hooks and uppercuts to Lomachenko’s cup whenever Lomachenko’s back was obscuring the view of the referee.

Since that Salido fight, Lomachenko has been flawless. A sharp jab and southpaw left straight are good weapons on the outside, but Lomachenko does his best work cutting angles and letting his hands go in mid-range. “Angles” is the most overused term in combat sports, but Lomachenko’s are as vibrant and in your face as they can get. Stepping outside of his opponent’s lead foot he will pivot around them—often accompanied by a slapping right hook—and hammer them as they turn. The left uppercut to the solar plexus or under the jaw is his best blow in this situation and it works a treat. The opponent turns with his hands high to avoid being blindsided, and eats a blow straight up the center of his guard as he does so. Often that same right hook will follow and in many of his fights Lomachenko will continue his step, turn, fire sequence two or even three times in a row against a panicked opponent.

Another nice aspect of Lomachenko’s game is his control of the opponent’s head. Wrestling within boxing has always been an under-appreciated facet of the game but you only need to watch Floyd Mayweather’s bouts to realize that grabbing a hold of the opponent or leaning on them can hinder a fighter’s offense far more easily than attempting to block or slip each shot. Where Mayweather loves to lean on the back of his opponent’s head and then nail them if they slip out towards his armpit, Lomachenko will intentionally pass his opponent under his armpit at any time they duck down. Offensively, it can be used to line up punches as the opponent stands up. Defensively it allows Lomachenko to break away from his opponent and reset a few steps away.

The Match Up

Both Rigondeaux and Lomachenko are southpaws who enjoy surprising the many orthodox fighters they meet with unusual open guard looks: Rigo with his cross steps, Lomachenko with his pivots past the front foot. But both also hold vast wells of amateur experienced that they can draw on and are hardly going to be stumped for ideas when meeting another southpaw. Rigondeaux is three inches shorter, though he has a couple of inches in reach—ultimately meaning that neither man has a distinct natural advantage of range. What is interesting is that the bout is being contested at junior lightweight (or super featherweight, for the pessimists) which has a cut off of 130 lbs. Lomachenko has been competing at junior lightweight since last year, but Rigondeaux is coming up from super bantamweight (122lbs) where he is the champion. Rigondeaux looked undersized in some of his bouts in his home division—such as when he was dwarfed by Hisashi Amagasa, but has apparently been packing on some muscle for this contest.

For Rigondeaux it seems likely that the strategy will be the same as it has been in almost all of his fights: limit the exchanges, maintain the range, and only close to land his one or two good shots before returning to range. A slower paced fight is more in Rigondeaux’s wheelhouse—though as he is a gifted counter puncher it is of course the threat of his blows which settles his opponents into a slower pace, rather than no one having thought to put the pace on him. If there is one thing that Lomachenko does well, it’s drive a high pace but as a result he rarely escapes his fights unmarked as Rigondeaux does.

The southpaw versus southpaw match up will give both men a lot more opportunity to play with their jab. In an open guard engagement work must be done to either move the lead hand or shoot inside or outside of it. The angles match up better for jabbing when both men are in the same stance. Conversely this makes it a little harder to land clean rear straights as the shoulder and back can be placed in the way where before the fighter was shooting into the open side. As Rigondeaux scores many of his points by pot-shotting with the left hand, it will be interesting to see what adjustments he makes against Lomachenko—whether he can force the left hand leads just as well or if he falls back more on the jab.

Lomachenko might look to score with his jab on the outside, he does so decently against orthodox fighters, but his best blows always come after he has stepped into range and out of the side door. While going past the lead foot against orthodox fighters is his most common and colorful angle change, he has shown that he is happy to go both ways regardless of stance. In the few moments in his fights that Rigo gets nasty, he will often hold a collar tie with the right hand and blast in left uppercuts before breaking off with an overhand. Any time the two get close enough to exchange, it might well be worth Rigondeaux looking to grab the collar tie both to frustrate Lomachenko with rough-house tactics, but also to prevent him from stepping around to the side. That constant side-stepping is what forces Lomachenko’s opponents to play catch up in exchanges rather than work their own offense.

Continuing on that theme, Rigondeaux is hard to hit with a handful of rice but a couple of the occasions where he has been hit clean show a theme. Both Amagasa and Dickens were able to hammer Rigondeaux as he was standing up out of a crouch, and Dickens as he believed he was entering a clinch.

Going to Rigondeaux with feints and double jabs, encouraging the slip and then leaning on him might be a smart move for Lomachenko. Releasing Rigondeaux and looking for the lead hook as he comes up, or using the rear uppercut to stand him up for the lead hook as he comes up, might provide some chances to crack the Cuban with a good punch. Either way, against an evasive opponent who leans deep, the double jab can be a life saver—keeping the advancing fighter relatively safe and uncommitted while drawing the intention out of the defensive fighter without the need for a power punch.

Ultimately, each man’s ideal fight is the polar opposite of his opponent’s. If Lomachenko can drive the pace up and actually work some combinations and his brilliant bodywork, he stands a good chance of making the smaller, 37-year-old veteran tire. If Rigondeaux’s footwork and counter punches—along with the odd clinch entry to smother Lomachenko mid flurry—can prevent Lomachenko from working a pace effectively, Rigondeaux stands a great chance of outpointing Lomachenko. The chances are that Lomachenko’s perfect fight results in a more fan-friendly experience but if you have made it this far, the chances are you’re here for the sweet science and not so much the blood.

Whatever happens Saturday night, the winner will probably be touted as the pound-for-pound best fighter alive for the coming years. Get back here on Monday and we’ll discuss how the fight went and all the fallout.

Pick up Jack’s book, Notorious: The Life and Fights of Conor McGregor and follow him on Twitter @JackSlackMMA.

Tactical Guide to Vasyl Lomachenko vs. Guillermo Rigondeaux syndicated from http://ift.tt/2ug2Ns6

[anavoliselenu]

Release me chapter 2

“I mean it, Selena,” Carl says, as soon as he’s put some distance between us and our hostess. “What the fuck was that?”

“I don’t know.”

“Bullshit,” he snaps. “Have you met before? Did you piss him off? Did you apply for a job with him before me? What the hell did you do, Nichole?”

I cringe against the use of my given name. “It’s not me,” I say, because I want that to be the truth. “He’s famous. He’s eccentric. He was rude, but it wasn’t personal. How the hell could it have been?” I can hear my voice rising, and I force myself to tamp it down. To breathe.

I squeeze my left hand into a fist so tight my fingernails cut into my palm. I focus on the pain, on the simple process of breathing. I need to be cool. I need to be calm. I can’t let the Social Selena facade slip away.

Beside me, Carl runs his fingers through his hair and sucks in a noisy breath. “I need a drink. Come on.”

“I’m fine, thanks.” I am a long way from fine, but what I want right then is to be alone. Or as alone as I can be in a room full of people.

I can see that he wants to argue. I can also see that he hasn’t yet decided what he’s going to do. Approach Stark again? Leave the party and pretend it never happened? “Fine,” he growls. He stalks off, and I can hear his muttered “Shit,” as he disappears into the crowd.

I exhale, the tension in my shoulders slipping away. I head toward the balcony, but stop once I see that my private spot has been discovered. At least eight people mingle there, chatting and smiling. I am not in a chatty, smiley mood.

I veer toward one of the freestanding easels and stare blankly at the painting. It depicts a nude woman kneeling on a hard tile floor. Her arms are raised above her head, her wrists bound by a red ribbon.

The ribbon is attached to a chain that rises vertically out of the painting, and there is tension in her arms, as if she’s tugging downward, trying to get free. Her stomach is smooth, her back arched so that the lines of her rib cage show. Her breasts are small, and the erect nipples and tight brown areolae glow under the artist’s skill.

Her face is not so prominent. It’s tilted away, shrouded in gray. I’m left with the impression that the model is ashamed of her arousal. That she would break free if she could. But she can’t.

She’s trapped there, her pleasure and her shame on display for all the world.

My own skin prickles and I realize that this girl and I have something in common. I’d felt a sensual power crash over me, and I’d reveled in it.

Then Stark had shut it off, as quickly as if he’d flipped a switch. And like that model I was left feeling awkward and ashamed.

Well, fuck him. That twit on the canvas might be embarrassed, but I wasn’t going to be. I’d seen the heat in his eyes, and it had turned me on. Period. End of story. Time to move on.

I look hard at the woman on the canvas. She’s weak. I don’t like her, and I don’t like the painting.

I start to move away, my own confidence restored—and I collide with none other than Justin Stark himself.

Well, shit.

His hand slides against my waist in an effort to steady me. I back away quickly, but not before my mind processes the feel of him. He’s lean and hard, and I’m uncomfortably aware of the places where my body collided with his. My palm. My breasts. The curve of my waist tingles from the lingering shock of his touch.

“Ms. Fairchild.” He’s looking straight at me, his eyes neither flat nor cold. I realize that I have stopped breathing.

I clear my throat and flash a polite smile. The kind that quietly says “Fuck off.”

“I owe you an apology.”

Oh.

“Yes,” I say, surprised. “You do.”

I wait, but he says nothing else. Instead, he turns his attention to the painting. “It’s an interesting image. But you would have made a much better model.”

What the …?

“That’s the worst apology I’ve ever heard.”

He indicates the model’s face. “She’s weak,” he says, and I forget all about the apology. I’m too intrigued by the way his words echo my earlier thoughts. “I suppose some people might be drawn to the contrast. Desire and shame. But I prefer something bolder. A more confident sensuality.”

He looks at me as he says this last, and I’m not sure if he’s finally apologizing for snubbing me, complimenting my composure, or being completely inappropriate. I decide to consider his words a compliment and go from there. It may not be the safest approach, but it’s the most flattering.

“I’m delighted you think so,” I say. “But I’m not the model type.”

He takes a step back and with slow deliberation looks me up and down. His inspection seems to last for hours, though it must take only seconds. The air between us crackles, and I want to move toward him, to close the gap between us again. But I stay rooted to the spot.

He lingers for a moment on my lips before finally lifting his head to meet my eyes, and that is when I move. I can’t help it. I’m drawn in by the force and pressure of the tempest building in those damnable eyes.

“No,” he says simply.

At first I’m confused, thinking that he’s protesting my proximity. Then I realize he’s responding to my comment about not being the model type.

“You are,” he continues. “But not like this—splashed across a canvas for all the world to see, belonging to no one and everyone.” His head tilts slightly to the left, as if he’s trying out a new perspective on me. “No,” he murmurs again, but this time he doesn’t elaborate.

I am not prone to blushing, and I’m mortified to realize that my cheeks are burning. For someone who just a few moments ago mentally told this man to fuck off, I am doing a piss-poor job of keeping the upper hand. “I was hoping to have the chance to talk to you this evening,” I say.

His brow lifts ever so slightly, giving him an expression of polite amusement. “Oh?”

“I’m one of your fellowship recipients. I wanted to say thank you.”

He doesn’t say a word.

I soldier on. “I worked my way through college, so the fellowship helped tremendously. I don’t think I could have graduated with two degrees if it hadn’t been for the financial help. So thank you.” I still don’t mention the pageant. As far as I’m concerned, Justin Stark and I are deep in the land of the do-over.

“And what are you doing now that you’ve left the hallowed halls of academia?”

He speaks so formally that I know he’s teasing me. I ignore it and answer the question seriously. “I joined the team at C-Squared,” I say. “I’m Carl Rosenfeld’s new assistant.” Evelyn already told him this, but I assume he hadn’t been paying attention.

“I see.”

The way he says it suggests he doesn’t see at all. “Is that a problem?”

“Two degrees. A straight-A average. Glowing recommendations from all your professors. Acceptance to Ph.D. programs at both MIT and Cal Tech.”

I stare at him, baffled. The Stark International Fellowship Committee awards thirty fellowships each year. How the hell can he possibly know so much about my academic career?

“I merely find it interesting that you ended up not leading a product development team but doing gruntwork as the owner’s assistant.”

“I—” I don’t know what to say. I’m still spinning from the surreal nature of this inquisition.

“Are you sleeping with your boss, Ms. Fairchild?”

“What?”

“I’m sorry. Was the question unclear? I asked if you were fucking Carl Rosenfeld.”

“I—no.” I blurt the answer out, because I can’t let that image linger for longer than a second. Immediately, though, I regret speaking. What I should have done was slap his face. What the hell kind of question is that?

“Good,” he says, so crisply and firmly and with such intensity that any thought I have of verbally bitch-slapping him vanishes completely. My thoughts, in fact, have taken a sharp left turn and I am undeniably, unwelcomely turned on. I glare at the woman in the portrait, hating her even more, and not particularly pleased with Justin Stark or myself. I suppose we have something in common, though. At the moment, we’re both picturing me out of my little black dress.

Shit.

He doesn’t even try to hide his amusement. “I believe I’ve shocked you, Ms. Fairchild.”

“Hell yes, you’ve shocked me. What did you expect?”

He doesn’t answer, just tilts his head back and laughs. It’s as if a mask has slipped away, allowing me a glimpse of the real man hidden beneath. I smile, liking that we have this one small thing in common.

“Can anyone join this party?” It’s Carl, and I want desperately to say no.

“How nice to see you again, Mr. Rosenfeld,” Stark says. The mask is firmly back in place.

Carl glances at me, and I can see the question in his eyes. “Excuse me,” I say. “I need to run to the ladies’ room.”

I escape to the cool elegance of Evelyn’s powder room. She’s thoughtfully provided mouthwash and hairspray and even disposable mascara wands. There is a lavender-scented salt scrub on the stone vanity, and I put a spoonful in my hands, then close my eyes and rub, imagining that I’m sloughing off the shell of myself to reveal something bright and shiny and new.

I rinse my hands in warm water, then caress my skin with my fingertips. My hands are soft now. Slick and sensual.

I meet my eyes in the mirror. “No,” I whisper, but my hand slides down to brush the hem of my dress just below my knee. It’s fitted at the bodice and waist, but the skirt is flared, designed to present an enticing little swish when you move.

My fingers dance across my knee, then trail lazily up my inner thigh. I meet my gaze in the mirror, then close my eyes. It’s Stark’s face I want to see. His eyes I imagine watching me from that mirror.

There’s a sensuality in the way my fingers slowly graze my own skin. A lazy eroticism that some other time could build to something hot and explosive. But that’s not where I’m going—that’s what I’m destroying.

I stop when I feel it—the jagged, raised tissue of the five-year-old scar that mars the once-perfect flesh of my inner thigh. I press my fingertips to it, remembering the pain that punctuated that particular wound. That had been the weekend that my sister, Ashley, had died, and I’d just about crumbled under the weight of my grief.

But that’s the past, and I close my eyes tight, my body hot, the scar throbbing beneath my hand.

This time when I open my eyes, all I see is myself. Selena Fairchild, back in control.

I wrap my restored confidence around me like a blanket and return to the party. Both men look at me as I approach. Stark’s face is unreadable, but Carl isn’t even trying to hide his joy. He looks like a six-year-old on Christmas morning. “Say your goodbyes, Selena. We’re heading out. Lots to do. Lots to do.”

“What? Now?” I don’t bother to hide my confusion.

“Turns out Mr. Stark’s going to be out of town on Tuesday, so we’re pushing the meeting to tomorrow.”

“Saturday?”

“Is that a problem?” Stark asks me.

“No, of course not, but—”

“He’s attending personally,” Carl says. “Personally,” he repeats, as if I could have missed it the first time.

“Right. I’ll just find Evelyn and say goodnight.” I start to move away, but Stark’s voice draws me back.

“I’d like Ms. Fairchild to stay.”

“What?” Carl speaks, expressing my thought.

“The house I’m building is almost complete. I came here to find a painting for a particular room. I’d like a feminine perspective. I’ll see her home safely, of course.”

“Oh.” Carl looks like he’s going to protest, then thinks better of it. “She’ll be happy to help.”

The hell she will. It’s one thing to wear the dress. It’s another to completely skip the presentation rehearsal because a self-absorbed bazillionaire snaps his fingers and says jump. No matter how hot said bazillionaire might be.

But Carl cuts me off before I can form a coherent reply. “We’ll speak tomorrow morning,” he tells me. “The meeting’s at two.”

And then he’s gone and I’m left seething beside a very smug Justin Stark.

“Who the hell do you think you are?”

“I know exactly who I am, Ms. Fairchild. Do you?”

“Maybe the better question is, who the hell do you think I am?”

“Are you attracted to me?”

“I—what?” I say, verbally stumbling. His words have knocked me off center, and I struggle to regain my balance. “That is so not the issue.”

The corner of his mouth twitches, and I realize I’ve revealed too much.

“I’m Carl’s assistant,” I say firmly and slowly. “Not yours. And my job description does not include decorating your goddamn house.” I’m not shouting, but my voice is as taut as a wire and my body even more so.

Stark, damn him, appears not only perfectly at ease, but also completely amused. “If your job duties include helping your boss find capital, then you may want to reconsider how you play the game. Insulting potential investors is probably not the best approach.”

A cold stab of fear that I’ve screwed this up cuts through me. “Maybe not,” I say. “But if you’re going to withhold your money because I didn’t roll over and flounce my skirts for you, then you’re not the man the press makes you out to be. The Justin Stark I’ve read about invests in quality. Not in friendships or relationships or because he thinks some poor little inventor needs the deal. The Justin Stark I admire focuses on talent and talent alone. Or is that just public relations?”

I stand straight, ready to endure whatever verbal lashes he’ll whip back at me. I’m not prepared for the response I get.

Stark laughs.

“You’re right,” he says. “I’m not going to invest in C-Squared because I met Carl at a party any more than I’d invest in it because you’re in my bed.”

“Oh.” Once again, my cheeks heat. Once again, he’s knocked me off balance.

“I do, however, want you.”

My mouth is dry. I have to swallow before I can speak. “To help you pick a painting?”

“Yes,” he confirms. “For now.”

I force myself not to wonder about later. “Why?”

“Because I need an honest opinion. Most women on my arm say what they think will make me happy, not what they actually mean.”

“But I’m not on your arm, Mr. Stark.” I let the words hang for a moment. Then I deliberately turn my back and walk away. I can feel him watching me, but I neither stop nor turn around. Slowly, I smile. I even add a little swing to my step. This is my moment of triumph and I intend to savor it.

Except victory isn’t as delicious as I expected. In fact, it’s a little bitter. Because secretly—oh, so secretly—I can’t help but wonder what it would be like to be the girl on Justin Stark’s arm.

4

I cross the entire room before I pause, my heart pounding wildly in my chest. Fifty-five steps. I counted every one of them, and now that there’s no place left to go I am simply standing still, staring at one of Blaine’s paintings. Another nude, this one lying on her side across a stark white bed, only the foreground in focus. The rest of the room—walls, furniture—are nothing more than the blurred gray suggestions of shapes.

The woman’s skin is pale, as if she’s never seen the sun. But her face suggests otherwise. It reflects so much ecstasy that it seems to glow.

There is only one splash of color on the entire canvas—a long red ribbon. It is tied loosely around the woman’s neck, then extends between her heavy breasts to trail down even farther. It slides between her legs, then continues, the image fading into the background before meeting the edge of the canvas. There’s a tautness to the ribbon, though, and it’s clear what story the artist is telling; her lover is there, just off the canvas, and he’s holding the ribbon, making it slide over her, making her writhe against it in a desperate need to find the pleasure that he’s teasing her with.

I swallow, imagining the sensation of that cool, smooth satin stroking me between my legs. Making me hot, making me come …

And in my fantasy, it’s Justin Stark who is holding that ribbon.

This is not good.

I ease away from the painting toward the bar, which is the only place in the entire room where I’m not bombarded by erotic imagery. Honestly, I need the break. Erotic art doesn’t usually make me melt. Except, of course, it’s not the art that’s making me hot.

I do, however, want you.

What had he meant by that?

More to the point, what do I want him to mean by that? Which, of course, is a bullshit question. I know what I want. The same thing I wanted six years ago. I also know it will never happen. And even the fantasy is a very bad idea.

I scan the room, telling myself I’m only looking over the art. Apparently this is my night for self-deception. I’m looking for Stark, but when I find him, I wish that I hadn’t bothered. He’s standing next to a tall, lithe woman with short dark hair. She looks like Audrey Hepburn in Sabrina, vibrant and beautiful. Her small features are alight with pleasure, and as she laughs she reaches out and touches him in a casual, intimate gesture. My stomach hurts just watching them. Good God, I don’t even know this man. Can I really be jealous?

I consider the possibility, and in the spirit of tonight’s theme, I deceive myself once more. Not jealousy—anger. I’m pissed that Stark could so cavalierly flirt with me even though he’s obviously enthralled by another woman—a beautiful, charming, radiant woman.

“More champagne?” The bartender holds out a flute. Tempting. Very tempting, but I shake my head. I don’t need to get drunk. I need to get out of here.

More guests arrive, and the room overflows with people. I look for Stark again, but he has disappeared into the crowd. Audrey Hepburn is nowhere in sight, either. I’m sure wherever they are, they’re having a dandy time.

I sandwich myself between a wall and a hallway cordoned off with a velvet rope. Presumably it leads to the rest of Evelyn’s house. Right now, it’s the closest thing to privacy I have.

I take out my phone, hit speed dial, and wait for Jamie to answer.

“You will so not believe this,” she says, skipping all the preliminaries. “I just did the nasty with Douglas.”

“Oh my God, Jamie. Why?” Okay, that came out before I had the chance to think about it, and while this revelation about Douglas is not good news, I’m grateful to be dragged so forcefully into Jamie’s problems. Mine can wait.

Douglas is our next-door neighbor, and his bedroom shares a wall with mine. Even though it’s only been four days, I have a pretty good idea of how often he gets laid. The idea that my best friend is another ticky mark on his bedpost does not thrill me.

Of course, from Jamie’s perspective, he’s a mark on her bedpost.

“We were by the pool drinking wine, and then we got in the hot tub and then …” She trails off, leaving “and then” to my imagination.

“He’s still there? Or are you at his place?”

“God, no. I sent him home an hour ago.”

“Jamie …”

“What? I just needed to burn some energy. Trust me, it’s good. I’m so mellow now you wouldn’t even believe.”

I frown. Like a girl who collects stray puppies, Jamie brings home a lot of men. She doesn’t, however, keep them around. Not even until morning. As her roommate, I find that convenient. There’s nothing quite like meeting an unshaved, unshowered, half-naked man staring into your refrigerator at three in the morning. As her friend, however, I worry.

She, in turn, worries about me for precisely the opposite reason. I’ve never brought a man home, much less kicked him out. As far as Jamie is concerned, that makes me subnormal.

This, however, isn’t the time to get into it with my best friend. But Douglas? She had to go and pick Douglas? “Am I going to have to avert my eyes every time I see him in the complex?”

“He’s cool,” she says. “No big deal.”

I close my eyes and shake my head. The mere thought of being naked like that—emotionally and physically—overwhelms me. Not a big deal? The hell it’s not.

“How about you? Did you actually manage to form words this time?”

I scowl. As my best friend since forever, Jamie knows a few too many of my secrets. I’d told her all about my ambiguous encounter with uber-hottie Justin Stark at the pageant reception. Her reaction had been typical Jamie—if I’d just opened my mouth and formed actual words, he would have ditched Carmela and had his way with me. I’d told her she was insane, but her words had been like tinder to my smoldering fantasy.

“I talked to him,” I admit now.

“Oh, really?” Her voice rises with interest.

“And he’s coming to the presentation.”

“And …?”

I have to laugh. “That’s it, Jamie. That was the point.”

“Oh. Well, okay, then. No, seriously, that’s fabulous, Nik. You totally rocked it.”

When she puts it that way, I have to agree.

“So what’s he like now?”

I consider the question. It’s not an easy one to answer. “He’s … intense.” Hot. Sexy. Surprising. Disturbing. No, it’s not Stark that’s disturbing—it’s my reaction to him.

“Intense?” Jamie parrots. “Like that’s a revelation? I mean, the guy owns half the known universe. I hardly think he’d be all warm and fuzzy. More like dark and dangerous.”

I frown. Somehow, Jamie has summed up Justin Stark perfectly.

“Anything else to report? How are the paintings? I won’t ask if you’ve seen any celebrities. Any celebrity younger than Cary Grant, and you’re clueless. I mean, you could probably trip over Bradley Cooper and not even know it.”

“Actually, Rip and Lyle are here, and they’re being civil to each other despite their feud. It’ll be interesting to see if the show gets picked up for another season.”

The silence at the other end of the line tells me I have scored big with that one, and I make a mental note to thank Evelyn. It’s not easy to surprise my roommate.

“You bitch,” she finally says. “If you don’t come back with Rip Carrington’s autograph, I am so finding a new best friend.”

“I’ll try,” I promise. “Actually, you could come here. I kind of need a ride.”

“Because Carl keeled over and died from surprise when Stark said he’d do the meeting?”

“Sort of. He left to go prep. The meeting’s been bumped to tomorrow.”

“And you’re still at the party, why?”

“Stark wanted me to stay.”

“Oh, did he?”

“It’s not like that. He’s looking to buy a painting. He wanted a female perspective.”

“And since you’re the only female at the party …”

I remember Audrey Hepburn and feel confused. I’m most definitely not the only female at the party. So what is Stark’s game?

“I just need a ride,” I snap, unfairly taking my irritation out on Jamie. “Can you come get me?”

“You’re serious? Carl left you stranded in Malibu? That’s like an hour away. He didn’t even offer to reimburse cab fare?”

I hesitate a fraction of a second too long.

“What?” she demands.

“It’s just that—well, Stark said he’d make sure I got home.”

“And what? His Ferrari’s not good enough for you? You’d rather ride in my ten-year-old Corolla?”

She has a point. It’s Stark’s fault I’m still here. Why should I inconvenience one of my friends—or fork over a buttload of money for cab fare—when he already said he’d get me home? Am I really that nervous about being alone with him?

Yes, actually, I am. Which is ridiculous. Elizabeth Fairchild’s daughter does not get nervous around men. Elizabeth Fairchild’s daughter wraps men around her little finger. I may have spent my whole life trying to escape from under my mother’s thumb, but that doesn’t mean she didn’t manage to drill her lessons in deep.

“You’re right,” I say, even though the idea of Justin Stark wrapped around any woman’s finger remains a little fuzzy. “I’ll see you at home.”

“If I’m asleep, wake me up. I want to hear everything.”

“There’s nothing to tell,” I say.

“Liar,” she chides, then clicks off.

I slide my phone into my purse and head back to the bar—now I want that champagne. I stand there holding my glass as I glance around the room. This time, I see Stark right away. Him and Audrey Hepburn. He’s smiling, she’s laughing, and I’m working myself up into quite a temper. I mean, he’s the reason I’m stranded here, and yet he hasn’t made any effort to speak to me again, to apologize for the whole “be my decorating wench” fiasco, or to arrange a ride for me. If I have to call a cab I am absolutely going to send a bill to Stark International.

Evelyn passes by, arm in arm with a man with hair so white he reminds me of Colonel Sanders. She pats him on the arm, murmurs something, then disengages herself. The colonel marches on as Evelyn eases up next to me. “Having a nice time?”

“Of course,” I say.

She snorts.

“I know,” I say. “I’m a terrible liar.”

“Hell, honey, you weren’t even putting any effort into that one.”

“I’m sorry. I’m just …” I trail off and tuck a loose strand of hair behind my ear. I’d curled it and pinned it up in a chignon. A few loose curls are supposed to hang free and frame my face. Right now, the damn thing is just annoying me.

“He’s inscrutable,” Evelyn says.

“Who?”

She nods toward Justin, and I look in that direction. He’s still talking with Audrey Hepburn, but I’m struck by the certainty that he had been watching me only moments earlier. I have nothing to base that on, though, and I’m frustrated, not knowing if the thought is wishful thinking or paranoia.

“Inscrutable?” I repeat.

“He’s a hard man to figure out,” Evelyn says. “I’ve known him since he was a boy—his father signed me to represent him when some damn breakfast cereal wanted his face on their television spots. As if Justin Stark with a sugar high was the way we wanted to go. No, I landed the boy some damn good endorsements, helped make him a goddamned household name. But most days I don’t think I know him at all.”

“Why not?”

“I told you, Texas. Inscrutable.” She draws out each syllable, then punctuates the word with a shake of her head. “ ’Course I don’t fault him, not with the shit that was piled onto that poor kid. Who wouldn’t end up a little bit damaged?”

“You mean the fame? That must have been hard. He was so young.” Stark won the Junior Grand Slam at fifteen, and that had pushed him into the stratosphere. But the press had latched onto him long before that. With his good looks and working-class background, he’d been plucked out of the flurry of hopefuls as the tennis circuit’s golden boy.

“No, no.” Evelyn waves her hand as if dismissing the thought. “Justin knows how to handle the press. He’s damn good at protecting his secrets, always has been.” She eyes me, then laughs, as if to suggest she was only joking. But I don’t think so. “Oh, honey, listen to me ramble. No, Justin Stark is just one of those dark, quiet types. He’s like an iceberg, Texas. The deep parts are well hidden and what you do see is hard and a little bit cold.”

[flauntpage]

Tactical Guide to Vasyl Lomachenko vs. Guillermo Rigondeaux

Tomorrow night Madison Square Garden will play host to a fight between two of the greatest boxers of the modern era. Between them they boast four Olympic gold medals, numerous world titles, and an armada of forum threads arguing over which man is the greatest pound-for-pound boxer today. Since the moment it was announced, this meeting between Guillermo Rigondeaux and Vasyl Lomachenko has been the must-see event of the fight fan’s winter season.

While it is technically true that this fight is taking place at Madison Square Garden, it is more accurately going to happen in The Theatre at Madison Square Garden—a considerably smaller venue. It is also being broadcast for free on ESPN rather than on pay-per-view—which would seem bizarre to those who know the quality of the fighters involved. Both of these decisions reflect the nature of the fight: it is one between the darlings of the hardcore fans and press, but it remains to be seen how much interest it can attract from outsiders. That might seem to be rubbing salt into the wounds in the year of "The Money Fight," but one cannot tell Guillermo Rigondeaux’s story without touching on his promotional woes and his status as perhaps the most under-appreciated fighter in combat sports today.

The Invisible Champion

After winning a pair of Olympic gold medals, Rigondeaux defected from his native Cuba and went professional in 2009. Winning the WBA-NABA super bantamweight title in just his third fight, Rigo was picked up by Top Rank and the future seemed bright. In 2013 Top Rank was able to work him into a career making match up with super-bantamweight star, Nonito Donaire. It was the most exciting knockout artist in the lower weightclasses versus a slick ring tactician—what could possibly go wrong? Well, Rigondeaux won convincingly by being the defensive savant he was billed as. Many fans hated it, some of the press weren’t enamored, and even Bob Arum—owner of Top Rank and Rigondeaux’s own promoter—was struggling to work out what he was going to do with Rigo. Arum mused:

“If Rigondeaux would stand and fight, [he] has a lot of power and a lot of skills, but running the way he does really makes it not a watchable fight.” Arum then foreshadowed Rigondeaux’s coming promotional woes by remarking: “I don't know what I'm gonna do […] I have to look for someone to fight him. He's one of the best defensive fighters I've ever seen, but it's not a very pleasing style. He's a very good fighter, but it's not pleasing, so we will have to see.”

Two fights later Top Rank and Rigondeaux had gone their separate ways. Since beating Donaire for the WBA and lineal super bantamweight titles in April 2013, Rigondeaux has fought infrequently and to the applause of only those who work to seek him out. When he met Jazza Dickens, in his sole fight of 2016 at an ice rink in Wales with a capacity crowd of 3,000 people, it became abundantly clear that Rigondeaux is the worst promoted elite talent in boxing. It didn’t help that many of Rigondeaux’s more exciting fights ended under bizarre circumstances. An accidental headbutt turned into a Mayweather-esque glove touch to knockout punch against Sod Kokietgym. After a tentative two rounds against Jazza Dickens, the fight was called off unspectacularly on the stool between rounds as Dickens’s jaw was broken. And in Rigo’s most recent victory (now a No Contest), he hit Moises Flores after the bell in the first round and Flores paused for a moment’s consideration, before dropping to the mat and seeking the disqualification. It seemed as though even Rigo’s knockouts couldn’t please a crowd.

Complaining that fans just don’t appreciate Rigondeaux’s style is old hat. A sportswriter is required to either call him a boring fighter who lacks killer instinct, or provide an impassioned rant insisting that anyone who doesn’t enjoy his fights clearly cannot know shit about boxing. The truth is, of course, that you can appreciate his genius and still wish he cared more about entertaining the crowds who could make him exceptionally wealthy if he were something more like Donaire.

For the fan trying to come to terms with what makes Rigondeaux so good: it is largely his sense of distance and his excellent left hand which seems to just go to openings without an effort from Rigondeaux himself. You will notice that it is very hard for fighters to effectively attack in combination against Rigondeaux because of his constant expanding of range when they attack, and stepping out the side door as soon as they get close. It is bread-and-butter boxing done very, very well.

There are a couple of stranger quirks to Rigo’s game that come out from fight to fight. The first is his cross step. Cutting the lead foot across the rear one and then stepping deep to that side to change angle—a useful means of escape and of getting off to the open side to line up a left straight. It involves the fighter sacrificing balance and the ability to hit for a moment so you won’t see it much. Were the "pivot blow," as Bob Fitzsimmons called it, still legal you would see it more.

Former Bellator light heavyweight champion Emanuel Newton used the cross step to set up spinning backhands in MMA.

When he’s feeling flashy, Rigondeaux will also begin slowly shadow boxing in front of his opponent, then change up the tempo to hammer them with a real punch. This is similar to the concept of milling the hands before launching into a jab—the hands are already in motion and simply change speed when the fighter wants to strike, rather than performing a cold start.

Angles for Days

Vasyl Lomachenko also owns two Olympic gold medals, making them rather blasé in this bout. Debuting as a professional six months after Rigondeaux defeated Donaire, Lomachenko has run his record to 9-1. Winning the WBO featherweight title in his third fight, Lomachenko stole the show on the undercard of Mayweather-Pacquiao as he boxed the ears of Gamalier Rodriguez. Lomachenko actually fought for the WBO title in just his second professional fight in attempt to do one better than Rigondeaux, but was roughed up by Orlando Salido in a performance which has been widely criticized as "dirty," or praised as "savvy." Salido introduced Lomachenko to the less than sporting world of the pro game, landing perfect right hooks and uppercuts to Lomachenko’s cup whenever Lomachenko’s back was obscuring the view of the referee.

Since that Salido fight, Lomachenko has been flawless. A sharp jab and southpaw left straight are good weapons on the outside, but Lomachenko does his best work cutting angles and letting his hands go in mid-range. "Angles" is the most overused term in combat sports, but Lomachenko’s are as vibrant and in your face as they can get. Stepping outside of his opponent’s lead foot he will pivot around them—often accompanied by a slapping right hook—and hammer them as they turn. The left uppercut to the solar plexus or under the jaw is his best blow in this situation and it works a treat. The opponent turns with his hands high to avoid being blindsided, and eats a blow straight up the center of his guard as he does so. Often that same right hook will follow and in many of his fights Lomachenko will continue his step, turn, fire sequence two or even three times in a row against a panicked opponent.

Another nice aspect of Lomachenko’s game is his control of the opponent’s head. Wrestling within boxing has always been an under-appreciated facet of the game but you only need to watch Floyd Mayweather’s bouts to realize that grabbing a hold of the opponent or leaning on them can hinder a fighter’s offense far more easily than attempting to block or slip each shot. Where Mayweather loves to lean on the back of his opponent’s head and then nail them if they slip out towards his armpit, Lomachenko will intentionally pass his opponent under his armpit at any time they duck down. Offensively, it can be used to line up punches as the opponent stands up. Defensively it allows Lomachenko to break away from his opponent and reset a few steps away.

The Match Up

Both Rigondeaux and Lomachenko are southpaws who enjoy surprising the many orthodox fighters they meet with unusual open guard looks: Rigo with his cross steps, Lomachenko with his pivots past the front foot. But both also hold vast wells of amateur experienced that they can draw on and are hardly going to be stumped for ideas when meeting another southpaw. Rigondeaux is three inches shorter, though he has a couple of inches in reach—ultimately meaning that neither man has a distinct natural advantage of range. What is interesting is that the bout is being contested at junior lightweight (or super featherweight, for the pessimists) which has a cut off of 130 lbs. Lomachenko has been competing at junior lightweight since last year, but Rigondeaux is coming up from super bantamweight (122lbs) where he is the champion. Rigondeaux looked undersized in some of his bouts in his home division—such as when he was dwarfed by Hisashi Amagasa, but has apparently been packing on some muscle for this contest.

For Rigondeaux it seems likely that the strategy will be the same as it has been in almost all of his fights: limit the exchanges, maintain the range, and only close to land his one or two good shots before returning to range. A slower paced fight is more in Rigondeaux’s wheelhouse—though as he is a gifted counter puncher it is of course the threat of his blows which settles his opponents into a slower pace, rather than no one having thought to put the pace on him. If there is one thing that Lomachenko does well, it’s drive a high pace but as a result he rarely escapes his fights unmarked as Rigondeaux does.

The southpaw versus southpaw match up will give both men a lot more opportunity to play with their jab. In an open guard engagement work must be done to either move the lead hand or shoot inside or outside of it. The angles match up better for jabbing when both men are in the same stance. Conversely this makes it a little harder to land clean rear straights as the shoulder and back can be placed in the way where before the fighter was shooting into the open side. As Rigondeaux scores many of his points by pot-shotting with the left hand, it will be interesting to see what adjustments he makes against Lomachenko—whether he can force the left hand leads just as well or if he falls back more on the jab.

Lomachenko might look to score with his jab on the outside, he does so decently against orthodox fighters, but his best blows always come after he has stepped into range and out of the side door. While going past the lead foot against orthodox fighters is his most common and colorful angle change, he has shown that he is happy to go both ways regardless of stance. In the few moments in his fights that Rigo gets nasty, he will often hold a collar tie with the right hand and blast in left uppercuts before breaking off with an overhand. Any time the two get close enough to exchange, it might well be worth Rigondeaux looking to grab the collar tie both to frustrate Lomachenko with rough-house tactics, but also to prevent him from stepping around to the side. That constant side-stepping is what forces Lomachenko’s opponents to play catch up in exchanges rather than work their own offense.

Continuing on that theme, Rigondeaux is hard to hit with a handful of rice but a couple of the occasions where he has been hit clean show a theme. Both Amagasa and Dickens were able to hammer Rigondeaux as he was standing up out of a crouch, and Dickens as he believed he was entering a clinch.

Going to Rigondeaux with feints and double jabs, encouraging the slip and then leaning on him might be a smart move for Lomachenko. Releasing Rigondeaux and looking for the lead hook as he comes up, or using the rear uppercut to stand him up for the lead hook as he comes up, might provide some chances to crack the Cuban with a good punch. Either way, against an evasive opponent who leans deep, the double jab can be a life saver—keeping the advancing fighter relatively safe and uncommitted while drawing the intention out of the defensive fighter without the need for a power punch.

Ultimately, each man’s ideal fight is the polar opposite of his opponent’s. If Lomachenko can drive the pace up and actually work some combinations and his brilliant bodywork, he stands a good chance of making the smaller, 37-year-old veteran tire. If Rigondeaux’s footwork and counter punches—along with the odd clinch entry to smother Lomachenko mid flurry—can prevent Lomachenko from working a pace effectively, Rigondeaux stands a great chance of outpointing Lomachenko. The chances are that Lomachenko’s perfect fight results in a more fan-friendly experience but if you have made it this far, the chances are you’re here for the sweet science and not so much the blood.

Whatever happens Saturday night, the winner will probably be touted as the pound-for-pound best fighter alive for the coming years. Get back here on Monday and we’ll discuss how the fight went and all the fallout.

Pick up Jack’s book, Notorious: The Life and Fights of Conor McGregor and follow him on Twitter @JackSlackMMA.

Tactical Guide to Vasyl Lomachenko vs. Guillermo Rigondeaux published first on http://ift.tt/2pLTmlv

[flauntpage]

Tactical Guide to Vasyl Lomachenko vs. Guillermo Rigondeaux

Tomorrow night Madison Square Garden will play host to a fight between two of the greatest boxers of the modern era. Between them they boast four Olympic gold medals, numerous world titles, and an armada of forum threads arguing over which man is the greatest pound-for-pound boxer today. Since the moment it was announced, this meeting between Guillermo Rigondeaux and Vasyl Lomachenko has been the must-see event of the fight fan’s winter season.

While it is technically true that this fight is taking place at Madison Square Garden, it is more accurately going to happen in The Theatre at Madison Square Garden—a considerably smaller venue. It is also being broadcast for free on ESPN rather than on pay-per-view—which would seem bizarre to those who know the quality of the fighters involved. Both of these decisions reflect the nature of the fight: it is one between the darlings of the hardcore fans and press, but it remains to be seen how much interest it can attract from outsiders. That might seem to be rubbing salt into the wounds in the year of "The Money Fight," but one cannot tell Guillermo Rigondeaux’s story without touching on his promotional woes and his status as perhaps the most under-appreciated fighter in combat sports today.

The Invisible Champion

After winning a pair of Olympic gold medals, Rigondeaux defected from his native Cuba and went professional in 2009. Winning the WBA-NABA super bantamweight title in just his third fight, Rigo was picked up by Top Rank and the future seemed bright. In 2013 Top Rank was able to work him into a career making match up with super-bantamweight star, Nonito Donaire. It was the most exciting knockout artist in the lower weightclasses versus a slick ring tactician—what could possibly go wrong? Well, Rigondeaux won convincingly by being the defensive savant he was billed as. Many fans hated it, some of the press weren’t enamored, and even Bob Arum—owner of Top Rank and Rigondeaux’s own promoter—was struggling to work out what he was going to do with Rigo. Arum mused:

“If Rigondeaux would stand and fight, [he] has a lot of power and a lot of skills, but running the way he does really makes it not a watchable fight.” Arum then foreshadowed Rigondeaux’s coming promotional woes by remarking: “I don't know what I'm gonna do […] I have to look for someone to fight him. He's one of the best defensive fighters I've ever seen, but it's not a very pleasing style. He's a very good fighter, but it's not pleasing, so we will have to see.”

Two fights later Top Rank and Rigondeaux had gone their separate ways. Since beating Donaire for the WBA and lineal super bantamweight titles in April 2013, Rigondeaux has fought infrequently and to the applause of only those who work to seek him out. When he met Jazza Dickens, in his sole fight of 2016 at an ice rink in Wales with a capacity crowd of 3,000 people, it became abundantly clear that Rigondeaux is the worst promoted elite talent in boxing. It didn’t help that many of Rigondeaux’s more exciting fights ended under bizarre circumstances. An accidental headbutt turned into a Mayweather-esque glove touch to knockout punch against Sod Kokietgym. After a tentative two rounds against Jazza Dickens, the fight was called off unspectacularly on the stool between rounds as Dickens’s jaw was broken. And in Rigo’s most recent victory (now a No Contest), he hit Moises Flores after the bell in the first round and Flores paused for a moment’s consideration, before dropping to the mat and seeking the disqualification. It seemed as though even Rigo’s knockouts couldn’t please a crowd.

Complaining that fans just don’t appreciate Rigondeaux’s style is old hat. A sportswriter is required to either call him a boring fighter who lacks killer instinct, or provide an impassioned rant insisting that anyone who doesn’t enjoy his fights clearly cannot know shit about boxing. The truth is, of course, that you can appreciate his genius and still wish he cared more about entertaining the crowds who could make him exceptionally wealthy if he were something more like Donaire.

For the fan trying to come to terms with what makes Rigondeaux so good: it is largely his sense of distance and his excellent left hand which seems to just go to openings without an effort from Rigondeaux himself. You will notice that it is very hard for fighters to effectively attack in combination against Rigondeaux because of his constant expanding of range when they attack, and stepping out the side door as soon as they get close. It is bread-and-butter boxing done very, very well.

There are a couple of stranger quirks to Rigo’s game that come out from fight to fight. The first is his cross step. Cutting the lead foot across the rear one and then stepping deep to that side to change angle—a useful means of escape and of getting off to the open side to line up a left straight. It involves the fighter sacrificing balance and the ability to hit for a moment so you won’t see it much. Were the "pivot blow," as Bob Fitzsimmons called it, still legal you would see it more.

Former Bellator light heavyweight champion Emanuel Newton used the cross step to set up spinning backhands in MMA.

When he’s feeling flashy, Rigondeaux will also begin slowly shadow boxing in front of his opponent, then change up the tempo to hammer them with a real punch. This is similar to the concept of milling the hands before launching into a jab—the hands are already in motion and simply change speed when the fighter wants to strike, rather than performing a cold start.

Angles for Days

Vasyl Lomachenko also owns two Olympic gold medals, making them rather blasé in this bout. Debuting as a professional six months after Rigondeaux defeated Donaire, Lomachenko has run his record to 9-1. Winning the WBO featherweight title in his third fight, Lomachenko stole the show on the undercard of Mayweather-Pacquiao as he boxed the ears of Gamalier Rodriguez. Lomachenko actually fought for the WBO title in just his second professional fight in attempt to do one better than Rigondeaux, but was roughed up by Orlando Salido in a performance which has been widely criticized as "dirty," or praised as "savvy." Salido introduced Lomachenko to the less than sporting world of the pro game, landing perfect right hooks and uppercuts to Lomachenko’s cup whenever Lomachenko’s back was obscuring the view of the referee.

Since that Salido fight, Lomachenko has been flawless. A sharp jab and southpaw left straight are good weapons on the outside, but Lomachenko does his best work cutting angles and letting his hands go in mid-range. "Angles" is the most overused term in combat sports, but Lomachenko’s are as vibrant and in your face as they can get. Stepping outside of his opponent’s lead foot he will pivot around them—often accompanied by a slapping right hook—and hammer them as they turn. The left uppercut to the solar plexus or under the jaw is his best blow in this situation and it works a treat. The opponent turns with his hands high to avoid being blindsided, and eats a blow straight up the center of his guard as he does so. Often that same right hook will follow and in many of his fights Lomachenko will continue his step, turn, fire sequence two or even three times in a row against a panicked opponent.

Another nice aspect of Lomachenko’s game is his control of the opponent’s head. Wrestling within boxing has always been an under-appreciated facet of the game but you only need to watch Floyd Mayweather’s bouts to realize that grabbing a hold of the opponent or leaning on them can hinder a fighter’s offense far more easily than attempting to block or slip each shot. Where Mayweather loves to lean on the back of his opponent’s head and then nail them if they slip out towards his armpit, Lomachenko will intentionally pass his opponent under his armpit at any time they duck down. Offensively, it can be used to line up punches as the opponent stands up. Defensively it allows Lomachenko to break away from his opponent and reset a few steps away.

The Match Up

Both Rigondeaux and Lomachenko are southpaws who enjoy surprising the many orthodox fighters they meet with unusual open guard looks: Rigo with his cross steps, Lomachenko with his pivots past the front foot. But both also hold vast wells of amateur experienced that they can draw on and are hardly going to be stumped for ideas when meeting another southpaw. Rigondeaux is three inches shorter, though he has a couple of inches in reach—ultimately meaning that neither man has a distinct natural advantage of range. What is interesting is that the bout is being contested at junior lightweight (or super featherweight, for the pessimists) which has a cut off of 130 lbs. Lomachenko has been competing at junior lightweight since last year, but Rigondeaux is coming up from super bantamweight (122lbs) where he is the champion. Rigondeaux looked undersized in some of his bouts in his home division—such as when he was dwarfed by Hisashi Amagasa, but has apparently been packing on some muscle for this contest.

For Rigondeaux it seems likely that the strategy will be the same as it has been in almost all of his fights: limit the exchanges, maintain the range, and only close to land his one or two good shots before returning to range. A slower paced fight is more in Rigondeaux’s wheelhouse—though as he is a gifted counter puncher it is of course the threat of his blows which settles his opponents into a slower pace, rather than no one having thought to put the pace on him. If there is one thing that Lomachenko does well, it’s drive a high pace but as a result he rarely escapes his fights unmarked as Rigondeaux does.

The southpaw versus southpaw match up will give both men a lot more opportunity to play with their jab. In an open guard engagement work must be done to either move the lead hand or shoot inside or outside of it. The angles match up better for jabbing when both men are in the same stance. Conversely this makes it a little harder to land clean rear straights as the shoulder and back can be placed in the way where before the fighter was shooting into the open side. As Rigondeaux scores many of his points by pot-shotting with the left hand, it will be interesting to see what adjustments he makes against Lomachenko—whether he can force the left hand leads just as well or if he falls back more on the jab.

Lomachenko might look to score with his jab on the outside, he does so decently against orthodox fighters, but his best blows always come after he has stepped into range and out of the side door. While going past the lead foot against orthodox fighters is his most common and colorful angle change, he has shown that he is happy to go both ways regardless of stance. In the few moments in his fights that Rigo gets nasty, he will often hold a collar tie with the right hand and blast in left uppercuts before breaking off with an overhand. Any time the two get close enough to exchange, it might well be worth Rigondeaux looking to grab the collar tie both to frustrate Lomachenko with rough-house tactics, but also to prevent him from stepping around to the side. That constant side-stepping is what forces Lomachenko’s opponents to play catch up in exchanges rather than work their own offense.

Continuing on that theme, Rigondeaux is hard to hit with a handful of rice but a couple of the occasions where he has been hit clean show a theme. Both Amagasa and Dickens were able to hammer Rigondeaux as he was standing up out of a crouch, and Dickens as he believed he was entering a clinch.

Going to Rigondeaux with feints and double jabs, encouraging the slip and then leaning on him might be a smart move for Lomachenko. Releasing Rigondeaux and looking for the lead hook as he comes up, or using the rear uppercut to stand him up for the lead hook as he comes up, might provide some chances to crack the Cuban with a good punch. Either way, against an evasive opponent who leans deep, the double jab can be a life saver—keeping the advancing fighter relatively safe and uncommitted while drawing the intention out of the defensive fighter without the need for a power punch.

Ultimately, each man’s ideal fight is the polar opposite of his opponent’s. If Lomachenko can drive the pace up and actually work some combinations and his brilliant bodywork, he stands a good chance of making the smaller, 37-year-old veteran tire. If Rigondeaux’s footwork and counter punches—along with the odd clinch entry to smother Lomachenko mid flurry—can prevent Lomachenko from working a pace effectively, Rigondeaux stands a great chance of outpointing Lomachenko. The chances are that Lomachenko’s perfect fight results in a more fan-friendly experience but if you have made it this far, the chances are you’re here for the sweet science and not so much the blood.

Whatever happens Saturday night, the winner will probably be touted as the pound-for-pound best fighter alive for the coming years. Get back here on Monday and we’ll discuss how the fight went and all the fallout.

Pick up Jack’s book, Notorious: The Life and Fights of Conor McGregor and follow him on Twitter @JackSlackMMA.

Tactical Guide to Vasyl Lomachenko vs. Guillermo Rigondeaux published first on http://ift.tt/2pLTmlv

[flauntpage]

Tactical Guide to Vasyl Lomachenko vs. Guillermo Rigondeaux

Tomorrow night Madison Square Garden will play host to a fight between two of the greatest boxers of the modern era. Between them they boast four Olympic gold medals, numerous world titles, and an armada of forum threads arguing over which man is the greatest pound-for-pound boxer today. Since the moment it was announced, this meeting between Guillermo Rigondeaux and Vasyl Lomachenko has been the must-see event of the fight fan’s winter season.

While it is technically true that this fight is taking place at Madison Square Garden, it is more accurately going to happen in The Theatre at Madison Square Garden—a considerably smaller venue. It is also being broadcast for free on ESPN rather than on pay-per-view—which would seem bizarre to those who know the quality of the fighters involved. Both of these decisions reflect the nature of the fight: it is one between the darlings of the hardcore fans and press, but it remains to be seen how much interest it can attract from outsiders. That might seem to be rubbing salt into the wounds in the year of "The Money Fight," but one cannot tell Guillermo Rigondeaux’s story without touching on his promotional woes and his status as perhaps the most under-appreciated fighter in combat sports today.

The Invisible Champion

After winning a pair of Olympic gold medals, Rigondeaux defected from his native Cuba and went professional in 2009. Winning the WBA-NABA super bantamweight title in just his third fight, Rigo was picked up by Top Rank and the future seemed bright. In 2013 Top Rank was able to work him into a career making match up with super-bantamweight star, Nonito Donaire. It was the most exciting knockout artist in the lower weightclasses versus a slick ring tactician—what could possibly go wrong? Well, Rigondeaux won convincingly by being the defensive savant he was billed as. Many fans hated it, some of the press weren’t enamored, and even Bob Arum—owner of Top Rank and Rigondeaux’s own promoter—was struggling to work out what he was going to do with Rigo. Arum mused:

“If Rigondeaux would stand and fight, [he] has a lot of power and a lot of skills, but running the way he does really makes it not a watchable fight.” Arum then foreshadowed Rigondeaux’s coming promotional woes by remarking: “I don't know what I'm gonna do […] I have to look for someone to fight him. He's one of the best defensive fighters I've ever seen, but it's not a very pleasing style. He's a very good fighter, but it's not pleasing, so we will have to see.”

Two fights later Top Rank and Rigondeaux had gone their separate ways. Since beating Donaire for the WBA and lineal super bantamweight titles in April 2013, Rigondeaux has fought infrequently and to the applause of only those who work to seek him out. When he met Jazza Dickens, in his sole fight of 2016 at an ice rink in Wales with a capacity crowd of 3,000 people, it became abundantly clear that Rigondeaux is the worst promoted elite talent in boxing. It didn’t help that many of Rigondeaux’s more exciting fights ended under bizarre circumstances. An accidental headbutt turned into a Mayweather-esque glove touch to knockout punch against Sod Kokietgym. After a tentative two rounds against Jazza Dickens, the fight was called off unspectacularly on the stool between rounds as Dickens’s jaw was broken. And in Rigo’s most recent victory (now a No Contest), he hit Moises Flores after the bell in the first round and Flores paused for a moment’s consideration, before dropping to the mat and seeking the disqualification. It seemed as though even Rigo’s knockouts couldn’t please a crowd.

Complaining that fans just don’t appreciate Rigondeaux’s style is old hat. A sportswriter is required to either call him a boring fighter who lacks killer instinct, or provide an impassioned rant insisting that anyone who doesn’t enjoy his fights clearly cannot know shit about boxing. The truth is, of course, that you can appreciate his genius and still wish he cared more about entertaining the crowds who could make him exceptionally wealthy if he were something more like Donaire.

For the fan trying to come to terms with what makes Rigondeaux so good: it is largely his sense of distance and his excellent left hand which seems to just go to openings without an effort from Rigondeaux himself. You will notice that it is very hard for fighters to effectively attack in combination against Rigondeaux because of his constant expanding of range when they attack, and stepping out the side door as soon as they get close. It is bread-and-butter boxing done very, very well.

There are a couple of stranger quirks to Rigo’s game that come out from fight to fight. The first is his cross step. Cutting the lead foot across the rear one and then stepping deep to that side to change angle—a useful means of escape and of getting off to the open side to line up a left straight. It involves the fighter sacrificing balance and the ability to hit for a moment so you won’t see it much. Were the "pivot blow," as Bob Fitzsimmons called it, still legal you would see it more.

Former Bellator light heavyweight champion Emanuel Newton used the cross step to set up spinning backhands in MMA.

When he’s feeling flashy, Rigondeaux will also begin slowly shadow boxing in front of his opponent, then change up the tempo to hammer them with a real punch. This is similar to the concept of milling the hands before launching into a jab—the hands are already in motion and simply change speed when the fighter wants to strike, rather than performing a cold start.

Angles for Days

Vasyl Lomachenko also owns two Olympic gold medals, making them rather blasé in this bout. Debuting as a professional six months after Rigondeaux defeated Donaire, Lomachenko has run his record to 9-1. Winning the WBO featherweight title in his third fight, Lomachenko stole the show on the undercard of Mayweather-Pacquiao as he boxed the ears of Gamalier Rodriguez. Lomachenko actually fought for the WBO title in just his second professional fight in attempt to do one better than Rigondeaux, but was roughed up by Orlando Salido in a performance which has been widely criticized as "dirty," or praised as "savvy." Salido introduced Lomachenko to the less than sporting world of the pro game, landing perfect right hooks and uppercuts to Lomachenko’s cup whenever Lomachenko’s back was obscuring the view of the referee.

Since that Salido fight, Lomachenko has been flawless. A sharp jab and southpaw left straight are good weapons on the outside, but Lomachenko does his best work cutting angles and letting his hands go in mid-range. "Angles" is the most overused term in combat sports, but Lomachenko’s are as vibrant and in your face as they can get. Stepping outside of his opponent’s lead foot he will pivot around them—often accompanied by a slapping right hook—and hammer them as they turn. The left uppercut to the solar plexus or under the jaw is his best blow in this situation and it works a treat. The opponent turns with his hands high to avoid being blindsided, and eats a blow straight up the center of his guard as he does so. Often that same right hook will follow and in many of his fights Lomachenko will continue his step, turn, fire sequence two or even three times in a row against a panicked opponent.

Another nice aspect of Lomachenko’s game is his control of the opponent’s head. Wrestling within boxing has always been an under-appreciated facet of the game but you only need to watch Floyd Mayweather’s bouts to realize that grabbing a hold of the opponent or leaning on them can hinder a fighter’s offense far more easily than attempting to block or slip each shot. Where Mayweather loves to lean on the back of his opponent’s head and then nail them if they slip out towards his armpit, Lomachenko will intentionally pass his opponent under his armpit at any time they duck down. Offensively, it can be used to line up punches as the opponent stands up. Defensively it allows Lomachenko to break away from his opponent and reset a few steps away.

The Match Up

Both Rigondeaux and Lomachenko are southpaws who enjoy surprising the many orthodox fighters they meet with unusual open guard looks: Rigo with his cross steps, Lomachenko with his pivots past the front foot. But both also hold vast wells of amateur experienced that they can draw on and are hardly going to be stumped for ideas when meeting another southpaw. Rigondeaux is three inches shorter, though he has a couple of inches in reach—ultimately meaning that neither man has a distinct natural advantage of range. What is interesting is that the bout is being contested at junior lightweight (or super featherweight, for the pessimists) which has a cut off of 130 lbs. Lomachenko has been competing at junior lightweight since last year, but Rigondeaux is coming up from super bantamweight (122lbs) where he is the champion. Rigondeaux looked undersized in some of his bouts in his home division—such as when he was dwarfed by Hisashi Amagasa, but has apparently been packing on some muscle for this contest.

For Rigondeaux it seems likely that the strategy will be the same as it has been in almost all of his fights: limit the exchanges, maintain the range, and only close to land his one or two good shots before returning to range. A slower paced fight is more in Rigondeaux’s wheelhouse—though as he is a gifted counter puncher it is of course the threat of his blows which settles his opponents into a slower pace, rather than no one having thought to put the pace on him. If there is one thing that Lomachenko does well, it’s drive a high pace but as a result he rarely escapes his fights unmarked as Rigondeaux does.

The southpaw versus southpaw match up will give both men a lot more opportunity to play with their jab. In an open guard engagement work must be done to either move the lead hand or shoot inside or outside of it. The angles match up better for jabbing when both men are in the same stance. Conversely this makes it a little harder to land clean rear straights as the shoulder and back can be placed in the way where before the fighter was shooting into the open side. As Rigondeaux scores many of his points by pot-shotting with the left hand, it will be interesting to see what adjustments he makes against Lomachenko—whether he can force the left hand leads just as well or if he falls back more on the jab.

Lomachenko might look to score with his jab on the outside, he does so decently against orthodox fighters, but his best blows always come after he has stepped into range and out of the side door. While going past the lead foot against orthodox fighters is his most common and colorful angle change, he has shown that he is happy to go both ways regardless of stance. In the few moments in his fights that Rigo gets nasty, he will often hold a collar tie with the right hand and blast in left uppercuts before breaking off with an overhand. Any time the two get close enough to exchange, it might well be worth Rigondeaux looking to grab the collar tie both to frustrate Lomachenko with rough-house tactics, but also to prevent him from stepping around to the side. That constant side-stepping is what forces Lomachenko’s opponents to play catch up in exchanges rather than work their own offense.

Continuing on that theme, Rigondeaux is hard to hit with a handful of rice but a couple of the occasions where he has been hit clean show a theme. Both Amagasa and Dickens were able to hammer Rigondeaux as he was standing up out of a crouch, and Dickens as he believed he was entering a clinch.

Going to Rigondeaux with feints and double jabs, encouraging the slip and then leaning on him might be a smart move for Lomachenko. Releasing Rigondeaux and looking for the lead hook as he comes up, or using the rear uppercut to stand him up for the lead hook as he comes up, might provide some chances to crack the Cuban with a good punch. Either way, against an evasive opponent who leans deep, the double jab can be a life saver—keeping the advancing fighter relatively safe and uncommitted while drawing the intention out of the defensive fighter without the need for a power punch.

Ultimately, each man’s ideal fight is the polar opposite of his opponent’s. If Lomachenko can drive the pace up and actually work some combinations and his brilliant bodywork, he stands a good chance of making the smaller, 37-year-old veteran tire. If Rigondeaux’s footwork and counter punches—along with the odd clinch entry to smother Lomachenko mid flurry—can prevent Lomachenko from working a pace effectively, Rigondeaux stands a great chance of outpointing Lomachenko. The chances are that Lomachenko’s perfect fight results in a more fan-friendly experience but if you have made it this far, the chances are you’re here for the sweet science and not so much the blood.

Whatever happens Saturday night, the winner will probably be touted as the pound-for-pound best fighter alive for the coming years. Get back here on Monday and we’ll discuss how the fight went and all the fallout.

Pick up Jack’s book, Notorious: The Life and Fights of Conor McGregor and follow him on Twitter @JackSlackMMA.

Tactical Guide to Vasyl Lomachenko vs. Guillermo Rigondeaux published first on http://ift.tt/2pLTmlv