#and then sausage somehow wins practically every year

[iced-souls]

Alas we begin

D09 DAY YAHOOOOOOOOOO

D09 day Pt 1

Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5 | Part 6

[newronantic]

HAIKYUU!! FICS

so this is mostly gonna be for myself to keep track of my favorite fics i’ve read, but hey if anyone else wants to check some of these out then thats great

MHA one is up!!

ill keep updating this as i read more, feel free to send me suggestions!

KageHina

plain as day - emleewrites

In which Hinata has spent the better part of the last twenty years putting his heart and soul into volleyball, hoping to be recognised, to be noticed. And yet he spends all these years also thinking of himself as rather plain, beyond his lack of height and bright hair, and not really noticeable at all.

In Transit - Mysecretfanmoments

Hinata finds that he likes standing close to Kageyama on buses and trains. It doesn't mean anything--probably. Maybe.

I like the way your clothes smell - Mysecretfanmoments

Power outages, ghost stories, and the presence of a certain orange-haired boy lead to bad decision-making on Tobio's part. He'd planned to keep his crush a secret; the universe has other plans.

Chaotic Neutral - akaraka

Who's this Kageyama person on twitter and is he gay?

1: Anonymous: see title

2: Anonymous: curry king

3: Anonymous >> 1: It's the curry king, obviously. Have you been using his memes this whole time without knowing who he was?

4: Anonymous: 1) Hinata Shouyou's boyfriend 2) See above

jellyfish - mysterytwin

At the beginning of his last year at Karasuno High School, Hinata Shouyou starts a list and calls it THINGS TO DO BEFORE GRADUATION, all with high hopes that he’ll be able to complete it before his time runs out.

TsukkiYama

Try This On For Size - CloudMonsta

A lot changed for Yamaguchi Tadashi over the course of high school. He started trying on dresses, for one.

The Great Yamaguchi-Tsukishima Split (Capitalization Necessary) - WyYeuw

"But no, the current situation isn’t normal. This situation requires the full attention of the team.

No, what’s really concerning this time around, is that Yamaguchi is the one ignoring Tsukishima.”

Yamaguchi confesses. Tsukishima fucks up—like, really fucks up. The volleyball club notices and loses a week’s worth of practice.

IwaOi

Terrarium - sausaged

He's practically a professional at being proactive (lies, lies, and lies when it comes to Iwaizumi).

At this point, is he really happy with just staying best friends forever? Will he be writing journals and collecting rocks forever (he will, he knows, but that is aside from the point)?

Can he really tag his Instagram photos with #YOLO if he doesn't actually put that phrase into practice?

A story about Oikawa Tooru, Iwaizumi Hajime, plants, and rocks.

They Say it Rain Diamonds on Jupiter - exsao

"You're in love with him."

Hajime considers denying it. He considers deliberately choking on his drink to express surprise, to create a distraction by spitting onto the man in front of him's pristine white shirt and causing a commotion. Instead, he swallows his mouthful of soda and heaves a small sigh once his mouth is free.

"Yeah," he says instead.

He's never been good at lying, anyway.

bait and switch - Stylographic_Blue_Rhapsody

Oikawa's university volleyball team knows he's in a long-distance relationship with someone from high school. They imagine a sweet-faced girl that matches his sarcasm with patience. They are so incredibly wrong.

my heart is where it’s always been - foreverautumn

Iwaizumi places his phone down carefully.

Oikawa. Pining after someone. There’s no way.

(Iwaizumi knows he shouldn’t care who Oikawa might have feelings for, but within the span of three days, it’s somehow the only thing he can think about.)

KuroKen

Beautiful People Will Ruin Your Life - todxrxki

Kuroo Tetsurou runs a private Twitter account where he's constantly tweeting about how desperately in love he is with Kozume Kenma. Little does he know that Kenma sees all the tweets and keeps referencing the account in an attempt to get Kuroo to confess to him. / Or, five times Kuroo didn't notice Kenma hinting about his private Twitter account, and one time he finally did.

the things that get caught in the valves of his heart - ghostpot

Emotional competency is not exactly Kuroo's strong suit. Kenma finds it quite amusing.

Accidentally In Love - todxrxki

Kuroo frowns, but then slowly, the corners of his mouth lift up into a smirk. "Well, if it's so unbelievable, why don't we give it a try?"

Kenma glances up at him curiously. "What do you mean?"

"Let's do the 36 questions to fall in love," Kuroo says, still smirking stupidly. "If we don't fall in love, then you're right, it's bullshit. But if we do somehow..." Kuroo waggles his eyebrows. "Then I win." / Kuroo decides he and Kenma should do the 36 questions to fall in love as a joke, but they both start to realize they might actually be in love already.

the galaxy is endless (i thought we were, too) - cosmogony

TW: major character death

Kuroken AU where the last words your soulmate will say to you appear on your skin when you turn 16, and how Kenma and Kuroo learn what this means over the course of their lives

even if you’re ahead for a bit, i will catch up - ghostpot

Kuroo first confesses when they're sticky-fingered, wide-eyed kids, and subsequently every day after that. Kenma takes a while to come around.

you’re the brake lines failing (as my car swerves off the freeway) - ghostpot

Kenma thinks that Kuroo looks ugly with his head bent against the arm of the couch like that. Then Kenma thinks that he wants to marry him, and is promptly thrown into the 5 stages of grief.

teach me the way home - icespyders

“Don’t go far off, not even for a day, because —

because — I don’t know how to say it: a day is long

and I will be waiting for you, as in an empty station

when the trains are parked off somewhere else, asleep.”

Kuroo and Kenma grow up in transit.

in this universe - crossbelladonna

Living with Kuroo is sometimes, just like this. It always feels surreal like he's living half a world and a lot of things rush by too quickly. Kenma feels like he'd watched him come and go in a blink, eyes wide and wordless as the shared space went snug in an instant and far larger in the next.

All this, and a glass of water.

Beginning’s End - todxrxki

Somehow over the course of Kenma's lifetime, he’s never really had an opportunity to miss Kuroo. He’s always been there. Even when they went to different schools, Kuroo would meet him afterwards so they could walk home together, shoulders brushing, Kuroo occasionally taking the opportunity to guide him when his nose was buried in the newest video game. The thought of Kuroo not being there anymore is uncomfortable, to say the least. / Kozume Kenma's third year and the changes the year brings in himself and his relationship with Kuroo Tetsurou.

All I Want for Christmas is You - todxrxki

“Kuro,” he says. “You’re a single guy.”

“Yeah, great, thanks for pointing that out.”

“And my parents already know you, plus they already know you like guys or whatever so… what if you pretended to be my date for Christmas dinner?” / In which Kenma recruits his housemate and best friend Kuroo to be his fake date for Christmas.

BokuAka

just to miss the sun - rosevtea

Everything begins to implode when MSBY Jackals outside hitter Bokuto Koutarou crashes Akaashi's livestream.

Operation BokuAka - kazzydolyn

After spending two whole years watching Bokuto and Akaashi pine for one another, the rest of the Fukuroudani Volleyball Club has had enough. When everyone meets up for a reunion dinner, the team decides to play matchmaker and finally get the two of them together. Unfortunately, their plan starts to fall apart when they discover that Akaashi is already dating someone. And apparently so is Bokuto. What a strange coincidence.

bitter - silvercistern

He accepted his classmate's chocolates gracefully, then declared his lack of interest with as much dignity as he could muster. She deserved the courtesy. At least she'd acknowledged that Valentine's Day was all about her, and not about him in the slightest.

Because if any of these girls had taken the time to actually get to know him, they’d quickly realize something even more important than his lack of interest in girls.

And that was that Akaashi hated sweets.

In Another Life - LittleLuxray

TW: major character death

Sleeping didn't come as easy as it used to. Bokuto knew this, and now Akaashi did, too.

The hospital AU that no body asked for, but that I took upon myself to write.

120% yes - pissedofsandwich

TOKYO FRANCHISE COMING SOON @OnigiriMiya

in reply to @bokkun_official 

Congratulations! In celebration of your historic engagement, please DM us so we can send you a free membership code with a 25% discount on every fourth purchase!

Kissing Ace - karasunovolleygays

It happens right after training camp.

Akaashi Keiji has a secret he has guarded since he was a child. He won’t go so far as to call it a fear, but more of an aspect of himself of which he is horribly mortified. No one on the team knows about it, and Akaashi does his best to keep it that way.

But years of dodging hugs and casual contact come to naught in the blink of an eye and the swipe of a hand.

daisy rings and frivolous things (i am deliriously in love with you) - gabstar

Akaashi Keiji is in love. Bokuto Koutarou is a star. Everyone on Fukurodani has a gambling problem.

SakuAtsu

The MSBY Black Jackals Read Thirst Tweets - isaksara (syailendra)

Sakusa’s eyes are very dark naturally, sucking in all surrounding rays of light and crushing them in his pupils. For an athlete, he is rather pale. His lips look very pink in comparison. Atsumu is suddenly catastrophically aware that in this instance, ‘accent’ is a euphemism. “Good enough for your Olympic-size ego, Miya?”

(In which Atsumu realizes that he is attracted to Sakusa Kiyoomi in the most inconvenient way possible.)

A Liar’s Truth - internetpistol

In which Sakusa Kiyoomi is raised to believe that gay people go to hell but then takes one look at Miya Atsumu and thinks, then why the hell did God make them so fucking hot?

[secretgamergirl]

How not to Write a Campaign

I have been playing RPGs for a very long time. Back in the day, I avoided any and all pre-written adventures of any sort because my limited experience with them was... just frankly terrible. Weird inconsistencies in tone, unfair encounter setups, too many assumptions about PCs’ motives and actions, etc. Then much later I discovered a group of writers who actually got it, wrote things perfectly in line with how my friends like a game to go, and we’ve been all in on those for a decade and change. But I just finished running a ROUGH one, and I want something good to come of it.

I don’t want to make this a specific review, because... I’m in the industry, I know the people who wrote this campaign, I can guess at some of the problems involved, and I don’t want to hurt anyone’s feelings or reputation, so let me just refer to the offending prewritten campaign here as the Amnesia Campaign. It’s for a big fantasy RPG, it riffs of a particular author’s work, you can probably guess what it is from that, but, I’m trying.

The first problem I need to bring up with the Amnesia Campaign is that it just commits the cardinal sin of long term RPG campaign writing- The mustache-twirling villain who always manages to escape from the PCs at the last minute. I cannot convey just how important it is that you never, ever do this. The worst sort of example is when you plan around the PCs actually confronting your villain multiple times, and failing to kill them, which is a terrible idea because there really is no way to ever stack the deck and account for every contingency to make an unwinnable fight, or even one where escape is always possible, and especially if you’re publishing adventures, some number of groups will kill the villain too early, either shorting things out or forcing a handwave to keep an ineffectual villain in play and pretend they’re still a threat.

The Amnesia Campaign doesn’t quite go there. Having an actual chance to go toe to toe with the villain is reserved for the very end, but it does use another variant, where no matter what happens, the PCs arrive just after the villain they’re chasing has left. Now... there’s a way you can make that work. If you have a villain who cannot be reached in practical fashion, and can launch attacks anywhere within a huge region, you can build a whole campaign out of characters reacting to the aftermath of evil actions they could not be expected to even learn about until the villain has left the scene. Here, meanwhile, we have a villain with a big elaborate plot that requires traveling all over the world gathering things, based on research he does at the very start which the PCs can, and indeed are expected to do, quickly pick up on these research notes, and basically know everything the villain plans to do from nearly the start of a very long campaign. And... frankly, the villain has no real edge to keep him believably one step ahead. He is a mildly wealthy man hiring goons, mundane forms of transportation, and having to negotiate and fight his way through to various sub-objectives needed for his plan, and it is at least strongly implied that he doesn’t have a lot of lead time. When presented with a scenario about someone needing to be chased down and stopped, PCs can pretty reliably be counted on to constantly be rushing forward, coming up with clever ways to accomplish what they need to in less time, and cut down if not completely nullify their travel time. But, like with battles the villain somehow keeps escaping from, I am forced to continuously state to my players in running this that no, somehow even after avoiding this whole side quest by reading the mind of the person with important information, and directly teleporting to where the villain left for by riverboat, he somehow beat them there, and once again, just left. It’s frustrating, and implausible. We end up with a villain who seems overwhelmingly outmatched, but keeps succeeding because... well, he has plot armor so we’re railroading this.

Admittedly, having a good villain when writing a full campaign in advance can be tricky. The safe and tested formula is generally to start off with minions of your main villain, starting with some who don’t even know who they’re ultimately working for, gradually build up to who’s calling the shots and to what end, have a big side trip to prepare for the final confrontation not directly involving the villains, than cap it with a big showdown. If the PCs know who the main villain is from the very start and where to find them, it becomes hard to rationalize anything between. Sometimes you can pull it off if they’re leading an army or ruling a country, but even then, you want to work up a food chain to them.

A similar problem, which crops up a bit towards the end of the Amnesia Campaign, is making too many assumptions about how the PCs react, and who they befriend. In RPG writing, you need to make as few assumptions as possible about the specifics of what the PCs will do in any situation. You can count on the real broad strokes. The party will investigate the situation described in the adventure, they’ll explore the area, find the villains, fight them, win, learn something to keep the larger plot growing, but that’s it. You can’t assume they’re going to team up with this NPC, enter this room from that direction, or otherwise reenact what you’d imagine you’d do in their place, or what happened in your test play of your adventure. This is particularly important when you include a little sidequest unconnected to their primary goal, or you’re presenting an open-ended investigation.

Ideally, you just have a sensible location, have some villains in it with clear goals and personalities laid out, and you scatter around some things to enable various clever tricks if players think to try them, without mandating any of them. Mention where windows are, and chandeliers, and holes just too small for the average human to fit through, but don’t, as part of the Amnesia Campaign does, invest heavily in the assumption that the PCs will start investigating a sewer system when investigating how a cult gets around a city and go sparse on other possible clues. Also don’t waste adventure background note space on thousands of years of history at the expense of what the actual current problem in the area is and who or what is behind it.

The next problem is one that, were I the average consumer just buying this book would bother me a hell of a lot more than it does as someone who knows how the sausage gets made. Put mildly... you do not want to play a rogue in the Amnesia Campaign. Nor do you want to play a swashbuckler, a critical-hit focused character of any stripe, really any class out of the... roughly 25% of all classes who rely on knowledge of where to make a hit count the most to do the full amount of damage with their attacks, because practically everything is immune.

Now, again. I partly understand how this happens. We have several different authors writing different chapters of the campaign, simultaneously, in pretty unforgiving crunchy conditions, with just a rough outline to go off. Nobody really has a chance to confirm notes and say “hey, did your chapter totally invalidate one of the foundational character archetypes, because I was thinking of doing that and having two of those back to back would be a bit much.” And while the publisher of the Amnesia Campaign does throw out little booklets of tips for players on what sort of character concepts will/won’t work, they’re not written last, so this sort of tip is missing there too. On the other hand, it’s a huge problem within nearly any given chapter just on its own. If you’re making the call on what all monsters to include in a multi-level stretch of a campaign, you should generally avoid choosing nothing but monsters immune to one of the most common bread and butter class features. And honestly, given how the subject matter naturally lends to the deployment of a particular monster type, erring on the side of assuming everyone else is heavily deploying them wouldn’t be a bad assumption for any author to make.

This though, unlike the rest of my gripes, is ultimately a high level problem that needs a high level solution. When you’re publishing a whole campaign, and you’re doing it in a game where several foundational character concepts kinda live or die based on things like whether things are properly harmed by particular flavors of damage, or whether a decent percentage of enemies fall under a certain classification, that really shouldn’t be a double-blind. Coordinating to get all authors to use a decent spread, or include outline notes like “it’d make sense for about half the enemies in this chapter to be fire elemental themed in various ways, but keep a good variety otherwise,” and/or trying to get a rough handle on emergent themes to adjust for/warn about in player-facing pitch material. Even the best-written campaigns are prone to rude awakenings or hilarious reductions in challenge as turns out, say, going all in on cold damage does indeed pay off for the one with Fire in the title.

Meanwhile, on the other side of that coin, more or less, huge swaths of the Amnesia Campaign really just completely break down by failing to account for some basic standard issue capabilities of a typical party. Particularly the fact that past a certain point, you need to account for the fact that the PCs are almost certainly capable of flight. It’s a thing that happens. If you are really keen on writing adventures where local warlords are chilling out on the open-air rooftop patios of their otherwise heavily fortified fortresses, or melee-oriented monsters plan an ambush in a canyon in a vast wasteland, or a dangerous leapfrog between a series of elevated platforms over something dangerous, you want to make those low-level adventures, or else a typical party, possibly even accidentally, will just completely circumvent the whole thing. There is a whole lot of that in the back of the Amnesia Campaign. My group... literally skipped giant swaths. Heck, there was a whole side quest in the last book where the PCs are rewarded with the location of a giant obelisk which I had to cut because... it was in the middle of a big open outdoor space, and they flew over the city on the way in. They definitely had a view over those hedges.

This sort of dovetails into the next issue, consistently escalating threats. The whole fantasy RPG gimmick is that at level 1, you’re a helpless peasant barely capable of doing anything remarkable, and by level 20 you’re literally punching gods in the face and have more money in your pocket than everyone else in your home country combined (with the obvious exception of the other people in your party). Now, mechanically, balancing around that is a very easy math problem. Characters of level X are meant to deal with threats of level Y, either pull a Y level monster out of the book, or slap levels on something lower to bring it to that point, or spread that out over more enemies, then they drop Z amount of fancy loot. Easiest thing in the world. But you also need things to fit together thematically. You can absolutely throw fighter levels onto the local chicken-stealing goblins to make them mechanically as threatening as a demigod bursting through from another plane of reality, but when a group of characters is at a level where they can be expected to handle the former, it’s just plain weird for them to end up dealing with the latter. Like, yes, these particular goblins have 200 HP instead of the usual 4, so the local town guard can’t handle them, but that should never be true of chicken-stealing goblins. You don’t get that tough stealing chickens, and once you’ve gotten that tough, you should have your sights set a good deal higher than that. At least be stealing rocs or something.

The 4th chapter of the Amnesia Campaign is a particularly blatant example of not getting this, featuring a large number of “please be aware the party can fly at this level” moments mentioned above, and also just demanding the PCs deal with problems that really are beneath them at that point. Seeking out local guides, impressing petty local warlords, getting challenged by giants they must impress to rest safely when crossing a huge desert. These are... not appropriate speed bumps at a point in the narrative where the party is traveling to a location where they are going to literally fight a god, weakened or otherwise. The whole setup would be wonderful as the first chapter of a campaign, but that far in, it just doesn’t work. Particularly when the actual opening of the Amnesia Campaign sets the tension very high right off the bat, with extradimensional threats, shapeshifters, an evil cult, things that typically come later as things start to escalate.

This isn’t to say you can’t mix things up a little. Dealing with threats well below a party’s capabilities can be really nice as a chance to just sort of flex, and get some perspective on how much more capable they’ve grown over time, but you have to do it in a low-tension point of the narrative, and a little self-awareness about it doesn’t hurt.

Finally, while I really kinda hate modern wealth-by-level assumptions, they are baked into the design of the game, so if you’re running with it, you really need to make sure you’re really giving the players something they can use. The Amnesia Campaign really leans heavy on treasure being weird oddities that may be of value to a collector... while also being set, generally, in places so totally removed from civilization that shopping trips aren’t really practical. Much less those needing the party to really find the right sort of buyer.

Really, you want to give out entirely practical loot (really hard to do without knowing the party makeup, but variety can work), big piles of cash/sellables along with sufficiently large cities along the way for viable shopping, or raw materials suitable for crafting plus ample time to really do something with them.

Anyway, hopefully this has come across more as practical constructive advice for anyone writing a campaign, either as a printed product or just for your home game, not just me tearing into the Amnesia Campaign at length.

[degenerate-perturbation]

Chapters: 24/38 Fandom: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Origins - Awakening, Dragon Age II Rating: Mature Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence Relationships: Female Amell/Female Surana Characters: Female Amell, Female Surana, Anders, Velanna, Nathaniel Howe, Oghren (Dragon Age), Justice (Dragon Age), Sigrun (Dragon Age), Varric Tethras, Isabela (Dragon Age), Male Hawke (Dragon Age) Additional Tags: Established Relationship, Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Self-Harm, Blood Magic, Prostitution, Drowning, Wilderness Survival, It Gets Worse Before It Gets Better Series: Part 2 of void and light, blood and spirit Summary: Amell and Surana are out of the Circle, and are now free to build a life together. But when the prison doors fly open, what do you have in common with the one shackled next to you, save for the chains that bound you both?

Loriel had not expected to miss Avernus quite so much.

Months went by without word from him. First few enough for her not to notice, and then too many for her to ignore. A dozen times over the past months she had thought to write him, and then decided that no, she didn’t need to after all, but she couldn’t pretend that forever.

It was her own petty, childish pride, then and now. She had fought him just to prove that she’d win, and writing him now would be admitting that she needed his counsel. Which she did

She still wasn’t going to do it.

More than the man himself she missed his knowledge and experience. And if not that, then at least someone to report her findings to. Someone who would care if she didn’t get anything done, and who would care about what she had to say about it. And yes, perhaps that amounted to missing the man himself, too.

The worst of it was that her work had stalled without him. Her rigor and meticulous care wasn’t enough anymore, and she was no closer to cracking open the crystal and finding the Architect than she’d been any time before. She began to lose whole days to restless pacing, to picking up books and putting them down again, to feeling her eyes move across pages and absorbing absolutely nothing. She had not thought that the loss of a sporadic correspondence partner would undo her so badly.

The work had to continue. 

Had she been a spirit mage, she would have had options—spirits of knowledge weren’t that uncommon. The Chantry did not teach its prisoners to speak to them, but a powerful spirit mage could have managed it. The Dalish did so, and so did the Alemarri. Spirit lore was something that might have been available to her, when she was eighteen or twenty and still fresh.

But she had bathed too long in her own blood, and her connection to the Fade had rotted. So it would have to be a demon, and she would have to bind it.

For all her transgressions, Loriel did not make binding demons a habit. Less out of any unwillingness to transgress—what sacred rule had she not already broken?—than a sense of calculated risk. Any imperfection in the binding, and the demon was out, ready to turn its wroth on the first target it could get its hands on—generally, the mage who had bound it.

It was a bad idea, she knew that going in. She would do it anyway.

That did not mean she would be stupid. She did her due diligence. She read up, poring over every scrap of demon lore in her library. Abelard’s Index of Foulest Daymons was particularly helpful. She had borrowed the tome from Avernus and only vaguely intended to return it, and now it seemed like she wouldn’t have to. It was a murderously heavy text, listing every type and subtype and sub-sub-and-so-on-type of demon known to exist, their names and habits, their foibles and tricks, how best to bind one, and what one might ply it with. Better yet, Abelard had lived in Tevinter during the Steel age, and his text was unsullied with Chantry prejudices.

She practiced first. When finally it came time to summon something, she spent hours carefully inscribing the binding circle—with far more care than what she intended to summon really warranted. She started with wisps and wraiths, half-formed blobs of Fade-stuff still waiting to become, lashing them to her will and releasing them again. When she could do this as easy as breathing, she moved on to demons of hunger. Hunger was something she no longer felt, and could not be tempted by, though hunger demons were more likely to try and eat her than to tempt her. 

Next she tried Rage and Desire, creatures of things she had felt once, but hadn’t for months and years. If Rage might still bring heat to her blood, if only in the form of intense irritation, Desire offered nothing she’d ever take. Loriel had no fear of Desire. She’d already had the thing she most greatly desired, had it, and thrown it away—on purpose. Nothing else in this world existed that Loriel could be said to desire.

Sloth she avoided. Sloth—Torpor—was the only one demon who had ever gotten the better of her, who she hadn’t defeated herself. It was too great a risk, that she’d lie down and sleep until the end of the world, given half a demon-shaped excuse.

These lesser demons, though, would be of no use to her. What she needed was knowledge, and what that meant something like Pride.

Abelard’s Index was not very reliable for lesser demons who had since returned to the Fade-sea and reformed. It listed appearances they no longer wore, personalities they had long shed, even if their basic natures would reform. But for powerful demons who had amassed centuries of memory—just the one she would need—Abelard was perfect. She read and reread the relevant heading, squinting at the antiquated Tevene. Vainglory, Audacity, Superbia, Narcissus—no, not quite, no, and no. Demons that dealt with forbidden things—Censorus, Proscripta, Obscurus, Taboo—no, not that one, not this one neither. Then she saw the subheading—Daymons of Knoweledge.

Demons of knowledge came in all manner of forms—she paused for a time on Secerne, who collected secrets. It dealt only with knowledge that no-one else knew. Tempting—but such a creature would hardly be likely to give its secrets up and render them useless to itself. A blood mage could bind a demon and constraint it, but to compel it was pointless—you’d probably just end up destroying it, and if you were after knowledge, what good was that? No, once bound, the demon would have to be dealt with the old fashioned way.

Revelatus traded desired knowledge for undesired knowledge. It would tell you anything you wanted to know, and then something you didn’t want to know—the worst thing your lover had ever thought of you, how happy you might have been if you had just chosen differently, what was really in your sausage. Countless men had been driven mad by this one, Abelard warned. Loriel decided not to test her luck.

Finally she settled on a demon called Veritas, who spoke only truths. It was an ancient creature of malice and cunning, but it would tell her the truth, and for that Loriel would give anything.

tck

There came a point where even she could not justify dithering any longer. Weeks had passed since she had decided she would bind a demon. On the chosen day, she made all her preparations, triple-checked her summoning circle, cast spell after protective spell. Finally she could find no more excuses to delay—she spilled her blood and spoke the words.

The air itself seemed to part, and a greenish miasma spilled forth from the crack. A shape was being pulled through, too big for such a modest aperture, yet somehow, terribly, emerging. Reality bulged and bent, and finally, a demon climbed out.

It was smaller than other Pride demons, shaped something like a bear and something like a lion, though in place of claws or talons, it had clever human fingers. Its face was covered with a golden mask, shaped into the form of a human face. Its hide was pitch black, and every inch of it covered with blinking, roving eyes.  It raised its head, as though to sniff the air, and bent to examine its new situation, noting the summoning circle, the runes of binding and restraint. 

“Hello,” said Loriel. “Might you confirm your name?”

The thousand eyes blinked all at once. “I am Veritas, he who knows ten thousand truths.” Its voice came through as though from far away, echoing around the chamber.

“Ten thousand only?”

“No, far more! Many, many more! I know more truths than there are stars in your sky, more truths than there are grains of sand in your deserts, more truths than the number of breaths you will take—”

“That is more than ten thousand.”

“That I know ten thousand truths was not a lie.”

“Oh, I see. You’re one of those demons of knowledge.”

She had succeeded in offending it. “What do you mean by that?”

“You speak only in riddles and technical truths. You say things that are true by letter only, and lies by implication. Disappointing,” said Loriel, pouring unimpressed into her voice.

It scowled around the room—or seemed to. She could not see its face behind the golden mask. “Why can I not see you, little mageling? Where are you?”

Invisibly, Loriel produced a faint crescent of a smile. “I am here in this room with you, Veritas.” Her voice echoed through the chamber as she spoke, seeming to come from everywhere and nowhere at once. The demon’s ears twitched, and only then did Loriel realize that even telling it that she was there in the room with it was more than she meant to say.

“So you are, mageling, so you are. Why have you summoned me?”

“Why do mages ever summon you? I seek knowledge you might have.”

“Why should I tell you anything I know, when you have dragged me so rudely from my home?”

“I will make it worth your while, Veritas. I offer knowledge in exchange for knowledge.”

Veritas laughed. It was a horrible sound, like broken glass. Loriel didn’t dare speak. “Little mageling, you know nothing I do not. I have sought out truths for centuries, bent only upon knowing, and you, little girl, whose lifetime is as a mayfly’s breath to a being like myself—you presume to offer me knowledge? You presume to know something I do not?”

Loriel let the echo of the last word fade, then said calmly, “What is my name?”

No answer.

“So you do not know it,” Loriel said. “And I am forced to conclude, Veritas, that I do know some things that you do not.”

The demon paced inside its narrow circle on all fours. “Aren’t you a darling little pedant! Very well, I’ll take your deal, but I will take it on my terms. You may ask me one question, but first, you must tell me something I do not know. Do not lie! If you answer falsely, I shall know, and I shall devour your heart.”

An empty threat. Veritas was bound. It was subject to her will. It couldn’t get out if it wanted to—or else what was the point of blood magic binding? She was perfectly safe. It was bluffing—

...No, it wasn’t. Of course not. The demon of truth could not bluff. If Veritas bluffed it would no longer be Veritas. I shall devour your heart. Not a promise or a threat, but a statement of fact.

“Very well,” Loriel said steadily. “I shall speak truly.”

“What,” grinned the demon, “is the full, entire, and complete name by which you are called?”

She should have seen that coming. “My name is Loriel Surana.” 

Loriel was common enough for elves. And Surana was not even her family name; it was just what all elves were called in the Circle. Elves had no family names.

“Loriel Surana,” said Veritas, tasting it, savoring it. “Loriel Surana, Loriel Surana...yes, I know of you.”

She was so startled that the question came out unbidden: “What do you mean?”

“Your name floats upon the Fade like a dying leaf upon the breeze! One who often walks free along its emerald waters has called and called it, lacquered it with misery and love, twisted it with hatred and longing. Your name forms an island of despair and desire; tempests that will not calm; storms that will not pass. Yes, what a name!”

“I see,” Loriel said neutrally. Whatever bloomed in her to hear that, she stoppered it at once. “I answered your question, demon, so here is mine—”

“Ah, ah, ah!” The demon waggled a finger not-quite-at her. “You already asked your question. You asked me what I meant. Now it is my turn again. Where in this room are you right now?”

“I am standing in the northeastern corner of this chamber,” Loriel answered, and slowly, on magically silenced feet, moved to the southeastern corner instead.

“No fair,” the demon complained. “I did not know which way was northeast.”

“Oh? Then my mistake. But I answered your question, so here is mine. Where is the ancient darkspawn being known to many as the Architect?”

“The Architect is underground,” the demon said sulkily.

Loriel felt a vein throb in her forehead. “I could have told you that.” 

“Then you should have asked a better question,” sniffed the demon. “Now it is my turn—”

“No,” Loriel interrupted. “No, it isn’t. I didn’t say I would answer any question you asked. I agreed that I would tell you something you did not know. You have just told me you do not know which way is northeast, so I will tell you—it is the direction of the corner where the empty pouch of lyrium powder lies. Here is my second question: what is the cure for the Blight?”

“Why—blood, of course.” The demon smiled with hidden teeth. “It is always in the blood. That was a dirty trick you played, Loriel Surana, but no dirtier than mine, so I will forgive you, this time. Here is the next thing that I do not know and that I would have you tell me.” The demon smiled wider, showing teeth. “What do you love most in all the world?”

“Well?” said the demon, when she had been silent too long. “Will you answer, Loriel Surana? Or will you let me go?”

“I will answer.” And she answered, truly: “Nothing. What I love most in all the world is nothing.”

“How interesting. Yes, very interesting...you are a pleasing little mageling. I think I like you after all. Well, Loriel Surana? It is your turn. Speak!”

“I’m thinking,” said Loriel, and finally settled on: “What concrete set of actions should I take next—immediately after ending this conversation—that, of all possible actions, would take me the further along my goal of discovering the cure for the Calling?”

Veritas grinned wider still, its face little more than teeth. “Take a man infected with the Blight, and find a way to take it out of him. A man, and not a rat. But why waste your time with me asking me that which you already know?”

Loriel exhaled through her nose. “Thank you, Veritas. You may go now.” 

The demon’s grin was all that remained of it as it disappeared back into the Fade, making no attempt at all to remain within the waking world. Loriel was alone, the floor littered with truths both new and old.

“Shit,” she muttered finally.

tck

It had been a mistake to summon the demon. She was no good at dealing with creatures of the Fade. When Loriel had been small and scared and helpless she’d had a silver tongue, been so adept and turning minds to her advantage using nothing but her words. Not it seemed she had forgotten entirely how to deal with a mind she could not break and twist and bend. 

All she had succeeded in doing was in giving an ancient, powerful demon tools to hurt her with, and what had she learned? Nothing she didn’t already know. Stupid. Careless. Idiot.

“Warden Pollard has begun to hear the Call.”

Loriel had been half-listening to Brigit’s report; now she startled to full attention, rattling her morning tea in its cup. “What?” Brigit repeated herself. “Warden Pollard...who is he?”

Warden Pollard was Orlesian. He had transferred from under Warden-Commander Clarel some years ago. He had served well, saved three of his comrades in a raid, and fought with a pike. He had been a Warden for only thirteen years. This was early, but not unheard-of.

“Where is he?”

“The chapel. He prays for his soul. He intends to visit his mother in Velun before heading to the Deep Roads.”

“I would like to speak with him in private.” She said it so quickly as to be unseemly. But Brigit only nodded and moved to acquiesce.

When her office door opened and Brigit admitted him, Loriel couldn’t help but think he didn’t look much like a dying man. Perhaps he was pale, perhaps a sheen of sweat stood out on his skin, but she didn’t know him. For all she knew, he always looked like that. 

Only when traces of discomfort began to appear on his face did Loriel realize she had been staring at him silently for far too long.

“Commander,” he said awkwardly, still with the traces of an Orlesian accent. He’d never met her before. Was he one of the ones not quite aware that she still lived, and still ruled? “I’m honored.”

“Do not be,” she said flatly. “How is it?”

How are you feeling might have been more appropriate. But it would have rung false. 

“Not so bad, yet. I knew it was coming. I accept it.” He paused. “Is there some manner of ceremony?”

Loriel had no idea. There probably was. She had never cared to find out, never cared to make sure that her wardens had a good sendoff. “If you wish it. But that is not why I wanted to speak with you. Can you get more specific?”

A flash of confusion.

“About how it is.”

Pollard looked even less comfortable. “I’ve had nightmares, ser.”

“Different from the usual?”

“Yes.” 

“Can you tell me more?”

“With respect, ser, I’d rather not.”

Her mouth set. “Please,” she said, and there was the power of blood in her voice, and not a trace of a request. “Tell me more.”

Pollard’s eyes went foggy and distant. When he spoke, he sounded oddly flat. “The nightmares were only the beginning. Now when I sleep, I hear the most beautiful voice. Like my mother calling me home. And when I awake, I want nothing more than to hear that voice again. I can hear it now, just barely. And a strange music in my ears.”

“What kind of music?”

“Bells. Like chantry bells, calling me to prayer. Ugly and beautiful at once.”

“Is it anything like lyrium song?”

His brow knit. “Yes. Not unlike lyrium song. But different. Richer and darker. I can almost pick out voices in it, but never what they say.”

She took out a notebook, her shorthand flying across the page. “What do you see? In the dreams?”

“Darkspawn. All gathered together in the biggest chamber I have ever seen. It’s dark, but I can see perfectly. They’re darkspawn, but they do not seem ugly. At the center sits a beautiful figure, bathed in gold, smiling. They welcome me home. I’m glad to be there.”

“When did this start?”

“Three weeks ago I first heard the voice in my dreams. 

“Any physical effects?”

“My skin is hot. The sun hurts my eyes, even on cloudy days.  I feel stronger now than I have ever been, even stronger than I was as a young man.”

“Anything else?”

“I hope not to be alive by the time there is anything else.”

Loriel finished transcribing. “One last thing. Come here. Roll up your sleeve; give me your arm.”

Pollard obeyed. He did not protest, did not react at all, when she took some of his blood. It glinted darkly in the glass vials she had fetched for this purpose, easily a few shades too dark. She stared at it for a few seconds. There was the Blight itself.

She took a few vials. Enough so he wouldn’t notice, later, and closed the wound she’d made with a clumsy burst of creation magic. The vials went into a wooden box inscribed with a rune of entropic suspension—blood spoiled so soon after it left the body.

Frustration overwhelmed her, that all she had was a few vials of blood and a brief coercive interview. Imagine all she might have learned if she could watch as he succumbed to the Taint, hear in his own words what was happening to him. He was going to die anyway—this way he might help save the lives of countless other Wardens, who could object to that? She could just—

No. Velanna had been wrong. She cared about the Wardens, of course she did, why else do all this? She would not subject an innocent man to such a fate. She was better than Avernus.

Pollard blinked as she released his mind, but if he was aware of the lost time he did not show it. She thanked him for his service and assured him that his family would be taken care of. He thanked her in turn, and departed as quickly as was seemly. She watched him go with only the smallest burst of dark regret.

[designatedloveinterest]

please tell me where I’m going with this

Yennefer woke up because something was tickling her nose.

She slept in the foetal position as she always did, undisguised by a sympathetic body to wrap around, shutting out the cold uncaring world. Having spent her formative years in a stable, she felt no urgent reason to engage with the tickling. Probably just a lonely harvestman, lost on its way to its web - but by the gods, she would certainly need to get up and piss soon.

Jaskier woke up because something was sticking into his ribcage. It was soft and pillowy, but definitely squished uncomfortably against him. He rolled over and found a different something squishing into a different part of his ribcage. His bladder was also starting to complain urgently.

The cries that ensued from both parties on waking could be heard across Vengerburg.

~

Familiarity breeds contempt, and hatred is all too frequently a projection of the features in oneself that one despises the most. Therefore, it should come as no surprise that the unlucky recipients of new bodies as mentioned above performed almost identical rituals, in order:

1) poking at their new face, Yennefer scrubbing at her newfound stubble - and crow’s feet - in utter dismay,  Jaskier marveling at his resemblance to a baby’s bottom, and;

2) immediately returning to bed to experiment with their unfamiliar genitalia.

“You boring, boring little man. You talk a big game of entendres and seduction, but you don’t own so much as an egg,” muttered Yennefer, rifling through Jaskier’s things and hoping he owned the room, or at least was paid up. Across town in Yennefer’s apartment, Jaskier was opening jars and bottles and sniffing them, wondering if any of them were safe for personal use.

~

ARGENTUM IBISCUS DI CERIKAN

“Sorted!” gloated Jaskier, spotting his very favourite beauty cream in its distinct rifled coffret. Lightly scented with a silky feel, Argentum Ibiscus di Cerikan was safe for delicate body parts, such as, ahem, eyes. Out of sheer habit he dabbed a tiny amount in the corner of each eye then, clutching the bottle, positioned himself in front of Yen’s full length mirror, legs splayed for a perfect combination of watcher and watched.

Yen grinned smugly at finding a near-finished bottle of her best-selling beauty potion nestled in Jaskier’s smallclothes like a dirty secret. Whilst the merchants proclaimed its rejuvenation properties, the unspoken benefit was the unique but painless tingling sensation it offered - a benefit the bard was clearly familiar with. She was quite sure he would forgive her for smearing it over three or four of her fingers and applying it deeply.

~

Jaskier collapsed to the ground, gurgling incoherently.

“Ba” was all he could manage. “Ba. Ba.” He stared at a loop of silk edging the extremely fine carpet he lay on, hands clutched between his legs, heart pounding like a thunderstorm.

How did women not just fucking die from this?

Very suddenly, Jaskier understood why women who failed to finish before he did beat and kicked him so savagely.

Poor Yen had had to make do with a lousy candle, nowhere near enough width for the beastly pounding she knew the bard could easily withstand. She was also disappointed to find that luxurious living and what felt like a hereditary spinal condition prevented her from being able to get her mouth quite down to her surprisingly generous cock. Still, discovering that the bard had extraordinarily sensitive nipples gave her plenty to work with.

~

He supposed he should leave. No doubt Yennefer would be VERY angry when she woke up in his less than salubrious inn room, and assuming this situation wasn’t entirely her doing, she would be roaring back towards her own home ready to eviscerate him and his newfound appreciation for the clitoris. Not that he hadn’t appreciated it before, but now he REALLY appreciated it. At least six times, just this morning.

But her sheets were so fine, and her bed so soft, and the smell of not only lilacs and gooseberries but also roses, freesias, jasmine, frying eggs, donuts, and even horseshit coming in through the high window was wrapping him in a sensuous haze, and he decided that just a few more minutes of sleep would be fi…..

Yen, however, was very keen to find out which whoreson had stuck her in this ridiculous furbag’s body, even if it was a rather fun body to play with, and so after a relatively muted three orgasms and an efficient nap she attempted to get dressed.

Yen was no stranger to suffering for beauty, and even respected the bard’s commitment, but… what the hell was going on with these shoes? These PANTS?? Eventually she managed to cobble together an outfit from the least ridiculous items in Jaskier’s wardrobe - which for a travelling bard was entirely too large - and arrange her new bits in a less uncomfortable manner.

Her first port of call would, indeed, be her own home…  

~

All right, perhaps that was more than a few minutes of sleep. Jaskier grinned smugly to hear the elegant and proud Yennefer’s stomach gurgling like a summer brook.

Well, the only decent thing to do would be to feed her! Jaskier felt very, very sure that Yennefer would be so grateful when she found out he’d maintained her refined diet. He fell out of bed and treated himself to a leisurely hour or so of trying on clothes, occasionally yelling at his stomach to shut up and make way for beauty, and settled on a simple all-black ensemble that he felt really emphasised both tits and arse.

Patting himself on the bottom for his good taste, he headed out for breakfast. Lunch. Lekfast. Whatever.

"What're YEE staring at, cont?"

Yennefer, who had barely registered the thug's existence, continued as she normally would - eyes straight ahead, nose not at all in the air but somehow looking as if it was.

“Hey! Don’t fuckin’ ignore me you puffed-up prick! A’ll ‘ave ye!”

Puffed-up prick? Oh, of course. Yen had somehow managed to get comfortable in this weird huge bear of a body, and none of her womanly wiles would get her out of this – appeal to his mates, cutting but witty remark, setting on fire as a last resort. She made a cautious gesture in the hope of generating some energy, and of course just looked camp. She hoped this body was any good in a fight.

~

Normally, Jaskier had to muster all the charm he had abundantly at hand to persuade Dragan Smilovic to open The Iron Mountain before noon. Instead, he was slightly miffed to discover a beaming Dragan throwing the doors open to welcome "Lady Yennefer! A honour to my house. The usual?"

Curiosity overriding his irritation, he smiled as smugly as he imagined Yen to be and murmured "Of course, Dragan." He swished into the pub and slid into a booth, making sure to really stick his arse out as he did so.

This body was not that great in a fight, to be honest, but thankfully, neither was Mr. Sensitivity and after some unpleasant blows to the face Yennefer channelled her first-year Aretuza energy, grabbed her assailant's ears and headbutted him right in the nose. His face exploded with blood and snot and his mates roared, advancing on her for revenge. Yennefer took the win and, using her long muscular legs, ran like all Jaskier's fiancee's were after her.

~

"What... is this, Dragan?" Jaskier had no idea how his face looked, but he felt like it probably resembled this sad assembly of rabbit food masquerading as a meal.

The dwarf rattled off a word salad that involved far too little "pork" or "venison" and far too much "emulsion" and "jus" and for fuck's sake "julienne".

"Are you trying to kill me? I'll waste away from this."

Dragan flinched slightly.

"The last time I brought you the house special you threatened to set me on fire."

Of course she did. Still, of all the things Dragan could suspect of the sorceress, being occupied by her best frenemy's mind was unlikely to be the first, so Jaskier declined to simply reverse the threat.

"Dragan," he reassured the dwarf, "I've given it some thought and I believe that I should be liberated from the tyranny of the 21 inch waist. A hardworking mage requires adequate carbohydrates to maintain one's powers, and as a result, I will require a tankard of the finest Rivian Kriek and one each of your freshest pies. No cats, Dragan, I'll notice."

Dragan bowed slightly. "Very good, ma'am," and headed for the kitchen.

Yennefer was pleasantly surprised by how well the furbag's lungs were taking all this running. For a man who clearly appreciated carbohydrates in all forms, Jaskier was much fitter than she'd have expected. Even so, she very slightly wished his inn was located somewhat less downhill from her apartment.

The thugs had, fortunately, been either too cowardly to follow her into the more upmarket part of town, or perhaps had been intercepted by guards while she sprinted through the textile markets. A few merchants had tried to wave her (realistically, him) down and she huffed "not... today... thanks" and kept sprinting.  If she made it home fast enough, he might not have stolen everything not nailed down.

~

Jaskier was disgusted, absolutely disgusted with the lack of endurance this body had for fine carbohydrates. Offered the finest sauerkraut, sausages, pies and pierogies, beautiful homebaked dwarven bread smeared with the finest goat's cheese, not to mention the fine ales, beers and stouts he KNEW Yennefer loved - why, he was practically buying her a gift! even if it was with her own money - it managed to digest half of a pie and half a herring in batter and collapsed like a schoolboy in the third round of Gwent. He unlaced the ribbons at his tiny waist and lay down in the booth.

"Why am I dying, Dragan? I haven't eaten in 24 hours. I should be ready to tip an entire banquet table down my waiting gullet. I want a refund."

Dragan prickled. "Ma'am, I provided specifically your every request. I - "

Jaskier waved dismissively. "I'm joking, Dragan, keep your pants on. Oh gods - " clutching at his spasming stomach - "I want a refund on this miserable, useless body. Except for the boobs. They're quite good. Ooooof."

The dwarf clutched his notepad. "Errr... coffee?"

Yennefer approached her shop with some trepidation. He wouldn't have trashed it - not his style - but he absolutely would leave a bottle of something dangerous open, 

[glorifiedpigeon]

Fluffuary - Touchdown!

A DLAMP oneshot!!! Drake has the worst crush situation, seeing as it's the same situation four times over! Remus insists he give asking them a shot though. Maybe something good will come out of it all in the end!

Link

Drake watched as the school’s head cheerleader and the star quarterback flirted at the edge of the field. The yearbook photographer was taking photos of the player’s warm-ups, and snarking in their direction, while the school newspaper’s main journalist interviewed the coach rather nearby. The four most popular and ineligible boys in school. Drake just had to have a crush on each and every single one of them.

It was sophomore year when rising football star Virgil Storm was asked on a date by spunky little cheerleader Roman Castle. It was quite the surprise when the two of them revealed a plot to ask yearbook photographer Logan Berry to the junior prom about a year later. Then, at the prom, all three of them had danced and made out with the school paper’s most well known fluff-piece-writing journalist, Patton Love.

Drake hadn’t been to prom last year. He’d been with Remus Castle, smoking and defacing the school while all the teachers were at the hotel for the prom, complaining about how Remus’ brother was too hot and stealing all of Drake’s crushes.

“Sounds like you’re crushing on the A List pretty hard there,” Remus had teased, and while Drake had denied it, he’d been absolutely crushed on the last Monday of the year, the first Monday after the prom, when he heard the rumors.

Then, of course, the four of them went traipsing through the halls, hand in hand in hand in hand. Drake could’ve screamed. He was sure he screamed. He definitely passed out. It was not his proudest moment, but that was last year.

This year, he’d spent nearly the whole time watching the four of them with a dreading envy. This was their senior year. The five of them would graduate after this, and those four would go off to college together, adjusting their dreams for one another like the perfect polycule they were, and Drake would be on his own.

It was the last game of the season. Virgil would be moving on to swim team in the spring. Drake had never been to his swim practices, but he’d seen him changing in the locker room. There’s no way he’d survive watching him at swim practice. He’d barely made it through the one competition he’d attended. Virgil was just…

“Are you thinking about Virgey’s big fat-”

“Remus, we are in school!” Drake hissed at the disgusting teen leaning towards him and invading his personal space. It was bad enough that Remus had decided to sit so close when the bleachers were so ridiculously empty.

“School’s over! They can’t censor me on a football field, I can say what I fucking want, and if I wanna call my brother’s boyfriend’s dick a tasty as fuck man sausage then I shitting will!” Remus said, throwing in a few unnecessary curses for good measure. Drake flushed bright red.

“You are embarrassing me,” Drake muttered.

“Oh good!” Remus cheered. “At least I’m doing something right.”

Drake’s eyebrows jumped as he came up with an idea. “You know, there is one thing I’m thinking about.”

“Hm?” Remus asked, almost disinterested.

“Roman’s quite flexible, I wonder if he could suck his own-”

“Gross! Nope! That’s enough, shut up, dude, that’s my brother!!!” Remus shouted.

Drake smirked. “Revenge is sweet.”

“I hate you,” Remus pouted. “I mean, it’s not like you weren’t already thinking about Mr. Quarterback’s man meat-”

“Please call it literally anything else,” Drake said.

“Dongbanger,” Remus supplied.

“I rescind my request,” Drake replied quickly. “That was somehow worse.”

“But then you gotta drag my gross slimy brother into this! Maybe I just wanna imagine my best friend getting fucked by his crushes in a super not gross way, can’t you just give me this?” Remus asked.

“You are the most sex-repulsed asexual I know,” Drake stated, frowning. “Why are you like this?”

“It’s different when I’m joking with you, man. I don’t know. Look, just ask them. They’ve already got four phalluses in that sausage party-”

“Why did your saying this ‘professionally’ make it even more uncomfortable for me?” Drake asked.

“-just ask for an invitation!” Remus finished, throwing his arms up in a wide shrug. Drake frowned at him.

“I don’t want- that. Not yet, anyway, I want an actual genuine connection. We don’t have that with one another,” Drake muttered. “They probably don’t even know me.”

“Pssh,” Remus waved his hand dismissively. “You’re my best friend! Roman’s gotta recognize you at least.”

“I doubt it, I’m never at your house,” Drake muttered. Remus sighed.

“Okay, you know what? If you go down there and ask all four of them out before the game ends, then I’ll stop talking about sex until graduation,” Remus proclaimed. Drake looked at him skeptically. Remus pursed his lips. “At school only.”

“Aha. Fine, I will make an effort,” Drake muttered. “But if they reject me, then you don’t get to make any comments of a sexual nature whenever you’re around me.”

“Drake, buddy, if you get rejected I will shave my baby mustache,” Remus snorted. Drake was taken aback. Remus would never make a risky wager on his mustache. He had made plans to grow that thing out into a masterpiece. His dream of winning a mustache contest was as old as he himself was.

Drake made his way down the bleachers and to the fence separating the crowd from the field. He stood there awkwardly for a moment, seeing Roman now running some stretches with the other cheerleaders. A blonde girl pointed at him then, and Roman turned to look at him. He blushed bright red as Roman made his way over.

“Oh, hey! Drake, right? Does Remus need anything?” Roman asked. Drake was feeling hot from his fingertips to his ears, now.

“Oh. No. Um, I actually had a question,” Drake said.

“Oh, well, shoot!” Roman prompted, bouncing on his toes, and waving a pom pom invitingly. Drake bit his lip.

“Um. Are you and your boyfriends in an open relationship?” Drake asked. Roman blinked, then he grinned, his cheeks turning a rosy pink.

“Drake, are you asking your best friend’s brother on a date? Isn’t there a bro code about that sort of thing?” Roman asked.

“I think when your best friend encourages it, then you may as well go ahead and ask his brother. So? Are you, um. Are you all interested?” Drake asked, and Roman gasped.

“All of us?” He asked, another grin on his face. Drake covered his face with his hands.

“Yes, all of you.”

Roman chuckled. “No one’s asked for all four of us before. You might just have a date, then, Drake. I’ll bring it up to them. Meet me outside after the game, to get your answer?” Roman asked. He batted his eyelashes as if on instinct, and Drake melted.

“Okay,” he said weakly. Roman flashed him a final grin, before darting back to join the other cheerleaders. The bleachers were beginning to get crowded, so Drake hurried to rejoin Remus and grab his seat.

The game started dully. Drake didn’t come out of love for the sport, and Remus didn’t come for any reason except that Drake came. Drake came to watch Virgil while he was off the field, wiping sweat from his face, and dunking water over his head. He came to watch Roman flip through the air and land doing a perfect split. He came to watch Logan take photos, and chat with the cheerleaders between routines and the benched players.

Seeing Patton today was a bonus. Patton sitting next to him in the bleachers was a down right gift from god.

“Hi, Drake!” Patton greeted. Drake spluttered.

“You remember me?” He asked.

“I mean, you did shout at me during a class debate in our freshman year?” Patton reminded. Drake felt himself going red as Remus cackled behind him. “It was very memorable.”

“I am very sorry,” Drake insisted. Patton giggled.

“You said so then, too! Roman says you want to ask us all on a date,” Patton said, and Drake felt like melting through the bleachers would probably be the most satisfying way to end this conversation.

“If you don’t want to, it’s fine-”

“No, no, I’d love to!” Patton interrupted. “If Virgil and Logan agree, that is.”

Oh god. Patton leaned into Drake’s shoulder, resting his hand on top of Drake’s. Melting would be both convenient and inconvenient at this time.

He glanced at Remus, who merely gifted him with the sight of two thumbs up. Drake felt the blood rush away from his face as his friend made to leave. Oh god, Remus was going to leave him here with his entirely undignified gay panic.

“Where are you going?” Drake asked, trying not to sound too freaked out. “The game’s barely started.”

“Football isn’t really my thing,” Remus announced. “I’m going home. Don’t you two get uncomfortable on my account, mkay?”

“Oh- have a safe trip home!” Patton called after him.

God, an utter sweetheart, wishing a traitorous wretch like Remus a safe trip.

If, later that evening, Drake wound up making out with the four most popular and most ineligible boys in school, and becoming the most envied and ineligible boy in school, then… that was his own business.

He’d thank Remus for leaving him without a ride home next time he saw him.

@tsshipmonth2020

[rmjagonshi]

Visions of HeartBreak Past

On AO3

It was almost done, Soos was finishing up the last few stitches before they let the thing into the air. If he could pull this off, he might actually get more customers into the Mystery Shack. There might actually be an upside to this ‘Woodstick’ Festival yet. He’d seen the way these kids spent money – heck, some of them were adults not that much younger than him – and with any luck, he might just be able to top off the budget for this month. He was short on the utilities payment by a good three-hundred-bucks. If there was one thing he never counted on, was that his brother’s dumb sci-fi portal mess drove the electricity bills further up the ‘dear god why’ charts. He does kinda feel bad for the kids; he’d had to come up with some lame-ass old man excuse for never turning on the lights or air conditioner during the day. He’d make it up to them…somehow…maybe. He sighed.

If he was gonna pull this off, he was really gonna need to prepare the kids for the eventuality of their entire world upending. But for now, he just needed to advertise. And the balloon was…abso-fucking-lutely not like he had anticipated. It was a fucking horror show, looked nothing like the blueprints and very much like what he saw in the mirror every morning. Although, Soos’s comment that the nose looked like a sausage and that it reminded him of the story that his Abuelita told him about a couple who find a genie and they fight over the wishes and one ends up with a sausage for a nose, kinda made it better. Soos was a good kid – er, man. Man-kid. Stan was sure he didn’t deserve the kindness and loyalty that the man gave him. He was honest enough with himself to admit that he’d used that unwavering loyalty to his advantage a few times.

Stan gritted his teeth in frustration at his own mind. Everything came back around to that, didn’t it? Everything he did, every time he felt even the tiniest bit of happiness, it all had to circle back and remind him that he was a sad, tired and despicable old man that didn’t deserve the friends and family he had. Hell, until the kids came, he didn’t have any family to call his own. But…maybe, just maybe, after all these years, he could do something right. Be less of a fuck-up. Which brought everything back to the hideous hot-air balloon that he was beginning to doubt was a great idea. He took another look at the blue prints and tried to make sense of the horrid scribbles he had jotted down in the margins when the sound of a lot of hot air being released into the night sky caught his attention.

“Wuh-oh. Mr. Pines. Think we got a problem.” Soos gestured to the ripped seam up near the balloon’s fez. Sure enough, the patchwork fabric they’d used to make the fez was flapping wildly as the hot air trapped in the misshapen balloon escaped with force, threatening to burst adjacent seams with every second. Well, shit. It would take a good hour for Soos to deflate the balloon, repair the damage and get it back up and running. Why is it that everything always had to go wrong? Why couldn’t one of his plans go off without a hitch? Just one? Oy!

“I’m on it Mr. Pines! I’ll have this balloon fixed in a jiffy. Now, what lever turned off the do-hicky again?” Make it two hours until Soos figured out how to fix this. He should probably scope out the venders and see what the young people were spending their money on. I couldn’t hurt to expand the gift shop merchandise to include things his new customers were actually interested in buying.

“Hey, Soos, I’m gonna go walk around, scope out the competition, ya’know. Figure out what these kids are into.” Or he really just needed to walk around and think and didn’t need Soos to pick up on it. As oblivious as the kid was, he always had a knack for knowing when Stan was moping around. It seemed every time, without fail, that he was feeling particularly depressed, he would open the door to see Soos standing there with cookies, or breakfast, or something sweet his grandma had made, or some kind of ‘Boss Appreciation’ gift. While he adored the boy, sometimes, he just needed to stew. He was sixty for Pete’s sake, he was entitled to a few days where he could just be a sad and grumpy old man. He’d earned it.

“Sure, Mr. Pines.” Soos had already started flicking levers and pushing buttons on the engine. Stan shrugged, Soos was the better of the two at figuring out how it worked anyhow. What harm could it do? He turned and walked back to the rows of venders all in pavilion style tents. All the venders were shouting and trying to attract customers, showing off their products and…what was that? Giving out free samples!? And the kids were eating it up! How the heck can they make any money by just giving stuff away? Oh sure, keep the t-shirt and caps for full charge, but give the stickers away for free.

Stickers are where he made most of his money! People were rubes, but some of them were pretty price savvy. Show’em a t-shirt with cheap cloth that will fall apart after five washes and tell’em it’s twenty-five bucks, they’ll laugh in your face and keep their wallets tightly closed. But show them a cheap key chain or sticker and tell them it’s a buck or two, they eat it up. They buy five, one of each variety. Paint one shipment gold and call it “special edition” and charge an extra buck, they buy the whole stock. Have a stack of postcards that got wet and the ink warped during the last storm because the roof leaked? Sell them as prints of a hand painted scape of Gravity Falls and double the price. People were absolutely stupid when it came to money if you just nickel and dimed them with special editions and ‘one of a kinds’.

But he wasn't here to boat to himself about how much better a con-artist he was. He was here to figure out what the young people of today were spending their money on. The further he walked, the more food and drink stalls he came across. Okay, so having a food truck on site might be a good idea. He’d done that with the fair he’d put on at the beginning of the summer. Didn’t he make a lot of money that day? Honestly he can’t remember much – he does the fair every year to replace the county fair that the town can’t pay for anymore, and it breaks even most years – all he remembers is sitting in a dunk tank for the afternoon and bleeding the suckers dry as rube after rube tried their hand at dunking the old creep from the Mystery Shack.

Okay, food truck. He could do that. Have a tiny kitchen where he sold drinks and shitty hot dogs and icecream to the families that come from miles around. Might even call up Susan and see if she had a spare cook and the Greasy Diner can share in the profits.

Or…not. He’d not too keen on calling the resident Crazy Cat Lady again. Especially since she still seemed to want to date him. That was a total disaster. And poor Mabel. She meant well, but he was just, as Wendy had put it, ‘un-fixable’. Heck, Soos had been trying for over a decade and hadn’t gotten anywhere. He was doomed to be alone forever, he supposed. Not that he didn’t deserve it. He’d pushed everyone in his life away. He creeped most women out – most men too for that matter – with his really tired and used pick-up lines. His six hour marriage to Marylin ended with her ducking out of the El Diablo at 75 mph with their ill-gotten casino winnings. He’d really thought he’d been in love. Then again, he’d thought he’d been in love with Carla too. He’d dated her through high-school and when he’d gotten kicked out, they’d tried to go steady for a while. But his constant moping over living in his car and losing his family had pushed her into the arms of a musician. And Ford…

Well, he’d pushed Ford into a swirling vortex of Hell in a fit of rage. His guilt hadn’t let him get a full night’s sleep in thirty years.

And now he was avoiding his feelings by wandering the tents at the Woodstick Festival. Dang it! He really needed to go see a therapist like Soos said. But what was he gonna say; ‘Hey, yeah, so I pushed my brother into a sci-fi portal and have spent the last thirty years trying to teach himself quantum physics and calculus, so he could get him back. Oh, and I may or may not have romantic feelings about said brother.’ Yeah, that would go over well.

Stan sighed. He really was hopeless wasn’t he?

A yell and the sound of a cart of beads being turned over caught his attention as he saw a telltale mop of brown hair and a rainbow sweater dart around the corner. He watched as both Mabel and Dipper cut and weaved through the crowd, a rather pudgy blond man in moderate pursuit. At least, until the prop wings on his back started flapping and Stan got a nagging prickling at the back of his head whenever he encountered something supernatural. His gut reaction, the same one that had kept him from going insane in the last thirty years was to turn around and ignore, repress, and feign ignorance. A slightly more pressing gut reaction was to chase down the offender with a baseball bat for endangering his kids.

I really wasn't even a debate as he found himself darting after the three, watching in only slight horror as he saw the absolutely not supernatural man fly overhead to cut off the kids at the fenceline. Stan caught up just a moment after, quick and practiced fingers taking the bottle of black powder from Mabel’s hand as he came up behind her and tucking it in his jacket. He was braced to punch a hippie in the face to protect his children. Heck, he’d probably punch the hippie anyway.      

“Sorry, kids, but you’ve left me now choice. Visions of Heartbreak Past!”

As the blond hippie raised his bottles of creepy hippy powder to throw at Mable, Stan darted in front of her, grabbing her shoulder and pushing her back to fall to the grass and was coated in the pink and purple smoky haze instead. He inhaled and immediately regretted his need to breathe as he doubled over, hacking so hard he was surprised his dentures hadn’t fallen out. Whatever this guy was using to drug people, it was doing a number on Stan’s lungs. He really was lucky to have quit smoking when the kids showed up. He’d probably have passed out by now if he hadn’t. The residual powder coated his mouth and throat. It tasted of bittersweet hope, and…was that jelly beans? God, he hadn’t had jelly beans since…

“Stan?”

Stan froze. He knew that voice. Knew it better than anything else. That voice, that scream that haunted his nightmares.

“Wait, wah?”

“Why is there a pink flavored Grunkle Stan? Hey Love God, what was that supposed to do?”

The ‘Love God’ gaged.

“Ewwww, Man! I knew this bozo was weird. I didn’t think it was this bad.” The twisted face of disgust on the Love Gods face confused the twins, but was completely lost on Stan.

As the smoke cleared, a pink tinged hand extended out to him. A six-fingered hand, wreathed in pink light reaching out to him. When he looked up, it was like looking into a mirror, one that reflected only his best features. His tired, half-blind eyes meet soft pink ones, ones he knew were supposed to be blue so his mind filled in the correct color.

“It’s supposed to show you romances you’ve had and lost. It gets people off my back when they get too suspicious.” Spat ‘Love God’, momentarily recovering from his aborted retching.

Stan heard none of it. Eyes fixated on the phantom in front of him.

“Himself? Huh? Guess it’s not that surprising.”

“But, why would he have ‘lost’ himself? That doesn’t make any sense.”

“Man, you kids have one freaky family.” The ‘Love God’ gulped down something from his belt of potions.

The six fingered hand reached for his own, tugging gently at first before pulling Stan to his feet and interlacing their fingers. A shy smile pulled at that lips he used to catch himself staring at. He knew, logically, that he wasn’t looking into the face of his brother. Stanford was likely older now than his memory allowed. And Stanford wasn’t pink, he knew that. Logically he knew that. But his heart couldn’t take it. The phantom embraced him, twelve fingers digging into his suit jacket.  

“Please…” God, he wanted to. Whatever it was, he would do it. But his mind clouded, his eyes clouded and all he could do was cry.  

He gripped the phantom tightly, the twins watched, even more confused but thankfully silent. The ‘Love God’, true to his name, showed somewhat of a heart and stopped gagging and even frowned in empathy. He barely noticed when the phantom pickpocketed him. The phial was tossed to the ‘Love God’ and the phantom Stanford shot a wicked smile at Stan. One that, while it was supposed to look like betrayal, only shot a bolt of heat down his spine. The ‘Love God’ was right, he was a freak.  

Panicked screams echoed as the night sky lit up orange and red. Stan turned in time to see his would-be advertisement scheme in flames and headed directly for them. Through residual tears, he launched forwards and scooped the twins up and out of the range of the fall out. The ‘Love God’ was not so lucky.  

When the dust cleared and the fire crew crowded in to put out the flames, the kids squirmed their way out of Stan’s grasp and raced back to the spot where the pudgy aspiring musician stood.

“Love God? Are you ok?”

“Please be immortal, please be immortal.”

It was just Stan’s luck that Cupid was invulnerable. He still got a good punch in before the freak got to the stage.

*~*~*~*~*

When they found the portal in the hidden basement and everything literally almost turned upside-down, it made sense. When the author of the journals walked out from the glowing blue light and introduced himself, they understood. When Stan told them the stranger was his brother, everything fell into place.

Mostly.

Mable was still struggling to understand what had happened at the Woodstick Festival. Climbing out of bed, Mabel made her way downstairs and out the back door, hearing muttering from the open door to the gift shop.  

She found Stan leaning back into the couch on the back porch, glass bottle in one hand, lit cigar in the other. Eyes red rimmed and blinking slowly at the treeline like he was a million, billion miles away. He was letting he cigar burn down, the ash dropping off the end to land in the ashtray he’d absently left on the side table. She tentatively took the cigar from between his fingers, squashed the lit end into the ashtray to put it out, and climbed up on the couch beside him.

He startled when she took his cigar, but just watched her as she put it out and sat down; not speaking, not accusing, not asking. He knew why she was up, why she’d come looking for him. Ford was still in the basement working on something or other; the clang of metal occasionally reverberating enough to be heard through the floorboards. He settled back, moving to set the bottle down before wrapping an arm around her. She curled up into his side, fingers picking at stray hairs on his dress-shirt – the suit jacket left somewhere inside. She knew they hadn’t hugged, and that Stan would need one. She liked her new Grunkle, he was cool, and super smart, he just, had some anger issues to deal with. But as mad at Stan as he was, he couldn’t hate him, could he? They were twins, like her and Dipper. They could never hate eachother. She felt her Grunkle slump further into the couch.

He really didn’t want to talk. But like pulling out a loose tooth or a splinter, it was the best thing for him.  

“So…the Woodstick Festival?”

Stan flinched. He tilted his head so that the glare from the open door blocked his eyes and withdrew his arm. He opened and closed his mouth a few times, but his voice caught in his throat and no sound escaped. After a few seconds, he just gave up, closing his mouth with a click and turning away from her.

The ‘Love God’s’ words had stuck in her head. Not love, ‘romance’. As in, crush, as in stay awake all night thinking about them. But, Grunkle Ford was Stan’s brother. Love God had to have been wrong, maybe he used the wrong powder, or maybe it applied to familial love too. Her head jerked up when she heard Stan’s ragged voice.  

“I…I…understand…if you want to…go home early. I won’t ask you to stay. It wouldn’t be right. Just…all I’m askin’ is that you not tell your parents about that. I don’t care what they think of me, but Ford deserves a chance to know his family. He never got the chance to meet your dad. Shermie told me that they are a lot alike. Probably where Dipper gets it.”

He chuckled to himself. Voice dry and lacking any sense of real warmth. He reached down and took a swig from his bottle, draining it and staring at the label as if it held the cure to his every ailment.

“But he didn’t know. Nothing ever happened. I was all me. I’m the freak. Ford didn’t know, still probably doesn’t know.” His movements were jerky, bottle dropping to the porch as he turned and grasped Mabel by her hand. “Oh God, please…please don’t tell him! I’ll do anything!” He had clasped her hand in both of his. He was pleading with her, just like he’d done back in the basement. Begging her to trust him, begging her to not do this.

She felt scared. Why on Earth would she not tell Grunkle Ford that his brother loved him enough that their falling out broke Stan’s heart? Why would she not tell her parents that, either? Why would it even need to be a secret? Why would Stan call himself a fre…unless……oh. OH! He meant, as in, oh wow! That changed things, didn’t it? He meant it like, he ‘loved’ his brother. He loved Stanford.

Something in her expression must have showed recognition because his eyes filled with shame and he turned away, letting go of her hands and picking at the tear in the couch cushion.  

“You love him. And I mean, like, love love, like lay awake at night thinking about them, love.” It wasn't a question. But all the same, Stan nodded.

She didn’t know what to say. Usually, she’d tell Stan to go tell him, go confess your feelings. They either liked you back, or didn’t. But this was way different than everyday romances. This wasn't even just forbidden love between a snake and a badger or like between Dipper and Wendy. This was taboo. This was all kinds of wrong. What could she say to that? ‘Oh, hey. Grunkle Ford, I know that we just met and all, but did you know your brother is in love with you? No? Well he is, and spent the last thirty years trying to get you back because of it.’ She shook her head. There was no real way to talk this through.

She tried to imagine feeling about Dipper like that. Like, tried to picture Mermando and the feelings she got when thinking about him and tried to put Dipper there. But, she just couldn’t. Every time she pictures his face, all she felt was good natured affection for her bro-bro. He was cute…she guessed. But he didn’t make her heart beat fast like Mermando did.

Grunkle Stan had called himself a ‘freak’, maybe he was right. Loving your brother, wanting to smooch your brother was weird. She understands now why the Love God got so grossed-out when he saw the phantom Grunkle Ford. It was kinda weird and gross, but…well, Stan was a weird, gross, old man, maybe it was ok. He looked so lost now, like he wanted to jump into the Bottomless Pit and not come back.

She would be sad if he did. He would cry and cry and cry until the whole of Gravity Falls was under water. Dipper would cry too, though he would never admit it. And she doesn’t know Grunkle Ford very well, but she’s sure he would cry too.

They had sat in silence for several minutes as Mabel processed what had to be her Grunkle’s greatest secret. With a small smile, she flopped into Stan’s side and did her best to wrap him in the biggest Mabel hug she could.

Stan flinched, jarred by the contact he thought he would never feel again. He shifted his weight on the couch, turning just enough to gather Mabel into his lap and squeeze as tight as she would let him. He buried his face into her soft hair, brown strands absorbing the tears he couldn’t stop.

“I’m sorry.” He mumbled into her scalp, gravel voice hardly a whisper. “I’m sorry your uncle is a freak.”

She wanted to tell him that is was going to ok, that he wasn't a freak, and that he wasn't a bad person. But, she just couldn’t…not yet, and maybe not ever. She didn’t know how to feel about this. She loved Stan, yes, and nothing he would ever do would change that, but, this was something she didn’t know how to handle. She just squeezed tighter.

-

-

-

-

-

-

-

Upstairs, the triangular window was propped open, and a microphone dangled from a string from its ledge. Dipper’s – with oversized headphones over his ears – face was contorted, brows furrowed and chewing nervously on his thumbnail.

-

-

Ford leaned against the wall beside the back door just outside of view of anyone looking in from the outside. He’d left his boots downstairs to muffle the sound of his steps. His was was grim, tired, and despondent. Hand absently trailing to the inner pocket of his jacket where he kept the one photo that had kept him going the past three decades. He wondered if it would still carry the same meaning now.

[winterinpanem]

Not Your Mama's Hallmark Christmas part 3/3

This chapter is rated M for sexual content. 

A big Thank You to my friend and Beta @Javistg

Breakfast with Peeta’s entire family is something else. Some are nursing hangovers.

Peeta and Rye sit next to each other and play fight with their elbows.

  “These are grown men, folks!” Lila announces with amusement.

  “Hey, can I butter your biscuit?” Peeta says again with a wink.

  I just roll my eyes at him.

  “Do you need me to wet your waffle, Lila?” Rye adds, greatly amusing his brother.

  I reach for my coffee, Peeta looks at me and says. “Too hot? Maybe you should blow it?”

  I shut my eyes and stifle my laugh.

  Rye follows with, “Lila really likes sausage for breakfast.” Placing a few on Lila’s plate.

  We all groan.

  This leads to Rye and Peeta going back and forth with innuendos as we eat.

  “Do you want a package to come for Christmas, Katniss?”

  “I’ll do you a favor, if Santa doesn't come, well…”

  Finnick and Peeta could do this all day. It's hilarious to hear Peeta and his brother go back and forth. Lila pretends they aren't that funny, but eventually breaks down and cracks up with the rest of us. We're just lucky the pretentious matriarch is seated at the dining table and not with us in the breakfast nook.

  It’s Christmas Day, I don't know what is happening, but today things are different. The hand holding seems second nature. The way we reach for each other is more genuine. Our touches seem to be more than just for appearances. Even the way he says my name sounds, well, different.

  Peeta needed my attention for a conversation with his aunt and the way “Katniss” rolled off his tongue sent a shiver through me, a good shiver.

  I know many erotic novels will describe a predicament where the female protagonist is so turned on she “soaked her panties” at an awkward time in an embarrassing setting, but they never cover how one were to remedy the situation. Damnit!

  Peeta and I are surrounded. SURROUNDED by all kinds of his relatives and I just have to awkwardly shift and pretend I'm not uncomfortable until I can attempt some sort of “pat down” in the bathroom.

  What did he do to provoke such a reaction? I'm not even sure. Was it his blinding smile? His deep, contagious laugh? The time when he squeezed my thigh to get my attention? Or when he brushed my hair to the side to whisper an inside joke from years ago in my ear? Maybe it was when he looked intently into my eyes as we grinned and laughed about the joke reference? I can no longer deny this thing between us. It’s electric. It feels...real.

  After I stack my plate with cookies, Peeta grabs a bottle of red wine and we sneak away to a less crowded room, laughing all the way.

  It was such a gradual shift. No real conscious decision was made, it just seemed natural. The touching. The hand wondering.

  I don't know when it happened, but Peeta and I are up in my room, and I'm straddling his lap as we make out, rather intensely, might I add.

  This feels really real.

  And really intense.

  The only coherent thought I can make is “why did it take so long for us to get here?”

  I've been living this long without his soft pillow lips, how perfectly they fit and hug my own.

  This intensity is what made every other kisser so mundane, forgettable.

  He pulls me tighter as my head begins to spin. I feel drunk on this feeling, on fire, out of control. I feel a hunger within.

  With a sexy husky voice, he whispers magical words that cause a shiver down my spine, “I just want to get you naked.”

  After what felt like hours of roving hands and hungry kisses, clothing in a pile on the floor, I try to catch my breath but, with every touch, Peeta ignites a fire. As his fingers finally reach where I want want him, I'm nearly begging.

  Almost as a reflex, my hand finds its way to make Peeta moan. Hearing his sexy guttural noises has me nearly losing my mind. Hot lips travel down neck, my eyes roll back as my whole body is bathed in waves of euphoria. I hear Peeta stifling similar noises of pleasure in the crook of my neck.

  As we catch our breaths, I find myself giggling.

  “Oh that was sooo goood.” I pant with a tired, sated voice. My eyes are heavy.

  “Mmmhmm.” Peeta smiles like he just learned a secret. He pecks me on the cheek and finds something to clean up with, then dives back in bed.

  The intense look in Peeta's eyes makes my stomach flip. As if he just can't help himself, he leans in, peppering me with sweet kisses that travel to my lips.  

  “Thank you,” Peeta says between lingering kisses.

  “No. Thank. You,” I answer back kissing him too. My lips don't disconnect from Peeta's sweet delicious ones until I can't keep my eyes open and Peeta seems to be nodding off.

  As we drift off to sleep on Christmas Day, the only thought I have is that I don't know if I've ever been so happy in someone's arms before.

  In a half awake state I felt some warmth leave my arms, it's replaced by blankets, and a sweet kiss to my lips, which I return, before going back to my slumber.

  When I wake for the day I'm greeted with a message from Gale.

  The message, sent last night, says:

  Gale: She said yes!!!

  There's a picture of Gale and Madge sporting huge smiles, she’s holding up her left hand up baring the glimmering diamond.

  He popped the question on Christmas Day.

  Another text has a question:

  Gale: Madge and I fought over you a little, but will you be my Best Woman?  

  Me: Absolutely! Congratulations!!

  Then sent Madge the same kind words.

  Madge's reply being: I'll tell you everything when you get back!! xoxo

  I thought for a little bit, then decided to get my best friend’s thoughts.

  Me: What do you think about Peeta and I, if we were really dating? Please don't tell Madge until I've talked with Peeta?

  Gale: You're a pragmatic thinker Katniss, you're never going to choose something serious with someone you ‘can live with.’ The question is if you can't live without him? Does he help you be a better you? This could be really good for you Catnip. ;)

  Me: Solid advice. I'll let you know.

  After I'm showered and dressed, hair woven in my trademark braid, I head downstairs. Since I slept late, only a few family members are still in the kitchen. I decide to look for Peeta before I eat.

  Clara is spoon feeding the chubby babbling baby that sits in the high chair.

  “He's in the kids’ room,” she answers with amusement in her smile.

  What I find is Peeta dancing with his two nieces. The girls are in glittery dress-up clothes, while Peeta has a tulle skirt stretched tight around his waist. All 3 are enthusiastically singing “Let it GO…” as the movie plays on screen. Peeta knows all the words? I would tease him, but I'm just really impressed!

  They didn't see me come in so I quietly sneak back to the kitchen unnoticed. I don't want to ruin the moment.

  I can't wipe away the grin on my face after what I found. Uncle of the year!

  Peeta would make a great dad someday.

Clara and I share a knowing smile as I prepare my breakfast plate.

  The blue eyed baby with tousled curls babbles to his mom while I allow myself to daydream about what Peeta would be like as a father.

  I didn't realize I was smiling to myself until a hungover Rye sat next to me with a plate of breakfast.

  “I really want to mock you about the love struck look on your face, but it's so damn cute. Should I start calling you Sis, now?” Rye nudges me with his elbow, mischief in his eyes, which seems to be a standard Rye Mellark trait.

  “What do you mean?” I try to frown, but fail.

  Rye laughs. “I mean, I've never seen my baby bro so happy and crazy about someone. You’re just as gaga over him and, from what I've seen, it's a perfect match. I'm guessing a ring isn't too far from Peeta's thoughts. What do ya, say, Sis?” This is the most serious I've ever seen Rye, the last sentence he adds playfully.

  “Uh, I, uh?” I really don't know what to say.

  “Don't sweat it, Katniss, just let it happen,” Rye says with a hand on my shoulder.

  He must have read the fear in my eyes.I make eye contact and pay closer attention to what he's about to say.

  “Lila and I were friends first. Lila will tell a much more fluffy magical version, but you seem more practical so, I'll give it to you straight. All couples are different. For us it was a slow natural progression. We were in love before either of us realized it. I didn't know marriage was for me until it just was because it was her. Marrying her was the most natural and necessary decision I've ever made. My whole life is better with Lila. I love her, I want her, and I need her. For the rest of my life. Always,” Rye states so matter of factly we could be talking about the color of snow. It's just fact.

  I'm deeply moved. Somehow this makes more sense than anything I've ever heard about such a commitment.

  “You won't break his heart. He's it for you too. It's in all the little things you're not saying.” And with that Peeta's brother leaves me to my treacherous thoughts, walking upstairs to join his wife and boys.

  I'm also left wondering… so many things.

  There's a knock on the door so, after looking around, I see Clara is busy, I might as well answer it.

  There stands Cashmere De Young, Peeta's horrible ex-girlfriend, standing at the door.

  Cashmere came from old money and was absolutely spoiled. Peeta loved her, he doted on her, was immune to her air of elite, and judgmental nature. I blame his mother.

  I always wondered if it had something to do with his mother's constant disapproval, gaining the approval of someone so exclusionary.

  They dated 4 years, Peeta was talking about marriage, and she left him. This was a year ago, just before his family’s party. Peeta told us of his humiliation at their party and of his mother's constant backhanded comments on the following weeks.

  Despite all this, Peeta went to great lengths to try to win Cashmere back for months. She shut down every attempt. He was quite heartbroken.

  Like kicking a kitten who just wants to be held and cuddled.

  Devil woman.

  Now this woman is back? At his parent’s home.

  “Is Peeta here?” Cashmere studies me, a look of confusion on her face.

  Then I remember the look on Peeta's face when this bitch tore his heart out.  Suddenly I’m filled with anger.

  Her parents were at the party. They probably saw Peeta looking happy and she wanted to come in here to toy with him?

  This woman who is so used to getting everything she wants.

  Not on my watch!

  “Who do you think you are coming here, Cashmere?” I cross my arms, a scowl on my face.

  “I just want to talk to Peeta!” she answers.

  “You've had plenty of time to talk to Peeta! An entire year, to be specific!” My words come out as more of a snarl.

  She looks surprised that I know that.

  “Well, I didn't--,” Cashmere tries, but I interrupt.

  “Well, you didn't? You didn't think of his feelings when you left him? You didn't care about anyone else but yourself?!” I cross my arms in challenge.

  “That's NOT what happened!!” she insists.

  “Get the HELL OUT OF HERE. I'll tell him you stopped by, it's his choice what he wants to do with that information. But you are NOT going to hurt him EVER AGAIN if I can help it! I DON'T want to see your face again!!”  

  Her jaw dropped. “Who the hell do you think you are?!”

  “Peeta's GIRLFRIEND!!” I leave her with that and slam the door in her face.

  I feel like I'm floating on air, I can't believe I was able to tell off Cashmere de Young!

  “Kat? Come over by us!” Two small hands yank my hand and pull me into the living room where Peeta is coloring with a preschool aged nephew. I'm still shaky on their names and parentage. They look so alike.

  “Let's show Peeta that game we played?” a smirk on his lips, mischief in his blue eyes. This one must be Rye’s?

  “Do you mean THIS game?” I tickle both boys with one hand each as they laugh and squirm.

  “Ooor THIS game?” I pick their sides as the laughs become infectious.

  “Or THIS game?” I wrap an arm around each boy and swing them in a circle, plopping them in the couch, gently, but in an exaggerated manner.

  Peeta and I tackle, tickle, and rough house and giggle with our nephews...

  I mean his nephews, until it's time for them to head home with their parents.

  After, goodbyes and hugs are exchanged. I'm surprised to find the ache in my stomach when the kids “can't wait to see me again.”

  The sincerity of Dane and Clara’s open invitation for dinner.

  Rye whispers, “looking forward to a ring.” Which I know has a double meaning.

  I really feel like I fit in this family. It kind of scares me.

  Peeta and I find ourselves sitting on the couch by the fire watching the snow fall outside as we sip hot chocolate.

  He places our cups on the coffee table and pulls me into his arms, longing lengthwise our legs entwined. My head just under his chin where I can hear his heartbeat.

  The calm I feel in his embrace seeps through my veins. I heart his heart beat slow and find a rhythmic pattern. It seems to be a mutual calming effect, wrapped up in each other.

  I'm mesmerized as the fire crackles and flames dance in the fireplace. The gentle rise and fall of Peeta's chest beneath me almost makes my eyelids feel heavy.

  “Katniss I--”

  Peeta's words are interrupted as his phone starts blowing up with text messages.

  “We need to go the the hospital, it's dad!” Peeta says, panic written all over his face.

  CH 6

  The beauty that comes with the winter season brings with it new dangers.

The Centers for Disease Control and Prevention report that about 1 million Americans are injured, and 17,000 people die, as a result of slip-and-fall injuries every year. Studies show slip-and-fall injury rates increase significantly as temperatures decline, with most injuries resulting from contact with outside services.

  Peeta and I rush through the hospital doors hand in hand.

  “Which room is William Mellark in?” We find Rye asking at the front desk, his voice full of concern.

  Loretta is seated in chair outside Bill’s hospital room. She's trying to hold all her emotions in, but the fear is gripping her.

  Dane is seated next to his mom. He offers his hand, which she clutches for dear life.

  Peeta's dad took a nasty fall when he slipped on ice. Will Mellark has a fractured knee that will require surgery. He has a sprained wrist, and they will be keeping him for a few days due to his head injury.

  I heard Peeta talking to his mom about staying past the New Year to help with his dad. I wonder if I should stay with him?

  Loretta keeps muttering how young her husband is, how fit and healthy. Before long, she’s blaming herself.

  The brothers share a look and exchange a few whispered words, with a few head nods they set a plan in motion.

  Peeta and I picked up dinner for the 5 of us while Rye and Dane stayed with mama Mellark.

  After much convincing, Dane took his mom home to sleep while Peeta and I stayed at the hospital to ease Loretta’s fears of being away from her husband.

  The nurses brought us a cot. Peeta and I found comfort snuggled into one another. I fell asleep to his heartbeat under my ear, his solid chest under my fingertips and his fingers in my hair.

  My dreams were less than innocent, twice I woke up too warm and kissing Peeta. I had to calm my thoughts and still my actions. Take deep breaths. We were in a hospital, after all. It's kind of embarrassing how much I want him. In my defense, he didn't seem to mind.

  In the morning, the sight of Peeta's tousled hair and bright eyes make my heart flutter.

  “Good morning, beautiful!” he greets me handing me a crushed cup of coffee. He must have risen hours ago.

  “Thank you.” I smile and accept his gift of caffeine.

  “No, thank you so much for being here with me!”

  I shrug my shoulders.

  “That's just what we do, Peeta,” I state simply. His smiling reply makes something inside my chest grow so huge, almost 3 times in size.

  I rub my chest unconsciously.

  As we wait in Will’s hospital room, we've been told Peeta's dad may wake up soon.

  There's a stirring as Peeta softly talks to his dad.

  “I'm going to call mom. She's going to want to be here once he wakes up,” Peeta tells me before he leaves the room.

  I nod.

  This might be a good time for me to call Johanna.

  “Hey! It's me! How's the beach?” I ask my roommate.

  “Amazing! It's warm and beautiful, and so many guys and gals to take back to my hotel! How are Mellark’s cinnabuns for Christmas?” Jo teases.

  “It's been great, actually. Really great!” I answer her, vague but honestly.

  “Mmmhmm,” I can almost hear the smirk on her face.

  “Are you going to keep him?” she asks so simply, like it's not complicated at all to start a relationship with one of my best friends who has been my pretend boyfriend for the last 5 days.

  “That depends,” I answer just as simply.

“Let me guess, you're doing that thing again where you just don't talk. Have you learned nothing?

  “When that picture in college surfaced, you both talked about anything and everything except your undying attraction. People only teased you because they figured that you would get together with Peeta-bread, --you two were so hot for each other-- but it was only obvious to everyone else,” Johanna explains.

  I take deep breaths and fight the feelings bubbling up inside me.

  “Okay, I won't let the opportunity pass this time. I think, I think he's it for me, Johanna.”

  “I think so too.” Her voice velvety with affection.

  I swallow and explain, “Up until yesterday, everything had been perfect. But his dad had an accident, and we're here at the hospital. If he needs me, I'm going to stay over New Year's. I can't tell him yet, it's too selfish.”

  I hear a door latch so I try wrap up my call.

  “I have to be there for him as his FRIEND. That's it. That's all I am, Peeta's friend.” I explain.

  “Well, tell him you're crazy about him the second you have the chance,” Johanna insists.

  “I will. Thanks, Jo, bye.” I end the call.

  It seems the odds are never in my favor, in life and in love. I thought this week may be the exception.

  I turn to find Peeta looking down, closed off body language. Maybe he's taking his dad's accident harder than I thought?

  “My mom is on her way over,” he tells me.

  I step closer, hoping to calm his concerns, but his response is still closed off.

  “Hey, Peeta, I was thinking, I want to stay in town with you as long as you're here. If you need me?” I offer. Here it is, the precursor to bearing my soul.

  I can't meet his eyes yet, I feel too vulnerable.

  “Why? Because I need a friend?” Peeta asks, with a biting tone.

  “I-I just want to be here, for you, with you. I want to be with you, Peeta.” I try not to say it so monotone, but my fears get the best of me.

I don't know why I imagined him wrapping me in an embrace at these words. When I find a pained expression on Peeta's face I realize I was very wrong to force myself on him, in the hospital with his injured dad.

  Peeta mutters, “Conceal, don't feel, put on a show…”

  “What?” I ask. He looks embarrassed, like he didn't mean to say it out loud.

  “Nothing, uh, something I learned from my... nieces.” He shrugs and rubs the back of his neck.

  I step back and take deep breaths.

  “You don't want me? You don't want me to stay with you?” I try to ask with the least amount of emotion possible.

  “No.” Is his only answer. He looks angry.

  Then we hear Will Mellark moan. Peeta rushes to his dad's side.

  Suddenly, I feel like I'm intruding. This is a family time. I shouldn't be here. I don't belong.

  “I'll give you some privacy,” I tell Peeta. He responds with a nod.

  I wait outside the room for what feels like an eternity.

  Peeta and his dad are still lost in their own little world as I peek through the windows of the hospital room.

  If he doesn't need me to stay over New Year, why wait?

  I'll just get a cab outside the hospital and disappear. There's no way I'm going to stick around while my heart rips apart.

  So THIS is what a broken heart feels like?

  Peeta and I never talked about our feelings, but they became very real to me.

  I did his favor, and even though we hadn't planned on my leaving for a few more days, he doesn't need me anymore, I don't need to stay.

  I should have known.

  No. I knew.

  I knew I could never deserve Peeta Mellark.

  I packed up all my things and called a cab for the train station, then turned my phone off.

  Waiting at the train station, I can't help realizing how lonely I feel. How incredibly empty my heart feels without Peeta. I will myself not to cry, but I'm left with a burning lump in my throat for hours.

  I think I was falling for him.

  I didn't even admit it to myself before I had lost him.

  Why did I let him slip through my fingers? Everything hurts right now.

  After failed attempts to compartmentalize my feelings for Peeta, and trying to convince myself that I'm strong enough to be alone, I doze off in the train.

  The chill the wind gust brings only reminds me that being alone has never felt so bitterly cold.

I tighten my jacket, but it's no use.

  Instead of unpacking when I arrive home, I curled up on the couch with National Lampoon's Christmas, a bottle of wine, and Ice Cream.

  I decided to call Madge the next morning.

“Hey Madge, I'm back in town. Let's talk New Year's Eve. What's the plan?”

  Madge answers “New Year's Gala for the Mayor at 7pm. It's a masquerade, black tie. Gale will be relieved to have you as an ally.”

  “Okay, I'll call if I need help with what to wear, but I think my bridesmaid dress from Annie’s wedding could work.” I share my thoughts.

  “Yes, you look so good in red! If Peeta saw you in it…” Madge pauses, “I thought you said you were staying after Uncle Will’s fall? Any reason in particular that you're back early, Kat?”

  “Peeta said he doesn't need me, so I left.” I answer, refusing to elaborate.

  “My cousin is so dense.” Madge huffs. “See you in a few days!!”

  “See you then! Don't blind anyone with that new ring of yours!” I tease.

  Madge laughs. “I can't help it if I do! See ya.”

  I make plans with Rue and shut my phone off again.

  Rue and I meet up at the indoor rock wall, we try to do this once a month. It's a great work out and we both really like to climb, a hobby I haven't been able to share with anyone else.

“Katniss, I'm just so surprised that you'll fight for everyone else you love but, when it comes to your own desires, you give up so easily.”

  “I don't know, Rue. What do I know about what I want anyway?” I shrug and climb on.

  “You know you want to make it up the top before I do!” Rue says playfully as she gains the lead up the rock wall.

  We laugh and continue vertically. Rue makes it to the top with a grin.

  “All right! Lunch is on me next month,” I tell Rue as we're lowered to the ground by rope and harness.

  After Rue and I have stretched out, rehydrated, talked and laughed, we part ways and I head back to my apartment. I find Annie and Joanna deep in conversation.

  “Katniss, we need to talk about you and Peeta.” Annie says seriously.

  I shrug and take a deeper breath. Then I find a spot in the chair facing two if my closest friends.

  “I think I have an idea of what happened, but will you fill us in?” Joanna asks me.

  I scowl and nod.

  “I told him I wanted to stay with him, that I wanted to be with him.” I take another shaky breath, chew my lip.

  I'm met with surprised and confused expressions on my friends’ faces.

  “Wow, you did?” Jo asks.

  I nod.

  “I'm proud of you, for one, that must have been hard,” my roommate commends me.

  “But then, why are you here?” Annie asks.

  “It wasn't real for him. He-he-he told me he didn't want me to stay over New Year's. That he didn't want me.” It all tumbles out, the lump in my throat grows and I take deep breaths trying to keep my emotions inside.

  “Katniss, he's been talking to Finnick. He’s acting wounded, as if you two broke up. I don't know why he pushed you away. You need to talk to Peeta,” Annie states.

  I shake my head no. “He already made a choice, what good would it do?” I ask Annie.

  “Maybe he didn't hear right, Brainless. You said yourself that his emotions were high after his dad's accident. I don't blame you for bolting, but at least open the lines of communication?” Johanna points to my phone that remains shut off.

  “Look, you may have been faking in the beginning, but what I saw at the Mellark party was very real, for both of you,” Annie insists.

  There's a knock on the door. I look at Jo, wondering if she's invited anyone. She frowns and shrugs. Annie replies with a similar shrug.

  I'm greeted at the door with deep blue eyes and a tousled mop of blonde hair.

  Peeta.

  CH 7

  With a tired, weary look on his face, Peeta hands me a bouquet of wildflowers and a paper bag. “Hi, can we talk?”

  I bite my lip and nod.

  Annie and Joanna mumble something about being hungry and they head out quickly.

  I try to keep my nerves from showing, but I don't want to scowl either so I decide a distraction might be best.

  I place the flowers in a vase.

  Out of the bag, Peeta pulls out wine and cookies for us. I pour each of us a glass of wine and place them on the coffee table.

  I can't help the smile the spreads on my face.

  Peeta brought over things that are just “us.”

  Finally we're seated for a conversation.

  “How's your dad?” I ask.

  “Better. Much better.” He pauses and takes a nervous breath before asking, “Katniss, why did you leave early?”

I make eye contact with Peeta then, looking at my glass, I down the whole thing and pour myself another.

  Okay, now I'm ready for this conversation.

  “It was real for me, Peeta, and you rejected me. I just needed a little time to bounce back. Don't look at me like that, you don't need to soften the blow okay?” I take another sip.

  “WHAT?!” Peeta looks confused.

  “I don't know when it happened, but it became real for me. I wasn't pretending. I thought it was changing for you too. Christmas was just. Wow.” I sigh, then shake my head to clear my thoughts.

  “It hurt to be rejected. Why are you surprised by this?” I ask, drawing even more confusion between us.

  He reaches for my hand and pulls me closer. I flinch, but I can't escape his gaze, or that look in his eyes. It's mesmerizing.

  “When I hear your phone call, I thought... Well, I heard you say we were ‘just friends, that's it.’ I didn't really listen to anything else after that.” He's looking down now, sorrowful.

  I remember saying that to Johanna, out of context that sounds cold.

  His hand clasps mine tighter.

  “So, when I said ‘I want to be with you?” I ask, sceptical.

  “It didn't even register. God, Katniss, when you left, I just felt a hole in my heart. Then my dad told me what he heard. Your whole phone call. I didn't realize… I just didn't...” Peeta rubs his face and tries to organize his thoughts.

  “First of all, you met my parents? I didn't have the greatest example of a fulfilling relationship growing up. I didn't know it could be that great. Dating you, having you as mine, even just for pretend was the greatest relationship I've ever had. You're smart, funny, sexy as hell, and we work so well together. I didn't think I deserved you. I didn't think I could have such a great match for me. Rye talked some sense into me. He explained that it was us together that made this amazing. That we're two pieces of a puzzle that fit together.” Peeta explains.

  I'm listening very intently with every word, until he mentions puzzle pieces and my thoughts turn less innocent. Focus.

  He smirks and leans in to whisper. “That I was an idiot, and I was denying both of us something amazing, but being stubborn and wounded wasn't doing either of us any good.”

  I just stare, unable to speak.

  Peeta brushes some hair out of my eyes and smiles. “I think I knew after our very first kiss. I was scared to fall so hard, tried to bury my feelings. I thought you were better off with someone else. I didn't know what it meant for you. When I saw you in college at Gale’s party I thought maybe that was my second chance, you know? After the pictures of us were floating around, I saw the look on your face, embarrassment. I thought I really screwed up, so I gave you space. Being your friend was safer.”

  Peeta pulls me closer with a serious look on his face. “But now,” he continues with a lower raspy voice, “I can't let this, us, go. Not this time. I think I'm in love with you, Katniss Everdeen,” Peeta whispers.

  Then, as if he can't hold back any longer, he leans in to take my breath away in a fiery kiss.

  I lean in for another.

  Peeta pulls away and looks scared. He rubs the back of his neck nervously. “I want always, Katniss. I want a future with you. You're it for me. If you don't think... If you don't feel the same… It might destroy me.” He looks down and sighs.

  The past week flashes in my mind. The look in his eyes while we were ice skating. Hugging shirtless Peeta after the cocoa spilled. The longing for his kiss I felt after our snowball fight. Peeta's hand in mine as he gripped it for strength at the party. The way he held me after I broke down crying after missing my father. All our laughter. All the games. The antics. The longing I felt for Peeta Mellark when I thought I had lost him.

Rye’s words echo “I love her, I want her, and I need her. For the rest of my life. Always.” And “It’s in all the little things you aren't saying.”

  Am I already there?

“Take some time to think about it?” He asks.

  I nod.

  Peeta stands and walks away.

  For one heartbreaking instant, I think he's going to leave, but instead he walks to the brown bag he brought.

  “In the meantime, grab your swimsuit, Everdeen.” Peeta gives me a mischievous look, before pulling two super soakers and swim trunks out of the bag.

  “I checked, the pool is open. We're going swimming!” He grins and pushes me to the bedroom, and heads to my bathroom to change.

  In my head, I replay every teenage fantasy of Peeta I ever had as I rifle through my clothes.

  “There it is!” I say to myself.

  I step out of my bedroom wearing my hunter green bikini, a different one than what I wore in my youth, but the sentiment remains. I barely have the door shut before Peeta pins me to the door and kisses me with such intensity that I'm dizzy.

  Then, he hands me a super soaker and links our hands as if he didn't just blow my mind.

  The grin on my face can't be contained.

  As we walk through the hall to the pool, towels and his own super soaker in his other hand, Peeta asks “So would this be our second or third date?” Smiling at me, eyes twinkling.

  I try minimize the blush on my face.

  “Well, if ice skating was our first date, then would the party be our second date?” I ask, squinting at him.

  “Hmm, seems lousy. What about Christmas, was that a date?” He says, kind of proud of himself.

  “Well, with how the evening went, it kind of felt like a date.” I wink at him with a grin.

  “So, this could be considered our third date then? Interesting.” Peeta says wiggling his raised eyebrows, as he playfully bumps my hip. We've reached the pool yet Peeta's eyes rove up and down my suit.

  I can't hold back my laughter.

  “Cool it lover boy.” I turn my water gun on him and squirt him square in the chest.

  Peeta unleashes his own super soaker and it’s war. We laugh and chase, and dodge. I drop the water gun and attempt to wrestle Peeta into the pool, but he's a worthy opponent. Peeta has me wet in under a minute.

  When we come up for air, my arms are wrapped around his neck. I can't take my eyes off this beautiful man.

  I rest my forehead on his. Peeta plays with the end of my braid as we wade in the shallow end.

I'm brought back to the first time we found each other like this; dazed teenagers in Madge's pool.

  “You might think I'm pushing this too fast, but we've known each other since we were kids. I think I fell for you that summer before College. Imagining my future without you, Katniss, is devastating.”

  He paused thoughtfully, stroking my back gently. “You're going to see that a long term committed relationship is exactly what you want, and that we're better together. Once you realize that, I'm never letting you go and I'm going to marry the shi--,” I cover his mouth with my fingers.

  “Shhhh. Peeta, I think I'm already there.” I stop Peeta's rambling. He nips at my fingers playfully, then his eyes widen and his jaw drops.

  “It was Rye, actually. Hell, we need to give him a gift basket or something… Anyway, I was talking to your favorite brother and he told me about his own decision to marry Lila. How the look on my face said everything. He was right. Peeta, I'm in love with you. I-I never thought I wanted those things, but I want always with you.” I look at him seriously cupping his cheeks in my hands.

  Peeta just stares back in disbelief, smiling as if I've given him the very sun.

  When he kisses me I hope he never stops.

  Somehow, we've made it to my bedroom. I'm dizzy with the hum of my body’s response to Peeta's kisses.

  “When I first saw you in a swimsuit I wanted to touch you like this,” I murmur my confession.  

  I can't keep my hands from roving over every inch of his broad chest, muscular sculpted back, rippling abs. This gorgeous man is in a swimsuit in my bedroom.

  “You have no idea how many fantasies I had of you like this in that bikini in my bed,” Peeta pants in my ear. The low husky tone his voice has taken does delicious things below my swimsuit bottoms. His hands are exploring me also, but some of it doesn't register.

  I'm so excited by every inch of Peeta I can see. My fingers inch their way down his rippling abs, past the V of is torso to the waistband of his swimsuit and I tease the sensitive skin just inside while I suck Peeta's neck. I'm following this happy trail.

  Hearing him sigh and pant in anticipation drives me wild.

  I find his lips because I just crave his mouth on mine. Tongues collide and dance.

  Peeta turns us over and his kisses trail down my neck and collarbone. I'm so delirious with the sensation I don’t realize my top being untied until I feel lips trailing to suck my nipple.

  “Ah, they're perfect, Katniss!” Peeta whispers against my skin.  

  The panting and moaning that follow the sensation are so involuntary they don’t even sound like me. I didn't know I could make such a guttural noise. I am deliciously turned on and aware of every movement of Peeta's body on mine. My legs wrap around his waist in search of friction, more of… something.

  I can't get enough of Peeta. I'm starving for him.

  My hands find his muscular round legs and wander upward. He's so manly and chiseled.

  Normally, I'm much more vulnerable and self conscious with my body, but I'm so overcome with wanting Peeta that it doesn't even concern me.

  Finally, I can't handle how much I want him. I rip down his swim trunks. Little peeta springs fourth and he is glorious. The sight of Peeta naked takes my breath away. Clearly I had been drinking too much on Christmas to appreciate this masterpiece before me. My mouth waters.

  I think I startle him with my aggression, because he's looking at me with raised eyebrows, jaw hanging, as I rid him of his suit.

  I tease and kiss a trail up each thigh until I just can't take the anticipation of making Peeta moan. With the first swip of my tongue all the way up, Peeta’s breath hitches. I make eye contact as I continue to lick and suck. His eyes wide and dilated. Deep blue pools of desire. This man is SO sexy. I speed up my ministrations.

  Peeta is panting and moaning something like my name. He pulls one of my legs, spinning me in a circle. I squeak and readjust. I realize the purpose of this when I feel Peeta’s magical hands trailing up my legs to my hot core, rubbing my slick folds and teasing me until hot kisses roam up my legs.

  I stop my movements to catch my breath only to have it stolen away by Peeta's tongue lapping up my folds before plunging into my center. I moan and hum deep in my throat, my mouth waters, I suck and bob, teasing and “giggling his bells.”

  Continuing my mission of blowing Peeta's... mind.

  “Ooooooh, Katniss!” Might be the sweetest words of pleasure, stirring me to the very core. I'm shaking.

  This isn't going to take much longer for either or us. The pressure Peeta adds, along with his moaning, sends me over the edge, reeling with waves of pleasure. I swallow as Peeta shouts. With the stars behind my eyelids, Peeta's blinding smile and blue eyes flash. Tears come to my eyes as I sing Peeta's name.

  He lifts me into his arms and holds me tight while I catch my breath. Gentle kisses on my neck are accompanied with words of affection and adoration.

  Our eyes meet, and I see the most intense look of love reflected in Peeta's eyes. As if to confirm that what I'm reading in his eyes is true, he kisses me passionately, pouring out the love he feels with a pressure and intensity that leave me dizzy.

  His hands and eyes continue to explore and study my every curve and dip.

  “God, I didn't know I could feel like this. Katniss, you're amazing!” Peeta whispers.

  “Takes two to tango. Do you know how sexy you are?” My voice comes out more raspy then I expected. I smile and play with his hair.

  He shakes his head and grins, eyes twinkling, like a boy who just opened his Christmas presents.

  His hands are wondering between my legs again. When my breath hitches, he studies my face. Asking permission. “We can stop here if you want.” he whispers, trailing kisses down my neck.

  I smile and shake my had no, I don't want to stop. With a mischievous look, I do my best imitation of his own smirk, I tell Peeta “The only sleigh I'll be riding is--,”

  I'm cut off by his lips. We're laughing between kisses.

  A brief contraception conversation settles it.

  Our other encounters have been rushed and lustful. This is more meaningful and vulnerable. I bite my lower lip, our eyes connect and say all the little things we mean to each other without words. This is love.

  Peeta leans up to capture my lips. Electric surges through my whole body from where our lips connect. His eyes widen. He felt it too. I settle myself over him and spread my legs. Peeta gets that smoldering look. The crackle in the air is electric. Anticipation.

  As if something has snapped, Peeta is all over me. Igniting me. With every touch, every caress, it's as if sparks fly. A smoldering fire builds. I fist Peeta, aline us and slink down. With our first connection my breath is taken away. Peeta's deep voice moaning my name sends a buzz through me that makes me dizzy. Our movements build. It's a blur of rhythmic rocking, waves of ecstasy, moans and sighs. I can't even focus on just one sensation.

  The things Peeta's body can do!

  Our loving making is passionate and consuming. Evoking deeper feelings of love I didn't know I had buried within me. Peeta rocks my world again, buried deep inside me. The connection felt something like introducing my other half. Feeling a wholeness I can't even describe, leaving me enlightened. The world as I know it has changed.

  “I love you.” Peeta whispers in my ear.

  After 3 rounds of the best sex of my life, maybe the best the world has ever seen? Peeta and I are emotionally and physically drained. We curl into each other's arms and fall fast asleep.

  “Woah, Katniss. Are you doing this in your sleep?” Peeta whispers, amazed and amused.

  I open my eyes to find I've been dry humping the man in my bed. Emulating the dream I was having of making love to Peeta.

  “Uh, yeah.” I answer, embarrassed as I pull into a more innocent cuddle in Peeta's arms, trying to keep the heat flowing through my body under control.

Peeta seems thrilled. He kisses my cheek and sighs. “Oh no, don't be embarrassed! You're a wild one, Everdeen. I thought I was dreaming.”

  We slip back into a blissful sleep.

  I wasn't ready to elope like Peeta wanted to, but I understand after everything he went through with Cashmere, and our fake relationship, why Peeta wanted a long term commitment.

  On New Year’s Eve, Peeta took me for hot chocolate in town, and we strolled through the displays of ice sculptures carved by local artists. I stopped at a more plain looking one. It was a question, written in cursive on an ice block. Four words.

  I smiled. “Peeta look! Someone's going to…”

  I turn and find my blue-eyed Peeta, down on one knee, holding his grandmother's pearl ring meant for a very important finger.

  With tears in his eyes, he poured out his heart out to me, beautiful words of love, memories and laughter together, words of a future, of always.

  I realized he probably already had my heart. From our very first kiss, I was a goner for Peeta Mellark.

  Words are Peeta's thing, not mine so, as he waxed poetic, my answer was: “You had me at cookies and super soakers.”

  He looked confused, then laughed.

  “Is that your way of saying yes?” Peeta’s words are teasing but his eyes are full of hope and apprehension.

  I ruined his sweet romantic moment, I had better bring it back. I sigh and pull back the mask of humor I wear as armor.

  “I want forever with you Peeta,”  I answer surprising myself.

  We embraced and kissed passionately.

  As Peeta placed the ring on my finger, the crowd I didn't realize had gathered around us started cheering. I tried to ignore a few flashes of cameras --one turned out to be Peeta's that he had Thresh take.

  I turn to face the crowd and I’m met with familiar faces. Thresh, Rue and Prim’s smiles first as they were in on the plan. Then my best friend and his beaming new fiance, standing next to my roommate, elbowing Annie who's wiping tears out of her eyes while Peeta's best friend gives a thumbs up with a mile wide grin.

  My family is all here to celebrate. We all agree to go to the Hob down the street for soup and sandwiches.

  Peeta laces our fingers together and strokes the pearl with the thumb of his other hand. Then, he looks up at me with a smile that makes me go weak in the knees.

  The entire world fades away as I'm taken captive by his blue eyes that speak depths of love and years of adventures ahead.

The End. Happy Holidays!

[bazypitchandsimonsnow]

Rough Day

Rating: T

Genre: Fluff

Word Count: 3055

Summary: After a hard day at work, Baz comes home to one more wonderful disaster. Based on "playful kiss" request on Tumblr.

Read on AO3

AN:  Another done! This is so fluffy and cheesy I love it. Thank you to @carryonmylovelies for helping with this fic and so many others. Enjoy :D

Baz

Today has been a nightmare. My boss decided to be a total wanker and make me rewrite all my reports. I had to stay for an extra two hours. My bones ache and my brain is foggy. Being a responsible adult with a job really sucks sometimes. I told Snow to order in since I wouldn’t be home to make dinner. All I want to do is eat some disgustingly greasy take out food, then maybe that ice cream sitting in the freezer for desert. A dream come true.

I walk in through the front door of our apartment. I violently kick off my oxfords and drop my briefcase on the ground with a thud.

“I’m home!’ I announce. There’s a faint smell of tomato in the air. Snow must’ve ordered pasta or pizza. Both sound good right now.

Little feet pad down the hallway closer and closer. Tasha nearly slides into the wall with her fuzzy princess socks. She runs up to me with big happy 5 year old smile. My mood immediately improves.

“Hi Papa,” she says.

“Hello, Tasha,” I reply, ruffling her curly black hair.

She lifts up her arms. “Can I have a hug?”

My arms are tired beyond belief, but who can say no to that freckle covered face? I sigh and pick her up in a big swooshing spin. I can lift her over my head even at her age (vampire strength has it’s benefits.) She squeals and giggles gleefully, little feet kicking in delight. When I slow, she wraps her arms around my neck. I rest her on my hip and hug her fiercely.

I remember the idea of being a parent scaring me when I was younger. How could a monster like me care for a child? But when I see the way Tasha looks at me, I realise she doesn’t care what I am. All she sees is her Papa.

“How was your day, little puff?” I say.

“It was great! Ms. Taylor gave me a gold star for reading.”

“Oh that’s wonderful. Good job, sweetie. You’ve been working hard at that.”

She puts her hands on her hips and smiles smugly. (Snow says she gets the pompousness from me.) “I have. Soon I’ll be reading all your grown up books.”

I tickle her stomach, making her writhe and giggle. “I bet you will, love. You certainly did very well today. I think you deserve an extra slice of pizza.”

Her face scrunches up in childish confusion. “What pizza?”

“Well, from the sauce smell I assume your Daddy got us pizza. Hopefully it’s at least the mildly good stuff.”

“Oh, that reminds me. Daddy said you aren’t allowed in the kitchen.”

My heart stops. I stare at her very seriously. “Tasha, why am I not allowed in the kitchen?”

“Because Daddy destroyed it. But he said that I’m not supposed to tell you that.”

“Natasha Penelope Snow-Pitch, you are a rotten rat!” Snow’s loud voice carries down the hall with ease.

Tasha frowns and leans in closer to me. “What’s a rotten rat?”

“It’s nothing, sweetie. Daddy’s being silly. Now go play with your toys.”

She smiles brightly. “Okay!”

She slides down out of my embrace and is off like a little rocket. With calm but brisk pace, I walk to our kitchen. I freeze wide eyed in the doorway. Destroyed is an... apt description.

There’s about ten different pots out, all filthy with various substances. The counter is covered in dirty cooking utensils and different foods and spices. Spaghetti covered in tomato sauce clings to the wall. Baby Ebb is just playing with his blocks in the corner, blissfully unaware of the destruction around him. (He's as oblivious as his Daddy.) Snow stands in the centre of the room like the eye of a hurricane. He looks just as tired as me, tomato sauce on his face and in his hair. Crowley, I think there’s even some on his wings.

“Good evening, love,” I say as calmly as possible. “Did the Tasmanian Devil come to visit?”

Snow scowls slightly. “Our daughter is a betrayer. She gets it from your side.”

“Yes, Bunce.” I receive a steely blue glare. “But I’m very glad she did tell me. What in Merlin’s name happened here?”

He groans and rubs his forehead, getting more sauce on it. “I got your text, and decided to try to make fancy all homemade spaghetti. You know, to surprise you. But I’ve never done it before. And uh... I probably should’ve read the recipe more closely.”

“You are terrible at following instructions.”

“I know.” He sighs heavily. “I’m sorry, darling. I wanted to make you a nice meal after such a stressful day. But all I’ve done is make more stress. Ugh, I’m a disaster.”

Two long strides later, I’m standing right in front of him. With one finger, I knock up his chin so we’re eye to eye.

“Yes, you are certainly a mess, Simon Snow,” I say quietly.

He frowns (it’s scary how similar his is to Tasha’s). “Gee, thanks, I-”

“Shut up, I’m not done yet.” He closes his mouth. “You are a mess. But you’re a wonderful, kind, thoughtful mess. Who I am proud to call my husband and father to our children.”

His face turns more red than the tomato sauce. “Oh. You should’ve lead with that, you jerk.”

I chuckle and lean forward to lightly kiss him. We both smile between every press of lips. I trail my mouth over to kiss the sauce off his cheek. He laughs heartily, throwing his arms around my neck. I playfully peck every tomato splattered part of his face. It’s like we’re careless teenagers all over again. I hold his lower back and press him to me. He’s comfortably warm like always. How lucky I am to be able to know that. With one head tilt, he crushes his mouth against mine. I groan and hold him tighter. He runs a hand through my hair. My stress melts under his lips.

“Ew! Daddy and Papa are snogging!”

We both pull away and sigh. I turn to see a little girl standing in the doorway, her tongue sticking out very far.

“And where did you learn that word, Tasha?” I say flatly.

“From school.”

Snow leans in close my ear. “I think we need to have a talk with our daughter about appropriate language.”

“Agreed.” I scan the disaster zone that was once a kitchen. “There is no way we can eat in here. How about we order a pizza and camp out in front of the TV?”

“Yeah!” Tasha throws her arm up for effect.

I turn to Simon with a half smile. “Tasha seems to approve of my plan.”

Snow rolls his eyes like their two footballs in a tumble dryer. “Of course she does. She’s five. Pizza and telly are her two favourite words.”

“Well what do you think?”

“Well,” he sighs, observing his destruction, “I don’t think we have any other choice.”

“There’s the sensible man I married.” I pat his cheek.

His eyes narrow at me. “You’re mocking me, aren’t you?”

“I’ve been mocking you since we were 11 years old, Snow. Keep up.”

He frowns again. But with one peck from me it turns into a soft smile. We reluctantly pull away from each other. I realise there’s a sauce stain on my shirt now.

“I think I need to go change before the rest of my clothing is desecrated.”

“And I will order the food! But...” Snow walks over to Ebb and scoops him up. “While you’re getting changed, I think someone else needs a change too.”

Snow holds our 1 year old in front of me like he’s a teddy bear. Ebb gurgles and grabs my tie, immediately sticking it in his dirty baby mouth. (Having nice clothing and young children is absolutely impossible.) I sigh and take him in my arms.

“Very well. C'mon Ebenezer, let's both get cleaned up.”

Ebb coos and keeps gumming my tie. Tasha runs over to Snow and starts tugging on his trouser leg. “Daddy, can we get a pizza with pepperoni? And sausage? And olives?”

Snow scoops her up this time, resting her on his hip. They walk off towards the undestroyed living room. “You, my darling, have the weirdest taste buds.”

I chuckle as I move in the opposite direction. Ebb has now abandoned my tie and chosen instead to gnaw on my collar. Over my years as a parent, I’ve realised many things. One being that no matter how bad your day may have been, it's impossible to stay cross when your adorable child is trying to eat your shirt. Today is no exception.

“And then,” I say, “with their magic combined, the two princes defeated the dragon, sending it back home. The great castle was saved!”

Tasha squeals and claps her hands. I sit on the edge of her bed, bouncing a giggling Ebb on one knee. She leans forward with wide eyes. “What happened to the princes after?”

I just look at Tasha's sweet innocent face for a moment. Someday, I'll tell her and Ebb the hard parts of this story. What happened to both their namesakes, why I drink “tomato juice” all the time, and why Snow has wings and a tail. But for now, they don’t need to know all that. I'll save those stories for when they can understand them better.

“Well, by working together, the princes realised they had more in common than they thought. They became friends, and eventually fell in love.”

“Like Anna and Kristoff?”

I sigh under my breath. Currently everything for Tasha is somehow related to Frozen. I slightly regret showing her that movie. “Yes. Just like Anna and Kristoff.”

“Did they live happily ever after?”

I smile at her softly. “Yes, most certainly.”

She grins. “Good. I like happy endings.”

I cup her face, running a thumb over her cheek. Damn right I got my happy ending. I’m looking at it. “Me too, sweetheart, me too.” I stand up, practically looming over her small bed. “Now, it's time for this little princess to go to bed.”

“I’m not tired,” she literally yawns. She’s adorable in her stubbornness.

“Well, you can just put your head down. You don’t have to sleep. That's up to you.”

“Okay.” She lays down, snuggling into her blue pillow.

I kneel next to Tasha, brushing some stray hairs out of her face. She’s already almost asleep. (Tiredness always wins out over stubbornness.) I kiss her forehead. “Goodnight, little puff. Love you lots.”

She smiles, humming happily under her breath. “Love you too, Papa.”

I turn off the light as I leave, sneaking one last look before I shut the door.

Ebb’s crib is in our room. Partially because our London apartment isn’t huge, and mostly because he has a habit of waking up in the middle of the night in need of feeding. I lay him down. With his own big yawn, he stretches out and falls asleep. I pray to Merlin and Morgana he’ll stay that way for at least a few hours.

As I’m reading the Times, I hear the characteristic thumping of a dragon man trudging down the hall. He arrives at our door triumphantly, hands on his hips and grin nearly splitting his face in two. There’s still spaghetti remains on his hands and face.

“It is done!” he shouts.

“Snow!” I hiss. “Erratically sleeping baby, remember?”

He looks at the crib, expression immediately falling. “Oh right. Sorry.”

I shake my head with a chuckle. “Come here, you big idiot.”

Snow crawls up onto our bed and I open my arms, wrapping them around his shoulders. He holds my torso and snuggles into the crook of my neck. His warmth makes me sigh happily under my breath.

“You know I could’ve helped with the kitchen,” I whisper.

He shakes his head, hair tickling my skin. “We always tell Tasha she has to clean up her own messes. And I think parents are supposed to practice what we preach. Besides, I wanted to impress you. The kitchen is sparkling like always.”

I look down at him with one raised eyebrow. “Snow, we have two small children. That kitchen hasn’t ‘sparkled’ in five years.”

He sighs and nods. “Okay true. But it’s mostly sparkling now.”

“Good job, darling.” I kiss his head. He holds me tighter, nuzzling against my shirt.

“So your boss was a jerk today, huh?” he mumbles into the material.

I grumble slightly. “M-hm. Selfish jackass made me rewrite four reports. The wanker doesn’t seem to understand we have lives outside of work.”

“I’m sorry, love.”

“No need to apologize. It’s not your fault I work for an asshole.”

“No.” He pulls away to look right at me. His blue eyes are round and caring, but his mouth is a determined thin line. “I mean that you had a shit day and I made it even more stressful. I’m truly sorry about that.”  He looks to the side, obviously embarrassed.

I sigh and turn his head to face me. “Simon, I meant what I said earlier. What you tried to do was lovely. You’re an incredibly thoughtful person. You just messed up a bit. We all do sometimes.” I tap our foreheads together. “You didn’t add to my stress at all, love. Seeing you and Tasha and Ebb always makes me feel better. No matter what.”

Snow smiles and closes the small distance between us. I can feel the love behind his kiss, which I gladly reciprocate. If I could stay here forever, I’d be in heaven.

He hugs me again, squeezing me tight. “How did I get someone as amazing as you?”

I shrug. “Hm. Good question. I think you seduced me with all that raucous snoring and ravenous scone eating.”

He gapes at me with his mouth hanging open. “I do not snore!”

“I’ve slept near or next to you for over two decades, Snow. You snore.”

He pouts like our daughter when she doesn’t get ice cream. “Well, your nose whistles.”

I pull him back to me. He doesn’t resist. “Then I guess we’re made for each other.”

“Duh.” He nuzzles closer. His tail wraps around my leg protectively. “Like you always say, we match.”

“That we do.”

We silently hold each other, contentment hanging in the air. He’s right, we do match. And we’ve created an amazing life together. It’s the kind of calm, domestic, easy life I never thought I’d get. Neither of us did, really. We just bask in the wonderful reality of it all.

“I should take a shower,” Snow says quietly. “I smell like oregano and spaghetti.”

“No,” I grumble. “I’m never letting you go. Till death do us part.”

“I don’t think that’s what that means.”

“Too bad. You’re never leaving this bed again.”

I roll him onto his back and use my legs to pin him down. “Hey!”

I shut him up easily with a bruising kiss. He groans and arches up towards me. I grip his shoulders tightly. Strong fingers weave into my hair. His wings stretch out beside us. My head is swimming. And... it feels wet.

I pull away and feel my hair. My fingers come back red and goopy with tomato sauce. Snow smiles sheepishly.

“Well, I told you I needed a shower.”

“That you did.” I release his torso and stand next to him with my hands on my hip “And now we both do. Your kitchen disaster is contagious.”

He stretches out with his thin arms behind his head. “You can go first, if you like.”

“I was thinking we could, save on water?” I dance two fingers up his thigh.

Snow nods vigorously. “Good plan. Gotta save the environment and all.”

My arms fall limp at my side. Sometimes I cannot believe him. Age has not improved his ability to pick up on subtlety at all. I just keep staring at him blankly until he looks over.

“What?” He says.

I raise an eyebrow. The realisation slowly dawns on him, his eyes widening and his dumb perfect mouth falling open.

“Oooh. You're trying to be sexy.”

I chuckle and shake my head. “Yes, you lovable moron. Crowley you are thick sometimes.”

He kneels on the mattress and tosses his arms lazily around my neck. With one flash of that gorgeous Simon Snow patent smile, my heart stutters out of control.

“You love me,” he whispers playfully.

I sigh, running my hands up and down his stomach. “That I do. Despite your thick headedness.”

“And I love you despite your smugness. Fair is fair.”

He leans in to kiss me, but I pull back, almost making him fall over. His arms flail about wildly. Luckily those wings are good for balancing. Snow stares daggers at me.

“You’re such an arsehole,” he grumbles.

“And you married me anyways. Now,” I saunter towards the door with a swing in my hips, “I’m still a bit stressed from today. Care to fix that, Snow?”

I walk down the hall without looking back. But I don’t need to. I can hear Snow’s fast, incredibly eager feet following me.

Afterwards, we lay silently in darkness on our bed. There’s no sound except for our breathing and Ebb’s, (still sleeping, thank Merlin). Snow is on his stomach. His wings lay flat on his bare back in total relaxation. I hold his left hand, touch lingering over the gold ring on his finger. He chuckles under his breath.

“Checking to make sure it’s still there?” he mumbles.

“Nope. Just admiring it.”

“Hm, understandable. It’s very pretty. So’s your’s.”

“Of course. I picked them.”

Snow sighs and throws his arm over me, pulling us closer. I press a feather light kiss to his band, making him giggle. He takes my hand and intertwines our fingers over my stomach. He touches my wedding ring, spinning it slowly.

“I love you, Baz,” he whispers sleepily.

I squeeze his hand and play with his soft curls. “I love you too, Simon.”

He smiles as he drifts off into slumber. I can hear our son and daughter both sleeping peacefully. And I know now more than ever, no matter how tough the day to day can get, this life has all I could ever ask for.

AN: Hope y'all liked that future domestic fluff.

Sidenote: I'm starting university in less than a week, and there are three more kiss requests left. I will try to do them, but uni is going to kick my ass so they probably won't be published until Christmas break. So sorry. Life gets in the way sometimes. But I shall do my best! :D

[rememberthattime]

Chapter 51. The Move III. Home

What a month. December 2019 started in Sydney, but in just four weeks, took me through New York (Chels was in Hawaii), Dallas, Louisiana, Mississippi, Seattle, and finally London.

Somehow this was our LEAST busy holiday over the past three years, but it flew by nonetheless.

The month began with an international move... obviously challenging, and further complicated by EY’s mobility team. Movers, cleaners, and interested Gumtree buyers cycled through the house, while Chelsay and I balanced enjoying our final days in Manly with UK visa applications.

Eventually our Aussie apartment was empty. Just four massive bags remained - they held our only belongings until our shipment arrives in London sometime in April. Those four bags would be heading in opposite directions for the next 10 days though: Chelsay’s followed her to Hawaii, while mine were heading to New York.

I’m extremely jealous of Chelsay’s trip to the North Shore. Not only did she get to hang with Sumner, Chris, Miles, and Orly, but she enjoyed a few post-Sydney surfs, Island vibes, and beautiful weather.

Meanwhile, I had intense work meetings in New York, which required staying an extra few days for the biggest presentation I’ve given to-date. I was at least able to stroll around Manhattan between meetings, with highlights including Gramercy Park, East Village, Greenwich Village, and snow in Times Square.

Our Christmas Break really began once Chelsay and I finally made it to Dallas, though we were only home for one day before embarking on a family road trip.

Chelsay and I have traveled to around 50 countries, yet there are so many places we haven’t explored in our own backyard, including the Deep South. With plenty of time in the US this December, we decided to take a short road trip through Louisiana and Mississippi with Jeff, Liv, Matt, and Emily.

Some highlights:

A foggy visit to Evergreen Plantation. Although the plantation was a primary filming site for fictional Django Unchained, its slave past was very real. Despite our tour guide’s best efforts to portray a “different narrative”, the slaves’ conditions were pretty clear... “Remember: snakes, gators, mosquitoes, yellow fever.”

Jambalaya, Beignets, and Hurricanes in New Orleans’ French Quarter, paired with our over-the-top Southern accents (“There’s been a muwduh!”)

Strolling Barataria Preserve, a swampy bayou coated in Spanish moss... but with zero bathrooms along the trail. What happened in the bayou stays in the bayou. 

Touring antebellum homes in charming Natchez, though the biggest highlight was Jeff trying to understand how their 1980′s occupants got cable. 

Friendly and entertaining strangers throughout the entire trip. Zippy the gas station attendant (“Energy drink, for the guy that’s gotta push the car”), our Uber driver Mahogany (“Reroute me”), the Mississippi McDonalds cashier (“Y’all wan’ dat wit pe-can sauce!?”), and a New Orleans man training his pet raccoon.

The road trip was great siblings trip - no doubt one that we’ll laugh about for a long time. But after covering Sydney, New York, Louisiana, and Mississippi in just two weeks, it was time to settle down for a bit.

Luckily we had almost a month to relax: 23 days before our one-way flight to London, split between Dallas and Seattle. I hardly worked and Chelsay was already well into sabbatical-mode, which meant we had zero responsibility while home... It was a return to childhood.

Some highlights:

These aren’t in any order, except for this first one: Matt’s quizzes. It’s become a Kern tradition that Matt puts together ~15 ten question quizzes. They’re all creative categories, with our annual favorite being “Synonym song title & band”. Matt’s past four annual quizzes were all excellent, but this Christmas’ installment, Kern Family Quizzes 5: The Moscow Incident, was by far the most impressive. It included an audio/visual component, and categories ranging from “Name this platinum song being played on recorder” and “Name the two actors’ whose faces I’ve merged into one”. Matt could make millions if he sold these games.

Speaking of games, the Kern’s and Wright’s combined to complete four escape rooms. Perfect 4/4. Grandma Helen calls them “Crazy rooms”, which is absolutely understandable after a T-Rex roared at us for 20 minutes in one of our Seattle escape rooms.

Continuing in the friendly competition category, the Kern’s love bocce... especially bocce with a wrinkle: wild bocc’ (aka free-range bocce). Most bocce is played in a walled rectangular arena. Not for the Kern’s though. We drive to the Trophy Club Park and set up our “course” through trees, along hills, across sidewalks, and between the small children panicking as we hurl 3 lb balls towards them. Like a windmill in putt-putt, these obstacles make the game more challenging, especially the scared children. Plus we all just like getting outside.

One last friendly competition: giant jenga at Jeff & Liv’s new house. Their “starter” home is so big that they have an entire room for giant jenga... and we needed the space. This genuinely could’ve been a Guinness record for longest game. For at least an hour -- every single turn -- we were sure the tower JUST HAD to fall.

The next four bullets are all cowboy related. Chelsay and I have been together for 10 years, and every time we go to Dallas, she insists on visiting a dude ranch. We’ve never had enough time... until this Christmas. Chelsay finally got her wish when we drove an hour outside Fort Worth to Beaumont Ranch. This day trip could’ve had its own post, but I’ll have to summarize in a few short stories.

First, the main event was a cattle drive on horseback. Our instructor, a true Texan cowgirl, led us into the 800-acre plains in search of rogue longhorns. Chelsay was the first to come across wayward cattle and, despite her metropolitan upbringing, instinctively started yelling in an extremely southern accent: “Go on, git! Heeyah!” Our Texan instructor had to be insulted.

Second story: Matt is very good at lassoing. I was not. This video pretty much tells the story.

Last story from our cowboy day. The ranch had its own replica western town, so Chelsay had the idea to make a “duel” video. We talked about the dialogue for under 10 seconds, but the result was pure gold. Oscar worthy (at least better than The Irishman). You might think that we added the music afterwards to sync with our actions... Nope, that was just my mom holding her phone close to Chelsay’s camera. That should at least be up for Best Sound Editing.

My parents, Chelsay, and I fell into a nightly routine of Dark from Netflix Germany. Phenomenal show, despite watching an English-dubbed version. We finished two seasons in under 10 days.

Obviously we hit all the favorite food spots, led by Feedstore, Mi Cocina, Anamias, Christinas, Costa Vida. We also added a new favorite: HG Supply and their tasty impossible whopper bowl with quinoa and chili. 

On the topic of food, I must have eaten 100 cookies while home. We had the traditional Kern Christmas cookie bake-off (A+ humor, but C+ presentation), but Chelsay also picked up a baking addiction. It was 11 pm and we’d all be heading to bed, but Chelsay was still laser focused and meticulously decorating her cookies. Her efforts showed though: A+ flavor, and A+++ presentation. 

Next up was our return to Seattle. On Chelsay and I’s first full day, we decided to go on a long hike. We actually didn’t hike much when lived in Seattle, which we now realize was dumb. I definitely took the Northwest’s landscape for granted — every time we visit, I’m blown away by the sky-scraping evergreens, fresh scent, crisp air, and looming mountain ranges that surround the city. Anyway, we’ve been trying to catch up on our hiking whenever we visit, and the closest trail to the Wright’s house is Mt. Si, a semi-challenging 8-mile hike. It’s the medium-well steak of hikes. Danny, Chelsay, and I endured a sweaty couple hours -- just to give you an idea of the hike’s height, the peak was snow-capped, but the views made the steep ascent worthwhile. 

On the same ‘missed PNW opportunities’ line: when I lived in Seattle, I ever took advantage of the many nearby mountain villages, especially the Bavarian-themed Leavenworth. Tucked in the Cascade Mountains, you would never believe Leavenworth is just two hours from bustling Pike Place. Gothic-lettered storefronts line the half-timbered town’s main street: Munchen Haus, the Sausage Garten, Ludwig’s, and Starbucks (it’s still America after all). Danny, June, Chelsay, and I enjoyed a quiet walk on Blackbird Island, threw snowballs for target practice, and warmed up with hot cider and big (BIG) game of Uno. We also built up our shaka inventory with our Leavenworth friends Alex & Charlie.

It's also worth mentioning that I went to a Hawks game with Hanan. It was a rivalry game and the stakes couldn't be higher: SEA vs SF. Sunday Night Football. Last game of the 2019 regular season, and the winner took the NFC West. The 49ers went up 16-0, but the Hawks stormed back and had the ball with a chance to win on the last play. Russell Wilson hit Jacob Hollister close to the goal line, but a 49er tackled him quickly. Hollister reached for the goal line as he fell, but came up an inch short of a game-winning touchdown. Even though the Hawks lost, it was still a great time.

Speaking of great times, we hosted New Year’s Eve at the Wright’s house in Woodinville. What an incredible night. Midnight seems to get later and later every year, but Chelsay and I stayed up until 3 am catching up with Devon & Babs, Martiin @ Michelle, and Austin & Kels. Danny, June, and Chels were such amazing hosts - I kept telling them my friends didn’t deserve their hospitality.

We may have been in the US for five weeks, but it felt like only five days. Although it fly by, these stories and pictures are proof that our time was well spent. 

And even though we were boarding a one-way flight to London for the next few years, there’s no question where our true home will always be. 

[dontstopyurinow]

Thought your Blurry 🤓drabble was fluffy and cute. Although was left imagining the hot dog competition 🌭Yuri did and still winning gold in Skate America. Perhaps your next drabble.😊📖🖋❤

Perhaps :)

read on AO3 - 2200 words - Otayuri fluff.

Yuri hardlymanages to hide his excitement. He does not want to ruin his carefully studiedjaded attitude, but the fair is so loud and colorful, at twenty-four he feelslike a little kid again. The crowd moves slowly between the booths, the childrenlaugh cheerfully and the rides blink with bright lights. Otabek walking at hisside completes the picture pleasantly.

It is theday before Yuri’s short program at Skate America. Otabek retired two years agoand has the time to follow him around the world. They are friends. Sometimesthey hold hands and sometimes they kiss, but just sometimes. Without a doubtthey will go back to their apartment in St Petersburg when the competition isover, they are roommates. They share the bed, and sometimes the same pillow,but only because the flat is small and it is convenient. It has been threeyears since Otabek came over for the summer and cancelled his flight back home.They adopted a cat together, and maybe they fight to know who was supposed todo the dishes and who will take the trash out.

Yuri had always been terrified by the idea ofsettling down and living a life of domesticity and insignificant house chores. Hewanted to keep skating forever, to travel the world for gold medals until hewas seventy, to feel the excitement of the podium every year of his life. And yetsomehow, he has eventually managed to come to term with his future retirement. Hehas realized that he was alright with waking up to the same face every day, andthat he would happily trade the bliss of a victory for a cozy night in strong andwarm arms. Yuri had always thought Victor and Yuuri were old and boring, he nowknows there were simply in love.

“Are youhungry?” Otabek asks as they get out of the haunted house. He is smooth enoughnot to complain about the marks Yuri’s nails have dug in his forearm during theride.

“Notreally, a bit maybe.”

“How aboutcotton candy?”

Yuri shrugsin disinterest but his eyes sparkle when Otabek hands him a fluffy pink cloudon a stick. There is barely a minute before Yuri gets sugar strings in hisblond hair and his fingers are wet and sticky. He tries to use a small paper napkinbut it tears apart and worsen the mess. Otabek looks at him with his usualimpassive expression and Yuri blushes in shame as he struggles to peel the bitsof napkin off his fingers. He feels like a three-year-old unable to eatproperly. Otabek takes the stick from his hand and rubs his palms to cleanthem. When there is no trace of paper anymore Yuri brings his hand to his mouthto lick off the remaining pink sugar. Otabek watches him suck his fingers cleanwithout blinking. Yuri catches him and winks playfully. Otabek leans to lick asugar crystal on his bottom lip.

“Hey youtwo! Get a room!”

They bothflinch and turn to see Jean-Jacques, holding Isabel by the waist and looking assmug as ever.

“When thefuck are you gonna retire?” Yuri spits bitterly.

“Next yearmaybe, so watch me carefully, it’s your last chance to learn from the king!”

“I’d payyou to retire right now.”

“No amountof money could deprive my fans of the pleasure of watching me win!”

It is funnyhow Yuri has grown older and taller but barely wiser, and he still tries tothrow his heel at JJ’s chin almost every time the other skater opens his mouth.Of course Otabek holds him back, he always does. He does not want Yuri to getin trouble and will not tolerate a bruise on his pretty face. The day JJcrosses the line, his jaw will meet Otabek’s fist first.

Yuri isboiling but his blistering answer is cut by Isabel.

“Come on JJwe’ll miss the contest,” she says as she pulls on his sleeve.

JJ givesher a peck on the cheek and purrs: “Don’t worry sweetheart, I’ll get you thatfirst prize.”

Yuri andOtabek look at each other blankly. The loudspeakers of the fair have been announcingthe hot dog eating contest all afternoon, the grand prize being two gold-rowsall event tickets for the Skate America figure skating competition, valued at500$.

“Gettingfront row tickets for your own performance, congratulations that’s a whole newlevel of douchebaggery,” Yuri deadpans.

“It’s obviouslynot for the tickets,” JJ chuckles with a condescending smile, “I promised BellaI’d get her the giant bear.” And he points at a nearby post where a posterpromoting the contest shows a large teddy bear with a bow. The fluffy toy looksalmost as tall as an adult and at least four times as wide, and is given withthe tickets to the winner of the contest.

“What can Isay, some of us have other talent than skating, like taking care of their lovedones…” JJ boasts, “I’m sorry you’re left with a whiny child off the ice,Otabek.”

This timeYuri holds Otabek back. He digs his heels in the ground and pulls Otabek’s armto force him to face him.

“Beka,”Yuri says seriously, “I need to win that bear.”

Otabek’s furiousglare fades and he seems slightly embarrassed.

“Yuri, I’dlove to win it for you but you know how slowly I eat, I wouldn’t stand a chance.I can buy you one if you want.”

Yuri’straits soften in a fond expression for half a second, so short that no one elsethan Otabek could have seen it.

“No,” hesays, “I mean I’ll win it myself. For you.”

“I’ve neverseen you eat that much,” Otabek says with a concerned frown.

“I can eat4 piroshkys in the 10-minute break we have during morning practice.”

“I don’tknow Yura…”

“4 katsudonpiroshkys,” Yuri clarifies, “the ones filled with rice, egg and fried pork.”

“That’s reallyimpressive but come on, your short program is tomorrow.”

“So what? I’lljust skip dinner.”

“Victor isgonna kill me if I let you do that.”

“He’llnever know if you don’t tell him. Beka pleaaase,” Yuri begs, “imagine the lookon JJ’s face.”

“You won’tchange your mind, will you?”

Yuri smilesa large grin that makes his eyes twinkle and his cheeks blush with innocentjoy. Otabek sighs. He is weak.

“Hurry up, it’sstarting soon.”

The crowdwatches the unknown skinny blond man eat one, two, four, seven, twelve hot dogsin five minutes in silent astonishment. When the bell rings the contestantslook at the scores and they all turn to glare at Yuri, who delicately dabs hismouth with a napkin and looks more satisfied than the time he won his firstOlympic gold medal.

JJ makes adisgusting comment about Yuri being used to repressing his gag reflex toswallow sausages and Yuri is sorry, because he could not hear him behind thegiant teddy bear. Otabek politely refuses the event tickets when a man handsthem to him.

“Sir, theseare front row tickets and the men’s short program event is sold out.”

“He’salready got a ticket,” Yuri cuts, “it’s so VIP he sits in the gold medalist’sbed.”

Both Otabekand the man open a gaping mouth. Yuri grabs the tickets and looks around. Hespots a woman holding a young girl by the hand and give them the tickets. “Ihope you enjoy!”

“Beka, ifit’s a girl I wanna call her Evgenia.”

“What?”

“My foodbaby, it’s a girl, I know it,” Yuri says from the couch of their Airbnb wherehe’s been lying for the last hour.

Otabekwalks up to him and sees him with his T-shirt pulled up under his arms and hishands flat on his slightly swollen belly. Otabek shrugs and smiles softly atthe ridiculous scene.

“No but seriouslyit fucking hurts,” Yuri whines, “I think my stomach is going to explode.”

“What exactlywere you expecting?”

“But JJ…”

“JJ’s anidiot, you’ve got to learn to ignore him.”

Yuri poutsand has a painful moan as he turns to lie on his side. Otabek gets him pain killersand a glass of water. Yuri sits up, guzzles it and lies back down. His eyes widensuddenly, and he pales and presses his stomach before jumping up and running tothe bathroom.

Otabek isjust like everyone else, if he can avoid dealing with vomit he does. But it isYuri, and so he follows him to the toilet and holds his hair back quietly. Whenhis tiny body is done spasming and he rests against the bathtub, Otabek sitsbeside him.

“I heard itgets better after the first trimester.”

“Fuck you,”Yuri whispers faintly as he feebly wipes the corner of his lips with the backof his hand.

Yuri feels noticeablybetter once he has emptied the content of his stomach, and Otabek finds gingertea in a kitchen cabinet. Yuri suspects that he bought it after he got sick onthe plane. Yuri nests on the couch in the cushions, his knees drawn up tosoothe his tummy, and he drinks his tea slowly. Otabek watches him carefully tosee if he can keep the beverage down. They do not speak as they watch cartoonstogether, and when the night falls Otabek realizes that Yuri has already dozedoff, exhausted by his day and his upset belly. Yuri pretends to protest whenOtabek carries him to bed but he quickly curls up under the blanket like asleepy kitten. “I’m sorry Beka,” he mumbles in the pillow. “Goodnight Yura,” hehears as he falls back asleep.

When Yuriwakes up the next day it is already noon.

“Beka whatthe fuck?” he shouts as he hops on one foot to pull up his jeans. “The morningpractice! Victor will go full Yakov!”

“It’s ok,”Otabek says calmly, “I called him and said you didn’t sleep well last night andyou would nap before the beginning of the competition.”

“How didyou know he would fall for that?”

“I saw himnap when I was at the Worlds with him. He literally slept through the programsof the first three skaters and woke up five minutes before his turn.”

Yuri letshimself fall back on the bed with only one leg in his pants.

“How do youfeel?” Otabek asks.

“Good. Icould do with some eggs and toasts.”

Yuri knowsthat Victor can see how weak he is on his skates during warm up, but his coachdoes not say anything and repeats his usual advices as he hands him his jacketwhen he steps off the ice. His turn comes and it takes everything he has tofollow his program. He feels like each of his legs weighs several tons and heis light-headed just thinking about a spin. He gets one of his worst scores,and yet it is still above the average of the other skaters. Victor pinches hislips but does not comment.

Yuri sleepsthrough the whole evening and the night again. Otabek wakes him up for his freeskate with a substantial breakfast and a steaming cup of ginger tea. Yuri canstill feel the pinch in his stomach but he can stand up without risking tofaint or having his legs buckle under his weight. The warm up session goesnormally and the frown on Victor’s wide forehead softens slightly.

Thecompetition starts and as they walk by the kiss and cry to reach the door ofthe barrier, Yuri hears JJ talk to the journalists.

“Yeah, Iknow Plisetsky wasn’t at the morning practice yesterday, I heard he wasn’tfeeling good and spent his night on the toilet. I had no doubt I could beat himbut with the score he got for his short program it’ll just be a piece of cake.”

SomehowYuri forgets about is fragile stomach. He does not remember his shaking kneesand his poor balance. If there is an emotion he knows how to use as fuel, itsure is anger. He steps on the ice and skates aggressively. His blades are loudagainst the ice when he lands his jumps and his spins are quicker than ever.What he loses in grace he gains in violent passion, and his fiery dance captivatethe audience.

Yuri isstill fired up when he sits at the kiss and cry and Victor is visibly confusedwhen his student yells “Happy fucking retirement JJ!” after seeing the perfectscore that grants him the gold medal.

Yuri andOtabek stay a week in the United States after the competition. Yuri will neveradmit it but they are true tourists. They take lots of pictures, they buy cheapsouvenirs, and they queue for ages to visit monuments.

They arewalking in an nth park when Yuri stops dead and Otabek has to stop as wellsince they are holding hands. Yuri is looking up, his eyes glimmer and hisbottom lip quivers. A bright poster is stapled to an old tree. Otabek sighs inresignation.

“PIE EATINGCONTEST – WIN A VIP ZOO EXPERIENCE WITH THE TIGERS”

[you-andthebottlemen]

24 - AU

“Request: Okay since you do AU's, hear me out: Harry Potter AU?”

Anon: I’ll do more than hear you out. Thank you SO much for this request oh my god I was so excited when I saw it. I’m a huge Harry Potter nerd and I had so many ideas right away. This was soooo fun. I hope you love it as much as I loved writing it. 

I could write the boys into Hogwarts forever, this is fantastic. I’m just imagining those photos of really young Van with his awful hair and bad teeth and it just fits? So well? 

P.S this is obviously about teenage Van. 

P.P.S clearly all HP ideas are not mine, they are JK Rowling’s.....like yeah. Anyway. ENJOY!! <3

*******

Your first year at Hogwarts was wonderful; the wizarding world was more alive than ever and every single thing you learnt blew your mind. You couldn’t believe what you could do. But the excitement soon faded when you realised that as you got older, you actually had to study, had to learn, had to pass exams. You weren’t very good at finding a happy medium between work and play. You often had your nose in a book, or you were watching Quidditch games, supporting your house. You blended into the background and always thought no one ever took any notice of you. As it happens, you were wrong. 

“Y/n, come to the match with me tomorrow. Hang out with us for a change!” Rhiannon pleaded, clinging to your arm. 

She was your best friend. Though since she’d started dating Bondy at the beginning of the year, you saw less and less of her. His friends were a massive distraction; none of them ever studied. Except the one in Ravenclaw, typical. 

Rhiannon was a good friend, she always tried to get you to hang out and do things. You were usually too shy or stressed out to oblige though. She was blonde and had big brown eyes that no one could resist. You always felt just a little jealous. She also had tattoos that she had to keep hidden under her robes. She’d enchanted them so they moved and swirled on her skin, it was amazing. Bondy was not what you’d have called a perfect match; he was weird. Like really weird. But yet somehow they fit together like two puzzle pieces. Even though she was a Gryffindor and he was a Slytherin. 

“Okay fine,” you said grumpily, dreading the antics that you knew were bound to go down. You still hadn’t let go of that time Bondy and his mates hid in the restricted section to smoke out the window where no one could see. The only time they’d ever be caught dead in a library was to muck around. 

“Yes!!” she hugged you, kissed your cheek then skipped off to class. You just smiled and shook your head. It was nice having someone being so excited to hang out with you.

You wandered the corridors, passing time before your next lesson; saying hello to the odd ghost that passed you by. You thought about all the charms you had left to practice that you still hadn’t nailed and groaned internally. That’s when a rushing body collided with yours, knocking you right to the ground.

“Hey watch it!” you spat, feeling the bruise that’d appear on your ass tomorrow, ache.

“Fuck, I am so sorry.” 

You looked up to see Van, one of Bondy’s friends. The leader of the pack. The ultimate trouble maker. Of course, it was Van. 

He held out his hand and you took it, letting him pull you up from the ground. He straightened out your robes for you and you fought the urge to swat his hands away. 

“You alright love? I’m so sorry, I-”

“I’m fine,” you interrupted. 

He stood there looking around like he didn’t know what to do. You stared at him for a bit. You looked at his awful but somehow still cute, fluffy and uneven haircut. His equally as horrific eyebrows. His long eyelashes. His pretty blue eyes. 

“Rhiannon said you’re hanging out with us as at the match tomorrow?” he asked, looking hopeful and swinging his arms around. 

“Yeah, she convinced me. Hope you guys don’t do anything stupid this time,” you replied, looking down at his skinny Gryffindor tie; clearly, he thought it was cool to do it up like that.

“Can’t promise that,” Van replied with a wink and a grin but his face fell when he realised you weren’t joking. 

“Um, yeah well, I’m glad you’re coming. See you later yeah? Sorry again y/n,” Van said before rushing off, late to class. Leaving you with the slightest blush on your cheeks that you ignored adamantly. 

.........

“Yeah, but like, if Van played Quidditch he’d probably fall off the broom or fly into the post or some shit,” Larry laughed, pulling his red and yellow beanie down over his ears.

“Oi nah mate, I’d be fuckin’ class!” Van argued back, his voice going all high.

“Wouldn’t I, y/n?” he said with a grin, shaking your arm. You just shrugged and the boys laughed at your lack of support. Van quietened down a little, almost like he was hurt you didn’t stand up for him for some reason. 

"Getting snacks," he mumbled.

Van stood up, tying his scarf around his neck and walked off.  

“I think he’s butthurt you didn’t agree with him,” Bondy said with a smirk, pulling Rhiannon onto his lap. You just looked at him with a raised eyebrow, still feeling shy.

Bob came and sat on your other side, taking Van’s spot. 

“Hey,” you smiled. 

“Hey y/n. Looking forward to the match?” he asked and you nodded. 

You liked Bob the best out of all the guys, he was your stereotypical Hufflepuff. He was quiet until you got him talking, always polite and had this wild curly hair that was somehow still well kept? He got teased by the boys sometimes but everyone loved him to bits. You felt the most comfortable with him, he wasn’t as much of a trouble maker.

Van came back and squeezed himself between yourself and Bob, offering him some Bertie Bots Beans to which he politely declined. Probably still scarred from when Larry force fed him vomit flavour. 

“None for you sorry, you didn’t say I’d be mad good at Quidditch,” he said, shaking his head and throwing some beans into his mouth. 

“Oh leave her alone Van, give her some damn beans,” Rhiannon said, rolling her eyes at him. 

“I’m just kidding love, here,” he smiled cheekily, offering you the box. You said thank you and picked out your favourite flavours, careful to avoid rotten egg. 

The match started and everyone cheered. It was Ravenclaw vs Gryffindor. Larry and Benji started yelling, trying to be louder than the other, somehow thinking that if they could out-yell each other, it was the same as their team winning. You looked at Van who chuckled at their competitiveness. You were surprised he wasn’t joining in with them. His nose was all red from the cold air. He looked kind of cute in his large fuzzy ear muffs but you quickly dismissed the thought. 

“I’m only competitive when it’s Larry I’m up against,” he said as if reading your mind. 

“I’ve seen,” you replied with a teasing smile.

You felt him shuffle closer to you and your arms touched. You didn’t move away, you just stole more of his beans without asking and he didn’t say anything about it. 

........

A few weeks had passed since you’d attended the match with Rhiannon and her gang. You’d finished your charms and were ready for exams in a months time. It was that quiet part of the semester where exams were just far enough away that no one was worried and there wasn’t much to do. 

You sat at the table in the great hall on your own, pushing some scrambled eggs around your plate, lost in thought. 

“Hey y/n,” Larry said as he slid in beside you, breaking your solitude. 

“Morning,” you replied, still looking at your eggs. Owls flew swiftly through the air around the hall, dropping off mail to those that were lucky enough. 

You had hung out with Rhiannon and the boys a few more times since the match. They’d accepted you as a part of the group and you had gotten more acquainted with their antics and how to avoid it. But you’d also learnt that you actually liked being around them. They were funny and kind and they never dragged you into trouble. Well, not really. 

“You okay?” he asked as he cut up a sausage. 

“Yeah, sleepy,” you responded, rubbing your eyes as you looked at him. 

Soon enough Bondy and Rhiannon bounced over and joined you. They took turns spoon-feeding each other porridge, Rhiannon purposefully letting some spill down Bondy’s chin so he’d look like a slob. 

“You two are gross,” Benji said as he sat down beside Bondy. 

Rhiannon then levitated a serviette into the air to wipe Bondy’s chin. 

“Goood mornin’,” Van said cheerfully as he plopped himself down across from you. He began shovelling food into his mouth and only stopped to flick some baked beans at Larry who fought back by pelting some toast. 

“Hey! Stop, don’t need the professors ducking any more points off you,” you said, trying to get between them before a full blown food fight broke out. 

“True. I cost Gryffindor like 25 yesterday. Got caught smoking in the toilets again,” Van admitted sheepishly and you rolled your eyes.

“Well, last week I got given 5 for answering a question right in potions for once,” Larry interjected in a very pompous tone. 

“Yeah, alone I’m probably responsible for Slytherin coming last in the house cup this year,” Bondy said casually. “They’ve caught on that I skip every magical history class and the other week I got dobbed on by a prefect for being in the Ravenclaw common room again,” he continued. 

Bondy was strange. He was the least ‘Slytherin’ Slytherin you’d ever met. He either spent his time with this lot or up in a common room that wasn’t his own. Yet at the same time, he fit in with his house perfectly. It was weird. You’d heard rumours in first year that he was what they call a ‘hat stall’. You took a mental note to ask him about it later. 

“Hey look at Sideshow over there! Gettin' his flirt on!” Van exclaimed, pointing over to where Bob was sitting at the end of the table with a nice looking girl who had curly hair just like his, but red. They were sitting close and talking quietly. You could feel the nerves a mile off. 

“Aw that’s cute,” you said happily. 

Just then Bob saw you all staring and he dropped a bit of egg off his spoon into his lap. 

“Nice one Bob. Real smooth,” Van teased as if he could hear him. 

“Someone’s jealous!” Rhiannon giggled and Van blushed, making everyone laugh.

After breakfast, you all piled out of the hall and began making your way to class. You bid everyone farewell and went your separate ways. You started to mentally run through the ingredients you needed for your potion today but were interrupted by Van running up behind you. 

“Hey, yn?” he asked, running his hand through his hair and licking his lips. 

Something you noticed he did all the damn time without realising. You looked at him and raised your eyebrows, implying that he continue. 

“So I know breaking the rules isn’t your thing. And I know you’ll probably tell me to fuck off... but you know that band I’m always on about?”

“The Weird Sisters?” You asked and he nodded, his eyes lighting up at the realisation you remembered. 

“Well, they’re playing in Hogsmead on Thursday night. We’re all going, me, Rhiannon and the lads. But I got an extra ticket for you? In case you wanted to come? You don’t have to, I know it’s not your thing but-”

“I’ll be there,” you said, before thinking. You were flattered he’d thought of you. He was right it wasn’t your thing, but how could you say no? He’d bought you a ticket and everything. 

“Really?” He grinned. 

“Not if you make me late to potions.”

“Oh, right. Yeah. Sorry. Catch ya later y/n?” 

“Yes. Catch you later, Van,” you smiled and walked off to class. You saw him throw his fist into the air when he thought you weren’t looking as if he’d just scored the quaffle through a hoop or something. 

.........

It was after lights out, you were meant to be in bed and getting your rest for the next school day. Instead, you were all congregated in a quiet corridor somewhere near some secret passageway Van had heard of. You’d all snuck out of your respective dormitories and met up over the last hour. You’d spent the day with the boys working out when each corridor would be empty so you could sneak out without being caught. 

"So if we go through there, we'll end up in Hogsmead?" you questioned, never having broken out of the school before. 

"Yep. Cool right?" Rhiannon said excitedly, you just stayed quiet, feeling nervous. 

The boys were dressed in black skinny jeans and leather jackets, clearly trying to look older than they were. It was weird seeing them out of their robes and sweaters. You'd just thrown on a dress and jumper, unsure of what attire the occasion called for. Besides, you didn’t bring many outfits to Hogwarts anyway; you’d never really had many occasions that called for nice attire. Your wand was firmly tucked into the pocket and you kept checking to make sure it was still there. A dress! With pockets! Now that's magic. 

The group began to tiptoe through the hallways and you lingered behind, keeping an eye out for any professors. 

"You look really pretty y/n, love the dress," Van whispered, hanging back from the others to walk in step with you. 

"Thank you," you smiled. He was sweet really, when he wasn't getting into a scuffle with the prefects or making jokes about the professors. 

You walked in silence for a bit, ducking behind a curtain at one point when you saw a ghost. 

"So you know how you're like dead organised and stuff? And you're good at everything?" he asked shyly and you chuckled. 

You were definitely not good at everything but you liked that he thought so. 

"I was wondering if maybe you'd help me practice my charms some time? Since you're dead smart. Can't get the damn things right, see. Last week I turned Larry's tie into a worm."

"Well, Benji is the dead smart one. But sure, I'd love to," you smiled at the thought of spending more time with Van, especially if he was going to be sweet like this. 

He smiled as if he'd won the lottery and walked off to the front of the group, taking his wand out from his belt. 

"Right. Here we are, lads. And uh...ladies," he said as he pointed his wand at a tapestry. 

Van waved his wand and said some incantation and the tapestry changed colour. He smiled and pulled it back, thrilled that it actually worked. Behind the sheet of fabric, there was a door, he pulled it open and held it for everyone. The tunnel was pitch black, you all illuminated your wands and plunged into the darkness. You couldn't shake the nerves that were hiding in the bottom of your chest. What if you got caught? Expelled?

Rhiannon leading the way, you eventually arrived at another door. Her and Bondy slowly pushed it open and you were relieved to find yourself, just as Van had promised, in an alleyway in Hogsmead. You smiled in excitement and Van winked at you before walking off to lead you all to the Three Broomsticks. 

The guy at the door looked mean, to say the least. You began to get all shaky, worried he'd catch you out for not only being underage but also for having broken out of the castle. Rhiannon held your hand, sensing your panic. Van and Bondy rocked up to him confidently and showed the tickets. 

"You lot look a bit young to be here," he said dubiously, his eyes darting between the seven of you. Your heart stopped. 

"Mate. You think we'd have the balls to break out of Hogwarts?" Van said with a laugh. "Of course, we're of age. Graduated last year," he finished seriously, deepening his voice. 

You couldn't deny, he was convincing. Charismatic and confident; traits that would get him far in life. The guy nodded and stepped aside to let you all in, you breathed a sigh of relief. 

"Nice one," you said to Van, winking. 

"I was shittin' bricks on the inside," he responded and you laughed.

The Three Broomsticks was larger than you remembered it ever being. Maybe there was an enchantment on it? Witches and wizards gathered from far and wide to watch the legendary band play. You felt out of place, never having heard any of their songs. The boys were buzzing, all jumping on the spot. They spoke a million miles an hour about the band and music in general, they were so into it. You just stood back and listened. 

Once people started crowding around the makeshift stage, definitely an enchanted add in...god magic was great, you and all the strangers squished together to get a good view. The pink and purple lights started to shine, you looked over at Rhiannon who was smiling. The silver glitter on her face reflected the lights and it was so pretty. She saw you looking at it and reached over and wiped some of it on your cheek bone. 

You stood with Bob and Benji as the band came out, strumming their guitars and strutting around. Larry and Van jumped around shaking each other’s shoulders and yelling in excitement, it made you smile and feel warm and fuzzy. Bondy stood behind Rhiannon, wrapping his arms around her and nodding his head to the beat. He always looked too cool for whatever he was doing. 

The music was loud and you didn’t really understand the fuss but you were enthralled none the less. You shimmied with Bob who was just as awkward as you were, it was fun. Bondy started to kiss Rhiannon’s neck and you could see her just melt inside. She kissed him and there was definitely tongue action happening. 

“Gross you guys, stop,” Benji said, turning up his nose at them. Rhiannon pulled away from Bondy and smirked. 

“Wanna join?” she said to him with a wink. His eyes went wide and he turned away, sending you all into a fit of laughter. She took Bondy’s hand and led him back through the crowd and you watched as they disappeared off out the back. Probably to make out. Oh, young love. 

You were left standing slightly to the side, alone and awkward. Just watching those around you. Van weaved his way through the crowd back towards you, he and Larry had managed to get right to the front. 

“Why’re you back here? Go have fun!” you said, not wanting him to miss out for your sake.

“Nah, I wanna have fun with you though,” he smiled, knocking his shoulder against yours lightly for effect. 

Van looked back out towards the band, his eyes glittering; he was completely in love with it. Without looking at you, his hand found yours and he squeezed it tightly before letting go. Almost like he was trying to comfort you. Your tummy flipped and you felt that fuzzy feeling come back. 

“I wish I was in a band,” he said with a sigh, you could only just hear it over the loud music. 

“You should start one, you and the boys. Larry could be your manager,” you suggested with a laugh, he turned to look at you. 

“Larry would kiss you if he heard you say that. No way in hell that lads’ gonna manage me,” Van joked back. 

“I’ll keep quiet then, don’t want Larry to kiss me,” you said. 

"Why not?" Van asked. 

"Um, guess he's not my type?" you replied awkwardly with a shrug, unsure of why he even asked. 

"What is your type then?" Van questioned. Oh god. 

"Erm..." you looked around awkwardly. 

Van moved closer to you and moved your hair behind your ear. Your heart rate picked up and you thought you were going to explode. You stared at him with wide eyes. The moving bodies around you disappeared. He laughed to himself at your inner panic and leant down to kiss your cheek. You felt the blush happen instantly. 

“Maybe I could be your type? I’d like that,” he suggested. 

You smiled at him and looked down at your shoes, nodding. His face twisted into a grin and he reached to hold your hand again. You and Van both looked back out towards the band. He lifted his free arm into the air and cheered for the band, but you both knew that wasn’t the only reason he was celebrating. You bit your lip to contain the the cheesy smile that was seconds away from spreading across your face.

Who’d have thought, you and Van McCann? Never-mind telling the boys off for their antics, you were now well and truly a part of it, and it was better than you could have ever imagined.  

[ratemallet93-blog]

The Bear’s Den, November 20, 2018

BEAR DOWN, CHICAGO BEARS, BEAR DOWN!!!!

BEARRRSSSS

Dannehy: The Bears Are For Real - Da Bears Blog - Much of the focus for the 2018 Chicago Bears has centered around Mitch Trubisky and the offense, but the key to this season’s success is and has always been the defense.

Dickerson: Chicago Bears forced to quickly turn focus to Detroit Lions - ESPN - Bears coach Matt Nagy won’t be watching the game film from his team’s Sunday night victory over the Vikings as with a game against Detroit on Thursday afternoon he’s focusing on the Lions.

Joniak: Home-Field Advantage Back For Bears - 670 The Score - The Bears are 5-1 at Soldier Field this season.

Emma: Bears List QB Mitchell Trubisky (Right Shoulder) On Injury Report - 670 The Score - The Bears did not practice Monday, but Trubisky would’ve been held out.

5@5: How Good Are The Bears? - 670 The Score - The Mully & Haugh crew debates a five-pack of questions every weekday.

Talarico: Bears Put Rest of NFL on Notice With 'Signature' Win - Da Bears Brothers Blog - The Bears finally picked up that signature win, and their path to the playoffs is clearer than any of us imagined it would be.

Osen: 5 Takeaways from Chicago's Victory Over the Minnesota Vikings - Da Bears Brothers Blog - Here are five takeaways from the Bears' Sunday Night victory over the Minnesota Vikings.

Ellis: Bears list Mitch Trubisky on injury report with right shoulder issue - NBC Sports Chicago - Ummmmm what?

Stankevitz: Bears grades - A closer look at Mitch Trubisky's night against a good defense - NBC Sports Chicago - Mitch Trubisky made some poor throws and bad decisions, but also did some good things to make sure the Bears could hold on to a win over the Minnesota Vikings on Sunday.

Stankevitz: The first-place Bears are being themselves, and for once, that’s a good thing - NBC Sports Chicago - Being the Bears used to mean losing. A lot. It now means winning and conducting orchestras in the end zone.

Ellis: Why Bears fans should root for the Chiefs during tonight's Monday Night showdown - NBC Sports Chicago - There's more at stake tonight for the Bears than one might initially realize.

Kane: Bears list quarterback Mitch Trubisky on injury report after he hurt his right shoulder against the Vikings - Chicago Tribune - The Bears didn’t practice Monday, but they listed quarterback Mitch Trubisky on their injury report with a right shoulder injury.

Medina: "Work Smarter, Not Harder" and Other Matt Nagy Notes Ahead of Week 12 - Bleacher Nation - The shortest of short-weeks has the Bears doing things differently than they are accustomed.

Medina: Mitch Trubisky (Throwing Shoulder) Lands on the Bears Injury Report - Bleacher Nation - Mitch Trubisky popping up on the injury report with an injury to his throwing shoulder isn't good news.

Medina: The Bears' Defense Is Getting Some Much-Deserved Love - Bleacher Nation - The star-studded defense was shining brightly on Sunday Night Football.

Rosenthal: ESPN's 'MNF' crew could learn a lot from how Al Michaels and Cris Collinsworth called Bears-Vikings - Chicago Tribune - The work of Al Michaels and Cris Collinsworth on NBC's "Sunday Night Football" during the Bears and Vikings game could teach a valuable lesson to ESPN's much-derided rookie "Monday Night Football" announcers Joe Tessitore, Jason Witten and Booger McFarland" on how to call a game in prime time.

Bear Download podcast: Bears make statement with impressive win vs. Vikings - Chicago Tribune - Dan returns to the show as he and Rich recap the Bears' 25-20 win over the Vikings. They share lasting impressions from an invigorating night at Soldier Field (1:05 mark),...

Kane: 'Who do you block?' Khalil Mack's return and Akiem Hicks' rise have been rough for Bears' opponents - Chicago Tribune - On a night when the Bears defense made plays all over the field, Khalil Mack continued to show he’s back after two games away because of a sprained right ankle with a couple of jaw-dropping feats.

Kane: Bears’ prime-time celebration is short-lived with Lions on tap Thursday - Chicago Tribune - There simply aren’t enough hours in Matt Nagy’s days this week to dwell on the victory that moved the Bears to 7-3 and extended their NFC North lead.

Rosenbloom: A Bears TD drive that took up almost half a quarter? More of that, please. - Chicago Tribune - The Bears ran 13 plays, covered 82 yards and ate up 7:13 to puncture the vaunted Vikings defense. Matt Nagy’s play calling was pantsing defensive master Mike Zimmer on the other side and Nagy’s players were executing almost perfectly. The whole thing was suitable for framing.

Biggs: By creating a road map for Jordan Howard, Bears ground game able to provide the balance Vikings lacked - Chicago Tribune - The Bears were able to create balance in their play calling and get running back Jordan Howard downhill for enough success on the ground to keep the Vikings off balance. Conversely, the Vikings had their third-worst rushing day in 20 years.

Wiederer: Soldier Field hasn't seen this much fun in years as Bears ace prime-time test - Chicago Tribune - In what was the Bears’ biggest all-around test of the season so far, Matt Nagy’s team embraced the increased spotlight, rose to meet the moment and defeated the Vikings 25-20.

Kane & Campbell: Bears kicker Cody Parkey's perfect night vs. Vikings 'rewarding' after rough week - Chicago Tribune - Bears kicker Cody Parkey made two first-half field-goal attempts Sunday night, easing concerns after hit the upright four times on missed kicks the previous week.

Osen: Stifling Defense Carries Bears Over Vikings in Primetime - Bears Brothers Podcast - Chicago's defense stepped up with a primetime-worthy performance and carried the Bears to victory.

Chicago Bears-Minnesota Vikings Postgame Show: Bears Claim Control of NFC North with Statement Win - Da Bears Brothers Podcast - Da Bears Brothers share their comprehensive game recap with their instant analysis and insight on the Chicago Bears Week 11 win over the Minnesota Vikings.

Potash: Playoffs? Pro Bowl? Coach of the Year? Upstart Bears prepared to handle success - Sun Times - The last time the Bears were over .500 after 10 games, they went into the Edward Jones Dome in St. Louis at 6-4 in 2011

Kenney: Are the Bears Super Bowl bound? Mike Ditka seems to think so - Sun Times - Hall of Fame coach Mike Ditka believes there's a good chance the Bears could be Super Bowl bound this season

Finley: How will Bears manage a 'crazy' 85-hour turnaround between games? - Sun Times - Bears players reported to Halas Hall on Monday afternoon for treatment and classroom work. They won’t even review the film of Sunday’s win

Jahns: Five takeaways, including a look at the Bears' third-down success - Sun Times - From Mitch Trubisky's success on third downs to Akiem Hicks' big day, here are five takeaways from the Bears' 25-20 win against the Vikings.

Morrissey: A healthy Khalil Mack makes Bears a force to be reckoned with - Sun Times - A good defense becomes a ferocious, feral defense when the outside linebacker is healthy, as the poor Vikings found out in a prime-time Bears victory.

Kenney: Bears players hand out turkeys to families ahead of Thanksgiving - Sun Times - Bears kicker Cody Parkey and punter Pat O'Donnell handed out turkeys at the YWCA in Gurnee as part of the players' social justice initiative.

Finley: Matt Nagy - Alex Smith's grisly leg injury 'absolutely crushed me' - Sun Times - Matt Nagy was sitting in his hotel room Sunday afternoon, working on his play call sheet, when he heard about his friend Alex Smith.

Good, bad and best - How the Bears fared in Week 11 vs. Vikings - Sun Times - Here’s how three Bears fared in Sunday night’s 25-20 win against the Vikings at Soldier Field.

Potash: On cue, Khalil Mack, Akiem Hicks and Bears’ defense rise to the occasion - Sun Times - Jackson delivered the decisive blow early in the fourth quarter — intercepting a Kirk Cousins pass and returning the pick 27 yards for a touchdown.

Brad Biggs' 10 thoughts on the Bears' 25-20 prime-time win over the Vikings - Chicago Tribune - 10 thoughts after the Bears defeated the Vikings 25-20 Sunday night at Soldier Field to win their fourth straight game, the longest winning streak since the 2012 season.

POLISH SAUSAGE

Raiders 2019 NFL draft order after week 11: All three first round picks drop - Silver And Black Pride - The Raiders have not scored a touchdown in 9 quarters and have been outscored 75-9 over that time.

KNOW THY ENEMY

Stock Market Report: Bears - Daily Norseman - The Vikings had a chance to take control of the NFC North. As has been their trademark through their painful history, they didn’t.

After the Vikings’ loss to the Bears, here are some things to think about - Daily Norseman - It was ugly for most of the night.

Packers’ season now rests on two games: at Minnesota and at Chicago - Acme Packing Company - At 4-5-1, Green Bay somehow still has a shot at the playoffs and even the division. Winning two divisional road games could set up Run The Table™ 2.0. Ken's Note: Typical cheezehead take, a crappy team can ignore everybody else but the two top teams left.

RandWell-paid Cousins taking Mauer's place in angry fan pecking order - StarTribune.com - Welcome to the Monday edition of The Cooler, when sometimes it's actually nice when the weekend is over.

Detroit Lions injury report: Marvin Jones, Kerryon Johnson OUT on Monday - Pride Of Detroit - The Lions could be missing two key offensive weapons on a short week.

Injury update: Detroit Lions RB Kerryon Johnson ‘week-to-week’ with sprained knee - Pride Of Detroit - Looks like Kerryon avoided a long-term injury.

Detroit Lions podcast: Panthers game recap, rants against tanking - Pride Of Detroit - PODcast is dropping some truth and breaking down more from the Lions victory over the Carolina Panthers.

Mike Zimmer needs to be on the hot seat - Daily Norseman - Forget his record

Minnesota Vikings at Chicago Bears Week 11: Five Game-Changing Plays - Daily Norseman - Looking back at the most important plays from the 25-20 loss in Chicago.

Packers TE Jimmy Graham will “try” to play against Vikings, DL Mike Daniels out - Acme Packing Company - One injured Packer might still suit up on Sunday, while at least one of his teammates will definitely be out with a fairly significant injury.

Mizutani: Dalvin Cook was ‘hyped��� about primetime matchup ... until game plan changed - TwinCities Pioneer Press - Dalvin Cook finished with 9 carries for 12 yards and had a costly fumble in the first half of the Vikings vs. Chicago Bears on Sunday, Nov. 18.

After 10 games, here are 5 things Packers must do to turn season around - Packers News - How can the Packers take advantage of the six games that remain on the schedule? We offer up five answers.

More analytics say Packers’ decision to punt was wrong choice - PackersWire - All the numbers suggest Mike McCarthy made the wrong decision to punt on fourth down in Seattle.

Mike Zimmer rips Vikings over turnover woes - 247Sports - Mike Zimmer has done all he can to make the appropriate adjustments to the Minnesota Vikings defense after some early season struggles, but the head coach is still pulling his hair out over his offense’s turnover woes. Minnesota gave the ball away another three times in Sunday night’s 25-20 loss to the Chicago Bears on the road and Zimmer pulled no punches in his postgame press conference.

IN CASE YOU MISSED IT ON WINDY CITY GRIDIRON

Infante: Make no mistake about it these Bears are for real - Windy City Gridiron - Sunday’s game confirmed that the Bears are, in fact, a force to be reckoned with.

Wiltfong: Bears vs. Vikings Snap counts, stats, and more - Windy City Gridiron - We’ll list out the complete playing time breakdown, and spotlight a few individual and team statistics from the Chicago Bears in their 25-20 win against the Minnesota Vikings.

Wiltfong: Adam Shaheen and Aaron Lynch in concussion protocol for the Bears - Windy City Gridiron - The Chicago Bears have been very lucky in the health department all season long, but they had two players exit last night’s game against the Minnesota Vikings with concussion symptoms. Today they...

Leming: Chicago Bears - Game balls after a 25-20 Sunday night victory - Windy City Gridiron - We hand out our game balls to the best players in Week 11’s crucial Bears’ win on prime time.

Duerrwaechter: Bears vs. Vikings notes from a tough 25-20 victory - Windy City Gridiron - ECD subs in for Jacob Infante once again as the Bears record the win and a strong grip on the division in their return to Sunday Night Football.

WCG CONTRIBUTORS BEARS PODCASTS & STREAMS

2 Minute Drill - Website - iTunes - Andrew Link; Steven’s Streaming – Twitch – Steven Schweickert; T-Formation Conversation - Website - iTunes - Lester Wiltfong, Jr.; WCG Radio - Website - iTunes - Robert Zeglinski

THE RULES

Windy City Gridiron Community Guidelines - SBNation.com - We strive to make our communities open and inclusive to sports fans of all backgrounds. The following is not permitted in comments, FanPosts, usernames or anywhere else in an SB Nation community: Comments, FanPosts or usernames that are intolerant or prejudiced; racial or other offensive epithets; Personal attacks or threats on community members; Gendered insults of any kind; Trolling; Click link for full information.

The Bear’s Den Specific Guidelines – The Bear’s Den is a place for Chicago Bears fans to discuss Chicago Bears football, related NFL stories, and general football talk. It is NOT a place to discuss religion or politics or post political pictures or memes, and any posts that do this will be deleted and the poster will be admonished. We do not allow comments posted where the apparent attempt is to cause confrontation in the community. We do not allow gender-directed humor or sexual assault jokes. The staff of WCG are the sole arbiters of what constitutes “apparent attempt to cause confrontation”. We do not allow the “calling out” of other members in any way, shape or form. Posts that do this will be deleted on sight. Bottom line, it’s fine to debate about football, but personal jabs and insults are strictly prohibited. Additionally, if you keep beating the same dead horse over and over and fail to heed a moderator’s warning to stop, you will be banned.

Click on our names to follow us on Twitter:

WCG Contributors: Jeff Berckes; Patti Curl; Eric Christopher Duerrwaechter; Kev H; Sam Householder; Jacob Infante; Aaron Lemming; Andrew Link; Ken Mitchell; Steven Schweickert; Jack Silverstein; EJ Snyder; Lester Wiltfong, Jr.; Whiskey Ranger; Robert Zeglinski; Like us on Facebook.

Source: https://www.windycitygridiron.com/2018/11/20/18103916/chicago-bears-2018-season-news-updates-analysis-game-ten-minnesota-vikings-trubisky-mack-hicks-nagy

[lotsofdogs]

Celebrating 14 Years (+ 14 Things You Might Not Expect)

After Ryan and I got engaged, I remember discussing whether or not we’d continue celebrating our dating anniversary now that we’d have a wedding anniversary to celebrate instead. To quote Ryan, “YES! We’re not just going to lose those SIX years!” So here we are, fourteen years later, still celebrating the night we went on our very first date back in 2004.

It’s crazy for me to think back on the people we were when we met – so carefree and young! – and everything that happened to those two crazy college lovebirds since our first date at The Cheesecake Factory.

Sometimes I look at Ryan and still picture him as the shaggy-haired college junior I met but then I realize he’s no longer 19 and he’s so much more to me than just the hot guy I saw at the gym. I’m so proud to be married to someone who always makes feel like a priority and there’s truly no one else in this world I’d rather have by my side every day. I feel incredibly lucky to have a husband I consider not only the love of my life but a true partner in every sense of the word.

Whoa! I didn’t mean to turn today’s blog post into a mushy-gushy love fest, but sometimes I feel like in the craziness of day-to-day life it’s a GOOD thing to sit back and count our blessings and Ryan is certainly one of mine.

When we were driving back home from Florida after Christmas, Ryan and I got into quite the comical discussion about little things we know about each other that we think might surprise those who don’t know us very well. I thought this discussion might make a fun blog post and so Ryan and I turned our random car conversation into today’s blog post.

We’re each sharing seven things we think those who don’t know us very well might be surprised to know about the other person. We each brainstormed seven things about the other person – 14 total, in honor of our 14 year anniversary because we’re cheesy, but hopefully this doesn’t come as a huge surprise to you guys by now. I also threw in some throw back pictures for your amusement!

Seven Things You Might Not Expect About Ryan

In Julie’s words…

He owns “A Little Bit of Mambo,” the Lou Bega album that came out along with his first (and only?) hit, Mambo Number 5. I think we’ve all owned semi-embarrassing CDs in our past that make us laugh but here’s the thing with this one… Ryan STILL maintains that this album is a GOOD one. He still owns it, plays it and sings along with nearly every word. Oh and his first concert was Up in Smoke with Dr. Dre, Wyclef, Eminem, Snoop Dogg and Warren G. He also maintains that this concert was a great one, but that one I will give him.

His all-time favorite breakfast (from anywhere, ever) is McDonald’s hotcakes and sausage. His dad used to take him out for hotcakes and sausage when he was a kid, so I think Ryan’s love for this meal is wrapped up in nostalgia, grease and sugary sweet syrup. When McDonald’s began offering breakfast all day, it was a very good day for Ryan.

He plays the drums. Ryan has serious rhythm. He’s always noticing beats and creating his own beats to songs. I always thought this was cool and then the cool-factor went WAAAY up when I learned he used to be in a band in high school called… wait for it… “The Bandits.” You should probably know something about Ryan in high school. He was very far from a rebel and a pretty squeaky-clean soccer-playing kid, so this band name choice made me laugh so hard when he first told me about it. My little bandit.

Little repetitive things easily annoy him. Ryan is an up-for-anything kind of guy which might lead you to initially believe he’s laid back… but he’s also very easily annoyed by certain things, especially repetitive things like someone shaking their leg or tapping a pen on their desk, scrolling through their phone right next to him, a clock ticking, etc. Before I stopped biting my nails, we got in a heated fight or two because he couldn’t handle me going to town on a rogue nail out of the corner of his eye. Also, after 14 years together, I’ve finally come to realize that it’s better for our relationship if I don’t drive when we’re together because the man cannot handle keeping his mouth shut when I am behind the wheel.

He hates spiders. When we lived in Florida, Ryan was our designated roach killer but if a big ol’ spider somehow made it into our house, I had to step up to the plate. (Is it just me, or are cockroaches WAY worse than spiders!?) Also, whenever we go hiking, if Ryan happens to walk through a spider web, he does this spastic Matrix-like move to try to avoid getting any more of the web on him and it freaks the heck out of me every time.

He had shaggy highlighted blonde hair when I met him. He also wore a puka shell necklace and I thought he looked like some kind of a hot Abercrombie surfer model.

He’s an amazing dog dad to Sadie. This one might not be all that shocking because I talk about our obsession with Sadie on this blog a lot, but Ryan’s love for her truly is on another level and it makes my heart so happy. He wants to take Sadie everywhere with us, researches drivable vacation destinations that include her, gets the most overwhelming dog-guilt if something happens and Sadie misses a walk one day, etc. Before Chase was born, I remember thinking to myself that if Ryan loved our first child half as much as he loves Sadie, we’d be in good shape. (Good news: I was right. He’s the best father and Chase wants to be and do everything “just like Dad.”)

Seven Things You Might Not Expect About Julie

Okay, before I copy/paste Ryan’s seven things, I feel like I need to preface his bullet points a bit. I asked him to text or email me his seven things and sent him mine so he could see my formatting. When he sent over his seven things, he said “don’t change or delete anything… unless I spelled something wrong” and I had MAJOR flashbacks to our wedding!

Our pastor asked us to submit five things we love most about each other to him that he planned to read aloud on our wedding day and I sent mine to him directly fairly quickly. A few days later, Ryan emailed me his five things to pass along and I found myself sobbing at my desk at work. I instantly emailed our pastor telling him to throw my five things away and re-wrote everything because Ryan brought the heat and I felt like mine seemed silly and dumpy by comparison. So that’s kind of how I feel about the things he shared below. There were a couple of bullet points he sent my way that made me laugh out loud and a few that made me smile so big that I instantly I wanted to go back and make my bullet points way better. But time limited me so, Ryan, you win this one. And I love you.

In Ryan’s words…

She’s very competitive during Game Nights. Day in and day out Julie is a fun loving, relaxed person but the minute a game comes out during Game Night, she becomes the most competitive person I’ve ever met. Seriously. No where else in life is she competitive, but bust out Catch Phrase and I think she would sell her soul to win. Numerous times she opts to not have me on her team because I’m not the best. What the heck!?

She can’t dip to the right. Julie is a great dancer and we’ve been known to get our boogie on at a wedding or two. So as we prepared for our own wedding we laughed away the idea of taking dance lessons for our first dance. Who needs that? We’re pros! Well, come to find that the we are not. The weekend before our wedding we decided to practice our jig at home. It started great. A little box step, a slow turn, we even threw in a twirl or two. We were feeling confident, smiling and enjoying our practice. But then I tired to dip her right. I planted my foot, she pivoted her hips, but when she bent over her right side she turned into a tree. Stiff as wood, couldn’t bend more than two degrees. Literally she went no where towards a dip. So we tried again. And again. Well, after a couple of the same awkward misses we tried to dip left and she nailed it. We consider this her Zoolander trait and still have fun dancing in our kitchen and trying to dip to the right to this day.

Her driving terrifies me. This one speaks for itself. If you see Julie driving, you should probably drive the other direction. Julie gets nervous going fast and she is easily distracted by her thoughts, the radio, the wind… I often fear for my life when a passenger in Julie’s car and feel my heart rate rising and my butt clenching as I jab my foot relentlessly at the non-existent brake pedal that should be on the passenger side. Julie makes it clear that she doesn’t enjoy my ‘color commentary’ to her driving and therefore this cycle makes for a less than ideal family experience. Needless to say, I drive almost everywhere we go together.

She really is that energetic. Julie is simply the most energetic person filled with positive intent I’ve ever been around. She has a aura of infectious positive energy. She’s the kind of person that you find you are instantly in a better mood after spending time together (unless she’s driving, see bullet above). It’s a joy to see her with Chase and the excitement and love she brings to being a parent. I admire this quality and hope that I bring her as much joy and positive energy as she brings me.

She could eat Ice cream forever. Have you ever played the game where you ask someone what they would choose to eat if they were stranded on a desert island? Julie’s answer is “ice cream.” I’m here to confirm to everyone that I truly believe Julie would happily sustain on ice cream any day, any meal, any flavor. If it weren’t for lactose intolerance (She’s not lactose intolerant medically, simply we all have some intolerance to lactose at high enough quantities. Google “The Milk Challenge.”) she could clearly sustain on ice cream without end. Some of you might say…I’m like this too! Let me assure you that you are not. Just this past Saturday she polished off half of a half gallon of Moose Tracks in one sitting. Yup, this is why we generally don’t keep ice cream in the house.

She’s a Super Mario champion. This one is truly random and goes back to a moment in time from our early dating years. Our first spring break together, Julie’s high school friends came to Florida to hang out. One of those nights we all went out to dinner then decided to just relax and have a few drinks at home. We made some hunch punch and a cup or two later everyone was being silly. My college roommate and I schemed up a plan to have some fun with Julie. He recently found his Super Nintendo and we were nostalgically playing classic games of yore. We plotted to convince Julie that we had agreed on a bet that needed her to get past level 3 in Super Mario or I would lose some astronomical sum of money. (Mind you we were in college and I think the “astronomical” sum was $25.) Needless to say Julie was a bit tipsy and reacted as nervous and bashful as expected when we told her she needed to play. Well, what happened next defied our minds and lives with me to this day. Julie jumps on the controller and proceeds to pilot Mario like Drain-o through a clogged drain. She literally went 14 levels without dying. But here’s the thing:I’m pretty sure she never stopped sprinting and jumping little Mario’s heart out. (Mario literally never stopped moving. Our jaws hit the floor and we have been in awe to this day. So, long story short, never bet against Julie on Super Mario.

She’s incredibly kind. This one may not be a shocker but it’s our anniversary and I’m allowed to be a little mushy today. Julie is exceptionally kind and thoughtful. It’s not just the authenticity of her kindness but also the intentional way she goes out of her way to brighten another person’s day. This is another quality I admire and have learned to emulate. It’s the little things here and there that are special. From something as trivial and passing as an informal compliment to a stranger to going out of her way to help others, her authenticity and intent is subconscious. The cliché statement is “she makes me want to be a better man,” but in this case it fits. She makes me want to be a better person to others. Kinder. More intentional with positivity.

Question of the Day

What is one thing you think people would be surprised to know about you?

For those in a relationship, what is one thing you think people would be surprised to know about your partner?

[Read More ...] https://www.pbfingers.com/celebrating-14-years-14-things-you-might-not-expect/

[amtushinfosolutionspage]

Jimmy Butler Has Something To Say

Jimmy Butler’s cell phone is shaking. We’re plopped down in the last row of his home theatre on a couch that feels like a velvet sponge, a blanket covers his outstretched legs.

Butler leans over, looks down, smiles. He picks the phone up, shakes his head, then turns it around to reveal who’s on the other end. Coach Thibs. “See?” Butler says. “It’s crazy, right? He’s always on my phone.”

Everything about Butler’s place in this exact moment and time can and should be described as “crazy.” From the majestic hillside villa tucked away in Malibu—a remote paradise where the 27-year-old lives with a tight crew of friends, family, and paid aides (a photographer is sleeping in the guest house)—to the sudden reunion with Tom Thibodeau, the tireless coach who helped turn Butler into one of the least probable success stories in NBA history, to the Chicago Bulls needlessly trading Butler earlier this summer…the list can go on forever.

Butler’s origin story is absurd. Small town Texas kids with no scholarship offers out of high school don’t become NBA role players, much less superstars. They aren’t oddball country music-loving characters who pal around with famous actors. And they certainly don’t accomplish all they have while going out of their way to stand tall as a positive figure off the court. Butler won the NBA Cares Community Assist Award last April, and says he aspires to use his broadening platform to navigate the contentious social issues that plague the country. But his rags to riches past and lavish present are not as moving as what promises to lie ahead.

Butler was voted onto his first All-NBA team last season, with scoring, assist, and rebound averages usually associated with someone headed to the Hall of Fame. (Butler tallied more Win Shares last year than Larry Bird when he won his first MVP). But there’s still room for improvement, and next season Butler will be surrounded by players with enough talent to relieve some of the pressure he’s felt in years past.

It’s been an intense, course-altering summer for Butler, whose reward for establishing himself as one of the world’s 15 best basketball players was the trade, three months ago, from Chicago to the Minnesota Timberwolves, a franchise that’s perpetually struggling to stand on its own two feet. But Butler—alongside Karl-Anthony Towns and Andrew Wiggins, two Rookie of the Year winners who can fill an ocean with their talent and upside—is poised to change all that.

Coach Thibs is always calling Butler—and always calling his number. Photo: Russ Isabella-USA TODAY Sports

Already one of, if not the, most physically fit individuals in a league overcrowded by the most athletic specimens on earth, Butler dedicated his summer to figuring out a way to get into even more ridiculous shape—the better to handle one of the NBA’s toughest workloads. (According to NBA.com, he ran more miles per game than all but two other players during 2016-17, and led the entire league in each of the previous two seasons.)

“The man, simply, is addicted to working,” says Butler’s personal skills trainer Chris Johnson.

His weekly schedule consists of approximately nine hundred thousand hours of on-court basketball drills, spliced with a grueling workout plan that made my eyes water when I first heard it. Without an alarm, Butler is out of bed by 5:45 AM and on the court by 6:00.

“He’s a serial killer’s dream. He does the same shit every fucking day.”

Meals hardly deviate. It’s scrambled egg whites, turkey bacon, turkey sausage, and a protein shake for breakfast. Lunch is Chipotle, with plain white rice, double chicken, light lettuce, and half a cup of vinaigrette (no cilantro). At night, his chef will prepare a dish around fish or chicken. He hasn’t had red meat in years and steers clear of alcohol.

When Butler isn’t drenched in sweat, most of his free time is either spent in his theatre watching the same movies over and over (Friday is a favorite), or escaping into never-ending games of Spades or dominoes. Yoga is on the docket. Nightclubs are not.

“He’s a serial killer’s dream,” says Butler’s personal strength trainer Travelle Gaines, who counts NFL superstars like Antonio Brown and Demaryius Thomas as clients. “He does the same shit every fucking day.”

Butler is shirtless in tan pants and Jordan slides when we first meet outside his pool house. “Want a beer?” He reaches into a brown Albertson’s bag and removes a cold can of Michelob Ultra. His hair is braided tight like a crown, and it’s impossible not to notice how much his chest looks like gladiator armor. This is also a reminder that our interview (and a photo shoot he’s doing) have pushed Butler out of his usual routine, but he doesn’t seem too worried about it.

“I’ll just make it all up in a short period tonight and be really tired in the morning when I wake up and start my schedule all over again, but it’s part of it,” he says.

The mood when Butler enters a room somehow relaxes and tightens at the exact same time. His personality glides from standup comedian to superintendent. He’s genuinely curious, cerebral, and a little mischievous. Ultimately, everything, from his schedule to his diet to the people he chooses to spend every waking minute around, is about efficiency. Even in this wonderland, with potted lemon trees at every turn, a hoard of wicker patio furniture, and a Southern California sun that dares anyone under it to do nothing but sip gin and tonics on end, Butler’s playfulness has limitations.

“I’m confrontational. I feed off of confrontation. It makes me go.”

The conversation turns to his work ethic. He understands not everyone is as driven as he is, but can’t comprehend the thought of someone (especially another NBA player) not doing all they can to reach their full potential. It bugs him, even though he knows it shouldn’t.

“I think it’s wrong for me to think that people want what I want because in reality they don’t. Some people are OK with getting drafted. Some people are OK with playing two years in the league, four years in the league, six years in the league. Some people are OK with just scoring a basket in an NBA game. I’m not OK with any of that. I’m not satisfied until I win a championship,” he says. “I want everybody to work the way that I work and it’s wrong for me to think like that because people don’t do it! But in my mind I’m just like why? Why don’t you want to chase greatness the way that I do?”

Last January, after a humiliating loss in Atlanta that saw the Bulls blow a 10 point lead with three minutes left, Butler was fined for publicly dragging his teammates through the mud. After he was traded, former NBA player Antoine Walker called Butler a “bad locker room guy.” A recent report suggested the Boston Celtics had concerns about trading for the three-time All-Star because Butler might clash with Gordon Hayward, who they eventually signed in free agency.

Butler has little patience for people less driven than he is. Photo: Mike DiNovo-USA TODAY Sports.

“Even as a first-semester freshman, he wasn’t gonna let guys drift through practice,” says Mike Marquis, Butler’s coach at Tyler Junior College. “He is very, very competitive, and he is great when he finds an enemy. I think that’s one of his charms. He knows how to psychologically find an enemy and attack it.”

I ask Butler if he’s a difficult person to be around.

“Yes,” he says.

But it’s not as simple as that. Difficult is in the eye of the beholder, just like laziness.

“But then again it’s bad on my part because I know better,” Butler says. “It’s kind of contradicting itself. It’s like, ‘Well Jimmy you know better, don’t do that.’ But then the other half is just like, ‘Well, if you can do it everybody can do it.’ But then it goes back again. ‘You know that it don’t work like that, right? Yeah, I know, but I think that it can so everybody needs to work like this.'”

“I think it takes a very special person to deal with Jimmy Butler,” says Gaines. “He’s actually too smart for his own good.”

Once the photo shoot ends, we migrate down to the main house. Ready to play Spades, Butler is hunched over a square folding table that’s been pummeled by thousands of domino tiles. He’s flanked by Phil Ducasse, his newly appointed personal photographer, Ifeyani Koggu, a former Arkansas State guard who Butler introduces as his brother, and Mike Smith, Butler’s mentee, of sorts, from Chicago who’s about to enter his sophomore season at Columbia. A chandelier the size of a kiddie pool hangs overhead. Boxes of Size 14 retro Jordans are stacked against the dining room wall, with loose jewelry and designer clothes casually spread across the table and floor.

Nearly two hours later the card game ends and Butler recedes to his theatre. He acknowledges that his whirlwind ascent altered relationships and transfigured his behavior in Chicago, but doesn’t feel taken for granted by the Bulls organization. Still, an old truism lingers: the one about how those who start in the mailroom can never shake how co-workers perceive them no matter how high they climb within the company. There’s a sense, from the outside looking in, that the Bulls didn’t appreciate how awesome Butler truly is.

He didn’t crack 400 minutes his rookie year. By his third season—his first of three straight appearances on the NBA’s All-Defensive second team—Butler averaged a team-high 38.7 minutes per game. That year he averaged 13.1 points. Two seasons later he was up to 20.9.

“I think they maybe expected me to stay the same, and I don’t think that that’s right. Like, I have changed. I will tell you that. But I think that I’ve changed for the better,” he says. “When I say for the better, whenever I was a rookie, averaging 0.8 points per game or whatever it might be, it wouldn’t matter if I scored that 0.8 because it wasn’t going to win or lose us a game. Now, you go forward a couple years when I’m averaging 20 points per game, that’s more than likely gonna cost us a game. It’s gonna be the difference between winning or losing. Am I right? So now I don’t give a damn about pressure, but if someone’s going to take the blame for something, who they gonna point to? Me. So yeah, I’ve changed, because I want to fucking win. I want to show that I can win. So the way I go about things, it’s not gonna be the way I went about things when I was a rookie, [when] I’m not gonna say anything. Now I’ve got something to fucking say.”

This is what he has to say. Or at least some of it:

“I’m confrontational. I feed off of confrontation. It makes me go. Not everybody’s like that. [Bulls head coach Fred Hoiberg] is not that coach, and there’s nothing wrong with that. There are different coaching styles and people are gonna say—which is what they did say—’It’s gonna be Jimmy’s team or it’s gonna be Fred’s team.’ Two total opposite ends of the spectrum. They’re either gonna try to win it now or they’re gonna go young. And you see which way they went with it. Completely fine. Yo, it’s y’all’s business. It’s y’all’s organization. It’s cool. And now I’m in Minnesota and couldn’t be happier.”

Despite elevating his game to an all-time high last year, too often he was forced to be MacGyver, constantly scraping for useful contributions from his scanty supporting cast while refusing to let constant double and triple teams minimize his impact. The Bulls struggled to boil water whenever he rested on the bench.

Chicago ranked 28th in three-point rate and 24th in three-point percentage yet Butler still dragged them to the playoffs. The floor opened up a tiny bit when Nikola Mirotic played the four, but aging, antiquated guards like Dwyane Wade and Rajon Rondo too often made the offense feel claustrophobic. It wasn’t an ideal environment for a wing scorer to thrive, but somehow Butler did.

From 2015 to 2017, the percentage of Butler’s two-point field goals that were unassisted increased by just over 20 percent, but his True Shooting percentage didn’t fall. He finished with more Win Shares than LeBron James, Russell Westbrook, and Kawhi Leonard last year, and was third in “Real Plus-Minus Wins,” a stat that estimates how many wins a player contributes to his team’s season total, behind only LeBron James and Steph Curry.

“You can’t put somebody in a box and then have them think outside the box. Jimmy thinks like there’s no box, so he has no ceiling. Every day we wake up to break boundaries,” Johnson says. “I’m able to develop him as a point guard, as a shooting guard, as a small forward, as a power forward, and as a center. He’s a basketball player. He’s a scorer. He’s not a shooter. He’s not just a primary driver. He can do pretty much anything that is asked of him from his coaches because he allowed me to prepare him for every single situation. The only person who can stop Jimmy is Jimmy. He don’t have a flaw.”

Even for a person as motivated as he is, Butler’s journey to the NBA was a miraculous tightrope walk. There were no AAU connections or free sneakers. Butler is from Tomball, Texas, a slight town about 30 miles outside Houston. After his mother kicked him out of the house when he was 13, Butler couchsurfed through his teenage years before finding relative stability when his friend’s mother agreed to take him in. The story has been told often, but remains too incredible to be sensationalized.

For the typical prospect, coming to average 20 points in the NBA is less likely than purchasing a winning Powerball ticket. For Butler, it was less likely than holding said ticket while riding in the backseat of a limousine with Beyonce, eloping in Vegas.

Butler didn’t receive any scholarship offers out of high school, but he did get noticed by a scout named Alan Branch. Branch identified qualities his colleagues missed, and started to chirp in the direction of any coaches who’d listen. You guys are missing a steal. But no offers were made even after Butler played well in a couple spring tournaments. Nobody thought he was Division-I material.

“The biggest thing I can say is he wasn’t flashy, he wasn’t a freak talent, and he was in the bushes,” Branch says.

So instead of preparing for his first year at a school like Texas Christian University or Morehead State, Branch introduced Butler to Coach Marquis at Tyler Junior College, about three hours north of Tomball. He spent a day working out in their gym, scrimmaged with some of their players and local high-school competition, and was offered a spot right away.

“Mike never saw him shoot the basketball,” Branch said. “Jimmy played like four or five possessions, made the right passes, got a rebound. He was just solid. You could just see the IQ.”

It’s impossible to know what would’ve happened had Branch never brought Butler to Marquis’s attention. There were other junior colleges in the area that might have granted Butler a chance to walk on, but a few critical variables would’ve spun in unpredictable directions had he played anywhere else. To start, Tyler was very good, and good teams draw Division-I eyeballs.

Up until that point in his career, Butler mostly operated in the frontcourt. He crashed the glass, defended well, and offered a tenaciousness that probably wouldn’t have the same effect against bigger, stronger competition. But thanks to the team’s roster construction, Marquis shifted Butler to the perimeter on a full-time basis, forcing him to showcase a more appealing and varied skill-set.

“I didn’t think people would draft him out of junior college after one year, but I thought he was draftable,” Marquis said. “I called [Bulls general manager] Gar Forman, who I had known since he was coaching at Iowa State and New Mexico State, and said there’s something special about Jimmy. If they just continued to watch his progress, they’d really, really like him.”

Far and away the longest lasting benefit from his time in Tyler was who he met while there. Butler’s roommate that season was a 6’7″ wing named Joe Fulce, who was recruited to play for Marquette University by the school’s then-assistant coach Buzz Williams.

“Every time I went to go see Joe, of course, I would say hello to Jimmy,” Williams says.

Fulce—who’s now a graduate assistant coach under Williams at Virginia Tech—and Butler were like a pair of Siamese fighting fish (who also happened to be friends). They competed in everything and played countless games of one on one, after practice, before games; even at random times in the middle of the night—whenever Butler wasn’t hypnotized by his eight hundredth viewing of The Lion King.

“I don’t know how many times I’d either wake up in the morning or wake up at night and his ass is sitting in bed, eating some snacks, with his feet crossed, with a cowboy hat on, watching the damn Lion King with some country music softly playing,” Fulce said to VICE Sports. “His ass is weird.” (Butler still really loves country music.)

Butler led Tyler in scoring and guided them to a 24-5 record. All the while, Fulce relentlessly pitched Williams on his roommate’s all-around potential. A little while later Williams became Marquette’s head coach. Butler was the first player he signed. His letter of intent was famously faxed over from a nearby McDonald’s, and his first day on campus doubled as the first day of school. Butler still had Fulce as his roommate, but never visited Milwaukee beforehand.

“I think from day one until the day he graduated, he became much more confident in who he was on and off the floor,” Williams says. “I think he became less distrustful. His personality showed more often. He was much more comfortable. Obviously, that was an extended period of time where his environment and the people in his environment were stable.”

In three years, Butler never dropped a class, skipped a meeting with his tutor, or showed up late to a weightlifting session. In large part due to Butler being Williams’s first signing, there was inescapable pressure on them both to perform. And through some tough times early on, a mutually beneficial bond was formed.

“What can I say, in some ways I’m proud of it and in other ways I’m not proud of it,” Williams says. “I was hard on him. I was hard on him in every way. I never gave him any relief in any facet of his life, and to his credit he never wanted one. I think as our time together transpired, he expected that. He wanted that. He wanted that as an example to everybody else on the team.”

Butler says the lessons learned in three years at Marquette still resonate, and his relationship with Williams remains strong. Now the head coach at Virginia Tech, Williams gave Butler a journal during his second year in the league. He still writes in it.

Next year, the journal will be different. He’ll be in a new city, with a new team, and a new set of expectations—at least externally. Internally, Butler still has a bottomless urge to be great. He’s forever that serial killer’s dream. He rolls out of bed each morning focused and ready to go for a 90-minute session with Johnson. It’s the first of two workouts they fight through every day. They start by zooming in on ball-handling, finishing, floaters, runners, one-legged jumpers, off-balance jumpers, side pick-and-rolls, middle pick-and-rolls, pick-and-roll passing, and so on and so forth.

He’s already one of the craftiest and effective downhill playmakers in basketball, but for Butler to truly max out his potential in the coming seasons, that jumper needs to stabilize. Last year, he knocked down 36.7 percent of his threes, which is right around league average and an improvement on the previous season. But a higher percentage of his field goal attempts were launched from the inefficient mid-range, where he only canned 38.2 percent. On the whole, that’s not an atrocious number, but it badly trails positional peers like Kawhi Leonard, Paul George, and Kevin Durant.

Later in the day, the second session with Johnson is devoted to shot mechanics—how he can better himself shooting on the move and off the bounce. They study preferable ways for him to create separation and sharpen his technique on fadeaways. Every workout is filmed, allowing Butler and Johnson to obsess over ball and hand placement. They really dig into the finer details that are necessary to make him a more potent all-around weapon.

After the morning workout, Butler rewards himself with a five-minute break and then embarks on a soul-crippling hour with Gaines. Gaines and Johnson work with other professional athletes but have still met with Butler almost every day for the past four years. They will continue to do so in Minnesota. When Butler goes on vacation, be it to Europe, Canada, Mexico, or Mars, Gaines and Johnson come along for the ride.

“I’m not cheap,” Gaines says. “But he pays whatever it costs and whatever it takes to keep his body right.”

Monday, Wednesday, and Friday are reserved for corrective exercises, movement prep, movement training, and strength training. Tuesdays and Thursdays are for conditioning work and agility training. Saturdays and Sundays are strictly conditioning. Sometimes they race on the beach or hop on a football field to sprint 110 yards at a time.

Sometimes they’ll get back on an actual basketball court just to embrace the delightful sensation that a gasser can have on the human body. Gassers are timed sprints where, starting on the baseline, Butler has 17 seconds to go half the court and back, then dart to the opposite end line before returning to where he started. “We’ll do 10 to 15 of those,” Gaines said. It sounds like torture, but for Butler the entire process is more vital than oxygen.

There are obvious reasons to think the hard work will continue to pay off. This year, Butler may find that instead of doing more with less, he’ll have the chance to do more with more. In Minnesota, defenses will have to worry about Towns, Wiggins, and Jeff Teague, the kind of score-first point guard Butler hasn’t played with since Derrick Rose’s body broke down. He’ll be able to allocate more energy towards the defensive end—Butler failed to make an All-Defensive team for the first time in three years last season. Despite just four percent body fat hanging from his 230-pound frame, Butler still gets tired every once in a while.

If he can hunt for more open opportunities behind the three-point line instead of settling on tough, contested heaves, he can be one of the most efficient players in the entire NBA.

That won’t necessarily be easy. The Timberwolves actually finished behind Chicago in three-point rate last season. And given how their roster is built, Thibodeau will likely lean on dated lineups that can be exploited when up against modernized rotations. Gorgui Dieng and Taj Gibson will platoon the power forward position, even though they’re both better suited as backup fives. Life on the court may be cluttered once again.

But if Towns leaps forward on the defensive end, Thibs could deploy more versatile units that will accentuate Butler’s strengths. The floor will open up and, if that’s the case, it’s hard to see how he won’t be a legitimate MVP candidate. According to Synergy Sports, Butler ranked in the 77th percentile as a pick-and-roll ball-handler last year. He was 95th in transition, 92nd in spot-up situations, and 91st in the post.

The Timberwolves boast a core that can, in Towns’s words, evolve into a dynasty. Butler likes the fit and is confident he can teach Thibodeau’s system to younger teammates who struggled to grasp it last season. But he’s also understandably cautious when it comes to attaching any bold claims to a group that ranked 26th in defense last year.

“I don’t like the word ‘Super Team’,” he says. “I think everybody’s human. That’s [what] people label Golden State. They’re a really really, really good basketball team. Super team?…On any given time they can be beat, too. It’s all about who’s playing basketball the best at the right time.”

Towns and Wiggins can fill an ocean with their upside. Photo: Chris Humphreys-USA TODAY Sports.

Dethroning the Warriors is goal number one. But even if the Timberwolves fall short, Butler will certainly use his time in Minneapolis to expand his fame over the next few years. With the league’s popularity increasing every day in countries all over the world, a genuine superstar’s brand is worth exponentially more than the $19.3 million Minnesota owes Butler this season. Off-court opportunities are constantly nipping at his attention. Three years ago, he took a 75 percent pay cut to go from adidas to Jordan, joining Blake Griffin, Carmelo Anthony, Kawhi Leonard, Russell Westbrook, and over a dozen other NBA stars. (During our day together, Butler poked fun at a camera operator wearing adidas tennis shoes.)

Bonobos, a menswear company that was recently bought by Walmart, made Butler their brand ambassador last August. And just this month he released his own signature underwear line with PSD, a company Kyrie Irving and Chandler Parsons are also affiliated with. (Butler’s photographer Phil envisions a coffee table book. “If Kim Kardashian can do it,” he says. “Why can’t Jimmy?”)

Last year, he dipped his toe in Hollywood by appearing in Office Christmas Party, a comedy his life guru Mark Wahlberg helped put him in. Butler met Wahlberg in 2013 while the actor was filming a Transformers movie in Chicago. They’ve been close friends ever since, with Butler citing the 46-year-old’s vigorous work ethic as one of the biggest inspirations in his life.

“He’s already one of the best at what he does, but he works as though he’s not. The guy wakes up at 3:30, 4:00 AM to work out. Then he’ll go take his mind off of stuff and play some golf,” Butler says. “He eats healthy and spends time with his family and he’s reading scripts and he’s in meetings and he’s on phone calls. Before you know it, it’s time to do it all over again the next day.” (Butler’s all-time favorite Wahlberg movie is Shooter. “Bob Lee Swagger is that dude,” he says.)

Butler played himself in Office Christmas Party, alongside Jason Bateman and Olivia Munn. He wasn’t stiff in his only scene; the film’s two directors, Josh Gordon and Will Speck, were impressed by his initial foray into a brand new field. “LeBron surprised everyone in Trainwreck by being so fully formed as an actor,” Gordon told VICE Sports. “If Jimmy wanted to [act in the future], he could do it. He’s got that kind of charisma. It’s up to him.”

Butler isn’t sure how much longer he wants to be an NBA player, but hopes to squeeze in at least seven years, two championships, and widespread respect as one of his era’s greatest stars before his body cries uncle. (No big deal.) If he opts out of his player option in 2019, the former Most Improved Player can experience unrestricted free agency for the very first time; just about every team that can afford a max contract will be interested. Even though that level of courtship is something Butler has never gone through before, he’s yet to think about what it’ll feel like.

“I’ll tell you one thing. I’m gonna go or I’m gonna be or I’m gonna stay wherever I’m wanted, man. Because that’s all anybody ever wants,” he says. “To be appreciated.”

Jimmy Butler Has Something To Say syndicated from http://ift.tt/2ug2Ns6

[flauntpage]

Jimmy Butler Has Something To Say

Jimmy Butler's cell phone is shaking. We're plopped down in the last row of his home theatre on a couch that feels like a velvet sponge, a blanket covers his outstretched legs.

Butler leans over, looks down, smiles. He picks the phone up, shakes his head, then turns it around to reveal who's on the other end. Coach Thibs. "See?" Butler says. "It's crazy, right? He's always on my phone."

Everything about Butler's place in this exact moment and time can and should be described as "crazy." From the majestic hillside villa tucked away in Malibu—a remote paradise where the 27-year-old lives with a tight crew of friends, family, and paid aides (a photographer is sleeping in the guest house)—to the sudden reunion with Tom Thibodeau, the tireless coach who helped turn Butler into one of the least probable success stories in NBA history, to the Chicago Bulls needlessly trading Butler earlier this summer...the list can go on forever.

Butler's origin story is absurd. Small town Texas kids with no scholarship offers out of high school don't become NBA role players, much less superstars. They aren't oddball country music-loving characters who pal around with famous actors. And they certainly don't accomplish all they have while going out of their way to stand tall as a positive figure off the court. Butler won the NBA Cares Community Assist Award last April, and says he aspires to use his broadening platform to navigate the contentious social issues that plague the country. But his rags to riches past and lavish present are not as moving as what promises to lie ahead.

Butler was voted onto his first All-NBA team last season, with scoring, assist, and rebound averages usually associated with someone headed to the Hall of Fame. (Butler tallied more Win Shares last year than Larry Bird when he won his first MVP). But there's still room for improvement, and next season Butler will be surrounded by players with enough talent to relieve some of the pressure he's felt in years past.

It's been an intense, course-altering summer for Butler, whose reward for establishing himself as one of the world's 15 best basketball players was the trade, three months ago, from Chicago to the Minnesota Timberwolves, a franchise that's perpetually struggling to stand on its own two feet. But Butler—alongside Karl-Anthony Towns and Andrew Wiggins, two Rookie of the Year winners who can fill an ocean with their talent and upside—is poised to change all that.

Coach Thibs is always calling Butler—and always calling his number. Photo: Russ Isabella-USA TODAY Sports

Already one of, if not the, most physically fit individuals in a league overcrowded by the most athletic specimens on earth, Butler dedicated his summer to figuring out a way to get into even more ridiculous shape—the better to handle one of the NBA's toughest workloads. (According to NBA.com, he ran more miles per game than all but two other players during 2016-17, and led the entire league in each of the previous two seasons.)

"The man, simply, is addicted to working," says Butler's personal skills trainer Chris Johnson.

His weekly schedule consists of approximately nine hundred thousand hours of on-court basketball drills, spliced with a grueling workout plan that made my eyes water when I first heard it. Without an alarm, Butler is out of bed by 5:45 AM and on the court by 6:00.

"He's a serial killer's dream. He does the same shit every fucking day."

Meals hardly deviate. It's scrambled egg whites, turkey bacon, turkey sausage, and a protein shake for breakfast. Lunch is Chipotle, with plain white rice, double chicken, light lettuce, and half a cup of vinaigrette (no cilantro). At night, his chef will prepare a dish around fish or chicken. He hasn't had red meat in years and steers clear of alcohol.

When Butler isn't drenched in sweat, most of his free time is either spent in his theatre watching the same movies over and over (Friday is a favorite), or escaping into never-ending games of Spades or dominoes. Yoga is on the docket. Nightclubs are not.

"He's a serial killer's dream," says Butler's personal strength trainer Travelle Gaines, who counts NFL superstars like Antonio Brown and Demaryius Thomas as clients. "He does the same shit every fucking day."

Butler is shirtless in tan pants and Jordan slides when we first meet outside his pool house. "Want a beer?" He reaches into a brown Albertson's bag and removes a cold can of Michelob Ultra. His hair is braided tight like a crown, and it's impossible not to notice how much his chest looks like gladiator armor. This is also a reminder that our interview (and a photo shoot he's doing) have pushed Butler out of his usual routine, but he doesn't seem too worried about it.

"I'll just make it all up in a short period tonight and be really tired in the morning when I wake up and start my schedule all over again, but it's part of it," he says.

The mood when Butler enters a room somehow relaxes and tightens at the exact same time. His personality glides from standup comedian to superintendent. He's genuinely curious, cerebral, and a little mischievous. Ultimately, everything, from his schedule to his diet to the people he chooses to spend every waking minute around, is about efficiency. Even in this wonderland, with potted lemon trees at every turn, a hoard of wicker patio furniture, and a Southern California sun that dares anyone under it to do nothing but sip gin and tonics on end, Butler's playfulness has limitations.

"I'm confrontational. I feed off of confrontation. It makes me go."

The conversation turns to his work ethic. He understands not everyone is as driven as he is, but can't comprehend the thought of someone (especially another NBA player) not doing all they can to reach their full potential. It bugs him, even though he knows it shouldn't.

"I think it's wrong for me to think that people want what I want because in reality they don't. Some people are OK with getting drafted. Some people are OK with playing two years in the league, four years in the league, six years in the league. Some people are OK with just scoring a basket in an NBA game. I'm not OK with any of that. I'm not satisfied until I win a championship," he says. "I want everybody to work the way that I work and it's wrong for me to think like that because people don't do it! But in my mind I'm just like why? Why don't you want to chase greatness the way that I do?"

Last January, after a humiliating loss in Atlanta that saw the Bulls blow a 10 point lead with three minutes left, Butler was fined for publicly dragging his teammates through the mud. After he was traded, former NBA player Antoine Walker called Butler a "bad locker room guy." A recent report suggested the Boston Celtics had concerns about trading for the three-time All-Star because Butler might clash with Gordon Hayward, who they eventually signed in free agency.

Butler has little patience for people less driven than he is. Photo: Mike DiNovo-USA TODAY Sports.

"Even as a first-semester freshman, he wasn't gonna let guys drift through practice," says Mike Marquis, Butler's coach at Tyler Junior College. "He is very, very competitive, and he is great when he finds an enemy. I think that's one of his charms. He knows how to psychologically find an enemy and attack it."

I ask Butler if he's a difficult person to be around.

"Yes," he says.

But it's not as simple as that. Difficult is in the eye of the beholder, just like laziness.

"But then again it's bad on my part because I know better," Butler says. "It's kind of contradicting itself. It's like, 'Well Jimmy you know better, don't do that.' But then the other half is just like, 'Well, if you can do it everybody can do it.' But then it goes back again. 'You know that it don't work like that, right? Yeah, I know, but I think that it can so everybody needs to work like this.'"

"I think it takes a very special person to deal with Jimmy Butler," says Gaines. "He's actually too smart for his own good."

Once the photo shoot ends, we migrate down to the main house. Ready to play Spades, Butler is hunched over a square folding table that's been pummeled by thousands of domino tiles. He's flanked by Phil Ducasse, his newly appointed personal photographer, Ifeyani Koggu, a former Arkansas State guard who Butler introduces as his brother, and Mike Smith, Butler's mentee, of sorts, from Chicago who's about to enter his sophomore season at Columbia. A chandelier the size of a kiddie pool hangs overhead. Boxes of Size 14 retro Jordans are stacked against the dining room wall, with loose jewelry and designer clothes casually spread across the table and floor.

Nearly two hours later the card game ends and Butler recedes to his theatre. He acknowledges that his whirlwind ascent altered relationships and transfigured his behavior in Chicago, but doesn't feel taken for granted by the Bulls organization. Still, an old truism lingers: the one about how those who start in the mailroom can never shake how co-workers perceive them no matter how high they climb within the company. There's a sense, from the outside looking in, that the Bulls didn't appreciate how awesome Butler truly is.

He didn't crack 400 minutes his rookie year. By his third season—his first of three straight appearances on the NBA's All-Defensive second team—Butler averaged a team-high 38.7 minutes per game. That year he averaged 13.1 points. Two seasons later he was up to 20.9.

"I think they maybe expected me to stay the same, and I don't think that that's right. Like, I have changed. I will tell you that. But I think that I've changed for the better," he says. "When I say for the better, whenever I was a rookie, averaging 0.8 points per game or whatever it might be, it wouldn't matter if I scored that 0.8 because it wasn't going to win or lose us a game. Now, you go forward a couple years when I'm averaging 20 points per game, that's more than likely gonna cost us a game. It's gonna be the difference between winning or losing. Am I right? So now I don't give a damn about pressure, but if someone's going to take the blame for something, who they gonna point to? Me. So yeah, I've changed, because I want to fucking win. I want to show that I can win. So the way I go about things, it's not gonna be the way I went about things when I was a rookie, [when] I'm not gonna say anything. Now I've got something to fucking say."

This is what he has to say. Or at least some of it:

"I'm confrontational. I feed off of confrontation. It makes me go. Not everybody's like that. [Bulls head coach Fred Hoiberg] is not that coach, and there's nothing wrong with that. There are different coaching styles and people are gonna say—which is what they did say—'It's gonna be Jimmy's team or it's gonna be Fred's team.' Two total opposite ends of the spectrum. They're either gonna try to win it now or they're gonna go young. And you see which way they went with it. Completely fine. Yo, it's y'all's business. It's y'all's organization. It's cool. And now I'm in Minnesota and couldn't be happier."

Despite elevating his game to an all-time high last year, too often he was forced to be MacGyver, constantly scraping for useful contributions from his scanty supporting cast while refusing to let constant double and triple teams minimize his impact. The Bulls struggled to boil water whenever he rested on the bench.

Chicago ranked 28th in three-point rate and 24th in three-point percentage yet Butler still dragged them to the playoffs. The floor opened up a tiny bit when Nikola Mirotic played the four, but aging, antiquated guards like Dwyane Wade and Rajon Rondo too often made the offense feel claustrophobic. It wasn't an ideal environment for a wing scorer to thrive, but somehow Butler did.

From 2015 to 2017, the percentage of Butler's two-point field goals that were unassisted increased by just over 20 percent, but his True Shooting percentage didn't fall. He finished with more Win Shares than LeBron James, Russell Westbrook, and Kawhi Leonard last year, and was third in "Real Plus-Minus Wins," a stat that estimates how many wins a player contributes to his team's season total, behind only LeBron James and Steph Curry.

"You can't put somebody in a box and then have them think outside the box. Jimmy thinks like there's no box, so he has no ceiling. Every day we wake up to break boundaries," Johnson says. "I'm able to develop him as a point guard, as a shooting guard, as a small forward, as a power forward, and as a center. He's a basketball player. He's a scorer. He's not a shooter. He's not just a primary driver. He can do pretty much anything that is asked of him from his coaches because he allowed me to prepare him for every single situation. The only person who can stop Jimmy is Jimmy. He don't have a flaw."

Even for a person as motivated as he is, Butler's journey to the NBA was a miraculous tightrope walk. There were no AAU connections or free sneakers. Butler is from Tomball, Texas, a slight town about 30 miles outside Houston. After his mother kicked him out of the house when he was 13, Butler couchsurfed through his teenage years before finding relative stability when his friend's mother agreed to take him in. The story has been told often, but remains too incredible to be sensationalized.

For the typical prospect, coming to average 20 points in the NBA is less likely than purchasing a winning Powerball ticket. For Butler, it was less likely than holding said ticket while riding in the backseat of a limousine with Beyonce, eloping in Vegas.

Butler didn't receive any scholarship offers out of high school, but he did get noticed by a scout named Alan Branch. Branch identified qualities his colleagues missed, and started to chirp in the direction of any coaches who'd listen. You guys are missing a steal. But no offers were made even after Butler played well in a couple spring tournaments. Nobody thought he was Division-I material.

"The biggest thing I can say is he wasn't flashy, he wasn't a freak talent, and he was in the bushes," Branch says.

So instead of preparing for his first year at a school like Texas Christian University or Morehead State, Branch introduced Butler to Coach Marquis at Tyler Junior College, about three hours north of Tomball. He spent a day working out in their gym, scrimmaged with some of their players and local high-school competition, and was offered a spot right away.

"Mike never saw him shoot the basketball," Branch said. "Jimmy played like four or five possessions, made the right passes, got a rebound. He was just solid. You could just see the IQ."

It's impossible to know what would've happened had Branch never brought Butler to Marquis's attention. There were other junior colleges in the area that might have granted Butler a chance to walk on, but a few critical variables would've spun in unpredictable directions had he played anywhere else. To start, Tyler was very good, and good teams draw Division-I eyeballs.

Up until that point in his career, Butler mostly operated in the frontcourt. He crashed the glass, defended well, and offered a tenaciousness that probably wouldn't have the same effect against bigger, stronger competition. But thanks to the team's roster construction, Marquis shifted Butler to the perimeter on a full-time basis, forcing him to showcase a more appealing and varied skill-set.

"I didn't think people would draft him out of junior college after one year, but I thought he was draftable," Marquis said. "I called [Bulls general manager] Gar Forman, who I had known since he was coaching at Iowa State and New Mexico State, and said there's something special about Jimmy. If they just continued to watch his progress, they'd really, really like him."

Far and away the longest lasting benefit from his time in Tyler was who he met while there. Butler's roommate that season was a 6'7" wing named Joe Fulce, who was recruited to play for Marquette University by the school's then-assistant coach Buzz Williams.

"Every time I went to go see Joe, of course, I would say hello to Jimmy," Williams says.

Fulce—who's now a graduate assistant coach under Williams at Virginia Tech—and Butler were like a pair of Siamese fighting fish (who also happened to be friends). They competed in everything and played countless games of one on one, after practice, before games; even at random times in the middle of the night—whenever Butler wasn't hypnotized by his eight hundredth viewing of The Lion King.

"I don't know how many times I'd either wake up in the morning or wake up at night and his ass is sitting in bed, eating some snacks, with his feet crossed, with a cowboy hat on, watching the damn Lion King with some country music softly playing," Fulce said to VICE Sports. "His ass is weird." (Butler still really loves country music.)

Butler led Tyler in scoring and guided them to a 24-5 record. All the while, Fulce relentlessly pitched Williams on his roommate's all-around potential. A little while later Williams became Marquette's head coach. Butler was the first player he signed. His letter of intent was famously faxed over from a nearby McDonald's, and his first day on campus doubled as the first day of school. Butler still had Fulce as his roommate, but never visited Milwaukee beforehand.

"I think from day one until the day he graduated, he became much more confident in who he was on and off the floor," Williams says. "I think he became less distrustful. His personality showed more often. He was much more comfortable. Obviously, that was an extended period of time where his environment and the people in his environment were stable."

In three years, Butler never dropped a class, skipped a meeting with his tutor, or showed up late to a weightlifting session. In large part due to Butler being Williams's first signing, there was inescapable pressure on them both to perform. And through some tough times early on, a mutually beneficial bond was formed.

"What can I say, in some ways I'm proud of it and in other ways I'm not proud of it," Williams says. "I was hard on him. I was hard on him in every way. I never gave him any relief in any facet of his life, and to his credit he never wanted one. I think as our time together transpired, he expected that. He wanted that. He wanted that as an example to everybody else on the team."

Butler says the lessons learned in three years at Marquette still resonate, and his relationship with Williams remains strong. Now the head coach at Virginia Tech, Williams gave Butler a journal during his second year in the league. He still writes in it.

Next year, the journal will be different. He'll be in a new city, with a new team, and a new set of expectations—at least externally. Internally, Butler still has a bottomless urge to be great. He's forever that serial killer's dream. He rolls out of bed each morning focused and ready to go for a 90-minute session with Johnson. It's the first of two workouts they fight through every day. They start by zooming in on ball-handling, finishing, floaters, runners, one-legged jumpers, off-balance jumpers, side pick-and-rolls, middle pick-and-rolls, pick-and-roll passing, and so on and so forth.

He's already one of the craftiest and effective downhill playmakers in basketball, but for Butler to truly max out his potential in the coming seasons, that jumper needs to stabilize. Last year, he knocked down 36.7 percent of his threes, which is right around league average and an improvement on the previous season. But a higher percentage of his field goal attempts were launched from the inefficient mid-range, where he only canned 38.2 percent. On the whole, that's not an atrocious number, but it badly trails positional peers like Kawhi Leonard, Paul George, and Kevin Durant.

Later in the day, the second session with Johnson is devoted to shot mechanics—how he can better himself shooting on the move and off the bounce. They study preferable ways for him to create separation and sharpen his technique on fadeaways. Every workout is filmed, allowing Butler and Johnson to obsess over ball and hand placement. They really dig into the finer details that are necessary to make him a more potent all-around weapon.

After the morning workout, Butler rewards himself with a five-minute break and then embarks on a soul-crippling hour with Gaines. Gaines and Johnson work with other professional athletes but have still met with Butler almost every day for the past four years. They will continue to do so in Minnesota. When Butler goes on vacation, be it to Europe, Canada, Mexico, or Mars, Gaines and Johnson come along for the ride.

"I'm not cheap," Gaines says. "But he pays whatever it costs and whatever it takes to keep his body right."

Monday, Wednesday, and Friday are reserved for corrective exercises, movement prep, movement training, and strength training. Tuesdays and Thursdays are for conditioning work and agility training. Saturdays and Sundays are strictly conditioning. Sometimes they race on the beach or hop on a football field to sprint 110 yards at a time.

Sometimes they'll get back on an actual basketball court just to embrace the delightful sensation that a gasser can have on the human body. Gassers are timed sprints where, starting on the baseline, Butler has 17 seconds to go half the court and back, then dart to the opposite end line before returning to where he started. "We'll do 10 to 15 of those," Gaines said. It sounds like torture, but for Butler the entire process is more vital than oxygen.

There are obvious reasons to think the hard work will continue to pay off. This year, Butler may find that instead of doing more with less, he'll have the chance to do more with more. In Minnesota, defenses will have to worry about Towns, Wiggins, and Jeff Teague, the kind of score-first point guard Butler hasn't played with since Derrick Rose's body broke down. He'll be able to allocate more energy towards the defensive end—Butler failed to make an All-Defensive team for the first time in three years last season. Despite just four percent body fat hanging from his 230-pound frame, Butler still gets tired every once in a while.

If he can hunt for more open opportunities behind the three-point line instead of settling on tough, contested heaves, he can be one of the most efficient players in the entire NBA.

That won't necessarily be easy. The Timberwolves actually finished behind Chicago in three-point rate last season. And given how their roster is built, Thibodeau will likely lean on dated lineups that can be exploited when up against modernized rotations. Gorgui Dieng and Taj Gibson will platoon the power forward position, even though they're both better suited as backup fives. Life on the court may be cluttered once again.

But if Towns leaps forward on the defensive end, Thibs could deploy more versatile units that will accentuate Butler's strengths. The floor will open up and, if that's the case, it's hard to see how he won't be a legitimate MVP candidate. According to Synergy Sports, Butler ranked in the 77th percentile as a pick-and-roll ball-handler last year. He was 95th in transition, 92nd in spot-up situations, and 91st in the post.

The Timberwolves boast a core that can, in Towns's words, evolve into a dynasty. Butler likes the fit and is confident he can teach Thibodeau's system to younger teammates who struggled to grasp it last season. But he's also understandably cautious when it comes to attaching any bold claims to a group that ranked 26th in defense last year.

"I don't like the word 'Super Team'," he says. "I think everybody's human. That's [what] people label Golden State. They're a really really, really good basketball team. Super team?...On any given time they can be beat, too. It's all about who's playing basketball the best at the right time."

Towns and Wiggins can fill an ocean with their upside. Photo: Chris Humphreys-USA TODAY Sports.

Dethroning the Warriors is goal number one. But even if the Timberwolves fall short, Butler will certainly use his time in Minneapolis to expand his fame over the next few years. With the league's popularity increasing every day in countries all over the world, a genuine superstar's brand is worth exponentially more than the $19.3 million Minnesota owes Butler this season. Off-court opportunities are constantly nipping at his attention. Three years ago, he took a 75 percent pay cut to go from adidas to Jordan, joining Blake Griffin, Carmelo Anthony, Kawhi Leonard, Russell Westbrook, and over a dozen other NBA stars. (During our day together, Butler poked fun at a camera operator wearing adidas tennis shoes.)

Bonobos, a menswear company that was recently bought by Walmart, made Butler their brand ambassador last August. And just this month he released his own signature underwear line with PSD, a company Kyrie Irving and Chandler Parsons are also affiliated with. (Butler's photographer Phil envisions a coffee table book. "If Kim Kardashian can do it," he says. "Why can't Jimmy?")

Last year, he dipped his toe in Hollywood by appearing in Office Christmas Party, a comedy his life guru Mark Wahlberg helped put him in. Butler met Wahlberg in 2013 while the actor was filming a Transformers movie in Chicago. They've been close friends ever since, with Butler citing the 46-year-old's vigorous work ethic as one of the biggest inspirations in his life.

"He's already one of the best at what he does, but he works as though he's not. The guy wakes up at 3:30, 4:00 AM to work out. Then he'll go take his mind off of stuff and play some golf," Butler says. "He eats healthy and spends time with his family and he's reading scripts and he's in meetings and he's on phone calls. Before you know it, it's time to do it all over again the next day." (Butler's all-time favorite Wahlberg movie is Shooter. "Bob Lee Swagger is that dude," he says.)

Butler played himself in Office Christmas Party, alongside Jason Bateman and Olivia Munn. He wasn't stiff in his only scene; the film's two directors, Josh Gordon and Will Speck, were impressed by his initial foray into a brand new field. "LeBron surprised everyone in Trainwreck by being so fully formed as an actor," Gordon told VICE Sports. "If Jimmy wanted to [act in the future], he could do it. He's got that kind of charisma. It's up to him."

Butler isn't sure how much longer he wants to be an NBA player, but hopes to squeeze in at least seven years, two championships, and widespread respect as one of his era's greatest stars before his body cries uncle. (No big deal.) If he opts out of his player option in 2019, the former Most Improved Player can experience unrestricted free agency for the very first time; just about every team that can afford a max contract will be interested. Even though that level of courtship is something Butler has never gone through before, he's yet to think about what it'll feel like.

"I'll tell you one thing," he says. "I'm gonna go or I'm gonna be or I'm gonna stay wherever I'm wanted, man. Because that's all anybody ever wants," he says. "To be appreciated."

Jimmy Butler Has Something To Say published first on http://ift.tt/2pLTmlv