#Cross & Gravel

[kilometermacher]

Testbericht: Schwalbe G-ONE Bite

Ich bin ja draufgekommen, ich bin ja euch – und auch Yvonne von Schwalbe – schon ungefähr seit August 2021 noch einen Testbericht schuldig – hier Details dazu… Damals habe ich ja über Vermittlung des Wrider’s Club eine Garnitur Schwalbe G-ONE Bite zum testen zur Verfügung gestellt bekommen. Aber, was soll ich – als Laie, der halt seine Kilometer herunterdreht, groß erzählen? Über Grip,…

[catb-fics]

The Devil Next Door Part 1

Van’s your new next door neighbour who you love to hate… Enemies to (eventual) lovers ❤️‍🔥

Words: 2k

Warnings: none this part, Van being a royal pain in the arse and Bondy being his usual lovely self

Story Masterlist Main Masterlist

It was a quiet neighbourhood and that's how you liked it. No troublesome neighbours quarrelling over garden fences, no domestic dramas and no disrespectful residents throwing late night parties until ungodly hours. Even the children that lived on your street were well-behaved. It was calm and peaceful... some might say dull and uneventful but not you. You liked the quiet. It was perfect.

That was until he moved in next door.

You think back to a week ago. You'd been brewing your first coffee of the day when the screeching sound of brakes and a noisy, tinny car stereo had cut through the quiet sounds of the morning. You'd just expected it to be a delivery driver so you didn't rush to your kitchen window. You weren't nosey like some of the curtain-twitchers who lived on the small cul-de-sac so you didn't pay any heed when the loud metallic thunk of several vehicle doors slamming emanated from right outside your house. It was the voices that got your attention. Loud and brash with a Northern lilt, spoken at such a volume that from your spot over the far side of the kitchen you could hear every single word that was uttered. You didn't even have the windows open.

"That's gotta be the longest journey of my life. Thank fuck we're here at last!"

"Don't know what you're complaining about. You weren't bloody driving!"

"I did my bit! I was navigating."

A loud, hearty laugh.

"You call that navigating? You sent us the wrong way down the M1 for thirty miles!"

"Well? If you'd have bought that new van with the built-in sat-nav you wouldn't need me to direct you, would ya? Honestly mate, I don't know how this old heap of junk got us here in one piece."

"Well it did, didn't it? And here we are... home sweet home!"

WHAT?

You'd crossed over to the window in a flash, craning your neck to see outside without revealing your presence.

There were two men on the driveway of the house next door, one was lugging a huge guitar-shaped flight case and an amp across the gravel and you watched as the other disappeared behind the open doors of the beat-up transit van and emerged with what looked like the biggest speaker you'd ever seen in your life. They were both dressed in black, skinny ripped jeans, threadbare jackets and scuffed boots with unkempt manes of scruffy hair. They had that just rolled out of bed and on to the stage, wanna-be rockstar kind of look about them and your heart sank as they jostled each other and unloaded box after box, the calmness of the morning punctuated by their colourful language and The Strokes 'Juicebox' that was still blaring out of the van's speakers.

You lived in a semi-detached and the house adjoined to yours had stood empty for the last month. The owner was also your landlord and you'd been trying to contact her over the last few weeks to no avail to see if there was any news about new occupants. You'd been hoping for an elderly couple or maybe some young professionals, neighbours who'd blend in well into this sleepy suburban area. Not this pair of misfits who were now trampling carelessly all over your freshly planted flowers.

You watched on in horror as one of the lads stumbled with a sloppily packed cardboard box, the contents spilling out all over the path as the bottom fell through. Crockery and glassware shattered into pieces all over the paving slabs, jagged shards skittering across on to your front lawn.

"Christ Bondy, watch it would yer! That's my favourite mug you've just broken!"

Loud curses followed as the other stooped to pick up the mess. "Well if you'd packed stuff properly that wouldn't have happened! And it's not just your favourite mug, that's like every mug we own smashed into bits now. I'm dying for a cuppa as well!"

"Don't bloody blame me. You're the one carrying it!"

"Keep your voice down will ya, the whole street'll be out here soon!"

Oh... so they were actually aware that other residents lived here!

You tried to keep calm but you could feel your temperature rising. It hadn't helped that you'd been on a late shift the previous night and you were exhausted. Before you could even think about what you were doing you'd whirled around and made for the hallway, flinging open your front door and stepping outside. You stood on the driveway in just your bare feet and your nightwear, one hand on your hip, the other still grasping your coffee, face like thunder, glaring at the two boys.

"I hope you're going to clear that mess up!"

Two heads immediately swivelled towards you and two pairs of curious eyes fixed on yours. Only one pair stayed there though. You were suddenly aware of how undressed you were as one of the lads surreptitiously gave you the once over before he forced his gaze upwards and was full of wide-eyed surprise again.

"Alright love! D'ya live there then? We're just moving in like. Pleased to meet ya!"

You grasped the edges of your robe, drawing it tightly around your body, nearly upending your coffee all over yourself in the process. In your haste to confront your new neighbours you'd temporarily forgotten that you were wearing only the thinnest, briefest silk slip underneath and they'd more than likely got a right eyeful.

"Yes I do live here," you said indignantly, purposefully ignoring the hand the other lad was outstretching in a greeting. "And it's a nice, quiet, respectable neighbourhood and I'm hoping it's going to stay that way."

You knew you were being rude, uncharacteristically so, but you just couldn't help yourself. Having two loud, lairy musician types moving in next door was your worst nightmare come true. All you could think about was band rehearsals at decibels loud enough to pierce your eardrums and raucous parties going on until the early hours. It's not that you were boring and stuffy, you knew how to have fun with the best of them. It's just that your job demanded that you worked long and often unsociable hours and the last thing you needed was constant disturbances.

The boy who'd offered his hand stepped forward with an apologetic smile. He was tall and slim with a mop of wild dark curls escaping from under the black cap that he wore. Undeterred by your brusqueness he kept his hand pointed in your direction.

"We're so sorry for all the racket lass. I promise we won't make too much more noise. I'm John by the way. Johnny Bond. But ya can call me Bondy if ya like. That's what everyone calls me."

"Amongst other things!" The other lad sniggered, and you glanced up to see a pair of striking blue eyes peering at you, a cheeky smirk with a hint of mischief.

You found your cheeks warming and quickly looked away, tentatively reaching your own hand out which Bondy took immediately, shaking it in a warm greeting.

"I'm Y/N," you told him, snatching your hand away immediately lest he thought you actually approved of your new neighbours. You weren't ready to let your guard down quite yet. "So... where are you from?"

Both boys started to talk at the exact same moment, tripping over each other in their eagerness to speak. You could make out 'Newcastle' from the capped Geordie boy and something that sounded like 'Llandudno' from the other.

Bondy spoke again. "We've moved here to be closer to London. There's not much of a music scene in Llandudno is there Van?"

Van...

You tried to ignore the way your interest was piqued as you learned his name, the fact that the cheeky smile he was giving you hadn't left his lips since the moment he'd first clapped eyes on you.

"Yeah," Van chuckled, pulling on the lapels of his worn black jacket as he shifted where he stood. "Booking gigs ain't easy when you're living in the arse-end of Wales. I've wanted to get out for years but never had the opportunity 'till now." He paused to look up and down the street with an unimpressed look on his face before he turned to address his friend. "Although I'm not sure this is much better. It's a bit dead ain't it Bonds? Thought we were supposed to be moving somewhere lively, you know, venues, bit of night life. Seen more life in a retirement village!"

Irritation rose in you at his blatant disrespect for your peaceful neighbourhood. "Some of us like it quiet actually!"

"No, no this is great," Bondy cut in quickly. "It's only a short drive into the city and it'll be nice for some peace and quiet in between gigs and stuff. It's perfect... just what we were looking for."

Van huffed under his breath. "What you were looking for maybe."

What was his problem? You'd have been quite happy to see him get right back in his bucket-of-rust van and drive back to where he came from.

"Well, if you don't like it you can always go and find somewhere else to live."

Your cutting tone didn't go unnoticed. Van's eyes narrowed a little, the smirk falling quickly away but not for long. He folded his arms across his chest, fixing you with a look like he was sizing you up, just like a fighter might weigh up an opponent over the other side of a boxing ring. Well, if he was spoiling for a fight he'd picked the wrong girl to mess with, that was for sure.

"I'm sure we'll like it here just fine." Bondy's voice cut through the stony atmosphere and you turned to look at him, catching the loaded glare he shot in Van's direction. "Come on mate, stop being so pissy. You know we can't afford rent in the city, it's about three times the amount. We could only afford a tiny little apartment there." He gestured around him. "Come on, there's loads of positives. It's lovely round here, the house is massive, we've even got a garden! And we'll save a fortune."

You watched on as Van's gaze immediately returned to you, his words dripping with sarcasm. "You're forgetting something... the welcoming neighbours."

A retaliation bubbled up in your throat but you held it back, determined to rise above it and not give Van the satisfaction of knowing just how much he'd wound you up. You'd left petty arguments and childish sniping firmly behind you when you'd left school. You weren't about to let a cocky, rude and obnoxious stranger come crashing into your orderly life and turn it upside down... or so you thought.

So you bit your tongue and turned away, offering Bondy a thin smile as he shook his head and rolled his eyes, announcing that you needed to get going as you had a busy morning and a million things to do.

"It was really nice to meet you Y/N," he called after you, and you had to admit that actually the feeling was mutual. As far as first impressions went he seemed friendly and polite, a stark contrast to Van who didn't seem to have any mind for anyone else other than himself.

You stopped in your tracks, turning to give him a smile, a genuine one this time. "You too Bondy. When you're all settled in you'll have to pop round for a coffee."

"I'd like that," he replied, and you nodded, purposefully keeping your eyes on him so there'd be no mistaking that your invitation wasn't being extended to all in your present company.

It didn't stop Van though who as you'd come to learn couldn't stand not having the last word in any situation.

"Well, if you're putting the kettle on now love, mine's a tea, nice and strong, not too much milk, no sugar!"

Then he shot you a mischievous wink, flashing you a smug grin which should have infuriated you, and it did... but that wasn't all. It also made your belly flip, a little spark of something igniting in you that you weren't quite sure what to make of. So you ignored it, and him, swiftly turning and making your way back into your house.

And that's how it all began...

[another-fic-another-planet]

Out of Tune, Part 2/?

Second person POV, Main Pairing Eddie Munson/You (F)

contains: explicit content, dom/sub, allusions to light bondage, light bratting, oral (both), alcohol, cigarettes

~LET ME KNOW IF YOU WANT TO BE ADDED TO THE TAG LIST~

“I would never cry over you, you’re not even worth it… But you’re coming back to my place after, right?” He asks, his steel toe pressing harder.

“Motel room for the night, actually, so I might have someone else over.” You reply, trying to act like you weren’t affected.

“Try again,” He says, leaning over to grab your knees to pull you closer so even more pressure from the dirty boot is applied to your embarrassingly wet center.

“Fuck… I was teasing… You know it’ll be you... You know the room.” You hiss out, trying even harder to resist the urge to grind on it like he had already made you do once. He smirks and nods, releasing you so he can stand and pull his guitar strap over his shoulder.

“See you afterwards then. I hope you like the new song… and may the best band win.” He says as the rest of his band stumble into the wings, who were already drunk.

You had already knocked back two beers by the time Corroded Coffin played their new song and it started out with a sound that made you choke on your drink.

Eddie moans into the microphone, breathing heavily before he takes a big drink and spits the water into the air. His fingers shred at his strings while he sets the pace for the song instead of his drummer, Gareth. You were always electrified by Eddie onstage, but tonight was different, he was pulsing like a rapid heartbeat. Not unlike your own. When he slammed his boot down on the amp and wagged his tongue to the screaming crowd, you felt yourself get wetter. You couldn’t keep your eyes off of him, as much as you hated it.

As the song ended, he found you watching in the wings, face flushed and arms crossed. He winked at you, fully aware of the effect he had on you.

You were so thankful the rest of your band had already gone to the bar because once he finally exited the stage with his band, you grabbed his hand to pull him to the side.

“Meet me out back. Please.” You begged him, watching his smile spread even wider. He nodded and then walked off in the direction of his band mates.

———————————————————————

You were leaning against the wall now, cigarette in hand when you heard Eddie’s boots crunch on the gravel behind the bar. You extinguish the cigarette and stomp it with the heel of your boot, looking down.

“I take it you liked the last one, princess? I could see you drooling from the stage.” He quips, rounding the corner to slam his hand beside your face. Your eyes open a little bit wider as you meet his eyes, his pupils blown out.

“It was all right, I think I would have liked it more if Gareth had sang it.” You replied with a smirk. Eddie scoffed at that, the knowledge that you and Gareth had dated last year still getting under his skin. His hand immediately went to your shoulder as he leaned in.

“I doubt that. I’m warning you now though… If you keep up the smart remarks and I’ll leave you to sit in that hotel room alone tonight.” He says, his voice dropping lower as his fingers slide across your leather jacket to wrap around your throat gently.

“Yes, Eddie.” You reply immediately, fighting the urge to pout. You’re rewarded with a gentle squeeze before his hand pushes you down to kneel in front of him. You keep eye contact with him while he unbuckles his belt, your knees hitting the sharp gravel.

“Such a good girl for me,” He says, a certain sparkle in his eye as you open your mouth expectantly. “Such a shame your mouth runs too much and you need to be silenced…” He frees his thick cock from his boxers and immediately pushes it past the entrance of your lipstick stained mouth. He grips your hair with one hand before resting the other on the wall again. You close your eyes and revel in the fact that you get to please him again…

You hate how good he tastes, how his thick precum coats your tongue. You hate how even his sweat is intoxicating as his cock pumps into your mouth sloppily. You can hear his breathing hitch when thrusts his entire length into your mouth and your eyes sting as he pushes past your gagging point.

“F-fuck…” He stutters out when your hand reaches up to cup his balls and tug gently. He thrusts even harder, your head bobbing as the hand in your hair tightens.

“Keep it up, yeah.” He commands, his head falling down. “Use your other hand to lift your shirt… Need to see more.” You comply, pulling your breasts out of your black top for him to see. The sight of that finally elicits a low moan, exactly like the one he showed the crowd on stage. This time though, it was all for you. You groan quietly around his cock, feeling it twitch when you hollow out your cheeks more.

“That’s good, princess.” He moans, his head falling back. “Such a pretty mouth for me to fuck… I was thinking this about the whole time you were singing.” With every motion, word, and thrust you can feel yourself getting wetter. He releases deep in your mouth with a loud moan.

You keep your reward in your mouth, showing Eddie by opening your mouth that you got every last drop. He yanks your head back to approve before instructing you to swallow, which you’re always happy to do. He looks perfectly blissed out now, tucking himself away as he pulls you up gently.

“I needed that,” He admits, his hands running down your sides slowly. “But I know what you need now, don’t you?” You feel even wetter just by the knowledge that he’ll take care of you as he always does. You’re just not sure how yet…

[jangofctts]

Tough Luck (Boba Fett x reader)

Rated: Explicit

Word Count: 5.3k

Warnings: Smut, violence, language, dry humping,  oral (m), sex with binders, vaginal fingering, mildly dubious consent, mild cumplay, more sexual favors (jfc), vaginal sex, consensual loss of virginity, 

Chapter (1)

a/n: howdy hey bucket fuckers. welcome to the second chapter!!! thank you so much for ms. @bobafctts​ for helping me THOT and help with the process of this bad boy in addition to @djxrxn​ whom ALSO encourages all these DISguSTAnG thots. love you, whores 🤠💖❤️ 

It’s a grueling ride to Coruscant. Even with a midway stop to refuel, it takes more than a couple weeks to arrive. 

You wish Boba Fett had thrown you into the carbon freezer. 

It’s...boring down here. 

The bounty hunter had left you alone, preferring to lock himself away inside the cockpit. Not like you’d want him anywhere but there, that is. He’s not some circus clown meant to entertain an impartial audience—you’re his quarry. A quarry worth a quarter million credits.   

The rare occasion you do see him is humiliating as is. Monitored refresher brakes and the singular hellacious shower incident. True, all he had done was wrestle your kicking and screaming self into the little cubicle then proceed to lock you in—and yet…Never in the entirety of your existence had you encountered anything more glacial than that water.  

Stars—you swear he has a direct pipeline to Hoth. 

With fingers frozen and teeth chattering so hard they rattled your skull, you made quick work of scrubbing at your hair and body. It’s a miracle you survived certain death by hypothermia, even more so you haven’t caught a cold in the following hours.   

There are limited chances to protest and rebel, close to zero in fact. He’s proven to be stronger on more than one occasion, man-handling and knocking you around like some squeaky toy left to be chewed on for some oversized loth-cat. 

He’s taken away the sole thing you’ve craved since coming aboard this ship; ripped it from your fingers and shattered it upon a duracrete floor. You’ve never chosen the petty undertaking after flustered nerves and lost arguments in life; it festers and twists into malice like a weight over your chest. But you’re no longer there. 

Here, after the first meal bar landed in your lap, you surrendered your pride and tore into that idle act of revenge.     

The meal bars thrown at your feet now begin to pile up; the one small defiance you can spare. It’s either this or throw your head against the wall until you pass out. Tragically and against your own volition, the imagery your brain provides for it forms a bubble of unease in the pit of your stomach. The sight of your own blood makes you queasy anyhow.   

It’s not ideal. You’re knifing hungry, but your act of defiance works. Faster than you’d originally thought as the second sleep cycle rolls around. 

Boba Fett’s spurs chink against the front of his boots, the glare of the shiny metal catching against the dim lighting. He doesn’t carry a meal bar this time. Instead all he brings is an ion storm filled with buzzing irritation you can feel crackle against your skin. Your eyes sweep up his figure as he plants himself before you, his head tipped down to meet your half-hearted glare.    

With a long sigh, squats and lifts up one the meal bars, the shiny wrapper crinkling under the pressure as he points it in your direction. “I’m not interested in delivering a corpse.”

“I’m not hungry,” you quip, turning your head to glower into the murky darkness of the ship. 

You jump, a pitiful squeak escaping your vocal cords as he throws the bar at your feet and lunges. His hand clamps around the binders, the roar of your heart deafening against your eardrums as he yanks you in close. 

“What is it you want?” He snarls, “A deal?”  

“I see how you treat your deals,” you bite back, straining against his grip. “You’re a liar and a cheat.” 

Boba wrenches you forward, the tip of your nose skimming the edge of the tinted visor from how close he leans in. “Careful, Rabbit. If I recall correctly, you offered me a favor not a contract.”

Despite the inky blackness of the visor, you could easily mistake it with the intensity of a dying star. You’re caught in that same familiar, lecherous pull from before. It feels wrong to be brought so close; like dancing over the serrated edge of a blade, not meant for a mortal soul to be wandering along.  

“I’ll ask again.” He states, the leather squeaking as his fingers clench tighter. “What is it you want?”

There’s no bargaining for a merciful death. You’ve seen how that would play out. All your cards are exhausted and spent and the only thing you’re left to bargain for are simple accommodation before you’re appointment with a firing squad.   

“No more binders. At least for more than a couple hours.” You rush out, afraid if you don’t speak with haste he’ll cut you off. “And...and I want a blanket. It’s—it’s cold.” 

He considers this, each second like a poorly wired hyperdrive—seconds from imploding. You let out a shaky breath as you catch the near imperceptible nod. “Is that all?” 

“Yes...I-I think.” 

He snorts. “You think? What else do you require, Rabbit?” 

You ignore the sarcasm dripping through the syllables like melted sugar. Be it intimidation or your own hormones betraying your rational mind, your eyes dip down. You curse yourself for his perceptiveness. 

It comes with the job you suppose. No one becomes the best bounty hunter in the parsec using untrained eyes.  

“You know, girl,” he chuckles, a gravelly rasp against the vocoder. “I could...return the favor.”

If you had it your way, wielding an iron grip of control on your own body, you’d stop the tidal wave of crackling arousal from licking at your heels and settling in the pit of your stomach. It’s a rush of electricity guilt yet you’re able to reign in your tongue and speak; as shaky and unsure as it is.  “What makes you think I want anything more to do with you?”

“There’s no harm changing your mind,” he says. Boba cocks his head to the side and rocks forward, capturing and twirling a lock of your hair around his fingers. “As you said—you’ll die soon anyhow.”

With a goading tug on your hair he sits up, the tinkle of his spurs filling the space as he saunters a couple paces away. He smooths a hand over a large cargo crate, the leather glove rasping against the wood and with a sigh, he sits. He settles his back against it, your eyes not once leaving his figure, entranced by each subtle movement and swish of his cloak that bunches beneath him.  

“Come claim your favor, Rabbit,” Boba purrs, crossing his legs and leaning further into the cargo crate. He’s awfully nonchalant—like a loth-cat furled out in the sun. Though you know, behind the undisturbed facade, one wrong move and he’ll pounce; sink those razor sharp talons into exposed flesh.   

“Anything?” 

If you could see his eyes, you imagine he’d be rolling them. He pats his thigh. “Why don’t you sit on my lap and then we’ll talk.”

You don’t think about the fact that this is worse than before. That you’re letting yourself clamber over his crossed legs and into his lap. You hate that the crackling fire, greedy and dark, burns through your core as if it had never had a taste of pleasure before.  

His hands skim up your thighs, covered and impersonal. You don’t let that kernel of disappointment wiggle into your thoughts—it’s bad enough you’re here. In spite of this, you think, fuck it. You might as well. Your life is such a shit show anyhow might as well indulge.   

You hiss in surprise as your crotch meets the unforgiving metal codpiece. “Take it off?” 

“You take it off, Rabbit.”

Your teeth clamp down into the inside of your cheek. Bastard. Cocky, smug, asshole—

The list could go on forever and despite the irritation snapping inside your chest like a cut wire, your fingers find the latches to the dark green codpiece. You’re rough taking the blasted thing off, delighting in the bounty hunter’s little chagrined grunt as you tug and pull without much caution. 

“Careful.” 

You shoot the best glare you can muster and stick your tongue out, jolting as his fingers dig into the flesh of your ass in retaliation. With a clatter the codpiece falls off; the thick swell of his cock creating an attractive line against the white fabric. 

The same trepidation returns. You’re digging your own grave here, shoveling through dirt and tough layers of gravel in order to toss yourself in. It shouldn’t be this easy to convince yourself to fall into those greedy claws of arousal.

“Well?” Boba challenges, snaking a hand around the swell of your waist. “Get moving before I change my mind.” 

“What do you suggest I do then?” You snip, exasperated by his indignant shrug. 

With a low hum he anchors his hold over your hips and yanks you further over his crotch. “You could be a good girl and get yourself off.”

You swallow, chewing on the edge of your lip. “Like this? Nothing else?” 

“I don’t know, Rabbit,” he sighs, “but it feels good, doesn’t it?” 

Before you can ask, he rolls his hips up, pressing the firmness of his cock against your covered cunt. You gasp and rock into him, a hand shooting out to grab at his shoulder pauldron. His snort of amusement only encourages your spiral into madness as he allows you to set your own pace; a timid and shallow undulation of you hips that only serves to amp up the craving and not sate it in the slightest.    

Stars, it’s hard to think like this. Every spark of pleasure is a catalyst to the inferno that tears through the fabrics of your being. It’s an effortless process to forget who you’re using to get off; easy to tumble into that pit of pleasure with each buck of your hips.      

Your cries are harsh, an incoherent string of curses and his name all thrown into one. Fuck—it’s blinding. The catch and pull of the fabric against your clit and the hardness of his cock that presses against your inner thigh; pitching quite an impressive tent in those creamy white trousers. 

It rushes up, searing and white-hot that’s got your whole figure into stiffening and catapulting into bliss. With a groan your head dips onto his shoulder, the scent of plasma and an undercurrent of smoke lingering on the fabric of his cowl. Your hips still rock into his lap, riding out the last dregs of pleasure. 

In retrospect you should have known. Deduced that this favor claimed as yours would shift into something completely his. He’s never satisfied with the terms unless he gets the larger cut. 

Just as your hips begin to slow, he readjusts his grip and grinds his straining cock against your sensitive pussy.     

Boba’s hands, one cradling your spine while the other clamps down over you ass is an anchor so unyielding it’d take a ship cutter to brake; he’s heaving your body into they jerky and erratic roll of his hips, too far gone to care about technique or poise. Just a means to an end—desperate for release. His breathy grunts reverberate through the vocoder, near deafening this close to your ear as the hand resting between your shoulder blades, latches onto the back of your neck. 

If not for the intensity of your orgasm, devastating and still wracking through your body in tiny jolts of lingering pleasure, you’d have fought his hold. Instead, you allow Boba to urge you forward, the cool metal a shocking contrast against your forehead in comparison to your flushed state. His own head is bowed against yours, playing into that foreign sense of intimacy as he finds his release. 

With a stuttered groan, his fingers harpoon into your flesh and cums. 

His chest heaves, fervent gulps of air harsh and distorted by the vocoder as he winds down from his high. You’re no better; your breath fans across the visor, the humidity painting a foggy layer of perspiration over the visor as your body still quivers with the aftershocks of pleasure. He’s the first one to part; jerks his head away as if you've burned him.   

In the following seconds, it’s as if your eyes are glued to that visor. There’s no telling wether you’re moments away from being slaughtered or allowed to sustain this little charade he’s put you through.    

“Oh, Rabbit…” A shiver tears down your spine as he glances between your bodies. There’s a wet patch, the fabric dampened by both your combined releases staining the front of his trousers. “What a waste.” 

You gasp as his hand curls around the column of your throat, your cunt clenching as the pressure tightens. With once last, teasing squeeze his fingers move to tangle into your hair. “Clean up your mess.” 

With a not so gentle yank on the strands you’re coerced into clambering off Boba’s lap. He guides your head forward, uncrossing his muscled legs to let you crawl up and settle between his thighs.     

Your hand quivers, somehow able to pop open the button and pull down the wet fabric. Smeared globs of his release stain the soft, dark skin, his cock still thick and swollen even after orgasm. Your tongue passes over your bottom lip as you lean in, a new, fresh wave of arousal carving through your frame. 

The taste isn’t horrid, still warm and mildly salty as you tongue laves at the crease of his thigh. Your tongue leaves a wet trail of saliva down to his balls, the skin velvety soft against your mouth. Boba jerks as you suckle them into the wet heat of you mouth, carefully swirling your tongue over them then tracing up to his softening cock. He grunts as you lick along his shaft, the flesh twitching as you lap up the rest of the sticky substance.   

Boba’s hand nudges at your forehead, then shifts and maneuvers himself out of your hold. Not a word is spoken as he pulls up his trousers and thumbs the button closed. He snatches up the codpiece laying pathetically on the ground and reattaches it around his groin. 

You don’t mean to flinch as he dips down—force of habit—even if all he does is reach for one of the abandoned meal bars. He pushes it into your hand; no room for arguments and perches himself against the cargo crate, one ankle crossed over the other as his arms fold over his cuirass. He dips his head, the message loud and clear to hold up your end of the deal. 

“You don't have to watch me eat,” you mutter, biting off the corner of the foil with your teeth to open it. You roll a piece of the pasty food into a crumbly ball between your fingertips then pop it into your mouth. You grimace at the taste. Bland. A bit like dirt. 

Except…dirt has flavor. 

Not to mention the fact that he won’t stop staring. Tracking every move—unsettling and curbing your appetite into a mess of anxious knots. You don’t like being analyzed and monitored like an ill-tempered child. It’s a long shot to ask and receive an answer, but you’re desperate for anything to fill the silence.  

“How did…um…you find me?” 

Kriff, you can’t even ask about anything normal, can you?

Boba cocks his head to the side, letting that unnerving quiet draw out until you’re sure he won’t respond. And then; “People leave trails. Even you, clever rabbit”

You force yourself to choke down another bite of the bar. “What was my trail then?”

You’re split between the desire to know what you did to ensure your capture while battling your queasy surprise that he’s chosen to indulge your questionings. “The pilot.”

A knife of dread, so sharp and swift it cuts through the layers of cartilage and bone; the blade lodging itself into your heart. “W-what?” 

“The Imperial one.”

Elliria Beren. Elli— 

No. No—that’s…he’s toying with you.  

Dantooine is the last place you saw her. Alive. Wild, auburn hair blown from her braids caused by the windstorm that swept up through the grassy plains; the clouds, colossal and dark, swallowed up the sun as they rolled across the horizon. Her flight suit was hastily thrown on, rumpled and against regulations in the rush to help you. She told you to run—stole the TIE fighter to give you one last, undeserved chance. 

It feels like a broken promise stapled to the roof of your mouth as your mind dregs up the remnants of that day. She’d thrown her arms around you, crushing you to her chest, smelling like oncoming rain, and that contraband perfume she’d bought on Alderaan; a delicate sweetness you can hardly remember.

With Elliria, there was no fear; cradled in her arms and severed off from the world. There, you've done nothing wrong, you are not being chased by some relentless terror. You could sleep inside that moment. You could live inside that string of seconds. It would be fine. It would be perfect. You could escape and mend you fragmented heart strings. 

But you’re not there. 

You’re here. 

Here on a bounty hunter’s ship. Here there is fear. There is great sorrow. There is a litany of sins and a throng of terrors devouring at your soul. You led her straight to her death. Right into the very jaws of the man who sits before you. You hadn’t even considered she’d be caught.   

Your stomach churns and coils as bile pricks at your throat. What have you done.  

“I found her on Tatooine,” Boba continues, either enjoying your obvious horror or unabashedly oblivious.

No. Stop fucking talking. You bite back a choked sob as he raises a finger, tracing it across his cuirass. There—alongside the braided pieces of hair mounted as trophies, sits a red and blue ribbon. How haven’t you seen it before? You were there when Elli was awarded the Imperial Medal of Valor—it’d been the first time you’d seen her smile in months.  

And now…now it hangs upon the pauldron of a bounty hunter as a conquest won. “She was a good shot—but I was better.” 

Your chest is a wall of fire; the air you breath constricted and hot as your throat mimics that of a too tight collar on a fancy suit. You don’t care that stinging tears spring from your eyes and carve burning paths down your cheeks. Grief and wrath spin inside your chest with the fierceness of a vortex all-consuming. You shouldn’t have asked. Shouldn’t have forced his hand into revealing that all you ever do is leave a wake of destruction behind you. 

The abrupt, sharp, buzz throughout the ship slices through your despair. The comm system is flashing, attempting to patch in a call. The moment he stands, your mind races with plots of vengeance. You have nothing but your fists, your sharp teeth and bitten off nails. You don’t care. 

He turns his back, his cloak rasping against the floor. 

A momentary lapse in judgment on his part to leave himself vulnerable to a quarry free from their binders. 

With a cry you launch yourself across the small space, hooking your arms around his neck. He shouts out a curse, the weight of your body causing his own to pitch backwards. All air punches out of your lungs as the back of your head cracks against the ground, the full weight of beskar platting slamming into your chest and stomach. 

Your hold around his vulnerable throat loosens, giving him more than enough wiggle room to spring up. Your fist snaps out, the skin over your knuckles splitting open as it connects with the sharp edges of his helmet. He scrabbles to contain your flailing hands, eventually ensnaring your writs between his fingers with ease. 

Bucking your hips and kicking your legs out does nothing to save you from Boba wrestling you onto your stomach, straddling your thrashing body, wrench up your arms, and snap out a new pair of binders. Boba snarls as your elbow manages to stab into a vulnerable gap in his armor, forcing him to throw his entire weight over you. 

You don’t mean to slam the side of your face into his helmet—hurts you more than it would ever him. But it’s satisfying to feel him jerk and hiss out a curse.

“Stop this.” He barks, digging his forearm harder into the flesh of your shoulders. “You’re only hurting yourself.”

The blooming mark forming over your left eye socket is proof enough. The most damage, if any, would show up as bruise from where his own beskar had brutalized the skin or where your elbow had connected on his ribs.  

You want to fight—tear into his flesh until he feels even an ounce of the kind of pain he’s caused. Instead, he chooses something different.    

“I’m sorry about your friend.”  

Friend doesn’t sound right. And lover too bold. Feels overly simplistic; shallow to what you had with Elli. Like glossing over a three hundred page holonovel. “I hate you.”    

There’s no malice, no gloating. Just...sincerity. “Truly, I am.”  

You don’t know what’s worse; the fact that there’s nothing to latch onto, bare your teeth and spit out words more jagged than broken glass or if it’s the hollow void that carves out the cavity in your chest. The frigid vacancy that follows after a forest burns; charred skeletons of a once lush forest. Everything in your life has been burned, flipped and torn inside out more than you care to think about. 

Stuck in that strange limbo between the devouring vortex of agony and revenge. Flirting with dull edged apathy that blankets the pain with buzzing static. 

You choose the latter. 

It’s easier.  

It’s not fair Elli is dead. But there’s nothing you can do to change what happened. 

Some of that pressure bearing down on your spine eases as your body goes lax. You’re not sure how much time ticks away as you lie there against the dirty floor. Enough time to count the screws connecting the durasteel walls and the individual planks making up a cargo crate. You don’t care that Boba Fett continues to maintain his precarious position seated on your thighs, or the inquisitive touch between your shoulder blades. He isn’t the one to hate in this situation. You are. 

That gentle, uncharacteristic touch smooths down the line of your spine, disappearing once it reaches your bound hands. 

“You’re such a tiny creature...” You don’t think it’s meant for your ears, more of an observation he lets slip than a conversation starter. Regardless, it sends a shiver from the base of your skull and down. 

With a curious hum, Boba shifts, slotting his hips against your ass. The added weight is uncomfortable, it digs your hip bones into the durasteel flooring. Yet, unlike the beskar codpiece supposed to be strapped to his groin, all you can feel is a different sort of hardness present.

“There’s still fight in you yet, Rabbit.” 

Your fingers curl into fists so tight the bite of your fingernails leave crescent shaped indents. His hands smooth along the waistband of your trousers, the soft leather tickling the sliver of exposed skin where you shirt became rumpled. “Does that surprise you?” 

He huffs. “No. But you could put it to better use instead of attacking me.”  

“Like what? Fucking you?” Bitter resentment builds like ash over you tongue, even if the idea of it sends a charged volt of interest down to your lower belly. 

Boba’s fingers crawl down your thighs. “I didn’t say that, but if you insist.”  

You scoff and wriggle. “You’re deplorable.” 

“Is that a yes, Rabbit?”

Maybe, you think as you nod your head, this will fill that torn void with temporary gratification. Steal away your thoughts and loose yourself something akin to the mind numbing affects of alcohol. 

Boba hums in acknowledgment, hooks his fingers around the elastic and yanks down, underwear included. You can feel the weight of his stare wracking down the newly exposed skin, pliable and wanton—and all for him. 

You squeak as he takes two, plentiful handfuls of your ass, spreading and massaging the flesh. It’s as if the only reason he exists is to torment you. Pull from you the embarrassed flushes and ashamed squeaks. You’re relieved once he retreats.   

Though it’s not a moment later his hands are back over you. Gloveless. It’s a shock to your system feeling the scrape of calloused fingertips trail over the curve of your spine. A curious touch, one unfamiliar with the softness of skin, yet the fleeting presses rapidly turn into the only thing he knows. 

Your sharp inhale echoes into the ship as his fingers trail down the slit of your cunt, gliding through the slick, already leaking from your core, with ease. You jolt as his fingertip catches against the tiny bundle of nerves, the pressure teasing and light. Never enough to satisfy, just a cruel reminder just how easy it is to get you worked up. With a muted whimper, your hips twitch, silently begging for anything more. Anything to fill your clenching cunt.  

He obliges with a smug chuckle, lazily pushing a finger into the ring of velvety muscle. You whine as he slips in another digit, scissoring and shallowly thrusting in out, thoroughly coating his hand with your arousal. Just as the buzzing strings of pleasure begin to build up, he extracts them. Frustration pierces through your sternum, your teeth clamping down over your tongue in order to quell your irritation.  

There’s a rustle of fabric and a harsh inhale from the man behind you as he closes the space between you. Your pussy clenches as the tip of him touches against your clit, the flesh searing and painfully hard. You shudder and exhale a long, stuttered breath.    

“I can tell you haven’t been fucked right,” he purrs, dragging the flushed head of his cock through your folds. “Why don’t we fix that?” 

Boba gives your thigh a swat and shifts, ready to align himself and sink into your clenching core. That heavy haze of pleasure is abruptly yanked out from beneath your feet, panic piercing through your heart with an alarming jolt. You seize up and jerk away. 

“W-wait!” You gasp, hands wiggling against the binders. “I-I...uhm—“

“Don’t tell me you haven’t done this before, Rabbit.” He thinks it’s a joke. It is a bit silly considering the circumstances—yet here you are. Bent over and telling Boba Fett you're a kriffing virgin.  

Your shamed silence and the heated flush that follows answers his question with crystalline clarity. 

“You’re serious.” 

“I’ve never been fucked, ok?”  Your eyes squeeze shut as you let out a long exhale. “I just...never…”

Your piss-poor explanation tapers off into a gaping fissure of terse silence. Maker, you should just throw yourself into a trash compactor—  

“I can change that,” he offers, trailing his palm over the globe of your ass. “If you’d like.” 

You swallow. Maybe in a different version of reality you’d consider a better option, but fuck it. You’re already here. “O-ok.”

“As you wish, Rabbit,” Boba complies. If not for the helmet you’re sure you’d see a smile curl across his face. “Just know—I don’t do gentle.”

You would never expect him to. Whatever civilized temperament he holds in not saved for anything but hunting and aiming a blaster. You tense as your walls begin to stretch and accept the tip of his cock—alarm bells blare inside your head, terrified that it won’t fit. His hand smooths over your hip as he encourages you to relax, let him sink in the rest of the way. His fingers find your clit, rubbing jerky patterns into the nerves as your cunt flutters and stitches wider for him. The sharp outline of his hips touch your ass, a sharp hiss of breath crackling out of the vocoder as he finally bottoms out. 

You’re so achingly full. No amount of fingers thrust up inside your cunt could compare to what you feel in this exact moment. Simultaneously split open and burning with white hot ecstasy with each involuntary jerk from the man inside you. There’s a minuscule pinch and ache as he pulls his hips back, the drag of his cock catching against each ridge and fold as you clench around him. 

“Fuck,” Boba swears, sheathing himself back inside with a forceful thrust. You squeak and pull against the binders. “You take it well.” 

There’s not much time between your next inhale and his hands anchoring around your hips, before he sets the pace; harsh and unyielding. Just as he promised, there is no buildup, just the violent roll and abrasive push inside you.  

There’s no time to familiarize yourself with this newfound sensation, just a frightening buildup that seizes you by surprise. It begins in belly, spreading through your bloodstream like the most virile poison. With another, devastating, surge of his cock into your pussy, you’re cast into that gaping bit of burning pleasure. 

Your vision whites out, your body arching and stiffening as you cry out. The fact that you’re squeezed so, fucking tight around him, holds no hinderance to his pace. Just encourages him to go faster. There’s no mercy as he fucks you through orgasm, overworking those sensitive nerves and pushing them past your limit.

With a hiss of air the binders fall to the ground with a clatter; the noise barely heard in comparison to your stuttered cries and the obscene sounds of his cock burying itself into your cunt. Your shoulders burn as your hands slip beneath you, shaky and unsure of themselves, stabilizing yourself against the greedy pull of his hands.  

The rough callous of his palm sweeps up your back and forms a fist in your hair, urging your spine to arch as his thrusts take on a sharper rhythm.

Your core is a mess of knots, pulled tight and more pressurized than a airlock. Your nails scrabble against the metal flooring, your knees rubbed raw from the vicious momentum he’s achieving. Fuck—this should’ve been your favor from the very start.

Those burning nerves, flooded with acute overstimulation, throws your body off that haphazard edge of another scorching orgasm. One that drags it’s sharpened nails down the curve of your spine, all the way done to your toes. 

“Fuck—fuck you’re tight,” he snarls, his hands squeezing your hips with vicious strength. “Keep squeezing me like that, Rabbit—good girl.”

The top half of you buckles under the weight of ecstasy, weakened and unbothered by the new angle; his cock reaching deep. Your fluttering cunt and the high-pitched whines of his name are it takes for him to reach his end. 

He pulls out, ropes of his release landing over your ass in hot gushes. “Shit.”

Boba’s cock still jumps and twitches as he drags it over your ass, rubbing his cum into the skin until the last dribble of his release dips above your tailbone. Quicker than you’d have liked he pulls away. Not far; just seats himself to your right and pulls up his trousers with a sigh. Eventually you’re able to trick yourself into moving; curling yourself into a little quivering ball as the aftershocks of pleasure prickle beneath your skin. 

You were right. It did fill whatever grasping numbness inside your chest, but now you’re left to deal with it all over again. You’re glad your back is to him as lonesome tears trickle down your nose and into you mouth, filling it with the taste of salt and pain. 

“I didn’t kill her. If that makes a difference.” 

It’s muttered and hard to catch, but you hear it just the same as if he had yelled it into your ear with an amplifier. You crush that flicker of hope with an iron fist as it flutters inside your stomach. “But?”

“But your Empire made sure that she was.” 

It doesn’t make a difference. 

[hinaaspanda]

Vocalized Feelings

Paring: Garage band leader! Donghyuck x Retired choir member! reader

Warnings: Swearing

Genre: Fluff, Angst

Word count: 8012 

It was Saturday again, the clashes of symbols and guitar strings wrapped up in a melodic harmony ringing into your ears as you woke up. It was Saturday again, and that Donghyuck kid hadn’t left your mind for a week.

happy bday @aquinoa​ !!!

You didn’t need a calendar to figure out that today was a Saturday, nor did you need a clock to tell you that the time was early noon. All you needed was the noise of drumsticks bashing onto its respective kit, the most definitely unneeded feedback of guitar amps, and a terrible late-morning attitude. And that’s the exact reason why you loudly let out a stifled grumble as you flipped off the covers that once encased your legs, and immediately stomped down to your garage. 

Entering the cold, barren, unfinished walls of your garage, you scan onto the exact sight you expected to see.  6 figures scattered all over the place. Three plopped onto the couch, Mark and Jeno tuning their various guitars and basses, as your little brother, Jisung, watches them with full intent swelling from his eyes. You glance to the left, meeting the eyes of an overly excited Chenle, waving both his hands as he screams your name and an apologetic Jaemin, clutching onto his drum symbol, indicating that he’s genuinely sorry for all the volume. You didn’t however, know if the drummer was referring to the band as a whole, or the pianist beside him. 

Your eyes scan further as you finally link them with the vocalist of this garage band, Donghyuck, an irked expression painting across his face. You watch his eyes roll to the top of his head, utter disgust oozing out of him the second you trot down the few sets of steps, heading over to sit with your brother and his bandmates. Although, you never saw his purely bothered face, since you’ve learned to just ignore him. 

The fact that he hated you was always head-scratcher for both you and the rest of his band. His little mutter of anger towards you, the grumbles of annoyance whenever you walk into a room, it never made sense to you. It’s not like he was jealous of you, he couldn’t have been. Sure you were part of the city’s greatest youth choir, a choir that, to your dismay, was terminated just last year--but it shouldn’t affect him, he’s the face of his own band after all.  

Or maybe that’s why he always looked at you with the cold eyes of someone who wanted to slit your throat. The fact that he had a team of his own, a backbone to lean onto, complete with their own published singles and high chances at stardom. Maybe he wanted to taunt you with it, laugh in your face with the members of his band. Pin you down, the words “look at me now” spat onto your embarrassing figure. Maybe he wanted to prove his worth, or he’s already concluded that you weren’t worthy enough for him.

While your mind wandered off into overthinking land, a certain, turmoil filled body, sauntered over to the very couch you sat on, shadowing you from the lonely light bulb that shined all its might around the inner walls of your crowded garage.

 “Well, well, well, the infamous Park Y/N finally awoke from her terribly long slumber.” Donghyuck held a hand to his hip, judging you for the sleep clothes you didn’t bother to change out of. “Now tell me, why did the gremlin run out of her little cave to come here? We’ve got work to do here, you know” The passive-aggressive vocalist crosses his arms, earning miffed groans from the boys and a stellar eye roll from you. 

“Piss off, Hyuck, Y/N’s my sister, stop insulting her like that or you guys won’t have anywhere to practice,”  Jisung spoke up, a section of your heartwarming just a tiny bit at your little brother’s defensive words. As you shot a gracious smile at your only family in the room, a stifled chuckle escaped from your left.

“And we wouldn't wanna switch practice places, now would we?” Mark challenged, Donghyuck immediately growing mute as his elder shot him a knowing, sly smirk. You overlooked it, however, as you shot up, faces just inches away from his.

“You’re right, Donghyuck, you do have work to do!” you jabbed at his chest with a single finger “You need to learn how to stop being such a nuisance to everyone you meet!” 

Taking a step back, Donghyuck sent you a sinister grin. “I’m sorry sweetie, but ‘Donghyuck’ is only reserved for close family and friends, so it’s ‘Haechan’ to you.” 

“I’d rather die than ever be close with you”

“Go for it, baby. No one would miss you” 

“Neither of you ever know when to quit it, huh” The spare door right from the garage bounced open, and a furious, brunette boy emerged from the once empty door frame. “Both of you, seriously, shut up sometime? I got good news for us and I don’t want this embarrassing conversation ruining it” 

“Renjun!” Chenle beams with joy as the exhausted figure hustles forward, a laptop in hand, before squeezing into the couch, in between you and your brother. You and Donghyuck mutter under your breaths as you retire to your former spots within the garage floor while Renjun, sensing your discrete actions, grumbles in defeat as he whips open his laptop.

“I got in contact with this studio, SM, they said they like your guy’s stuff” Renjun continued, not sparing anyone glances as they jolted in a positive surprise. “You guys might even get a single”

As the members with instruments encased in their hands jump in pure joy, Renjun quickly turns his attention to you. “...But you guys need a girl to sing with you, that's their one condition” 

As if on cue, everyone’s (minus Donghyuck) heads whips to your overtly shaken figure, hands tucking in between your legs, and sweat beginning to pool from the top of your forehead, pupils shivering in fear, you barely even dared to continue Renjun’s sentence.  

“...You’re not really saying that--”

“Please sing with Hyuck, Y/N!” Chenle, definitely the most spontaneous one in the group, rushed to kneel in front of you, has clasped together in a praying formation. “Your voice is amazing!”

Your heart couldn’t help but feel a little light once the orange-haired boy uttered those words, the same way Donghyuck couldn’t help but scoff in disbelief. And your heart couldn’t help shatter once you uttered your following reply. 

“No”

…  

 Despite evading the room the minute every band member chased you around with pleading eyes, you couldn’t help but be filled to the brim with guilt, strings of your disgrace spilling out and binding you to the pavement as you sulking continue your way towards the bank’s clear glass doors. It was Saturday, and by definition, errand day. A day you truly dreaded for its repetitive manor, complexity, and most definitely the mundaneness of it all. Lifelessly stopping at the counter of the bank, just to visit the supermarket moments after. It was a necessity, of course. But there was never an errand day that you didn’t greet with a wholehearted scowl every morning. 

Errand day, something you knew would happen, much to your dismay. And everything would’ve stayed the same, if it weren’t for the overly confident, egoistic, and prideful figure with the voice of an angel, panting in exhaustion as he tugs harshly onto your jacket sleeve. And if you were being completely honest, a sparkle of joy pooped through you after seeing this main vocalist dishevelled.

“Park--wait up--fuck” Donghyuck spat through, hands gripping his thighs in a failed attempt to straighten his figure. Rouch exhales escaping his lungs when he finally succeeded in fixing his posture. Your eyebrows knit together as he neglected to drop your wrist out of his grasp. If any stranger were to mistakenly glance at the two of you right that second, it would look like the climax of those Korean romance dramas your mother loved so much. You didn’t give him a slim chance to continue his probably useless tangent as you tilt your head to the side in annoyance. 

“If you came all the way here just to throw another insult at me, then you can save it!” You snap. Swatting your hand away from his surprisingly strong clutch. A clutch even he seemed to forget he held so tightly. “I don’t wanna hear it.” 

“Park, just listen to me”

“I’m busy, Donghyuck”

The now angry idol-wannabe huffed a loud sigh, as he forced a hand between you and the glass doors, loudly calling out to your freedom. The freedom you couldn’t grasp at, not with the peculiarly toned forearm clasped onto the door handle, rendering you unable to move. You swear, you saw this exact scene plastered onto the t.v. just last week. 

 “Sing with me, Y/N” 

Was he kidding?

The vocalist stared at you with full intent and the most earnestness you’ve ever seen in someone, as he fully rejected the staring strangers from inside the bank, the bank you wanted nothing more than to be inside right now. “For the single, sing with me” 

 He sounded so forced, yet so nonchalant, it almost sounded attractive, if it weren’t for the literal flare burning through his pupils. You simply crossed your arms, the bank audience swiftly minding their own business, not wanting to witness what they thought was a couple seconds before a break-up. 

“They got you on this, too, huh? How much did they pay you to say that?” Donghyuck quickly retorted, shooting you a stare that only said “I’m serious, Y/N” straight to your face. 

“Well, whatever” you continued, eyes stuck to the gravel before you. “Why chose me, anyway?”

“Um” eyes traveling to the sky, praying they wouldn't come in contact with yours. “Well..”    

All 7 boys, scattered across the garage floor, winced as you slammed the secluded door shut, not baring to watch you dash away in utter fear. Every band member let out their share of aggravated sighs and grumbles, a worried Chenle fast pacing around the pattern carpet that laid below them. All while Renjun, and an equally worried Jisung massage their temples in an effort to calm down their nerves. 

“I’M SORRY GUYS I WAS THE REASON SHE LEFT I SCARED HER OFF AND I--” a panicked pianist was shaken in the hands of the band’s drummer as he set him down, placing Chenle on the couch, snuggled in between the their guitarist and bassist. 

“You didn’t scare her off, Chenle, she’s just a wuss” Donghyuck tapped his foot in a comical effort to look as equally annoyed as the other members. Yet deep down, both he, and the rest of the boys behind him, knew he hated watching her leave for another, unsuspecting reason. 

“You can drop the act, Hyuck, she's gone.” Renjun clicked away at his laptop keys. “Stop pretending you hate her already, you suck at acting”. A giggling Jisung loosens up on the couch, legs crossed in a comfortable t-formation as he turns to Donghyuck. 

“Yeah, Hyuck, just tell her you like her, already. My sister could really use a boyfriend” Jisung was more than lucky that Donghyuck dropped that heavy mic cord to the ground just moments prior, or else he would’ve gotten a concussion right that instant. 

“Shut it, Jisung” He snapped, concealing the true fact that he was nothing but ecstatic to hear the news. 

Donghyuck didn’t know what led him to practically spit on your face the minute he first met you, despite his automatic admiration for your voice, a voice that felt like honey to his ears. He never knew why he acted so cocky, so immature around your presence. Was it because you were part of the city’s most esteemed youth choir of its decade? Was it your bubbling, harmless personality that he always felt the need to brutally tarnish.  He could never tell. But when your soft voice was replaced with harsh insults made to rebuttal his, the vocalist’s heart couldn’t help but snap in half.    

“OH, I KNOW! Chenle jumped up from his sulking position on the couch, gaining the attention of the two guitarists beside, along with a inner-monologuing Donghyuck. “Let’s get Hyuck to ask her!” 

Heads whipped towards the orange-haired boy’s idea as he continued his radical idea. “Think about it, Hyuck was the only one who didn’t ask her yet, and if she knows that the whole group wants her in then she might say yes!” Various members of this esteemed ‘neighborhood garage band’ began to nod their heads in agreement. Everyone except Donghyuck, of course. 

“And…” Jeno wiggled his eyebrows, cocking them at the now flustered face of the band. “Hyuck can spend some more time with Y/N”

Donghyuck already knew that this was their ulterior motive all along, but hearing it out loud just threw pity at his heart. But his own friends didn’t even give him a chance to argue, as he felt the palms of Mark and Renjun force him out of the same door you escaped from. Yet he couldn’t feel his feet change directions, because deep down inside, Jeno was right. He did wanna spend more time with you. God he was such an idiot. 

Of course, Donghyuck couldn’t tell her all that. Sure, he was an idiot, but he wasn’t stupid, he knew that much. That was why his reply to your question was, nothing close to stellar. 

“Your voice is...ok, alright? And you’re like the only girl we know around here so… just take it ok? And take the compliment, too, it's the only time you'll ever get one of those” his words wandered off as you let out a sigh, the corner of your eye telling you that, judging by the whole new set of customers lined up at the bank counter, you’re kdrama-esk stay in front of the glass doors lasted longers than you had desired. Looking up, locking your eyes with his, you sigh once more. 

“Fine, just so you can shut up.”

...

You swear, you were just one tier behind a professional singer, but all this singing equipment and technology trapped in a room equally confusing, all of it made you nothing but a nervous wreck. It didn’t even matter that you’ve  already stayed in that room for 4 hours straight, everything still sent strong shivers up your spine. 

Donghyuck, on the other hand, looked unsurprisingly calm, of course. He's gone through this exact same process countless times before. Singing your heart out, just to let it get tweaked, tuned, shuffled in a different state, never enjoyed a voice in it’s originality. You never really understood it, hence why loitered in the corner of the glass room, shaking like a wet mammal emerging from the cold water. 

You were just baffled that Donghyuck hasn’t said anything to you about it, anything at all, actually. The 8 of you drove to the rented recording room with a pair of cars earlier that morning, the heavy instruments hauling together in one vehicle, while your 7 figures squeezed into another. You already knit your eyebrows at the mere fact that Donghyuck took his cramped seat right next to yours, no one taking a grain of notice. Who would know just how weird it would get the minute your shoe’s clicked against the driveway pavement. 

4 Hours in, with Jisung sound asleep on your lap, other members sprawled across the couch provided, and an unusually calm Donghyuck uttered out his last lines in that milky voice of his. You’ve already taken your turn, only remembering how easily distracted you got by Donghyuck and the admiration glittering in his eyes. Eyes that strongly contradicted the tone of his voice just moments prior. 

You find your eyes glued to the vocalist trapped in the glass room that always stumped you, the vocalist that, starting today, would confuse you more than any recording room could. His composed pupils linking with your skittish ones. You thought back to the car ride, his breath hitched as he planted his vision on the trees and buildings passing by. How he barely spared you a glance, let alone a cheap insult. Was he finally done through with it? Has he finally grown past the phase of finding simple fat jokes funny? Your mind wandered, and you wish you wandered a little bit more so you wouldn’t have noticed the pink tint creeping onto his cheeks as he closed the door to the recording room, his eyes still planted onto yours. 

“Thank you very much, sir.” Renjun shook the hand of the man behind the recording stand, other members of the band following his lead as you shook Jisung awake. But everything you touched, you did so halfheartedly, as the thought of a certain prideful vocalist couldn’t escape your mind. 

Huh, that was weird.

...

It was Saturday again, the clashes of symbols and guitar strings wrapped up in a melodic harmony ringing into your ears as you woke up. It was Saturday again, and that Donghyuck kid hadn’t left your mind for a week. Too many questions passed through your mind, you didn’t have the motivation to scream for joy the moment Renjun burst through the door, showing the band the email. An email that was practically lined in gold for the other viewers, and email giving them directions to a small coffee shop across town, and approval for an upcoming gig. 

“Let’s celebrate!” Mark howled, earning other loud screams from their designated dolphin boy as the 6 of you immediately grabbed your coats and headed to the nearest building that served purely mediocre fast-food. 

“Save some for us!” Jisung, chanted through the garage door, both him and Chenle dreading the table behind them that overflowed with unfinished highschool homework and completely finished bags of chips. 

6 milkshakes and 6 stuffed stomachs later, the garage band sat around you, giggling at what you thought was the email you ate out for, as you shuffled away to the washroom. But as Donghyuck would put it, “You’re always wrong, Y/N!”. 

“What am I gonna do?” Donghyuck gripped the strands of hair residing at his front scalp. “I almost blew my cover back in the recording room!”

As if on cue, Donghyuck’s seemingly useless remark earned a groan from the rest of the band mates, and especially the band manager, digging his fingertips onto his temples, giving him the much overdue head massage he needed due to Hyuck’s stupidity.  

“You could, I dunno, tell her the truth?” Jaemin sipped from his remaining milkshake, receiving that infamous empty- straw crinkling sound just seconds later. “Yeah, that sounds like a good idea, right Jeno?” The bassist only nodded silently, earning a pleading groan from the vocalist in question. 

“Hey man, we’re already helping you and everything, poor Sungie’s gotta deal with our bullshit in his house every week just so you could get a chance with her. We don’t have any other reason to practice there, you know.” Mark stirred the striped straw. “Even Renjun, Y/N”s bestfriend in highschool, mind you, became the manager to our dumb garage band just to help your odds” 

Donghyuck stared into the popping bubbles of his pink milkshake, his guilt mirroring the bubble’s movements. He knew about Jisung, your little brother, but he never even thought about Renjun. All his friends, trying harder than he was, all to not get cock-blocked. God, how stupid was he. 

Apparently, he was stupid enough to forget you even left the table for a bathroom visit, as he almost spat out the last of his milkshake as he watched you emerged from the dim-lit room. Earning giggles from the other boys.

...

You missed singing, you really did. The memories you cherished singing alongside the 30 vocalists, awaiting the audience’s standing ovation, you craved for more than anything.  Sure, it sounded a little too self loving for your liking, but anyone could agree that you guys deserved. That’s why, when the Harmonics Youth Choir finally shut down due to an untimely accident, it surely left a broad hole in your heart.

Especially now, right after feeling the thrill once again at the recording room, the sensation of letting out notes and melodies gripping onto your heart, never letting go as you sent in the application email. This wasn’t all your idea, though. This scheme was given to you in a fully wrapped package of taunting and disbelief of your true abilities, and handed to you by no one else but the egotistical vocalist, Donghyuck. 

“I heard there was an opening for this new choir downtown” Donghyuck clicked away at his laptop as he took his break at their weekly practice. The phrase ‘new choir’ caught your attention faster than a fly to the scent of rotten food. You shuffled towards him, reluctant and half expecting for him to revolt at your presence. But you truly didn’t care when the chance to shine under the spotlight of a stage was upon you once again, and you would rather die than miss the chance to grasp it. 

“They look pretty serious, though” Donghyuck scrolled through the choir’s website nonchalantly, angling the screen so you could get a better view. “I don’t think you’d fit in at all” You knew he was kidding, partially at least. Nevertheless, an arrow of hurt shot through your chest as you stood up, spine straightening with the smallest ounce of pride left in you. 

“Are you even hearing yourself, Donghyuck?” You jabbed your own chest, concealing your genuine hurt. “I was a member of Harmonics, I’d fit right in!” 

“Uh huh, yeah, what happened to your esteemed choir, again?” he didn’t even spare you a glance as he exited out of the choir’s website Opening another window filled with gruesome battles and skimpy female armour, he proceeded to ignore your defensive figure, keeping all his attention on that dumb video game. You, however, couldn’t care where his attention was facing, as you had a point to make, and an argument to win. 

“You’ll see, Donghyuck, I’ll make that choir, and you’ll be the first to see it. In fact, you should watch the audition, then you’ll see how great I am!” 

Donghyuck couldn’t help but recite the words ‘you’re already the best’ over and over again in his head. He didn’t have any other choice, really. He couldn’t say it out loud, of course, he was too prideful for that. Or maybe too much of a coward. He couldn’t tell. 

“Whatever, I’ll watch just to prove you wrong, Park” Of course he couldn’t say no. He truly was a coward. 

You didn’t even notice the proud, stunned expressions that coated the rest of the band member’s faces as you trotted upstairs, ready to write another, responsive email to a certain choir company.

...

A tired, fatigued Donghyuck rang your doorbell two days after your last interaction. Despite his reluctant character during then, he still, to your surprise, offered to give you a ride, knowing full well of your father’s disappearance to another city in the name of his job. After an awkward, silent, 30 minute hell of a car ride, the two of you threw his car doors shut, and entered the grand church building. 

You stood in the middle of the rented church stage, various chandeliers and crystals covering your view, as you faced the three judges of this audition. The three obstacles left in your road to stardom, and the three obstacles blocking you from your chance to prove yourself right. 

“Miss Park Y/N, Auditioning for the part of Alto” The somber toned middle seated judge read straight off of the application sheet, before barely glancing up at you.  “You may start whenever you’re ready.” You closed your eyes, softly beginning to hum the words of Donghyuck’s single. It only made sense to choose what you chose, it was the song that gave your heart the inspiration to impulsively act on it’s dreams. 

Donghyuck’s world stopped as he sat in his lonesome three rows before the judges, the single frame of you singing staying frozen in his mind. Your voice felt like honey trickling into his ears, as he sat in awe, not bothering to keep that fake scoffing expression on his face. He felt weak to the knees. Your voice, your appeal, everything, it all made him almost want to drop the act and tell you the truth. 

But you could only handle one earth shattering truth at a time, right? 

The middle judge raised her hand up, signally a stop just after a couple of lyrics spilled out of your lips. The two judges coupling her sides all kept their cold expressions as you trembled in fear. You anticipated their impending responses, although, deep down, you already knew exactly what they were going to say. 

“That’s enough, Miss Park”

“Wait, I can--”

“That won’t be necessary. Now, can you please step off the stage? The next contestant is waiting” The left judge uttered effortlessly, not sparing a glance at you as you stalked backstage. Donghyuck roughly followed you, jolting the plastic table the three judges hid behind, before shooting those judges a very irritated glare.  

“Please assure your girlfriend to not take this personally, it was a tough decision” 

“Bullshit, you didn’t even listen to the full thing” Donghyuck spat, earning the wide eyes of the three judges who sat below him. He didn’t even care what their response was as he spurt towards the doors, the doors you had already burst out of with pure rage. 

Donghyuck cursed at himself for feeling just the slightest bit giddy at the judges assuming those two were closer than friends. He scanned you through the car window, a flame burning in your eyes. You two clearly need to reach the level of “friends” first. 

The rest of the drive was silent, or at least restrained, as your huffs and puffs of anger could be heard from Donghyuck’s side of the vehicle easily. You would rather die than look at him right then. You were surprised that he hasn’t laughed right at your face yet. But whether he hurls another one of those prideful scoffs at your direction or not, one fact still remains, he was right. You’ve stayed out of touch with the whole concept of singing, that the only thing keeping you sane were the lyrics of a single written by the vocalist with a grudge against you. How pitiful were you? 

And to think, you truly began to believe that this demon, this evildoer, began to have feelings for you through a simple set of flushed cheeks. All those times he stained your mind, none of that mattered. All Donghyuck wanted was for you to fall to the ground, pride and ego brutally shattered. That was why he brought that stuck up, cold-shouldered choir. Just to watch you get rejected.  And it worked. You were bruised, broken forever,and it was all thanks to him. 

“I hope you’re happy Donghyuck. You were right” You murmured just loud enough for his ears to perk. You couldn’t see his expression, but you were sure he was a smirking, evil mess. 

Donghyuck watched you swiftly pass him, his sulking eyes defying your assumption once again. 

...

The neighborhood garage band’s practice room fell into a tense silence as  you slammed the garage door shut, stomping up to your room. Everyone’s eyes, despite already becoming aware of the situation, still mirrored the ones of innocent puppies ready to be adopted. Except for Hyuck’s, of course. His overflowed with guilt, burning up with an anger that could only be pointed towards himself. Donghyuck fell into the cushions that decorated the couch, earning pats and shoulder rubs that were laced with empathy, empathy that he couldn’t reciprocate. His palms ruffled the strands of his hair, gripping onto them in stress as Renjun scooted towards him. 

“Don’t blame yourself, Hyuck, she just really missed singing” Renjun angled himself to face the remorse-filled vocalist. “Anyone would, with that choir” 

Donghyuck let out a heartfelt whine, his back-scalp collapsing onto the couch backframe. “I got her all excited about singing again, I couldn’t help it. I kinda got excited for her, too. How was I supposed to know they’d be so picky with their contestants!” Hyuck rose to his feet, bewilderment rising through his veins. “Their rejection’s all bullshit, anyways! Her voice is amazing!” 

“Then tell her” Jisung twiddled his fingers, not even sparing the distressed vocalist a glance “Tell her that her voice is amazing, tell her all the compliments you want to”  

“You know I can’t do that, Sungie” 

“Why?” A certain flame echoed in his booming voice, starling the already traumatized older band members. “Is it ‘cause you're a coward? It sounds like it! How else do you think it was gonna turn out? Pretending to hate the person you’ve loved since highschool, of course she’s gonna hate you back! Now you better clean this shit up, and I don’t just mean this dumb audition. My sister’s amazing, ok? And she doesn’t fucking deserve this.” 

Jisung, with a fury of his own, stalked into his own home and away from the band members that resided in his garage. Mark, the band’s leader, took it upon himself to call for the two Park siblings that escaped his grasp, praying they would come back, but it was no use. Donghyuck truly felt like an idiot, and a coward. 

Your pillowcase felt damp as you lightly pressed your cheek against your newly shed tears. Everything seemed...useless now. Your sulking figure couldn't lift itself from the cozyness of your plump mattress, string of sorrow binding your limbs tightly against the bed’s fabric. You laid still, your world turning to stone as you tuned in to the quiet chirps perched onto the roof just below your window. The tiny squawks sent you into a calm abyss, one that you haven’t visited in a while. With all this song recording and impulsive acting, everything grew hectic, never giving you a chance to breathe. 

You didn’t know how your consciousness was able to do it, but Donghyuck still stayed trapped in your mind the whole time. 

You were definitely brimming with anger when you thought of him, but the thought of his smile, even if you only saw it after one of his smug insults, still stained your mind. And you hated it. And that was why your expression was nothing less than relieved when it was just your little brother who peeped through the small crack your door created after his knuckles clicked against it in a soft knock.

A soft smile wiped across his face, his eyes painted with a calm appeal, as he shuffled into your room, friction from the carpet swiping against his cotton socks. With a tilt of his your little brother simply suggested. 

“Milkshakes?”

...

“I don’t care, Jisung, I’m not gonna sing with them at the concert” Your eyes watched the various cars pass by in a blur, trying desperately to avoid contacting the pleading pupils of your brother. You trusted him, the blade of betrayal impaling your heart. You whole-heartedly believed that Jisung invited you to this milkshake bar to free your mind, get rid of all the thoughts about those 6 boys that roamed freely within the inner workings of your garage. Instead, he simply induced your brain with more thoughts of him, luring you in with the taste of a strawberry milkshake. 

“C’mon Y/N, It’s gonna be a small gig, the venue maxes out at 50 people.” Jisung gave his weight to the surface of the fast food table, gripping his ice cold glass with his fingers that were dipped in anticipation. You sunk into the lush, red 

seats, finally sparing your brother a glance. 

“What are you gonna gain from this, anyways, it’s not like you're in the band anymore, anyways.” 

Shit. You followed Jisung’s hairbangs as they dropped before his eyes, most likely concealing his growing hurt for the words that effortlessly flowed through your careless mouth. Why would you say something that stupid, when you knew full well of the complicated truth. The truth of your brother's resignation of the band due to a harsh wrist injury. All Jisung wanted was the satisfaction of growing old and succeeding with his garage band, but when the rookie drummer finally grew fixed of his wrist damage, the first thing he saw was his supposed drum-kit, standing before the new addition to the band, Jaemin. Although the old and new drummers came to converse on friendly terms, you knew your brother more than anyone else, and you knew he would never get over his replacement so quickly. 

“It’s fine, Y/N, it’s not ‘cause of that” He vigorously waved his two hands in an effort to change the subject. “We just wanna hear your voice again, that’s all” His calm voice sent you away from your current state of overthinking, as you took another sip of your pink tinted milkshake. Although his choice of words led you to ponder a little more. 

“We?”

“Yeah! Hyuck especially. Mans literally gets weak to the knees when he hears your voice. He loves it so much, you don’t even know, Y/N. But not as much as he loves you lmao--wait-” 

The straw fell limp from Jisungs lips, the whites of his eyes spilling out of their sockets as he finally pondered just how much he messed up. It’s funny actually, how quick he caught his mistake AFTER he made it. 

You swear, you could’ve exploded right then and there. 

“Hyuck--he--what?” A sentence couldn’t even form in between your quivering lips. “You’re kidding right? Sungie? Please tell me this is a joke” 

Jisung could feel the ember of his existence about to extinguish as you used that Nickname on him. A nickname that only escaped your mouth when you were either terribly angry or terribly drunk. Jisung swiftly closed his eyes, praying that there was at least an ounce of alcohol in that milkshake of yours, you were a lightweight afterall.

“I--er--no” Jisung’s head downcasted, attempting to hide from your incoming wrath. “Donghyuck likes you, a lot actually”

If it weren’t for the fact that he was your brother, you would’ve spat on his face with the remaining milkshake in your mouth, unable to be swallowed as you sat in pure shock.  

“How long?”

“...Since highschool, actually” 

The glass mug encased between your fingers shivered in fear. After all this time, all the taunting, all the times he scoffed at your mere existence, that was all from…affection? It was all an act towards grabbing your attention? He didn’t actually despise you? And on top of that, he loves your voice, the voice he only labelled as “ok” in the past? What was with him, couldn’t he had just said something, instead of saying the complete opposite of his feelings? 

But apparently, you found that attractive, and everything else clicked. A lightbulb finally glowed a bright amber as you connected the dots. You finally figured out why this prideful vocalist couldn’t escape your thoughts all this time. 

As your little brother, shaking in fear by your--apparently menacing-- presence, continues his tangent on how letting them stay at their garage even after his untimely injury was just a ruse to get the two of you together, you shoot up from your seat. 

“Oh my god, Jisung, I think I like him back”

“Excuse me, what” 

A sense of urgency shot down your spine. “Change of plans, I’m gonna sing with them.” 

“WAIT” 

“THANKS FOR THE MILKSHAKES, JISUNG, I GOTTA GO TAKE CARE OF SOMETHING” your voice violently hurled through the glass doors of the milkshake place as you ran past them, alerting the commoners that innocently roamed around. 

...

“It looks so full” a stifled Chenle murmured towards the band manager as he gripped onto the stage curtains. “God, ok, is it hot in here or just me?” 

“It’s fine, Chenle, everyone else is nervous too” A calming Renjun sent a soft hand onto the cusp of the pianist’s shoulder. The rest of the band loitered around the cramped stage rear, the echoes of various audience chatter ringing in everyone’s ears as they shiver in anticipation. Well, everyone except a certain sulking vocalist perched rather uncomfortably on the wooden make-up chair. 

  Donghyuck’s heart felt numb to everything else but the brutal beatings of guilt. The issue only arose just hours prior, of course the regret still lingered, staining his once proud, upright soul. Jisung was right, he always had been. He should’ve let go of this stupid act when he got the chance. He should’ve taken your hand in his, letting a soft kiss from his lips fall onto your dazed face after nervously stammering sweet nothings to you. He should’ve sprinkled you with compliments every chance he got, showed his pure excitement when you do something as simple as enter the room, or even chant your name half as animated as his pianist always did. The thought of your name trickled into his head. The name that he refused to refer to you as, always going for the rough tone of “Park” instead. All in the name of that dumb ruse, truly used to prank his heart. 

“Y/N” He let out a soft murmur under his breath. It felt sweet against his lips. “Y/N.” He scoffed at himself. Maybe it was a good thing you decided not to sing with him, you wouldn’t get to see how pathetic he’s become.

“Y/N?” Renjun’s yelp at your disheveled figure standing at the door, drove Donghyuck straight to reality. His head whipped in response, the wooden chair collapsing under the sheer weight of Hyuck’s speechlessness as his sitting figure fell straight to the ground. Renjun stammered out another shaken response. “What are you doing here?” 

“Sorry Junnie, I’ve changed my mind. Can I still sing with you guys tonight?” You could practically see the heavenly wings raising his once lifeless body as the rest of the band members produced luminescence from their beaming smiles. A riled up Renjun scrambles towards your feet, slamming a hand to your shoulder. “OF COURSE YOU CAN Y/N NOW GET OVER HERE WHAT THE FUCK.” After being vigorously yanked into the dressing room by your highschool best friend, you migrate over to the still-faced, wide-eyed vocalist laying frozen against the tile floor. 

“Donghyuck I need to--” 

“Curtains up at 5, get into your positions” A man donning a large black headphone set, gripping a brown noteboard in his hands yells in a robotonus tone before shooting a deadpan look at you. “You there, are you with the band?”

“Uh, yes?”

“Then get into position! Can someone get this girl a mic?” he croaked into his headset’s mic, with a mic falling into your hands just moments later. 

Amidst all this chaos, with Renjun pacing back and forth, Mark and Jeno simultaneously tuning their guitars,  Jaemin dropping his drumsticks onto the ground, and Chenle loudly greeting a sweaty and panting Jisung resting against the doorframe. You tilt your head, never noticing how your brother followed you over here after you burst through those doors at the milkshake place. Before you could greet him, however, a tight grip landed straight onto your forearm.  

“Y/N, wait--” before Donghyuck could even grab your attention. The lights on the other side of those maroon curtains finally dimmed.

“We’re on in 10 seconds” a robotic voice bombed through the band's now trembling figures. They stood before the closed set of curtains, anticipation riling through them. 

“Now, please give a warm welcome to the neighborhood garage band; NCT DREAM!!”

The curtains fell into each other smoothly as what seemed to be a million faces staring back at them. A blinding spotlight shined onto the 6 figures ready in their positions. Spilling a lifetime’s worth of confused feelings would have to wait for now. 

...

“You guys were amazing!” Renjun and Jisung practically said in unison as they watched the stage performers saunter backstage, Jeno pushing the maroon curtains back as your 6 figures retired back into the coffee house’s dressing room. Sweat dripping down your foreheads as you panted away the shockwaves that traveled through your bodies through the duration of that evening concert. As everyone else let down their instruments and settled down in various places of the cramped prep room, a certain vocalist began to stalk in your direction.

You studied Donghyuck’s image. His eyes glowed with determination, the disgust and repulsion that stained his expressions, and that were apparently all fake, weren’t found beneath the whites of his eyes, unlike before.  They looked blank, like he was simply being pulled to you by sheer force. Like you were a captivating magnet, and he was just a mere, insignificant paper clip, ready at your disposal. 

Donghyuck, on the other hand, wasn’t just a blank minded zombie lusting for its next meal. Something awoke in him, like a switch hidden behind cobwebs everyone reluctant to switch it on. Exhilaration zooming through his veins, nothing else mattered to him. Nothing else except your cute face trapped snuggly in his two, sweat filled, shaking palms. 

The vocalist did think about at least consoling you about the question you had for him before what could only be considered as their best concert, like, ever, but your innocent, curious face had him melting to his feet. His composure flew away the minute you stared back at him, eyes glossy and cheeks as rosy. Sure, he was an idiot, but he was an impulsive idiot, and right now, that helped his odds more than anything. 

Roughly, due to the immense amount of feelings bottled up in  the weakest material you can think of, Donghyuck cupped the sides of your face, smushing your lips together in an ecstatic kiss. Gripping onto each other like your lives depended on never letting go--although, at the time, it felt like exactly that--you pulled him closer, chests against one another as you tugged on his loose shirt collar.

 As Hyuck’s stomach began performing flips just below the fabric of his shirt, and as your knees grew weaker, the two of you slowly detached, earning the gasps and full on screams from their fellow bandmates, the bandmates that they simultaneously forgot existed, and the bandmates who estatically witnessed a very much anticipated kiss. The two of you, too scared to look down at the couch, set at the perfect angle to watch your most recent romantic endeavour, finally glanced down at the wide eyed spectators, all at the edge of their seat waiting to see what will happen next. 

“What are you guys waiting for?? CONFESS” The finally stress-free manager jumped up to his feet, a demanding index finger pointed at your flustered figures. The giddy pianist followed Renjun, his whole arm shot out in front of you. “OR BETTER YET??? KISS AGAI--” Chenle’s words were quickly disrupted by the swiftness of Jaemin’s hand as he nodded silently, giving you a signal to talk again. 

Donghyuck found his breath hitched as you turned to face you. He put all of his effort into kissing you, so he kinda forgot about what to do after. But after observing your calm, not wanting to beat him up, soft expression that glowed onto your face, alongside those pink tainted cheeks, he figured out that, well, you already kinda knew. 

“...heh, hey?” Donghyuck picked onto the skin on his wrists, waiting for them to grow red from the pain. Cringing from the awkward tone of his voice, you spoke up.

“I know, Hyuck” 

“Wait what”

You shot him a slightly aggravated glare at his ignorance. Did he not just experience that same kiss you did?

“You’re just that bad at acting, Hyuck” Jisung croaked behind this highschool drama confession. Donghyuck most definitely would’ve given your little brother the greatest jab straight to the head, if it weren’t for your angelic smile presented before him. 

“I like you too, Donghyuck. Unless, I’m not close enough to call you that” Donghyuck chuckles to himself, remembering that very interaction back at your garage just weeks prior. Swiftly, his hands drop to your waist, his eyes locked with yours as he pulls you closer to his chest. 

“Yeah, you need to get a lot closer” The two of you exchange giggles while your supposed judges fake puke and groan at their vocalist’s flirtatious words. The two of you stay comfortably, his hands softly lounging around your waist as you stay snuggled against his chest. The silence washing over you as your face grows sober. 

“Why’d you lie about it?” you distance yourself, just get a view of his face, glistening in the backstage spotlight. A sigh escapes his lips as he glances towards the sky. 

“I dunno, I was dumb, jealous of your talent, dumb, desperate for attention, did I mention dumb?” he flew off into a meaningless tangent, his fingers gripped onto the fabric of your shirt. “I was an idiot, Y/N, I thought this was just some stupid crush, but you’re so much more. God, and I probably hurt you so much during that whole dumb thing, didn’t I?”

“It’s fine, your insults are pretty weak, anyways”

“Oh wow, ok, I see how it is”

“I’m kidding, I’m kidding”

The vocalist glanced down to his feet, his eyes reaching back to you right after. “Can we, ya know, start over?” 

You plant a feathery kiss against his cheek, summoning the red hue that stayed for the rest of the night. “Of course, Hyuckie”  

...

“Miss Park Y/N, I am afraid you have to leave, as you are the cause of the main cause of our vocalist’s distraction.” Renjun stated in a deadpan, robotic tone. An arm, raised and pointing to the direction of the door while his foot rapidly tapped against the carpet. Sometimes, you couldn’t tell if the manager was messing with you or 100% serious with his supposed rage. 

“I live here, Renjun” you subtly snapped back as Hyuck, who was perched on top of your lap for the most peculiar reason, snaked his arms around your waist. According to your vocalist boyfriend, he got to sit on your lap cause he was ‘more famous than you’. That dummy. 

“I’m taking a break, Junnie, go bug Jeno or something. I’m busy with, um” He scans the figure trapped underneath his grasp as Hyuck continues to formulate his poorly thought-out excuse to spend more time with you. “Vocal exercises, yeah, that.” A disapproving sigh slips out of Renjun’s lips, heading over to the guitar and bassist duo. Once the two of you were alone, Donghyuck’s eyes once again fell onto you. 

“How’d you find out about my feelings, anyways? I refuse to believe my acting was THAT bad.” His head slithered into the crook of your neck. 

“If I’m being completely honest, It was Jisung” 

Donghyuck shot up, mic wires and lyric sheets falling to the ground of your garage. “WHAT?”

“Yeah, he went off, exposing you so much. He didn’t even realise it until after he said everything lmao” 

“Hey guys I brought snacks” Jisung slipped through the garage door, bags of chips in his hand. Hyuck sent your brother a narrow glare. “You’re a dead man, Park Jisung.”

You watched Hyuck as he sent himself flying towards the not-so innocent boy, the various chips dropping to the ground. Your brother did kinda deserve it though. You glanced at the ripped up calendar on the wall of the barren garage, your eyes landing on the little Saturday square. You smiled to yourself. Usually, you hated Saturdays, for their errands and boring chores, But this one in particular, seemed to be alright. 

...

[dammitadolfnomorecake]

Once Bitten, Twice Stupid prt.36

Stupid. He was stupid. Lance was potentially the most stupid person he knew. He’d made it as far as his car, before giving up. His idiocy on full display as his mood and feelings shifted again. God. His little anger loaf was standing on the steps of his house, watching him with concern. Sure enough, Lance soon heard the crunching of gravel under Keith’s boots, before the driver’s side door was opening

“Lance?”

Fuck it. Keith was going to hate him for lying, so he might as well make Keith really hate him with the truth

“I lied”

Mumbling softly, he flinched as Keith asked

“What was that?”

“I lied. I panicked and I lied to you”

“Miriam isn’t sick?”

Lance shook his head. She was old, and not about to get any younger, but not sick

“No”

“What the fuck? You had me seriously worried! Why would you lie to me like that?”

Lance couldn’t blame Keith for how mad he sounded

“I... I like you. Like, I really like you and I finally decided I was going to tell you, then Shiro called and I realised all over again that I was being stupid and I panicked... because I don’t know what to do. I’m a vampire and you’re a hunter. A human, hunter. I don’t even know your last name... But... all this confusing junk in my head won’t stop... I like you, Keith. And I’m sorry... I know I’m stupid. I know you’re only attracted to be me because of my body... but I’ve never felt the way about anyone I do when I look at you”

Lance knew he was done for. Keith said nothing long enough for Lance to start crying

“Move over”

Sniffling, Lance wiped at his face

“What?”

“Move over”

Shifting over, Lance moved all the way to the passenger door. He wasn’t sure what Keith was going to do, only that if he died, he wanted the mess to be as contained as possible. Climbing up in the driver’s seat, Keith pulled his seatbelt into place, before starting the bronco. He was going to be murdered. Keith was going to murder him. His body would disappear. His Mami would never know what happened to him. He’d never kiss Keith properly. He’d never cuddle up with him again, or think him stupid. He’d never find out what was wrong Keith’s heart... or internally freak out every time his body felt warmer than stone cold. He’d never see his precious Blue, or taste Hunk’s cooking, or be teased by Pidge... He didn’t want to die. Letting out a miserable groan, Lance’s hand was poised to pull the door handle open. It’d hurt to fall out, but Keith wasn’t driving too fast. If he rolled, he might have a chance of fleeing before he could him.

“Stop freaking out. You’re freaking me out!”

“I don’t want to die... I’m sorry I said anything, but I promise I’ll be good... I won’t say anything ever again”

Keith changed gears, Lance’s bronco lurching as he did

“I’m not going to kill you”

“That’s not what your face says”

Keith had amped “anger loaf” up to an “angry baker’s dozen”. Give him an axe and he’d look like an axe murderer on his way to dismember his victim

“Just shut up before I punch you in the dick”

Cowering in the passenger seat of the car, Lance pulled his knees to his chest, trying to make himself small. He didn’t want to turn into a bat, but right now it’d be handy.

Lance kept his head down as he mentally mapped the route Keith was taking... so he could flee back to his house and retrieve Blue once the death drive was over. He never should have told Keith. Keith was soooooo way beyond mad. He was mad and he hated him... but this kiss or no kiss thing they were messing with was too much for him. Slowing the car, Keith was none to gentle as they stop. Lance sent forwards, then backwards, thanks to his lack of seatbelt. Not raising his head, he hard the seatbelt click, then the creaking of the upholstery as Keith turned towards him

“You can stop hiding now”

“I don’t think I want to”

“Lance”

“You’re scaring me. If you want to murder me...”

Keith sighed at him

“I don’t want to murder you. I want to talk to you”

“Lies! You brought me out here to murder me!”

“Stop being dramatic. Why would I drive you so far away from the house to kill you? I’m a hunter, we know what to do about bodies”

“That doesn’t make feel better”

Keith grabbed him the arms, tugging against Lance who stubbornly kept them crossed

“I said I want to talk to you”

“And I said you’re going to murder me”

Keith kept tugging, Lance too much of a pussy not to let himself give way. Letting Keith hold his arms, Lance stared down at his crotch

“Would you look at me, already? It’s hard to have a conversation when you won’t look at me”

“No. Because if I look at you, I’ll see how much you hate me”

“I don’t hate you!”

He was trying Keith’s patience and he knew it

“You should! I’m a bad guy. I’m selfish and I’m dead!”

“You’re a fucking idiot. That’s what you are. First you lie, then you drop that confession out of nowhere, now you won’t even look at me”

“Because you hate me!”

Keith let out a growly kind of sigh, the hunter moving to kiss him as Lance raised his head at the sound, smacking their heads against each other as he did. Rubbing his chin, Keith pulled back, Lance arms finally freed

“So now you raise your head!”

“You growled at me!”

“Because you weren’t listening!”

Crossing his arms, Lance slid lower in the chair

“I made a mistake”

“A mistake about what?”

“About telling you”

“That you liked me?”

“What else? What am I even doing?! You’re only attracted to me because I keep going into heat like a damn werewolf! This is Curtis’s fault. He kept going on about soulmates and my pathetic arse went and had a crush on you. I’m like way older than you, barely functional at the best of times. I don’t like people. I don’t like people in my house. I don’t like stupid people. Of course I go and fall in love with the first person who accepts me. Of fucking course I do. I’m selfish and petty. I felt left out because heavens forbid you have an actual friend that knows what it is to be a hunter. I don’t know your last name. I don’t know the first thing. But nooooo. I want to kiss you. I want to be the centre of attention. You keep supporting me and I do jack shit, then betray you by having feels... I don’t know what I’m doing!”

“It sounds like you have a lot on your mind”

Fucking Keith. Why couldn’t he get angry? Or at the very least kick him for ruining his life

“I do. So if you’d be so kind, can you please just drive us home where I can bury myself in my death soil”

“Don’t I get a say in this?”

“Do you need to have a say in this?”

What was there to say? He was an idiot. An idiot with serious feels for a human

“Seeing you confessed to me, I think I do”

“Fine. Have at it. You can’t mess things up more than I have”

Keith groaned as he slumped against the seat

“You didn’t mess things up”

“I feel like I did”

“You didn’t mess things up, because I think I like you too”

“Yeah, because my body is weird”

“It’s not... okay, yeah. You’re pretty fucking weird. And you don’t me. But I don’t know much about you outside of what was in your file”

“How nice. At least you got footnotes”

“I’m trying to talk to you. Stop interrupting me”

Talking implied a two way street... Keith wasn’t talking to him, he was talking at him

“Fine. Just spit it out so I can take my humiliation to my grave”

“Gargh! Just shut up and listen to me. I like you too. You. I don’t know what I’m doing either but I do know I like being around you. You’re weird, but not too weird when you think about the fact this time tomorrow the house is going to have 2 hunters, 2 werewolves, 1 cursed ex-hunter, and a vampire in it. That’s not normal. I didn’t see this being my life. I don’t know how to date. I didn’t want to date. Losing Adam nearly destroyed Shiro. I didn’t want a person like that... then you came along and changed everything. I get jealous too. Of you and Hunk, and you and Pidge... I don’t know why they want to be friends with me. People who want to be friends are usually only making fun of me. You don’t do that. I keep wanting to kiss you. I keep going around in circles. I don’t know what to do about the junk in my head either...”

Lance worried his bottom lip as he looked to Keith. Maybe they were two desperately lonely idiots trying to be less lonely in a world where it was so easy to be lonely? He liked him... but couldn’t believe he was liked back

“... right now, I just want to kiss you”

“I don’t want to hurt you”

“You won’t... Can I kiss you?”

Lance nodded, stomach filled with butterflies and a million wriggling caterpillars waiting to take their place.

Closing his eyes, for a moment Lance feared Keith wouldn’t kiss him back. He didn’t need to fear though. Keith’s lips were chapped and he definitely needed to start using lip balm, but the kiss... it was the kind of kiss that made you feel happy to be alive... or dead. Soft and clumsy, Lance panicked slightly when he tasted Keith’s blood. Pulling back, he stared wide eyed at Keith who smiling

“You don’t need to be afraid”

“I cut you lip”

“Maybe I liked it?”

Keith bleeding was not something Lance liked

“I’m...”

“If you say you’re a monster, I really will punch you in the dick”

Keith, romance extraordinaire right there. Shiro had not taught him well

“I’m sorry... I can’t get them to retract any further”

“It’s fine. We’ll work something out”

“How?”

His teeth were kind of razor sharp

“I don’t know... Apparently this talking thing is a start”

“Why do you listen to all the lame things I say?”

“Because you listen to me. So... okay. Kogane. My mum’s a werewolf hunter named Krolia. My boots are size 11. I’m 5’11, 93kgs. I’ve killed three werewolves with the use of explosives and my other kills were with Shiro help. Lactose hates me. Tequila is evil. I have no biological siblings, probably because mum loves her work more than me. I’ve never been in a relationship. I the one time I kind of got close turned out to be a prank. I like photography. I usually ride my motorbike to unwind. People say I have anger issues. I say I have people issues. I get paranoid when people are watching me. I didn’t graduate high school... and I prefer practical over looks... oh, and I collect swords and knives”

Lance was shocked. Everything Keith said locked it’s self in his brain. Keith had been so damn open. Like way too open...

“Lance?”

“Sorry... I was processing... that was like a lot”

“A good a lot? Because I don’t know what to say now”

“No. You did really well, buddy”

Lance cringed at calling Keith “buddy”. Keith sighing at him over it

“Really?”

“I regret it already... I don’t know what to say”

“Tell me something about you?”

“Oh... um... like what?”

Keith knew his file. Heck, Keith probably knew more about him than he did

“I don’t know”

“Um... if... we’re being honest your hair is a mullet”

Groaning at him, Keith pushed his knee

“It grows that way”

“Um... maybe it’s not as annoying as I make it out to be?”

“Watch it, you’re being dangerously close to being nice about my hair”

Lance snorted. He was still filled with those butterflies, but he wasn’t getting murdered by the seems of it, so that was a temporary win

“You wish, mullet. I’ll give you one shot at asking me anything you want”

Keith’s expression changed, he seemed to be thinking, or trying to crap his pants. Lance wasn’t sure

“Can I ask you what happened the day you turned? You don’t have to tell me everything, but I want to understand”

Okay. Maybe Lance had expected that. Maybe that’s why he’d tried to deflect with banter. Maybe those butterflies were still in his belly because he had to tell Keith the truth

“I... Okay... Okay... just promise you won’t laugh at me”

“I’ve laughed at you over plenty of things, but this won’t be one of them”

“That’s not a promise”

Keith scooched forward, placing his hand on Lance’s knee

“I promise I won’t laugh”

“Okay... fuck... this is... okay...”

“Lance, it’s okay. I know Rolo and Nyma turned you. I know it was horrible and traumatic, but I’m not going to suddenly hate you for what happened”

“I hate me for what happened. I can’t ever forget that day... it’s the day my family was ruined forever...”

“What happened wasn’t your fault”

“It was... fuck... it was... So... We’d only left Cuba not that long ago and I didn’t fit in. My skin wasn’t the right colour. My clothes weren’t the right clothes. I had friends but I always seemed to ruin things. I was sitting on the swings at school, watching everyone else play soccer. They never picked me because I wasn’t right... Nyma... Nyma and Rolo came up to the swings... the day was really overcast, but maybe they could walk in the sun? I don’t know... but I was so lonely and there were these two adults... teenagers... I never knew how old they were... I knew Mami wouldn’t want me talking to strangers, so I told them. Nyma laughed and she said she wasn’t a stranger because she’d seen me around in school before. They asked me if I wanted to play. Someone was paying attention to me. I have a big family. No... I had a big family, so I never had much attention. Anything I wanted like ice creams, Mami would always ask my older siblings what they wanted and they never agreed. I just wanted to be... liked. Nyma asked me to come pick a soccer ball out the storage shed with her... Schools back there really were nothing like they are now... They found me the next day, but I was in a coma for like a while... Coran was there when I woke up, Mami too... and everything kind of went to shit. The shed was pulled down, apparently there was so much blood there that they thought someone slaughtered a cow as a joke. It’s not much of a story”

Lance nervously chewed at his lip, waiting for Keith to reply. Glancing to the hunter, he found Keith had tears in his eyes

“Keith?”

“I’m sorry... I’m sorry no one was there to help you”

Lance had often thought about that. About the “what ifs”. But one thing he did know was that you couldn’t go back in time and undo what’d been done

“You’re the first friend I’ve talked to about it, and you know the gist of things... but yeah. Basically I’ve had PTS and anxiety since. I’m on my fourth identity now. I went into law to help children... and this car was my gift from my family when I graduated the first time around. Before you came along, I was the only person who’d driven her. She’s been my trusty companion through it all”

“Kids can be total shits”

Lance nodded. They could. But they could also be sweet like his niece and nephew had been

“I kept wondering how they didn’t hear me, or if they did, if they laughed at me. I’m lucky I was the only one they took that day”

“They deserve to be dead. You’re nothing like them, you know. It makes me want to punch something”

“Please don’t punch my dick”

Keith flashed him a watery smile, Lance shifting close enough to lean against the hunter. Keith felt so reassuringly solid against him. Nervously he asked

“So where does that leave us? If you need space... I won’t be mad”

“I don’t know how to date. I’m probably going to make a lousy boyfriend”

“If you just want to be friends, that’s okay too. I just... I’ve been going slightly crazy with all these thoughts in my head. I don’t want to take your future from you”

“It’s my future to choose. I think I want to date you...”

“Maybe you should talk to Shiro? I don’t think he left you here with the intention of us shacking up together”

Keith sighed. After what happened with Adam, the hunter was definitely entitled to not be in favour of them dating

“I do... I mean, I’ve been going crazy too. Trying to tell if you’re flirting. Trying to figure out what I’m feeling”

“I feel bad for lying to you and for dumping this on you...”

“You should feel bad about the lying. I was seriously worried about Miriam... but I was more worried about you. But don’t feel bad for telling me. I wanted to know more about you. I still do”

“I’m old enough to be your dad... hell, you’re old enough to be a dad, a grand dad even... if you’d started young enough”

“I never really thought about kids. Or... thought I’d find someone I wanted to date... My childhood wasn’t the best. I was that problem foster kid that didn’t want help or trust people easily...”

“Are you glad you met me?”

“Yeah. I can’t believe how much of a dick I was”

“You did take it to a whole new level”

Keith’s stupidity had had to be seen to be believed. What kind of a moron claims to be turned when he’s the one who went and cut himself of Lance’s tooth to begin with?

“I’m sorry, you were supposed to be an evil bloodsucker”

“I can be evil... We vampires have egos. If we let our egos get out of check then we lose what makes us human. It’s not easy being dead”

“I’ve gathered that much... Why don’t you like my blood?”

They were back on this again? Why couldn’t Keith understand it wasn’t personal

“It’s not about liking it. The first time I tasted your blood was like eating mouldy socks... I’ve always drunk from bags... I always felt better about drinking from bags. Like it’s more humane”

“It’s not because there’s something wrong in there?”

Lance had the feeling feeding from Keith was going to be a fiasco all over again. He’d told him more than once he didn’t want to, yet Keith kept bringing it back up.

“Not anymore. You did let me feed when I was a bat. I haven’t thanked you for that”

His tiny bat body had eaten its fill. Lance had hoped that the blood would turn him back

“You’re much easier to understand when you’re a bat”

“I thought you said you didn’t speak bat?”

“I don’t... but you’re like a puppy. You’re soft and warm... and kind of funny when you’re angry”

He was a fearsome vampire. If anyone was like a puppy, it was Keith. A barely housetrained puppy with eyes that got him every time

“Puppy’s don’t have wings”

“I said you’re like a puppy. I do know what a dog looks like”

“Speaking of dogs, what are we going to tell Shiro? He’s turning up with Matt tomorrow”

“I’ll talk to him. It’s not like we rushed into bed together”

“I’m not ready for that, yet”

“It’s fine. I think both of us aren’t ready for that yet...”

“But my scent...”

“We’ve held off this long...”

“We weren’t dating... I don’t want my scent making you do something you don’t want to do”

“Trust me when I say your scent makes me want to do all kind of things to you, but waiting is good too”

“And what are going to tell Curtis?”

“Nothing for now. We’re still working this out. He’d probably throw condoms and lube at us if we told him”

That was highly likely. Being cursed really had to suck for Curtis

“I don’t think he likes me”

Keith snorted, Lance unamused that Keith found his upset funny

“He said the same thing. I told him we’d have a movie night tonight so we could all hang out together”

“Then you kidnapped me”

“I prefer the term “borrowed”. You’re too uptight at home”

“You’d be uptight too if you heard too much all the damn time”

“And that has nothing to do with you spending most of your time worrying over the changes you’re going through?”

“I spent 44 years as a man, now I’m apparently able to have kids on top of that. Who wouldn’t be freaked the fuck out? My swimmers are dead. I’m dead... it’s weird as fuck”

“You have a half cursed man in your house. I don’t think things could get much weirder right about now”

“Is it weird I want to see his tail? He said he had half a tail, so would it be like short or is it long but only half of it’s there?”

“Don’t make me think... I don’t know. He’d probably show you if you ask”

“I can’t just ask to see his tail. He thinks I hate him”

“Maybe you could show him your teeth?”

Lance rolled his eyes mentally. Curtis was a hunter, he would have seen fangs before, but his idiot kind of boyfriend wasn’t known for having all his ducks in a row. Less than smoothly Keith tried to bring his hand up so pull Lance into a hug, the problem being it was the hand holding Lance’s. Keith’s IQ was rivalling a teaspoon right now, but the gesture was sweet enough for Lance to let go of Keith’s hand and wrap his arms around the hunter

“You could ask. He likes you”

“He likes you too. You just don’t know each other”

“I suppose. I just wish every time we talked I didn’t feel like a science experiment. Next he’s going to have me eating bi-carb and chugging down vinegar”

“Don’t forget that food colouring. Though, it wouldn’t be the first time you blew up”

The joke was horrible and Keith should feel horrible

You have a really crappy sense of humour”

“You can blame Shiro for that”

“That seems like effort. How long are we going to sit here?”

“As long as you want. I didn’t have much of a plan”

“That’s so like you”

“Hey, you were acting weird. That’s not on me”

“You try developing a crush on a human. It’s a lot to deal with”

“Try being a hunter who likes a vampire”

“Touché. Okay. Okay. I’m okay now. We should head back home”

“You sure?”

Lance honestly just wanted to stay like this. Keith hadn’t even picked a romantic destination for this little heart to heart. They were parked out near the cemetery, which would have been the perfect place to hide his body, but... it was so him that it was ridiculous

“Yeah. I wanna make sure my house is still standing”

“Fair point. Buckle up, I’m not having the guy I’m kind of dating getting hurt while I’m driving”

Lance’s butterflies fluttered at “kind of dating”. It wasn’t a yes, and it wasn’t a no, so he took it as a hopeful maybe.

[fidgetspringer]

Do you have a specific training guide for røst's tracking? I've been trying to find one but they dont really go into detail. Ruby really enjoys our tracking games and she's doing alright in my opinion, but I never know if what I'm doing is the best way to teach her lol.

I don't have a specific guide unfortunately, and training method will depend on type of track and what goals you have in mind.

And it's hard to give advice without knowing exactly what you're doing and or struggling with.

I only really know Blood tracking, mantrailing etc is completely foreign to me. However @konmari-dogs has more experience in that area.

The basics of tracking is to encourage a dog to follow a scent, but with as little intervention or encouragement from you as possible. Rewards should all come from the track itself in form of treats laid along it, and a big jackpot reward at the end. You're only observing your dog, holding the leash and throwing a party when the dog finds the end!

That's pretty much the basics of tracking! From there your training changes depending on your goals with it. For fun? Keep it up! Add some angles abd obstacles, let the trail sit for a few hours before you put your dog on it, add distractions a meter or two off like toys or weird objects, change up the surface you're tracking on! Do urban tracks!

Want to compete? Look for groups on facebook for the type of tracking you want tp do, follow people online. Increasing the difficulty of your competition tracking depends on what type it is so i can't really help much, but adding in 90 degree angles and increasing the lay time are pretty basic ways to start adding difficulty!

To me if the dog is reliably tracking and reaching the end of the trail then you're doing great! So from there you kinda have to troubleshoot a bit if you're not happy with your dog's efforts.

Unfocused or unmotivated? Amp up the reward! Put a tin of wet food at the end!

Too fast and strong? Have your leash attached underneath the dog, or lay high value treats along the track so the dog realises it's missing out by being strong (this is important in blood trail, but maybe less so for other kinds of tracking)

Losing the trail frequently? Consider the environment you're tracking in. Scent won't evaporate as well off of wet and cold ground. Asphalt and gravel are some of the hardest surfaces to track on. But losing the trail every now and then is fine and it help you learn how to recover.

Golden rules of handling:

Nose up - stop

Nose down - go on

Don't let your dog continue until that nose is down and on a scent! Hold your line loosely above your head and encourage your dog to circle the area, but never let them continue back where you came from.

Golden rules of laying a track:

-Never retrace your steps. Your dog can tell what direction a track is going, if you walk the same route back you could confuse your dog. Always walk a big detour around your track on your way back to the beginning to avoid contaminating it

-Never cross your trail. This one is kinda obvious.

-Try to not lay all your tracks yourself (though this is only really important if you have competitions etc in mind.)

Yikes this is a lot of probably not suoer useful info 😂 Hopefully some of it can help you!

[luluwquidprocrow]

you’ll find it again

originally posted: september 3rd, 2020

word count: 2,390 words

rated: teen

wally brando & becky burnett & ruby

friendship,  emotional hurt/comfort,  mental health,  loneliness,  season 3,  ruby at the whims of the supernatural vs. ruby’s own mental state,  dissociation and uncomfortable sensations that occur after a breakdown,  growing up is hard and life is hard and friendships are hard!,  one instance of language because have you met me

summary: and ruby had been screaming, but that was not important.

opening notes:

for @cerealninjakat for @countdowntotwinpeaks wonderfulxstrange 2020, who asked for "wally and becky try to help out ruby after her breakdown". i hope i delivered!

title from don’t see the sorrow by au revoir simone

.

becky and wally had argued again; ruby could tell, because she focused on becky so she wouldn’t think about herself. becky drove ten miles over the speed limit through the darkness, her knuckles clenched on the steering wheel, her tongue pushed into her cheek. from the backseat, ruby couldn’t see wally, but she knew he was looking right ahead at the road. an argument meant wally had just said something true that becky didn’t like and she’d done a lot of yelling. they’d still come and got her, though. together. like ghosts out of the night, bursting into the roadhouse, when the crowd had throbbed around ruby like a heartbeat that wouldn’t ever slow down. and ruby had been screaming, and

don’t think about that, she reminded herself. she curled her hands into the cuffs of her sweater, searching for the loose thread she knew was there but couldn’t see. think about becky and wally.

becky had parted the crowd, snapping at anyone who got in her way, while wally kept close behind her. ruby was screaming but that was not important. becky got down beside her and put her hands on either side of ruby’s face, blocking out the roadhouse, asking ruby to look at her. wally knelt next to them and took one of her hands and he’d been wearing his motorcycle gloves, and that had made a line in ruby’s head that split her panic into the uncontrollable previous second and the too-conscious next, because he didn’t have to wear them inside. ruby clutched his hand and she was crying now and she could deal with that. then they were at the bar, and wally was trying to put an ice cold glass of water into her hand but she couldn’t hold it, and then time pulled forward and ruby was in the back seat of becky’s mom’s car, becky’s sweater draped over her own and her cheek against the window.

“how,” ruby had tried, meaning to ask something like, how were you there, how did you know where i was, because becky and wally weren’t who she was meeting at the roadhouse.

wally said something about just knowing all of a sudden—ruby couldn’t catch all the words—until becky had punched him in the shoulder and almost drove over the yellow line in the middle of the road and swore something awful, and then no one talked.

becky drove like she was in a hurry, she always had. it was probably better than wally driving, because while ruby was sure wally was a good driver, he would’ve had them both on his motorcycle, and just all of them crammed onto one seat would’ve been terrible. when they were little, becky had convinced wally to let ruby sit behind him on his tricycle and to let becky ride on the handlebars, and they’d made it halfway down the street like that, wally slowly peddling along while becky shouted to go faster and ruby held on to wally for dear life anyway, before becky’s dad saw them and caught up in an instant. ruby turned her head and watched the streetlights hit the cracked curb, weathered street signs, the graying asphalt road, in stark white bursts every few minutes that blurred as becky sped on by. a red light lingered somewhere ahead and becky screeched to a halt at a traffic light.

the only sound in the car was becky’s harsh breathing as she waited for the light to turn—no, it was ruby. it was ruby’s own breathing, so loud in her own ears in the quiet, waiting for becky to race forward and fill everything up again. ruby pulled hard at the thread on her sweater and the cuff puckered, the soft knit pushing into her wrist. it didn’t make sense. the roadhouse was too loud, the car was too quiet, her sweater was unwinding and so was ruby again.

wally reached for the radio and turned the dial. he skipped over static, a guitar cord that made ruby’s shoulders seize, dr. amp shouting into the night, until he found some soft keyboard song, keeping the volume low. green filled up the car, and becky took off.

they were almost there, wherever becky was going. ruby could tell. dread started to shudder to life inside her. she’d have to move. she’d have to talk. she closed her eyes and let the car jostle her against the seat belt.

gravel crunched under the tires, and ruby knew exactly where they were. she opened her eyes to see wally’s parent’s house on the other side of town, with the big yard and long driveway, the dark wood siding and the old brick chimney, little white flowers by the front steps that turned yellow in the porch light. becky got out, and then wally, and then ruby, opening the door slowly, holding becky’s sweater around her. the night air was hot and sticky on her face, and it fogged her glasses.

the brennan house reminded her of her mom’s house, and that was why ruby liked it. they both had shelves crammed with books, and oversized chairs draped with handmade blankets, and when you walked in it didn’t just feel like someone else’s home and you were a visitor, it felt like your own home too. when was the last time she’d been here with wally and becky? it couldn’t have been that long. new years, when wally was back and becky smiled so easily and ruby was still in college. but that couldn’t have been this year. maybe it was forever ago. when was the last time she’d seen becky and wally at all? wally sent her postcards from the road and ruby hung them all up around the kitchen. becky was so sparse nowadays, with steven. ruby was just trying to figure out what she was supposed to do with herself, in a place as small as twin peaks, as big as the whole wide world.

ruby felt that prickling stab of staring at something without really seeing it, like she should be somewhere or someone else. she swayed on her feet, looking up at the house over her glasses, tears in her eyes again.

they all went inside together.

the lights were off inside, and wally turned on some of the lamps in the living room, bathing the furniture in patches of warm gold. ruby and becky took off their shoes, but wally kept his on, but he had his gloves tucked into a pocket now.  

“where are you parents?” ruby asked. her voice sounded raw, and she cleared her throat a few times.

“it is thursday,” wally said, “which means it is the night my parents spend together, away from worldly concerns.”

“it’s date night,” becky muttered.

“ruby,” wally said, “would you like some hot chocolate?”

she didn’t think about the glass of water at the roadhouse. she thought about a ceramic mug hot on her fingertips. “sure.” she watched wally drift into the kitchen and take mugs down from the cabinet. ruby’s mom was always leaving cups of tea places, on wooden coasters on the coffee table in the living room, on the little desk by her easel at the big window, by the old chair in ruby’s room, all of them half full. she told ruby that sometimes it was more about the company and the feeling than the tea itself. ruby liked that a lot.

“becky?”

becky sighed. “yeah, okay.”

she and ruby sat down on the couch by the wall, like they’d always done, ruby cross-legged and becky’s left leg bent with her arms wrapped around it. wally’s mom liked to knit, and there were large, uneven blankets all around their house, because her tension was always too lose. ruby’s mom had tried to teach her, but mostly they baked together instead, and wally’s mom’s blankets stayed holey but comfortable. ruby tugged a soft blue one from the back of the couch on top of the two of them. and then she waited.

who had she meant to meet at the roadhouse? ruby couldn’t remember. she had just been there. there was supposed to be someone there and she was supposed to meet them. like wally said, she’d just known too. so she’d gone. and she’d been waiting and waiting, and no one had come. she’d stared off towards the stage and tuned it all out and thought she saw something, once or twice, a flicker of blue light out of place on the stage, the edge of a black jacket sleeve off to the side, thought she heard a voice by her ear, but no one had come. ruby was alone, until someone was lifting her out of her seat, and then—everything was breaking apart.

but becky didn’t ask about the roadhouse. she looked at ruby, her eyes flicking back and forth between ruby’s.

“is there anything i can do?” she asked.

ruby blinked a few times. “no,” she said, shaking her head. “no, no—no.”

“anything you need me to do?”

“mm-mm.”

becky fell silent. she looked down at her hands, twisting her rings on and off, and as ruby watched she felt thick shame and embarrassment start to sink inside her. it hadn’t been the first time, not really, not if she was honest, that everything felt like it was falling out from under her. sometimes she felt so impossibly sad and so helpless, and her whole life was quiet but it wasn’t unbearable, it wasn’t terrible, it wasn’t like that at all. but in the roadhouse the loneliness had clawed at her as the world moved on and no one cared, more than ever, and the emptiness of it had scared her so much. not just ruby’s emptiness. everyone’s. the only thing she could do was scream. why had it happened like that? why had becky and wally had to see her like that?

“i don’t know what happened, i don’t,” ruby whispered. she had to fix it. they had to still like her. they had to like the ruby who double majored, the ruby who smiled at cats, the ruby who made cucumber sandwiches for picnics, the ruby who shared clothes with becky, the ruby who played the bongos while wally could not play the guitar and didn’t care. they had to keep that ruby. they had to like that ruby who did all those things and forget about the ruby screaming in the roadhouse, forget they saw the ruby who could fall apart. both of them couldn’t exist. “i’m—i’m okay, though.” she scrubbed at her eyes with the sleeve of becky’s sweater, bumping her glasses.

“hey.” becky took her hand. she pushed a lock of hair behind ruby’s ear, then hesitated. “you know i love you, right? because i do, ruby.”

ruby knew, or she had known, and forgotten. it was good to hear it. it was good to know. it was good to know. she smiled a little, because she knew if she smiled the whole way she’d cry again. she held onto becky’s hand.

wally walked back in, carrying three mugs on a big wooden tray. he gave becky the mug with a cat stretching against the side for the handle, and he gave ruby the one with roses bursting all along it, and he took the one that had instructions for cooking eggs next to little drawings. he put the tray on the floor and sat down on ruby’s other side, a few inches between them but close enough, and ruby draped the other end of the blanket over him too. then she wrapped both hands around the mug, her skin tingling with the warmth. she didn’t trust herself to swallow properly yet, so she kept it there. her mom was always right. she could hold the mug in her hands and have becky and wally beside her and feel a little more like okay. she thought about the roadhouse, for a moment. she thought about whoever was supposed to have been there. maybe she’d tell becky and wally about them, but later. maybe she’d tell them a couple things. not now. but she hoped, whoever they were, that they felt close to okay too, if they needed to. she thought they might.

there was a vase of little pink flowers across the room, in a halo of light from a nearby lamp. wally’s dad bought them, but sometimes he picked them instead, at the little spot by the lake where the picnic tables were. they’d all gone on lots of picnics when they were younger, and even into high school, when just ruby and becky and wally would go, without their parents, and spend hours in the afternoon breeze off the lake, the three of them naming ducks and throwing food at each other and skipping stones on the water. that was good, too.

“do you remember,” ruby said softly, “when we used to have those picnics? by the lake?”

“we should go again,” wally said.

“we can go tomorrow,” becky said. “my mom still has all the baskets.”

“i can drive,” wally offered.

“nope,” ruby said. “becky will drive, and we’ll all die.” she patted becky’s knee.

becky giggled; then she bit her lip, her face scrunching up. “fuck,” she said. “fuck—no, i’m gonna drive the speed limit. i’m gonna be the best driver.”

“then that makes you the best,” wally said, simply.

becky looked across ruby at him, and then tapped her mug against his. “thanks.”

wally smiled. it was a quiet smile that pulled up the corners of his mouth only slightly, but it was his best smile. in unison, the three of them took sips of their hot chocolate. it went down smoothly, comfortably warm in ruby’s chest.

“you know what this needs?” ruby said.

“potato chips,” becky said.

“potato chips,” ruby agreed.

wally looked thoughtful. “i think that can be done. but we’ll have to adjourn to the kitchen.”

he and becky were up in an instant, racing towards the kitchen like they were kids again, becky shouting when her hot chocolate tipped, wally’s steady voice assuring her that his parents had napkins. ruby got up, took becky’s sweater off from around her shoulders, and then ran into the kitchen after them.

ending notes:

ruby is now an immovable piece of this friendship and i will THROW DOWN for her

[angrylizardjacket]

Run to Paradise {Nikki Sixx} Part 2

Summary: Nikki and Lola met before they were Nikki and Lola, before Motley Crue, before they were even eighteen; they were just two shitty teenagers, looking to escape their shitty childhoods. So together they turn into shitty adults, and then celebrities, and in amongst the fame and fortune and fucking, Lola has to prove she can keep up with the guys, and she's never one to back down from a challenge.

Warnings: renamed; formerly Platinum. NSFW, underage drinking and sexual content. 

2. early 80s, right before children became special

{masterlist}

Though none of the weekends that follow are quite as exciting as her first night of freedom, Lola grows excited for each and every one, and Frank doesn't seem to be growing tired of her company, so she takes it as a win. In fact, they grow close, much to the exasperation and slight terror of the women running the group home.

"Get out of my bed," Frank comes back from the shower with his hair still wet, only wearing a pair of jeans, only to find Lola trying to discretely smoke behind a newspaper. It's been almost three whole months since that first night, and Lola's almost seventeen, and for the first time she feels like she has her whole life ahead of her.

"No way, you're by the window," she pointedly leans back, breathing a lungful of smoke through the mesh.

"Just smoke outside," he snaps, pulling himself up the ladder to sit by her, scowling, before shaking his head like a dog, flicking water all over her.

"It's cold outside, you asshole!" She fired back around the cigarette in her mouth, smacking him with the paper, unable to shield herself in time from the water he flicks on her, settling for this instead. In retaliation, Frank takes the cigarette from her lips and takes a drag, reaching across Lola to flick the ashes into the empty can she'd been using as an impromptu ash tray.

"Anything interesting?" He flicks the paper before putting the cigarette into Lola's waiting grip. After a beat, he leans over to the window to blow out the smoke, and Lola hums.

"I wouldn't know," she dismisses the question without any preamble, before grinning, turning to Frank, "who's playing tonight? They any good?" And she's shooting for casual, and failing pretty miserably. He drags out the moment, part of him likes to see her squirm, before finally shrugging, admitting he doesn't know the band. This isn't the answer she was looking for, and it shows on her face, the way her nose wrinkles and her lips turn down in a frown, and she stubs out the last remaining embers of the cigarette before putting the butt in the can itself and pushing the can to the corner of the bed. 

"You complaining? You don't have to come," he offers, but Lola's only response is to flop dramatically onto the bed.

"God, of course I'll go," she paused for a moment, "how are you not wearing a shirt, it's fucking freezing, the window's open." She tossed the paper to the ground and rested her hands behind her head, gaze focused on the ceiling, pointedly not looking at Frank.

"I'm cold blooded, I don't feel it," she can hear him smirking, and without warning, she sits up, reaching out and taking his arm, running her thumb over the goosebumps forming there. 

"Dirty fuckin' liar," she grins back at him, even as he flips the script, pulls her close and wraps an arm around her. It's easy contact, familiar, and Lola leans into it a little, one hand still holding his wrist, 

"You run warm enough," he grinned, and there's an answer on the tip of her tongue, just behind her grin-

"God, you two are damn ferals; get away from each other, no touching," one of ladies who runs the home spots them on her way through to the laundry, and sounds as if she's already tired of whatever interaction this is about to yield.

"You gonna get the hose again?" Lola spits back, scrambling to her knees, leaning on the railing at the edge of the bunk bed, looking every bit as irritated and feral as the woman accused her of. Even so, the woman can see Frank's amused smirk, but not how he's looped a finger through one of Lola's belt loops, a quiet reminder to not pitch herself off the bed by accident.

"You bet I will!" She snapped, "if you two are within a foot of each other when I come back I'll spray you both." The woman warned, storming off to the laundry.

"Fuckin' bitch," Lola huffed, sitting back, practically on Frank this time when he tugs her backwards, "no touching," she parrots back before scoffing derisively, even a Frank laughs low and amused, reaching around to cup one of her boobs through her shirt in blatant defiance. It doesn't seem to phase Lola, who just sulks, leans a little bit close to him. He moves away first, climbing down and pulling on his shirt and a jacket, rattling off Nadine's promise of dinner as he's fastening his shoelaces; it's enough to distract Lola from her anger, and the two of them have disappeared from the building within minutes, on their way to Nadine's place, as they often went before seeing a gig.

After that first night, casual sexual contact became almost like a form of currency between them, for cigarettes, to borrow records, occasionally for caps or weed, sometimes just for candy, and sometimes when she's feeling especially drunk and sappy, Lola's on her knees in a bathroom stall as a thanks for taking her out in the first place. And it's still that, still a transaction, but then Lola gets fed up with a club early, despite Frank having promised the band he'd stay to the end to discuss potentially joining them. She whining, tipsy, think's the music's shit - it is, their bass player is being replaced for a reason, but that's besides the point - and he's sick of it.

"Since you're so fucking tense," and she's in shorts tonight, high waisted and black and denim, not ideal. But then she's on the counter, leaning back against the side of the mirror with his hand cramping beneath her fly as she rolls her hips in time with his fingers, gasping and whimpering as she tries to keep quiet. 

"You gonna calm the fuck down? Not gonna fuck this up for me, alright?" And like an asshole, he asks her right as she's on the edge, and the moment she agrees, whispered agreements tumbling from her lips, back arching, she comes hard, arms trembling a little where she's holding herself up on the counter.

"Jesus, yeah, fine, I'll stop complaining," she huffs as she finally comes back to herself, trying to prop herself up further, trying to do something, anything to make herself look more presentable, though the effect is ruined a little by her hard breathing and flushed cheeks. Frank's playing at serious where he's washing his hands in the sink beside her, but she can tell he's a little pleased with himself. "Don't act so smug, it's not cute." 

"I'm not trying to be cute, Lo," and there's something like a warning in his voice, but Lola's only response is to grin mischievously and hop from the counter. They take a few moments to look at themselves in the mirror, through the dim, grimy overhead light. Lola tucks her shirt back into her shorts and ties up her hair to hide how messy the back had gotten, and it's quiet, subtle, but they both know there's been a change, a shift in dynamic. 

Call it teenage rebellion, call it two runaways trying to make a connection, call it whatever you want; it's not so easily definable. Lola doesn't say it, but to her it's a fuck you to the puritanical prison in which she was raised, it's taking back control of her own body, of her own life, and she liked Frank well enough, liked his taste in music and in people and the way he would smile. He's unlike any friend she'd been allowed before, and she's willing to do whatever it takes to keep him around.

So today, they leave before the woman from the home can catch them, before the front doors are locked for the night, before the sun's fully submerged beneath the horizon. Frank complains about not having a car, making some vague declaration that it's the first thing he'd get once he started earning some cash of his own, and Lola shoves him, laughing a 'sure, whatever helps you sleep at night', and he shoves her right back, but he's grinning.

Nadine bought pizza, and Lola gives back the skirt she'd been wearing the week before for a pair of leather pants, and Frank won't stop smiling and neither he nor Nadine will tell Lola why.

"It's a surprise," is all Nadine says, "now eat your dinner, I slaved for minutes over a phone ordering that for you." She jokes, grinning sharply, and Lola rolls her eyes and shoves another piece of four cheese pizza in her mouth.

They're early to one of the pubs they usually frequent, weirdly early, suspiciously; they arrive at the same time the band does, and Lola's halfway through telling him that they should at least hang out at Nadia's until the band's due to start, but he's already making a beeline for the station wagon piled high with equipment.

"Took your sweet fuckin' time, Ferranna," one of the band members yells, and Frank's replying with an easy banter as he helps lift an amp, and it's here that Lola recognises the band from a few weeks ago.

"Lo, give us a hand, will ya?" Frank nods to where a few guitar cases were sitting in the trunk of the car, but Lola cocks her hip and crosses her arm, affixing him with an unamused stare.

"Do I look like your fucking roadie?" She asks, and Frank rolls his eyes.

"Come on, I'll owe you," and though usually Lola would jump at the prospect, she's not about to help some random band because Frank feels like being a good samaritan for the first time in his life. She grinds her heel into the gravel of the road and shifts her weight to her other foot. She doesn't move. "Alright, fine, I'm playing with them tonight; this is Sister, we saw them a few weeks ago." He paused, grunting as he hands off the amp to one of the other band members inside the club. 

"Hey, kid," one of the other band members slams the door of the car, glaring at them over the roof, "if you're girlfriend's gonna just stand there looking bitchy, tell her she can do that inside-"

"Tell me yourself, asshole, I'm right here," Lola snaps, and though Frank looks at her like she's giving him a headache, she begrudgingly takes a guitar case from the back, "and I'm not his fucking girlfriend."

"I don't give a shit; be careful with that." The other band member snaps. 

Frank moves to get the other case out of the back, rolling his eyes at Lola's stormy expression as she stalks past him, but then she stops, looks over her shoulder at him and her expression actually softens.

"What?" He frowns.

"It is actually pretty cool that you got the gig," Lola gives him a grin, pride blossoming in her chest as she takes in his surprisingly pleased smile, "but you still owe me." 

"Yeah, what a chore," she knows without even looking at him that he's smiling, rolling his eyes, with sarcasm practically dripping from his words as he hefts the other guitar case from the back, following her inside. She helps bring in a milk crate full of cables, and a parcan, and sits herself at the bar at the back of the room as the band starts setting up, and doing sound checks. The night's still young, and she's still learning the ropes, but she knows from looking around that no-one at the bar is drunk enough yet to either leave their drink unattended, or buy her a drink, so she settles for taking a sip from the flask Nadine had furnished her with, wrinkling her nose at the taste of cheap vodka.

The band sounds so much better than the first time, and in her mind, Lola attributes it all to Frank. And maybe it's the pride, the excitement, or the alcohol, but by the second set she's dancing with the rest of the girls who've formed a mosh pit. The lights are bright, and a haze of smoke in the air and then there's a guy in the crowd with his hands on her hips, and she moves along with him, and in time with the rhythm of the bass she can feel in her chest. He buys her a drink and another and another and she wishes the men's bathroom of a random dingy club wasn't as familiar as it had came to be. 

The man doesn't know her name and she doesn't know his, but he knows he wants to fuck her, and she knows that if she blows him, she'll probably get another drink and not need to go all the way. He's satisfied, calls her an angel and doesn't see her roll her eyes, or her own self satisfied smirk when she asks for another drink and he's all but tripping over his words to comply. A transaction complete.

And she keeps dancing, and loses the guy in the crowd, and hangs with the band between sets, smoking by the bar, and the singer, who had yelled at her earlier, apologises. She just grins, shrugs it off, and proceeds to steal a sip from Frank's rum and coke.

By the end of the night she's exhausted, and looking forward to flopping into her own bed, brimming with joy at watching Frank perform; she'd known he could play in theory, but had never had the opportunity to see it in person. It turns out he'd been going to rehearsal for a few weeks, the band trying him out before they were fully ready to commit.

"Fully ready to commit?" Lola frowns at the wording as they walk back to the home; the band offered a lift, but even with two cars, there wasn't room for both Lola and Frank, and either way, they were used to the walk. 

"They- ah," Frank gave pause for a moment, actually hesitated, "they were only here to scout talent; I'm heading back to LA with them in about a week; they're the real deal, Lo." 

She wants to respond, wants to congratulate him, wants to ask what the fuck, but no sound is coming from her mouth. 

"Were you planning on telling me?" Is what she actually says, and when Frank laughs it's humourless. They're slowing now, almost at a stop just a few blocks from home, and the crunch of gravel beneath Lola's boots sounds so loud in her ears. So she stops. "Just gonna take off? Leave and never come back and not say shit about it beforehand?"

"Pretty much," he admits, kicking at the ground, avoiding her gaze, "I've known you for like three months, Lo, I didn't expect it to be a big deal, it's not like -" he shuts himself up, mouth snapping closed as he rolls his eyes, but Lola just raises an eyebrow, mouth pressed into a thin line, "I didn't expect you to want to come couch surfing in LA, okay? You've got Nadine here," he throws his arms out in exasperation, "I haven't got shit and you barely know me."

"Yeah, Nads is lovely, but if you leave me in that fuckin' group home knowing you ran off to be a rockstar in LA without me, I'd lose my mind." Breathing deeply, Lola took a moment to centre herself, "listen, I ain't got shit either, and it's not like you know me any better than I know you, but if you want me there I'll go. Anything's better than the pitying looks those hags give me; trust me, if we both leave it'll be like Christmas for them." 

"And what happens if we get sick of each other?" It did seem like he was seriously considering it though, giving her an appraising look.

"Then leave me on the side of the road; I'd rather be homeless in LA than pitied in this bland-ass group home; it's like the life equivalent of only ever eating oatmeal," she groaned, and at least that gets him to laugh.

"Fine, you might have to carry a light or two for the drive there, but I'll get them to squeeze you in," he assured. With that, they start walking again, and there's a new hope, new joy, new energy blooming bright in Lola's chest, an excitement for the future that's unfamiliar but not unwanted.

"Do I look like your fuckin' roadie?" Lola grins at him, warm and amused. He just smirks back, giving her a shrug.

"Starting to; you've got potential."

"Oh fuck that, shoot me if I ever become your roadie.

[stupendoustrashmagazine]

A 10-pp. selection of poems

Personage The terrace offers a point. From this point a view. It's only a stop-off; it assumes the motion requisite for temporary stays will continue. The speculative friction required to stop those passing through would require planned extinction; would require war against generations of persistence across biome, suffering & misery magnified it remains threatened always. Building requires digging. Digging creates hollows to be filled. A move past botanicals—it doesn’t exist. A pulse in the web. Walk toward beyond the view: journey’s luck to close in on production. Pace picks up, dusk’s dis- appearing light invites one in: welcome.   Prelude Tonight the act of naming fell through the floor. We speak permeable solids inflected by light. Skull’s grid moves units indistinctly: windshield & palette cross paths, hatch an Ovidian shift, difixiones to devotio; the faux-gorithm teases pantheon from closet, traces flotilla’s down, hot air balloons, celebrating you or prairie fair. You’ll learn to kill that hunger for thunderhead drift. I follow shapes of your speech, attend to your syntax, taste your configuration; to keep up I sketch stick figure, code hypertext script cascading in style, the result of which confirms, again: we’re lost. Plot is a plait’d plat, flatland destination & another assemblage? I want aura to invite aural meiosis, aurora splitting into rural roads, for the bassoon quartet to be forgiven for plastic bag reeds on my direction, for aria to, moody, move into a different mode & travel out through spring’s open window; I want the racket splenetic melancholy, for dynamic accompaniment fit for unfashionable passion, the like. That state of exilium you described as a quantum between. Always pain hover triangulated. Frame Matisse with me, guilty stokes both— say the magnolia blooms shall remain & not at the expense of any other but they do not. Creek diverted, river dead: suck’d dry wax & cone though still dragonflies are purple, abdomen metallic sets of curvature & husk. Nearby: field of lightning. We walk through fjords of light forking down, resisting electrocution, naturally. The taste of our nakedness waking in early in your bed, black walnut leaves catching first October light. If I leave the house or library I sit on benches in Walmart or go to the Coralville mall alone, growing frosting in my chest & English ivy in my sinuses, scribble notes with my fork-tongue alone. Walk with me this once, again, into notional forest, ash-grey landscape dotted in umber, newborn beetles radiating, cobalt blue.   Skykomish in Summer In Goldbar Washington boys crossed river with driftwood staves feet slick-step between slime & rock, underbelly of serpentine but liquefied, algal nets stretch’d between toes, Like scales without edge—stiffened Cold after crossing they crawl’d up & into caverns allowing in fractions of sun but they felt cradled in a way shielded, intimacies there before they dove into round pools spun by spit current’s swirls, the bank of the cove gritty enough for a grip as they’d climb out out of sorts, alive they’d look at the congregation from which they just emerged tangle of nets, sunken conflagrations their bodies against the wake pressed a force there, quiet, endless, sound moving through medium beckoning, shape taking a form inky jar, turbine spat out from the bottom of an oil well.   Grass Cuts Nyanza Street. South Tacoma—we’re on A hill & approach it, tall grass, foreclosure. Blackberry brambles thick on the lawnslope purple, thorns & stickers, irritable touch. Boss climbs roofs with too steep a pitch; Hauls mowers from mud when I mire it Good in a ditch. His daughter today works with us, we weedwhack waist-high grass, rake clippings & tufts long enough to be hay in neat quadrants. They steam mornings we make it out as early as seven. A canopy borders the two-acre lot. I stare – emptying’s substance against nothingness of total inattention’s default setting. Metal asphalt shingles, roof’s pitch steep Low ground valley & everywhere: unhinged Botany thrives. Ivy plaits helices Around five-feet in diameter firs, in follow some twenty feet up when Jamie grabs a pitchfork. See something. It skitters through raked mounds, Goes through tunnels punctured By tines or cleat-roller aerating the lawn She shanks its body up against weed- blocker & brick. A metallic pling rings fades, she scoops it somewhere— this brought up her enjoyment killing, dressing, & cooking fowl. We move more grass I looking for insects, think of meat saws yawning day & night do they Day & night, fumbling—sound like chain saws or Colorado cattle feedlots, cottonwoods standing by during a drought, the sugar factory’s honey-butter burnt hair & soccer cleats left for week in a car. Mulch, juncos, midmorning sun on, sun off, Rake, return, pile, killing rabbits once we snapped their necks wrong, twice partial Breaks, botching it, both shaking we Shared an acute horror in our optics. Then we crushed their skulls with a hammer, But that’s when we lived near the volcano, when the halcyon sensation when standing at the bottom of Nisqually glacier, the sheaves of receding rose-grey gravel in aggregate felt like meteoroid field sent to grave resting place, armatures of old growth First & hemlocks in steep fractals jagged landings in glaciated river so thick with silt it looked an ash-blue sleeve. We take HUSKY 55-gal. trash bags of grass to the organic waste dump. We smell like gasoline & two-cylinder oil & grease. When I get home my house mama says Pew-whee! You smell like Marty; you smell like something that kills.   Shards What was it that came out the water in a sled a Wayward gesture young-&-stuffed Mess to common rendition Duchamp’s Pearl Neckless? In his version The sledgehammer fell square to carcass/shard/caress. You wanted/saved like anyone else wanted, A sequence of diadems, diamondic scales on A yellow python’s back. Be-figure, a mole Amongst slag pits, a slog truce from igneous slab. Bats tunnel boroughs, funnel rigmarole We keep one ray or dot of spun molybdenum— Torque at the end of the…—that glint relieves Grog, luster, a clutch lets cable go its single, slackening line. True fundament! come to the party— From up there, from below? Come beat through this bog’s Excrement, creakily swung skew joints, fallen centurions, Carve away gluttony,—an economic model Levels the field of every thistle’s purple demarcation. Remains disappear. Binary caskets Glisten polyurethane on oak grab it… If - you – get – to – the – place To – get – you – the – records: Prefabricated dirt tastes discard bottles, Skittling crevice, crick or face, collections Binding fractures. That which goes unseen. Make & model, blue castes. Signature mummies. Huffing. That kinetic thrill Pushing hammers through Masonite, Bulls snorting horns at a flag The very requiem of the horse’s eye A black so dark it blued the muscle in deafening Postures of grey fog: a way: body: yes, a shard, Blight-bit, a descending distend, steep bends— A weather system approaches Centripetally, a large unformed cat, To distillate—nothing—to pray to the grommet, One ventricle, alas—poor valve, the idea Of the river. The river. Is. Itself. Course vessel in a Losing resonance a tributary vacillation tip-toed beyond A materiality that is, is not, any old trick.   Spilling the Flour Began not thrush’s stamp, nor cardinal blue whistle but The sour flack going out, the waist line spilt. Emptying cylinders combed in sheet metal corrugate, Fill another vision, the conveyor belt muscle Persuasion. Sometimes a harvest sits like pheasants Before buckshot, freeze-frame, promise cannon— What will be. Corn stalks chopped at maggot root twist Wind crowing a parade, sans confetti, sans soleil. Platoon the distant mist, forgetting it’s metal multiplied In numbers not quantity. Not fog. That’s fire But the wound continuum in ears splits hair mimics a mime Brown cerumen flax spreads flat lays down in- To a line. Elements bind fetch needle & borrow thread Stitch from denim you see the voices hear. Spiders don’t mean to. Bats garner a wick of light Against normalcy of shadow. When is not Important. Con memory commemorate ingrown toe- Nail sunk into rib-line fleshed out for sake Of sake of being. Forsaken lake: equivalent to constrictor Vine, not theorem. Carpet moves imagined Equestrians run between alder beetles the abandoned Horses heaving in the meadow along the orange Vector. The chemilume incision furcates the dark shells Guarding liquefied innards, the many legs.   The Awful Cutlery Traveling by Greyhound between Dominguez- Escalante and Grand Mesa National forest, We’re full enough In the filled up four-wheel lurch on blacktop I-70 elegantly swung across Secluded Rocky Mountain scrag. “This shit’s too country” a woman remarks. You see what she means. The rosaries Of apricot, peach, cherry, and plum disintegrate Vineyard to vineyard to bottle To California, mid-stride Maybe she means. Maybe Damian The off-shore welder tells me about hanging above The water, rigged up, slung out, strapped in, Gluing thousand-degree metal to solid stack Rigs, working twelves till three months pass So he can go—“I go everywhere”—to complicate Home—“Love Alabama but I need to see it all The whole shit.” Dusk is a disk with a predictable arc. I’m here twenty years, this red land. From bottom canyon ditch combs Of bygone eon drag across mesa, leaving scar, Evidence of water, wind, shaggy coats left To bear, bear themselves, on other creatures Pitching, tent-by-tent, a story, a new story, old. The mother tells you, you & me, of Rocky Mountain Flats, the Climax Uranium Mill, A fire beginning with a crack, croaking a Groan to a glow, plutonium then, dizzied in dust, Vapored amoeba flung across the whole Front Range. Cows were the first to show up Without usual parts: eye, ear or triple-tongue. Do I believe anything I say anymore? Set that head against Plexiglas. Feel the chill— A lavender fork makes an albino tarantula Of sky, yet there’s a merge, the speech Corks off. Into each direction, asymmetry Between passengers a music nonetheless, The hiddenness behind tall sediment walls Now, this cutlery mass Stalking hungry movers, clawing at the dirt To reveal the intact pores of a distant femur.   Safe/Way Courtesy Clerk In the aisles of nondescription halogen baleen Sifts shop-cart rift-racket & geriatric dances. Old/new toothpick paradigm cues a mist/turn: Old is to new as young is to old, meaning Painting the urn in synthesizer blue still undoes. The unheard chambers are sweeter. Polyethylene is a mon-on- monomer ladder of Chain-stacks, bindings, writes the blurb We’re all in this together. Savings save you From it, from it you’ll be saved the lapse: Western tanager memorizes its own memory Launched in citrus beneath the varied canopy. Really: in this Safeway a woman chutes Hundreds of one-liters into the re/cycle Machine. She leans on cart rail, no wheel. Her child helps he laughed he threw them into The bin, the coins emerged. Someone said Music moves from a fix-point fence post, studded Down into ground. He’s right—what is there to do But do, bag up a customer’s purple cabbage Dreams stuff them sweet potato mush- Room into room, sacked. They’d blister From oxygen’s lack they’d try to make it, try To survive. Wouldn’t it be courteous To curtsy before bags bulge as balloons stuffed With vision? Even in tulip & rose section I Hand out the foxtail elixir, all the loot; were they Bodies turned down, turned into what now, soup? The day is butternut squash but wouldn’t A lizard do today let’s get all the gutter newts Recalling now how Scooby returned From a long drive he threw an iguana On the chopping block on the counter top In the apartment he was making soup He sawed off its head. What was inside The eyes? Nothing much. Eye cones con, resemble The black glass of a tick’s back. You’ll try To reach in & what — find out who looks back Tell yourself that’s you looking back. A gaze. Scooby ran cool water over the head, on it. Its jaw opened and closed again & again. “This is good soup that’s what happens After the head’s cut off.” What would the body Do after, what voice would reclaim itself, Would reconvene re — gather protest against scores Settled, dust made fall silk, unnoticed? What takes when taken back, how’ll things Exactly as they are be exactly as they’d been? What music shapes the marina, the guitar Rustling out a poison ivy arpeggio to become The place and the things of things as they are? How do you bargain or take the lead For the dreaded duet? The mouth opens cilia Tongue juts out pink premonition the sky boom Nitro’s paisley maize radished in the Word-Ward. Blue pollen doesn’t exist but when the man Who looks one-hundred buys the dyed-blue orchid & says “it’s for my” I cut him off & ask but He just laughs & says “it’s just a flower it’s just An empty bag” & walks out, away, toward Automatic sensor doors, glass partitions that open Like megafauna with a belly full of a world on fire.

[alrightinbed-betterwithapen]

i always tell the truth, even when i lie

{chapter one}

Dark Mob Boss!David x Reader

•••••

“What the actual FUCK, David?! This wasn’t even suppose to require protection, and now we’re in a fucking firefight!” Heath is screaming from behind the black SUV they'd grabbed before going out to meet a few lackeys from a rival gang to talk terms of an upcoming merger and how it would affect the street level men both sides had employed. The bearded man was leaning out from behind the cover of the car every couple of minutes, returning gunfire, when the assholes across the abandoned parking building stop shooting to reload.

David is livid. It really wasn’t suppose to be a big deal, he’d been assured personally of the low key, safe environment that was being set up. But, that was an obvious fucking lie. Now, the leader is crouched behind an Escalade, taking fire from some asshole punks that think they know what they’re doing.

They don’t, or they wouldn’t have tried to take David out. You don’t lie to David, and you definitely don’t try to double cross him. It doesn’t end well for anybody. David’s already coming up with a plan that ends with him torturing the leader of this pathetic operation and taking all the resources they once used. The gunshots are like a soundtrack of future pain for the dark headed boss as he plots, ruining his new Gucci track pants in the gravel where he’s huddled.

Alex is on his right, hastily reloading his signature platinum long barreled hand gun, cussing up a storm and, yelling back at Heath over the deafening sounds, “Yeah, obviously things have been amped up a couple notches, bud! Let’s just take these guys out and get home. We’ll figure out how to fucking end them later!”

David’s on his phone, looking up the easiest exits that aren’t covered by the angered men. It was looking grim. They were going to have to fight these guys off, or jump off the sixth floor of the abandoned parking garage. Both seem unlikely with the calculations David was mentally doing. 

“Yeah, Alex! For sure, it’s not like we’re outnumbered five to one! And David doesn’t even have a fucking gun!” Heath is hollering back, punching the side of the black vehicle when his SMG runs out of ammo. 

“Shut the fuck up. Both of you. I know what we need to do-,” David’s starting to explain as a giant explosion goes off directly across from the way from the SUV they’re using as a barrier. The Infinity crossover SUV that had been the blockade for the main exit was blow sky high, the men around the vehicle killed and thrown outwards and away from the decimated luxury car. The vehicles blocking the two additional exits come to life mere moments after the explosion and are burning out in their haste to leave the building, fleeing as if they’re the ones who are out gunned. 

David looks frantically to Alex and Heath who are as shocked as he is, the source of the game changing grenade not coming from either of them. David slowly peeks his head up, looking through the blasted out drivers side window to inspect the flaming wreckage and dead bodies littered around the concrete floor. Standing and moving around their now bullet hole riddled SUV, the man’s eyes flutter around the room, trying to find the source of their savior.

“You know,” a sweet, feminine voice starts, making David’s head snap to the stairwell adjacent to the central exit that had been previously cut off, “Tomas told me you guys were hot shit. I didn’t expect to find you being led into a trap by the idiots that run the Irvine Kings. Good thing I was following you, or Tomas would have had to find another group of YouTubers to run coke to Insta models.” 

The woman reveals her self, stalking up the stairs and crossing the distance to the three remaining men. She’s in head to toe tactical leather and has a wicked grin etched on her full lips as she reprimands the men. Heath is shaking his head angrily and going to inspect the wreckage, ignoring the woman to let his boss take care of.

They let her approach, Alex’s grip still tight on his gun, ready to put a bullet in the woman at the first wrong move. David isn’t worried though. If she wanted to kill them, they would already be dead. Alex implores,

“You know Tomas?” 

“I work for Tomas. Well, I’m contracted by Tomas. He wanted me to make sure this meeting went smoothly. And, well...” she laughs, spreading her arms out and doing a little sway to point out that the gathering had in fact not gone well.

“Yeah, no. It fucking went south,” Alex says through gritted teeth, seething at her accurate but annoying point. He’s begrudging when he admits, “Thanks for the save.”

“No problem,” she replies, moving along the hood of the car closer to them and fingering the bullet holes. She turns her full attention to David at this point, lecturing, “You guys are impressive. On paper. But, I guess it’s going to take some first hand experience to realize even the smallest, dumbest of gangs aren’t anything to look down your nose at. That’s how you get killed.”

“Yeah, we fucking know now!” Heath hollers from behind the woman, crossing the distance to rejoin the conversation, scowling at the woman before joining David’s side. 

She looks at them like they’re nothing and it should piss David off. It doesn’t, it makes him want to know more about her. It makes him wonder why she isn’t impressed with his age and the accomplishments Tomas has had to have bragged about. He’s intrigued by the woman.

“Well,” she breathes out a faked sigh of worry, acting as if she cares about their fate at all, “Tomas isn’t going to be happy-,” she’s starting to explain, but David cuts her off, making hands that tell his men to get in the car as he rounds the woman at the hood and stalks his way to the drivers seat.

“Tomas is going to be fucking thrilled. Because now I have an excuse to tear the Kings apart. I’m going to take everything they’ve amassed and make it ours. Go tell Tomas that! And tell him not to send his little spies after me, or next time they won’t return to him in one piece,” David grand stands to the girl from the car, who doesn’t react in the slightest as he starts the vehicle and revs the engine as she stands in front of it. 

She doesn’t move, doesn’t flinch. She just smiles at the man whose cheeks had gone red from their interaction but not almost being killed. 

(It’s the first power struggle the two will have, but not the last.) 

She side steps out of the way, arms crossed and still grinning when David pulls up so that he can speak to her one last time through the busted window. 

“What’s your name?”

“That’s not important.”

“It is to me. I’d like to know the name of the person that could have watched us die, but didn’t.”

“Well, in that case, I guess you could call me Angel.”

“That’s not your real name.”

“No. It isn’t. Have a good night, Dobrik. And stop fucking up. I don’t like cleaning up after boys with big egos and lack of foresight.”

And then she’s turning to walk away and down the steps she’d taken to reveal herself. David can only stare, intrigued more than he should be for the amount of planning he needs to do in that moment. It takes Alex, punching his arm and telling him now’s not the time to worry about pussy for David to actually drive away.

His best friend is right. 

He’s got work to do.

•••••

“Daaavid,” Tomas is scolding through the phone, the vlogger pacing in his home as Alex has blueprints laid out on his pool table, planning tactical entrances to the Irvine Kings hide out with their friends, “You were suppose to get this simple merger done for me. And now you’re going to try to take them out completely?”

“Yeah, it’ll work out for all of us in the end,” David says, trying to keep his voice placating for the man he works for, “You know I can do this.”

“I do, but your lack of insight has me worried. You were ambushed by a small time operation. What if I hadn’t sent someone to-”

“Yeah, that won’t happen again, ever,” David interrupts, confident truth apparent in his words. David always learns from his mistakes and then never makes them again. Like with Gabbie.

“Good. I’m glad to hear it. And I’m glad you understand you won’t be receiving any more help from me in this endeavor.”

“Of course, but,” David says, trailing off to concoct his words in the way he needs to, to manipulate the man, “The amount of men will out weigh mine heavily. And your girl you sent to spy on us, she has tactical experience, huh?”

“Yes, David,” Tomas relents, exasperation clear in his voice.

“Well, I just assume you’d want the Kings assets in tact when we eliminate them. We can take them out guns blazing, but I don’t know how much will be left or how much we’ll be able to extract from the dead bodies. Like where their cash is hidden and which warehouse they store their goods at. It might be nice to have her-,”

“Yes, yes, alright. You can have her for this. I’ll send her over and she’ll help you this once. But David?”

“Yeah?” 

“You fail me again, and I’ll have her ruin everything you’ve built. Do you understand?”

“Of course, Tomas,” David says through gritted teeth as the line dies.

Alex turns from the chattering men, eye brow cocked in question, “You’re really gonna let her help us? Especially with our long term plan?”

“Yeah, she has explosives we don’t. Which means she had access to other weapons we wouldn’t have otherwise.”

Alex is walking outside, following the leader and leaving the boys to finish the research themselves. The door is closed and they’re alone in the backyard before David continues speaking.

“She’d be a good insider to have.”

“Yeah,” Alex begins wearily, “But she works for him. How are we suppose to guarantee any kind of loyalty? You want another weekend of torture in your basement that may not even work because she obviously has hands on experience with upper leadership? She’s a fucking wildcard, man.”

“She is. But not for us. Didn’t you hear her? She’s contracted by Tomas. She doesn’t work for him, she made that clear by correcting herself. She works for the money he gives her.”

“And what about power? People who only work for money, and not status, will always give up their employers for a better opportunity. What makes you think she won’t do the same to us?”

“Because, Alex, we’re not blind. We’re not dumb. We’re observant. And, she doesn’t work for just money. She works for the thrill. I can give her thrill. I can give her the time of her fucking life,” David monologues, hands playing with his Cartier rings. He has big plans for the girl, he just needs to get Alex on board.

“Okay, Dave. Fine. What do you want her doing in this? Are we just getting weapons from her?”

“Yeah, weapons, but also planning. I want you to take her under your wing. I’m going to have very little time to figure her out, so I need you to do it. I trust your eyes more than anyone else’s. I’m gonna work with the Corinna and Erin to set up some insiders in the Kings before we start. You and the boys plan out the tactical aspects of the attack. And while you’re doing it, you decide whether we can make her into what we need to,” David tells the man, who only nods in agreement. Alex’s opinion is vital to David (who understands he’s currently under the mysterious woman’s charm). 

David’s opinion on her would be biased. And no decision involving Kova could be biased, especially by him. He’s not just brainwashing some dainty, city girl into being a gang member. He would actively be stealing an asset from the most powerful man in Los Angeles. He needed to be careful and he needed to know the venture was even worth the hassle in the first place.

Alex would give him a straight answer before he invests any more future plans into the girl.

(She’s the key though. To taking down Tomas. She just needs to prove herself.)

•••••

And she fucking does.

She spends the next day and half by Alex’s side, planning three different avenues of attack and several contingency plans in case everything goes to shit.

Alex spends the time subtly picking her brain and is impressed. This girl knows what she wants and how to get it, she isn’t worried by the bodies left in her wake. She lives for thrill and adrenaline and being the best at what she does.

Which she is.

She leads the surprise attack with Alex, calling out orders and leading their men like she’s been doing it all her life. She goes out of her way to save the lives of Zane and Scotty, which seals the deal for Alex. Her only real order from Tomas was to get the job done and not let David or Alex die. But here she was, watching out for Kova like she belonged.

Which, by the end of the attack, she really did seem to belong. Alex wanted her forever on their side. She was dangerous and cunning and everything that Alex saw in himself and his best friend, but with tits.

The only injury that Kova took was Liza’s ear that had been grazed by a stray bullet.

(Angel’s bullet in fact, and it wasn’t that stray, but Alex would never tell. He already liked the new girl better than the one-time saint his best friend was currently fucking.)

The woman also leaves the Irvine King’s leader, Robert, alive. Only a bullet to the kneecap, so that the leaders of Kova could have their fun with him.

The rest of the group are heading out to rest or celebrate the success of the night, when David and Alex settle down to torture the man that had deceived them. Alex calls Angel over, asks her if she wants to stay and watch, maybe participate.

David can only give Alex a knowing, amused look. His best friend would only offer that to someone he trusts, someone who is Kova. And that gesture is Alex’s answer to David regarding the new girl.

A simple invitation that let the leader know that yes, Angel could be trusted and that she had potential to be part of their fucked up family.

David doesn’t know what makes him happier; the screams Robert makes when he cuts out his eyes or the air of belonging Angel gives off as she sits on Alex’s lap and watches.

She’s perfect.

(He watches her rip Robert’s fingernails off with a giggle and David vows to give her the world.

But, only after he’s carved out his own spot with a bloodied knife.)

•••••

Mob Boss Au Masterlist

[the-canary]

Languages of Saints - C.R (7/10)

Summary: A deal isn’t supposed to involve feelings, right? (Reader/Carter Baizen).

Prompt: “Did you enjoy yourself last night?”

A/N: for @imcarterbaizen​ old challenge. shout out to my bff @ilsa-faustus because i know nothing about high end brands, and she helped picked the clothes for this. please don’t take the person wearing the dress as an actual visual of the main character, it is simple a reference for you to make a basis out of.  

Masterlist

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5 | Part 6 

Feedback is always appreciated.

It’s easy to let work pile up, to let it be the only thing that dominates your mind to and back home from work. Numbers and words are easier to handle the people and emotions, you tend to ignore those until the fester and it’s too late -- work is always there with a straightforward answer in its numbers and it doesn’t talk back. You can disconnect with it and it doesn’t hurt like when a person stops interacting with you, maybe that’s why you could handle Rocio so well. Roci was forest fire that hid after she burned herself out and didn’t come back until she was some semblance of her former self -- for all the insane schemes she had put you through the years, she had never showed you that softer side of her personality -- and you never had either.

Okay, maybe that wasn’t the complete truth. There bits here and there, like the garden party, where you would stand by your best (and only) friend if it was called for. And in the same, twisted sort of way -- Rocio tried her best to protect you too. Though, it was too damn early to be sending her cryptic text messages when you had work in the morning

Don’t do it. You’ll just get hurt in the end.    

You move from your bed, as Monsieur makes a loud meow at the interruption to his sleep. You check the time again to see that it’s 4am. You groan and wonder what she means, roll around a bit more -- forgetting all about the message and going back to those strange dreams filled with cold numbers and equally as icy blue eyes -- not that you remember anything when your real time to wake up when morning comes around.

However, Carter Baizen isn’t the same type of rich person as Rocio. He likes poking and prodding at people in his own way until he finds something that bothers them. It had taken him a long while, but once he had found a weakness of yours; he went in for the kill. You were a natural workaholic and while it was something that he admired, it was also something he exploited after the gala event incident. No, it wasn’t that he made you work more, but in his own cheekiness of mentioning how he could ruin the events leading up to gala.

Since agreeing to being his plus one, it had opened some type gate to him trying to get a rise out of you. In the events you needed to attend, he was always dressed to the nines in Hugo Boss suits, but the moment someone turned around he was always making some type of slide remark and he did in moments where the possibility of getting caught was high. At this point you weren’t sure if he was trying to make you mad or trying to make you laugh. As in the current moment, Carter Baizen had taken you to a quick dinner with some “very”  important people in downtown Manhattan.

Personal assistant could be added to your resume at this point, but you weren’t sure that the scantily clad woman next to the man was here for the same reason as you. The man was complaining to the waiter about his steak when you hear a small murmur above the classical music.

“Always does it,” you glance to your right side to see sparkling blue eyes and a wagging eyebrow and you put two and two together. This man of high status complained about his steak to get it cheaper all the time. You don’t know why, maybe it’s the lack of sleep, the way he shakes his head with a silent laugh, or just how ridiculous the situation is that it has you letting out a snort, catching everyone’s attention as you grab your handkerchief pretend to sneeze.

“Excuse me,” you manage to say, as the man simply scolds you before going back to talking with Mr. Baizen. You can’t help the smile that blooms on your face for a moment, one that you try to hide behind the wine glass, as the meeting continues.

However, after everything is said and done, after the drunk business man and his “date” leave, Carter Baizen can’t help but let out a loud laugh into the humid New York air as your shake your head.

“What an idiot,” Carter lets out with while placing his hands into his pockets, you just shake your head but can’t help but agree silently, not that you would ever tell him. However, as he runs a hand through his hair with laugh lines around his eyes, you can’t help but think it looks good on him compared to all the other times you have interacted with him.

“You’re child, Mr. Baizen,” is all you’ll say on the subject, as he keeps laughing.  

The second time you think Carter Baizen is playing with you is when you come back from lunch and have a beautifully suited woman sitting on your desk. Her blonde hair is flowing to her shoulders. She’s wearing a pure white suit and accessories all over her hands and neck that you are sure cost more than you’ll ever make. However, the thing that stands out most are her high heels that shine gold in the artificial light, you pause momentarily out fear at the entrance of your office door, as beautifully painted brown eyes stare at you. Her mouth twitches just a little as you duck your head in.

“Umm, where you waiting for me?” you ask timid to stare, much less speak to such a stylish woman. It was easier with Rocio after years of friendship, but this woman was something all together. She drops down her legs from the desk and smiles.

“I’m Cameron,” she explains as you close the door, “One of Carter Baizen’s personal stylists, but for today I’ll be handling your dress attire for the gala.”

“I don’t think I need help dressing up,” you freeze up mortified at the attention and money suddenly being placed into what you wore, something that you still aren’t used to even after that shopping spree, “I’m sorry for wasting your time.”

“Ah, he said you would say that,” Cameron just keeps smiling while pulling out her phone and relaying a certain message, “Mr. Baizen says: Tell my lovely date, that I am personally paying for your services. It is a waste of your time and my money not to have her at her best, especially with so many potential donors for the children’s hospital. If not I could find someone with --”

“Please stop ,” you groan out, as she gives you a pointed smile, “So what do you need of me?”

“Your body,” she states as your eyes grow wide at her tone. She stands up, heels echoing on the linoleum, and crosses the distance between the two of you before pushing you outside once more, “And for you to do everything I say without a fuss.”

“I-I can try,” you say nervously as she drags your across the office and into the elevators. It isn’t much of a scene, but Cameron’s outfit and you just being out is enough to have a few eyes staring at you. Nick looks on from the water cooling station before waving at you to have a good whatever it is you’re doing.

“Thanks!” you yell back, as the blond chuckles behind you. You’re a little fearful over her next words as she takes you to the elevator -- where she is leading you, you have no clue.

“Just watch, we’ll have Carter Baizen graveling at your feet, sweetie.”

You don’t know if you should be excited or angry at the man who you are sure will be laughing about this later.

 Carter Baizen isn’t sure why he is feeling so nervous as he walks around the large hallway leading to the gala he is too attend this evening. He is perfection in a black on black Armani suit with his hair slicked back in just the right angle. He had his selling pitch ready for anyone that is even hesitating to give tonight with the charm amped up to 10x more than usual. Nothing could get in his way tonight, except that his date wasn’t here yet. Cameron had messaged him that there were few problems with the original dress and she was getting a new one last minute. It meant that you didn’t come together as planned, now he was waiting with no updates -- something that drove him a little stir crazy. He’s about have a very angry phone call with one of his favorite stylists, but then he hears it.

“And who are you with, miss?” the maitre d asks.

“I’m Mr. Carter Baizen’s plus one,” there is an unusual pitch to the voice that is usually so sarcastic and fiesty with him, but Carter at this point knows it by heart. Blue eyes look up and freeze at the sight in front of him. Hair pinned back with just a bit of makeup but bright red lips. They match your knee-length dress and jacket in its red-and-black combo with red heels to finish the combo.

He’s mesmerized, making a reminder that he needs to give Cameron extra the next time he sees her. He gets tunnel vision for a moment, as you get closer to him -- a worried look on your face.

“I’m sorry, something happened to the Chanel dress last minute. Cameron found this though,” you sway a little to emphasize the new dress and smile, “I think it looks better though.”

“Yeah, it looks great,” he tries to says as nonchalant as possible before grabbing your hand, though you give him a look that causes him to laugh, “None of that tonight. Smile and sell what you gotta for those kids, but not everything.”

His joke causes you to shake your head but he can feel you ease up just a little at you take your first steps into the large and highly decorated ballroom . Your eyes growing for moment.

“Mr.Bai--” you start, only to have him cut you off.

“ Tut tut , it’s Carter for tonight,” he reprimands you, which causes you to frown as blue eyes stare at your red lips for a moment. He knows for sure they are going to be a distraction for the rest of the night. But, instead of listening to whatever fears you might have due to fully emerging into the world of the filthy rich and famous of NYC, he just grabs your hand tighter and pulls you head first into the shark den. It was a bit harsh, but he knew you had it in you.

“Don’t forget to smile,” he chuckles quietly as the first old, wealthy couple makes its way to the two of you.

 Carter knows that there might some ramifications in letting you go on your own to talk to people here and there throughout the event. You were fresh meat for them without the cynical nature some rich people had. There was also the chance that someone might get too touchy-feely with you or someone talked in a certain way about your relationship with him because there were also rumors floating around when it came to him. But, he believed in your level-headedness and natural charisma that seemed to shine in the oddest of moments, plus he knew by now that you cared deeply about cause like this.

Nevertheless, he always stays close to you and as he watches you work your magic on the Livingstons, then the Winthrops, hell even the old Vanderbilt heiress falls under your spell as he watches each one of them head up front and make a donation after talking to you. You just might be even better than him, as he watches you laugh and talk to a certain famous news anchor. And for a moment he wonders it this is just all naturally you or something you have cultivated from knowing Rocio for so long. Eventually after talking and mingling, you end up sitting in one of the many side tables, jacket resting on the chair, as he comes to your side.   

“So, how are you enjoying yourself?” he asks, as you look up from your small tray of finger food with a tired smile, though the effect from hours before still hasn’t faded away. He grabs your hand and drags you to the large dancing space. You groan in annoyance, but say nothing, which Carter considers a win as he slips a hand around your waist and you place a hand on his shoulder, frown in place like always. He’s just getting used to it to live with it.  

“It’s nice, I guess,” you explain after a smile, as the song dies and a new one begins. It isn’t the same as the garden party. There isn’t any joking around as the soft jazz music plays and he drags you just a bit closer.

“But, not your thing?” he asks, as you shake your head. You bit your lip in thought for a moment, as blue eyes zoom into the action before you start talking once more.

“Hmm, I’m sure that some people would love this glitz and glamour, spending time dancing and eating the best food while wearing an expensive dress,” you look down motion to said fancy thing before admitting the truth, “But in all honesty, I would rather be eating Thai with Monsieur right now.”

“Monsieur?” he has heard everything you had said, and while he mull over it later, Carter asks about the thing strange in that statement.  

“Ah, my pet cat,” you clarify as he nods, though ready to add something. However, you beat him to the punch, “And yes, I’ve already heard the old cat lady jokes.”

He laugh as you look away in embarrassment but then think about everything you had said on how you would rather be relaxing than putting up pretenses, and he can’t help but agree. So instead of going back to the table were your jacket is placed, he starts heading toward the entrance. In your confusion you protest just a little, though thankful that all your important stuff in a small pocket on the side of the dress as Carter Baizen drags you from the gala event --clock close to striking midnight-- and to god knows where.      

 You never make it an easy job for Carter Baizen to have you enter his car, as you frown and complain that you aren’t going anywhere without knowing to which borough he had in mind. He can’t help but reminisce to the party all those months back and grin before letting you know that you were heading to Brooklyn for some real food -- something your stomach greatly approved of. This lead to you and the Carter Baizen to be sitting in your formal wear on a bench on the side of of the Brooklyn Bridge with a pizza between the two of you. It’s silent for a long while, as both of you take your fill, though you try your hardest to make sure the dress doesn’t get any food on it. The silence eventually bothers Carter too much, as he asks the first thing that pops into his head, while staring at the murky waters not that far away.

“So, do you enjoy this type of stuff,” he asks as you turn to look at him, searching for a further explanation, “Charity, helping people?”

“You’re really are a rich boy,” you say with a little malice, as if you had an old anger for something you couldn’t stop years ago, “But, not everyone has the type of money to have preventative care or to pay for their medicine.”

“Who?” he can’t help but ask because he knew the everyone at Baizen Co. had a pretty good healthcare packet compared to other companies, especially you. So, it had to be something connected to your past and it go him curious.

“Doesn’t matter,” you cut him off from learning anything about the part of your life, before taking a bite of pizza, closing off this part of the conversation, “Nostalgia won’t bring the things you love back.”

“How noble of you,” he bites back like a child, as you frown.

“Ah… thank you for the backhanded compliment,” you bite back and he can’t help but be caught off guard that you are calling him back on his attitude in your own way.  

“I didn’t mean like that,” he gives a weak excuse as it’s your turn to have that particular grin on your face, in order to push back the unpleasant thoughts of what you had just talked about.

“Hmm,” is all you say as a response.

“You’re a tough one to crack,”  he admits in annoyance, before running a hand through his hair as it to emphasize his exasperation towards you even more. Though, he should know that the feeling was mutual by now.   

“Would you want it any other way?” you start before going off, while pointing at him with annoyance in your voice, but not much else as when he first meet you,  “Or do you enjoying having those young ladies falling at their feet, calling you nicknames, what are they --Saint Carter, Car Car -- while none of the work gets done? I’ve known you long enough to know that you appreciate efficiency over anything else.”

“Ah, you have me there,” he states with a shiteating grin on his face at your little tirade, leaning back onto the bench, full from the meal as he adds on,“Spitfire.”

“Now that’s a compliment, Mr. Baizen,” you nod, before adding much to his surprise, “So, got any good stories to tell?”

“Like what?” he asks while turning just to look at you -- more carefree than usual underneath the moon and streetlights that he wished he had a camera to capture the moment.  

“Like Texas or Machu Pichu?” you tease, remembering what Rocio had told you once from her own stories,  and hopeful to move the discussion into something happier, “Maybe even that Bass famous rivalry?”

“You really wanna hear about all that?” Carter asks, a curious uptick in his voice as he wonders why you would want to know about all the stupid things he had done back in his youth. You just shake your head and laugh.  

“Entertain me,” ( It’s a date isn’t it?) is the thing you want to tack on, but shut your mouth at such a thought, regardless of anything else this man was your boss ahead of anything else.

You pause even more staring at the pizza in your hand, as Carter starts telling you stories that have you laughing at his antics and the general attitude that all these rich people had, but you could see how this allowed Mr. Baizen to con them, though things didn’t always end up well for him as times either. And while you enjoy the rest of the night, you can’t help but think towards the end  -- when the hell did your view of Carter Baizen change?  

Don’t do it. You’ll just get hurt in the end.    

You hear Rocio’s words ringing in your head, completely unaware that said man was looking at you like you have hung yp all the stars in the sky.

Part 8

[imagineclaireandjamie]

Memory, Part Two

Notes from Mod Kate:

This is a continuation of @lindseyylu17’s request for: 

Jamie and Jenny move Murtaugh (or maybe Brian or Ellen) into a nursing home. They struggle with the decision. Claire is a nurse at the home.

The content is consistent with the prompt.

Catch up:

Part One

The scones were still warm from the oven.  The heat radiated out through the paper box as Jamie carried them into the nursing home.  Sunset Meadows.  The name of the place felt like profanity in his head and he wondered how his family had gotten to this point. 

But he knew as soon as the thought flicked over his mind precisely how had it come to pass that his Da was in Sunset Meadows. 

The search that Tuesday afternoon had been frantic.

Jamie left directly from work with a mumbled half-truth to his assistant about Jenny needing something. Everyone knew where he was going anyway and he flew up the A90.   From the city to Lallybroch in record time. His tires sent up a storm of gray dust as he skid to a stop on the gravel driveway. 

“How the fuck can ye lose him, Janet?” he snapped before even one foot out was out the door of his car.  He shook his hand – his knuckles had gone white from gripping the steering wheel and were tingling as blood rushed back into the skin.

Jenny was screaming at Ian into her cell phone to “get home god dammit, it’s Da.”  

“You try living here like this, James!” Jenny spat back, hands in her hair and the tears starting again.  Jamie was to her in two long steps, his car door half open and forgotten. “Ye look away for thirty seconds. Jamie… I–” 

Immediately, Jamie felt a rush of empathy overcome his frustration, his anger, his fear.  Nodding and sucking in a deep breath, he pulled his sister into his chest.  She struggled for one moment before giving into the embrace for a second moment.  She pulled away in the third moment.  

“Us brawlin’ is no’ goin’ to help us find Da.”  Jamie wiped a hand over his face, eyes darting around the lawn.  The sun was still high – summer, good. “Where have ye looked?”

The look in her eyes amped up again, the momentary calm of his embrace dissolving into nothingness.

“Everywhere,” she hissed.  When she wrapped her arms around herself, Jamie noted that she looked ill standing like that – too thin, too pale, rough and undone, exhausted.  “I have looked… fuckin’… everywhere.”

They separated, canvasing different directions in the search for their father.

Jamie came across their father after only eight minutes of looking (an entire eternity of sweaty palms, heavy breathing, and building of catastrophic hypotheticals). ‘Everywhere’ apparently did not include the road twisting around the eastern perimeter of the estate.   

Brian Fraser was crouched alongside the road, head in his hands. He approached cautiously, not wanting to frighten him. Jamie knew that he could handily outrun, outmaneuver, and outwit his father, but did not have confidence in his ability to do so without his father inadvertently hurting himself – a twisted ankle, a bruised wrist, a skinned knee.

“Da?” he called quietly, hands picking at the lint in the back pockets of his jeans. “What’re ye doin’ out here?”

Brian looked up, his face blank at first and then crunching into a pinched scowl. “Where in the hell is yer mam, lad? I’ve been searchin’ for her for hours.”

Jamie felt his gut drop – he was going to have to explain again that Ellen Fraser had been in the ground for two decades.  

“And how did ye get home from school? The bus has no’ been by. If ye skipped again, there’ll be hell to pay…”

Jamie lowered himself to the ground next to his father, placing a hand on his shoulder.

He had fought with Jenny at length about whether they should tell their father about their mother’s passing when he asked about her. Jenny preferred to fill the silence with what she called a “fib” – “mam’ll be by soon, da; dinna fash.” And their father would fall silent, placated by her response.  

Jamie did not have a hard time recognizing why Jenny did it. The allure was in the simplicity of it. The apparent humanity of sparing their father grief, confusion. The avoidance of an unpredictable response.

Jamie would have been lying to say that he was not sometimes tempted to follow Jenny’s example – to fabricate a business trip, an errand, their mother’s plan to return really soon.  

But Jamie refused to lie.  Instead he would carefully unwrap the truth for his da.

The conversation broke Jamie’s heart the first ten times he had to have it. He thought of his mother – her hair the deepest red in a sunset, her hands covered in almost-translucent skin and threaded with green veins, her laugh heavy and hearty and completely mismatched to a wispy voice.

He knew that the explanation of his mother’s absence was merely a statement shouted into the void.  Every word would fall away from his father’s memory in short order.  Nevertheless, he could not bring himself to lie about his mother. 

Jamie readied himself for an explosion of emotion and said, “Da, I’m twenty-nine years old.  Mam is dead.”

After a moment, Brian turned to Jamie with a fury in his eyes, his voice dripping with disdain.  “I ken yer mam’s dead, James. Ye dinna need to bring it up.”

Jamie pursed his lips and exhaled, resting his elbows on his knees and staring at his hands.  Telling him always ended differently. Sometimes a wailing that could raise the dead.  Other times a detached acceptance with a sighed “oh” in the same tone he would use to order food in a restaurant. Yet others a failure to register, the never-ending questions about the funeral, the how and the why, which would lead to Willie and the dam breaking.

“Okay,” Jamie eventually sighed, resigned, bowing his head. 

“Please, help me,” Brian deadpanned.  Jamie looked up – his father had tears in his eyes.  Though his words were firm, his chin was quivering.  “Why won’t you help me?”

Jamie rested his hand on his father’s thigh, giving it a gentle squeeze.  “I will help ye, da.”

And that was how they ended up in this place – Sunset Meadows.

Their visit rolled along easily. The weather.  The garden out behind the facility. The Six Nations rugby match between Scotland and Italy later in the afternoon.  His father’s plan to watch it with “some friends.”

And then a sputter and a cough, chunks of the scone –

“Fuck, da, are ye alr–” 

a gasp, Brian’s fist meeting the table –

a river: juice, coffee, melting together and rolling

Chunks of the scone –

a muttered “fuck” from Jamie –

Brian slapping the table –

“Da” and another “fuck” as Jamie exploded off of his seat towards his father –

Brian’s eyes watering, chest heaving –

a body slipping between them, crouching.

Time stopped.

The Nurse.  Not Nurse Claire. Just Claire.  Claire Randall.

Her voice was low and her hands were steady, her tone even and soothing.  After a few moments, Brian quit coughing.  The only evidence of the happening of it was the spray of spittle and crumbs on her scrub top, the slight cast of pink of Brian’s cheeks, the cold sweat pricking up along Jamie’s hairline.  

“What a mess, James,” Brian eventually said, looking down at the table and giving a little laugh. Jamie’s heart was still rattling, attempting to burst free through his sternum.  

Swallowing.  Was his da’s ability to swallow already going? That was a sign he was advancing. He needed more time – Jamie did, his father did. They needed to extract every exquisite memory out of his father’s faltering before he was no longer one with that mind.  And if he was having trouble swallowing, their time together was fleeting and–

Brian shrugged out from under Claire’s hand and said, “Weel, I no’ want to keep ye, Jamie.  That match’s starting soon and ye pair of kids should be out livin’ yer lives. Take yer lass out for a dram.”

Jamie nodded despite himself (the match wasn’t for another three hours; pair of kids?; his lass?) and moved to hug his father.  It was physical affection that they had rarely shown one another before the diagnosis, but they had added after the diagnosis whenever they parted.  It had been awkward at first: distance between chests and hips purposeful, slapping hands on shoulders, grunts of acknowledgment. And now Jamie hugged him fully, without protestation from his father, and whispered “see ye soon, da.”

“Beannachd leat, a charaid,” Brian said into his son’s neck.  Jamie stiffened almost imperceptibly.  And though she was not familiar with Jamie’s body, Claire could see the shift in his posture, the lines of his shoulders hardening and straightening.

“Bye, Da,” Jamie responded, giving him a kiss on the cheek.  

He watched as his father shuffled through the day room and back down the hall to his new room.  For a moment Jamie allowed a bitterness to crest over him.  They had moved him into this nursing home approximately eighteen hours earlier and Brian remembered where his room was.  He did not recall much of the twenty-nine years he had with his son.

Sensing the break in him, Claire rounded the table and began to sweep crumbs from the scones into her palm. “Here, let me help you.  I’m betting you probably want to get home.”

Grateful, Jamie mustered the best semblance of a smile he could and tossed a paper towel over the spilled coffee and juice.  “Thank you. I ken ye’re no’ custodial staff and this is below yer pay grade.”

Returning a half-smile, Claire just shrugged. “I don’t think about the things that happen here in terms of ‘pay grade,’ but you are very welcome.”

Once the table was wiped clean, Claire sat and crossed her legs, taking a scone from the box. “What does it mean?”

“What’s that now?” Jamie had no idea why, but he sat across from her at the table, crossing his legs at the ankle and reached for his own scone.

“What your father said to you… I am not even going to try to say it.”

“Oh.”  Jamie’s face fell slightly.  “Beannachd leat, a charaid.  It means ‘thank you, friend.’”  

He gave her a meaningful look.  Friend.  Not son.

“Oh.”  Claire’s response was an echo reverberating between them and mingling with their breath until she spoke again- trying to lighten the mood. “I really should learn some Gaelic, working here.”

“How did ye end up working here, anyway?”

She shrugged, her face betraying that the answer was more than ‘it’s just a job.’  When she did not respond, Jamie felt his stomach drop.

“Sorry, I dinna ken what I’m thinking.  I’m no’ trying to pry–”

“No, it’s–” 

“and ye have boundaries–”

“Jamie–” (a heart-stopping rendering of his name)

“ye need to maintain.” She quit trying to break in and he finished, saying, “I dinna want to ask ye to cross those boundaries.”

“The reason that I work here isn’t a boundary.  It’s just a long story for another day.”

Jamie accepted her response (what other choice did he have?). He spun his cell phone on the table under his pointer finger, looking for a way to prolong the conversation.  He had no idea why, but something about her put him at ease about this place and the fact that his father was living in it.

They talked about things.

How to ease Brian’s transition. 

The panic of visiting, not knowing Brian’s level of cognition and mood. 

The food.  

Claire carefully admitted, with all respect due her employer, that the buffet-style food line left a lot to be desired and that she carried packets of salt in her handbag. Jamie confessed over Claire’s bark of laughter that he had actually liked the chicken cordon bleu he had last time he visited.  

Claire told him about his father’s first night. (Watching Survivor together, playing a round of cards that his father had managed to follow and won handily, graham crackers and milk in plastic wine glasses, brushing teeth, easy to bed.) 

When the pager on Claire’s belt buzzed, she furrowed her brow, a chunk of curly brown hair falling over one eye as she looked down.  She blew it out of her face.  It lifted under her breath and immediately fell again.  

She typed a furious message into her phone, wavy locks taking residence over her eyes.  When she looked up, she offered him a half-smile of apology. “Sorry. I need to cut this short. Your dad is lucky to have you. Not everyone here has that luxury. Thanks for the scone.”

She picked up the remainder of her scone and walked away before he could say that his dad was lucky to have her, too.

[by-endurance--we-conquer]

Thoughts from the Leadville 100

I wasn’t feeling very good the day before. Even Joy later admitted, “you didn’t look very good.” The night before I wrote her phone number on the back of my race plate because I thought there was a good chance I would need it.

We stayed in an AirBnB less than a mile from the start. That eliminated a lot of race morning stress. Worked great.

Before I knew it we were rolling down 6th St. About 37 degrees at the start. I think it was colder in 2015. The early miles are definitely crowded. It was only a matter of time before I was off my bike due to backlog on St. Kevin’s.

One thing that immediately struck me was how dry and dusty the course was. Come to find out many veterans of the race said this was the dustiest they’d ever seen it.

My biggest scare off the race came, of course, on the Poweline descent. This twisty, turny, rocky, sandy part of the trail is full of big washouts. I’m not sure exactly what happened but about half way down I found myself completely sideways. I managed to unclip and get a foot down. If I hadn’t I would have went down hard. Making it to the bottom of Powerline always provides a sense of relief.

As we approached Twin Lakes (mile 40) I was feeling pretty good. In the days leading up to the race I made the decision to go with bottles over hydration. I just didn’t want to carry that weight on my shoulders. Climbing at 10,000 ft is hard enough! So I carried 2 bottles on the bike and 1 small bottle in my back. This ended up working great the whole race. I think I was able to keep track of how much I was drinking better. Thankfully, unlike hundreds of others I didn’t lose any bottles over the rocky sections.

Now on to Columbine. The longest climb at over 10 miles and the high point of the race at 12,500ft. Like 2015 I felt great up the switchbacks and rideable part of the climb. This is where the race really starts to take a toll on people. Several were walking there bikes or hunched over on the side of the trail. I’d guess that I passed close to 50 riders going up. The goat trail was more frustrating this year. This section is hard to bike so it’s lots of hike a bike. I was a little frustrated because people were hiking soooo slow and because it’s 2 way traffic on rocky terrain it’s really hard to pass.

I made it to the top, crushed some chips and bananas at the aid station and then headed down. With the dry, dusty conditions I had to be extra careful on the descent but I successfully stayed upright and made it back to Twin Lakes (mile 60). Only problem- I was behind 12 hour pace by over 15 minutes. Not good and a little demoralizing knowing the race doesn’t get any easier.

I kept my head down and just kept pedaling. Twin Lakes to Pipeline is tough. Not lots of climbing but it gets hot and exposed here. It was a sunny day and trust me the sun feels much hotter at 10k ft. Good news is I was feeling good. So far nutrition and hydration were on point. But I was still considerably behind my 2015 time and 12 hour pace as I came into Pipeline at mile 75. There I had a bottle of Coke in my drop back. The volunteer said, “you know we have cold Coke over there.” I took him up on some of that too. I had the bottle there because in 2015 they had run out of Coke prior to my arrival. Yes, I love Coke but only in the latter miles of big endurance events.

Next up get to the real crux of the race- the 3 mile Powerline climb. Also the site of my epic bonk in 2015 that almost made me throw my bike into the woods and give up endurance sports for good 😆 Ok, maybe it wasn’t that bad but you better believe it was in the back of mind all day.

At mile 78, just a few miles from Powerline, something great happened. On the side of the road a group of beautiful trail angels were passing out ice, cold cans of Coke. It was magical and came at the absolute most perfect time.

There’s a part of Powerline (see pic) that almost everyone hike a bikes. That’s were my blow up started last time. Thankfully this part and really all of Powerline was fairly uneventful for me. I didn’t have stop to catch my breath or get my heart rate out of the 170’s like in 2015. I rode so much more this time round. According to Strava I was close to 40 minutes faster on this 4 mile section than in ‘15. Redemption! Better yet if my math was correct I was getting some time back to 12 hour pace.

The last 25 miles of the race I really laid it all on the line. All day I watched my heart rate closely in order to avoid the blow up. Now it was time to forget that. If I wanted the sub 12 hour finish I was going to need to ride aggressive and hard.

I felt really good on the 4 mile road climb up to Carter. This is a tough climb that seems to go on forever, but I rode strong and even stayed out of my easiest gear for most of it.

Carter aid station was the first time in a long time that I thought sub 12 was possible again. I had battled back to get on the right side of that number but I still needed to push the pace. The St. Kevin’s descent is, like many of the other descents, super rocky. I was relieved to get to the bottom at one piece. There’s always some really bad crashes in this race and it’s easy to understand why. This makes me be a little extra cautious because I don’t need to end up wrapped around a tree.

Back on the forest service dirt road a rider pulled up alongside and nervously asked, “dude, are we going to make it?” All I remember saying is we had the time but we needed to ride hard. Less than 45 minutes to ride approx. 5 miles that contained some tough sections. Over those next few miles we worked together each taking pulls. We definitely helped each other out.

It may be the Leadville 100 but it’s really 103.5. As a rookie in ‘15 I’m glad I knew this. I know many are caught off guard. And guess what? Those final 3.5 miles are far from easy. There’s a rocky, sandy section that serves as a service road alongside the railroad track. Then there’s the “Boulevard” which is a long gravel climb. Needless to say I kept hammering and kept a close eye on my watch.

Finally I hit pavement and after a brief glance at my watch I knew I had the sub 12. The guy I had been riding with and I exchanged a big high five. Heading up 6th St. towards the finish was just as sweet this time as last. It’s like an Ironman finish line. Being in the final minutes makes the crowd even more amped up. I hit the red carpet and crossed the line at 11:51:55. 8 minutes to spare. I managed to negative split the course which is not all that uncommon here but it’s not easy either.

So, 2 Leadville 100 finishes just minutes apart but they felt like entirely different races. This year I got behind early but that might not have been the worst thing to happen. I think that might be the reason I had some matches to burn at the end. I also handled nutrition and hydration better this time around. With the way I rode those last miles I was pretty destroyed at the end (and for a few hours after). My Specialized Epic performed flawlessly. One mechanical or some bad luck and it could easily end the day.

This race has a big reputation for being something special. Couldn’t agree more. Now X 2.

1083rd of 1538 starters

[jeremyfromearth]

Vienna to Bratislava

Note » This is a back-dated post, written on April 26, 2022, about a ride that I made in late in October of 2021. While this post is more of a recap, I’m planning to document an upcoming ride, in real time, from Vienna to Budapest, with a much more detail about routes, road conditions, attractions and other insights along the EuroVelo 6

On October 28th of 2021 I rode along the EuroVelo 6 trail on the North side of the Danube, from Vienna, Austria to Bratislava, Slovakia. This was my first time ever riding from one country to another. I was slightly trepidatious about it, but thought it was doable, even with minimal training. I departed at about 10:15am under slightly overcast skies at a cool 11ºC.

☝️This is the route I took as recorded by the GPS on my Android mobile phone. It’s not quite accurate, as I did not cross the Donau, back into Schwecat. Other than that, it looks about right.

I brought very little with me on this journey, just a change of clothes, my laptop, wireless earbuds, a few simple tools and a spare inner tube. I stuffed all of that into my backpack, which ended up being sub-optimal. The weight was not a problem, however it caused a lot of heat on my back and it got a bit sweaty and gross. In the future, even for single day rides, I'll be using panniers to store things. 

I made this trip on a 2019 Specialized Allez Sport. This is actually my second Allez, the first being a 2007 model that I really loved riding. I was very amped to find a more recent model for sale on Willhaben, after I arrived in Vienna in 2020!

Much of the ride Eastward was on very well maintained asphalt paths along what I think is the top of a 3 or 4 meter tall damn. There are a couple of stretches of tightly packed gravel that I found somewhat challenging to ride on with narrow road bike tires. It was manageable though by just keeping a slow and steady pace. The terrain is almost completely flat, so its an easy ride for anyone who loves to spend a day riding. 

My phone lost the GPS signal somewhere around Hainburg and I got a little lost, but I did find these very stunning city gates. In very broken German, I asked some nice people where I could get back on the bike path to Bratislava and they told me exactly where to go.

Shortly after leaving Hainburg and carrying on through Wolfstahl, I could see the Bratislava castle from the trail.

Overall the ride lasted about 6 hours. I think it could be done in less time though, if one were to stay right on the path and not get lost, like me. In fact, the journey back, a few days later, only took about 4 hours. I spent a couple of days in Bratislava. It's a really nice city. The Old Town is very charming with its pedestrian only cobblestone streets, beautiful baroque architecture, court yards and cafes.

As mentioned at the beginning of this post, this is a recap. I’m looking forward to including far more detail, in realtime, in my next journey from Vienna to Budapest!

[campingwithbulldogs]

Brown County State Park, Nashville, Indiana

October 2020

Less than 2.5 hours outside of Cincinnati, in the town of Nashville, Indiana.

All campers must enter through the West Entrance versus the North Entrance. The North Entrance requires you to cross a covered-bridge which is inaccessible for RVs. There is a lot of signage when approaching the North Entrance to help alert you. As noted for all Indiana parks, there is a fee to enter the park. For non-Indiana residents, it is $9.

After entering the park, there is a 20-25 minute drive to get to the camping areas. It is a well maintained drive and very scenic. There are many areas and look up points to pull over to see some great views.

There are 3 distinct areas within the campground. There is Buffalo Ridge, Raccoon Ridge, and Taylor Ridge. Altogether there are ~432 campsites! The campsites range from no electricity, to 30 amp, and some have 50 amp. If 50 amp is needed pay attention when making reservations. None of the sites have water (as typical for Indiana). The campground has an area near the campground entrance, for campers to pull off, and fill their tanks at water filling stations. We specifically booked our site across the road from a water access point. However the camper next to the access point hooked-up to it (BAD etiquette, but luckily we didn’t need to refill so we didn’t have to have that confrontation).

Some sites have paved sites, some are just gravel. Buffalo Ridge will be defined as your normal-type campground. Raccoon Ridge campground is considered semi-wooded. Taylor Ridge is heavily wooded. This is the strongest caution I can give. Make sure you view the campsite picture on Reserve America, before booking, to make sure you can physically fit inbetween the trees near your camping pad. You are camping in the woods when camping in Taylor Ridge. They were many camping sites, that would have met our length requirements, but we would not have been able to get our slides out due to the tree locations. We were in spot 260, which was on the main drag. We really enjoyed staying in the woods and I’d recommend finding your spot in Taylor Ridge. Given there were over 430 spots, I was not able to complete a “good spot“ review. The end of Taylor Ridge did have paved sites and 50 amp, so maybe start there.

Even for a campground this large, there is only four dump sites. Also, there are only 6 bath houses. They are supplemented with 8 pit-toilets. I would not recommend camping near the pit toilets as they did have a smell. There are plenty of dumpsters scattered throughout. I would note though, that our campsite had a lot of trash on it when we arrived. I had to spend time going around picking up all the trash laying on the ground. I know this isn’t the Park’s fault (another example of bad camping etiquette), but if I can be critical for a minute. I know with this many campsites, it is likely hard to maintain. But we’ve been to other campgrounds, in which the campsite was “cleaned” after check-out (fire pit cleaned out, trash picked-up). Most campgrounds don’t have the resources to be able to do this during this budget conscious time. However, throughout our stay, we consistently saw a stream of park employees driving through the campground in trucks. Way more than any I have ever seen in a park before. Every hour there would be a different park employee driving around. Maybe resources could be reallocated to clean-up?

The campground has a play area near Taylor Ridge and two small playground at the entrance. There are other small play areas scattered throughout the entire park. The park does have daily “interpretive programs“ which include things such as hikes, crafts, nature talks, and educational programs. The park has a swimming pool. It was not open when we were there. We did not have the opportunity to check out the inn. There is some hiking, however, the trails are not that well marked and we often found ourselves confused about location. We were also hiking during fall and the fallen leaves were making it difficult to see the trail/signs. The trails were well maintained. There is very large large selection of mountain bike trails and we did see a lot of cyclist during our stay. In edition to the cyclists, there were also a lot of family gatherings and those visiting for day picnics. I mention this because the park was very very busy. Be cautious when driving through the park (remember it’s about 20 minutes from the campground to any of the park entrances) as there were a lot of people on the sides of the roads and walking on the roads. Be safe!

A great aspect of camping here, is the proximity of the town of Nashville, with its quaint shops, artistic flair, and boutiques. Going into town is worth the trip. We also visited Hard Truth Distilling, which is a distillery with dining, tours, outdoor patio/games, and music stage.