#street glide st

[insanethrottlebikernews]

MOST POPULAR HARLEY DAVIDSON ON THE ROAD

MOST POPULAR HARLEY DAVIDSON ON THE ROAD

The latest trend in street bikes is the performance bagger. The style incorporates the ever-popular “bagger” motorcycle (really, just a cruiser with saddlebags) modified for performance and/or agility. With its new 2022 Street Glide ST and Road Glide ST, Harley-Davidson attempts to capture the zeitgeist of this trend. These new performance baggers—effectively, souped-up versions of popular…

[harleysite]

Harley-Davidson Road Glide ST 117 – Fahrbericht

#harleydavidson #roadglide #roadglidest #roadglidest117 #harley #harleysite #motorrad via @Harleysite

https://www.harleysite.de/harley-davidson-road-glide-st-117-test/

[anxiouspineapple99]

Lightning Then The Thunder

Pairing: Tech x OC!Silvie

Summary: A thunderstorm sparks a night of passion

Rating: Explicit

Warnings: MINORS DNI. Fingering, unprotected PiV (wrap your shit friends), praise kink, some hand/glove kink

Word Count: 1152

A/N: this was a gift for my friend, the wonderful and talented @vimse featuring her incredible OC Silvie!! It is also her art in the header! 🥰 go learn more about Silvie on Vim’s Tumblr!!

It’s raining. It rarely rains in Ord Mantell City, but when it does, there is electricity in the air. It hangs heavy, weighs on the chest like beskar. It leaves one feeling alive. Ready to take risks. And sometimes it sparks desire. Hot burning desire that is palpable through the streets.

That was how this began. Tech and Silvie were sitting at the modest table in her home. He was making modifications to Silvie’s datapad.

Silvie’s an enigma to him. A puzzle he’s determined to piece together. He’s proud that he’s slowly broken through her walls and now there is a softness between them. Trust and admiration. Attraction that roils perpetually beneath the surface.

Thunder rumbles as lightning streaks the skies. The atmosphere crackles with electricity and lust. Enough that the soft brush of a hand sends hearts racing. Tech is quiet, a stark contrast to his usual chatty demeanor. Silvie drops soft sideways glances toward him. Unconsciously, as if drawn by a magnet, they inch closer together. Her voice dropping lower with every passing moment, drawing him in. A siren’s whisper.

A moment is all they need. Eyes meet, the crack of lightning and rumbling of thunder reverberate in their chests. Their lips crash together. Tech cradles her jaw, his grip tender yet firm. Her tongue teases his lips. He responds with a deep groan. She tastes like cinnamon and heat and yearning. Any restraint he has dissipates as his hands grip her beneath her thighs. She wraps her legs around his waist and he effortlessly lifts her into his arms.

He lays her down on the bed. Both fumble with articles of clothing as anticipation courses through their veins. She stops him when he moves for his gloves, insisting he allow her to remove them. She massages his palm, kissing, and stroking. Her fingers splay as they creep toward his wrist. She hooks his glove, peeling slowly off, replacing the fabric with open-mouthed kisses. The act is far more intimate than he expects. Chills skitter up his arms and down his spine when she removes the second glove the same way.

In mere minutes, they are bared to one another, breathless in need and want. Tech’s fingers trace the outline of her body, cheek to hip. Thrill explodes through Silvie’s veins once again as his soft touch sends her reeling. His long, lithe fingers creep to her aching core. She gasps as he cages her in, his lips tickling her ear as he whispers one question, “May I?”

“Yes…yes, please…” she whimpers back. She glided his goggles off his face, kissing the red lines left behind.

His thumb finds her swollen clit, gently circling ensuring he sends pleasure surging through her. He captures her lips again, this time dragging her bottom lip between his teeth.

He slowly slides his finger inside her with little resistance. His breathing matches hers as the sound of her moans burns deep in his mind. Slow languid curls of his finger, dragging along her walls as he plays with the spongy spot deep within makes her see stars. Her cries grow louder as his ministrations drive her to climax. She grasps the bedsheets as her body writhes in ecstasy, his name pouring from her lips.

He peppers kisses along her cheeks and down to her breasts. His tongue circles the sensitive peaks of her nipples as he uses her slick to ready himself for her.

“Are you ready?” His voice is soft and eager to please.

She nods, a playful smirk tugging at her lips.

He lines himself up with her entrance, pushing in slowly. He wants to feel every centimeter of her. She sucks in a sharp breath followed by a soft moan as he stretches her. His pace is slow and ardent. She feels amazing wrapped around his cock, and he wants to commit every thrust to memory.

His hands stroke down her arms, her fingers finally intertwining in one hand, her wrist tenderly yet firmly encircled with the other. He guides her hands above her head as he trails kisses up her torso. His goggles remain clutched in her hand as she arches into him.

The soft silence of the room is heavy only with soft sighs and moans. His vision is blurry. But that doesn’t matter. He knows her. Her full plush lips. Her beautiful dark hair. Her soulful eyes. Her sweet skin. All of her. Therefore his blurry vision is no hindrance as he explores her using his other senses. He’s pressing into her, slowly and sensually. He wants to take his time loving her. Her sighs are musical and he wants to listen to her song for as long as he can.

“You are exquisite, darling. I could listen to you make those sounds all night.”

She smiles as she tilts her head back, a luxurious moan falling from her tongue this time. Her legs wrap around his waist, pulling him ever deeper.

“Good girl. Taking me so well. Making such divine sounds,” he praises her as he too, pushes deeper, seeking deeper connection as well as pleasure.

His lips brush her hair line, featherlight kisses being left in their wake. The gyration of her hips leave him nearly breathless. A symphony of moans and whines fill the room, punctuated by the rolling thunder and rain driving against the transparisteel of her room. The lightning illuminates their faces. Silvie’s breath hitches as Tech’s chocolate brown eyes sparkle when the flashes of light reveal the depth of his feelings for her: feelings that he might have kept hidden if not for the safety of darkness.

His rhythm begins to shift. He’s close. So is she. Their momentum becomes erratic as they chase their peak. Her body shudders and she screams his name, and her pussy clenching around him immediately sends Tech barreling over the precipice as well.

They collapse in a mess of afterglow. Tech kisses Silvie on the forehead before making his way to the fresher. He returns with a towel, tenderly cleaning her and then himself. He settles in next to her, her head laying on his chest.

“Here, you probably need these,” she chuckles as she hands his goggles back to him.

“Ah, yes. Thank you.” He slides the goggles back on. “That was exceptional.”

“It was.”

“If you are amenable to the idea, I would like to do that again sometime. Perhaps after a proper date?”

She smiles and huffs a soft laugh, “I would enjoy that immensely.”

After falling into companionable silence, they are soon overtaken by sleep. Tech is out first, much to Silvie’s surprise. She caresses the harsh angles of his jawline with a softness that until now was foreign to him. The rhythm of his heartbeat soon lulls her into her own deep slumber. And when morning comes, they will be all too eager to relive the night before all over again.

[drgstrcowboi]

wet matches

Dallas Winston x GN!reader.

Dally’s matches are wet and he can’t light a cigarette. Good thing Y/N has a lighter on hand.

Light fluff, some flirty exchanges. Mild cursing, smoking, Dallas being cheeky, hard to get along with, and a petty thief. wc: ~1,800

“Shit,” you hear Dallas mumble under his breath as you round the corner of the Rexall.

It was a bright late summer afternoon in Tulsa, one of those where the sun can’t quite decide if it wants to shine in a friendly way or beat down on the back on your neck mercilessly. Despite the heat, Dallas was clad in his typical uniform of jeans and a leather jacket with the collar popped. It was a wonder he didn’t die of heat stroke standing there without any shade as he let out another string of mumbled curse words.

“What are you on about now, Dal?” you asked him.

He was leaning against the light pole with a cigarette hanging out of the corner of his mouth, face scrunched into a tight expression as he fiddled with a pack of matches. St. Christopher swung like a tired pendulum around his neck, propelled only the motion of his repeated attempts to strike a light off it. He’d done it so many times that a small friction groove had formed just down the face of a saint who must be exhausted trying to protect someone like Dallas.

“Wet matches,” he huffed, looking up at you before discarding another one of the broken fiddlesticks on the sidewalk, “goddamn things won’t light.”

You stuck a cigarette in your own mouth with a smile. It wasn’t often that Dallas Winston was in a position to need help at all, let alone from you, and it was kind of funny to see him struggle with the simple task of lighting a smoke. Most of the time he did it with such ease, almost like it was as natural as walking with his tilted glide.

“Here,” you said, hand outstretched with your lighter.

He looked at it, glancing up at you and then at the smoldering cigarette between your lips before bending down towards the unlit lighter. You scrambled a little at his movement, expecting him to take the lighter out of your hands instead of waiting for you to light his cigarette for him. With a quick flick of your thumb, the flame rose to the end of his cigarette, licking the paper first and then the tobacco as he puffed softly on the dog end.

“Thanks,” Dallas said as he pulled away, taking a step back from being so close to you. You hadn’t noticed the smell of his cologne when he first leaned in but when he pulled away you sensed the essence of cedarwood and leather drifting away from your nostrils.

“How’d your matches get wet?” You asked him, just trying to make pleasant conversation even though ‘pleasant’ and ‘conversation’ were not words you’d typically associate with Dally.

“They got left on the porch at Buck’s,” Dallas explained, “fucking things are useless now,” he added as he tossed the pack of matches in the general direction of a trash can with no clear aim for getting them in.

The matches scuttled across the concrete more like a tumbleweed than litter, falling end over end until they were a yard from the base of the can. You took a few steps forward and bent down to pick them up, letting the cigarette dangle from your lips again.

“It’s not good to litter, Dal,” you said as you threw the matches into the trash can and stood up. When you turned around he jerked his head up to meet your eyes, like he’d been caught looking at something he wasn’t supposed to. Which, frankly, was what he had been doing.

“What are you, some kind of tree hugger?” He deflected, looking away and down the street as he chided you, “they’re just matches.”

“Were you staring at my ass?” You asked him with a chuckle before taking a puff of your half-smoked cigarette.

“Don’t flatter yourself,” Dallas replied, turning back to you as he flipped his own cigarette around in his fingers.

You thought it was a little peculiar how he help his cigarettes, with the smoldering end facing his body so he had to rotate his wrist around to bring it to his lips. It was small reminder of his years in New York, where people held their cigarettes like that to protect them from the wind. Just like his accent when he was mad or groggy or generally out of sorts, Dallas had a habit of flipping his cigarette around when he was knocked off his groove.

“What are you doing out here anyway?” Dallas asked, flicking ash onto the sidewalk by the toe of his worn boot, “don’t you have work or something?”

“Nah,” you exhaled, watching the smoke blow into the air with the force of your breath, “got the day off and time to kill, so I was just looking at the magazines in the drug store.”

“Anything good?” Dallas asked.

“Anything good what?” You replied, cocking your head to the side in confusion.

“In the magazines, stupid,” he huffed.

“Oh,” you replied, “no, not really, those rags are mostly ads anyway.”

“Listen, man, I wasn’t looking at your ass, okay? Just get that out of your head.” Dallas spat.

You were a little taken aback at his defensiveness, thinking that line of conversation, if you could even call this exchange ‘conversation,’ had been dropped by now.

“So what if you were, Dal?” you replied, “I don’t guess I mind.”

“Well I wasn’t, so just drop it.” He said before taking another deep drag.

“You know you can still light wet matches,” you informed him, trying to direct the subject away from your backside.

“What?” He asked, furrowing his brow line at you.

“Wet matches,” you continued, “you can still light them.”

“No you can’t,” he protested, “I just tried like hundred times, you saw me.”

“Sure you can, Dal,” you said, “you just have to be patient and let them dry out first.”

Dallas just narrowed his eyes at you and took one last drag of his cigarette. He discarded the butt of it on the ground, just like the wet matches, and stared down the street again. And again, you reached down and retrieved his litter with a sigh.

“Seriously, Dallas,” you started to nag him about the trash as you stood back up. His gaze was back on your body, not your eyes, but this time he didn’t rush to look away. His cover was blown and he knew it.

“I’m starting to think you’re just littering so you can watch me pick it up,” you finish.

“And what if I am?” He replied, taking a step towards you, “you gonna stop picking it up?”

“God, Dal, where’d you learn to flirt?” you teased, “I can’t tell if it was a bar or jail.”

“Both,” he laughed, leaning against the light pole again. The afternoon sun hit his brown locks at just the right angle, like someone was staging the street corner to take a photo or something.

“Anyway, I better get going,” you sighed, fishing in your pocket for nothing more than a purpose for your next step. You didn’t have anywhere to be, and neither did he, and you both knew that. Just a couple of loitering hoods on a street corner, so typical of a Tulsa strip that you might as well be gargoyles or a fixture of the architecture or something.

“Want to catch a movie?” Dallas asked, almost in a nervous tone as he gestured at the Circle Cinema down the street.

“I don’t know,” you shrugged, palming the house key in your pocket.

“Come on, Y/N,” Dallas urged, “it’s just a movie.”

“Fine, but you’re buying,” you agreed, taking a step in the direction of the theatre.

“No, we’re sneaking in,” Dallas corrected you, “right after I go swipe a new pack of matches. Stay there.”

And as quick the words came out his mouth, he disappeared into the Rexall, leaving you out on the street corner like a getaway car. Knowing Dallas, there was a 50/50 chance he wasn’t coming back out to catch the movie. He’d get distracted, or worse, caught by the same clerk who’d seen his sticky fingers in action hundreds of times over the years.

When he did finally come back out he had a shit eating grin on his face as he flashed his jacket open to reveal a few boxes of shoplifted candy.

“Where’re the matches?” You asked as he hurried you down the street.

“Ahh, I forgot ‘em,” he waved you off, “doesn’t matter anyway, you got a lighter.”

A few steps later, he picked up his pace as the door to the Rexall jingled open in the distance.

“Come on, hurry up, Y/N,” he pushed you forward, “you want to get caught or something?”

“Caught?” You replied as you jogged a pace or two to keep up, “I didn’t steal anything, Dal, you did.”

“Guilty by association,” he muttered as you rounded the corner behind the theatre.

By the grace of god and luck that only Dallas Winston seemed to possess, you two managed to sneak into the theatre with a jacket full of stolen candy before the show started.

Halfway through the movie, like clockwork, you both reached for your pack of smokes up in the balcony with all the other degenerates who couldn’t make it through a two hour film without a cancer stick.

You patted your pockets, looking for the lighter and coming up short only to glance over and see Dallas flicking it with his thumb in the dim light.

“What the fuck, Dal?” you whispered, “that’s my lighter.”

“And?” He replied, stretching his hand out with the flame to meet the end of your cigarette.

You obliged and let him light your smoke before playfully reaching to grab the lighter from his hand. He jerked his arm back and smirked at you before handing it over.

“When’d you take this anyway?” You whispered before being shushed by someone two rows back.

“Earlier when I noticed it in your back pocket,” Dallas replied with a softer smile this time.

A tossed pack of wet matches, a couple boxes of stolen candy, and trespassing in a shitty movie. That’s how Dallas tended to show his interest. It was no grand romantic gesture, but in his world it was pretty much a date.

And for the first time in maybe anyone’s lifetime, you were grateful for wet matches and that Dally ran low on patience and had a penchant for petty theft and littering.

“I thought you said you weren’t looking at my ass,” you reminded him.

“I was lying,” he said with a wink as he slung an arm lazily over the back of your seat.

[newyorkthegoldenage]

An Italian spaghetti house and a German health food store next to each other on 86th St. in New York, January 22, 1942.

Beverley Nichols, an English writer, described the NYC of 1940s:

More than ever before, as the shop windows filed past in a glittering parade, there was the sense of New York as a great international city to which all the ends of the world had come.

London used to be like that, but somehow one had forgotten it, so long had it been since the Hispanos and Isottas had glided down Piccadilly, so many aeons since the tropical fruit had glowed in the Bond Street windows.

Coming from that sort of London to America, in the old days, New York had seemed just, American; not typical of the continent, maybe, but American first and foremost. Now it was the centre of the world.

Photo: Rare Historical Photos

[ego-856]

Venice: A Tale of History and Charm

Venice, situated in the northeast of Italy, nestled in the Adriatic Sea, is an extraordinary city. Its uniqueness lies in being built on water and its labyrinthine streets. Throughout history, Venice has been renowned for its commerce, maritime prowess, and artistic heritage. In this post, we will delve into the captivating atmosphere and history of Venice.

History and Culture:

Venice's history traces back to as early as the 5th century AD. Following the fall of the Roman Empire, inhabitants of this region sought refuge from barbarian invasions by settling in the lagoon areas. These interlacing lagoons eventually formed the foundation of present-day Venice. In the Middle Ages, Venice emerged as a maritime power, playing a significant role in Mediterranean trade. During the Renaissance period, Venice evolved into a rich cultural center, attracting renowned painters and architects who left their mark on the city. Today, the historical fabric of Venice is palpable in its streets, adorned with artworks, and its museums brimming with artistic treasures.

Canals and Gondolas:

One of Venice's most iconic features is its network of canals, which replace the streets for transportation. As gondolas silently glide along these canals, they seamlessly blend with the city's romantic atmosphere. Gondola rides offer visitors a chance to experience Venice's history and architecture from a unique perspective.

St. Mark's Square and Basilica:

The heart of Venice is St. Mark's Square. This square is famed for its magnificent St. Mark's Basilica, historic clock tower, and surrounding cafes. The Basilica showcases a magnificent blend of Byzantine and Gothic architecture, adorned with golden mosaics on its ceiling. St. Mark's Square stands as one of Venice's foremost tourist attractions, offering visitors an unforgettable experience.

Venice Carnival:

The Venice Carnival, held annually in February, is a vibrant and colorful festival. It is filled with magnificent costumes, masks, and street performances. With its historical roots dating back to the Middle Ages, this festival celebrates Venice's traditional culture and lively atmosphere.

Final Thoughts:

Venice stands as one of the world's most unique cities. With its rich history, enchanting canals, and impressive architecture, it attracts millions of visitors each year. This city of dreams holds a story around every corner and offers unforgettable memories to every visitor. Exploring Venice is embarking on a journey filled with the magic of history and art.

[bethanydelleman]

Northanger Abbey Readthrough, Ch 7

John Thorpe has arrived... yay. His introduction is anything but auspicious:

they were prevented crossing by the approach of a gig, driven along on bad pavement by a most knowing-looking coachman with all the vehemence that could most fitly endanger the lives of himself, his companion, and his horse.

We have another clue that James and Isabella have some sort of attachment:

his devoirs were speedily paid, with a mixture of joy and embarrassment which might have informed Catherine, had she been more expert in the development of other people’s feelings, and less simply engrossed by her own, that her brother thought her friend quite as pretty as she could do herself.

I love how Catherine will later gather all these clues that General Tilney is a wife-murderer/imprisoner but she misses every clue of basically everything else.

John Thorpe isn't even hot or well dressed guys:

He was a stout young man of middling height, who, with a plain face and ungraceful form, seemed fearful of being too handsome unless he wore the dress of a groom, and too much like a gentleman unless he were easy where he ought to be civil, and impudent where he might be allowed to be easy.

At least Willoughby and Wickham have the decency to be eye candy! I have NOTHING good to say about Mr. Thorpe. He reminds me of Donald Trump to be honest (I try to stay non-political here, but the constant lying and aggrandizement and saying contradictory statements one after another... it's so Trump). He also swears a lot, which Austen delicately writes as d---. The way that James jumps in every so often with the real truth, but John just glides right past his corrections, ug. (but funny).

Then John Thorpe becomes Sir Walter Elliot, though worse because at least Sir Walter is hot:

Her companion’s discourse now sunk from its hitherto animated pitch to nothing more than a short decisive sentence of praise or condemnation on the face of every woman they met; and Catherine, after listening and agreeing as long as she could, with all the civility and deference of the youthful female mind, fearful of hazarding an opinion of its own in opposition to that of a self-assured man, especially where the beauty of her own sex is concerned

Sir Walter also judges both sexes, because of course he does my beloved, pansexual dandy:

The worst of Bath was the number of its plain women. He did not mean to say that there were no pretty women, but the number of the plain was out of all proportion. He had frequently observed, as he walked, that one handsome face would be followed by thirty, or five-and-thirty frights; and once, as he had stood in a shop on Bond Street, he had counted eighty-seven women go by, one after another, without there being a tolerable face among them. It had been a frosty morning, to be sure, a sharp frost, which hardly one woman in a thousand could stand the test of. But still, there certainly were a dreadful multitude of ugly women in Bath; and as for the men! they were infinitely worse. Such scarecrows as the streets were full of! It was evident how little the women were used to the sight of anything tolerable, by the effect which a man of decent appearance produced.

It's always interesting to me to compare Northanger Abbey and Persuasion because the heroines and the feelings towards Bath could not be more different! Anne Elliot hates Bath, Catherine LOVES it. Anne is the wisest, most grounded heroine and Catherine is the most naive. But here we have parallel scenes where a man critiques the looks of other people and the heroine is not happy about it.

Now we get into John Thorpe getting down on novels.

“Not I, faith! No, if I read any, it shall be Mrs. Radcliffe’s; her novels are amusing enough; they are worth reading; some fun and nature in them.” “Udolpho was written by Mrs. Radcliffe,” said Catherine, with some hesitation, from the fear of mortifying him. “No, sure; was it? Aye, I remember, so it was; I was thinking of that other stupid book, written by that woman they make such a fuss about, she who married the French emigrant.”

John Thorpe may be the only outright racist (xenophobic?) and anti-sementic character we see in Austen. So good for him, I guess? But also clearly an idiot. Also, The Monk, which John says he did enjoy, was a very controversial novel at the time. It features rape, murder, demons in women's bodies, etc. The titular monk kidnaps a virtuous maiden, which is a hint at what is to come...

Then we have John's address to his mother, "“Where did you get that quiz of a hat? It makes you look like an old witch." which I assume is derogatory (affectionate). This seems to be his way with family, "On his two younger sisters he then bestowed an equal portion of his fraternal tenderness, for he asked each of them how they did, and observed that they both looked very ugly."

Now Catherine, it should be noted, does not like John pretty much immediately, but she's flattered and convinced by both Isabella and James into thinking somewhat better of him. She is also engaged to dance with him, which considering her previous disappointments, is a logical feeling.

Ug, men in Austen knowing nothing about women again, "He is as good-natured a fellow as ever lived; a little of a rattle; but that will recommend him to your sex, I believe" Will it? Does it? I have a hard time imagining any Austen woman liking Thorpe, except maybe Lydia Bennet or Anne Steele? The man is insufferable! Also, Lydia goes for looks so maybe not even her. Come on, James! Have more faith in women!

And then Catherine goes home and gets right back into reading Uldolpho, which is exactly what I would have done too. Elizabeth Bennet is not your book-obsessed heroine people, it's my girl Catherine!

[auslanderka]

fandom : slam dunk

ship : Mitsui Hisashi x f!reader

note : something silly from my drafts.

TW : mention of blood, slam dunk spoilers (Mitsui past and change)

— contains eng grammar problems and mistakes as well —

You jumped hearing the sudden ringing of the doorbell. Who could be banging on the door this late at night? Your mother had a night shift at the hospital a few streets away tonight, so it wasn’t her. You pulled on the sweatshirt lying on the bed and moved through the apartment tying your hair into a quick bun.

The bell rang again.

„wait a minute!” you called out, finally running to the door nearly killing yourself on the genkan - a small step separating the rest of the hallway from where your family left shoes.

Your heart stopped for a moment seeing a tall boy dressed in school uniform. His dark, dark blue hair reached his shoulders, and his face was all battered and smeared with blood.

„Hisashi...” you choked out recognizing in him your first and only love. You shook your head disappointedly. You hoped Mitsui would end the hooligan antics of youth gangs. He became involved in it two years ago after a breakdown caused by a knee injury.

It was late in the evening and he was standing in front of you beaten up as if nothing had happened.  It was probably another fight he had provoked himself. Blood from his nose stained his white T-shirt, his jacket and pants were dirty not only from blood but soil and dust.

You looked around quickly and grabbed his clothes pulling him inside, then closed the door behind him breathing heavily. You hoped that none of your neighbors had seen your uninvited guest.

„I told you to come when you change., you looked at his face. Bruises, scratches, splattered blood, a few broken teeth. He looked terrible. „And you come in such a state. I don't know, I don't care. You have five minutes to get out of here because I want to go to bed and I don't want to look at you in this condition. I don't have the strength for you anymore...” your voice faltered minimally, which he immediately noticed. Mitsui raised his hand and pushed his hair back to see you better.

„(name)... I'm going back to playing basketball," his voice was calm. He ignored the tirade that took place a second ago.

*

Dressed only in his pants, Hisashi sat in the bathtub with arms resting on his knees. You knelt on the bathroom floor with a buzzing electric razor in your hand, gently shaving his hair. Long dark blue strands fell into the tub, symbolizing a break with the past. He reached for one and looked at it carefully.

The end of the era...

Mitsui tried not to think about you, tried to put you out of his mind. However, for three years his thoughts kept running towards you. He avoided you in the school but always looked at you from afar. And now he didn't even know why his legs led him to your apartment on their own.

„I’m sorry,” he said driving his gaze into the scar on his left knee. His voice was quiet and filled with remorse. You glanced at him slightly surprised but in your current position, you can’t see his face. You muttered quietly while returning to further disposing of the lengthy strands. „I was stupid...”

„I don't want to hear it,” your voice was cold. You tilted his head to make it easier to shave the remaining hair near his ear. Mitsui rolled his eyes slightly hearing your firm tone. He knew very well that you were still angry and that he would have to ask for forgiveness for a long time. Closed his eyelids focusing his attention on the blades gliding across his skin and the growling sound.

He had so much to tell you.

Although you were very gentle, Hisashi's face hurt from even the lightest touch of your soft hands. However, he didn’t complain. And he didn't even know how much he longed for your touch.

It was clear from your delicate movements that you had shaved your older brther's head many times. He had no longer lived with you and your mother for two years. If Mitsui remembered correctly, your bro had moved out to study in Osaka or some other big city started with O and only came home for holidays.

„The other side," he turned to look at you. A slight twitch passed over your face at the sight of the dark eyes you had always loved so much. „don't move for one more second.” you asked and in your voice there was no longer anything of the firmness that resounded just a few seconds ago.

You two sat in silence for the next few minutes. Mitsui watched you intently as you concentrated trying your best to shade the hair near his other ear although your hands began to visibly tremble.

You had changed a lot in those two years. Your face was no longer childlike as it had been at the beginning of high school, your waist-length hair (which you had always tied into two thick braids) was now much shorter. One unruly strand slipped out of your bun and dangled loosely on the right side of your face. For a moment he felt like raising his hand and gentle sliding it behind your ear, but refrained at the last moment, clasping his hand tighter on his forearm.

„don't stare," you muttered feeling a blush appear on your face. „you're distracting me, silly”

„You are more beautiful than I remember,"

„As you can see I can live without air,” you said, reaching for the brush to clean his neck from the rest of his hair. You lifted yourself up from your hurting knees and left the bathroom for a moment, leaving him alone in the bathtub full of dark strands.

„Take a shower. I'll get your clean clothes and first aid kit ready,” you said while hanging a towel on the handle next to the tub. He looked up at you and smiled slightly trying not to show his broken teeth.

„Thank you.”

*

You closed the bathroom door behind you and leaned against it with your back. Sighing heavily, trying to collect your thoughts. You never suspected that one evening Mitsui Hisashi would stand at your door with the news that he was returning to basketball. You thought this topic was already closed three years ago. Three years ago.... That time your life fell apart like a house of cards. Hisashi's knee injury had a huge impact on the behavior of the two of you.

*

You poured water into two mugs with tea bags. Your grandmother would probably have yelled at you that this was a profanation of tea, but you didn't have time to celebrate brewing as it was done in the old days. You picked up the cups and moved to your room hearing the bathroom door open.

You set the dishes down on the desk between notebooks without looking at him. Awkward silence. Hisashi tried to find in his mind topic, literally anything, that could start a conversation between you two.

You sat on your bed. Many times you have spent evenings here studying, which always ended with long conversations or kisses. You gently grabbed his chin and looked at his battered and scratched skin. The water had washed away all the dirt, sweat and dried blood, leaving only bruises and red abrasions. You sighed quietly and reached into a small medical kit.

He squirmed when you moved a soaked cotton swab over one of the larger scratches. However, made no sound.

„will hurt,” something tightened in his throat. Despite all these years, you still read him like an open book. Every little change was no mystery to you. You moved the cotton swab away for a moment to look at the area being cleaned. „Take it as a punishment.” He only rolled his eyes but didn’t make a comment.

You reached for a clean swab which soaked in disinfectant. You took your time, like you're terrified that if you finish too quickly, Mitsui will disappear. This time forever. His foolish, still-in-love heart beat faster as you moved the swab over his lower lip. Hisashi suddenly leaned toward you, but you pressed the swab to his lips stopping his intentions.

Head slightly tilted allowing you to tend to his wounds. You applied the last band-aid gently to his temple and looked at your work. Smeared with herbal ointments and covered with band-aids, he finally looked better. At least, a little bit. You sighed quietly and wanted to get up but his arms hugged you tightly around the waist stopping your movement.

„Listen to me…”

„No, you listen to me," you interrupted him without rising your eyes. „I don't want explanations... I've seen enough,” Silence fell between you two. You wanted tell him something, but looking into those eyes, you suddenly forgot all the words. But for sure, you didn't want to listen to his terrible explanation.

„Hisa,” you sighed quietly without looking at him, gazed into the swab you was holding in your hand. A pleasant shiver ran down his spinne hearing this nickname. He hadn't heard it in ages. „you need to do something with your teeth. It's impossible to look at you.”

„I promise.”

[thetruearchmagos]

Swift Seas And Whirlwinds

An Excerpt: Prologue

Hey folks, Arch here, with a little Prose written on a sudden whim. I've had a a few vague ideas of what I'd like to see someday in a novelisation of SSAW for some time, and one of them pertained to what might go into a 'Prologue' of the first book. Here, that idea's been put to words!

Tagging @athenswrites @theprissythumbelina @hessdalen-globe @caxycreations @thatndginger @username-cause-i-need-one @avrablake @coffeexafterxmidnight @nerdexer @lividdreamz

They came for him in the morning. 

Three cars, jet black with tinted windows, glided down the road on St. Quentin Street. This early, the ordinarily busy thoroughfare was empty and lifeless, cast in shadow and the dim light of dawn. The storefronts on the street were still shuttered, and with their lights turned out. 

Except for one. 

The Cafe Dubois wasn’t open for business just yet, but its first customer of the day was already enjoying his breakfast. Seated at a table along the window facing the street, Captain Girauld Castex enjoyed his black coffee and buttered toast, and the show slowly unfurling across the street.

The motorcade pulled along the curb opposite the cafe, coming to a stop in front of a stately brown townhouse just like all the others on the block. The sound of their breaks screeched into the still air, followed quickly by their doors, which opened in unison. 

The men who stepped out of the cars moved with just as much measured efficiency. The fore and aft cars discharged three each, the one in the centre letting out just two. After all, it had to leave an empty seat.

Once they’d formed up in the windy street, they set off towards the house in two lines. All were dressed sharply in black, under black hats, but those pulling up the rear pulled out batons from under their coats.

Castex heard a small noise coming from behind him, distracting him from the scene. It was Mr Dubois himself, standing behind the counter, leaning himself against it for support with his right fist to his mouth. The Captain ignored him.

The man in front rang the doorbell, though Castex certainly couldn’t hear anything. After a moment’s pause, he would, as the smashed point man smashed the door in with two hard kicks. The assembled mass surged through with all the power of a tidal wave, sweeping through and into the home.

The next few minutes were, no doubt, a period of frenetic, vicious action, tearing through all three stories of the fine estate. Castex couldn’t see anything past shadows against closed curtains, or hear anything beyond the occasional crash of something smashing to the ground, but he nonetheless knew every move and every act taking place within those four walls. He knew it in his bones, with all the certainty of a conductor playing the same score for the five hundredth time.

It was all over by the time Castex finished his cup of coffee. Silence reigned as the first rays of dawn’s light cast themselves down the road, and the eight men swept through the shattered door frame the other way, with one more tightly penned in between them. The new figure, forced into the cool morning still in his underclothes, held his head low and hands covering his face as best he could. They each returned to their respective vehicles, the ninth man wedged between the two in the centre car. Then, with all the fanfare with which they came, they slipped into the slowly waking gloom.

“Another coffee, if you please.”

Castex heard no reply, and with an exaggerated groan worthy of his station turned once again to Monsieur Dubois. He hadn’t moved an inch in three minutes, frozen as still as stone. 

“A coffee, Monsieur.”

At last, the man’s lips moved, though his words barely crawled out of his throat.

“Monsieur Capitaine… Monsieur Allard, he—”

“Will receive his due as a criminal, and no more, yes. And so shall you, good sir.”

Castex could see the pasty man turn even more pale, if such a thing were possible.

“Sir, I…I only—”

“You did your duty for your country and countrymen, and for that the People owe you a great debt. Approach the local magistrate, the same man you gave your little ‘tip’ to, and I’ll see to it that our nation’s gratitude is adequately expressed.”

The Captain smiled, though it probably did little to calm the man’s silent terror. Dubois pulled away from the counter and to his feet. Without the support, he seemed almost to curl in on himself, shrinking in stature before turning away, wordlessly, into the back of his cafe.

“And get me another coffee!”

Castex couldn’t help himself. Sometimes, he loved his job.

[tllgrrl]

Heart Beat: a SarahBucky Vampire AU

Chapter 1, Part 1 “The Beautiful One is coming.”

Relationship: Cardiologist!Vampire Sarah Wilson / Vampire!James “Bucky” Barnes

* * * * * * * * * *

San Francisco, California - 1989

It wasn’t supposed to be her. She wasn’t even originally scheduled to be there that night. She’d simply agreed to work someone else’s shift.

That’s where it happened. At work.

Claudette Singh had called St. Francis of Assisi Hospital.

Dr. Arun Singh’s appendix had burst during the 4th inning at their kid’s Little League game, so he wasn’t going to make it to work.

Dr. Nina Chow was his backup, but she was busy giving birth to twins and thus a little bit occupied.

Dr. Max Richards, was laid up with a broken arm and recovering from a mild concussion due a rollerblading accident.

(“Don’t ask,” he replied when asked, but word got out anyway about the drinks, the bet, and how lucky he was. He’d wiped out just yards before the intersection, causing him to miss a collision with a cable car.)

Dr. Sarah Wilson, the on-staff cardiology fellow, was next in the rotation.

Having just hung up on her now Ex, she answered the phone on the first ring thinking she was about to give him another piece of her mind, but instead ended up agreeing to work the upcoming weekend’s night shift because, other than work, her calendar was now completely free.

Again.

***

Despite it being an unusually quiet Friday night, a man who had apparently fallen/jumped/was thrown from the roof of a building over on Upper Market Street was being wheeled into the ER at about the same time Sarah was upstairs taking a break in the Doctor’s lounge, and beginning to smell the apple fritter heating up in the fancy new Radarange microwave that replaced the ancient toaster that had finally given up the ghost two weeks earlier.

{*Ding!*}

“Awwwyeah, come here you hot, sweet thannng,” she crooned to herself, opening the oven and removing the treat.

Just as she sat down and picked up her fork—

<<Doctor Wilson. Doctor Sarah Wilson, please call the ER immediately. Doctor Wilson, please call 999…>>

“No! Nononooo,” she wailed. “Can’t a sistah get a proper break?”

“Guess not,” Nurse Sanchez laughed as he glided into the break room gleefully rubbing his hands together. “Don’t worry. I’ll make sure that fritter gets a good home.”

<<Doctor Sarah Wilson, please report to Emergency. Doctor Wilson, to Emergency, please.>>

“Ha-ha. Very funny, Octavio. You and Cynthia got my maple bar yesterday with this trickery. Get your own fritter, you sneaky—“

“My God, what is that delicious smell?!” Head Nurse Robbins practically panted, peeking into the lounge, eyes scanning the room for the source of the aroma.

“Oh, Doctor Wilson! ER just called. Dr. Haddid needs you downstairs, ASAP.”

Nurse Sanchez shrugged. “Sorry, Doc.”

Pouting, Sarah sighed, gave him the plate, and hurried to the elevator.

To be continued…

* * * * * * * * * *

Finally. And with a slightly updated moodboard for the actual fic.

Thanks @fleurdelouve for the nudge. I’ve been hesitating with this for too long. (And Thanks Alan Silvestri and Ludwig Göransson for being my soundtrack this morning, assisting me in getting off my ass and start posting this thing.)

[insanethrottlebikernews]

NEVER BUY A HARLEY DAVIDSON PERIOD!!!!

NEVER BUY A HARLEY DAVIDSON PERIOD!!!!

#HARLEY #HARLEYS #HARLEYDAVIDSON 00:00 Oh Boy 00:21 We hear about this all the time don’t we 01:03 It’s not secret why people say this 04:20 It isn’t exactly a shocker is it 06:15 Talking to someone that has passion for Harley Davidson 07:22 This happened in 1905 07:50 Hopefully I made some good points 08:40 Here’s what you’re getting for that money 09:38 Give Harley Creit, they are…

[harleysite]

Harley-Davidson Street Glide ST 117 und Road Glide ST 117 mit Screaming ...

[honeesucker]

Gliding Into You

Pairing: Keigo Takami (Hawks) x Fem!Reader

Word Count: 4,024

Content Warnings: Hawks calls the reader ‘Chickadee’, allusions to past relationship violence/PTSD, Hawks injured by a window / wound tending, mentions of blood, soft descriptions of intimacy (feelin’ dreamy).

*For @frostthecupcake​ ‘s collab!  💐

Click here for the rest of the collab! ♡

The snow-covered streets of Musutafu were a pristine white after the new snow that fell in the late afternoon; you had watched with excitement as you wrapped up your workday at a prestigious Hero Recovery Center – a perfect fit given your quirk that allows for healing at a cellular level. This new job in the city center of the Pro Hero capital of Japan, and your newly found freedom after breaking free from your ex-partner and their controlling, manipulative hold over your life for the last six years left you feeling light enough to float off down the street.

You were currently walking home from some post-work holiday shopping, bundled up in a thick jacket with a plush scarf wrapped around your neck pulled up high enough to cover your mouth and nose, fluffy earmuffs and mittens added for extra warmth, leaving only your eyes exposed to the icy air – evident by the dusting of snowflakes landing on your eyelashes. However, none of the discomfort of the chilled weather dulled your good mood as you carried two bags – one with steaming, crispy chicken for the Christmas holiday and the other holding a small box that had a perfectly delectable looking strawberry shortcake from your favorite bakery. This was the first time in a long time that you've been able to partake in the regular traditions of the Christmastime holiday and you practically skipped down the road that led to your apartment – you on the top floor of a 60-floor luxury apartment high-rise. Your apartment was also something new that you weren’t used to having to yourself, but your job gave you a hefty sign-on bonus due to your skill and their desperate need for people with healing quirks, allowing you to gain one of the best overlooks of the city. Your building also came with heavy security given the status of many who lived there, and that security was worth the cost alone to you.  

Your night doorman was there to greet you before you even walked up the snowy steps, holding open the door for you as he gave a bright smile with his greeting as you passed him to enter the heated lobby, snowflakes already melting off you. One of the lobby security guards had already gone ahead and pressed the elevator button for you, and within a few seconds the melodic ding! announced its arrival. You bid both men goodnight as you entered the elevator and within a few silent minutes, save for the gentle instrumental Christmas music playing from the elevator speakers, you were already being greeted by the sight of your door – you walking swiftly to reach it and punch your key code in so that you could finally unwind and enjoy your night. You sat your bags down atop the thin, sleek table in your entryway as you pulled off your scarf and coat to hang, your mittens and earmuffs being hung on your coatrack with the other snow-dampened items, and finally your shoes as you slipped your feet into the comfy house slippers you had waiting for you. You grabbed your bags and walked across the open space that led to your kitchen adjacent to your living room, unbagging and setting the cake box and the chicken on the countertop of your kitchen island, the steam filling your apartment with the mouth-watering smell of fresh fried chicken.

While you couldn’t wait to eat you knew you had to get out of your work clothes and shower to truly feel relaxed, so you rushed to your room to grab your favorite soft, black pajama set consisting of a baggy long sleeve top and soft, cheeky shorts. You left the fresh clothes sitting on your bathroom counter as you turned on the shower, stripping the day away as you put your worn clothing in the hamper, and finally stepping into the warm spray of water and steam. The feeling of the water nearly being hot enough to burn your skin felt nice compared to the icy chill you walked home in, the scents of your shampoo and conditioner and body soaps helping to relax you as you made your way through the familiar routine. You had spent an extra five minutes or so in the water before relenting, getting out of the shower and drying off with one of the fluffy towels hanging on the wall. Once dry you slipped on your fresh clothes and walked into your bedroom to grab a pair of fluffy socks, and your house slippers, and after slipping into both you sat on your bed for a moment to check the messages on your phone you had plugged in to charge on your nightstand.  

It was this moment of peace you were ripped from as your whole body reacted, jumping back onto your bed with your back against the wall. Your ears were ringing from the shattering sound of glass and splintering furniture and soon, aside from the new chill taking over your space and the howling of the wind, you weren’t picking up any further sound. Your heart was beating like a hummingbird’s wings against your chest as the edges of your vision blurred into a narrow tunnel, anxiety gripping your whole body.

If it was him, he would have made himself known by now.

You decided there was no avoiding whatever the fuck awaited you outside of your bedroom, finally scooting to the edge of your bed as you carefully set your feet on the ground, taking tentative steps toward your bedroom door in case the situation called for a stealthier approach. As soon as you gathered the courage to peek around the corner to see the destruction of your living room and balcony sliding door, glass and splintered wood scattered across the expanse of your living room – what you saw lying in the middle of the room was truly the last thing you expected.

“Hawks?” You whisper-shouted. Surprise erased your anxiety as you stepped carefully out of your bedroom. Hawks wasn’t moving as you took in the mangled look of his ice-covered wings, even in their current state they were unmistakably the iconic red wings the number two Pro Hero was known for. You saw that his tan pants and jacket were shredded up, probably from crashing through the glass, and your eyes zeroed in on the first signs of pooling blood beneath his wings and head.  

Immediately you went into action, kneeling beside Hawks without a care for the glass or splintered wood digging into your knees as you began to assess the damage before you. You didn’t want to move him in case there were more severe internal injuries that could be made worse with the wrong movement, so you elected to leave him in the half-fetal position he was in as you activated your quirk. Glowing tendrils of soft electric blue began to extend from your fingertips out toward the unconscious hero, your fingers making quick contact with his body. You shut your eyes as your quirk helped you to visualize what you were feeling in his body. He was out cold, so luckily there was no need for pain management now. You focused initially on closing the wounds that were causing the largest blood loss, reducing the wound size of the laceration to his scalp and his left side where glass had sliced across his abdomen. Smaller tendrils of your quirk broke off and continued to work on the cellular structure of his skin, pushing out any embedded glass and working on the smaller cuts – your larger focus was now on Hawks’s wings. His wings suffered damage that you knew didn’t come from just flying through the glass door of your balcony, he was missing a lot of his primary feathers and there was serious damage done to the body of his wings; extensive internal damage that was pushing your quirk to the limit of what you were capable of, to stich the inner fibers of him back together so that he would be able to fly again. Your mind was racing, the internal structures of Hawks’s body in your mind's eye as your quirk worked its way through his body. You pondered what caused this kind of damage – nothing naturally occurring that you could think of in your years of treating emergent medical cases – no, this had to be the cause of a quirk... the question left is what kind of quirk causes this much cataclysmic destruction in the body?  

“Fuck,” the word was a harsh, breathless whisper between your teeth as your body continued to be pushed closer to the edge of your limits than it ever had before. “Almost done, need you to keep pulling through this, Hawks.”

“M’doing mhh’bst-” the words were mumbled, dreamy and quiet like when someone talks in their sleep, words mushed together but you can still make out the meaning. Your heart stopped in your chest as you realized he was back on the living side of things – you wanted to sigh in relief but feared that the second you relaxed even a little your body would give up on itself.  

Just a little more!

A last push of your quirk extending within Hawks’s body and repairing the final bits that would ensure his successful recovery, and you could rest yourself.

Finally!  

The final damaged structure within Hawks was repaired, a snap! felt throughout your body that told you it was all completed.  

He would be okay.

He would be okay.

He would- your vision blurred and narrowed, black dots and twinkling blue specks dancing in what remained in your diminishing vision.

“Fucking called it,” you mumbled, body slumping to the floor beside the now-healing Pro Hero. Your eyes closed to the sound of his steady breathing.

Breathing.  

You could allow your body to rest knowing that Hawks was breathing and would continue to breathe – although not without consequence. His body would ache like nothing he had ever experienced due to being put back together at the cellular level the way he was, due to the unknown quirk's damage, and the regular bruising and scrapes from coming through a window would be present and heal as they normally would – but at least he would be left with no open wounds.  

The last thing you saw before your vision totally blackened was the steady rise and fall of Hawks’s chest, crimson plumage fluffing up in his sleep as the color returned to his face.

Darkness enveloped your consciousness as you succumbed to exhaustion, the weight of the intense healing process taking its toll on your body. It was a deep, dreamless slumber that seemed to last an eternity until the repetitive beep, beep, beep of the heart monitor became clearer the more your surroundings garnered more clarity. When you finally regained full consciousness, you found yourself lying on a soft bed, the aroma of disinfectant and the low hum of medical equipment filling the room. You blinked a few times, your vision slowly adjusting to the sterile white room with daylight filtering in through the large windows. It didn't take long for the events of the previous night to flood back into your memory—the shattered glass, Hawks crashing through your balcony doors, his damaged wings, and the mysterious quirk that had caused such devastation to his body.  

You turned your head to the side and saw Hawks sitting in a chair beside the bed, his eyes fixed on you. His wings, though wrapped in bandages in a few spots, appeared to be in a better state than before. Relief washed over you as it dawned on you that he had made it through the ordeal with only a few aches and bruises.

"Hawks," you managed out with your voice a weak, hoarse whisper. He immediately leaned forward, his expression a mix of concern and gratitude.

"You're awake," he said softly, his voice filled with genuine relief. "How are you feeling?"

I managed a small smile, my body still aching but the worst of it subsiding. "Better now. How long was I out for?”

“About three days,” he said, a worried expression overtaking his handsome face.

“Damn...” You whispered, settling back against the paper-covered pillow, albeit a bit crunchy sounding it was more comfortable than the floor you lost consciousness on.

Hawks nodded, a hint of weariness in his eyes. "Your quirk... it saved me. I've never experienced anything like it. You're truly amazing."

"It's just my quirk doing its job. But I'm glad I could help." You couldn’t help it as you blushed, feeling a surge of pride mixed with a touch of embarrassment at his words.

Silence settled between you both for a moment before Hawks spoke again, his voice softer this time. "I owe you my life. I can't thank you enough for what you've done." A warmth spread through your chest as his words sunk in. Hawks, the number two Pro Hero, expressing such gratitude towards you—it was overwhelming. But more than that there was a bond between you both forged through the shared experience of that night.

"You don't have to thank me, Hawks," you replied, your voice filled with sincerity. "I'm just glad I was able to help. Besides, healing others is what I do."

A few hours after you woke up you were allowed to leave the hospital’s care, Hawks offering to walk you home. The night air was cool, and a light snowfall dusted the streets, creating a serene atmosphere. Hawks draped his arm around your shoulders, drawing you closer to his side as his wings shielded you both from the bitter Winter night air. The two of you walked in sync, matching each other's steps as you made your way back to your apartment.

“D-Do you...” Your voice trailed off softly as you thought your idea over again, wondering if it was too inappropriate to offer... finally you settled on asking Hawks back to your place. “You know, I never got to enjoy my friend chicken and the strawberry cake I bought for the holiday... I’m sure the food went bad by now. Do you wanna stop on the way back and come up to eat, if you’re not too busy?”

Hawks was taken aback as he stared at you, a bright look in his eyes. “Really? You want to eat Christmas food with me?” Hawks couldn’t stifle the laugh as you turned away from him quickly, not missing the blush on your cheeks as an embarrassed look took over your face.

“Yes, I do,” you stated simply, not playing into his teasing.

Hawks looked ahead, still leading you both back to your apartment as he smiled to himself, his plumage fluffing up as he grinned. “That sounds amazing, I’ve never had a chance to sit down for Christmas food like that.... I’d love to, with you.” His admission made you pause, and you glanced up at him, seeing the light blush on his tanned cheeks as he smiled. You couldn’t help the flood of butterflies taking over your gut as you just nodded, mumbling a ‘good’ under your breath and walking on with him. You made the same quick stops at the same places you had that night, grabbing fresh friend chicken for the both of you and a small, decadent Christmas strawberry shortcake.

The anticipation grew as you reached your apartment building, the savory smell of fried chicken growing stronger with each step. With an open door as your doorman greeted you, you entered the lobby together. Hawks glanced at you, a mischievous glint in his eyes. "I can't wait to dig into that fried chicken. It’s honestly one of my favorite foods.”  

“I’m glad I got a double portion just for that very possibility...” You grinned up at him, winking as he smirked, impressed with your forethought.

You rode the elevator to the top floor in comfortable silence, the soft drone of Christmas music playing in the background. As the elevator doors opened you led Hawks to your apartment, the delicious aroma growing stronger with each passing moment, and the moment you stepped inside the tantalizing smell of fried chicken enveloped the room, making both of your mouths water.

Hawks shrugged off his coat, revealing casual street attire underneath, and you followed suit, hanging your coat on the rack by the door. Excitement radiated through the air as you entered the kitchen, placing the boxes of crispy chicken and the cake on the countertop... your eyes trailing over to your living room, refurnished as if nothing ever happened.

“You... replaced my furniture?” You stated simply, confused and appreciative.

Hawks looked a little nervous as he rubbed the back of his neck. “Y-Yeah, I hope you don’t mind but I had a sidekick help me track down the item numbers and replaced everything that could be replaced... there’s a box in the living room of some little trinkets that got shattered, that it didn’t seem right to throw away until you went through it.

“Thanks, I appreciate that a lot... you didn’t have to go to the trouble, though,” you mumbled out, amazed he even arranged it almost exactly how you had it before.

“I kind of crash-landed into your living room,” Hawks sighed, looking in the living room as his eyes clouded over with the memory. “I’d say it’s the least I could do to repay you.”

You quickly brushed off his words and without hesitation you opened the cake box, revealing the perfectly crafted dessert. The sight of the fluffy layers of cake and creamy layers of whipped icing, topped with vibrant red strawberries brought a smile to both of your faces. Hawks's eyes widened in delight, his mouth watering. "It looks incredible, Chickadee. I can't wait to taste it."

Chuckling, you retrieved a knife and started slicing the cake, carefully placing a generous slice on each plate. The sweet smell of the cake mixed with the tangy freshness of the strawberries was a heavenly combination. Meanwhile, Hawks began unpacking the fried chicken, setting it out on a large platter. The golden-brown crust and the savory aroma of the chicken and spices made your stomach growl even louder. You couldn't resist reaching out and snatching a small piece, savoring the crunchy texture and the burst of flavors.

“Oh wow,” you breathed out with a mouthful between your cheek. “This is even better than I imagined... or is it only this delicious because I didn’t have it for three days?” You both laughed as Hawks grabbed his own piece, practically moaning as he bit into the crunchy skin of the chicken leg, his eyes rolling back into his head.

“I don’t even have words,” Hawks whispered, looking at you with a dreamy expression. “This has to be the best fried chicken I ever ate, how have I never stopped at this place before?”

You smiled, winking. “It’s a hidden gem, but now you know my secret... guard it closely, number two.” Hawks laughed, saluting you with a nod as he took another bite, savoring the taste... and with that, you both dug into the feast before you, savoring each bite of the succulent chicken and indulging in the delicate flavors of the strawberry cake. The room filled with the sound of contented sighs and the occasional expression of delight as you enjoyed the meal together.

Between bites, you shared stories and laughter, finding comfort in each other's company, even in silence. The stress of your guys’ meeting slowly melting away, replaced by a warmth that came from being surrounded by good food and even better company.

As the night progressed the plates were emptied, and the cake was devoured, leaving only satisfied smiles and contented hearts.

As the days turned into weeks, and the weeks into months, Hawks and you had found yourself falling into a comfortable routine. It all started one evening, when Hawks soared through the darkened skies of Musutafu, his crimson wings beating rhythmically as he approached your apartment building. The sight of your balcony, adorned with twinkling lights, had become a beacon of solace for him.

Landing gracefully on the railing, Hawks peered through the glass doors looking into your living room. He could see you curled up on the couch, engrossed in a book and with a mischievous grin he tapped lightly on the glass, startling you out of your reverie. You jumped at the sudden noise, your eyes widening as you spotted the familiar sight of Hawks outside. A mixture of surprise and delight washed over your face, and you hurriedly unlocked the doors for him to enter. The chilly night air followed him in, causing goosebumps to rise on your skin as his chilled feathers brushed against you.

"Hey Chickadee," Hawks greeted you with a playful twinkle in his eyes. "Mind if I join you for a while?"

“Do you even have to ask at this point, Hawks,” you muttered playfully, motioning to the balcony door. “Or knock? You know I leave it unlocked for you.” Hawks only laughed, smiling his signature smile as he took off his boots, and coast, and settled down with you on the couch. Your bodies close yet comfortably distant. Conversation flowed easily between you both as you discussed your respective days, shared stories, and exchanged laughter. There was a natural chemistry between you, a connection that grew stronger with each passing encounter.

As time went on, Hawks found himself seeking solace and comfort in your presence. In you, he found a respite from the pressures of hero life, a space where he could be himself without judgment or expectation... and you cherished your time together, reveling in the opportunity to learn more about the enigmatic hero with the scarlet wings, trying to quell your growing feelings as you level yourself with the reality of him being a popular Pro Hero, and that you were just friends.

Just friends... but on clear nights, Hawks would take you on exhilarating flights through the starlit skies, the wind rushing through your hair as you soared together above the city. You would laugh and shout, feeling the thrill of freedom in each breath so high above the city. In those moments, it was as if nothing else mattered—the world below faded away, and it was just the two of you, connected by the shared experience of flight.

Back on your balcony, you would sit side by side with each other, your fingers gently intertwined as you watched the city lights sparkle below. Hawks would talk about his dreams, his aspirations, and his fears. And you would listen, your presence a comforting balm to his weary soul... he had never had such a freedom to be himself more than when he was with you. But it wasn't just the adventurous nights that bound you together. You both found joy in the simple moments as well—a cozy movie night with popcorn and blankets, cooking together in your kitchen (it was you cooking and Hawks snatching up still-hot, half-cooked pieces of food), or simply enjoying each other's company in comfortable silence. You discovered shared interests together, exchanged secrets, and offered support in times of need. Through your time together, you both learned to trust, to open your hearts to one another, and to embrace the vulnerability that comes with true connection, not just friendly banter and polite half-truths.

And on this starlit evening, as Hawks stood on your balcony, his wings stretched out wide behind him, he turned to you, an unusual softness in his eyes. "Chickadee, you've become such an important part of my life," he confessed, his voice filled with a mixture of sincerity and adoration. "I never expected to find someone like you—a person who understands me, who accepts me for who I am. I'm grateful for every moment we've shared."

Touched by his words, you smiled as you bit your lower lip to keep from blurting out your own feelings, a soft blush on your face as you just nod. “Me too, Hawks, me too.”

A couple of weeks later you found yourself in a situation you never imagined, as the moon cast a gentle glow over the room as Hawks and you found yourselves wrapped in a tender embrace, seeking comfort and closeness in each other's arms. The events of the day had been overwhelming for him, and now, in the quiet solitude of the night, he sought comfort and reassurance in the presence of the sweet person he came to love.

Hawks massaged his fingers gently against your scalp, his touch soothing and filled with unspoken affection. The utter softness of his touch sent shivers down your spine, grounding you in the moment. You leaned into his warmth, feeling his steady heartbeat against your chest, syncing with the rhythm of your own as your bodies pressed against each other, limbs tangled together. His scarlet wings, usually a symbol of strength, were now tenderly draped around the two of you, creating a cocoon of safety. The soft plumage brushed against your skin, their gentle touch like a whisper of assurance that this was all truly real.

With a soft sigh, Hawks pressed a gentle kiss to the top of your head, his lips lingering against your hair. "You mean everything to me, Chickadee," he whispered, his voice filled with sincerity and vulnerability. "In a world filled with chaos and uncertainty, villains and heroes... you are my anchor, my sanctuary." You couldn’t find the time to reply before Hawks leaned in, capturing your lips in a gentle kiss. It was a kiss expressing a depth of emotion that mere words couldn't convey. The softness of his lips against yours ignited a fire within, warming your entire being. It was a kiss that held promises and unspoken devotion, a testament to the bond between you.

As the kiss deepened, the world around you faded into the background, leaving only the two of you entwined in a moment of raw intimacy. Time seemed to stand still, allowing you to explore the planes of each other’s bodies. Hawks’ touch almost clinical as if he were trying to memorize each bump, scar and curve to you as his mouth continued to dominate yours... Eventually, the need for air forced you to break the kiss, but the connection remained. Hawks rested his forehead against yours, his breath mingling with yours.  

"I love you, Chickadee," he whispered, his voice laced with such adoration it almost made you cry.

You could only press one more soft, sweet kiss to his lips as you whispered back to him. “I love you, Hawks.”

[tl2so4]

This is an awesome account of the events that happened that day. It is written by Jeffery - the guy in the fur hat in the front row. Enjoy!

June, 1967

Through SF State College, which I am going to a few years out of the Navy using my GI Bill benefits, I get a summer job through school that has a hundred dollar a month expenses. I go down to the Psychedelic Shop on Haight Street, where a lot of community activities come from and offer them the money. Ron Thelin, who runs the store with his brother Jay, says yes, they can use the money to rent a flatbed truck (for a stage) and a generator (for the guitars) as there is a free concert in the Panhandle of Golden Gate Park on that coming Sunday, June 25, 1967 and asks me to show up for the meeting around 10am Sunday morning.

I wake up that morning in my 75 dollar a month houseboat at Gate 5, Main dock, make a cup of coffee and toast, jump into my car, then leave and drive up the Waldo Grade, go through the tunnel and blast out into brilliant sunlight, wondering now and then, who is going to be performing at this free concert as Jay had never said who it might be.

I glide over that gorgeous Golden Gate bridge, then take the 19th Avenue exit and wend my way to Fulton and finally park in front of the shop on Haight and go in.

There are 4 or 5 guys who are really putting this show together and the work has mostly been taken care of. I just stand quietly st the back of the room. Finally, Jay asks if anyone has a car. I leave my hand down but finally tell him that I do.

"Go down to the Travelodge at Fishermen's Wharf", he tells me, matter-of-factly, "knock on door 157 and bring Jimi Hendrix back to the site, parking on Fell near Ashbury".

I nod to him like I do this stuff every day, jump in my beat-up '59 Studebaker ragtop, pull out and head over. On the way, I think back to last week's Monterey Pop Festival, where a simple twist of fate played out big for me.

The morning of Monterey, my wife ran off with my last roommate in college. About a half hour later, sitting on the edge of the bed dejectedly, there is a knock on the door and my neighbor, Dan Hicks, wants to know if I want to make 20 bucks as he needs help humping music amps and guitars to the Festival. Twenty minutes later, we cross the Golden Gate Bridge and make our way to the Monterey Fairgrounds.

While humping a large amp, Dan on one end and me on the other, I notice something shiny on the ground and squat quickly down and stuff it into my jeans and proceed. We get all the equipment in and I get my 20 bucks and am now outside the gate. Don't know exactly what to do, but after pulling out the shiny object, it turns out to be a simple pin-back with a card that says BACKSTAGE PASS on it.

Things are looking up. The only SLIGHTLY bad thing is it also has someone else's name written on it as well. But, hell, what can they do to me and I am never averse to taking risks, so I pin it on and walk up to the hefty guard at the gate, who sees I have THE PASS and I am in!

I saw a lot of music that weekend, but Otis Redding's scintillating set on Saturday night, even sharing a joint with David Crosby, was a real peak event I have never forgotten. What a professional set he laid down. The best.

Then, Sunday, when I hear Jimi is about to perform, I go out in the left side of the stage and stand behind a curtain that is all there is between me and him and he totally blows us all away, then picks up a can of Ronson lighter fluid while he is down on his knees making love to his guitar during Wild Thing and his guitar is now flaming and then he breaks up that guitar and lobs pieces of it to audience members and leaves the stage.

Wow; Monterey Pop. But that was last week and now I am in the parking lot and I go up to the door and knock and, like in a dream, there is Jimi, who just picks up his guitar and gets in the back seat of my garbage car and off we go. Just being around him a few minutes and you know he is basically a shy cat and the only thing he mentions is how much he digs my Russian fur hat which is only a woman's fur piece I got at the Digger's Free Store on Cole St. just off Haight a few weeks back and made into a hat. I try to give it to him but he declines saying it wouldn't fit over his hair and I am very happy as it looks so good on me.

We pull up, he gets out and wanders over to the stage while I roll up a quick joint and take five fast puffs, laughing as I can't see anything in my smoky car. I don't want to miss a beat, but decide that since I drove him there, I am going to get up close and observe. As you can see, I kind of got the best seat in the house even if I am standing, Notice I am holding his microphone cable. And smiling big. Why not? Ringside with the most amazing guitar player. Ever. I don't even notice Jim Marshall, SF's iconic rock photographer, snapping photos.

This was on Sunday, June 25, 1967 and I went on with my life which took me to Woodstock and driving a big Hog Farm hippie bus for a few years across America and then I got to Europe and hired on as a driver for a British hippie bus taking 25 paying passengers (75 dollars one-way) from Amsterdam to Afghanistan and spent five years doing that including the beaches of Goa, India and trekking in the Himalayas of Nepal and I was pretty busy and never once told that Jimi story to anyone at any time. It was just this serendipitous, precious moment in my life.

But then, I went over to my friend Wrinkle's one day in 1988 but he was out, so I was sitting with his then 18 year old son Austin and thinking of having a conversation and he was the drummer in a garage band, so out comes that story of Jimi and me. Of course, he didn't believe me but was too kind to say so. I went home afterwards and a few days later, I get a call from his dad and he says "Hey, I am looking at a picture of you and Jimi Hendrix. Now it's my turn to not believe him, but I go over and...

So Austin has this pal Jameson Grant and Jameson's parents went to live in Iowa for a couple of years, his junior and senior year in high school. One day, he is thumbing through a guitar magazine and there is a full page photo of Jimi Hendrix and me, but he doesn't know me then, but he really likes this picture and asks his pal if he can have it and his friend says buy me a hamburger and it's yours! But, when he goes back to California, he takes it with him and one day his friend Austin comes over and tells him the tall tail he thinks I told him and Jameson says Well, I have a picture of Jimi Hendrix in San Francisco in my suitcase and shows it to Austin who freaks out saying I thought Jeff was BSing me but THAT'S HIM. Jim Marshall took the photo and I now have seen it in a Rolling Stone and seen it many other places, showing Jimi Hendrix and me, smack dab in the middle of the Summer of Love and it doesn't get much better than that."

Jeffrey

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Last edited: Feb 14, 2021

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Street Glide ST 117