multiimistakes

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me trying to justify putting thistle onto his own solo blog despite how bad of an idea it'd actually be-—

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honestly laughing at the Just a Southern Dude to supernatural hunter pipeline Thistle fell into. like oh the south being so steeped in superstition makes it easier to just go with it when it turns out that shit is real-real. like oh for sure yeah guess im fighting a ghost thats terrorizing this family now ig and they're paying me like 40 bucks yeah this tracks this is chill and normal

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❝ Maybe like a modest, semi-cheap brick house. ❞ he wasn't bulky but he wasn't in string bean territory either. Average, he liked to think. Just a dude who could throw a punch or a shoulder here and there.

His shoulders rise and fall in a shrug as they walk, he lifts a hand to card through short and messy hair-—just barely long enough that the beginning waves of telltale curls are starting to show up again. He'll probably end up tidying it up before tour ends just for the sake of professionalism and his own sanity.

❝ I can get a lil' frisky, I'll be the first to admit it. But not to the point of endangerin' nobody really. And 'specially not my fuckin' job if I can help it. ❞ bit of an adrenaline, a dopamine fiend here and there but he knew his limits for the most part.

Harvey. Yeah, that sounded right. They cut a left and they're off into a curtained area and he's being reminded about the arrows. Oh yeah, he'd seen them around and had put two and two together. Hell, even if he hadn't been a hundred percent sure on them...green and arrows typically meant good things.

❝ Huh? Oh, like the...I dunno. I mean, gotta see how this all goes for me personally. Then after that it depends on if the powers that be want me around. Then the third layer is if you guys do. All that to say...fuck if I know. Here for this leg at least though for sure. All down in fancy paper and print. ❞

"No one ever really knows how to play I think. That's the whole point of the game. Instigation and chaos." At least if it's his family playing anyway. They don't touch Monopoly on principle, namely? Because Ridley hates the perpetual use of incarceration as an incentive. 

"Oh yeah, built like a brick house?" the corners of his mouth twitch with thinly veiled amusement as he leads them through the sparsely crowded backstage area and toward the craft table situated in the gaming section just before the dressing rooms. "Our turnover rate is pretty low. I'm not stressed about it unless you're hiding an adrenaline junkie deep down." His best attempt at placation. It's not as if he's the road crew police. 

"Harvey. You're a Harvey hire." Breck offers up helpfully before making a left and rounding the corner to a curtained-off area. "We have arrows to guide our people." He points to a small neon green arrow taped on the wall adjacent. "Look for those and you'll find our areas." It's a cardinal road rule not to fuck with stagehands or crew. Not all bands follow it, but the signs and arrows are hallowed. Typically off limits and carefully dispersed to guide the shit-faced or wayward. The guitarist rarely struggles to remember his way after the once. But one could easily attribute that to a keen attention to detail. He has his own landmarks typically. "Are you planning on staying the whole tour? Or just the North American leg?"  

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cred.

im going inSANE

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Thistle holds both hands up in a surrendering motion once they're both to their feet. ❝ Hey man, I haven't played Uno since forever. I dunno how that shit works anymore. ❞ jokes to smooth over the fact that, yeah, they probably would have.

❝ Yeah, but I'm like...really sturdy. ❞ he's smart, he thinks. Thistle had a temper on him but he wasn't some rabid dog; he knew when to pick his fights and how much of himself to throw into the fights he did pick. He exhales a sigh as if he knows he has to correct himself and it's some sort of tedious task. ❝ Look, I'm not gonna be like...some fuckin' liability. To the band or myself. I'm a big boy, I know my way around and how to not get my shit rocked too crazy. ❞

He chewed on the question for a beat, trying to discern the best way to answer it. ❝ I uh...sorta? I mean I haven't really strayed from the like...path that uh-—ah, fuck. I know it's not a good look to not remember who signed you on but I can't remember the dude's name. Anyway, kinda just stuck to what he told me. Still gettin' comfortable, maybe. Or just not used to this sort of scene yet. ❞ he was used to the scene, sure. Just not in a professional sense.

He's somewhat amused by the response. "So we were just gonna uno reverse each other over and over huh?" Funny and maybe a tad unusual. Breck isn't exactly used to people with as more forethought. Usually the people around him are very tethered in the now. Results may vary, and often? The musician finds himself the voice of reason. Blue eyes catch sight of the offered hand when Thistle stands, and he takes it in his own to hoist himself up. Calloused but warm fingers release their hold as he murmurs a quick thanks. 

"I've seen really sturdy people get pretty serious injuries too." A hint of a smile before he dips his hands into hoodie pockets, and begins the trek toward the dressing rooms. "Have you learned your way around yet? Maddie tends to stick by the craft tables, she likes first dibs on the energy drinks come afternoon restock." 

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Thistle wouldn't have considered himself a musician. He played and he played more than just the dude who knew a song or two for a party trick. But he didn't play-play in the sense he had attempted to make any career out of it or anything like that. It was like...a rock collection. It wasn't really something you showed off unless someone just really, really also liked rocks and specifically asked to see it.

The favor in question was going to get checked out like he'd planned to anyway. ❝ Yeah, was gonna anyway. But y'should still come with. Like I said, I ain't no medical expert. Would make me feel better if you got all your shit double looked at too. ❞ plenty of rockstars and popstars and metalstars and whatever else would live wild and free, but it was nice to see this one seemed to give some sort of fucks about its staff and members.

Thistle rose to his feet, offered a hand to the guitarist. ❝ I'm pretty sturdy. Don't really gotta worry much 'bout me. ❞

Breck wouldn't have been able to tell the difference, usually. It was the lead singer that got the fanfare. Other musicians were typically the ones to look for him, call it a by-product of natural skill and obsessive practice. He wasn't half bad for a guitarist. Deft hands, and creative. Childhood years spent on a Cello to thank. 

He's not exactly the poster boy for headliner behavior, and it shows in how he holds for a few more seconds before withdrawing his grip. Only skittish and brand-new staff really insist on calling him Mr. Crow. "Excellent." A beam. 

"Will you actually go get checked? It would really bother me to know you'd been injured and we hadn't caught it." Earnest and with a slight furrow in his brow. "It takes a lot to keep us running, and I appreciate your efforts but I worry." A sheepish look before he shrugs. "I'll even come with. I know Maddie's gonna have a field day." The medic has a sharp tongue and knows a little about the beef on sight already. 

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Thistle was built different, so declared he. A long time fan of the band, of Breck-—but here he'd managed to get brought on as soundcheck (and whatever else) and he was being totally not weird about it. He hadn't even jumped into the fray for any sort of cringe fan fantasy or to 'protect his fave', it'd just been a natural reaction.

And yeah maybe he was having his little blips of being mildly starstruck, but they were all just dudes at the end of the day and this was a job and it could all just be written off as the soundcheck guy being a little weird.

❝ Breck, yeah. Alright. ❞ he nods, mimicking Breck in the way he lets the shortened name sit on his tongue. He lets his gaze flicker to the hand holding his wrist, brow arched. In his defense this time, he looked more genuinely perplexed than flustered or awestruck.

❝ Uhh...I mean, maybe? Probably? I don't really write blank checks but...shoot. ❞

Breck isn't quite sure where Harvey picks up his strays, but the one thing they seem to have in common is they're resilient and hard to shake. "Okay." the chatter and noise backstage have died down. Now it's just the two of them seated across, with sound check guy looking just a tad sheepish. 

An owlish blink follows the admission, it's so casually blunt he can't help the laugh that bubbles up. Pleasant, and boyish. "I don't think it'll be that much fuss. But at the rate you're going? You might get promoted to security." there's still a hint of a smile at the corners of his mouth when he leans back so he's flush with the wall. "I've done worse." Music video shoots come to mind, hand in hand with committing to the bit. Still, "Mm." 

Blue eyes watch the goings on, and if he notes the slight bewilderment from sound check Breck is polite about it. "Thistle," he repeats, letting it sit in his mouth for a moment before smiling again. "like the plant…I'll remember." The musician finds himself pleasantly surprised at the inquiry, "Breckin." He moves a hand out to catch Thistle's wrist gently. Calming balm for the mortification. He thinks he might've just watched the man speed run the five stages of grief, "Breck is fine too." 

Another smile. "Will you do me a favor, Thistle?" 

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Thistle just clucks his tongue, scrunches his face and offers the slightest shake of his head. ❝-—Nah. I mean, fuck me...I won't say no to extra pay but...❞ and he shrugs, finishes his own attempts at first-aid and lets his hands fall back to his lap. And then Thistle looks a bit bashful, like someone being scolded. Ah, hell-—already fussing up on the job.

❝ I mean. I can't promise nothin' so if it's somethin' you'd need to fire me over...best just get that outta the way now. ❞ it wasn't as though he was jumping to fight, it was just that he had a low tolerance threshold for bullshit and he swung fists a little quicker than most.

He wipes any leftover Neosporin onto his cargo shorts and dismisses offers for a medic. ❝ Nah, you oughta get looked at again though. I can slap ointment on and a bandage but I ain't no nurse or nothin'. ❞ not much the medic could do for him anyway besides make sure he hadn't jostled his brain around too much. Realistically, he'd probably get checked out once everyone who was actively bleeding and busted open had.

Dumbly, Thistle glances down as if in search of a nametag. For his name. That he knew. Because it was fucking his. Thistle was good and professional and knew not to be fucking strange, but he'd been tripped up just a bit at such a simple question from one of the band members.

❝ Thistle. Like the uh...the plant, y'know? Or weed or whatever the fuck it is. ❞ a pretty bad lie considering he knew just about all there was to know about Thistles on account of his sister. ❝ What's your name? ❞ he regrets it as soon as it leaves his mouth automatically, blinking owlishly a few times and then looking briefly mortified.

❝ Fuck, I don't know why I asked that. Why wouldn't I know your name. Jesus. Maybe I got knocked around more than I thought...❞

He's not quite certain how to explain why the circuit is smaller than it looks. Point blank? Breck is hardly one to apologize for a throat punch provided it's well-deserved. But he looks somewhat like a sullen black cat once security pulls them all apart. Too many boys, with big egos and bigger mouths. A blessing that the only time his professionalism goes by the wayside is when the predatory bassist fuckhead who'd refused to take a no from his sister a summer ago was lurking in the wings. Sometimes contractual obligations are funny that way when two bands are part of the same label. 

The scrape on his cheek is smattered with Neosporin, and he can see the grease shine in his peripheral as the soundcheck guy offers up business advice. "Harvey will pay you extra." rattled off with practice, low and polite, before blue eyes peer up from underneath dark lashes and catch the split lip with a frown. "Don't do this in the future."    Breck is patient, but unsure how to wave away the careful first aid. This is hardly the worst fight he's been in. However? Credit where it's due. He also hadn't expected the taller man to be right behind him with Gaz in tow. It mollifies him a little. "I'll live." More wry than he means to before he's motioning to his own mouth. "We have a medic on staff." Currently tending to the moron who's head he'd bounced off a speaker, but whatever. Harvey's hire's more important. A pause. "What's your name?" It dawns on him that it might be rude to refer to him that way.

@multiimistakes / continued.

[multiimistakes]

[ TEND ] — Breck + Thistle ( Wattpad au )

[ TEND ]: sender and receiver tend to one another’s wounds in the aftermath of a fight.

Whatever the fuck Thistle was to this band, he was pretty sure his duties did not extend to this. Not to jumping into the middle of a brawl and certainly not patching up the lead guitarist afterwards. He was supposed to help with set up and take down, sound checking. Hell, getting them fucking snacks and coffees or whatever the fuck those sorts did. Very normal, very expected assistant-esque tasks. If this wasn't a metal band, he'd have expected a nice little ear piece and an asshole haircut too.

❝ Not gonna tell you how to run your shit but...maybe you ought to have somethin' about this in the goddamn contract. ❞ not that he was the sort to up and run after one little scuffle. He sported a split lip and a tongue he'd bitten after receiving a stray blow, but was otherwise unscathed. Some ice and maybe some time not running his mouth would do him good.

He sucked his lower lip between his teeth in concentration as he applied a butterfly strip bandage to a cut above the man's brow, flinching at both the sharp taste of copper and at the sting that reminded him he indeed had fucked his lip up.

❝ Be glad y'don't wear nothin'. Grease paint n' shit is killer on open face wounds. I mean, sweat in this puppy and it's still gonna sting like a mother but...could be worse. ❞

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cred

HE.

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What doesn't make it onto the man's own stomach dribbles over Thistle encircling fingers. He strokes Breckin through it and eases to a halt once his wrist is grasped. His eyes flutter closed as grip turns to scritch. He kisses the indents of his own teeth soothingly, affectionately.

❝ Yeah. Boyfriend. ❞ he repeats it in an almost proud tone, nuzzling his face into the crook of Breck's neck and smiling there. He raises his head eventually, peppering kisses to the side of his head. ❝ Yeah, y'sure fuckin' did. Pretty mess. ❞ he clucks his tongue. ❝ Y'gonna have to be Jell-o off to the side if you want me to be able to get up and get a wet rag. ❞

Oh fuck indeed. He grunts at the feel of teeth, and spills warm ropes on the hand, across his own belly. Once, twice. Stomach drawn taut so a full Adonis belt is on display when he rests his head back against the brunet's left shoulder. "Oh." Breck mewls and bucks his hips a last time into the insistent grip milking him for all he's worth, before moving to grasp the southerner's wrist with a hum. "I made a mess." Just a touch breathless.

The hand in dark hair eases through just a bit further, so he can scritch gently with a soft snort. "But my legs are Jell-o. Boyfriend huh?" That's the magic word.

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Adept fingers tangle in his hair and it pool like molten in the pit of his belly. He's hungry for it now, so eager to have Breckin spill over into his fist. The overwhelming want and lust coupled with the giddiness of everything else. Of, oh fuck, they were dating now apparently.

The sting of the pull was delicious and he couldn't help but fold to the man's plea. He ducked into the junction between Breck's neck and shoulder and bit down, teeth digging against flesh as he continued to match the debunker's frantic movements of his hips with his stroking motions.

Another warm huff, he's not so much clinging for dear life as digging his fingers into the brunette's  thighs. He's only just on the edge of overwhelmed, never mind that he hasn't stopped fucking into the warm grip a once. But the conversation itself, so cool and casual. Like they haven't been a tangle of limbs, and he hasn't begged on his knees. Breck flusters easily, yet his expression is verging more on the edge of debauched. It's a fine line. He can take the physical without batting an eyelash. This however? The earnestness. The way kisses are plied carefully where he'll feel them the most. God he's melting in place. Much too hot to the touch, and desperate when he reaches back to tangle the entirety of his hand in dark curls. 

"Thistle pleaaaase." He's on the verge of tears. Tone husked with misuse and tapering into a gasp, and another. Toes curled tight, and fingers clenched in dark hair. Just a bit...More. Tension pools in his belly, "Bite please." Anywhere? Fuckssake. Just latch, and don't let up.

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Okay. Okay, he could live with. He drinks up Breckin's low whine, pumps faster. Thistle fed into it, spurred on by-—what? By them clumsily asking one another out in the throes of lust?

Boyfriends. Official. Actually putting a name to it. Yeah, maybe they'd been parading around as such for awhile and maybe they were both at least a little bit conscious of it but...now they were acknowledging it. It made his heart jump in that stupid way that always got talked about in cheesy ass books, made something so raw well up in him that Thistle really hadn't the words to describe it. Breckin might, Breckin seemed better at that than him.

He tucked in close, a wet kiss and then a hot breath against the man's ear. ❝ Yeah? Well how 'bout you be a good boy for your new boyfriend and cum for him, hm? ❞ the duality of Thistle being able to spout such filth while knowing he'd be out of his damned mind if it was turned on him.

He's doing his best not to become a writhing mass. It's an admirable effort all things considered. However then the brunette opens his mouth and he's all but floored. It's not quite being teased. There's too much between them for Breck to take it as anything but truth, doesn't very well stop him from going pink in the face. 

"Okay." A warm huff of breath against the arm bared to him. He can't quite anchor, but his hands grip for purchase anyway, catch the fabric of cargo pants underneath and scrunch. 

The words are closer to scalding, he feels them somewhere along his shoulder, in his guts and further down still. "Fuuuuuck." Low, a not quite smothered whine. Maybe it's an exercise in losing his mind at a leisurely pace. God he wants. Him, this...Them? "I'm...Yes...yes...okay." 

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Being kept is more than he could ask for, the most that he wants. He'd never much cared to be in the company of others, liked his solitude. But with Breck...Breck felt like home and he wanted nothing more than to be invited in and kept there. Breck was as much Thistle's keeper as he was his. Two peas in a pod and all that jazz.

❝ I'd let you. ❞ he hums it easily, eyes fluttering closed as he focused on listening to Breck's breathing, how the weight of him in his hand feels, how he's moving his hips to a lazy rhythm.

Thistle shivers at the implication, tries not to let himself read into it too much. ❝ Careful... ❞ he mimics, picking up the pace of his hand. ❝ Y'might just end up with a boyfriend all official-like. ❞

Breck presses a kiss into the bite as if to soothe his immediate instinct. Pauses at the question, with a hint of a smile. "Careful…" another shiver when he registers the flick of a playful thumb. "I might keep you." No need to blame it on the lust haze, he'd say it with his dick tucked away and decent too. 

An owlish blink follows the gesture, and he's both amused and immediately endeared, despite the filth leaving the Southerner. It's the combination that has him on a tightrope. The whiplash of tender and lascivious. He'd sleep in those hands if he could find a way to. They're the safest things he knows. 

He wants to will the clumsiness away from the tip of his tongue. Find some measure of fluency, because his pulse has picked up and he's hardly displeased by the the compliment. "Okay, boyfriend material whatever you say." It comes out more breathless than he'd like, but his hips are moving, in a languid rhythm. 

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He relishes in the feeling of teeth baring down against flesh; he flashes his own in a warm but satisfied grin. ❝ That an offer? I have gotten pretty good with my camera work. ❞ he teases, gloats as he thumbs the tip of Breck's cock.

❝ I think I'm bein' mighty nice to you. Sayin' nice things. Jerkin' you off. Dunno what's mean 'bout all that. ❞ no, he knows and it shows easily in his playful, bedroom-low tone. He lifts his unoccupied hand from Breckin's thigh, uses it to stroke through the man's hair and tuck it behind an ear and out of his face.

❝ And, y'kno, a recordin' wouldn't do it justice. No amount of fancy camera work by yours truly could replicate bein' there in the moment. Some art's meant to be experienced, not watched back. ❞

He's a live wire, all crackling buzz as the combination of words and kisses pulls his focus. Something about the satisfaction in the brunette's tone tugs at his insides. Or is that the hand on his cock? Pink and bobbing with attention. Breck isn't certain where the blood will flush faster, but his face is warm for the efforts. He rests his head back against a left shoulder and catches a full lower lip between pearly whites. 

The musician is well aware of Thistle's fondness. Often? It's a tug-of-war between them. He wants to be considerate. Not so loud that others are disrupted. Yet, it only seems to spur the Southerner further. "At that point just record it." A soft tsk he can't quite bring himself to regret. To say he'd do that and more isn't a lie. There's not much farther than trusting someone with your life…Thistle is more than qualified. "Be nice to me." The barest press of teeth as he dips his head to latch on the closest bit of his boyfriend's arm. Holy shit…Boyfriend? What a thought.

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❝ S'about hearing you. ❞ he replied easily, peppering affectionate kisses where he could reach as he slowly stroked the man to full attention. ❝ Pretty noises. Pretty how you move against me. Don't need to see your face for that. ❞ not that he was opposed to it. Breck had a VERY pretty face. But Thistle's interest in him did not stop there; he could drink up every little bit about the man.

His noises, his movements. Every little thing was intoxicating and he was oh so greedy for it. Thistle rests one hand at a thigh, warm and heavy and thumbing at flesh as his other hand works Breckin over. ❝ Could always make you do it yourself. Get to just sit here n' listen to you come undone while you jerk yourself off for me. ❞ it'd be a bit mean, but the end result would be the same for Thistle.

The nip of the air conditioning against bare skin is enough to have him pressing back just a little more to leech a bit of warmth. Breck's momentarily distracted enough to miss just where those fingertips are wandering. But? He's quickly jolted by the press of thumb. Just a slow silly circle, in an innocuous place. Yet it drags a gasp, breathy and confused when the brunette murmurs against his ear.

"Pretty?" He's already stirring to life when a wrap hand wraps around him. Snug and teasing so he rocks his hips slow to meet it. Impossible to know exactly how he means to proceed. But blue eyes are bright when the corners of his mouth upturn. "You won't be able to see."