#I need to understand how a motorcycle with rubber tires is even a thing in this world that’s clearly intended to be fantasy inspired

[boundinparchment]

All these leaks have me convinced I’m just not meant to enjoy Natlan, lore wise or character wise 💔

Hot take I guess, sorry in advance

[whyarewecalledtheshipname]

kh3, recoded spoilers:

another part to my data boys as gummiphone assistants crack lol. Basic concept: Data Sora and Data Riku get sent to Riku's phone to accompany him on his ventures through unreality.

in this installment: Riku realizes his kh munny doesn't work in Unreality, so Data Riku pulls some bs in order to help Riku win prize money in a motorcycle race.

warnings: some cussing, ig, crack

___

“That’ll be $25.03.”

Riku blinks. He looks down at his munny. He doesn’t know how to divide a single munny into “point three” munny. He’s never needed to do that back home.

He does the next best thing, and holds out twenty-six munny.

The cashier reflexively reaches out his hand, then pulls away. He stares at Riku’s hand, then glares at Riku’s face.

Riku pulls his munny back just an inch. “...I’m sorry, I only have twenty-six.”

The cashier squints, then glares again. “Is this a joke or something?”

Riku’s phone rings in his pocket, but Riku feels himself growing confused, and doesn’t want to add the data kids to the mess. “I don’t understand. What’s wrong? Is it the total?”

The cashier looks to the side, as if attempting to take a mental break from the situation, before turning back to Riku. “Dude, stop with the prank. You already ordered your food, just—”

“What is it?” someone calls from within the kitchen of the restaurant.

“Hold the food,” the cashier calls back. “This guy’s trying to pay in marbles or something.”

“What the fuck?”

Riku blinks. What did that mean? The word, the marbles, the prank, all of it?

“I’m sorry,” Riku apologizes again, and he knows Data Sora is going to give him a talking to for it. “I’m—Cancel my order, I—”

The cashier sighs, and taps on the monitor of the register. “Alright, man, just—don’t do this kinda stuff; no one watches prank videos anymore.”

Riku nods, despite not understanding a word being said, and ducks out of the restaurant, munny in hand.

He wanders the streets for a good while, until his confusion and embarrassment simmer down. Only then does he finally answer his phone, which hasn’t stopped ringing incessantly.

“Hellooo?!”

Riku braces himself. “What is it, Sora—”

“Riku! What was that? What happened? Why didn’t you answer? And what did I tell you about over-apologizing?”

“I was busy,” Riku quickly answers, if only because otherwise, Data Sora would keep asking questions.

“Busy not eating! And right when you finally decided to! Go back!”

Riku thinks about the munny he’d stuffed back in his pocket, and feels his earlier frustration returning. “And what? They wouldn’t take my munny, and I don’t think it’s because of something I did.”

Data Riku scoffs, and it’s the first sound he’s made this whole time. “That’s why I was calling you. Was there a weird “S” looking symbol on the menu?”

Riku doesn’t have to think twice. It had stood out to him instantly. “Yeah.”

“I thought so. That symbol represents the currency here. Your munny from home is different, and it won’t work here.”

“Then why didn’t you warn him?” Data Sora chides, lightly smacking Data Riku's elbow.

“I didn’t check until just a while ago, okay?”

Data Sora gasps, his mild anger seemingly vanishing. “Riku? Not planning ahead?”

Data Riku rolls his eyes, but Data Sora’s antics instantly improve Riku’s mood.

“So now what?” Riku asks, and now there’s less tension in his voice. “I haven’t run into any monsters here, and who’s to say they’d drop munny anyway?”

Data Sora crosses his arms into his usual thinking pose, humming. Data Riku, on the other hand, raises an eyebrow at Riku. The little smirk is back, and Riku can’t believe he used to do such a thing.

“I think I found something,” is all Data Riku says.

Data Sora’s arms fling out beside him in surprise. “Huh?”

Data Riku answers by strolling over to his beloved keyboard, and calling up a holographic display.

Riku blinks, and Data Sora gasps.

“So,” Data Riku asks cheekily, “do you remember how to ride?”

~<~>~

“How did you know about that?” Riku asks as he follows the gps on his phone. He glances up to read a street sign, then looks down at his phone again.

Data Riku scoffs. “Come on. If there’s one adventure of yours I have data of, it’s your time in The Grid.”

“That makes sense.”

Data Sora is turning from one Riku to the other, eyes wide. “Huh? Adventure? Grid? What’re you guys talking about?”

Data Riku points at the hologram in the middle of the room, and Data Sora is transfixed on it once more.

“What I understand so far is that you have to sign up for these things in advance,” Data Riku explains. “Because it’s an official event, which is the only kind that will even give you a chance at winning prize money.”

“Prize munny?” Data Sora asks. “I thought munny was no good here.”

“Currency,” Data Riku clarifies. “Money, different from ours. Or at least this world’s equivalent of munny.”

Riku turns a corner, and suddenly he hears the echoes of squealing tires. It sends a rush of excitement through Riku’s veins.

An obvious hole in their plan then makes itself known.

“How am I supposed to race? I don’t have a bike.”

Riku’s words cause Data Sora to turn back to the hologram from before, and he practically drools over the flickering image of a motorcycle. “Biiike…”

Data Riku keeps typing without missing a beat. “I was going to focus on the process of registering you for the races in the first place, first. But—” and Riku’s screen suddenly shows a different display “it’s done. Almost. Basically.”

Riku scans the webpage on his screen, slightly distracted by the increasing sounds of revving engines and the smell of burning rubber.

“This is the login screen for current racers,” Data Riku’s voice explains. “This will serve as a pathway between the gummiphone and the servers housing the roster data. I’ll do some tweaking, and if all goes well, you should appear on the roster as if you’ve been entered the whole time.”

Something about this situation feels vaguely familiar to Riku, but’s it’s a barely-there sensation that’s interrupted by the sound of Data Sora snoring in the background. Riku smiles. “What do you need me to do?”

The gummiphone screen switches back to the room in the datascape. “Here? Nothing,” Data Riku answers. “What I do want you to do is find me a vessel.”

Riku stops walking midstep. “What?!”

Again, Data Riku doesn’t even blink at his monitor. “It’s not for me. It’s for you. Or, more accurately, your bike.”

At this, Data Sora wakes up from his standing nap. “Bike? What bike?”

Both Riku’s smile.

“Exactly,” Data Riku says. “I can’t just make a bike out of nowhere, not out there. The code needs to exist within something tangible, preferably something which’s code I can simply rewrite.”

Riku nods, and looks around. “Alright. What exactly could you use as this ‘something’?”

The display on Riku’s phone screen changes, flickering between various images of different types of electronics.

“Any smart device should work. They’re like your gummiphone, devices that can be personalized and connect and interact with you as its user and other compatible devices.”

Riku commits the appearance of said devices to memory, and resumes his search. “Where could I find one?”

“...Go into that restaurant.”

Riku looks at his phone to see what Data Riku is referring to. Across the street is what looks like a fast food place, but Riku doesn’t understand.

“Why? I can’t buy anything there. That’s the whole reason we’re going through all this trouble to win prize money at the races.”

Data Riku is grinning, and it’s unsettling. “Just go in.”

Against his better judgement, Riku listens.

Once inside the restaurant, Data Riku instructs Riku to approach one of the booths labeled “self-checkout”. In the booth is a large tablet fixed in place, where it seems customers can place their order themselves without the need for a cashier.

Riku is about to experimentally tap at the display, when suddenly, the tablet starts to seemingly leak pixels—

—until it disappears in a shower of code.

“Oop—”

“Okay, leave the building,” Data Riku instructs.

Riku blinks. “What—Where did the screen go?”

“Don’t worry about it, just leave.”

Riku gapes at his phone. “Are you—Are you stealing?”

“Mind not announcing it to everyone here?” Data Riku’s arms are crossed. “And don’t forget we’re the same person. If I’m stealing, you’re stealing. Now let’s go.”

“Excuse me?” a voice calls, and Riku spots a woman in a uniform walking toward him. “Sir, do you need any—?”

Of course, this is the moment Data Sora decides to join the fun. “We’re stealing?! Awesome!” His voice rings clear from the phone speakers, and the woman balks.

Riku panics for a second, then bolts out the door. Behind him, he hears a voice shout, “What the fuck?”

He isn’t of a mind to ponder the word meaning this time.

On his phone screen, Data Sora is cackling, throwing his arm over Data Riku’s shoulder, who’s having way too much fun at Riku’s expense.

“I can’t believe you just stole a whole tablet,” Riku grunts as he flees the scene.

“Thanks for the vessel,” Data Riku answers, sounding unusually cheerful. “Hurry and get to the track.”

“I’d get there a lot faster with that bike you promised. It’s the least you can do after stealing from that restaurant. I can’t believe—”

Data Sora is still having the time of his life. “Way to go, Riku!” And Data Riku looks way too proud of himself at the praise.

Riku rolls his eyes after glancing over his shoulder for any pursuers. “Teenagers.”

“Alright, jump!”

“What—”

“Jump!”

Riku sees the pixels up ahead, glittering and reforming into a familiar shape.

He jumps.

And he lands on something solid just as the pixels settle into their new form.

People, cars, and buildings all flash past Riku as he crashes down the street, toward his original destination. Data Sora is absolutely losing it as he watches from the gummiphone (which Riku had docked on the console), and looks like he might pass out when Data Riku emulates the scene within their world, with the two of them cruising on a shared bike.

“Wait,” Riku shouts over the wind, and the engine. “Couldn’t I just sell this thing for money?”

“You’d really sell something that you stole?” Data Riku calls back, grinning when Data Sora wraps his arms around his waist.

Riku would swerve into a post if he could focus on the gummiphone for more than a split second at a time. “I didn’t steal anything; that was all you.”

“You keep telling yourself that.”

___

i didn't even get to write him actually racing lol oops. and there's a whole other side to this i'm imagining where sora drags yozora to the very same races riku is about to pop up in, sort of a rapunzel/eugene vibe lmao. yozora really doesn't know why tf his heart tells him to put up with sora's shit but he does it anyway. my poor amnesiac boys.

i also know i didn't really explain my bs logic for how data riku turns a tablet into a motorcycle (i never even mentioned the motorcycle once it appeared either LMAO). i would have, in data riku fashion, but it would've made for a block of text full of made up nonsense lol

[joopiterjoon]

Piece of Peace- MiniMoni

Pairing: Namjoon x Jimin

Genre: +18, Strangers/enemies-kind-of to lovers?

Warnings/Tags: Kittygang!Jimin, Professor!Namjoon, swearing, mentions of gangs and gang violence, stealing motorcycles, anal sex, sex on a motorcycle, exhibitionism (of course), FYI I don’t know much (anything) about motorcycles

Wordcount: 1k

a/n: this is technically part 3 of Boys Meets Evil and Burning Up, but you can read it by itself! Also this was FOREVER ago but thank you @honeymoonjin​ and @ddaenggtan​ for reviewing this and telling me if it’s kitty gang worthy!

Part of ficswithluv’s #FWLBingo!

Everything about the Harley dealership is new. The pristine floors, the smell, the design. Even the echoes of engines, obviously a repeated sound bouncing around the fancy space, sound unique each time. Everything the place contains within is shiny and desirable.

It’s exactly where Namjoon wants to be. Surrounded by newness, he’ll craft a new him. One that isn’t clumsy, isn’t known for being nerdy.

One that befits his new boyfriend, Jimin Park.

But with a shake of his glasses, Namjoon thinks he may need a new bank account.

“What do you think?” the ever eager salesman asks. Namjoon stands, straightening his secondhand, jean jacket as he eyes the (probably new) suit of the man.

“Ah, it’s… it’s nice,” Namjoon smiles shyly. He’s not sure what words he should be using. He googled motorcycle terminology, but all that escapes him now.

“Would you like to take it for a spin?” the salesman presses with a little shake of his hips. His balanced persona of friendly and pushy is a bit terrifying. Namjoon laughs nervously. He doesn’t know if he should get on something he can’t afford, it might just hurt more when he has to say no.

A hand slides around his waist under his jacket. Naturally, Namjoon eases into the touch despite the public display. He jostles into his boyfriend’s side. “What do you think, babe? Gonna hop on?”

“Ah,” Namjoon clears his throat. He looks down at Jimin whose head rests on his shoulder. He immediately regrets it. Behind the shades, Namjoon can see the lazy look in his eye. Namjoon tries to distract himself by looking lower, only to see Jimin’s tongue wet his plush lips, only to then glance even lower and see how far Jimin’s thin, white shirt is dipping down his chest. Jimin’s undeterred by the price tags that surround him. Hell, Jimin looks more expensive than the thousands of dollars of metal littered around the stage room.

Namjoon decides to focus on the salesman instead. “It’s a bit out of my price range.”

Jimin’s tinkling laugh sends a chill up Namjoon’s spine. He bites down his smile. He still can’t believe he can make such a man laugh. That from the shadows he managed to capture the attention of a man who constantly danced in the spotlight.

Jimin always laughed when Namjoon marveled at him. He apparently felt the same way. As a reckless boy from the streets, he doesn’t understand how someone with a masters would be captivated by him.

They fit each other, filled in the cracks of where they were lacking, the yin to yang, in more ways than one.

“He’s cute, isn’t he?” Jimin tells the salesclerk, pinching Namjoon’s cheek.

“Yes, Mr. Park,” the salesclerk chimes, tucking his hands behind his back with a small bow.

Namjoon’s jaw drops. He shoots Jimin a questioning gaze, but Jimin just shrugs.

“Are you serious?” He hisses, straightening his glasses. “What did you do?”

“What?” Jimin asks, lowering his glasses so Namjoon can see the faux-innocence in his eyes. It’s one of those looks that reminds him when to keep his mouth closed. “I’m just cashing in a favor… literally.”

Jimin gives his side a squeeze before walking over to the bike, his boots clacking on the floor. The salesman’s shoulders tense a bit as Jimin runs a finger along the back of the bike.

“Yes, thank you, Mr. Park.”

That. That’s why Namjoon wants a bike. Wants anything, anything that can put him on par with his boyfriend. No matter what Jimin says, Namjoon is still just a bookworm when it boils down to it. He knows Jimin’s much softer than he appears, too, but he wants that. Jimin’s ease, his natural ability to control a room and all that’s in it.

“I want to see what you look like on top,” Jimin winks. He leans over the back, head cocked, lightly shifting his hips towards the bike.

Namjoon’s brain short circuits at the insinuation. Unable to resist, he draws closer to the bike. His nervous hands tentatively stroke the handle, feeling the ridges of the rubber under his fingers.

“Please,” Namjoon folds his lips in, terrified he’d said that out loud. But he realizes it was the salesman, bowed with the key extended.

Jimin could make anyone beg.

When Namjoon takes the key, the salesman starts to wheel the bike towards the entrance. Jimin winds his arm back around Namjoon’s waist as they walk, rubbing circles into his back.

“You’re gonna look so hot, babe,” Jimin muses. He still watches Namjoon. Only him, nothing else in the store. None of the pretty toys, the other men, the passing cars. Whenever he’s with Namjoon, Jimin’s eyes are always on him. Namjoon shrinks under the attention, but he loves it.

Outside, Namjoon straddles the bike. He gives it a once over, trying to remember everything Jimin taught him. It’s different than his bike, but he can figure it out.

“Hot damn,” Jimin sighs. “You look like an 80’s heartthrob.”

Namjoon giggles. He appreciates that Jimin noticed he dressed for the part.Taking his glasses off and safely tucking them into his pocket, he pats it twice to make sure they won’t shake out.

“Oh my god,” Jimin giggles, tripping over to the bike. “Don’t. That was so cute.”

He comes round to the front of the bike. He puts his hands over Namjoon’s, straddling the front tire. Namjoon tries to sit straight under his boyfriend’s wandering gaze.

Jimin licks his lips again, fingers tightening over Joon’s as his other hand runs through his hot pink hair. His rings hurt a bit, but Namjoon would never tell Jimin to let go.

“This is a wet dream. I’m living a wet dream right now.”

Namjoon chokes. He should be saying the same thing. Jimin is about to buy him a motorcycle. Jimin is straddling said motorcycle, tight pants and loose shirt leaving little his imagination. Jimin is… Jimin.

“Wanna ride me?” Namjoon asks.

Jimin’s eyes darken, his lips parting a bit.

“W-WITH” Namjoon stutters. “Ride with? I meant do you want to-”

Jimin’s lips silence him. Soft, molding to his own. He brushes the stray strands of hair out of Namjoon’s face. He pulls back only to put the helmet on Namjoon’s head. Namjoon watches while Jimin pouts a bit, trying to find the strap under his chin.

Namjoon may be getting hard. Jimin pats the side of the helmet and all the thoughts in Namjoon’s head jumble.

“Let’s do both,” Jimin smiles. A large, boyish grin that lets Namjoon know he’s a goner.

“Wha-really?” Namjoon asks, trying to spin around as Jimin slings himself over the back of the bike. Namjoon yelps when Jimin’s hands accidentally dip a bit too low, grabbing at his crotch before drifting up to his waist.

“I’ll tell you where to go,” Jimin shouts. “Throttle it, baby.”

Namjoon nods, looking at the controls before him. He goes through the motions, missing how Jimin’s hands usually guide him. His favorite part about being with Jimin is he’s never in charge. Jimin watches over him, tells him what to do, what not to do, that he’s doing great. It’s such a contrast to Namjoon’s daily life where he’s constantly critiquing others and making decisions for his department. He craves Jimin even more after a long day.

And boy was today a long day. And he definitely, really craves Jimin when he nuzzles the plastic helmet into his back, all muscle pressed flush against him.

Namjoon never thought he’d like motorcycles. Until he met Jimin, he thought they were just accidents waiting to happen. But now, he sees the joy. Of course, it’s still incredibly dangerous, which is why Jimin directs him to the back roads. But the wind whipping by him feels like he’s flying. The loud roar of the motor cancels out all other thoughts. The metal horse beneath him answers to each of his movements.

And of course, he knows he looks fucking cool. Jimin’s friend Jungkook showed him photos of their nights together. Jimin was right, Namjoon looks hot on a bike.

Eventually, Namjoon figures out where they’re going. His heart rate picks up. There’s something different about driving Jimin to their spot, instead of him clinging to Jimin’s back as he guides them to the secluded spot.

He rounds the last corner up the hill, pausing before the road turns to dirt.

Jimin’s helmet knocks into his. Namjoon laughs. Jimin tried to tuck his chin over his shoulder as always, but the bulky helmets block him.

“Keep going!” Jimin shouts.

Namjoon rubs the handles nervously. “The bike will get dirty.”

He imagines Jimin’s eye roll, that accompanies his sassy, “Always such a good boy. Drive.”

Namjoon doesn’t need to be told twice. By now, he understands Jimin’s commands will always be obeyed, by will or force.

And he’s long from cursing how that makes his stomach stir with excitement.

The bike is harder to control offroad. Namjoon focuses hard. Each bump and shuffle reminds him how skilled Jimin and his friends are when they whip through the city streets, over curbs, and across sidewalks.

Jimin’s helmet is off before Namjoon’s brought the bike to a standstill at the top of the hill. The city lights are flickering on below them, but up here there’s nothing but trees. It reminds Namjoon of them. How Jimin sparkles and shines below, and Namjoon watches on from up here as a simple tree in a vast forest. It’s only a certain amount of time before Jimin consumes him, just like the city will someday reach this secluded space.

Jimin surprised him by not appreciating the implication that he would destroy the environment in some way. He’d wrestled Namjoon to the ground that day, demanding he creates a cuter metaphor before he declared it “their spot.”

But today, Jimin just jumps off the bike and jumps forward to twirl about a few times as he takes in the fresh air.

Namjoon stares on once his helmet’s off. The setting sun paints the sky a soft pink, the same as Jimin’s hair. His boyfriend looks so free out here, leather jacket filled with the breeze and his smile overtaking all his features. 

Namjoon swings his leg over the bike and leans against it for support. He feels a bit like jelly, hands and legs still vibrating from the ride. Jimin continues to prance around, shouting and giggling and jumping. He is free, Namjoon reminds himself. And not even Namjoon can tame him. Everything about him oozes courage and unbridled happiness. Namjoon wants to be like that. He wants to set his own standard for happiness, just like he chooses to forge head off road.

“Joonie,” Jimin sings, running full-force at Namjoon. Namjoon braces against the attack, but Jimin just skids to a stop in front of him. He smiles up at him, a giggle shaking his shoulders.

“Mini,” Namjoon murmurs low. Jimin somehow smiles wider. Namjoon loves it. They don’t get it. The world. The way confessions and blockades all fade away for Jimin. For anyone with Jimin.

As though Jimin knows he’s considering fading, he grips the edges of Namjoon’s jean jacket and yanks him forward. Namjoon gasps, hands bracing on Jimin’s chest. He closes in, simultaneously trying to take in as much of Namjoon as he can. He noses at Namjoon’s jawline. He waits for a shudder to rock through Namjoon before he nips at his ear, giggling in response to Namjoon’s whine.

“So…” Jimin trails off. He pulls back so Namjoon can see the devilish mischief in his eyes.

“Yeah?” Namjoon breathes. He leans forward, focused on Jimin’s smirking lips, but Jimin tucks his chin. Namjoon whines in protest, which only makes Jimin throw his head back in laughter.

“I rode here with you,” Jimin teases. He presses a chaste kiss to Namjoon’s cheek.

“Did I do good?” Namjoon asks.

“Yes,” Jimin laughs again. Namjoon runs his palms over Jimin’s shoulders, under the jacket. To his surprise, Jimin drops his grip on the jacket, shrugging his own off his shoulders. Instead, he shoves his hips into Namjoon’s, the bike shaking a bit as Namjoon falls back into it. He reaches out to support himself in case the thing falls. Jimin’s hands fall over his own, caging him into the bike. He could care less if the bike falls over.

“What was your other question earlier?” Jimin teases. His eyes have that same lazy look like in the dealership. Namjoon’s cheeks warm.

“Did I do good?” Namjoon repeats. He gulps when Jimin leans a little closer, lips hovering before his own. He looks like an angel, soft features and pink hair framed by the twilight.

“To ride you,” Jimin corrects with a roll of his hips. He finally closes the space, only to kiss at the sensitive spot below his ear.

Okay, well, Namjoon did say looks like an angel. He’s well aware he’s far from it.

“Ah, that would be,” Namjoon clears his throat, sinking on to the seat to help his shaking legs. He reaches to adjust his glasses but forgets he isn’t wearing them. No mind, Jimin grabs his hand, kissing over his palm and wrist, watching him with syrupy sweet eyes. “That would be cool.”

“Cool,” Jimin giggles into his palm. He scrapes his teeth over his wrist. Namjoon whimpers. “You’re so cool these days, Joonie.”

“Stop teasing,” Namjoon whines.

Jimin’s eyes darken. He grabs Namjoon’s wrist and twists. With a yelp, Namjoon’s body involuntarily twists to avoid the impending pain. Jimin grabs his waist to have him turned flush against his hips as he kicks at Namjoon’s foot to have him straddled lower. His hand wanders to the button of Namjoon’s pants, easily undoing them. His tongue travels, slow, up the length of Namjoon’s neck.

“Okay,” Jimin murmurs into the shell of Namjoon’s ear. Namjoon tries to lace his fingers with Jimin’s over his zipper, but Jimin grabs his wrist. He guides Namjoon’s hands to rest on the handlebar and the back seat. “10 and 2, babe. I know how you like your rules.”

Namjoon nods. The bike is sturdy beneath his hands, unlike his mind that whirls in a hazy fog of Jimin. When he looks up, he’s reminded that they’re in the open, in their spot, the city down below just as capable of looking up.

Jimin’s undeterred, of course. After fixing the zipper, Jimin slips both his hands into Namjoon’s jeans, letting the push help Namjoon’s pants down his thighs as he smooths over the skin, rounding out to squeeze Namjoon’s ass.

“God, Joonie,” Jimin groans. “Fuck, there’s so much of you. Love it.”

Namjoon hums in response, eyes falling closed as Jimin’s hands wander over his skin. He can’t be nervous with Jimin here. Jimin’s invincible. He doesn’t care. And when Namjoon’s with him, he starts to feel the same, too.

“Should I-” Namjoon starts to take the jacket off, but Jimin wraps himself around him.

“Fuck no,” Jimin answers. When he’s sure Namjoon won’t move again, he gets back to work, kneading Namjoon’s ass cheeks, thumbs sneaking closer and closer. As his pinkies sweep lower, Namjoon jumps, then almost falls over the front of the bike. Jimin’s arm wraps around his waist to keep Namjoon from falling headfirst over the other side.

“This isn’t gonna work,” Jimin tuts.

Namjoon’s heart drops. 

“What? No, please, please don’t, please fuck me, ride me, please,” he babbles. He turns quickly, a little panicked. He can’t bear when Jimin starts and leaves him hanging.

But when his gaze finally meets Jimin’s the man looks amused. He’s trying to bite back his smile. “Joonie, I meant the position.”

Namjoon’s blush deepens. Here he is, bent over (maybe?) his new bike begging his boyfriend to fuck him.

“Get on the bike backwards,” Jimin orders with a flip of his hand. He walks to the back of the bike, then straddles it til he’s in the seat like he’s about to go for a ride. He pats the rounded metal between the handlebars.“Come be my motorcycle, babe.”

Shit, how many times had Namjoon wished he was underneath Jimin, dreamed about being fucked on his bike? He almost trips trying to get out of his pants. Jimin offers his hand like a gentleman, helping Namjoon sit in front of him.

It’s not until he’s there, hands braced behind him on the extended handles, that he realizes how exposed he is. His pants are on the ground, his legs are tucked by his ass, hard cock dripping and on display.

And he can tell Jimin loves it. He runs his hands over Namjoon’s inner thighs before he takes his cock, stroking slowly. Namjoon shyly stares at Jimin’s own crotch, still clothed.

“Think you can handle this?” Jimin asks, reaching into his jacket pocket. Namjoon’s not even surprised when he pulls out a bottle of lube.

“Of course,” Namjoon mumbles.

“I mean the position, babe,” Jimin titters. Namjoon leans back onto his hands a bit more. He’s strong, despite his soft exterior. He nods.

“Good boy,” Jimin hums. He takes one of Namjoon’s feet, gently guiding it off the bike and into the air. Namjoon bites his lip, the cold breeze heightening his vulnerability.

Jimin kisses at Namjoon’s shin, undoing his own pants. Namjoon zeros in on the senses. Wet lips and gentle fingers, the sound of his zipper and the shuffle of fabric as he pulls out his cock, the scent of poplar and oak.

“You good?” Jimin asks. His voice is close. Namjoon didn’t realize he’s closed his eyes. Jimin’s eyes bore into his own, concern filtering through his pupils. Namjoon melts. It’s a look he’s only ever seen for him, and no one else.

He nods. “Please.”

Begging. He always gets here. Always more desperate for it. Always begging for Jimin’s cock. And Jimin always sits there like he does now, lathering lube over his cock, teasing fingers doing the same to Joon’s rim. No rush.

“I’m going to take your other leg now,” Jimin says. Namjoon opens his eyes again. Jimin has both his legs in either hand. He’s dressed beside his fat cock protruding from his leather pants. He’s a sinful mess, coming closer and stretching Joon’s legs higher until the head of his cock meets his rim. 

“You ready?” Jimin asks.

“Mini,” Namjoon groans. Such a fucking tease.

It stings. The push, Jimin entering him slowly without any stretching. Namjoon loves it. Loves how his body accepts Jimin so easily, how Jimin could just take him, take and take like he does in the streets, but always treats Namjoon with such tenderness. At least, in the beginning.

As he bottoms out, the stretch in his thighs has Namjoon’s eyes stinging. Jimin’s head tucks into his collarbone, trying to hide his haggard breathing.

“Fuck, it’s so hot how you just fucking take it,” Jimin rasps, rolling his hips. Namjoon can’t talk, just digs his fingers into the rubber handles. “Fucking ruin me.”

Namjoon sighs. He loves the power. Jimin takes care of him constantly, but in these moments, Namjoon relishes the power he has over him. Jimin starts to pump and pick up pace and has Namjoon whimpering as the bike shifts beneath him. Once they start, Namjoon’s in control. He has the power to ruin Jimin. Every moan has Jimin answering back, each squeeze of his muscles makes Jimin’s hips stutter. When Namjoon begs for his mouth, Jimin’s kisses are sloppy and needy.

“God, love your skin,” Jimin croons, sucking at Namjoon’s neck. He tosses Namjoon’s legs onto his shoulders so his hands can wander over his tan skin, taking fistfuls of his ass and tweaking his nipples. Namjoon’s hard cock bounces between their bodies. Jimin takes notice, giving his hands a better task. His lube soaked fingers tug at Namjoon’s length, fisting him in time with his thrusts.

“Mini,” Namjoon whimpers, no other words coming to mind. Nothing’s in his mind besides his boyfriend completely consuming him. The metal of the bike bites into his ass as Jimin sinks his teeth into his neck. His arms stretch from the angle on the bike while his thighs flex on Jimin’s shoulders. It’s so much, so good, accompanied by the breeze and the setting sun, and Namjoon can’t handle it. The beauty of it, the perfectness, the contrast.

When Jimin finds his mouth again, soft lips and wet tongue meeting Namjoon’s, he cums. Jimin’s hips stutter, hand momentarily pausing before he makes sure he works Namjoon through it. He takes care of him every time, before he breaks free, breathing heavy before he leans back and pumps hard. His eyebrows furrow, mouth forming a perfect oh as the softest grunts catch in his throat. His nails dig into Namjoon’s thighs, but the pain means nothing as Namjoon watches Jimin’s euphoria chisel into his features.

As he comes down, he collapses forward onto Namjoon. Namjoon’s legs drop to the seat behind him. It’s uncomfortable, the headlight of the bike digging between his shoulders, but he won’t move. Jimin’s tousle of pink hair fans over his chest as his boyfriend catches his breath. Namjoon takes his chance to finally touch Jimin. He runs his hands through the damp hair, over his shoulders, under his chin.

“That was such a quad workout,” Jimin chuckles.

Namjoon chuckles back, both of them rumbling with it.

Jimin perks up, tucking his chin on Namjoon’s chest. “I didn’t know you were an exhibitionist.”

Namjoon strokes his cheek, a blushing pink. Namjoon still can’t believe he’s his. “I’d be anything for you.”

Jimin’s smile falters for a second. The sly look in his eyes flickers with something warmer, something vulnerable.

But then as always, he’s giggling. He shakes his head, sitting up to get off the bike so Joon can sit up, too. “You’re such a romantic.”

Namjoon wants to press it. Press the fact that Jimin slips up sometimes. Namjoon can see it. His calm and cool exterior breaks every now and then around Namjoon. But he doesn’t. He takes his glasses out of his pockets and puts them on. He picks up his pants and pulls them back up, yelping when Jimin gives him one last swat to the ass.

“Why the glasses?” Jimin teases booping Namjoon’s nose.

“There’s no way I’m driving back after that,” Namjoon mumbles, scuffing the dirt.

Jimin laughs, falling into Namjoon’s arms. “Okay, okay.”

To Namjoon’s horror (but no longer surprised), Jimin heads straight home, not even passing the dealership. What Jimin wants, Jimin takes. And Namjoon’s so glad Jimin chose to take him.

Imma craft this into a nice big oneshot soon, so look forward to it!

[shireness-says]

Wherever You’re Going (I’m Going Your Way) [2/6]

Summary: 1952. A lost boy without a home, Killian Jones rides America’s back roads on his motorcycle, searching for a purpose that’s just out of reach. This pit stop was only supposed to be a few days, a couple of weeks at most, but a pretty blonde waitress just might be his salvation. Is he brave enough to let her? Rated T for language. ~5.5K.  Also on AO3. Ch. 1

~~~~~

The bench outside of Nolan's Garage is a nice one, all things considered. Killian would know, after a summer spent sleeping on a series of them. It's got an armrest at one end that he can prop his bedroll against for a pillow and is good, sturdy wood instead of the stylized metal contraptions some towns insist on adopting for aesthetic or some such. 

After months on the road, Killian is now more used to sleeping out of doors, only seeking an inn or other shelter on rainy nights to protect from the elements. He's used to the way the birds start their song at dawn, the way the sun's rays gradually wash across his face to bathe him in a brightness and warmth that eventually coaxes him back to the waking world. What he's not used to is the dark shadow that is suddenly cast across his form, looming and severe, tangible even in his dozing state. With great effort, Killian peels his eyes open to find a man standing over him — tall, blonde, wide-shouldered. Visibly unhappy. 

"You must be the stranger," he states simply. Even in those five words, Killian can hear the judgement, the distrust, the disapproval. It's nothing he's not used to; one doesn't exactly endear oneself to the locals by showing up unexpectedly in their idyllic little towns and sleeping on park benches.

"Aye," he agrees, pushing himself into a sitting position and extending a hand in introduction. "Killian Jones."

"I don't care." The other man's arms stay crossed, his expression severe. "What do you want?"

Killian sighs. "I don't suppose you're Nolan?"

"I might be. Like I said — what do you want?"

Whoever claimed that honey worked better than vinegar was clearly a liar; either that, or Nolan is rather smarter than your average fly. Possibly both. "I'm afraid I’ve run into some trouble with my bike," Killian says simply, nodding towards the machine in question. "I hoped maybe I could avail myself of your services." It's needlessly formal, but it feels like the kind of thing he might have said in his past life to charm all matter of different people into doing his bidding. 

"Can you pay?"

Killian hesitates. This is where things get a little more complicated. "Aye," he finally says — not a lie, per say, though not exactly the truth — "Though I'd prefer to pay with labor than with money."

The statement earns him an appraising look. "You can do auto repair?"

"At a rudimentary level, yes," he admits. Still, he hesitates before adding the next part; the next part is what could open him up to a whole series of questions he's not much in the mood to answer. "I picked up a few things during the war, though I'm more used to dealing with plane engines than cars."

For all of Killian's fears, Nolan doesn't immediately press, or offer pointless platitudes. In fact, Killian would almost say that something about his posture releases, lets go of some of the tension he'd been carrying. "Why can't you fix it yourself then?"

"Hard to fix much of anything without the right parts - in this case, a tire. I just need someone to order it for me, and a place I can replace it.  I figured — if you're amenable — I could help out around here until the tire comes in or I've worked off the cost."

Nolan looks at him a moment longer, before finally nodding — slowly, thoughtfully, decisively — and jerking his head towards the garage. "Come on in, then, and we'll take a look."

Killian quickly gathers his things and moves to wheel his bike in as Nolan goes to roll up his front garage door. "You said you served? In what, the RAF?" he asks as Killian begins to push the bike inside.

"Yes, sir." Maybe he's a little bit short, but he's learned that’s the best way to discourage further questioning. 

Not that he needs to worry about that; the blond man just nods again. "I was in the Army. In Italy. And it's David."

It's all the explanation either of them needs; some things, they both understand, don't bear further discussion.

"We don't get much by way of excitement around here. A few flat tires, oil changes, that kind of thing," Nolan — David explains. "Most of our business is just pumping gas. You think you can handle all that?"

“Aye. It won’t be a problem.”

“Let’s take a look then.”

David’s garage is neater than Killian expected. In his experience, auto shops are dirty, grungy places. Though there is still a bit of that — engine grease has a way of working its way into corners and sticking around for far longer than anyone would prefer — all his tools are neatly organized, clearly left in long-since-designated places. If he had to guess, he’d say it must be a bit of that military order leftover in David. 

“You said something about a tire?” the other man asks, already crouching down to squeeze at the rubber. 

“Aye. I drove over a nail at some point, and it’s become embedded in the front tire. It’s only a slow leak right now, but it needs addressing.”

David runs a sure hand along the curve to find the piece of metal in question before leaning in for a closer look. “Yeah, it’s in there pretty good,” he agrees. “We can take it out and slap a patch on there, if you like, but that’s more of a temporary measure. I’d recommend just replacing the whole thing. The tread is getting worn anyways. How far have you been riding?”

“Went all the way to the gulf and back up.”

“Yeah, you’re due then. It’s up to you, but I’d like to order tires for the front and back.”

“Aye, that sounds fine,” Killian agrees. “Best to replace them at the same time, anyways. How long do you think it’ll take?”

“Hard to say,” David shrugs. “The work itself isn’t the issue — you know that will go quickly — but it’s the shipping that’s more of a problem. I’ll call today, get that ball rolling, but we’re a ways out. It can take a while for things to get all the way out here. If I had to guess… a week? Maybe two?”

It’s not ideal; that’s a long time for Killian to stay in one place, and it makes him feel anxious. He feels better when he’s moving. But what other choice does he have?

(A week, maybe two, and he’s gone. Anyone can withstand that; even he can endure it.)

“That’s fine,” he repeats. Uselessly. There’s nothing else to say, though — David can’t rush how long it takes things to get here, and Killian knows exactly how far in the middle of nowhere this town is.

“Before I agree to trade parts for labor, though, I’ve got to see what you can do. I can’t just put you to work on a promise,” David warns. “Otherwise, you’re going to have to come up with the money.”

“Of course.”

David leads them across the shop to where a sedan is lifted up to display its underside. “Routine oil change,” David explains, nodding vaguely in the direction of the car’s guts. “Think you can handle it?”

Killian doesn’t bother to confirm or deny — a waste of speech, really, when he could get down to the doing — just shrugs his jacket off to drape over a nearby tool bench. “Any gloves I could borrow?”

David passes them in equal silence, and Killian sets to work. There’s something soothing about the ritual of all this — unscrew the drain cap and let the used oil drain into a receptacle, remove the old oil filter, and replace it with a new one. The hardest bit is figuring out how to lower the car back to normal level and where David keeps the fresh oil. 

“I can change a tire, too, if you need more proof,” Killian offers as he strips off the borrowed gloves again.

“That’s fine. I think I can find something for you to do around here. Let me show you the cash register, you’ll need that for gas.”

And just like that, they’ve come to an arrangement.

David doesn’t expect much by way of conversation — a good thing, since Killian doesn’t have much to give. He’s out of practice, frankly, no longer skilled in all the ridiculous little intricacies of small talk, and nowhere near ready to talk about anything deeper — especially with a man he’s only just met. The afternoon mostly passes in an easy kind of silence, with David working in the garage on a car engine he’d described as “a special pain in the ass” and Killian handling the pumps outside. The customers look at him suspiciously when he runs out to help instead of David, but that’s nothing new. He’s earned an awful lot of suspicious looks in his travels, and he knows it’s because he’s an unfamiliar face.

(Granted, the leather jacket probably doesn’t help. He knows it makes him look like he’s up to no good, but it’s warm and holds up well in the weather, and he has no intention to change that just because a few uptight townspeople look at him with narrowed eyes.)

The afternoon passes quickly in that matter, and before Killian knows it, he comes back inside the garage after serving a small rush of people to find David putting his tools back in their proper place.

“Closing time,” David comments in explanation, nodding towards the clock. Sure enough, the hands read 5:30; he should have known in a little town like this, everything would close before six. Before he can even start making plans for the evening — where he’s going to get food, where he’s going to sleep, all the little details that he’s accounted for dozens of times since he started this ride — David jerks his head towards the door in an abrupt invitation. “Come on, Mary Margaret will have dinner on the table soon.”

“I’m sorry?” It doesn’t really process. Only hours ago, David was standing over him in a threatening manner, demanding to know what he was camping on a town bench for, and now he’s… apparently inviting Killian to his home. Surely he can’t mean that.

“My wife,” David clarifies, as if that was the confusing thing. “She’s making a pot roast, maybe some pie since we’ll have company. I called her earlier to let her know you’d be joining us for dinner.” His face turns sharp again for a moment. “You are coming to dinner, right?”

“I… well, yes, I suppose I am. If you and your wife want me there, that is,” Killian manages to say, tripping over the words in his surprise.

“Good,” David nods. “You’ve got to eat, after all, and the missus would kill me if I didn’t invite you. She’s got strong opinions about a home-cooked meal. For good reason, too, it’s a damn fine pot roast. Are you coming?” The last is definitely necessary prodding, as Killian is still stuck several steps from the door trying to figure out what just happened.

Still, he follows David out, making sure to snag his bag by the door on his way. Even if he’s a bit thrown off by this turn of events, that doesn’t change the fact that he’ll be lost without his belongings for the night. “Thank you,” he murmurs as David locks up behind them. “I appreciate the invite.”

“Don’t mention it,” the other man shrugs, tucking the shop keys back into his pocket. “Like I said, my wife would kill me if I made you go scavenging on your own.”

The Nolan residence is on a quiet street maybe a ten minute walk from the garage. If Killian had thought Main Street was impressive, this is something else. Trees arch gracefully over the pavement, creating their own little world in the shade. The houses have front porches and flower beds lining the front walk. Half of them have a flag fluttering outside the front door. It looks like a cliche of American domesticity, and he hasn’t even made it off the street. 

David and his wife’s house proves to be a cheery pale blue with white trim and has flowered window boxes. Before they go inside, he crouches to take off his work boots and nods for Killian to do the same. “Can’t have us tracking grease in the door,” he explains. “No need to stain the rug if we don’t have to.”

The house inside is just the same — picture perfect yet impossibly real. He can spot lace doilies on end tables and a carved hatstand in the entry hall, and the smell of something delicious wafts through the rooms. It’s obvious, too, that this isn’t just a house — it’s a home, evident in a carefully bookmarked novel on the coffee table some sewing discarded in the corner.

The woman who comes bustling down the hall to greet them fits his impression of the space perfectly — a cliche of the loving, welcoming wife with her big smile and apron and perfectly pinned hair. David’s a lucky man to be living this life, and Killian feels a dull pang of longing for that kind of certainty, even if he doesn’t feel ready to plant roots in that way yet.

“Welcome home!” the woman all but coos, dropping a quick kiss on David’s cheek before turning her dimpled grin on Killian, extending a delicate hand to shake. “You must be Killian — David told me you were helping at the shop and I just insisted he bring you home for dinner. Granny’s is all well and good, but it’s nothing compared to a good home-cooked meal, is it?”

Despite Killian’s misgivings about the trappings of this whole idyllic life (even just watching it from afar intensifies the constant itch beneath his skin, to move, to flee, to fly), he likes Mrs. Nolan immediately. “No, it isn’t,” he concedes, cracking a small smile. He even manages to take the hand she offers, pressing a kiss to the back of it that makes the pretty brunette blush and David glower. “Thank you for your hospitality, Mrs. Nolan.”

“Oh, you must call me Mary Margaret!” she protests as David’s glare intensifies. Faced with that kind of reaction, Killian doesn’t plan to follow the lady’s command. “I just put dinner on the table, you’re just in time. Pot roast with potatoes and green beans, and a good chocolate cake for dessert. Does all of that sound good to you?”

“It sounds delicious, ma’am.”

“Good answer,” David mumbles not quite under his breath, earning himself an affectionate whack to the chest from his wife. It sends an odd pang of longing through Killian — they’re obviously well suited for each other, and Killian finds himself wanting a partner he can share that same kind of companionship with. It’s silly, though; that kind of commitment would require a kind of stability he just can’t give. It’s still lovely to watch though, as David leads them to the dining room with one callused hand just barely grazing along Mary Margaret’s back. Quickly, they both wash their hands at the kitchen sink before taking a seat at the table. 

“So David said you’ll be in town for the next week or so?” the lady of the house asks as they start to dig in.

“That’s the plan, at least. Just until the replacement tires get in,” he replies before taking a bite of potatoes. It’s been a while since Killian has had a home-cooked meal, and Mrs. Nolan’s cooking proves to be more than up to snuff. 

“Well let me tell you, there’s no better place to break down than in Storybrooke — and I’m not just saying that because I’m married to the mechanic!” she gushes with a tinkling laugh. As far as Killian can tell, she seems to do that a lot — a striking contrast to David’s more reserved demeanor. “Storybrooke is just such a nice little town — I can’t imagine living anywhere else. But I understand that you’ve been driving all over the country?”

“Let the man eat, Mary Margaret,” David chides affectionately. “He can’t get a bite in between all these questions.”

Mrs. Nolan blushes a bright pink in response, somehow managing to look delicate even in her embarrassment. “Oh! Of course, where are my manners. You don’t need to answer that, Killian. I can’t insist you come to dinner and then not let you eat!”

Killian swallows a bite of roast hurriedly in order to respond. “It’s quite alright, Mrs. Nolan,” he smiles. “Yes, I’ve been driving up and down the coast since March. I’m planning to head westward after this.”

“That must be so exciting,” she smiles. “I’m more of a homebody, myself — I can’t imagine driving all over the place for so long.”

“It’s not for everyone,” Killian agrees noncommittally.

A few minutes of relative silence pass as the three of them truly dig in, interrupted only by assurances that dinner is delicious and you know how I love your potatoes. For those minutes, Killian is almost lulled into thinking that he’s in the clear, that no more questions are coming to dredge up things he doesn’t like to think about. 

“So what about when you’re not on the road, Killian?” Mary Margaret asks in a tone of voice that’s almost suspiciously innocent. He’s sure she doesn’t mean anything nefarious; she’s just making conversation. Still, he has a bad feeling about where this is going. “Where do you call home?”

And there it is — a question to really set his nerves on edge. A question that he doesn’t really have a proper answer to. “Nowhere, at the moment. I’ve been travelling ever since I came to the country.”

“And what about your family? Are they still back in England?”

If Killian was wary of the first question, his heart drops into his stomach at the second. “No,” he barely bites out. “There’s no one back in England.” 

Maybe they hear the barely restrained pain in his voice; maybe they just grow tired of his poor excuses for conversation. Killian wouldn’t blame them; he knows that he’s less than good company, and isn’t remotely carrying his weight in their interactions. All he knows is the depth of his gratitude when conversation shifts towards more generic topics, ones David can answer, like about their day at the shop. 

Dinner is fine, and a fine excuse to make him interact with even a little bit of the world.

It’s an even greater relief when he can bid them both a good evening and leave for the night.

——— 

Despite Mrs. Nolan's best attempts to fatten him up, Killian still wanders down to Granny's that night after dinner. Perhaps it's for the tea; perhaps it's for a change of scenery; perhaps it's for the chance to see the lovely blonde waitress again.

(It's absolutely the last option, no doubt, but Killian likes to pretend he still has a little bit of his dignity sometimes. He's not a young boy mooning over a pretty girl anymore, even if he certainly is acting that way at the moment.)

The sounds and rituals of the diner are more familiar now that it's his second visit — the right of the bell above the door, the way everyone hushes for just a moment as he walks in before hurriedly continuing on in an array of conversations, Granny's nod he's sure means seat yourself. The same booth as he occupied last night is still open, and Killian slides across the vinyl once again. Sure enough, only a minute or two later, the same blonde angel as before appears to take his order. 

"Hello again," she smiles. Little lines around her eyes crinkle with the gesture; they suit her, Killian decides, making her look even more like a creature who's meant to spread and receive joy. "What can I get you tonight?"

"Just another pot of tea, please," he replies, trying to match her smile. It doesn't feel quite so natural on Killian's face — proof that he's long since out of practice in performing what's such a natural gesture on everyone else.

(Another thing he lost to the sea, along with Liam, along with his youth, along with his plans.)

"No sandwich tonight?" she continues, apparently oblivious to Killian's internal struggle. She doesn't even bat an eye at whatever twisted facsimile of a smile graces his face; maybe it looks better than he thought. 

"Not tonight, love. I already had a bit of dinner. Thank you though, miss..." he trails off in question, arching a single eyebrow to accentuate the query. 

It would be well within her right to refuse to tell him; after all, he's an odd and awkward stranger she's met all of twice. To his surprise though, she just smiles again, and offers him her name like a gift. "Emma. Emma Swan."

It suits her, he decides immediately; it's graceful and elegant and maybe just a little otherworldly, like a princess out of a fairy tale he hasn't heard before. "It's a pleasure to meet you, Miss Swan," he returns. The smile feels a little easier now, though he's not ready to admit why.

The smile on her — on Emma's face turns a little wry. "And you are....?" 

It absolutely figures that he'd get so lost in the joy of knowing this angel's name that he would forget his own. "Killian — Jones," he hastens to reply, tripping over his own name in the process.

"It's nice to meet you, Killian Jones," she replies, clearly trying to cover a laugh. "I'll have that tea right out for you."

Though Emma returns with the small teapot and a cup on a saucer a few minutes later, more people have trickled into the diner for a late dinner and he's unable to engage her in conversation any further. That's alright; he'd borrowed Frankenstein from the Nolans' bookshelf for a reread, and there's no time like the present. He didn't come to Granny's just to talk to Emma, after all.

(That's what he tells himself, anyways; the truth is that something more compelling than the pie lured him back, whether or not he ever acts on it.)

Dr. Frankenstein is just as egotistical and irritating as Killian remembers, but he gets lost in that gothic world all the same, reveling in the twists and turns he half-remembers from grammar school. Before he knows it, it's 10pm again, and whether it's the tea or the story or something else entirely, Killian isn't remotely tired. It's a relief in many ways; after all, he can't dream if he doesn't sleep. Insomnia has never been a problem he's faced, for better or worse, but there are nights after a particularly intense streak of nightmares that Killian wished that the urge to close his eyes and slip into slumber wasn't quite as strong. 

Regardless, he's just starting to contemplate wandering back toward the garage and the bench he’s pretending is a bed when Emma slides into the seat across from Killian.

"You're a wanderer," she says. It's not a question, just a statement of fact. He can't say he's ever been called that before, but Killian supposes it's accurate. He can't think of a better descriptor, at least.

"Aye, I suppose you could say that," he concedes. "Better than some things I've been called," he mutters much further under his breath. 

"I've never gone further than Portland," Emma admits. Killian can already tell by the far-off look in her eyes that it's not for lack of desire; just for lack of opportunity. "I wanted to join the Red Cross during the war, but..."

"Be glad you didn't," Killian interrupts before she can finish the thought. He knows how that story ends anyways: too much to do on the homefront and too few men to do it. "No one should see what went on over there unless they had to."

"I know," Emma replies. "I don't regret it. I was needed more here. But I worry that might have been my chance to see the world."

"You'll get another chance, Swan." He doesn't know where the instinct to call her by her last name comes from; all he knows is that it feels right. 

"I hope so," she replies wistfully, before shaking herself back out of it. "But for now, tell me: what's it like?"

For a short, terrible moment, Killian worries that she meant what it was like to fight, and the flames flash in front of his eyes again. Something of it must show in his face, however, as she hurries to clarify her request. "I meant in your travels. On your bike." She sighs and runs a frustrated hand over her hair. "I've made a mess of this, haven't I?"

“It’s alright, love,” he smiles, moving to clasp her hand in reassurance before thinking better of it. “You haven’t made a mess of anything.”

“You’re just saying that,” she mumbles. “Being polite.”

“It’s the truth. You’ve got nothing to apologize for. I, on the other hand… I’ve rather forgotten the question.” It’s almost flirtatious — not that he means it to be. It’s hard to imagine himself light-hearted enough to flirt nowadays, even when faced with a beautiful blonde with a smile that could light up even the darkest of nights.

There’s no point to it anyways; he’ll only be in Storybrooke for a few days, a week at the longest. 

(No matter what he says, he’s already in danger of becoming attached to this girl, his angel.)

“What’s it like out there?” Emma repeats. Curiosity and excitement twinkle in her eyes and she leans against the table with crossed arms, like she’ll hang onto every word. He thinks she truly will, too; he only hopes that the words he has to say won’t disappoint her. She doesn’t deserve that.

“It’s… big,” he says, knowing full well that the description is horribly inadequate, even if it’s true. “Vast. I grew up thinking that Britain was so large, or Europe, but neither come anywhere close to your country. All the things you can see… it’s a marvel.”

“So where have you been?” Emma asks. “Or is it easier to ask where haven’t you been?”

Killian blushes a bit at that, though he can’t quite figure out why; maybe the implication that he’s worldly, or some kind of expert. “I’ve been up and down the East Coast,” he tells her. “Started in March and rode all the way down to Florida while the heat could still feel good. And now, obviously, have worked my way back up.”

“You must have gone to the beach down there, right?” She doesn’t even wait for an answer before plowing forward. “Is it different from the ocean here? I can’t imagine anyone making that trip and not going to see the ocean.”

Maybe for other people, that’s true; it seems like the kind of cliche vacation road trip residents of a picture-perfect town might take. Killian still remembers, though, how his life almost ended in this same ocean, thousands of miles away — still remembers being tossed by the waves and scrambling to keep himself above water and the way that the cold of the Atlantic cut into his flesh. He still remembers the panic and the desperate realization that if he didn’t fight like hell, he’d be swallowed by the turbulent waters and never resurface.

Most people love the ocean; Killian no longer counts himself among them.

“It is different,” he finally says. “The shore isn’t so pebbled as it is here. There’s just sand, everywhere, even where you’d expect there to be proper soil instead. It makes the water look different, too — it moves the same, but the colors are different. It’s the dark sand and rocks that turn the water so dark, here. On the Gulf, everything is blue instead.”

“It sounds beautiful,” she sighs. “I’m going to go someday, somehow. I swear it.”

“I’m sure you will.” It’s not placating, or at least he doesn’t intend it to be; something about Emma makes him believe, even so soon into their acquaintance, that she can and will do anything she sets her mind to. If she wants to see the world, she’ll find a way.

“You really think so?” she asks, a mix of hope and uncertainty creeping into her voice. 

“Of course. I think you can do anything you want to — especially a lady as bold as yourself.”

“Thanks.” She smiles at the reassurance; he likes this look on her a lot better. He likes it even more when the smile turns into a self-deprecating laugh. “That’s enough about me, though. Tell me more about where you’ve been.”

“There’s not much to tell,” he admits. “It’s been a lot of back roads and landscapes and little tiny towns, and not a lot of sightseeing.”

“What’s been your favorite part, then?”

“The speed,” he admits readily. There’s no thought even required. She most likely wanted to hear about a particularly memorable town or something like that, but the truth is, he’s been more interested in the ride itself than anywhere he might be going, as cliche as that is. “Out there, with an open stretch of road… it feels like flying. It’s exhilarating. There’s almost nothing like it.” Of course, it’s a shameless attempt to recreate the feeling of soaring across the skies in the Jolly, but Emma doesn’t need to know that. Discussions of how he’s desperately trying to reclaim the feeling of the last time it felt like he had a purpose aren’t exactly suitable conversation when you’ve barely learned a girl’s name. 

“Maybe you’ll have to show me before you leave,” she suggests with a coy little smile. Truth be told, Killian isn’t sure how to respond to that; it’s hard to believe a woman like her would be interested in spending any time with him, and it’s far too presumptuous to believe she’s flirting with him. She must just be expressing an odd kind of kindness, just expressing interest in the things he likes for politeness’ sake. That’s a thing people do, he thinks; he’s far too out of practice with having to interact with strangers. 

(After all, this is just temporary. He’s only here until his bike is fixed — a few days, a week at the longest.)

(That doesn’t stop a little part of him from wishing that she really did mean it.)

“Where else do you want to see? Besides the Florida coast,” he blurts out, looking for a way to sidestep… whatever just happened. It’s hard to know how to respond to what she just said, even if he is eager to otherwise continue their conversation. She’s good company, he finds, and doesn’t act with that cloying kind of politeness he’s used to from so many other people and never knows how to respond to. She’s… genuine. Genuinely kind, and genuinely curious. 

“Oh, everywhere,” she sighs. “The Grand Canyon, the Four Corners — I want to stand in four states at once, and don’t even try to tell me how ridiculous that is — the Alamo, Niagara Falls… all of it.” She blushes fetchingly at the end of her list. “I know it’s a lot, but we had a very comprehensive geography book in the library when I was in school. It really captured my imagination, I suppose you’d say.”

“I don’t think it’s — well, it is a lot, really,” he chuckles, “but that’s not a bad thing. I wouldn’t say it’s excessive. I’m the one driving across the country without anything resembling a plan.” This time, his chuckle is self-deprecating, almost bitter.

“Ah, but it’s not without purpose, is it?” she says with a wry smile and a knowing tone. “Not having a plan isn’t the same thing as not having a reason.”

It’s terrifying, in a certain way, the way she can read him so easily. Those are things he’s not prepared to discuss with her, not tonight and possibly not ever. 

“It’s not,” he says shortly, “but that’s not a matter for discussion tonight.”

“No, I guess it isn’t.” If he were a more optimistic man, he might almost say she looks sad that their conversation is ending. “I’ll let you get back to your book, then. Would you like a fresh pot of tea?”

Don’t go, he thinks. “That would be wonderful, thank you,” his mouth says — some stupid brain-heart miscommunication. 

“I’ll get that right out to you.” Carefully she slides out of the booth, smoothing her skirt as she goes. Killian is helpless but to follow her with his eyes all the way back to the kitchen. The loveliest woman he’s met in a long, long time, possibly ever, and he’s mucked it all up.

Ah, well, it’s not like it matters anyways. His stay was always meant to be temporary, after all, when he’s only here for as long as it takes for his new tire to get here. There’s no sense in forming attachments.

(It may already be too late for that, but he’s willing to ignore it until he can’t any longer.)

~~~~~

Tagging: @kmomof4​​, @aerica13​​, @thisonesatellite​​, @searchingwardrobes​​, @let-it-raines​​, @teamhook​​, @ohmightydevviepuu​​, @optomisticgirl​​, @winterbaby89​​, @spartanguard​​, @scientificapricot​, @snowbellewells​​, @welllpthisishappening​​, @tiganasummertree​​, @captainswanbigbang​​, @snidgetsafan​​, @thejollyroger-writer​​, @profdanglaisstuff​​

Thanks for reading - let me know what you think!

[lost-in-time-marie]

Into the Shadows: Chapter Five

The rubber soles of my red converses patted softly against the linoleum hall of the school. I wandered absently through the maze-like, white halls of the red, brick building. I was supposed to go to the office to drop off some papers for a teacher, one of many chores from Teacher Assisting. Instead I was enjoying my favorite pastime. I loved the cold; October had a nice chill to it. In the older halls of the building with poor insulation, I could gaze out the large windows to watch the red and orange leaves fall softly to the awaiting ground while enjoying the chill of October as it seeped through the walls of the school. I was enjoying such a moment on Tuesday when I heard the softest tinkling sound. I ignored it at first, wondering if perhaps I imagined the sound. It persisted and I took notice of a melody. Music. Somebody was playing music. Unable to resist, I followed the noise.

I pushed open a pale, wooden door that led to the balcony of the auditorium. On the stage below, a man sat at a beautiful, black grand piano, I squinted in an attempt to get a better look, but it was simply too far. The most beautiful melody poured over me, hanging in the air. It seemed to wrap around me, embracing me, cooing at me to stay for a while. Gathering all my effort, I left the balcony, quickly sprinting down the stairs at the end of the hall. I wanted to be surrounded by the music again. Quietly, I pushed open the lower auditorium door and walked swiftly passed rows and rows of uncomfortable stadium seats to the bottom of the stage. I gazed up at the boy as he hunched over the piano, hands flying gracefully over the keys. His curly dark hair hung in his face, unable to hide his evident happiness and peace. A pang of envy shot through me, I wished I could play the piano like that. It took me a moment to recognize the song; it was one of my favorites, Maybe by Yiruma. I laid my head on my pale, folded arms and closed my eyes. The music wrapped comfortingly around me, I lost myself in the melody and beauty of swift twinkling notes.

“Kristin?” A familiar voice questioned. I hadn’t noticed the music stopped, I quickly snapped open my eyes and instantly recognized James peering down at me from the piano bench. His dark eyes stared down at me in confusion; I thought I detected the faintest blush painting his cheeks.

“Sorry,” I apologized, blood rushing to my cheeks, “I didn’t mean to intrude, I heard you playing from the hallway upstairs and that’s my favorite song.” The red of his cheeks deepened and he stared down at the keys. It was refreshing to see his easy-going, charming mask come off.

“It’s just a hobby of mine, helps me think. I’m skipping class right now actually,” He said with a laugh, studying the piano keys.

I smiled, “As much as I frown upon skipping, I’ll let you pass this time because that was absolutely the most beautiful thing I’ve ever heard, annnnnd I’m skipping too,” I joked with a laugh. James smiled and patted the space next to him on the piano bench. I hoisted myself on stage and sat beside him. We were so close I could smell the sweetness of his skin and when he inhaled our shoulders brushed.

“Where did you learn to play like that?” I asked, breaking the silence, trying to focus on anything other than how good he smelled right then.

James brushed his fingers gingerly over the keys, almost longingly, before turning to look at me, “It’s just something my father taught me. I’ve loved to play since I was a kid, it clears my head, lets me escape from the world for a while,” He shrugged, faking nonchalance. It did not escape my notice that, for the first time, he answered my question honestly.

“I can see that it’s important to you, I think it’s great, everyone needs to escape now and again. I like to read and watch movies to escape. Everyone has their own things,” I smiled encouragingly, nudging his shoulder lightly with mine. His dark eyes softened into that liquid brown that melted my bones and he gave a small, sad smile.

“Is everything okay, James? You’ve seemed so down and distracted after your first couple of weeks at school here. I hate to see you this way,” I said, worried. I placed my hand over his on the piano and gave it a reassuring squeeze.

“Thank you for worrying about me. Things have just been difficult with my dad. I don’t really want to talk about it,” James explained, his deep brown eyes clouded with sadness.

“Okay, I understand,” I gave a small, comforting smile, “Just know that I’m always here,” I offered.

“Thank you,” James smiled, this time it reached his eyes. He clasped my hand tightly in his and began to play a soft, slow melody with the other. My heart beat erratically and my hand felt strangely warm where he held it. I tired to keep my thoughts in order. James was finally opening up; I couldn’t waste this precious opportunity with foolish girlishness.

“Do you live with your dad?” I asked, staring at his peaceful face as his fingers danced over the keys.

“Yes, my mom died when I was very young, it’s just been the two of us for as long as I can remember,” James replied, still staring at the piano, never faltering in his tune, even as he talked. I let the subject go then, somehow it seemed wrong to take advantage of his sudden vulnerability to feed my own curiosity. I enjoyed his beautiful music, happy to have learned a little something about his mysterious life, always kept so secret.

 “So do you want to hang out after school today?” Natasha asked, plopping her backpack onto her desk next to me. The rest of the morning had passed quickly after my encounter with James, probably something to do with our interaction running on repeat in my head, hopelessly distracting me for the rest of the day. I had nearly forgotten my own impending doom. I sighed and bit my lip.

“I, uh, can’t…” I trailed off, “I have a tutoring session with Ryder Grim at the library.” I whispered in a rush.

“You have a tutor?” Natasha choked in surprise. The people at nearby desks turned their heads and gave us weird looks.

“Lower your voice!” I huffed, smacking her arm in cadence with my syllables. “It’s not exactly ‘tutoring’, we have to study together for the AP exam, Mrs. Gold is making us,” I sighed rolling my eyes. A sour taste filled my mouth just uttering the unfortunate circumstances that would bring Ryder and I together this afternoon.

“Oh man,” Natasha laughed, “That really sucks, talk about irony.”

“Yes, well, I’m glad one of us is amused,” I glared at her.

“Seriously though, you’ve been hanging out with the kid a lot between tutoring and partnering up with him for this project in Psychology, I think you liiiiike him” Natasha teased in a sing-song voice, nudging my shoulder.

“I could literally kill you right now for even thinking that!” I seethed, “And I did not partner up with him! It was an accident, I explained this last night on the phone. Luckily, James got to class late and had to join our group, so I won’t be stuck with Ryder alone any longer than purely necessary.” I muttered, mentally thanking whoever was responsible for that. Natasha laughed and I pouted at my own rotten luck. Before long, Sinclair swept into the class right after the late bell, as usual. Class passed quickly, mostly Sinclair discussed the project further and answered questions. Sooner than I would have liked, sooner than seemed fair to me, the bell rang, and we were released. I was suddenly envious of my peers that had their freedom this afternoon. I took upon the air of a woman marching to her own funeral, begrudgingly gathering my things, placing them in my backpack so slowly a turtle could outpace me. Ryder briskly walked to my desk and waited impatiently for me.

“Are you ready?” He asked severely while I shoved my binder into my backpack.

“Do I look ready?” I retorted, refusing to look at him, my dark mood making me ruder towards him than I usually allowed. I quickly zipped my backpack as he reached for the strap.

“What are you doing?” I asked, again harsher than I intended, pulling the backpack away from him.

“I was going to carry your things,” He answered blankly, raising a questioning brow at my sudden severity.

“Yeah, I think I can handle it,” I mumbled and slung the pack over my shoulder. I swore the tiniest smile graced his lips from the corner of my eye, but it was gone so fast I must have imagined it. Our altercation at the elementary school had done nothing to change our relationship; his mood swings left me so confused I was experiencing vertigo.

Natasha, Ryder, and I walked together to the parking lot. We were an unusual trio to be sure and our ensemble gathered more than a few stares as we made our way across campus. Natasha would drop me off at the library for the tutoring session while Ryder rode behind us. The plan was for him to tutor me for an hour and a half, then James would join us, and we’d work on our Psychology project for another hour and a half. Finally, I would be free to take the subway home and die of exhaustion.

We walked silently to the student parking lot. I realized I hated walking through school with Ryder because the stares always followed, if there was one thing I disliked more than Ryder himself, it was being the center of attention. Before long, Ryder veered off to his own car, while Natasha and I piled into her Prius. We circled around the lot and finally found him. When we did, I stared open mouthed, not even trying to conceal my shock, as he climbed, always graceful, onto a hot red motorcycle.

“He drives a motorcycle, too!” I exclaimed too loudly to Natasha. Natasha nearly doubled over laughing. “He’s too perfect, god damn it! There has to be some kind of limit to this thing. One guy cannot be inhumanly beautiful, graceful, smart, and ride a sexy as hell motorcycle. I mean, it’s just not fair!” I fumed. Natasha was practically crying from laughing now. I crossed my arms and sulked in the passenger seat while Natasha composed herself and drove to the library, Ryder following directly behind. I pouted with my arms crossed in the passenger seat, boring holes in him through the side view mirror the whole way there. Ryder could get me agitated like no one else, a fact that only made me despise him that much more. The more time I spent with Ryder, I remained confused as to how he could get me so worked up, compared to the usual indifference I felt to just about every other male at our school. Perhaps it was, as I described to Natasha, his inhuman perfection, or his constantly changing mood that was impossible to keep up with and the refined “I’m better than everyone else” air he kept about himself. Regardless of the reason, I found myself very much dreading this evening and every Tuesday and Thursday evening for the next weeks to come.

After a few minutes, we pulled up to a modest brick building with sliding glass doors and a sign that read “Public Library” in silver block letters. I slowly, grudgingly, gathered my things, wishing I wouldn’t have to get out of the car.

“Have fun, play nice!” Natasha called with a laugh before speeding away. I grimaced at her retreating car before trudging into the library. The doors slid open in welcome and I automatically breathed in the familiar, comforting smell of books. Rows upon rows of them stood before me, divided straight down the middle by a sea of tan tables and chairs, in the very back a blue counter sat for check out, an older man worked studiously behind it. The peace and quiet was a welcome reprieve from the mess of school, I paused for a moment longer to enjoy it. It had been a long time since I sought the solace of this building. I couldn’t quite drift in the allure of the books around me, knowing the chore I had before me. I saw Ryder pulling out books and papers at a table and slowly walked toward him. I imagined killers took a faster approach to the firing squad. The chair scraped too loudly against the wood floors as I took a seat beside him.

It was a little awkward at first, as we began studying. Neither of us said very much as we busted open AP study books and textbooks and diagrams. I had to give him credit, he was a good. He never got annoyed or exasperated, just easily answered my questions and explained core concepts without any emotion. After an hour I felt much better about the subject than I ever had. I leaned back in my chair and sighed.

“Okay, my brain hurts, I need to take a break before I implode,” I insisted, pushing the books and papers away from me. A small smiled teased at the corner of his lips, but it never reached his eyes.

“Oh, come on!” I exclaimed. Too loudly, because the man at the counter threw me a dark scowl and shushed me, as if my outburst was sure to ruin the integrity of his carefully curated atmosphere. I resisted the urge to stick my tongue out at him like a child.

Ryder looked marginally surprised by my outburst. “What?” he asked, the slightest hint of shock coloring his tone.

“You never show any emotion. You sit in class all the time, completely unmoving, like a stone statue,” I explained, exasperated, demanding an answer. I attempted a poor replication of his unafflicted expression for his benefit.

His pale pink lips quirked up into a small smile. “Is that why you called me a stone statue a couple of days ago? You disapprove of my lack of expression?” He asked, clearly bemused at the thought.

“Yes,” I answered softly, heat steadily crawling up to my cheeks without my permission, “I guess I just sort of made that nickname for you in my head, but come on, it’s totally deserved. You’re emotionless and rude,” I explained bluntly, only slightly embarrassed by revealing my true thoughts. I used my hair as a thin veil, unwilling to expose my blush.

He grinned now. “Ahh, but you do think of me, don’t you?” He teased with a breathy almost laugh.

I rolled my eyes, “You wish.” I turned my gaze down toward the table, attempting to hide the grin that spread across my face without any prodding from my brain to have told it to do such a thing, in response to Ryder no less. I shifted my hair to sweep across one side of my neck, further obscuring my face from his view, clearly I couldn’t be trusted around him to keep my composure.

We didn’t say much else after that and it wasn’t very long until James arrived. We started on our psychology project without any interruption. Ryder seemed tense working closely with James, and though I tried to draw the fun, carefree side of James out, he remained as stiff and humorless as Ryder. I wondered what could possibly have transpired between the two of them to force such a reaction. I was glad when we finished our project fifteen minutes early; the tension was palpable in the air. Ryder left with a curt goodbye, while James stayed behind to walk me down the block to the subway station.

“Have you heard the news lately?” James inquired, as we paced quickly down the street.

“No, why?” I asked intrigued by the turn our conversation had taken.

“Supposedly, a string of break-ins has occurred in the city at medical labs,” He informed, playful suspicion coating his words.

I laughed, “So? Crime is hardly unusual in New York. It’s probably a couple of lowlifes looking to score,” I shrugged.

He laughed too and changed the subject. “So are you excited for the haunted house our school is putting on for Halloween?” He asked, waggling his brows.

“Ugh, no. I don’t really do scary or adrenaline,” I replied, smiling sheepishly.

“You know Natasha is going to force you to go,” He chuckled, pausing before the entrance to the subway.

“Oh, I know,” I laughed, “But that doesn’t mean I’m excited or going to enjoy it,” I finished before turning and walking to the subway. James caught my elbow to stop me.

"Hey, Kristin?" James asked, showing a rare moment of hesitancy.

"What's up?" I replied, instantly concerned by the change in his demeanor.

"Will you go out with me sometime? Just me and you? I know this sounds a little strange and forward because we're only friends and all, but I have this feeling like I want you to know me, really know me," He explained sheepishly, averting his eyes. I swore there was the slightest pink in his cheeks.

"James, I would love to. I don't think it's weird or forward at all. I would love to get to know you better," I beamed. I had been so curious about James since he arrived, if he finally wanted to give me the opportunity to pick his brain that sounded just fine to me.

[spellcastersjudgement]

faithshipping #1!!!!!! :)

a 5ds ask??? in my inbox??? what a good time to dump all of my headcanons for these two on yall i hope we are all ready for my first foray into the world of card games on motorcycles

#1: a kiss good morning 

Yusei would maintain to his dying breath that time was not real and no one could ever make him sleep unless he deemed it absolutely necessary, that he’d earned it. He had a business to run. Fixing high-end motorcycles and cars required his undivided attention, and even if his employees went home at five o’clock, Yusei didn’t. Lately, he hadn’t been leaving his shop until almost midnight, finding Akiza on the couch in her pajamas, the television still on, indicating she’d attempted to wait up for him. 

Akiza was in graduate school, studying literature, wanting to prepare herself for a career in research. She had begun applying for grants, wanting to join one of her professors to research Vedic texts, things that were way over Yusei’s head. He preferred to work with the practical, the tangible–machines, not existential ideas and ethics and morality, the things Akiza loved to talk about. He’d see her textbooks open on the coffee table when he came home, notes in both English and Sanskrit, the ceiling fan lightly ruffling the pages, a spot of pen ink dripping on to the paper where she’d left it. 

She never minded the late nights. They spent time together on weekends and between Akiza’s classes, meeting daily for lunch, usually taking a couple hours working on assignments in Yusei’s office while he was out working on the cars. Yusei didn’t understand how she could concentrate with the squealing of the drills and the constant smell of gasoline and burnt rubber, what the incentive for spending time there was when she didn’t get to see him except when she was leaving. He was hesitant to ask her, he didn’t want it to seem like he didn’t appreciate her presence, because of course he did–knowing she was near, that if he had a moment between jobs he could go to the back and see her, typing away on her laptop or clicking her reading glasses between her teeth, brows furrowed in concentration on a particularly difficult text, it all was great comfort during the hectic work week. He worried he was testing her patience, that one day she would grow tired of him waking her up after midnight smelling of sweat and motor oil to carry her upstairs when she had early classes. 

Tonight as he laid under a 1969 Cadillac, frustrated out of his mind that he couldn’t figure out what exactly was wrong with the damn thing, he thought of how, even if he might not feel that time was worth anything, he was in the minority. He stared up at the underbelly of the car, the machinery looking like a maze that he’d found himself lost in, his head throbbing with the beginnings of a stress headache. It had to be well past midnight now, meaning it was Saturday. They had never explicitly discussed it, but Yusei had vowed to himself that the weekends were for him and Akiza, not for him and vehicles. 

Akiza had been out with Carly that night, the two of them heading to a drive-in movie theater to watch one of the old black-and-white movies that Yusei and Jack would watch begrudgingly but couldn’t really talk about with the level of technicality the girls enjoyed. Carly was studying film, close to completing her undergraduate degree, and Akiza loved storytelling, the two of them talking endlessly about some movie or television show–Akiza had even managed to get Carly’s eyes off her camera long enough to put her nose in a book. Even if they’d stayed out late, Akiza had to be wondering where he was by now. 

Pushing himself out from under the car, Yusei rubbed his temples and looked around, eyes focusing on the clock. 

Shit. It was past five in the morning. He’d been so fixated on the car he hadn’t even registered that the sky had gone from pitch black to navy blue tinged with sunlight, the stars starting to disappear. Before, Yusei had a tenuous grasp on the passage of time–now, as he stood up, his spine cracking as he twisted to relieve the pressure of lying on his back for at least six hours, he thought about buying a watch. One of those nice ones with an alarm. He could set it to go off every hour, a reminder that time, indeed, was passing and he should get home to his girlfriend at a reasonable time. 

One time, he could forgive himself. One late night–or morning, as it were–was nothing for him to berate himself about too much. He walked into the back office, a fleeting hope that he’d see Akiza’s fiery pink hair brightening up the piles of drab paperwork. Logically, he knew she’d be asleep, probably on the couch like usual. Carly might even still be there, in the loveseat hugging a pillow. That knowledge didn’t stop his heart from aching the slightest bit when he didn’t see her, intensifying his desire to go home, make penance for breaking his personal code. 

Buy watch. He scribbled on his calloused palm, ensuring that there was no chance he’d forget. He placed the pen back on the desk, flicked the lightswitch off, and closed the door behind him, walking back out into the garage. As he set about straightening up his workspace, picking the wrenches and other tools off of the floor, he mulled over whether or not he should wake Akiza when he got home. The one time he hadn’t, she’d fixed him with a stern look and told him not to do that again, that she wanted to wake up next to him instead of alone on the couch, even if that meant disturbing her slumber for a few brief moments when Yusei entered their apartment. That was half past midnight, though, not almost–god, it was almost six o-clock. His weekend staff would start arriving in an hour.

The sun was a bit higher in the sky, the sky several shades lighter than when he’d went into the office. The light burned his sleep-deprived eyes, exacerbating his headache. He needed coffee. He’d been up so long, might as well keep himself caffeinated to stay awake all day and crash in the late afternoon. His sleep schedule was already suspect, he didn’t need to become fully nocturnal. 

He turned around, fishing for his car keys in his pocket as he stepped toward the open garage doors. 

“Good morning, handsome,” 

Yusei’s head snapped up at the familiar voice. Akiza. 

She was standing in the driveway, the faint sunlight behind her making her shine with a soft glow. He was surprised to see her dressed so casually, leggings and one of his sweaters, long enough to hit her mid-thigh and cover half of her hands. Her hair was down, bangs tucked behind her ears, falling over her shoulders, slightly frizzy like she’d just rolled out of bed (or the couch, more likely, he thought), two coffee cups in her hands and a grocery bag on her arm. 

Yusei was torn between his excitement at seeing the woman he loved and guilt for making her awaken so early. 

“Hey,” he said, walking toward her. 

“You been up all night?” she asked, soft smile on her face as she offered him one of the coffees. “Brought you your favorite,” 

“Thanks,” he accepted the cup, the smell of hazelnut filling his nostrils. “I was about to come home,” 

“I know,” she said. “I was up. Jack was nearly banging down the door.” 

“Carly stay over?” 

A soft laugh escaped Akiza, her eyes crinkling as she smiled. “She forgot to tell him. You know, he pretends he doesn’t have feelings,” 

Yusei knew that all too well. 

“He’s so funny. He knew where she was, still got worried,” she sipped her own coffee. “It was cute in a way, I suppose.” 

“You suppose?” Yusei snorted. Jack was overprotective of his girlfriend to put it nicely. Carly had no problems telling him to shove off when it got to be too much, which was amusing for everyone that had the privilege of seeing it. “Sorry he woke you up. I’ll talk to him.” 

“Don’t worry about it. I’m glad he did.” Akiza reached for his hand, sliding her fingers between his. She tugged him toward her car, parked by the exit. “Got to come see you. Brought breakfast,” 

“You didn’t have to, ‘kiza,” 

“I know. I wanted to.” 

They approached the vehicle, nothing like what Yusei typically worked on, but he had a strange affection for it. It smelled of her perfume, her favorite pine-scented air freshener. It was a mark of comfort, of simplicity. Akiza bypassed the driver’s side door, pulling him along to the front of the car until they stood in front of the hood. He watched as she pushed herself up, leaning back against the windshield, looking at him expectantly. 

Now, Yusei wasn’t in the habit of climbing up on cars like this, but watching the sunrise with Akiza, even if it made him go against his mechanic’s instincts, was something he was most definitely interested in doing. He laid back against the glass, putting his arm around her, fully aware his armpits probably smelled rank at best, and pulled her to his side, her head resting on his shoulder. 

“What was it this time?” she asked, pulling a pre-packaged muffin out of the grocery bag and handing it to him. 

“1969 Cadillac. An antique, owner doesn’t know what’s wrong with it, just says it sounds funny. I’ve been under that thing all night. He’s one of my best customers so I want to get this right for him,” Yusei answered. “Can’t figure it out, though.” 

“The great Yusei Fudo can’t determine what’s wrong with a car? Hell just froze over,” Akiza teased. 

“Don’t tell Jack, he’ll never bring his motorcycles to me ever again.” 

“I wouldn’t dream of it. We have to spare other shops from Jack Atlas.” 

They lapsed into silence. The sunlight was growing stronger, peeking out over the tops of the trees. 

“I’m sorry,” he blurted out. 

“Don’t be,” Akiza looked up at him, a small smile on her face. 

“I didn’t come home,” 

“Yusei,” Akiza sat up and turned to face him, brushing falling strands of pink hair back behind her ears. “Yusei, don’t apologize. I love your passion for your work. It’s important to you, and that’s important to me.”

“Akiza, I was here all night, I–”

“Yusei, I’m not mad. Don’t feel bad,” Akiza cut him off. “You know, I’ve been doing some studying.” 

He was a bit taken off-guard by the subject change. “You don’t have any tests or papers this week,” 

“I’ve been studying up on cars,” she said. “I’m here all the time, figured I might make myself useful from time to time,” 

Yusei’s heart could have exploded from the rush of affection he felt toward her. 

“You help me study during finals, look over my papers even though you don’t fully understand them, listen to me drone on and on about classes. I want to be able to do the same for you,” 

“That,” Yusei was still speechless. “That’s very sweet, I appreciate it.” 

“Oh, stop you’re making me blush,” she laughed. “Though, there is one thing I’m mad at you about,” 

“Oh?” 

“I missed my goodnight kiss,” she said, teasing lilt to her voice. “But you can make it up to me,” 

Yusei looked down at his girlfriend. He put his coffee down on the hood, placing his hand on her cheek and tilting her head up so he could press his lips against hers. Her eyes fell shut, he could feel her eyelashes brushing against his nose, her lips soft and pliable as they moved against each other. She smelled like home, tasted like coffee. Her hand came to rest on his chest, above his heart, her thumb moving back and forth against his grease-stained work uniform. She pressed against him, her leg entwining with his as they kissed. Yusei could feel the sun heating up his cheek, warm, but not anywhere near the warmth he could feel spreading throughout him as they kissed. Only Akiza could make him feel that type of warmth. 

He pulled away, resting his forehead on hers. “I promise to never miss a goodnight kiss again, ‘kiza,” 

“Amend your promise,” she said. “Promise me that if you miss a goodnight kiss, you’ll double your efforts for the good morning kiss,” 

Yusei slid his pinky around hers. “Promise,” 

“Great,” Akiza abruptly slid off the hood. “Let me take a crack at your Caddy, Yus’,” 

Yusei watched as his girlfriend marched toward the open garage, looking back over her shoulder periodically to make sure he was following her. 

He looked down at the writing on his hand. Maybe he could forgive himself for losing track of time if it lead to perfect mornings like this. 

[steelhorseaudio]

Sport-touring Tires or Hyper Sport Tires? You Decide

Whether your sport bike is a Honda Fireblade, BMW S1000RR, or the most recent Triumph Daytona, it comes a time when you need new tires. Any experienced biker will tell you there is nothing harder than picking the right pair. Except choosing the right motorcycle sound system, of course.

How do you know how grippy your motorcycle tires will be versus how many years they will last? Which bike rubber type gives the best handling? And lastly, which is the best value?

Tires—they are quite possibly the most critical part of your bike, regardless of the type of riding discipline. They are the only thing that you ideally ever want coming into contact with the ground while riding on a motorcycle. Knees and elbows do not count unless you are on track.

Talking about contact, you only get a few square inches of rubber touching the ground at any given moment. Additionally, roads in the United States can be very unpredictable. Your tires will have to contend with the ever-changing horde of forces and conditions, all while fighting traction. So definitely, you will want to choose a tire that is going to suit your riding needs as best as possible.

This brings us here. You are torn between two again. Your finger keeps drifting the cursor towards those sexy, racing, Hypersport tires. They look aggressive and sporty. You even imagine yourself floating down the block getting side-eyes from bike enthusiasts like yourself. So what's it going to be champ? The Q4s or Supercorsas?

Hold on right there, Marquez. Unless your bike is a regular on the track, or riding bikes is a reserve for sunshiny days, you should stay away from everything that has Corsa, RR, RS, or Q anywhere in its description. Ideally, I would insist that many street bikers should consider rocking the sport-touring tires, no matter how hard they hit the canyons on the weekend.

We understand, the idea of ST Rubber brings back flashbacks of old guys on air-cooled Beemers steaming down Blue Ridge Parkway, but their categories have buffed up over the years. These days the sport-touring segments have everything even for bikes like the Kawasaki Ninja 1000 and Yamaha Tracer 900GT. Believe us, the tires built for those machines are equally capable, offering impressive grip, handling, and durability.

So Why Go the Touring way?

Number One: Longevity

The major consequence with Hypersport tires is they do not last long. Tire designs often try balancing between grip and mileage. The Hypersport tires of today sway too far in the traction end of the scale. This makes their lifespan for a street bike used every day very short.

With prices as high as $175 for one tire, replacing a tire for every 2000 miles simply does not make sense. However, if this is not too pricy for you, knock yourself out.

Sport-touring tires, on the other hand, do an exceptional task of adjusting the grip-versus wear-and-tear equation. Maybe you'll have to compromise a bit on the traction, but the grip for making turns on the streets is incredible. This equilibrium is achieved with the use of a multi-compound tread design which puts harder, longer-lasting rubber in the middle of the tire and softer, grippy stuff along the shoulders.

A quality ST Tire will give you 6000 to 10000 miles of cold hard tarmac without thinking of replacements.

Number 2: Traction Overkill

The second problem with using Hypersport tires on the street is that they are a total overkill in terms of traction. The corner on your road does not need that much traction to beat. If you do, you should be on the track and not the streets. The warning with the Hypersports is that traction is only available when the pavement is dry, and the tires heated up to certain levels.

This factor means that Batman, with his pimped out track tires and loud ST400 Cruiser Motorcycle Speaker System—blasting Born To Be Wild by Steppenwolf—chasing joker down the streets of Gotham, has less grip than you using ST Rubber tires on your Yamaha MT-07 if it decided to rain.

Additionally, sport-touring tires have useful tread hollows that help you remove standing water away from the contact rubber. This leaves you with pure, uninterrupted rubber when you decide to step on it in the rain.

If you are a die-hard biker who only goes riding on warm sunny days or during track days, then Hypersport tires may be for you. However, for the rest of us, real-world bikers—, who experience rain, cold, paint lines, and snow—forfeiting a little traction for grip may be worthwhile.

Since we already have so much in common, let me recommend a Steel Horse Audio speaker system for your motorcycle audio needs. Have a look at the ST200, ST400, or ST600 speaker systems all ready for your picking. Irregardless of the sound quality you desire, we know we have something exceeding your exquisite tastes.

[lyricalt]

[ovw] on your mark (2/??)

Rating: T Pairing: mcgenji (sort of) Note: AU where everything’s the same except McCree is a Deadlock mechanic and Genji is a literal motorcycle. So maybe a lot of things are not the same.  

[part 1] [part 2] [part 3]

As it turned out, Genji was tolerable company in the ensuing days of his repairs.  He spent most of his time as a motorcycle, chattily wheeling around McCree’s shop or staying parked inside the garage to escape the midday sun.  His wary mood seemed to improve the more McCree worked on him, though he was very particular about how McCree went about it.  At Genji’s insistence, the majority of the fixes were cosmetic, and McCree got the feeling it was because Genji was more embarrassed about the state of his fenders than the functionality of his engines.  For some reason he wasn’t surprised at all by it.  This was exactly the kind of uppity attitude he would have expected from a trendy sportsbike.  

But for all that, Genji was friendly and amiable once spruced up and mobile and when he wasn’t resting—and McCree did sense a bit of weariness from Genji’s occasional moody silences.  He wasn’t sure how long Genji had been on his own, but the motorcycle clearly had a troubled past, which was just on par with most folks living around the highway stop, and Genji was a long way from the big city McCree suspected he came from.  

And McCree suspected a lot about Genji, most of it not very good.

“That customer is cute,” Genji said in a low voice, bumping his front wheel against McCree’s knees.

McCree glanced at their most recent visitor, a man who looked to be approaching a healthy sixty years old, full biker beard, and no shy amount of tattoos over his gigantic arms. Cute wasn’t a word McCree would have used.

Genji nudged him again. “No.  Her.  Under him.”

McCree shifted his gaze, just a little lower, and eyed the biker’s motorcycle, newly fixed and cleaned.

“Don’t make this weird,” he said, finishing up the payment.  “Her parts are showing.”  

He waved the biker off before Genji could say anything else.  It was a hell of a time trying to keep Genji quiet and unmoving as a motorcycle, but at least Genji waited until they were alone to transform into his humanoid form while McCree tried not to stare.  It still took some getting used to, and the harder McCree tried to puzzle it out, the more his head hurt.

“Finally,” Genji said, pushing past McCree to reach for the broom.  “I’ll sweep up! Then we can go over the list of parts I need fixed.”

McCree opened his mouth, about to say that they ought to put away the tools first, but he supposed it was just as well Genji left him to clean up after his own tools.  It certainly wasn’t the easier of the two jobs, but McCree couldn’t fault Genji’s determination to work off his debt, even if he seemed to be extremely bored with most of the chores. McCree suspected Genji had never worked a day in his life.  The cyborg didn’t ask for exact wages and was opened to doing any task, so long at it wasn’t tedious and didn’t take too much time, and had a baffling habit of just leaving the shop to explore the town, without asking McCree for an allotted break time.

Genji had an air of someone who had been spoiled but was at least pleasant enough to play nice about it.  If anything, having an actual job seemed to charm and amuse him.

McCree rubbed his forehead, no doubt leaving a streak of oil across his face.  It wasn’t that Genji wasn’t unhelpful around the shop, but the cyborg didn’t actually offer much that McCree couldn’t do himself.  And despite his initial offer, McCree had not ridden Genji and absolutely did not feel the need to.  He was more comfortable on his own cruiser and even Genji seemed reluctant to have McCree do the more complicated maintenance on him.  If it had been a simple fix then maybe McCree would have been willing to let Genji go, but Genji’s specifications became increasingly harder to cater to.  He had gotten as far as changing the awful rubber tires to proper hovercraft tech before he had to stop.

More than once he had gotten caught on the jagged edges of Genji’s pride and vanity, and this upcoming conversation was bound to provoke some of it.  McCree had seen the faint scratch marks outlining the Shimada emblem over Genji’s shoulder.  The actual emblem looked to be pried off, though Genji didn’t look like a typical Shimada bike.  McCree figured Genji’s motorcycle form to be heavily customized—and that was more than half the problem.

“Listen, Genji.  You helping out is great and all, but that still don’t put money on the table,” McCree said, going over Genji’s detailed list.  “Your parts are pricey.  The parts you actually want are even more pricey.  I don’t have any of this on hand.”

It was a pain in the ass but he supposed a sentient motorcycle couldn't be too fussy about their own mechanics. But still.

Genji whirrled, twisting the broom in his hands.  “I don’t understand.”

“I don’t carry anything you are listing for me to install.  Means I have to special order it and that costs a pretty penny.  It’s all customizations, right?”

“I run better that way,” Genji replied defensively.

“Sure.  But I don’t understand why you can’t just use regular generic stuff or, hell, the Shimada brand if you wanted to get fancy,” McCree said.  He shrugged.  “Aren’t you based off one of the Shimada models anyway?”

“I’d rather not be,” Genji said, broom handle creaking in his hands.

McCree sighed, but he was in no mood to pry. He was already acquainted with Genji’s habit of being temperamental, prone to picking fights with what few customers came to McCree’s shop, especially those with anti-omnic views. Thankfully most were highway travelers, likely never to step foot in McCree’s garage ever again.

“I suppose if aesthetics is really all you care about...” he muttered.  This wasn’t a battle he’s willing to pick.  He shook his head. “I just don’t have the money to front.”

Genji’s grip over the broom relaxed.  He idly swept the floor, moving the small dirt pile back and forth.  “I will think of something.”

McCree turned away, rubbing his temples again.  That didn’t sound like it boded well at all.

[part 1] [part 2] [part 3]

[textales]

“A Curious Cat”

The Egyptians had a thing for cats. They even had a religion where they worshiped the feline gods. And If any one of those elusive feline gods had been even remotely as bewitching as my childhood cat I totally understand why.

She was a Seal Point Siamese…with deep blue eyes and a shimmering coat with blonde and brown fur, and even a strand or two of blue and silver mixed in. She was unlike any “normal” cat you’d see loitering in back yards or on front porches – this cat was downright exotic and stuck-out like a fine French restaurant in a trailer park. Great Falls was a simple “all American” blue-collar town, best suited for plain cats like Morris, the fat orange thing from the TV commercials for 9 Lives. Weird cats belonged in places like Missoula or Seattle with hippies and tie-dye and lesbians. She was clearly an outsider and a total anomaly. She might have been imported from Egypt or the land of Siam - wherever that was.

We lived on the right side of the tracks….but only by a few feet.  As a matter of fact, old railroad tracks remained in our back alley, abandoned since the 1950s when trucks replaced rail cars for local delivery of freight. We were on the last street where the old residential area met the industrial zone, with a giant three-story warehouse and tire repair shop on one end of the block, and a family-owned lumber yard across the alley. Our teeny home was built in 1916 when Great Falls was a thriving metropolis.  I’m guessing it was originally occupied by workers from the copper smelter or one of the many hydroelectric dams that were built in the era. Another set of tracks, about a half-mile away between our street and the Missouri River, carried the Burlington Northern freight trains which rumbled by a couple times a day.

Sometime in the mid-1970s my dad remodeled and we got all fancy with expensive Masonite paneling and a velvety couch and love-seat combo purchased from the House of Furniture for $499. We had multi-level shag carpeting and recessed lighting on dimmers, and the cottage-cheese ceiling had shiny silver sparkling bits.  

Ours may have been one of the nicer homes on the block - but just barely. I’m pretty sure the only reason it looked as good as it did was because my dad was always trying to out-do his sister who lived across the river in a double-wide. Hers was a very nice, color-coordinated double-wide, with full skirting and tip-outs. But according to my father it was still a “goddamned trailer.”      

My dad worked at a glass shop a block away. There was a vacant gravel lot between the shop and that three-story tire store/warehouse, and two tiny old houses between the warehouse and our place. His commute was better than that of a modern day “telecommuter” – his 30-second walk provided a little exercise and just enough separation between work and home to give him a decent “work-life” balance.

The glass shop was essentially our “second garage.”  We spent tons of time there when we needed to do big projects that required more space and the big air compressor. I have fond memories of that place. We painted our old Ford pickup in that shop…twice.  We did multiple overhauls on multiple engines for motorcycles, snowmobiles and lawnmowers, and we rebuilt at least one transmission in that space - all on nights and weekends after my dad had spent a solid 40 hours working. Who knew a glass shop would be such a good place for honing cylinders and grinding valves?  

I was in that shop with my dad and friends Lloyd and Wes the day Elvis died. And it was there where my dad and I had a big one sentence talk about “the birds and the bees” after my teacher sent me home with a note to advise the class had viewed the sex education film that day.  “Well, if you need to know anything about any of that shit, you just let me know.”  Thanks, Dad. 6th grade was so awkward.

Nobody seems to remember exactly when, but a Siamese cat showed up at the shop and didn’t want to leave. She didn’t need a new pane of glass for her cathouse - she was lost. My father took a liking to this adorable thing and offered up a little food and some attention.  

An exotic animal like this must certainly be someone’s pet. Perhaps it crawled from the back of a station wagon when its human came to get a makeup mirror fixed?  “Someone will come to get her” my dad explained as he poured Friskies into a makeshift serving dish fashioned from a decorative glass block.

After a couple days and no reports of a missing cat, Red decided he’d take this thing home. It would be easy to retrieve her should the owners come looking, and it couldn’t live at the shop anymore because the manager was allergic.

I was maybe five or six years old and hardly qualified to name a pet, but for whatever reason my parents gave me the opportunity so I decided her name should be Susie.  Where that came from I have no idea…it’s not like Susie was the name of a famous movie star, super model or even a family friend. In retrospect, and knowing her personality, that name was way too plain and simple for this enigmatic feline who had few characteristics typical of a domestic house cat. Susie was my spirit animal, and honestly I think she belonged in a circus.

She was a curious cat. Susie didn’t like milk, refused to eat Tuna, and loved the vacuum cleaner.  At least once a week my dad would spend an hour grooming her with the old Filter Queen, a beige-colored canister unit the size of a modern day shop vac. She’d come running the second it was brought out of the closet and would lie down in front of him, letting him suck her tail into the tube before extending her legs spread-eagle style waiting for the suction to take away whatever excess hair she would otherwise shed onto the carpet.  

Susie didn’t use a litter box. She’d hang by the back door and would announce with a polite meow when it was time for her to do her business.  Even if it was ten below zero she’d go outside.  The smell of her fur when returning from the frozen outdoors was something I wish I could bottle – I know I’d make millions on that magic scent.

We had a clothes hamper at the bottom of the stairs where she’d hide until we walked by. Then like a Jack-in-the-Box she’d pounce and start gnawing on your Achilles tendon. You’d think we’d have gotten used to it but it was always somehow a surprise.

My father would tease Susie by wagging a finger until she exploded and jumped from the floor into his arms.  She’d purr like the engine of a freshly rebuilt Mercury Cougar until she decided she was done with it, then without warning those beautiful blue eyes turned into fire, the fangs came out and she swiped with a vengeance.  Felines are so fickle.  

Canine Kryptonite.

Susie was like one of the guys. Far from being feminine, she wanted nothing to do with girlie things and could outfox and outrun any of the dogs in the neighborhood. She was far more masculine than Lloyd’s dog, Velvet, who played with rocks. She was far fiercer than Grandma’s Chihuahua, Cubby, and she had bigger balls than Aunt Kathy’s French gay male poodle, Shante.   

Neighbor Doug had a police dog, a German shepherd that looked like Rin Tin Tin. Susie scared the shit out of him – he knew to steer clear when she was on patrol.  

Susie and our cock-a-poo Peanuts loved to watch my dad and I work in the garage. They had a favorite spot on a 4-foot-high wooden ladder. The dog would sit on the top rung while Susie hung out on the tray intended for the paint can. Peanuts usually slept. Susie, on the other hand, paid close attention.  She was probably taking notes on how to operate the equipment and would be preparing a report for her alien overlords on the mother ship.

My brother and his wife were school teachers in the far-away lands of the Tri-Cities in Washington state. Just like the Egyptians, my brother’s wife had a thing for cats.

I recall one trip when they came thru town with a bizarre hairless cat like Mr. Bigglesworth from the Austin Powers movie. This cat and Susie had a lot in common (both being exotic and suitable for the circus) and Gloria fawned over Susie.  I can only imagine how pissed-off she had to have been, having spent thousands on exotic cats imported from breeders.  And we got ours for free because she was essentially a homeless drifter, rescued at the glass shop.

“Turn Me Loose, Set Me Free…Somewhere in the Middle of Montana.”

It made little difference where we were going, but on the weekends we just had to get out of town. In the summers we’d pack-up the pickup, hook on the travel trailer and head to a campsite somewhere. Whether a forest service campground or a gravel parking lot in a town 20 miles away it didn’t really matter - my dad just had to escape. Maybe something about the glass shop and our house being so close together didn’t provide the separation from home and work that he had hoped for? Hell, I don’t know…

Susie and my dog knew the routine: they’d wait patiently near the back door at 5:15 PM every Friday after work as we prepared to embark on another adventure. Peanuts knew instantly where he would sit in the cab of the truck between my mother and I on the bench seat. Susie usually jumped up onto the dashboard where she could sun herself and enjoy the view.

Susie was a swimmer - not to be left on the sidelines when the guys went fishing, she would jump in the water, “cat paddling” to the rubber raft floating out in the lake.  A cat that swims? Yes. And she would jump in the bathtub every so often.  This cat was crazy.

Once on a trip to Canada with my Aunt Ruby we met an Australian woman who really took a liking to Susie. When we went to leave the cat was nowhere to be found and my dad was convinced that the Australian chick had stolen her. She insisted she hadn’t, and joined our search party.  After an hour of panic and calling her name we’d almost given up. All the while she was in the tree directly above us, sprawled out with her legs hanging over the tree limbs. Immediately upon hearing the truck start she started meowing. Twenty-seven seconds later she returned to the dashboard and international peace was restored.

“Too many motors.”

My mom had reached a breaking point. “We have too many motors,” she exclaimed, slamming down the glass of “Chillable Red” she just filled from the box.  She then took a drag from a Newport menthol and promptly called the Tribune to place an ad in the classifieds.  We’d be having a big garage sale that weekend, to offload some excess items with engines that included at least one lawnmower, a go-kart, and the Honda 50 mini-bike I’d outgrown.  

Other goodies for sale included a collection of my mother’s hand-made doilies - you know those round frilly things that go underneath lamps or get used as an emergency potholder just once until you burn the shit out of your hands?  And we’d be offing a ceramic cookie jar, a creation of “Kathy’s Busy Bee Ceramics,” the studio for which was in a trailer next to the one my Aunt Kathy lived in across the river. This cookie jar was in the shape of a Christmas tree.  I hated that effing thing, especially when it sat on the counter well after the season was over.  I thought, but didn’t dare say out loud: “It’s not Christmas in July for Christ’s sake – so let’s get rid of this goddamn thing.”

The Garage Sale attracted all kinds of bargain shoppers including one family who arrived in a 1971 Plymouth Satellite Sebring station wagon plucked right from a Brady Bunch episode, complete with wood grain paneling, driven by a woman with a black bouffant hairdo and looking a lot like the country singer Loretta Lynn.

Susie got bored hanging out on the paint tray on the ladder and decided she’d explore the mysterious world of the Plymouth. It was warm, with strange smells and plush carpeting.  Its humans were different, and there were “stink sticks” (incense) from the Import Depot. A leftover wrapper from Burger Master smelled interesting, but after wondering “Where’s the Beef” she quickly went to sleep in the Sebring.  Nobody took notice and Susie went for a ride for a while, cruising the Garage Sale Circuit all over town.  

Of course she woke-up and started howling. She was not for sale. The kids wanted to keep her, but she wanted nothing to do with them now. She was agitated, and wanted to get back to her native habitat where she could guard the roost - even if it had too many motors. Those motors belonged to her and she needed to watch over them.

They had to back-track, returning to all the garage sales in reverse order until they found us. “Is this your cat?” asked the Loretta Lynn look-alike.  Susie was returned annoyed and unharmed.  Like a wayward teenager busted drinking at a party and retrieved by her parents, she was reluctant to show any emotion and quietly leapt from the tailgate of the Plymouth and returned to the paint tray on the ladder in the garage.

“Houston Means that I’m One Day Closer to You.”

In my junior year of high school I took my first trip on an airplane to see my sister who lived in the northern suburbs of Houston.  It was around Christmas of 1982 and I’d finally go inside a real building taller than ten stories.  I’d go to NASA where astronauts would say they had a problem if there were one, and I’d shop at a fancy shopping mall with an ice rink inside. Everything was fascinating and I tried not to stare, but I’m sure I made a quite a spectacle and an embarrassment of myself.

When I left Montana there was snow on the ground and it was maybe in the 10s. Since I was in the blistering hot warmth of Texas, I could get a little tan before returning to the frozen tundra up north. The neighbors had to wonder WTF as they looked through the shutters at some albino kid wearing shorts and laying out on the side lawn in the middle of winter.  It was maybe in the low 60s the day I tried to tan.

At the mall with the ice rink I remember looking for stuff you just couldn’t get in Montana.  I was kind of bummed I couldn’t find the platform tennis shoes like those worn by Stewart Copeland of the Police, but I did buy a cool, slightly “off color” dark-comedy cartoon book from one of the novelty stores there. I’m not sure what motivated me to buy it other than wanting at least one souvenir from Texas, and the book was easy enough.

Later that night I called home to check-in.  I was having a great time, and I told the parents I’d see them in a week. This town was fascinating and it was fantastic to be in a “real city” with 8-lane freeways and tall buildings and radio stations that played more than classic rock or country.  

“Your cat’s been moping around, so we’re going to take her to the vet.”  This message didn’t really alarm me.  Susie was getting old, but she was bullet proof. 

When I got back to Great Falls a week later I was greeted at the door by Peanuts but no Susie. “She was sick so we had to put her down” said my father as he fought back the tears. “She had feline leukemia” my mother said.

It was a bit of a shock, but really….Susie was no spring chicken (I think she was at least ten years old at that point) and it’s not like it was devastating.  Cats die. We all die.  And it’s not like I hadn’t thought about it.

Oh, and what was the name of that book I bought at the shopping mall with the ice rink?

“101 Uses for a Dead Cat.”

Maybe I shouldn’t have bought the book?

[infinityknight25]

Fantastic Four issue #1

Note: This is an idea for a pilot episode for a Netflix series to bring the Fantastic Four into the mcu.

Cast: Ben Grimm/ The Thing: Mark Wahlberg Reed Richards: John Hamm Sue storm: Sarah Gadon Johnny Storm: Special guest:

Tony Stark: Robert Downey Jr

Episode one starts with a black screen

Stark: Hey Buddy C'mon! (Snapping finger)

Screen changes to a luxury spa like room. The camera looks to a sliding glass door that lead to a balcony. The camera looks over to Tony Stark, whose sitting in a metal chair with a plastic seat and back. He was leaning forward looking the direction of the camera.

Stark: Ahh. Welcome back to the land of the living. (Sits back and puts left leg over right leg.)

Reed: Tony…… What?….. What’s going on?

Stark: You are very lucky my friend. Do you remember anything?

Reed: Yeah we….. Ben, Johnny, Sue, and I went up to the space station to study a solar storm. Ben went to get ready to take samples and (Scene flashes for a moment. You see purple dust flying around a space station, Ben Grimm being tossed through space. An open bay door on the station with Johnny Storm on the floor being pinned down by the force of the storm) Oh… (face becomes sad) What happened to everyone? Where are the…? (Stark cuts him off)

Stark: The others? Yeah they are great. (Suddenly there’s a voice from the hall)

Grimm: Hey! He’s up!? No way! Hey Sue ! C'mon Reed’s up!

Grimm enters in the room. He is a giant man that looks like cracked dried clay.

Reed: What!?! Ben…. you…. what happened?

Stark: Well….(Sucks his teeth) We have a few theories but!(pats Reed on his right shoulder) We’ve been waiting for the world’s best physicist to come to. So he can figure it out. ( He says with a giant smile on his face)

Reed sits silent a moment in thought.

Grimm: What’s wrong buddy?

Reed: How long have I been out?

Stark: Three weeks.

Reed: Oh man!

Sue Storm walks into the room at a fast paced walk. She looks at Reed and smiles. Suddenly her complexion began to turn translucent.

Reed: Sue you… Wow!!! So….. just from what I’ve seen from you two so far….. The particles of the storm must have changed our genetic makeup some how…. (He said beginning to fall into deep thought and put his right hand up to his chin)

Stark: These two aren’t the only ones. (Stark pulls up video on his phone and throws the video into the air in a high tech display for the entire room to see) Have a look at this. Hmmm

The video shows Richards asleep and he begins to toss and turn. He is having a nightmare. He begins to scream. His body still tossing and turning. Suddenly one of his arm stretches way out and knock a vase of flowers off the rooms sink counter top. Reed is astonished at the video.

Reed: This is amazing! I can’t wait to get to work!

Stark smiles

Stark: I was hoping you would say that.

Scene 2: Stark opens a rolling door to reveal a giant laboratory. Everything is top of the line. The counter tops are a finely polished steel. Nice computers everywhere. Stark is walking in front of the three.

Stark: This lab (Gesturing toward the room) is at your disposal. If you need ANYTHING. You let me know okay buddy? (He says as he puts his arm around Reed)

Reed: There is one thing. Where’s Johnny?

Grimm: Probably flirting with a nurse or something.

The group hears giggling and quiet conversation behind them. The group turns to see Johnny and a young blonde woman walking together. She kisses Johnny on the cheek and walks the other direction.

Stark: Orrrr… My assistant.

Johnny is walking toward the group with a big boyish smile.

Johnny: Hey Reed! Good to see you up and about. Reed: I guess the accident didn’t change you at all huh? Sue: (under her breath) If anything it’s made him worse. Johnny: Hey. C'mon there’s nothing wrong to get acquainted with a beautiful young woman. (Silent for a brief moment) It’s a business contact. Reed: (chuckles) Alright let’s get to work. (Reed walks deeper into the lab) Stark:(turning and walking out of lab) Great! I’ll call you in a few days to see how things are going. And Johnny…(looking back at Johnny) Don’t violate my entire female staff huh?

Johnny smiles.

Reed sitting at a computer chair next to a high tech Stark industries projected screen computer.

Reed: Okay Johnny…. (Looking at the trio) What can you do?

Johnny: Check this out! ( Johnny ignites himself. The flames begin to scorch the floor)

Reed,Sue,Grimm: (in unison) Johnny whoa!

Grimm: Hey man stop!

Johnny ceases with his fire

Johnny: Pretty sweet huh?

Scene cuts to a view over NewYork from an office in a skyscraper belonging to Oscorp. The sun is partially set. Norman Osborn was sitting at his desk writing out orders to be put in the next days memo. A gruff voice comes from the shadows.

Taskmaster: Why is it the owner of a giant corporation like Oscorp needs the skills of a mercenary like myself?

Osborn: (Continues writing) I have my reasons.

Taskmaster: Hmmm. Are your enemies so dangerous that you want to spend the big bucks on someone like myself?

Osborn: (quits writting, stands up and walks over toward Taskmaster) I have very many enemies that will surprise you. I am bringing you in on a very private goal of mine. I have the desire to take over New York and eventually the world…. in time. You fall in to this scheme with your skills in battle and ability to impersonate people. You will be my General. My right hand man. (Osborn begins walking over to a side wall with a few photos of him with various people of power and a painting of himself)

Taskmaster: Power and money always talk, but what makes you think I’ll follow you?

Osborn presses a button on his wristwatch that is on his right wrist. The wall receded into the floor, revealing the purple, green and gold green goblin suit along with the hoverboard he uses.

Taskmaster: (In awe of what he sees) Interesting.

Osborn: As you can see I have my reasons to believe that you will.

Scene 3: Back at the lab owned by Tony Stark. Reed and Sue are working on equations on Stark’s high tech computers to figure out what happened. Ben and Johnny are sitting on a couch in a living room type area watching t.v. Johnny already appears to be restless and bored.

Johnny: Ugghh! This sucks! Let’s go out for a pizza or something please!?

Reed: Johnny we just got started. We haven’t set up anything for experiments or anything yet. We need to know our limits…. What we can and can’t do.

Grimm: (Walking in from out of frame) I’m a giant piece of rock. (Points at Johnny) He’s a walking bon-fire. (Points at Sue) She’s can go streaking whenever she wants and you (pointing at Reed) are a rubber band.

Sue: (sounding tired) Ben.

Johnny: Hey! Why don’t we use our powers to help people? Like Tony does or that dude in Harlem or the Spider guy?

Then the tv cut to a breaking news story.

Female news anchor: We interrupt this program with an important news story. A group has broken into an Oscorp Pharmaceutical building. They call themselves the Wrecking Crew.

Johnny: Guys! This is it! We can stop those dudes.

Reed: Johnny, (sighs) look we don’t know what has happened to us. We need to better understand that…(Johnny grabs some keys off the table in the kitchen area)

Johnny: I’m goin.

Sue: Johnny wait!

Grimm: I’m goin too! Someone’s gotta look after him.

The scene changes to Johnny Storm pulling up outside the building on a street motorcycle. He saw a few police talking and got closer so he could hear.

Officer 1: what’s the situation.

Officer 2: suspects tripped an alarm that alerted a security guard. He went to investigate now they have him hostage and are trying to make demands.

Officer 1: Okay dont let anyone near the scene. I don’t want some rage induced vigilante coming in here and doing our job for us.

Johnny smiled and started walking away from the two officers toward a less busy section of the scene. Reed Richards, Sue Storm and Ben Grimm walk up. Grimm is hiding his complexion under a giant hoodie so he doesn’t draw attention.

Reed: Johnny let’s go. We have no business being here. We will only be inthe way.

Johnny: Oh no man. We can make a difference. You coming big guy? He said looking at Grimm.

Grimm: (smiles) Why not?

The two start sneaking off through the crime scene tape toward a side door in the alley way.

Sue: (playfully) I guess we need to go in and make sure they don’t get in too much trouble.

The other two follow into the alley way and into the building they go quietly.

Reed: (yelling in a whispered tone) Johnny we need a plan!

Johnny: Yeah go in an kick butt. What else is there too it? (Sarcastic)

The four reach the end of a dark hallway to a lit room where the Wrecking crew were surround with beekers and other experimental equipment seen in labs. The security guard was tied to a chair.

Thunderball: Gentleman, we have ourselves a conundrum.

Bulldozer: Hey man I ain’t even like that. (Looks at the other two members of the group) Y'all never said anything about doing that to a guy.

Thunderball: (sighs) Idiot. It means we have a problem. I said conundrum not condom. Now how are we gonna get out of this mess?

The four step into the light of the room.

Johnny: It’s easy. Either you give up or you get your butts handed to you and you go to jail anyway.

Thunderball: Hmmm. Interesting proposal. I see you haven’t been introduced to us. I am Thunderball. The big nit wit in the helmet is Bulldozer. The guy with the giant fists is Piledriver. Annd… The man over there with the crowbar is Wrecker. And you are???

Johnny: We are the ones that are gonna stop you enough said.

Thunderball: Ah I see. Well here’s how this is going to ACTUALLY go. You are going to step aside and we will go. The security guard won’t be hurt. No harm done.

Reed: Acutally that’s not how this will go. You have to answer for your crimes.

Thunderball: I know you. Your Reed Richards. I’ve read some of your papers on theories about other sustainable planets for life. How you back up your theories with physics is amazing. I love your work.

Bulldozer: Enough talk we’re busting outta here!

Bulldozer runs toward Grimm and Sue. Sue side steps and becomes invisible. Bulldozer crashes into Grimm’s rock like midsection and dents his helmet. Grimm chuckles.

Grimm: Didn’t even hurt! This is awesome!

Johnny: Whoo! We are doin this! Flame on!

Johnny ignites himself and rushes toward Piledriver. Piledriver rushes forward to attack Johnny.

Reed stretches out and wraps himself around Thunderball tying him up.

Thunderball: This is very impressive. What has happened to you? Are you inhuman?

Wrecker sneaks up behind Reed. He raises his crowbar to hit him but he gets hit in his head with a computer monitor. Sue then becomes visible again and smiles. Reed smiles affectionately back.

Johnny: Well that was easy.

Grimm: Yeah man. It wasn’t bad. I enjoyed clobberin these guys.

Reed: (pointing to an open metal cabinet.) Grab those extension chords. We will tie them up.

Sue untied the security guard.

Guard: Thank you guys. You were amazing.

The four exit the Oscorp Pharmaceutical building. Grimm is carrying the Wrecking Crew all tied together. The security guard walking beside them. Citizens on the opposite side of the do not cross tape began applauding. Reed looks over at Sue.

Reed:(Trying to be romantic) If I were to order me and you a pizza for the two of us? Would you do some late night research with me?

Sue: (Looks caringly with a smile at Reed. She lets out a giggle) I’d love to.

Scene: Norman Osborn’s office. The sun is setting. Giving the office a reddish tint. Several portions of the office are shrouded in shadows. Osborn is watching the news report on a big screen tv on the wall. Osborn is sitting behind his desk.

Reporter: I’m standing here in front of the Osborn Pharmaceutical building where there had been a break in. Four at the time unknown heroes had snuck in and stopped the burglary in it’s process. We now know it is famed scientists Reed Richards , Susan Storm, and pilots Johnny Storm and Ben Grimm. These Fantastic Four apprehended the group of criminals known as the Wrecking Crew and safely rescued the security guard from inside. Norman Osborn could not be reached for a comment at this time. Will this be a one time appearance of the Fantastic Four? Where did they get their powers? Are they inhuman? So many questions and few answers at this time.

Taskmaster: I see the Wrecking Crew have failed.

Osborn: Indeed however they provided enough of distraction for you to succeed didn’t they?

Taskmaster emerges from the shadows. And sets a jar of dust from the solar storm on the desk.

Taskmaster: How did you get your hands on this?

Osborn: When one has money and a fair amount of power. One can acquire remarkable things.

Taskmaster: So what’s our next move?

Osborn: Let’s lay low for a moment. See what this Fantastic Four do with their new found abilities.

[unholyhelbiglinked]

Vice| Chapter Six

My fingers wrapped around her cold wrist roughly, her skin hot on mine as I tugged her into the dark area, her scent immediately mixing with the smell of chemicals in the small storage closet. I kept my breath shallow, afraid I would pass out if the lavender became too much- it was almost intoxicating in a way.

"What the he-"I put my hand over her mouth, quickly silencing her as I searched for a light switch with my free hand. I finally found the cold metal cord. I pulled down- squinting as the dull glow burned my eyes. She huffed, getting a good look at me as she took my wrist and tore it from her mouth. "Grace?"

"We need to talk."

"I'd prefer to do it somewhere other than a dingy broom closet."

"Tough," I sighed "what happened to our deal, Mamrie?"

"I'm working on it."

The banter between use came easily enough as she pushed her back up against the door to the closet. She raised her fingers to her hairline as she raked them through the long orange mane of hers. Clenching my jaw I swallowed, noticing how her features were shaded in an odd, yet beautiful way. I shook my head clear, realizing we were both staring at each other.

She cleared her throat, glancing away "It's harder than just telling them to lie off, you know? I kind of need to make it look like it was their idea to focus all of their efforts on you."

I nodded in understanding "I know," I sighed "I'm just a little on edge is all. Not many people want to make amends with a killer, what's with that anyway?" I threw my hands up in the air in exasperation "I figured you'd spread word of std's or me being poor. But hey, manslaughter works too I guess."

Mamrie looked me up and down, seeming to linger on my inked up arms a little longer than her usual scrutiny. "You look like one, I guess. People don't know a lot about you. You drive a motorcycle. I guess it just fits you. Besides. I was leaning towards fugitive, but they decided on killer. Seems a little harsh to me."

"yeah," I let out a long sigh. It had been about a week since school started. The same routine had taken place in my daily life. The stares, the whispers. Eventually it would die down, but for now, I had been silently sticking up for each person who was tormented by the wolf pack. Eventually I figured they would target me over anything- getting them to agree with Mamrie coaxing them into it.

"You can back out."

"No."

"Why?"

"You ask me that question a lot."

"I want to know the answer a lot. You're interesting."

"So are you, Mamrie." I mumbled, grasping my leather bag from the ground before I squeezed past her to get to the door. I could hear her take in a sharp breath as my arm a pressed against her shoulder, her body heat beginning to grow too much in the small space. "You might want to wait a few minutes. Me walking out of a closet may be believable, but not you."

"I can't be late for class." She mumbled, looking down at her shoes, her cheeks flushed as I continued to stare at her. She seems to lose all confidence when she's cornered. I cocked my head to the side, opening the wooden door with a loud creak.

"Lead the way, princess."

The pads of my fingers rubbed against the rigid rubber, sweat running across my collarbone as I extended my arm, watching as the burnt orange ball fell into the net- the sound of air rushing through the hoop like music to my ears.

Hannah let out an exaggerated breath, her hands resting on her knees as she tried to catch the air the so easily evaded her lungs "That's not fair. You are so much taller than me."

"We're playing horse." I laughed, but admitted that I was slightly out of breath myself, the heat was rough tonight, even if it was early September.

"If we're playing horse than I've lost enough to have a whole heard." Hannah snickered at her own joke as I rolled my eyes, smirking slightly. Hannah grabbed the ball from the ground, resting It between her hip and her forearm. "But really, I'm tired."

"Me too," I lifted my chin, moving my hand over my forehead, feeling the sweat and dirt that came with it "You want something to drink?"

Hannah nodded, quickly following me into the thick frigid air of the house; she set the ball on the coffee table walking into the kitchen with me as I hunted the cabinets for some glasses. She had caught her breathe by now, her chest not moving as rapidly.

"Did you absolutely hate your first week of school?" She finally asked, as I started rooting through the fridge, feeling the cold air dry my skin. "I mean... the wolf pack was a little hard on you."

"Nothing I can't handle." I mumbled into the fridge "Do you want water, or juice, or soda?"

"Waters fine," Hannah replied "it's odd though. Don't you think? Jocelyn hasn't really dumped any food on Tyler lately. And no one's called Sawyer Frankenstein."

"Frankenstein?" I stood up straight, an odd look on my face "Why do they call him that?"

"He grumbles a lot," Hannah waved her hand in front of her face "not my point. I'm just saying. They seem to be focusing a lot on you lately."

"Eh," I shrugged pouring cold water from the pitcher into the glasses "I'm new. I'm sure it'll go back to normal at some point. Fresh meat I guess."

I avoided Hannah's eye contact as I handed her the class. She didn't seem to notice, her full focus on her thoughts as she thanked me, downing half of it and cringing from the cold on her throat.

"You wanna watch some movies or something?" I suggested, earning a nod "You can stay over if you want. I think we both need showers I think." I readjusted my tank top, cringing slightly.

"You're one to talk Smellbig." She said with a smirk.

"Shut up, Farto." I shoved her slightly, her mouth hanging open in shock as I winked and started to walk towards the stairs. "Are you coming or what?"

"Yeah," she shook her head "I'm just shocked that the student has finally surpassed the master."

The subtle tapping on my window stirred me from my sleep, a small grumble escaping my lips as I tried to drown in out, cuddling deeper into my comforter. The room was cold, reminding me that I didn't turn the air off, but I was too exhausted to get up and do it now. That game of basketball was really taking a toll on my arms.

Another tap sounded against my window, making me stir even more as I sat up in the darkness, pressing my hand to my head. Hannah grumbled herself, pulling more covers onto herself as the cold air bit at my skin. "Your phone is ringing."

"That's not a phone." I sighed, blinking away the darkness as I looked towards the window as another rock collided with it.

"Leave a message after the beep." Hannah mumbled into her pillow, making me smirk as I walked over to the window, grasping the base of it as I pulled it up, flinching as a frigid stone hit my temple.

"Ow, what the fuck," I squinted in the dark "Mamrie?"

"Come downstairs," She whispered harshly as I looked around "I need your help with something."

I let out a sigh, looking at the red haired girl before glancing back at Hannah, who was snoring loudly as she spread out on the bulk of my bed "Okay, Let me get dressed."

She nodded, as I shut the window again, pulling on a pair of grey sweatpants and a black t-shirt. I slid into a pair of sneakers before grasping my keys and cell phone as silently as I could. I closed the door behind me, making sure not to wake Hannah as I almost tumbled down the stairs in the pitch of the night- losing my footing a couple of times before I made it to the front door.

I locked the front door, turning around to run right into Mamrie, her warmth immediately soothing me as I breathed in her scent. She had her hands on my shoulders, steadying me as I let out a small sigh.

"Thanks."

"No problem." She shoved her hands in her own sweatpants pockets, tucking a piece of hair behind her ear.

I studied her, taking in her slack appearance compared to the usual one that was all high and mighty. I had a feeling that she didn't let a lot of people see this side of her. "I like your glasses." I started walking past her off the porch "Cute."

Mamrie smiled slightly as she followed me down the steps.

"What do you need help with?" I checked the glowing screen of my phone "It's like three am."

"I was thinking." She rocked back and forth on her toes "I want to press charges."

I cocked my head to the side, confused "On me? Because I only pulled you into one closet and-"

"No Grace," She held up her hands "Not you.... That guy... the one who attacked me. I can't stop thinking about how he could do it to someone else. Or what would happen if he caught me."

I swallowed, watching her facial expression sadden as she stared at her feet; she was fidgeting, obviously more than uncomfortable about the situation. She was almost rambling at this point.

"Mamrie, what do you need?" I knit my eyebrows together, cutting her off, she let out a breath, almost happy that I did.

"I need a ride to the station." She said, scratching the back of her neck. "I would ask my parents, but they're away... and you're the only one who knows about this."

"At three AM?" I raised a brow "You said they closed at nine."

"The one in this town does. Not the town over." She let out a breathe "besides... I feel like people would ask questions if they saw us together."

I nodded, not necessarily offended "I understand" I scratched my arm "Well if you want to go now, we have to take my bike. My mom has the car for the weekend."

Mamrie nodded, "That's fine... thank you Grace."

It was my turn to nod as I walked over to the garage. I wheeled the bike out, Mamrie watching almost with a childlike wonder. I grasped two helmets tossing her one as she eyed it for a moment before strapping it on. I smirked at how out of place she looked, but laughed it off as she adjusted the large helmet over her mouth.

"I feel like Darth Vader" she mumbled as I shook my head and pulled my own helmet on.

I mounted the bike, turning around to face her "Make sure you keep your legs away from that giant silver thing." I told her, putting it in simple terms "I don't want you to burn yourself."

She nodded, sitting in the small seat behind me; she was almost shaking as I turned the motor. I turned slightly to her "You're not scared, are you?"

"No," She said defensively, folding under my gaze as her shoulders slumped "maybe a little."

"You'll be fine." I told her simply, "just hold on tight. I won't let anything happen."

She nodded, hesitantly embracing me. Her warmth was thick and gentle against my back as I started to pull out of the driveway, going slow at first until we reached the end of the cement and hit asphalt. I started to pick up speed, feeling Mamrie tighten her grasp on me as she buried her head into my shoulder, now doubt clenching her eyes as the wind whipped past us.

I found myself not hating her company for once. Even if it was the sleep deprivation talking.

[olivereliott]

Review: Riding the (frankly bonkers) Arch KRGT-1

I’ve just swung a leg over the most exclusive production motorcycle we’ve ever tested: the $85,000 Arch KRGT-1. It’s a made-to-order performance cruiser, with unapologetic looks to match that hefty price tag.

But do Arch owners Keanu Reeves and Gard Hollinger actually know what they’re doing—or is this just a vanity project for a Hollywood star? And how much bike do you get for Tesla Model X money? I flew from Cape Town to LA to find out.

Along with a select few other media outlets, Bike EXIF was invited to Arch’s hometown of Los Angeles to ride the KRGT-1, visit the company’s headquarters, and pick the brains of Reeves and Hollinger.

The KRGT-1 concept came from Reeves himself: he wanted an American-made cruiser that would actually handle. So he commissioned Hollinger, an experienced custom bike builder, to customize his 2005 Harley-Davidson Dyna. By the time Hollinger was done, the motor was the only original part left.

Reeves loved the result. And after some initial resistance, Hollinger agreed to use it as a prototype for a production model. Arch Motorcycle and the KRGT-1 were born.

Reeves is the antithesis of the typical Hollywood type. He’s humble, passionate and deeply knowledgeable, and his investment in Arch goes way beyond just dollars. He’s also the company’s primary road tester, racking up more miles on development bikes than anyone else in Arch.

Hollinger and senior Arch staffer Ryan Boyd told me that every time Reeves takes a bike out, he comes back with a list of changes—often unrelated to the aspect of the bike he’s supposed to be testing.

Reeves’ uncanny ability to ‘feel out’ a bike, and provide usable feedback, is one of the things that persuaded Hollinger to pull the trigger on Arch. Hollinger himself talks about their projects in a steady, considered manner—giving away just how experienced he is, and how obsessive he is over every little detail.

Development at Arch is ongoing and never-ending. This new version of the KRGT-1 was born out of the constant drive to improve, and the need to meet Euro4 emissions standards. It’s hard to tell the old and new models apart at a quick glance, but it’s a huge step forward. There are over twenty major changes, with a total of 150 newly designed parts.

Each KRGT-1 is assembled like a giant Meccano set, by Arch’s ten-plus staff. It starts with a high backbone frame, which looks incomplete until you bolt on the CNC-machined aluminum subframe and tail structure. The fuel tank is also aluminum, and acts as a stressed member of the frame.

The new swingarm is a distinguishing feature; a curvaceous aluminum unit that’s visually bigger than before, but weighs five pounds less. It mounts directly to the rear shock with no additional linkages—a deliberate move to have fewer moving parts.

The shock itself is a custom unit from Öhlins, who also supplied the front forks. High-end parts tailored specifically to Arch’s needs are a recurring theme throughout the KRGT-1: the wheels are five-spoke carbon units from BST, but with hubs specific to the bike. And the brakes are a combo of ISR calipers, Bosch ABS electronics, and Magura master cylinders and controls.

Power’s handled via a proprietary six-speed transmission with a special high torque main shaft, and a hydraulic clutch. The final drive is via a chain.

The motor is a specially designed 124 ci 45-degree V-twin from S&S Cycle, and it’s both EPA- and CARB-certified. (That’s a two-liter engine, for those of you on the metric system.) But instead of breathing through a big fat filter that sticks out on the side, it sucks air through a proprietary downdraught system.

Air ducts in the headlight surround channel air down to the area between the two halves of the fuel tank, and into a K&N filter housing. Everything is specific to the KRGT-1: the filter, its housing, and even the rubber boot connecting it to the intake.

The exhaust is a combination of hand-built headers, and a muffler made in-house from parts supplied by Yoshimura. It’s a great system that adds sport bike style and gives off a forceful bark.

There’s no doubt that the KRGT-1’s aesthetic is seriously polarizing (we can’t even agree on it here at Bike EXIF), but I’m into it. There’s an undeniable flow from front to back, and nothing feels out of place. It’s also one of the cleanest production bikes out there, with not a single unsightly wire or tube, and is way less bulky than it looks in photos.

Since the KRGT-1 is usually made-to-order with a 90-day turnaround, Arch only had three next-gen bikes on test—in red, blue and grey, with varying parts finishes showing off the range of customization. If bright colors aren’t your thing, just order yours in black.

The bike I rode most of the test bore the initials ‘KRYK-1’ on the muffler, a reference to the International Klein Blue color that Reeves picked for the paint. The dash is from Motogadget, and the switches are made by Domino specifically for Arch.

They work well, but they’re plastic—and on a motorcycle laden with so much gorgeous metal, I think there’s potential for something special here. I can’t fault the rest of the parts spec though, which also features a lot of Rizoma trim. The headlight’s pretty neat too—it’s an LED unit from JW Speaker, with adaptive cornering lighting built in.

There are carbon fiber fenders at both ends too, and optional heat shields on different points along the exhaust headers. (The front heat shield bolts neatly to the motor, as an example of how well put together everything is.)

Every last finish is top grade—from the paint and anodizing to the seat upholstery. Even the mandatory license plate bracket, mounted off the swingarm, is borderline art.

Touring Arch’s Los Angeles manufacturing facility was a rare treat, and the sheer scale of the operation blew my mind. It takes about 1,200 pounds of aluminum billet to produce the machined parts for one motorcycle—but 90 % of that ends up as recyclable shavings.

Take the split fuel tank, for example. It’s made of sections that go through multiple phases of CNC machining, before they’re ready to be welded shut with insanely good-looking welds. All of that takes 40 hours, per tank.

All these parts have tooling marks that have been designed to create a feeling of motion across all surfaces. What’s more, when you strip the parts down, you’ll notice special cavities and cutouts all over—either for mounting other components into, or for channeling wiring.

The HQ is not open to the public, except when you’ve made an appointment to order your own KRGT-1. The order process starts with a consultation, so that Arch can tailor each bike to not only their client’s taste, but their body too. (No two KRGT-1s will ever leave the factory the same way.)

For ergonomics, the footpeg position can be varied via custom mounting plates and adjustable pegs, the seat can be set deeper or further back, and the bars can be adjusted too. There’s also a fair amount of freedom around liveries and the anodized and raw finishes.

There’s no option for mid-mount pegs though. I originally questioned the idea of a long wheelbase, fat rear tire and forward controls on a performance motorcycle. So I asked Reeves and Hollinger [above] if that was a deliberate move to maintain an element of cruiser DNA in the KRGT-1, and they confirmed it.

The truth is, this was never meant to be a sports naked—only a performance cruiser. A combination of the things Reeves liked about the cruisers he was riding before he approached Hollinger, but with performance turned up to eleven.

Riding the KRGT-1 To put that performance to the test, we rode from our hotel in sleepy Pasadena towards the endlessly meandering roads of the Angeles Crest Highway. Was I nervous riding an $85,000 motorcycle, of which only three prototypes currently exist? Little bit.

Hitting the starter button quickly reminded me that the KRGT-1 is a pure American muscle bike. That 124 ci V-twin is nothing short of monstrous, with ample bark and bite. And as you’d expect from a mill this size, it shakes. And it gets pretty hot, too. But Arch make no apologies for this—it’s all part and parcel of this type of bike, really.

That ethos is pushed further with the use of a traditional cable throttle. There’s no ride-by-wire, no traction control and no rider aids beyond ABS…which gives the KRGT-1 a refreshingly visceral nature.

The KRGT-1 weighs in at 538 lbs [244 kg] dry—over 100 lbs less than the new Harley-Davidson Low Rider S, and in the same ballpark as BMW’s R1250 GS. It’s a big bike, but not a total lump.

The weight, and the heat and shimmy from the motor, make it a bit of a handful from stop light to stop light in traffic. But the second I hit the open road, I whacked the throttle wide open, tucked into the deep seat and felt the KRGT-1 come into its own.

I found Arch’s six-speed transmission pretty stiff at first, and hard to get into neutral too. But then I rode the other bike on hand that day, and it was far more compliant. I discovered that the hydraulic clutch simply needed to be bled. It’s understandable—the bike I was riding was Reeves’ personal test mule; a prototype build with over 3,000 miles on it already.

The beastly S&S Cycle power plant is well tuned, with masses of usable torque. Arch and S&S didn’t just grab a motor off the shelf and pop it in the KRGT-1—they spent a lot of time fine-tuning it, and it shows.

There’s 122 Nm [90 lb.-ft] at the back wheel. But rather than peak at a tangible point in the rev range, most of it is on hand, most of the time. So while I was hustling the KRGT-1 through the endless blissful corners of Angeles Crest, I seldom had to hit the gear shifter. Instead, I could just roll on and off the throttle.

Cornering with the KRGT-1 is a revelation too. Despite the rider triangle and stretched wheelbase, it’s remarkably intuitive through turns. It takes hardly any effort to pitch it over—and once it’s there, it holds the line like it’s on rails.

How did Arch get this so right? I’d say there’s a few reasons. For starters, carbon wheels and an aluminum swing arm go a long way to reduce unsprung mass, and you really feel it through corners. But it’s also the fact that the KRGT-1’s a ground-up build, with every component front to back designed to work in unison.

The entire chassis feels stiff and connected. And the suspension works well too, keeping the bike planted with no vagueness or wallowing. And with the 19F/18R wheel combo and the KRGT-1’s relative tallness, you’ve got a lot more room to lean than you have on most cruisers.

There’s a ton of modulation (and power) in the brakes too. I grabbed a handful early on and sent the nose into a sharp dive, before realizing that all the ISR units needed was a gentle tap to slow the bike down. Once I’d figured that out, I was feathering the front with a finger or two while trail braking into corners. Yip: trail braking on a cruiser.

As someone who actually digs riding cruisers, I didn’t hate the forward controls at all. I get why the KRGT-1 is setup like this, and actually like it. And I really liked the setup of the bars and seat, too, though the tank contours weren’t in the right place, and I ended up sitting a bit wide-legged.

I also found that my butt and lower back were mad at me towards the end of the ride, just from sitting in a hunched position for long. I’m a big guy though, and my regularly-sized riding partner on the day had no such issues. The two bikes we were riding had tangibly different ergonomics too, so some setup time might yield improvements.

The ride was remarkably fun, but afterwards I wondered how many of Arch’s customers simply buy into the concept of owning an exclusive boutique motorcycle—and how many actually appreciate the KRGT-1’s ride dynamics.

So I asked Arch’s client and communications manager, Jordan Mastagni. He said that most customers are avid motorcyclists who are drawn to the bike specifically due to its capabilities.

Arch also have a strong focus on the ownership experience. They’re hands-on during the ordering process, and each bike ships with an ‘owner’s box’ with a custom-made key, a special tool for adjustments, and a book detailing the unique build process. Arch once even sent a technician all the way to Australia to fix what turned out to be a minor issue.

That level of obsession and dedication is written all over the KRGT-1. From the outlandish level of build quality to the unusually good riding experience, it’s a remarkable and special motorcycle.

Sure, it still has a lot of cruiser DNA, but my gut says that will be a selling point for Arch customers.

And ultimately, it rides unlike any other cruiser out there.

Arch Motorcycle | Facebook | Instagram | Images by Alessio Barbanti and Arnaud Puig

Wes’ gear ICON 1000 Variant Pro helmet | Harley-Davidson Trego riding shirt | ICON 1000 Nightbreed gloves | Saint Unbreakable stretch denims | ICON 1000 Varial boots

[theloudpedal]

Radwood: Hooptie-Con

(I apologize in advance for the lateness of this report.  This event was held on March 24th, but I'm just now reporting on it now, as we enter May.  This delay should not be construed as any slight on this event, it's just a reflection that life gets in the way sometimes.  As a testament to the awesomeness of the event, I have been telling anyone who will listen to me about it, and both the words "rad" and "dope" have reentered my lexicon after a multi-decade hiatus.)  

I'm a sentimental guy and a creature of habit.  Those of you who know me will attest to those facts.  I love the predictability and stability that only routine and regiment can provide.  I guess, like anyone else, I perceive my "normal" as somehow superior to the next person's.  I like my rock 'n' roll classic, I'm not flashy and honestly, my inclination is to observe, rather than participate.  I have my "thing," and that's the way I like it.  Now that I'm well and truly in my 40s, I am becoming a "man of a certain age," and in that mold, I've found myself muttering and/or grumbling about "kids these days," and about all things new and different that I really don't understand.

It's for this reason that I had a preconceived "take" on this thing called Radwood.  I became aware of Radwood mainly through traffic on our our Instagram pages and through some of the podcasts I listen to (the Smoking Tire's Matt Farah is a vocal proponent).  Radwood is generally the manifestation of a intense love of all things from the 1980s and 90s, expressed on a foundation (or delivery system) of the automobiles of the era.  Radwood events aren't annual like the Goodwood Revival, or the Monterey Historics...they're more of an irregular happening...and they happen when they happen. 

If my count is correct, the Hooptie-Con incarnation was the third Radwood event and it was sharing event billing with a 24 Hours of Lemons race and a couple of other car shows.  Couple that with the promised attendance of one of Bruce Canepa's 959's, and I figured we couldn't go too wrong. 

I want you all (both of you) to understand that despite growing up in the era, I am not particularly enamored of it.  Sure, I like some things about it, but those of you who know me, know that my tastes in music, cars and culture significantly predate it.  More than one person has told me that I was born 20 years too late.  Because I am who I am, and what I had heard/seen about this emerging happening, I thought (at most) I'd see some interesting cars at the expense of being reminded that I'm one of the few people I know who really doesn't long to bring back all the stuff of my youth.  I was prepared to like it a little, but certainly not to get into it...

My 11-year-old son and I arrived to find a small but steadily growing corral of cars and motorcycles.  There weren't a lot of people yet, but some pretty solid classics from back in the day.  Yeah, there were some high dollar icons of speed in the mix from Ferrari, Lamborghini, BMW and that tasty Canepa 959...the stuff of dreams for a kid from that time.  You would expect that.  Hell, my son knew the names and designations of many of them.  But as we walked around, the corral and adjacent hillside began to fill with scores and scores of other "vintage" machines...foreign and domestic, shiny and dull, common and extraordinary (and I use this term somewhat loosely).

Along with the cars were their owners and the "stuff" of the owners.  A DJ began to pump out remixes of all the songs you'd expect to hear, and the genius of Radwood began to become apparent.    I started seeing things I hadn't seen for decades....walkmen, fanny packs, calculator watches, flammable plastic clothing, headbands and a Vaurnet sweatshirt....A VAURNET SWEATSHIRT!!!!  I could even swear I saw a VHS tape. 

Slowly, but surely, I was being drawn in.  

After a walk around, my son was magnetically pulled to some tables set up with tube TVs and old video game systems, so that was kinda neat.  (kids these days need to know how good they have it with their gaming systems)  After prying him away from an epic game of Sonic, we began another stroll around.  As luck would have it, we ran into some friends from Cars and Coffee Folsom, who were clad from head to toe in period correct threads (#plastic #neon #fannypack).  At this point, I was almost felt like an outsider (despite growing up during the same two decades) yet I still had no real desire to celebrate it by displaying any period flare. 

It was about this point that I felt things start to turn.  I was beginning to drop my resistance.  I began to embrace Radwood for the genius it is.  Sure, It wasn't the era of chrome and power, it was a time of electronic awakening and a redefining of cool.  It was a time for the world to make and promote ridiculous things and for no apparent reason.  Looking at the cars that had finally filled out the main corral and the field above it, I realized that my formative years really may have been cool and might even be worth celebrating.  Is a Nissan Pulsar Sportback really worth celebrating though?  Maybe not to everyone...but hell if I haven't seen one in a million years!  Hell if I know how or why I was so jazzed about a Chevy II Twin-Cam 16 Valve.  Really, my son was terribly confused why I was staring at a replica Monroney sticker in the window of a 1984 Jetta...and he had every right to be curious.

I've raised both of my kids on the best of the best of the automotive world.  Both of them know their classics, customs, musclecars, exotics and racers.  But now I realize that there is a huge hole in their education.  There are lots of machines out there they've never heard of or seen despite being the most ubiquitous cars and trucks of my youth.  Yeah, they're not really that well made or particularly reliable.  Almost all of them are pretty gutless and droopy and covered with lumpy plastic and rubber bits.  They were daily drivers or commuters or oddballs or "imports."  (Aside from the uber expensive euro equipment) They were more or less common and not all that remarkable.  If you saw most of them on the street in your neighborhood today, most people probably wouldn't even notice them...but maybe that's why they're worth looking at now.  Upon much reflection, and in in musical terms, they are the soundtrack of my youth...the landscape of the time. 

By the end of our afternoon, I'll admit that I'd come full circle on this thing called Radwood.  I'm not, by any means, ready to dawn the period garb and portend that I want to get into a time machine and get back to that time, but I am ready to proclaim that Radwood represents something that's good for the automotive world.   It is not polished or snobby, and it doesn't proclaim to be anything that it's not.  It simply opens a porthole into the past...just like Goodwood and the Monterey Historics.  It is absolutely worth your time and money to experience, and it worthy the notoriety that it is garnering in the automotive media universe right now.    We look forward to sharing more about the Radwood phenomenon as its franchise expands and as it spreads out from its Nor-Cal / Bay Area birthplace.  If you want more information about it, you can check their website, www.radwood.com and you should take a listen to a few podcasts by the minds behind (and promoters of) the phenomenon:  Driving While Awesome, Clutchkick and Cammed and Tubbed.

As always, our pictures are a better represnetation of things than our words, so please take a look at the gallery below for a taste of this thing called Radwood.

-Andrew

[olivereliott]

Review: The 2018 Harley-Davidson Softails

When Harley-Davidson announced its new Softail range, Dyna fans wept and shook their fists. Their beloved twin-shock platform was gone, with existing Dyna models absorbed into the eight-strong Softail model line-up.

It’s understandable—the Dyna was the go-to performance Harley for many riders. But if the new Softail rides better than the old Dyna, does it matter? To find out, I headed to Cataluña in the east of Spain, to sample the new range.

Rough Crafts‘ Winston Yeh rode the new bikes a few days before me. He said, “If you think the old Dyna rides better, wait ’til you get on a new Softail—then make the judgment.”

“The bike is lighter even when pushing it,” he continues. “The Softail is now only slightly heavier than a Sportster, but has much more power, less vibration, and less heat. I’m super excited to get my hands on one, and also to see what the custom shops all over the world will do with it.”

So how did the Motor Co. pull it off? Basically they’ve built an entirely new motorcycle—with a stiffer chassis and a better engine—and then morphed it into eight different variants. In ascending order of price, these are the Street Bob, Low Rider, Softail Slim, Fat Bob, Deluxe, Fat Boy, Heritage Classic and Breakout

The goal was to mesh all the classic appeal of the Softail with the performance aspect of the Dyna—but make it better than both in every way, with less weight, better handling and more power. It’s Harley’s largest product development project to date, and I have a fat PR pack in front of me explaining every little detail. But I’m going condense it down to the two most important bits: the chassis and the motor.

With its clothes off, the new Softail is a work of art. (See Street Bob, above and below.) It has the same faux hardtail layout as its predecessor, but with a conventional shock rather than the previous push/pull system. The geometry’s been revised too, but more importantly the frame is 65% stiffer than before, making the overall chassis 34% stiffer. Weight reductions vary, with some models shedding as much as 35 lbs.

Harley use two different swing arms—one for wide and one for narrower tires—and three different steering neck angles to tweak each model’s individual setup. The suspension is all-new too; the rear shock is adjustable for preload, and the front forks feature a ‘dual-bending’ valve system for a more responsive feel.

Powering the new Softail is Harley’s stellar Milwaukee-Eight power plant, available in two variants: 107 ci (1,746 cc) and 114 ci (1,868 cc). It’s a thing of beauty, and it’s a total gem to ride too. That’s not just the PR talking: I sampled it on last year’s touring models.

Each model comes standard with the 107 mill, but you can also get the Fat Boy, Heritage Classic, Breakout and Fat Bob as 114s, each with a high-flow air filter.

The 45-degree V-twin’s biggest strength is that it delivers power smoother than you’d expect from a big American cruiser, without sacrificing an ounce of character. That smoothness is down to a dual counter-balancer, which also means that the engine can now hang off rigid (rather than rubber) mounts. This makes it a stressed member, adding to the overall flex resistance.

Jumping from the previous ‘high output’ 103 twin cam to the Milwaukee-Eight has also resulted in whopping torque gains. Harley claims that the 107 has 145 Nm and accelerates 10% quicker than the 103. The 114 has 155 Nm, and is 9% quicker still than the 107.

Other new features include Daymaker LED headlights all round, new instruments, and a wet sump that sits lower (the old oil tank had to make way for the under-seat shock). There are also some nice ‘shortcut’ features for customizers, like rear struts that can be unbolted, and a two-part clutch cable.

I was itching to see if all this hard work has paid off—especially since Harley picked an unforgiving proving ground for the launch. We’d be riding four models over two days, over some of the twistiest mountain roads in Spain.

I’ll dig into the details of each bike in a minute, but they all share some pretty universal traits.

For starters, I have to give H-D ten out of ten for build quality and final finish. The paint on each model is deep and flawless, thanks to some pretty rigorous QA processes. Engine and chassis parts sport finishes as diverse as wrinkle black and brushed chrome from model to model, and not a single item looks out of place.

But how do they ride? Paul James, product portfolio manager for the Motor Co., told me he hoped people wouldn’t say that the Softail performs well “for a Harley,” but that its performance would truly impress them.

Well, it did truly impress me. And every other guy I rode with.

If I’m honest, percentages of rigidity and performance increases go over my head—I just want a bike that feels good. The old Softail felt vague and spongy in corners, and the Dyna would flex if you pushed it too hard. But the new Softail is surprisingly agile—able to pitch into a corner, hold its line and fire out the other side.

Yes, it’s still a cruiser, so ‘agile’ is relative. And even though each model has improved ground clearance, you’re still eventually going to scrape pegs, footboards and sometimes exhausts.

If you’re looking to get a knee down, you’re obviously barking up the wrong tree. But we were riding on tighter and curvier roads than most customers will, at a pace that most customers won’t. And we were all loving it.

The 114 Milwaukee-Eight motor is truly monstrous, and the 107 isn’t far behind. And while big twins are all about torque, both love to be revved, with a slick and predictable throttle and fuelling feel. There’s also just enough of a vibe to stay true to that classic Harley feel, but not so much that I got off with numb hands or missing bolts at the end of the day (it’s happened to me before on the Dyna).

The six-speed box and torque-assist clutch shift easily enough, and I could actually find neutral, which was refreshing.

The brakes and suspension also impressed throughout the range. I seldom touched the rear brake (mostly because on some models I found the lever to be a little hard to reach, and didn’t have time to adjust it), and a couple of fingers on the front was usually enough to slow the bike down.

I mentioned the lack of fork adjustment to Harley’s people, and their reasoning was twofold: they reckon most customers won’t spend time on suspension setup, and the new forks perform well enough not to need it. I can see the logic in the first statement, and after spending miles riding these bikes harder than I should have, I walked away convinced.

So how did each individual model do? I’ll break down the key features of each, then what it was like on the road.

Heritage Classic 114 A traditional cruiser with saddlebags and a screen, the Softail Heritage Classic is the least relevant bike on this list. But that doesn’t mean it isn’t a sweet ride—and a good-looking one too, if that old school, big fender vibe is your thing.

Mine had a lush olive green paint job, surprisingly little chrome, and a mostly blacked-out motor.

It’s not the sort of bike you’d really customize outside of H-D’s own catalog, but it does feature upgrades like rigid, locking saddlebags, and cruise control. And I have to admit that the new LED lights—and the slick new analog-digital combo dial—are really well executed.

Out on the road, it shunts way quicker than grandpa’s Softail. As laid-back as it looks, it loves to rail turns and scrape floorboards. Sure, I’ll never dream of owning one… but if my retired Harley-loving parents upgrade this year, you can bet I’ll ‘borrow’ it.

Breakout 114 The new Breakout maintains the raked-out drag bike look that made the outgoing model so popular, but in a more modern package. The tank has a low profile from the side, and a killer outline when you’re looking down at it, with sharp corners up front and a taper towards the rider.

H-D were clear that the new Softails should retain as much classic Harley DNA as possible, but still move forward, and the Breakout’s running gear is the epitome of this. The oval LED headlight is inspired by the Livewire, and instead of a traditional speedo, there’s a narrow little digital dash integrated into the top handlebar clamp.

Riding the Breakout is a little weird. For boulevard posing it’s a dream, but with a skinny 21” front wheel and a whopping 240 mm 18” rear, pitching it through turns takes some getting used to. The front finds its line quick, but the rear takes a second to catch up.

It took a few corners to familiarize myself. But once I had the method down I was scraping the forward pegs, occasionally bouncing the exhaust’s heat shield off the black top, and literally laughing into my helmet.

Street Bob Harley-Davidson clearly didn’t want to spoil us too much, so they slipped at least one 107 into the set: the Softail Street Bob. As the cheapest new Softail, it’s the most likely entry point into the new range, and a logical step up for Sportster owners looking to upgrade.

Out the box you get a solo seat, mini ape bars and mid-mounted foot controls. The riding position is frankly bizarre and uncomfortable, but it’s also awkward in a way that makes you feel really cool riding it. I’m six foot tall, so a cruiser with a low seat height and mid pegs normally doesn’t cut it for me. Most guys my height are going to fit forward pegs and adjust the bars right away.

That’s also the Street Bob’s strength. It’s a blank canvas, and the Softail that’s probably going to get the most love from customizers. Plus there’s almost zero chrome on it, and it’s kitted with the same sweet little mini-speedo as the Breakout (finished in black).

It’s the lightest of the new range too, which—combined with its narrow 19F/17R wheel sizes—makes it the most flickable, and a total hoot to ride with those mini apes. Given the option, I’d be hard-pressed to choose between this guy, and the next one on the list.

Fat Bob 114 The bike that grabbed the most attention when the range was announced, the Fat Bob 114 is a muscle bike of the highest order. I’m a huge fan of the 2017 Dyna Low Rider S, and as far as I’m concerned, this is the replacement.

Let’s start with the obvious: the Fat Bob’s punch-in-the-face looks. If you think it’s weird and awkward, I’d like to direct you to the outgoing Fat Bob. Satisfied?

There’s not an angle on this bike that I don’t love. The pillbox LED headlight is killer, and so is the raised rear fender, the massive double barrel exhaust system, and the cast wheels. I normally detest drag bars on bike, but these drag bars start wide and taper down to 1”, held in place by beefy cutaway risers that tilt them closer to the rider.

My only gripe is the speedo. I love the analog and digital mash-up, and there’s plenty of information to keep you happy. But I was left pining for the same handlebar-mounted mini-dash as the Street Bob and Breakout.

Looking down at the tank to check speed on a monster motorcycle is less than ideal. (I asked, and swapping the speedo out isn’t possible without serious modifications).

Hooning on the Fat Bob was an epic experience. Harley’s Paul James hopes that this is the bike that will attract sporty riders who are fed up with pukka sportbikes, and he might just be right. It shouldn’t love corners because it’s 676 pounds (306 kg) wet. And it has 16” wheels measuring 150 mm wide up front and 180 mm at the rear. But it does love those corners—provided you’re willing to work for it.

You know how on some rides you just feel a bit off? That was me, the day I hopped on the Fat Bob. But once I’d figured it out I started finding my groove—just in time to swap bikes, sadly.

The trick is to counter steer, get your head and shoulders over, and muscle it through. It is hard work. It is tiring. But it’s bags of fun, and I’m aching for another go on a better day.

The Fat Bob is also blessed with the most ground clearance of the range, thick inverted forks offering even more performance, and pegs that are more mid-forward than fully forward. The biggest surprise? It was hands-down the most comfortable of the four.

So why are we talking about Softails, when there are more custom Sportsters on these pages than Softails and Dynas combined? It’s pretty simple. Harley-Davidson have said that they’re releasing 100 new models in ten years.

That’s a bold statement, and judging by just how different these new bikes are to their predecessors, they’re taking it pretty seriously.

It also has us thinking about the venerable Sportster. At 60 years old it’s long overdue for a major overhaul. If the Motor Co. was willing to kill off a bike as loved as the Dyna, is it that much of a stretch to imagine a modernized Sportster that lives up to its name?

I didn’t like Harleys up until a year ago, but somehow I’ve started to see the appeal. Sure, cruisers aren’t for everyone—but I’m convinced anyone will have a good time on these new Softails.

I asked Bill from Biltwell Inc. for his thoughts, and he said: “The bikes are pretty fantastic in context. We bought a Street Bob last week and are already falling in love with it.” And T-Bone at Noise Cycles was impressed too: “I could definitely roll the new Street Bob, and would be stoked to do my thing with it.”

High praise from guys in the know. Who else is looking forward to seeing what custom builders do with the new Softails?

Base prices in US$ for the new Softail models will be: Street Bob $14,499, Low Rider $14,999, Softail Slim $15,899, Fat Bob $16,999, Deluxe $17,999, Fat Boy $18,999, Heritage Classic and Breakout $18,999.

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Wes’ gear Rough Crafts ‘Revelator’ helmet | 100% Barstow goggles | REV’IT! Stealth hoody | Aether Apparel Moto gloves | Saint Stretch denim | Stylmartin Red Rock boots | Velomacchi Speedway 28l backpack