#and like. i started this project as like. writing training wheels

[htonl-writes]

i wrote 1000 words over the last 3 days!! hopefully i will keep this up :)

[cherryxbooo]

Please a “the rookie” Tim Bradford fluff. For Valentine day, when Tim and Lucy are patrolling, Lucy is surprised that Tim is dating for couple days and Lucy wants to meet her. The end of the day, lucy saw Tim walking towards shy!reader. Couple minutes later, Lucy caught Tim and Shyreader making out in the breaking room. https://youtu.be/7MqzwaO-eQE?si=K1M4TDlFaIehiDoU

You deserve all of this and more

Summary: Lucy is shocked to discover that Tim isn’t single and sets out to uncover the mystery of his girlfriend.

Note: I'm back! Thank you for your request! Even though I still have one more exam to go, I decided to give you all an early present! You know me by now and how I like to put my own spin on the stories I write, so it’s not just a direct copy of the original scene. Hope you like it!

Shy reader x Tim Bradford

Genre: Fluff

The morning sun shone down brightly, casting a soft golden glow over the city streets.

The sky stretched out in a crisp shade of blue, unmarred by a single cloud.

It was one of those perfect mornings, cool but not too cold, with the promise of a calm day ahead.

As Officer Lucy Chen approached the patrol car, she couldn’t help but feel a small sense of relief.

After the chaos of the past few shifts, today seemed like it might be a breeze.

Sliding into the passenger seat, Lucy clicked her seatbelt into place with a practiced motion.

She shifted in her seat, adjusting herself for comfort as she stole a quick glance at her training officer, Sergeant Tim Bradford.

His presence, as always, was commanding.

Even though they were just about to start their routine patrol, Tim had that same focused, unflappable demeanor that made him so intimidating to most.

But Lucy had been through enough shifts with him to know there was more to him than the steely exterior he projected.

Tim was staring down at the patrol car’s navigation screen, his fingers tapping rhythmically against the steering wheel.

The sound of his fingers drumming lightly filled the car, a sound she had become intimately familiar with over the months of riding along with him.

It was his way of staying grounded, of keeping himself in control.

He wasn’t the kind of person who liked to feel rushed or out of sorts, even on a simple day like today.

"Alright, Chen," Tim said without looking up from the screen, his voice flat and businesslike as usual.

"Looks like we’re covering the usual sectors today. Try not to get distracted."

Lucy raised an eyebrow. "Distracted? Me?" she asked with mock innocence.

"Never." She leaned back in her seat and grinned, knowing exactly how to push his buttons.

Tim shot her a quick, side-long glance, his lips twitching just slightly. He was trying to hide it, but Lucy could tell, his mood was a little different today.

Normally, he was calm and collected to the point of being nearly emotionless, but today there was a subtle shift in his energy, a lightness to his presence that didn’t quite match his usual serious tone.

Lucy, ever the observant one, picked up on these small changes faster than most.

She studied him a bit longer, trying to gauge what was going on. Something was off, no, wait.

Something was better.

The way his posture was just a little less stiff, the way his eyes seemed more focused on the present moment rather than scanning the horizon for potential trouble.

Tim wasn’t just going through the motions today.

There was something in his demeanor that told her he was… happier?

Her curiosity piqued, Lucy narrowed her eyes, leaning forward slightly.

"Okay, what's up?"

Tim sighed, but it wasn’t the usual exasperated sigh he gave when Lucy’s questions got too personal.

No, this time it felt almost... indulgent? He didn’t answer immediately, instead focusing on pulling the car away from the curb with a smooth, practiced motion.

His eyes were still locked on the road ahead, but the subtle hint of a smile tugged at the corner of his lips.

"Nothing’s up," Tim replied, but Lucy wasn’t buying it.

She studied him intently, her brow furrowing.

Something in the way he said it, the slight change in his voice, told her that something was definitely up.

"You’re different today," she pressed, her tone more inquisitive now.

"You seem... I don’t know. Lighter? Did you actually get a full eight hours of sleep for once?"

Tim scoffed and glanced at her from the corner of his eye, his lips curling into a small, wry grin.

"Yeah, right. Like that ever happens."

Lucy smiled to herself, but she wasn’t going to let him off the hook so easily.

She tilted her head, her gaze lingering on him as she continued to study his expression, trying to unlock the mystery of this odd shift in his usual mood.

Tim wasn’t the type to be so… light. He was always on guard, always the professional, always a little bit closed off.

But now, there was something different. She could feel it in the air between them.

Regardless she decided to let it rest. For now.

"You know Angela asked me earlier who I thought was more difficult. Her or you."

Tim frowned at what Lucy said, before rolling his eyes.

"Of course you're going to choose me."

Lucy laughed at his behaviour.

"You know, Angela knew you were going to say that. Now I understand why she said that you're the most stubborn person alive."

Tim looked offended. "Me? Stubborn? Yeah sure."

Lucy couldn't help but annoy him more.

"Yeah, she also said that was probably the reason why you're still single."

Tim looked once again very offended before defending himself.

"First of all, I'm not stubborn like she makes me out to be, and second of all who said that I'm still single huh?

A sudden thought hit her, sharp and startling. Her eyes widened in realization.

"Oh my god," she whispered, the realization dawning on her like a flash of lightning.

"You’re seeing someone?"

Tim’s grip on the steering wheel tightened just a fraction, his jaw clenching for a split second before he forced his muscles to relax.

But Lucy saw it, the small, almost imperceptible shift in his body language that confirmed her suspicion.

Lucy’s mouth dropped open, unable to contain her surprise.

"You? Tim Bradford, the man who never lets his guard down, is in a relationship?"

Her voice was tinged with disbelief and excitement. She smacked his arm lightly, unable to help herself.

"Why didn’t you tell me?!"

"Because it’s none of your business,"

Tim said flatly, his usual deadpan tone back in full force.

But Lucy wasn’t having it. Her eyes sparkled with mischief as she leaned in, pressing him for more.

"Oh, come on. How long has this been going on?" she asked, crossing her arms in mock indignation.

"A week? A month?"

"That doesn't concern you Chen," Tim admitted reluctantly, his voice quiet and almost defensive.

Lucy’s eyes grew even wider. "Yes it does concern me!" she repeated, stunned.

"And you don't want to tell your best friend?"

Tim scoffed and shot her a dry look. "You’re not my best friend."

Lucy put a hand to her heart in mock offense.

"Fine. Your work best friend," she corrected with a grin, clearly enjoying this newfound tidbit of information.

"So, who is she? Someone I know? Ooh, is it a nurse? You do have a thing for tough women."

Tim let out a slow, controlled breath, clearly fighting the urge to roll his eyes.

"You’re relentless, you know that?"

Lucy just grinned wider, her curiosity burning with every new question.

She wasn’t going to let him get away with being so mysterious.

"You know you’re going to have to introduce me, right?"

Tim’s lips quirked into a smirk, but he didn’t answer.

He just shifted the car into gear and pressed down on the accelerator, clearly choosing to leave the conversation there for now.

But Lucy wasn’t done yet.

She knew better than to let something like this slide. No, she was going to find out everything.

After a long, relatively uneventful shift, Lucy still couldn’t shake the feeling of curiosity off.

She had spent the entire day trying to crack the mystery of who Tim was dating.

Every time she threw a playful guess at him,

"Is she a dispatcher, a nurse, oh no maybe a fellow officer? No no that seems unusual. A firefighter perhaps?".

Tim just gave her that same tight-lipped response, his eyes flicking to her for just a moment before his expression slipped back into its usual mask.

But Lucy had been riding along with him for long enough to know when he was holding back, and right now, everything about him felt different.

He was still the same Tim, the solid, reliable training officer, but there was an unfamiliar lightness to him.

And she needed to know who caused it.

When they finally finished their last call and the end of the shift was in sight, Lucy was practically bouncing in her seat.

Her mind was racing with possibilities.

She threw out her last guess of the day:

“Someone from the gym, right? Is that it? Did you finally get tired of the ‘no-strings-attached’ thing?”

Tim didn’t even look at her, his eyes firmly on the road ahead, his jaw set in that familiar way.

He didn’t respond, not even with his typical sarcastic quip.

That only fueled her curiosity more. The silence was unbearable.

As they pulled into the station parking lot, the car’s tires made a soft hum against the concrete, signaling the end of another long shift.

Tim parked with his usual precision, and Lucy immediately hopped out of the shop, stretching her arms over her head to shake off the fatigue.

The cool air nipped at her skin, but she barely noticed. Her mind was still on him.

“Alright, I’m calling it now. You are introducing me to her at some point, right?”

Lucy asked, her voice light but with an edge of excitement.

She wasn’t about to let this drop, not when she was so close to the truth.

Tim shot her a quick glance, lips barely twitching.

“See you tomorrow, Chen,” he said in his usual deadpan voice, but there was something a little too… casual about it, like he was almost trying to brush her off.

Lucy narrowed her eyes, but before she could reply, Tim turned and started walking away toward the parking lot.

“Hey, wait-!”

She was about to call after him when something or better said someone, caught her eye.

There, standing a little off to the side, was a woman.

She was fidgeting with the sleeves of her sweater, her posture slightly hunched like she was nervous, waiting for something or someone.

The moment Lucy noticed her, a jolt of realization hit her hard.

No. It couldn’t be…

Lucy’s heart skipped a beat as she watched Tim’s figure slow as he approached the woman.

There was no mistaking it now.

This had to be the woman he was seeing.

Lucy lingered near the door, pretending to check her phone, but her eyes never left the scene unfolding before her.

She wasn’t trying to spy, but she was trying to understand.

Tim’s steps grew slower as he neared her, and Lucy’s breath caught in her throat when she saw his expression shift.

The usual, ever-present stoic mask that Tim wore like armor, shattered in an instant.

His face softened as he looked at the woman.

He wasn’t the unapproachable Sergeant now; he was just… Tim.

Lucy blinked, her mind racing.

“No way…” she muttered under her breath, her heart pounding in her chest.

She couldn’t take her eyes off them.

She watched in amusement, having never seen Tim like this before.

The woman looked up, her face lighting up like the sun at the sight of him.

She smiled, shy but warm, and Lucy felt a pang of something unfamiliar at the sight.

Something inside her, a strange blend of awe and curiosity stirred. It was as though she was witnessing something sacred.

Tim’s lips curled into the faintest of smiles in return. His hand, which had been at his side, moved slowly toward the woman.

Lucy saw his fingers brush against hers, tentative at first, as though testing the waters.

Then, with a smooth, fluid motion, he took her hand completely, holding it gently.

His thumb moved across her knuckles in a soft, comforting motion as he squeezed her hand, his touch reassuring and intimate.

Lucy’s mouth went dry. She had to blink a few times to process what she was seeing.

This was a side of Tim she hadn’t even imagined before.

The stern, unflappable Tim who had always been so professional, so untouchable, was now showing a side of himself that was raw, unguarded, and, dare she say, in love?

It was like she was seeing him for the first time.

The woman looked up at him, her eyes full of something that Lucy didn’t quite understand but recognized immediately.

Adoration? Trust? The kind of quiet affection that only came from knowing someone in the most real, vulnerable way.

Tim’s voice, when it broke the silence, was lower than usual, softer somehow.

She couldn’t hear the words, but the tone was unmistakable, a kind of tenderness that had never been directed her way.

Lucy could almost feel the warmth between them, and for a brief moment, she felt like an intruder, a third wheel to this incredibly private moment.

Should I walk over? Should I say something?

The thought crossed her mind, but as quickly as it came, she dismissed it.

No, she couldn’t interrupt this.

Not when it was so obvious how much this moment meant to both of them.

She stood frozen, watching Tim lean down a bit, his voice even softer now as he spoke to her.

The way the woman’s face lit up when he said something, there was a spark in her eyes, a knowing smile that made Lucy’s heart flutter.

The connection between them was so palpable, it almost felt like something she shouldn’t witness.

Lucy could feel the curiosity still eating away at her, she was dying to know more, to meet the woman who had somehow unlocked this side of Tim, this version of him.

But something told her that now was not the time.

No, if she interrupted this moment, if she said anything, it would ruin it.

She wasn’t sure why, but she knew in her gut that this was their time, not hers.

With one last lingering look at them, Lucy stepped back toward the door, a plan forming in her mind.

She didn’t need to rush this.

She could wait. But she was definitely getting answers later.

No one keeps secrets from Officer Lucy Chen for long.

Meanwhile, before Lucy started spying on the both of you:

The clock on my dashboard blinked 6:30 PM, casting a soft glow in the otherwise dim interior of my car.

The day had stretched on longer than I’d expected, and now, the world outside was slowly shifting from the golden light of late afternoon into the cool, gentle hues of evening.

The city lights were beginning to twinkle in the distance, like tiny stars scattered across the darkening sky, and the air had a slight chill to it, carrying the faint scent of rain from earlier.

I was standing next to my car in the parking lot of the police station.

My fingers nervously drummed on the steering wheel as I glanced back at the clock again.

I had been waiting for a little while now.

6:30, Tim should be done soon.

The thought of seeing him again had my stomach fluttering in a way I couldn’t quite explain.

I had spent the whole day surrounded by the chaos of my kindergarten class, the kids bouncing off the walls, asking questions I could barely keep up with.

But now, here I was, finally getting a quiet moment.

A moment with him. The thought was enough to make me smile softly to myself.

It wasn’t just the anticipation that had me feeling all soft inside.

It was him. Tim.

Ever since he’d stepped into my life, things had felt... different.

Better. His presence was like this quiet anchor that grounded me, even in the most chaotic moments.

I remembered how shy and awkward I’d been at the start, fumbling over my words, avoiding his gaze, terrified that I wasn’t good enough for him.

But he never seemed to mind.

Tim had a way of making me feel seen in a way no one else ever had.

And with each passing day, I grew more comfortable around him.

I was still shy, so shy, but Tim made it feel like being myself was exactly enough.

His words, his gentle touches, his quiet but steady affection, it all added up to something that made my heart race every time I thought about it.

And tonight, I was lucky enough to be spending time with him, just the two of us, away from the noise of the world.

As I sat there, staring out at the parking lot, I couldn’t help but feel my heart pick up its pace.

It was ridiculous how excited I was to see him.

I was probably blushing just thinking about him.

But it was impossible not to.

Tim had a way of making everything seem so effortless, yet so real.

I was in love with him. It was that simple. (real girl so so real)

A soft sound broke through my reverie, the rhythmic tap of boots against concrete.

I snapped my head toward the sound, my pulse quickening, and there he was.

Tim. Walking toward me, his figure cutting through the soft twilight as if he belonged in this moment, like everything in the world was right because he was here.

I couldn’t help but stare.

Even in his police uniform, looking all serious, he had this effortlessly handsome way about him.

His jacket sleeves were rolled up, giving him a slightly more relaxed look than usual.

Yet, even with all of that, the power and authority in his stance were still there.

He was... just Tim, and in his presence, I felt both completely small and incredibly safe at the same time.

His eyes softened when they met mine, and that subtle smile, oh, that smile, stretched across his face.

My heart skipped a beat.

The usual confident, almost stoic Tim had this side to him that he only ever showed to me, and it made me feel like the luckiest person alive.

“Hey, sweetheart,” he greeted me, his voice low and soothing, as he came to a stop in front of my car.

There was a softness there, a tenderness that never failed to make my insides flutter.

“Sorry I kept you waiting. I was wrapping up some stuff. Didn’t mean to make you hang around.”

I smiled up at him, my cheeks flushing a little.

“It’s okay, Tim. I didn’t mind. I’ve been thinking about you, actually.”

His brow quirked, and he stepped closer, his body just barely brushing mine as he leaned against my car.

“Oh really?” His voice dropped an octave, and I could hear that teasing edge.

He was so good at it. “What exactly were you thinking about, hmm?”

I could feel the butterflies swirl in my stomach, and I dropped my gaze for a moment, my heart thudding harder in my chest.

“I—uh, I don’t know,” I muttered, too shy to meet his eyes.

“I’ve just been thinking about... us. About how happy I am when I’m with you.”

Tim’s gaze softened immediately, and he stepped even closer, his hand brushing against mine as if by accident, but I knew it wasn’t.

Tim was never the type to do anything by accident.

Every touch from him felt deliberate, and that made my heart race even more.

“You make me happy too, Y/n,” he said, his voice so sincere it almost took my breath away.

“I’m really glad you’re here. I’ve been looking forward to seeing you all day.”

His hand found mine, and his fingers interlaced with mine, the warmth of his touch sending a shiver of comfort through me.

There was this quiet moment where neither of us said anything, just stood there, fingers intertwined, breathing in the cool air of the evening.

I felt like time had slowed down, like the world outside us didn’t matter anymore.

It was just him and me in this little bubble we had created for ourselves.

“I didn’t think I’d ever be here with you, Tim,” I whispered, voice barely above a breath.

I didn't know where this was coming from, but for some reason, my insecurities spilled out just like that.

“I didn’t think someone like you would even notice someone like me.”

Tim’s eyes softened, and he gently cupped my face with his other hand.

His thumb brushed across my cheek in a slow, comforting motion.

“I notice you, sweetheart. I see you. And I’ve been wanting this... wanting us... for longer than you think.”

His voice was so steady, so sure, that it melted any lingering doubts I had.

“I’m really lucky,” I murmured, my voice small but sincere.

“I don’t deserve you, but I’m really lucky.”

“Don’t say that,”

Tim murmured, his gaze intense and warm.

“You deserve all of this and more.”

He smiled again, and his thumb brushed my lip this time, sending a jolt of warmth through me.

“You’ve got no idea how much you mean to me, babe.”

My heart fluttered in my chest, my face burning as I looked up at him, not sure if I could handle the weight of his words.

But just the fact that he was saying them, just the fact that Tim Bradford, this strong, serious man, was sharing his heart with me, made everything feel right.

“I... I feel the same,” I whispered, my voice barely audible.

Tim’s eyes never left mine. “Yeah? You feel the same?”

His tone was soft now, teasing, but there was a quiet edge to it.

“Good, because I’m not letting you go, Y/n. Not now, not ever.”

My stomach flipped with a combination of nerves and excitement, and I couldn’t help the tiny laugh that escaped me.

“I wouldn’t want you to,” I said quietly, the words leaving my lips before I could stop them.

Tim chuckled lowly, his hand sliding from my cheek to the back of my neck, pulling me in closer until our foreheads were nearly touching.

“Good,” he murmured, his breath warm against my skin.

“Because I’m not going anywhere, sweetheart.”

Tim suddenly took a step back as if he just remembered something.

“I just remembered that I still have to change and get some things from the break room. So what do you say? Mind joining me inside for a bit?”

I nodded, grateful for his company, even though I felt my cheeks flush a little.

He had this effect on me, making me feel both nervous and at ease at the same time.

We walked together into the station, the quiet hum of the fluorescent lights above creating a steady, almost comforting rhythm.

The sound was oddly relaxing, predictable in its way, like the background music to a peaceful evening.

My steps naturally matched Tim’s, and I found myself gravitating toward him, enjoying the steady pace of his stride as he led me through the hallways.

There was something about the way Tim walked, so assured, so composed, that made me feel small in the best way possible.

Like I could follow him anywhere and feel completely safe doing so.

His presence seemed to fill the space around us, creating an invisible bubble of calm that I didn’t want to escape.

As we turned corners and passed through doors, I realized how easily I’d fallen into step with him.

It wasn’t just his confidence that made me follow; it was the way he made me feel.

Like everything was just right, even when things weren’t perfect.

When we reached the break room, Tim reached for the door handle, holding it open for me with that familiar soft smile of his.

I stepped inside first, taking in the simple surroundings. The room was nothing special, just a standard break room.

The coffee machine sat against the far wall, the usual clutter of papers scattered across the table.

But with Tim here, everything felt different.

Warm.

Personal.

Like the room had been transformed by his presence as if it was no longer just a mundane spot to take a break, but a space where something... special could happen.

“Make yourself comfortable,” Tim said as he closed the door behind us, his voice smooth and reassuring.

“I’ll just be a minute. Need to finish up some last details from the shift.”

I nodded, settling into one of the chairs at the table as he moved to sort through some papers.

He always looked so focused when he worked, his brows furrowing slightly in concentration, yet there was a gentleness to his movements, as though nothing about this, nothing about me, was ever a chore.

I watched him for a moment, taking in the way he moved with a quiet grace, confident but never rushed.

There was something magnetic about him, something I couldn’t quite put into words.

I sighed quietly, half from contentment and half from the nagging realization that I was once again struck by how lucky I was to be here with him.

It was a strange, unfamiliar feeling, this peaceful, giddy joy that washed over me whenever Tim was near.

But it was real, and every moment spent with him only deepened the warmth in my chest.

I glanced up, finding Tim’s eyes on me.

His lips quirked into that mischievous little smirk, the one that always made my heart skip a beat.

“What?” he asked, his tone playful, his voice lowering just enough to make me feel like I was the only one who mattered in the room.

“Nothing,” I mumbled quickly, my face heating up as I averted my gaze, looking down at my hands folded in my lap.

But Tim wasn’t about to let me off that easily.

He took a few steps toward me, his boots making a soft, rhythmic sound on the floor, and I could feel his presence all around me.

When he stopped beside me, I couldn’t help but notice the way his tall frame seemed to fill the space.

His body language confident and sure, but there was that warmth in his eyes that made me feel like he was looking at me in a way that was all his own.

He leaned in just enough that I could feel his breath against my cheek, his voice a soft, teasing whisper.

“You’re so cute when you’re shy,” he murmured, the affection in his words sending a flutter of warmth straight to my heart.

My breath caught in my throat, and I felt the heat flood my face, turning me into a blushing mess.

“I’m not… I’m not shy,”

I stammered, my voice barely above a whisper, but my trembling hands were betraying me, making it obvious that he was right.

Tim chuckled, the sound low and warm, like a comforting melody I never wanted to end.

“You are,"

He said gently, brushing a strand of hair behind my ear, his touch soft and deliberate, sending shivers down my spine.

“And I like it. I like everything about you.”

The world seemed to tilt just a little bit as my heart skipped a beat.

How could he do this to me?

How could he make my chest feel so full and my stomach feel like it was filled with butterflies every time he touched me, every time he spoke?

“I—” I started, but the words caught in my throat.

I swear he does it on purpose.

I didn’t know what to say.

Tim’s gaze softened as if he could read every thought that flickered across my face, and without another word, his hand moved to cup my cheek, gently guiding my face toward his.

I looked up at him, eyes wide, lips parted in surprise.

He smiled tenderly at me, and his thumb brushed along my cheekbone, a quiet caress that made my pulse race.

“You’re beautiful,” he said softly, his voice low and full of sincerity.

“You know that?”

I could barely breathe, let alone respond. My words tumbled out in a rush, shaky and uncertain.

“You’re… too nice,”

I whispered, not feeling like I deserved such sweetness from him, even though every fiber of my being longed to believe him.

“I mean it, Y/n,” Tim said, his expression unwavering.

“You’re perfect. Every little thing about you is perfect.”

Before I could respond, before I could say anything more, his lips were on mine.

The kiss was slow, deliberate, timeless, almost, as if he was savoring every second of it.

I felt my whole body go warm like the world around us had disappeared, and there was nothing but the two of us in this quiet room.

His lips were soft but insistent, and I couldn’t help but melt into him, my hands instinctively finding their way to his shirt, gripping it as if I were afraid I might float away.

Tim’s other hand slid to the small of my back, pulling me in closer, and I could feel the warmth of his body against mine, the strength of his arms, the tenderness in his touch.

I was lost in the feeling, in the sweetness of the moment, the connection we shared.

This kiss soon turns into a make-out session.

But just as I was about to lose myself completely in him, the door to the break room slammed open with such force that it startled both of us.

The loud crash echoed through the room, and I gasped, pulling away from Tim in shock.

I blinked rapidly, trying to process what had just happened.

And there, standing in the doorway, was a woman.

Her eyes were wide with a mixture of disbelief and amusement, her mouth hanging open in a perfect expression of

"I can't believe what I'm seeing."

Her gaze flickered between Tim and me, and I felt my face go bright red in an instant.

I instinctively took a small step back, trying to hide behind Tim, but I could still feel the heat of my embarrassment creeping up my neck.

“Aha!” Lucy’s voice rang out, filled with mock triumph.

“I knew it!” she added, a teasing lilt in her tone that made my heart race even faster.

Tim groaned, pinching the bridge of his nose, clearly frustrated by the interruption.

I could feel the tension in his body, but it didn’t seem to bother Lucy in the slightest.

She was practically glowing with amusement.

“Well, well, well,” she drawled, taking a few steps into the room.

“So this is the mystery woman who’s been making Tim Bradford smile.”

My heart thudded in my chest, and I peeked out from behind Tim, too shy to look her in the eye directly.

My voice was a soft whisper as I managed a tiny “Hi,” my cheeks still burning with embarrassment.

Lucy’s expression softened as she looked at me, and a warm smile spread across her face.

“Oh, you’re adorable,” she said genuinely, her voice much kinder than I’d expected.

“I’m Lucy, by the way. Tim’s very annoying work best friend as he likes to call me.”

I smiled shyly, feeling the weight of the moment, but I managed to squeak out,

“I’m Y/n. Nice to meet you.”

Lucy’s gaze flickered back to Tim, and her eyebrow raised playfully.

“What did you do to him?” she asked, her voice dripping with exaggerated curiosity.

“I’ve known this grumpy guy for years, and I’ve never seen him this soft.”

Tim groaned, rubbing his forehead in frustration.

“Lucy, leave it alone,” he muttered, but it was clear he wasn’t actually mad.

He was just trying to hide the softness I’d seen in him.

But Lucy wasn’t about to let this go.

“Oh, I’m not going anywhere,” she teased, shooting us one last playful glance.

“You two are too cute.”

I couldn’t stop the soft giggle that escaped me, my heart still racing with nerves and happiness.

Tim’s arm went around me instinctively, pulling me a little closer to his side as he shot Lucy a mock warning glare.

“Alright, Chen,” he sighed dramatically, rolling his eyes.

“Leave us alone.”

Lucy flashed me one last, teasing smile before she backed out of the room, her voice carrying through the door.

“Fine, fine. But I’m getting the full scoop later, you two. Oh everyone in the station is going to love this! Especially Angela!”

As the door clicked shut behind Lucy, the room felt quieter, and I finally exhaled.

Tim turned to face me, his gaze softening as he took a step closer.

He reached out, brushing a stray lock of hair behind my ear, his touch gentle but deliberate.

"Sorry about that," he said, his voice low and smooth, almost teasing.

There was no real apology behind it, more like a recognition of the awkwardness in the air.

I didn’t know what to say, so I just nodded, looking down at my hands, suddenly feeling self-conscious again.

My heart was still racing, and I couldn’t help but feel a little embarrassed.

“It’s fine,” I murmured, my voice barely above a whisper. “Really.”

Tim chuckled softly, that familiar glint in his eyes.

“I didn’t think you’d be so shy even after everything we’ve been through and how long we've been together,”

he teased, his hand still resting lightly on my shoulder, just enough to make me feel grounded.

“I’m not shy,” I muttered quickly, though the way my cheeks burned probably said otherwise.

I tried to meet his gaze, but I quickly found myself looking down again.

“I just... don’t like being caught off guard.”

“Yeah, I can tell,” Tim said, his voice full of amusement.

He gently cupped my chin, lifting it so I had to look at him.

“It’s okay, Y/n. You know I don’t mind seeing you blush.”

My heart skipped a beat at his words, and I felt my face heat up even more.

I was sure I looked like a mess, but I didn’t want to pull away.

He was so close, his presence overwhelming in the best way.

“You’re impossible,” I whispered, but the words had no real bite.

It was hard to stay frustrated when he was standing there, looking at me like that.

Tim’s grin only widened.

“You like it, though,” he said softly, his thumb brushing along the curve of my jaw.

“Admit it.”

I shook my head slightly, trying to hold onto some sense of control, but the way his hand was so steady on me made it hard to think straight.

“I—" I started, but the words seemed to get stuck.

Tim leaned in just a little, his breath warm against my ear as he murmured,

“It’s okay baby. You don’t have to say anything.”

I took a deep breath, feeling my hands shake slightly.

“I’m just not used to... this,” I confessed, still unsure of how to explain the mix of feelings I was experiencing.

“Not used to being... with someone like you.”

Tim’s smile softened, but there was still that playful edge in his voice when he spoke again.

“Someone like me?” he repeated, teasing.

“You make it sound like I’m some kind of monster.”

I gave a small, nervous laugh, finally managing to look up at him.

“No, it’s not that,” I said quickly, though I wasn’t sure if I was making it better or worse.

“It’s just... you’re so... confident.”

Tim’s eyes softened a little, and he stepped even closer, his hand now resting lightly on my waist.

“And you like that about me,” he said simply.

It wasn’t a question, it was a statement, and I couldn’t help but nod slightly.

“Yeah... I do,” I admitted, the words feeling more natural than I expected.

Tim’s grin returned, and he brushed his thumb over the back of my hand, his gaze warm but filled with that teasing spark.

“Good,” he murmured.

“Because you’re the only one who gets to see this side of me, Y/n. The side that doesn’t mind making you blush.”

I couldn’t hold back a small smile at that, and for the first time, the awkwardness of the situation didn’t feel so heavy.

I liked this, the way Tim knew just how to make me feel at ease, even when I was a mess of nerves.

“You’re lucky I’m still standing here, huh?”

I said quietly, but there was a hint of a smile in my voice, something I couldn’t quite hide.

Tim chuckled, the sound rich and easy.

“I’m lucky every time you’re here with me,” he said softly, his hand now settling more firmly on my back, pulling me in just a little.

I looked up at him, heart beating faster but with a little more steadiness now.

“You’re gonna be the death of me,” I murmured, not really meaning it, but not sure what else to say.

Tim leaned down just enough to place a quick, soft kiss on my forehead.

“I wouldn’t count on it,” he said, his voice warm, but still carrying that edge of playfulness.

“Not anytime soon, at least.”

I couldn’t help but smile at that.

Even though we’d just had a somewhat awkward moment, everything felt... okay.

It felt like it always did when I was with him, comfortable, easy, but still full of that undeniable connection.

“I’m just glad I’m here with you,”

I whispered, and this time, it felt like I actually meant it, fully and completely.

Tim’s hand lingered on my back, and for a second, the world outside the break room felt distant, irrelevant.

“Me too, sweetheart,” he said quietly, his voice steady and real. “Me too.”

The end

[spidybaby]

Jealous Mind

Summary: Pedri gets jealous when he overhears someone saying his best friend likes you.

Warnings: cursing, suggestive content.

A/N: a little angsty and a little something for you 🤍

"Joder, you're spraying yourself with the whole bottle of perfume." Ferran says, waving his hand in front of his face.

Pedri chuckles, lifting the bottle and spraying Ferran several times. Ferran tries to fight by grabbing Pedri's wrist and taking the bottle.

"Venga, stop that." Pedri says, slapping Ferran's hand away. "Let's get out of here." He says, grabbing his stuff.

Ferran imitates Pedri, grabbing his toiletry bag. He walks happy behind his friend. Ferran was talking about this new fifa record he got.

"I'll pick Y/n, and then I'll drive you home." Pedri says, smiling at his phone. "I'm talking her out tonight."

Ferran smiles. "Someone's in love." Ferran yells, hitting Pedri's arm.

"Stop!" Pedri laughs. "We are going to crash."

The conversation went from Ferran teasing Pedri to how excited Ferran was about playing fifa and getting to beat someone's record.

Pedri was talking about this new project he has with Springfield and that he has an interview on this famous TV show in Spain.

"Hey, please text Y/n that I'm almost there." Pedri says, passing the phone to Ferran.

Ferran, of course, can not be trusted and start sending silly texts to you. Reading out loud as he writes them, making Pedri laugh.

You were waiting outside for him, and when he parked in front of you, Ferran opened the door of the passenger seat and told you to hoop up.

"You guys are dropping me off in a little bit, so it makes sense to switch now." He says, closing the passenger door and entering the car again.

"Hola, Pepi." You say, giving your boyfriend a kiss.

"Can I have a kiss too?" Ferran asks, head between the seats. His lips in a scrunched in a duck mode.

Pedri laughs, giving Ferran a hit on the head. "Sientate bien." He says, moving his attention to you, giving you another kiss. "Let's go." He says, hands again on the wheel.

You turn to Ferran, "How are you, Ferran?"

"Very good now that you are here with us, preciosa." He says, placing a hand on your shoulder.

You and Ferran have a very good relationship. He loves making jokes with you, he loves giving you advice and he loves your boyfriend, so it's the perfect friendship.

Ferran and you make conversation, Pedri answer here and there to some things you are asking to Ferran.

"We are here, tiburón" Pedri says, parking in front of Ferran's home. "I'll pick you up to get to training tomorrow."

"Adiós, ferran." You say, smiling at him.

"Adiós, platanito." He high five Pedri. "Adiós, guapa." He says, winking at you.

You waved at him as Pedri started the car. You moved your face from the window to your boyfriend.

"How are you, amor?" You ask him, taking the hand he has on the gear lever. "I missed you."

He intertwine his hand on yours, lifting it up to give it a kiss. "I missed you too. Tomorrow the training is in the evening, and that means we can spend all night together."

You smile at that, happy that you can spend time with him. You were busy with your college studies.

"I asked Fer to make us that dessert you like, and we are going to have a movie marathon."

You hug his arm carefully, happy to spend time with him. "I can't wait, Pepi."

"C'mon, guys!" Flick yells. "We are done for the day. I'll see you tomorrow."

Ferran pushed Pedri to the side as he walked into the dressing room. He turns his head back to see pedri giving him the middle finger.

The social media girl was taking a video of them for a reel. "Pidele a Ferran que envie besos." Pedri asks. (Ask Ferran to send kisses)

"Calla' hombre or I'll send your girlfriend some kisses." He says, laughing.

Pedri gave him a hit on the head. "Vete a bañar, que estas apestando." He laughs.

Pedri goes straight to the showers, leaving all the dirt and grass away. He jokes around with other players and talks with them about the game that's about to happen tomorrow.

He changes between conversations with Lamine, with Pau, with Hector. He loves those kids and loves spending time with them.

"Are you ready?" Pedri asks Ferran.

"Give me two minutes." Ferran says, still changing.

"Meet me in my car." He says, grabbing his things and walking to his car.

When he's there. He pulls the window down a little bit. Going on his phone while he waits. He hears the voice of Hector and Marc, he thought of scaring them since the car that they were using was next to his.

"No, but Ferran was right. That girl is a fucking show to the eyes." Marc says.

"Fuck, when he showed us her picture I felt I was dreaming." Hector laughs. "What he said was her name?"

"Y/n, or something." Marc says. "Fuck, to be able to follow her."

Pedri lift an eyebrow. What are they talking about?

"Bro code, Marc."

"I mean, ughh," Marc groans. "Have you seen her? She's fucking gorgeous, if I had a hall pass I would spend it on her."

Pedri was confused and offended at the same time. Why were they even talking about his girlfriend like that?

"Metete en la fila, because Ferran already said he would be the first if he has a chance." (Get in line)

"Con ese culo, I would try to skip everybody." (With that ass)

They both laugh, entering the car and going their way. Pedri feels a fury inside, he doesn't know what to do.

The passenger door opens, and a very happy Ferran joins him inside the car. Pedri breathes deeply. He's trying to calm himself.

"You okay, platanito?"

Pedri turns to him. He can't believe Ferran would be capable of talking like that about you. Not him. Not his best friend.

"Qué-" He tries to ask. "Qué te hizo tardar?" He asks, trying to act normal. (What took you so long)

"Oh, nothing." He brushed the question. "Just talking with the kiddos."

"Oh." Pedri says. "What were you talking about?"

He starts the car. Trying to act like nothing happened. He's gripping the wheel strongly.

"Just showing them some pictures I had."

The grip grows. He's trying everything not to flip. Maybe they got confused, maybe it's other girl with the same name.

Was your name that common? Maybe it was just a coincidence, maybe he didn't say those things to the boys.

"Are we picking Y/n again?" Ferran asks after a moment of silence.

"No!" He quickly says. "She's doing some projects and can't really go out."

"Oh no, say hi to her for me."

Pedri was lost the rest of the drive to Ferran's home. He was trying to order his mind. Why would Ferran say something about his girlfriend?

Especially something like that.

"Thank you for being my ride." Ferran says, hugging Pedri. "I'm getting the car tomorrow so I won't bother you."

"You don't bother." Pedri says. "See you tomorrow."

Ferran waves goodbye as he drives away. Pedri wants to go see you, even when he doesn't plan it nor knows if you are home.

He calls you when he gets to a red light. Trying to clear his mind from what he heard. The phone rings twice before you pick up the call.

"Hola, mi amor." You answer.

"Hola." He says, sighing.

"Are you okay?" You are surprised by his monotone voice. "Did something happen?"

He keeps his mouth shut for a few seconds, worrying you that something might be wrong.

"No, I just want to see you." He finally says. "Can I?"

"You don't have to ask." You chuckle. "Want me to drive to your place? I know you have a game tomorrow, and you have to rest."

"Don't worry, I'm close to your place. See you in a little bit."

He tries to understand what happened, but he can't understand or wrap his head around it. Why would Ferran say that?

He drives to your place, passing by a drive thru and getting food for the two of you. He's supposed to go home and to rest for the game, but he can't.

He walks over to the elevator, going up to the floor your apartment is in. He doesn't get why he feels nervous. Why is he the embarrassed one? Why is he the one with the guilt feeling?

"Hola, mi guapo," you say, opening the door and hugging him. "What you got in there?" You ask, separating from the hug.

"Your favorite food and some dessert for us to see a movie." He walks with you inside the apartment.

He closes the door, passing an arm around your waist. He goes straight for a kiss. Seeing you makes him feel happy.

You set up the things while he picks a movie for you to see. He helps you move the food from the kitchen to the coffee table in front of your couch.

He picked a creed movie, one of his favorites. You two make small talk as you eat and watch the movie.

He notices that you are on your phone, smiling at something and texting someone. "Attention much?" He jokes with you.

"Sorry, I'm watching a tik tok ferran send me." You say, chuckling at something.

He frowns, not wanting to think about what he overheard. He moves his arm behind you, grabbing your phone and kissing your lips.

"You look so pretty." He smiles, giving you another peck. "Did I tell you that?"

You smile, caressing his cheeks with your thumbs. "Only like a thousand times." You laugh.

He humms. Smiling and resting his head into your chest. "Love you."

You hear three knocks on your door. You put the cup on the table and walk to the door. Finding your boyfriend there.

"Hola, camarón sin cola." You say, happy to see him. "Didn't know you were coming, baby."

You move to the side for him to get inside. He walks happy to your living room, stopping when he sees Ferran sitting on your couch.

"Ferran is helping me with a project." You say, walking back to your seat next to Ferran. "He's such a helpful study buddy." You hug Ferran's side.

Pedri feels his eye twitching. "What's the project about?" He asks, seating in front of you two.

"She's writing about Valencia." Ferran says. "And I'm helping her with some information my mom sent me."

You lift the papers, showing pedri that you were writing about it. "I was going to write about Tenerife, but your parents were busy, and I didn't want to seem pushy about it." You pout.

He smiles. "It's okay." He says, getting up and giving you a kiss. "I'm happy that Ferran helped you."

You nod, squishing Ferran cheek. "He's a good friend." You smile at Pedri.

Pedri was on his phone while Ferran was showing and giving you all the information. Pedri couldn't help but notice how Ferran was a little closer than he should.

He didn't make a scene. He didn't want to seem exaggerated. He feels bad for doing that, he can't help but think that maybe he heard wrong.

You two work for another hour or so. Pedri was like an eagle. He doesn't leave out every breath, every movement, and every look Ferran does.

"Bueno." Ferran says, getting up. "It was a nice experience, happy to be helpful." He says, stretching.

"Thank you, Ferran." You say, giving him a hug. "If I get a good grade, I'll invite you to lunch." You say, giving him a kiss on the cheek. "I promise."

Pedri sighs, trying not to act weird about something he never found weird. "Adiós, tiburón." He says, giving him a hand shake.

He waits until Ferran exits your house. He then bugs you from the back, giving you neck a kiss. "I missed you." He says.

You giggle at the feeling of his stubble. "You've been here this whole time, Pedri."

He pouts, resting his head on your shoulder. "But you were busy with Ferran." He says in this annoyed tone.

You turn, facing him. "I'm all yours." You say, grabbing his face and smashing your lips onto his.

You feel his hands moving from your waist to your ass, lifting you but not breaking the kiss. He walks over to your room.

The kiss breaks only when he leaves you on the bed. He admires you, looking at your face. With one finger, he traces your jaw and lips.

"Eres mia." He says, more to himself than to you.

"Soy tuya, Pedri." You place your hand on the back of his neck. Bringing you closer and kissing his lips.

You finish with your makeup, adding some lip oil to your lips. "Pedri, I'm leaving." You say, closing your bedroom door.

He was watching something on your TV. Playing potato. He lifts his head to look at you. "Where are you going?" He pouts. "I thought we were ordering food."

You walk over to him, combing his hair with your fingers. "I can't, Ferran and I are having dinner, and then I'll go with my friends to the club." You smile.

"With Ferran?" He asks, sitting up from his place. "Why are you going out with him?" He asks, mad face.

You don't understand his reaction, "yes, I got an amazing grade in the paperwork." You smile, not understanding the problem. "So I promised him to take him out to eat."

"And you are going out wearing that?"

You take a look at your outfit, you are wearing a jeans mini skirt with a white tank top (the outfit) nothing you would call crazy or out of place.

"I always dress up like these when I go out." You say, obvious tone. "Why does that even matter?"

He stands up. "I'm coming with you." He says, grabbing his jacket.

You shake your head. "No, you are not." Grabbing him by the shoulders and seating him. "I'm going out with Ferran, not an unknown person. And then I'll go out with my friends."

You walk to your wood rack, grabbing your purse and keys. You were about to leave, but you feel Pedri's arm bringing you back to the couch.

"Pedri!" You whine. "What is wrong with you?" You ask, getting mad.

"I just don't think you should go out dressed like that." He says, standing in front of you.

"Joder, pero que no te estoy preguntando, Chaval!" You say, mad about the acting he's putting. (Fuck, I'm not asking you if I can)

"It's cold, you might get sick." He says, trying to excuse the real reason.

"Talk to me!" You say, grabbing his hand.

"Está frío, look at the weather app." He repeats.

You shake your head no, trying to understand his reasonings. You then think of a way of getting out of there since he didn't want to talk.

You nod, pretending to understand him. "Fine, can you bring me my jacket?" You say, smiling. "It's on the closet, left door. Then we can go."

He nods happy, walking over to your room. As soon as you notice that he enters your room. You grab your purse again and walk out the door. Locking it on your way out.

He had a key, so it didn't matter. That was just giving you time to go down to your car. You enter happy, noticing that he tries to call you, but you send him to voice mail.

You drive to the restaurant, phone ringing with the calls from Pedri. You park and grab your phone, answering his call. "Hola." You say, happy tone.

"Why did you leave me?" He asks, mad. "I told you I was going with you."

"And I told you no." You say, getting out of your car. "See you when I get back, love you." You make a kiss sound and hang up the call.

You walk into the restaurant, telling the girl at the front Ferran's last name. You see him on his phone.

"Can I sit, Mister Torres?" You ask, smiling.

"Hola, guapa." He says, getting up and hugging you. "Sit, sit."

He helps you with the chair. You order a drink and your food because you were a little late.

"How's Aida?" He asks, moving his eyebrows up and down. "I was talking to her before coming here. She told me you guys were having a girls' night."

"We do." You say, playful smile on your face. "She told me that you guys have been talking a lot."

Ferran blushes. "Don't give me that look." He says, covering his face. "I'm shy."

"You didn't sound shy last time we got out and slept at her house." You laugh, remembering what happened.

"I can play that game, too." He says, moving his eyebrows up and down. "Don't forget that time. I had a very bad sleep because someone doesn't know how to control the volume."

It's your turn to blush. "I don't know what you are talking about."

"Sure, sure." He laughs at your blushed state. "Pedri remembers." He smirks, drinking his beer.

You frown. "Talking about Pedri."

"What, a new adventure you want to tell me about?"

You think if you should really tell him about what happened, but you want to know what might be triggering for him.

You tell Ferran about the incident and how he never asked you to change or to cover yourself before. You ask him if maybe he changed his attitude during training.

"He's been kind of away from me, I wanted to ask you about it." He says, thinking about the whole situation. "I thought you knew about it."

You nod, not really knowing anything of what was happening. You shake your head, moving to another topic.

Ferran and you talk about different things. One of them and the largest was about him asking you for advice on him and your friend.

"I really like her." He says, walking with you to your car. "I just hope I don't fuck things up."

"You won't." You smile, grabbing his hands and giving them a squish. "Hey, Pedri is at my place. If you have time maybe come with me so we can talk."

He nods, telling you that he will follow you on his car. You thank him, driving to your place.

On the way there, you called Pedri, who was still mad at you for leaving him there. You tell him that you will be there in a few minutes.

When you got there, Ferran and you were talking about something Aida sent him. You sent her a picture of the two of you from his phone.

Telling her that you will free him as soon as possible. You also apologize to her for not coming to your girls' night.

"Pepi" You call as you enter your home. "Pedri!"

You ask Ferran to wait for you. You walk over to your room, finding him watching a movie, mad expression on his face.

"Amor, don't be mad." You smile a little. Walking over to him and hugging him.

You feel his arms hugging you back, his warm lips kissing your head. "I'm not mad." He says. "Why are you here so early?"

"I wanted to come home to you." You kiss the top of his nose. "And I have someone who wants to see you."

He frowns, "Who?"

You separate, pulling him out of bed and out off the room. "I know I didn't give you a heads up, but we are worried about you." You say, walking to the kitchen.

"Hola, platanito." Ferran greet him.

Pedri sighs, getting mad at him for showing up at your house. "Why is he here?" He asks.

Your turn to him, astonished by his question. "Pedri, Ferran wants to see if you are okay."

"Amigo, I'm sorry if I've been so distant. I don't know what is going on, but I'm here for you." He smiles.

"I'm good, you can leave." Pedri says, turning his back and trying to walk back to your room.

You stop him, grabbing his t-shirt. "Pedro, stop acting like this. Talk to us." You say, stern tone.

Pedri combs his hair, trying to keep his cool and not snap at his friend. He just shakes his head no.

He walks over to the couch. Ferran and you follow him. You sit next to him, he has his head on his hands.

"Pedri, please talk to us." You begg him.

He lifts his head, looking mad at Ferran. "Want to know the problem?" He asks Ferran.

"Joder, que si!" Ferran says.

"Tú eres el problema."

Ferran and you look at each other. Confused look on your faces. "Pedri, what are you talking about?" You ask him.

"Este imbecil." Pedri says, bitter tone. "Le dijo a Hector y Marc que si estabas buenisima, que si tuviera una oportunidad contigo la aprovechaba." He says to you, pointing at Ferran. (This asshole told Hector and Marc that you were so hot and that if he had a chance with you, he would take it)

You turn your face to Ferran, surprised expression. "Ferran, what the fuck!" You say.

Ferran lifts his hands. "I didn't say that."

Pedri scuffs. "I heard them. They even mentioned that you showed them a picture of her and that they want to follow her just to look at her." He shouts, mad.

Ferran thinks of what happened that day. "I never talked about your girlfriend." He says, chuckling. "I was talking about her friend."

Pedri blinks, confused.

"Qué amiga?" He asks (what friend?)

Ferran takes his phone out, opens Instagram, and searches for your friend's Instagram profile. "See, even the mother fucker of Hector gave her a like on the picture I show them." He says.

"Then why did they say her name was Y/n?" Pedri asks, mad low tone.

Ferran laughs. "Because I told them her name was Y/n because I didn't want them to find her."

You then turn to him. "Is that why Hector followed me?" You ask.

"Hector, what?" Pedri asks

"I would never betray you, hermano." Ferra says, getting closer to him. "I promise."

Pedri softens his expression. "No me estas mintiendo, tiburón?" He asks, pouting. (You are not lying to me, right?)

Ferran then hits him on the head. "I would never look at your girlfriend in any sexual way. She's my friend and so are you."

Ferran throws his arms around Pedri, making Pedri lose the pout. "Enough, I'm still mad." Pedri says, getting off the hug but passing his arm around your waits. "I'm sorry, I was dumb. Sorry to you, hermosa. And to you too, Tiburon."

You understood the situation, hugging him. "Next time, please talk to us about any doubt you ever get." You say.

Pedri nods, kissing your cheek.

"Quieres quedarte, Ferran? It's late." You ask him.

He shakes his head. "No, thank you. I want to be able to sleep." He laughs, refering to the talk you two have over dinner.

You grab a pillow from the couch and throw it at him. "Go away, Torres." You say. Turning to see Pedri, who's laughing. "And you, quit it, or you'll sleep on the couch." You smile a little.

🏷: @gadriezmannsgirl 💛

[tacobacoyeet]

Hiii, so I honestly suck at explaining what I want lol, but could you do something where Art is like freshly divorced and decided to start coaching? And he gets with his player who’s significantly younger(if you’re ok with writing age gap stuff! If not it doesn’t have to be included!!) and after a while she has her first time either him and it’s like sweet and soft?

set break | art donaldson x reader

hi, baby! loved this request so much. hope you enjoy!

warnings: SMUT 18+, divorced!coach!art, virgin!reader, implied age gap, cursing, hastily proofread

You'd been his student for a while now— long enough to carve out muscle memory and blistered palms, to mold your discipline into something Art could recognize with a glance. Long enough to make your name known to scouts and whispered about in locker rooms. You were young, all sharp edges and stifled softness, with a game that didn’t ask for attention— it demanded it. Unpredictable. Magnetic. Built from hours no one else was willing to give.

You rose before sunrise. Skipped parties. Trained through birthdays and bruises. Nothing existed outside of the court, and you liked it that way. You were obsessed, but it never felt like a burden. You wanted to be the best, and you lived like it— strict, singular, without distraction. There was no space for softness, especially not for boys who didn’t understand why your hands were always calloused or why your heartbeat aligned with the sound of a bouncing ball.

But Art understood. Maybe that’s why it started the way it did— slow, quiet, unacknowledged. A long look across the net. The rough warmth of his palm correcting your elbow. The way you lingered after practice with half a question on your lips just so you wouldn’t have to leave yet. It wasn’t immediate. It wasn’t even conscious at first. But it built, the way pressure always does— somewhere low and steady, humming beneath everything.

He noticed when your breath caught as he adjusted your stance, when your hand brushed his at the ball bucket. You noticed when his voice dropped a little lower than it had to, when he watched you stretch and then quickly looked away. There was no line crossed. Not then. But the line had moved— or maybe it never existed the way you thought it did.

Somewhere in those shared silences, the space between you began to thin. His gaze started to hold longer. Your jokes softened into something more deliberate. His corrections became gentler, slower. And when your knees knocked on the bench, or your fingers lingered a second too long passing him a towel, neither of you moved away.

He told himself it was nothing. A trick of proximity. He’d just gotten divorced, after all— a quiet ending to a long, tired marriage. There was no scandal, no betrayal. Just the slow unraveling of something that had once been love. He and Tashi had parted like two people handing each other back keys. It was civilized. It was kind. But it was still loss.

And then you walked into his court, and it was like seeing that fire again— the one he remembered from the early days with her. Before the touring, before the burnout, before the silences. You had that same glint in your eyes, that same stubborn tilt of your chin, that same obsessive hunger to win.

It pulled at something he thought he’d buried. He tried to chalk it up to memory, to projection, to the ache of nostalgia. But you didn’t let him. You kept showing up— sweaty, flushed, laughing at his driest jokes like they were brilliant. You worked yourself raw. You gave him hell during drills. And you smiled at him like you trusted him with every fragile part of you.

He started noticing things he shouldn’t. The curve of your neck. The way your voice went rough from shouting line calls. How tightly you braided your hair on game days. He started catching himself thinking about you when you weren’t around— in the grocery store, behind the wheel, in the quiet before sleep. And when his hand slipped while correcting your grip, and you didn’t flinch— when you leaned into him instead of away— he realized it wasn’t memory at all. It was want.

Still, neither of you named it. You trained. You pushed. You stayed late. And he let you.

The tension didn’t arrive like a crash. It built— slow and tight and impossible to ignore. In the thwack of your racket against the ball, in the whistle of your breath between points, in the way you held his gaze just a little too long in what should have always been the most innocent moments.

You learned his moods by the shape of his mouth. He learned yours by the way you adjusted your grip between volleys. He started making excuses to keep you longer. You pretended not to notice.

And at night, when the sky was black and the courts were finally quiet, he’d go inside his home with white knuckles, jaw clenched against the memory of your thighs dusted with clay, your voice low and tired asking for just one more set.

It was unbearable. And it was holy.

You caught him once— late May, heat thick in the air, your tank top clinging to your ribs. He was watching you, really watching, and didn’t look away when you met his eyes. You didn’t smile. Neither did he. But something passed between you that made your knees feel loose.

You started thinking about him in places you shouldn’t. In the shower. In bed, staring up at your ceiling fan, heart pounding just from imagining what his voice would sound like in your ear. You hated yourself for it. And you couldn’t stop.

So when the snap finally came, it wasn’t soft or silent— it was ugly. Loud. Tense. It happened after hours in the sun, your forearms screaming from overwork, your throat hoarse from grunts and breathless curses. You double-faulted four times in a row and Art had said something— not cruel, just curt. But it hit too hard, landed wrong.

“Maybe if you’d stop overthinking and actually listen—”

You dropped your racket. “I am listening.”

“No, you’re reacting. And you're wasting energy doing it.”

You stepped in. Too close. “Then maybe you should coach someone else.”

His jaw clenched. “Don’t say shit you don’t mean.”

You blinked, eyes stinging, your voice rising. “I give you everything—”

“I never asked you to!”

That was the crack. The silence that followed wasn’t calm— it was the kind that pulses in your ears when your heart is racing and you don’t know whether to run or fight.

You didn’t run.

You reached into the minimal space between you, grabbed his collar, and kissed him— hard. Reckless. Like you hated him. Like you needed him. Your fingers curled into the front of his shirt. You tasted like salt and heat and effort. He froze for half a second before kissing you back, one hand sliding to your waist, the other threading into your sweat-damp hair.

It all blurred after that— teeth, breath, hands. He pressed you back against the practice bench, fingers grazing the edge of your sports bra, dragging beneath your top, skin warm under his palms. His touch was firmer than you expected. You arched up into him, more instinct than strategy, wanting more. Needing.

And then you said it.

“I’ve never done this before.”

His hand stilled. He pulled back like he’d been burned, eyes searching yours, chest rising like he’d been running laps.

“What?”

You didn’t look away. “I’ve never had sex.”

It knocked the wind out of him. All at once, the heat and hunger gave way to something else entirely— something tender, something so achingly human he thought he might break from it. He stared at you, stunned. Not with judgment, not even shock. But with reverence.

Your face was still fierce, but your voice had gone soft. “I just... I didn’t want it with anyone else.”

He touched your cheek then, gently, like you were made of glass. “Are you sure?”

You nodded. “I want you to.”

And it shifted— the entire rhythm between you rethreaded itself. No longer frantic, no longer fighting. He kissed you slow this time, guiding rather than taking, hands steady and careful. He let you set the pace. Let you tremble. Let you breathe. He whispered against your jaw, your throat, telling you it was okay to be nervous. That he’d go slow. That you could stop any time. You kept your eyes on his, wide and wet, like you were trying to memorize the way he looked at you— not like a coach. Not like a man with regrets. Like you were a gift.

He didn’t let it happen there. Not on the court. Not with the sun still high and the sweat still drying on your skin. The moment your voice trembled with that confession, everything in him shifted— the hunger in his eyes replaced by something deeper, gentler, more reverent.

“No,” he said softly, thumb brushing your cheek. “Not here.”

You blinked, confused, until his hands fell to your waist and he pressed the softest kiss to your temple. “Your first time isn’t happening on a tennis bench,” he murmured. “Come inside.”

You followed him into the house without a word, nerves coiling low in your belly. The house was quiet, the air cooler than outside, your footsteps muffled against the hardwood. You’d only ever seen glimpses of it before— a mug in the window, a hallway through the screen door. Now, everything felt achingly intimate. Lived-in. Real.

He led you into his bedroom, the sheets rumpled, sunlight spilling through half-closed blinds. There was a pair of his shoes by the nightstand, a stack of worn books on the dresser. And then there was him, watching you with something tender and unraveled in his eyes, like he didn’t know what he’d done to deserve this moment.

“You okay?” he asked, voice barely more than a whisper.

You nodded. “Just… nervous.”

“I know.” He stepped closer, cupped your face with both hands. “You don’t have to prove anything. Not to me. Not ever.”

That was what undid you— not the kiss that followed, not even the hands that slid beneath your top again. It was the way he said it. Like he meant it. Like he’d carry the weight of whatever this was, if you let him.

He kissed you slowly, thoroughly. Not like he was trying to take, but like he wanted to learn. His hands slid beneath your shirt, coaxing rather than rushing, and this time, you let him undress you piece by piece. He laid you back on the bed like you were something he’d prayed for. And when his body came down over yours, warm and solid and so heartbreakingly careful, you let out a breath you didn’t know you’d been holding.

He asked again if you were sure. You said yes. Again.

And then he took his time. Not just in the motions, but in the pauses. In the way his eyes flicked over your face like he was trying to read every thought, every hesitation. He kissed your shoulder, your jaw, the soft dip beneath your collarbone. His hands were warm and broad as they traveled across your ribs, your hips, your thighs, not greedy, but grounding— like he wanted you to know you were safe.

"Tell me if anything feels wrong," he murmured against your skin. You nodded, already breathless.

When his hand slid between your legs, you startled— not out of fear, but out of unfamiliarity. He stilled immediately.

"Too much?"

"No," you said quickly, then quieter, “just… new.”

He smiled, soft and real. “New is good. We’ll go slow.”

And he did. His fingers moved with care, coaxing rather than demanding, reading every shift in your breath like it was strategy, like it was gameplay. You gasped when his thumb brushed your clit for the first time, eyes flying to his. He held your gaze.

"That's okay," he whispered. "That’s just you feeling it."

You didn’t know how to be quiet— not with him. You let the sounds happen. The soft whimpers, the ragged gasps, the way your hips tried to chase his touch without you even realizing. He didn’t tease. He didn’t push. Just stayed with you, murmuring encouragement, grounding you with his voice.

When he finally slid a finger inside, your breath caught. It wasn’t painful— just strange. Full. Real. Your muscles clenched around him, and he stilled again.

“Breathe,” he said. “Just like we do on the court. In through the nose.”

You did.

He moved slowly, gently, building rhythm. When he added a second finger, you whimpered, and he kissed your forehead. “That okay?”

You nodded into his shoulder, thighs trembling.

“God, you’re so good,” he whispered. “Doing so good for me.”

You’d never been touched like this. Never had someone take their time, pay attention, listen.

By the time he pulled back and reached for the drawer— a condom, the sound of the foil tearing— you were half-gone with need.

He knelt between your thighs, eyes on you the entire time. "You ready?"

You nodded.

"Words."

“Yes. I’m ready.”

And when he finally pressed inside, it was slow and careful. Your breath hitched, your body tensing despite your trust. He held still, his forehead resting against yours, hand cupping your jaw as if to remind you he was there, fully, completely. His voice was barely a whisper: “You’re okay. I’ve got you.”

You nodded, your thighs trembling around his waist, your hands clutching at his shoulders. He kissed your cheek, your eyelids, waited for your breathing to slow. “You’re doing so good,” he murmured. “Tell me when.”

It took a moment. A heartbeat. Then another. And then, quietly, you whispered, “Okay. I’m okay.”

He moved in increments, barely-there thrusts, watching your face for every wince, every exhale. You could feel every inch of him, slow and thick and unrelenting, stretching you more than you thought you could take. Your legs trembled, your fingers curled against his shoulder blades, and he kissed along your jawline, whispering your name like it grounded him. Every press of his hips made your body jolt, nerves alive and blinking, your breath stuttering in your throat.

"You're so tight," he murmured, groaning low as your body tried to adjust around him. "Fuck, baby— you're driving me insane."

The slick glide of his thumb over your clit returned, gentle but insistent. Your thighs quivered, heels digging into the mattress, hips lifting just slightly to chase him. You felt stretched, overwhelmed, but full. Filled in a way that settled somewhere between ache and pleasure.

He kissed your temple, your cheekbone, the corner of your mouth. “I’ve got you,” he whispered, again and again. “Just let me take care of you.”

The pain dulled, warmth replacing it. The friction started to melt you open.

Your voice cracked. “Don’t stop.”

He paused, forehead pressed to yours, chest heaving. “Yeah?”

You nodded. “There.”

So he followed it. Stayed there. Kept it shallow and tender, murmuring praise between kisses, telling you how beautiful you looked, how proud he was, how much you were giving him.

You weren’t sure it would happen. Everything was so overwhelming— your body, his body, the unfamiliar ache that pulsed low in your stomach, the constant tension of wanting more but not knowing how to ask for it. But then his hand slipped between you again, his fingers finding your clit, and he murmured, “Let me make you feel good. Please.”

Your breath caught. You nodded, but he didn’t rush. He adjusted slightly, slowing his hips, angling deeper— and with each pass, his fingers moved in rhythm. The pressure started building almost without your permission. Your thighs flexed. Your fingers clenched in the sheets. You gasped something that wasn’t a word and clung to him like he was the only thing keeping you grounded.

“That’s it,” he whispered, his voice rough now, pleasure curling through it. “That’s it, baby. You’re so good. So fucking perfect. Just let it happen.”

The feeling crested slowly, the way a wave might swell before it crashes. You arched beneath him, breath shaking, lips parting as the world narrowed to sensation— his voice, his fingers, the sweet ache of him inside you. And then it hit.

You came with a soft, gasping cry, every nerve ending lit up, your back bowing, your thighs trembling around his waist. He didn’t stop. He kissed you through it, holding you like you were breaking open in his arms.

“That’s it,” he said again, so tender it made you want to cry. “So good. So good for me.”

And only after, when your body relaxed, when your eyes fluttered open and you saw the way he was looking at you like you were some kind of miracle— did he let himself go. Thrusts stuttering, jaw clenched against your shoulder as he followed you into it, hips rolling once, twice, and then still.

For a long moment, neither of you spoke. Your breathing slowed in sync. He rested his forehead against yours, still inside you, his hand cupping your jaw with aching care.

“You okay?” he whispered.

You nodded, eyes wet. “Yeah. I’m really okay.”

He kissed your nose, your cheek, your shoulder. And then he pulled you close and didn’t let go.

It didn’t last long. It wasn’t perfect. But it was yours. Real and raw and impossibly tender. And when it was over, when he curled around you with one hand stroking your back and the other cradling your face, you felt something settle inside you— quiet, certain.

Later, when you were rested against him in bed, fingers drawing patterns over his chest, he’d think about the walls you carried and the way you finally let him see past them. He’d think about the trust it took to open up. And he’d promise— silently, fiercely— to take care of you, just like you deserved.

-----

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[bezierballad]

this is gonna be one really hot take when it comes to the emerald witch arc, but the more I look at it, the more I kinda feel like it's one of the more... convoluted arcs?

Like, don't get me wrong: I'm not saying it's a bad arc. It's got a lot of great qualities (being the first arc to start diving into Ciel's trauma properly, showing more of Sebastian's demonic side, giving the servants—especially Finnian and Tanaka—more time to shine, and the new characters are enjoyable and interesting for the most part.)

My personal gripe, however (and this is 100% my opinion ya'll are free to disagree) is that the whole mystery itself isn't all that great.

Hear me out: it genuinely felt like Yana wanted to write a "fantasy village led by a witch that's surrounded by werewolves" and play it straight, but was too embarrassed to actually commit to it, so she bent over backwards to try and write a "real world explanation" to explain all the supernatural stuff that went on in the village, even bringing in stuff such as extremely advanced scientific devices (aka the whole high tech control room we see) that would clearly be unheard of in that time period.

And look, I get it: even Black Butler isn't free of its anachronisms.

But aside from the television and cell phones (which the story has long since stopped using) in the earlier chapters, and the high tech gardening implements that only the reaper organization uses (lawnmowers and chainsaws), the manga restricts to extremely minor anachronisms that usually wouldn't catch your eye immediately (like certain hairstyles that wouldn't exist back then, or the dynamic of servant master relationships, stuff that's not usually all "in-your-face").

Emerald Witch arc marks the point where the manga seems to completely drop the ball on this part: tanks started being used in the 1900's, not the 1880's. The high-tech control room under the castle? Impossible. They try to explain it as "oh damn they're 50-60 years ahead of us. No wonder they kept it a top secret project" but still. Why is poisonous gas such a big deal when they've created so much other crazy shit that would've been impossible back then?

And from this arc onward, these anachronisms keep piling up.

The Blue Cult arc that comes after it gives us speaker boxes, headphones and headsets, microphones, and punk/lolita boyband fashion. Hell, in the latest chapter of the current arc, we see a ferris wheel in the background. Those wouldn't start existing until about five or six years later.

Then there's the whole idea that the entire army is relying on this one little girl to create a poisonous gas that could kill anyone within seconds. Just this one child. No one else.

So no one else had the brains to create this? Just this little girl? You had to wait eleven years (at maximum) for her to create this gas herself before the rest of ya'll can start replicating it?

Even if relying on a single kid to create a military weapon isn't unheard of (which, fair, the manga's entire premise is a 13-year-old kid being assigned to solve murders along with his demon butler) why go as far as to create an entirely different environment with its own lore to get the job done? Specifically, why waste effort and resources creating this entire thing instead of using it to possibly train other chemists? Why witches? Why werewolves?

This kind of twist could've still possibly worked on paper, but there's not a lot of stuff that hints to the fact that it's all a ploy and that chemicals and futuristic machinery were involved. Because until the third act, the whole fantasy seemed to be completely played straight.

There's stuff you have to really think about to get that "wait a minute this isn't real" feeling—such as the village being comprised of only women. If it were real, there's no way they would've lasted generations without being able to reproduce. And the gas formula Sebastian finds in the "magic circle" written in a real-world mineral (I don't remember what they called it). And that's just about it—but other than that, the clues are extremely few and far in between.

There could've been more hints that the "curse" isn't due to the "werewolves" but rather the "miasma"/poisonous gas. I feel like they could've talked to one person in Germany outside the village and they'd say something among the lines of "my great uncle went into the forest to find the werewolves himself. He didn't see any, but he came back with his skin swollen and his nose bleeding".

Also, Sebastian can sense someone is human or supernatural, so why couldn't he tell that the werewolf he saw in the forest is a normal human guy in a costume and not a werewolf? Unless the gas was somehow strong enough to completely cloud his senses at the time?

(Honestly I'd love to see an alternate take where Sullivan is actually raised to be an 11-year-old scientist creating chemical weaponry without the elaborate witch scheme. Imagine all the Ciel parallels that could possibly have.)

(Though a part of me also feels like Sieglinde was created so Yana could justify why all the modern day devices are in the Blue Cult arc, cause they're Sully's inventions. Yet Sully hasn't been seen since that same arc. Just a hunch.)

[perry-fics]

Steve Perry - By Chuck Speake

Interview

Voice Magazine March-April 1980

To start at the beginning, what is your background?

I was born in the small California town of Hanford in the San Joaquin Valley. When I was fourteen we moved eight miles to Lemoore, California. I went to COS (College of the Sequoias) in Visalia, California for two years. I played in bands all through school, actually I was a drummer-singer. I decided to get off drums; my voice was improving more than my drumming was, although I felt, and still do, that I play and sing quite well. There is a certain feeling I like about sitting in that position. The diaphragm is in a different position. Anyway, I moved to L.A., started getting into rock bands and tried to make musical statements. It seemed like every time I turned around, I would run into people who would get in my way. They were not serious. There was a period in my life that I was not too serious either.

Their minds were not career-oriented. They were partying musicians and not thinking any further than that. Every time I turned around, they would be late, not show up for rehearsals, that kind of thing.

How did you become involved with Journey?

I was working with a band I had put together called The Alien Project. This was before the movie. CBS wanted to sign the band. Just before we were going in to do some serious talking about contracts, the bass player was killed in a car accident. CBS told me Journey was a good band, a successful band, with three albums behind them, and they wanted to make a musical change. They wanted to get more vocally and tune-oriented. CBS liked my influence in the band that I had, and though we would be a good match. So I met the guys, hung out, and it has been rolling ever since.

Have you done a lot of studio work?

A lot. That is one thing, I love studios. For a long time, when I was down and could not find work, I was a second engineer at Crystal Studios in L.A. That was a long time ago, but it kept me alive for a while. I found it was taking time away from what I was doing musically. I had hoped I would be around the area where I could jump onto something. However, the people coming in to record were already together. You would have to be, to be able to record in the first place. I did get exposure to what was going on. I thought that was better than nothing. But I was sort of spinning my wheels, so I got out of that.

Did you have any formal musical training privately or at COS?

At COS I was in Band, Choir and Speech classes. Choir was a lot of fun. I was a first tenor. I have to say that did help, in retrospect. We would warm up everyday, do scales, etc.

Do you read music?

No. When I was younger, my parents were so mad at me that I never learned how to write and read music. But I write songs, working by feel. I get the main ideas coming out of my mouth.

Had you always planned to go into music?

Yes. My father, Ray Perry, was a singer with the big bands. Not 'big' big, but he was in bands that would do songs by Count Basie, Duke Ellington, that kind. He is a great singer. He and I plan possibly in the near future to sing a tune or two together, if I can put together the time. He is a crooner and I am a tenor. I don't know where the tenor voice came from. My mom had a great voice too until they took her tonsils out.

You use a type of falsetto in your singing.

I use a kind of operatic falsetto, a round tone.

Is it a hard thing to do without destroying your voice?

Yes. I try to do everything I do with the least amount of effort. I try to think the sky is the limit on range. A song we do called Wheel In The Sky, when the solo is going on, I am up there doing these angelic things. I use the least amount of effort to pull out these ideas. If I am using the least amount of effort and they don't come out, then I don't go for them. Nine times out of ten, they come. There is that point, the threshold, where the normal voice crosses to falsetto. There is a way in which you make an edge on your voice the higher you get. The trick is to get so you can bridge the upper register of your normal voice to the lower register of your falsetto. I use silent H's on the vowels sometimes to get across that bridge.

Do you follow a particular regime while on the road? Do you vocalise every day?

The vocalising every night is enough. I do at least a half hour warm-up every night before I go on. I have to.

Earlier today you went through a full four hours of vocalising and rehearsing in the studio. Is there anything special you do before or after a session like this to prepare or relax your voice?

No, not really. Rehearsal is early in the morning and it is so difficult to sing in the morning. It is like waking up in the morning to answer the phone, you sound like a frog. I take it real easy until about one o'clock or so, and by then it is loosened up. I give it minimum effort when I know the later time period will give me what I want. If it is not there, I am not going to do anything else but wait for it to come. On the road it gets into achieving consistency. So if that means not speaking for a day, because I felt the night before I was getting a little ragged, or if we have worked six or seven nights in a row, then I do have to make up for it by not speaking, and drinking more water.

I have a little preparation I make that works very well for me. It is glycerine, like you buy at the drugstore, half glycerine and half fresh lemon juice. What I do is gargle with it, and aerate to get some moisture to the chords. Then I do not talk. Between the lemon making me salivate, and the air sending it back, hopefully I will get some extra lubricant on those chords. Which is what they need. If they go dry, you start to get into nodules.

You know you talk about drying your chords out and all that. Liquor is very bad, and smoking. I do not smoke - not pot very much anymore, or cigarettes. That is direct. The smoke is as hot as the flame and it goes right across your chords. What better drying agent than hot smoke and flame.

I just had my voice and ears checked, and the doctor said they are in extremely good shape. He said I must be singing right. So I am doing good.

Before I knew what I wanted to do vocally, I used to rag my voice a lot. Trying to get that rasp in it that at the time I thought was so cool. I started gong, "Wait a minute, this is wrong," So I told myself, "I am not going to do anything that is going to make me unable to sing." I am only going to sing things I can sing. I would get into some placement of what I do know, and not try to do things I could not do. That is what I started shooting for. I said to myself, "I am not going to do anything that would hurt my voice." That thinking narrowed me down to certain sounds. That is what I am getting now.

You have to be very self-disciplined. It is easy to parallel your lifestyle to an athlete's. I think perhaps the vocalist has more of a physical cross to bear than any other musician.

Yes, a guitarist can be sick with the flu and go out and play. The singer can't go out and buy a new voice or strings. You have the voice you came with and that is all you are going to get. Of course, there are kinds of surgery these days, you will never be the same, though. You are better off keeping what you have, and making sure you have it for a while. That takes discipline and it is frustrating. I enjoy going out partying and drinking with the guys as much as anybody. There are times I just have to go out and have a good time.

You mentioned ears. Since you are in the high energy music field, do you use any type of ear protection?

I fight all the time for lower volume. I do use headphones in the studio and at rehearsal as you saw earlier.

What about performance?

I can't. I have to hear myself. I do not use the monitors well, I will use one once in a while for reference, if for some reason I just can't hear, I will have to monitor off to one side, and I will have the lead guitar coming in. I think I have good pitch, almost perfect pitch, but it is still so relative when you are dealing with other instruments. We keep the stage volume down. We can hear our voices better and the quality of the instruments is much better. The volume is always consistent, as we play more intensely, it gets louder. Then we have to go "Hey, it's getting kind of loud," and we bring it down. We work with our sound mixer, Kevin Elson, like that. We want to give the best out front. That is the bottom line.

How often do you perform while you are on the road?

At least six times a week. Sometimes we do three days on, one off, four days on, one off. It depends. My problem on the road is dealing with the hotels we stay in. We stay in really nice new hotels. The problem is, I would rather stay in an old hotel. At least in an old one you can open the window. You go back in the South, in the summertime, the air conditioners in the hotels are terrible. Talk about drying agents. It is horrible, it strips the moisture our of the room and out of you. I take a humidifier with me all the time.

The human voice is probably the most compelling and the least understood instrument in the world.

Yes, you know, I can't even be in the musicians' union. The way I understand it, to musicians I am not a musician, because I do not have an instrument. Therefore singers have to belong to AFTRA (American Federation of Radio and Television Artists). This goes into what you are talking about. They do not think the voice is an instrument. Now wait a minute, what do you mean it is not an instrument?

Right, it may not have a valve or strings.

I don't know; I think that's really something. In the business I am in, there are so many singers and a lot of them sound alike. A lot of them are offshoots of someone else. I have my influences. I really admire a lot of people from Sam Cooke to Streisand. I want to make some kind of musical statement, to the state-of-the-art of a singer. It takes time. When I get in the studio, I get pretty temperamental. I want it right, every little inflection, every syllable. If a line is delivered right, in feel and structure, but the tone quality is off, then I have to go back and catch all of it. Then there are people who have absolutely no voice, in my opinion, but have much more of a style. There are some people who do not really have much control, or much of anything except a definite identity. They open their mouths and you know it is them. That is worth more sometimes than anything else.

You mentioned there were people who influenced you?

I know this is hard to understand, but I would have to say everybody. A lot of my writing comes from the music of the late and early fifties, that musical simplicity, just more emotional. The early fifties vocalists were really good. Jackie Wilson was incredible. That was back when they were running a one or two-track tape machine. There were no vocal overdubs. Keeping this in mind, these singers were just incredible. I was extremely influenced by the use of echo techniques by Sam Cooke. His tonal qualities he had incredible tone. It would take hours to name everybody. Marion Reynolds and Diana Ross I thought were great. A lot of women singers I thought had tremendous voices. Dee Dee Sharp and Aretha Franklin; she still does. On the other side, I was never fond of Elvis' voice, though I liked Hound Dog and some of the semi-offbeat rhythms were great. I remember buying those records. I even have some old Chuck Berry 78s. Remember the song Green Door? That was a favourite of mine when I was small.

Then the sixties came along. All the surf stuff here comes that falsetto The Beach Boys and Frankie Valli, Lou Christy, Light and Stars Again. Intermingling with all those were all the Motown artists, Aretha Franklin, Sam, Marvin Gaye, Joe Tex, Diana Ross, all that. Then in the later sixties the English groups influenced me. Jack Bruce of Cream was a creative and dynamic singer, for what they were doing. Melding the falsetto into the harmony above it, in a hard-rock format, that was fantastic. Now it has become so sophisticated that I want to get back to a more basic approach.

Where do you feel the whole thrust of contemporary music is headed?

I do not want to say backwards. I will say it is reaching back to its roots. A lot of the old songs are just being rejuvenated, with a new attack to them. Groups like The Knack are doing Beatle-type things. Rock has become so refined. We have gone so far in mechanical perfection in recording. Rock is not going to go backwards. But a singer will reach for a feel of a song, going back. You have groups coming out with incredible production perfection. I am going back to some of the simpler roots. In other words, a vocal performance that has a feel to it, and not necessarily total perfection.

The sophistication you speak of is indicative of a comfortableness within the art form. Rock has grown and spread into many diversified areas. Do you think because of this there is on the horizon a breakthrough group or performer who will come and take rock music in some new direction?

I do not know if there is going to be a certain group. New groups break all the time. It is not uncommon for someone to appear out of nowhere on the first album. For instance, Boston released one album, the first album from them ever. It was a mammoth thing, a mammoth sound, a different sound. Everyone was going, "Wow, these guys are going to turn it around." What ended up happening was, that album got so saturated, they came out with a second one, and that one just nothing. It turned out that they are just another band. They are fantastic, but they are just another really successful band. We are in that group too. We are just another really successful band, but we are trying to make statements at all times.

As far as another Hendrix or Cream or something like that to turn the whole thing around: If I knew, I would be there. But I do not see it happening, I think the music is just going to continue to do what it is doing now.

The Chuck Berry type of rock and roll was dying out and then disco jumped in. What is does is make the rock fans livid. Now there is a social war going on. We played in Chicago, where they were blowing up disco records in Comiskey Park. Because of disco, we are reaching back to even more radical rock. I do not think disco hurt the art form, just like punk has not hurt the art form. They have left their own sort of stains. Now there is rock music that is more danceable but still is rock. Because of punk music, rock is not only more danceable but more aggressive. So they are leaving their marks. In this business, no matter what comes up it leaves its trail.

You talk about rock being more and more diversified. There are so many kinds of rock and roll. Today we played three different kinds of rock and roll songs. We have many others that are melodic. We have vocal and acoustic parts that go into electric parts. So it is very symphonic, very dynamic that way. One thing that keeps rock alive is that it is very wide.

Something I would love to do, I would give anything to sing with a symphony, pick some really nice melodic contemporary songs there are a lot of them and do them with a symphony, use a lot of strings that would be an experience.

Disco has dominated the airwaves, and has not allowed people who have a true statement to be aired, it has put people out of work. A lot of these things are fabricated by a little computer, or they use some scab musician, just overdub a bunch of junk and they put it out under ghost names. They throw this into the marketplace and the marketplace is just eating it up. There are no disco stars. There are disco producers. You mentioned record producers.

It is interesting, the rise of the record producer to the position of the creative artist.

It is sickening. They carry so much weight and the record labels play right into their hands, because they know the producers will deliver the product. I have seen record companies go out and literally sanction a producer. He does not care what they do with it. They are flooding the airwaves for people who are trying to make a definite musical statement. I think that is bad.

You are starting your new album soon?

We start November 5 tentatively. It will be called the Departure album. We named it that because there is going to be a little bit of a musical change. We are departing from some of our roots and keeping some.

How much artistic influence does the producer have in where you are going?

A band is capable of doing most of it themselves, if they are responsible. The reason the job "producer" ever comes into play is, lots of the groups are flakes, or else can't organise their time correctly in the studio. They can't organise themselves to the point of what should we do first? So a record label, as an insurance policy, gets a producer who has a good track record. They pay him a nice percentage to bring a record in under, or at least on, budget. That is all we are talking about, dollars and cents. So the guy sits there and says, "That sounds good, sing a little harder, sing a little softer, we'll have to deal with that " The producer is thinking, "I've got to get this album done." That is where a lot of them are at. So producers are record companies insurance policies that a record will be turned in on budget, and on time, and is literally organised. They feel most groups are not capable of organising themselves.

Plus certain producers have the mystique of "having their own sound" and they do. Some producers get you in studio and use recording techniques that will actually alter the sound you want.

Does that present a different set of problems for you? For instance, when you are on the road performing?

Not us. We play the best we can to sound the way we are. If you saw me today, I was talking with the guys, I have a three-part vocal harmony on Lonely Dreamer. Since I did the vocals on the last album, I am hoping we can do it live. So that is why I was asking, "I have a three-part thing, let's just go over it a little bit." I wanted to check out the feasibility of it being played live, before we lock ourselves in the studio. This is something some groups never do. They just do not think. We sound better live than we do on a record.

I was impressed with the professionalism and the seriousness of the band in rehearsal.

Oh yes, every day. We are a business. That is why I like the band. When I saw the guys, I realised they were not flakes.

How much are you rehearsing when you are not on the road?

A minimum of four hours every day except Saturday or Sunday. We usually take one day off at least. At least five days a week, sometimes six.

Did you audition for Journey?

Vocal auditions are difficult. I actually auditioned for the band, but it was on a tape.

Auditions are pretty tricky. They tend to get your voice a little tight. Singing is a very relaxed thing. Your voice will give you away. When someone is nervous and they are talking, you know they are nervous.

How much out of studio work do you do in preparation, before you go in to record?

It depends. As things get closer to the day we go in to record, of course we do extra work. For instance, last night I hung out at Neal's (Schon) and we worked on a song together. The tunes come real easy. I hope Neal and I can keep writing these things. It is easy to write. Plus I write basically very, very simply.

You do not do any of the lead work?

I do not play any instrument in recording. We have talked about doing double drums with Steve Smith, but we have not gotten to that yet. I play bass and guitar but I do not play in the album. I am not qualified with them. When it comes down to it, they are the ones who play their instrument. They would not ask to sing something I could sing better.

Have you had a clear view of what you have wanted as you have gone along?

The main thing I want to do is make a statement to the state-of-the-art. Words are where rock and roll is going. Rock-and-roll careers tend not to be too long, and I do not want to subject myself to that. So I try to do things that will acquire a standard status. I want them to last, with a quality that will stand the test of time. That is why we spend so much time in the studio. If we do it now and get it right, I know it will stand up in the years to come. I have my goals, my vocal direction, everything in sight, and it is still in sight.

[strangerhottotties]

Grease and Grunge update

Hello, to all my lovely readers. I have once again found the mental fortitude to write! I want to thank everyone for your continued support of this work. It has not fallen out of my thoughts. I had to go on hiatus for a multitude of reasons.

Initially, it was because I got pregnant and when I tell you it was a god-awful pregnancy… it was. I was labeled high risk from the get-go due to a what I will describe as a shitshow of health issues doctors can't seem to agree on. Partially a brain tumor (benign, I guess?), partially a hormone disorder they can't seem to figure the cause of that made it nearly impossible to keep anything down. On top of that I had no energy whatsoever and the job I was holding at the time was… a dumpster fire. I ended up on bed rest due to blood pressure issues and the fact that every time I stood up I would start early labor. I was convinced I'd start writing again but pregnancy brain is real and apparently takes two years to recover from.

The birth itself was a nightmare (I had a unmedicated, vaginal delivery on the operating table for an emergency c-section and tore three directions). But everyone was safe and happy, (I have some choice words about the post-partum unit though.)

All that being said, I've been working on some personal projects in the meantime to regain the debilitating brain rot that pregnancy gave me so I can give Grease and Grunge it's justice. (Also John Price has me in a chokehold rn…)

Seriously, thank you to all the lovely people who have continued to comment and reread and interact with this story on AO3 specifically. You have singlehandedly kept my love for this going and are my inspiration to finish this. I plan on rereading my work and picking up where I left off. I don't know why the end of Chapter 3 cut off on AO3 but I've got some editing and linking to do on both platforms (tumblr being the other). Thank you, thank you, thank you to all and in light of me digging my heels in to do this I'd like to lay my playlist for Grease and Grunge at your feet. Feel free to listen along!

Who Do You Want - Ex Habit Love On The Brain - Rihanna Good Old-Fashioned Lover Boy - Queen I'll Be Good - Jaymes Young Habits of My Heart - Jaymes Young Cloud 9 - Beach Bunny (anyone else think this sounds like Robin?) Streets - Doja Cat Baby Came Home 2/Valentines - The Neighborhood Heat Waves - Glass Animals Dark Red - Steve Lacy I Wanna Be Yours - Arctic Monkeys I Touch Myself - Lauren Ruth Ward Heaven - Julia Micheals Make You Feel - Alina Baraz, Galimatias Often - The Weeknd Crazy In Love - Remix - Beyonce Daddy Issues - The Neighborhood Or Nah - Ty Dolla $ign Like U - Rosenfeld Calling My Phone - Lil Tjay, 6lack Call Out My Name - The Weeknd Bad Intentions - Niykee Heaton Scatterbrain - Emei idfc - blackbear Pacify Her - Melanie Martinez Pretty When U Cry - ieuan Mr. Watson - Cruel Youth Training Wheels - Melanie Martinez

[aritany]

hey hey! im literally on tenterhooks waiting for your announcement (: but in the meantime i thought id ask - you said that getting back into the groove you wrote a bad book SOTM? could you maybe talk about why you thought it was bad, what was bad about it, that sorta thing? interested to hear the perspective of someone who's written SO MANY words and recognising that maybe something isn't working?

only a few short days to wait!! 👀 i even made art to go along with it, i'm very excited!!

YES. okay. i've actually been considering talking about this for a while, because it's so interesting to me. SOTM (straight on til morning) was a queer peter pan (... retelling?) book that i wrote in november of 2022. it was the first thing i wrote start to finish since the first flare of my chronic illness back in 2021, and had since gone through a divorce, a disownment, and had really struggled with the editing process on my debut. regrettably, it was also the first thing i sourced new beta readers on, and was the first thing a bunch of people had ever read from me (it keeps me up at night, i swear).

and the thing is, sometimes books just don't work because they don't work. i have four unfinished novels i'm squinting at because i don't think they're going to work the way i want them to, and that's just because i feel stalled out and frustrated with them. and i don't think they're

in other cases, books don't work because there are road blocks in the way. such was the case for SOTM, which had a pretty cool premise, characters i still love, and probably could have been really interesting, but fell short in several aspects.

here's what i think contributed:

in dev edits for my debut, my prose was stripped down to bare bones. no descriptors, nothing extra. no detail. it was all dialogue, dialogue tags, and plot beats. extraordinarily depressing, but as a literal thinker, i took this and went "ah ok this is what is desirable? taking notes" and started writing new content in a similar fashion. the result was as unpleasant as you might think. feedback from betas was like: "hey what's going on here. i can't visualize anything. where are we" and they were RIGHT.

SOTM is technically supposed to be a horror novel, but i got squeamish at the last second and couldn't figure out how to make my ending actually scary. i feel like i do pacing quite well for suspense, but when suspense leads up to something that just sort of sucks, the end result... sucks.

it was the first thing i wrote after a long period of writing almost nothing at all. i dove right back in with no training wheels, and while i had fun, i was also mostly stressed and rushed, and you could tell.

i was desperate to write something my then-agent would read. i'd had no luck with the first 2 books i sent her, and was trying to cater to somebody who's tastes i no longer aligned with, which was an impossible task, and as a result, there's something forced about the whole book. it's like when you bake a cake with no love.

anyway. the voices Often tell you a project isn't working. sometimes they are evil gremlins trying to sabotage you, and sometimes they're right.

DO listen to the voice when: you're finished the book, your beta readers are giving you feedback that makes you go "honestly yeah", and whenever you think about the project you feel vaguely ill

DON'T listen to the voice when: you're between 30-60% finished (that's when the kill switch activates and it's never right), one person is saying they personally didn't like something (opinions! subjective!), or when it's past 10 pm (thoughts are not peer reviewed)

[idiosyncreant]

Hey. I'm Bethany.

I feel like it's crazy that I've had a Tumblr since 2011. I'm both the same and so different. I wanted to reintroduce myself!

And I'd LOVE to have other folks do the same? So I'll structure all nice like a meme/ask game/questionnaire. Mutuals, don't let me embarrass myself!

1: First Post

My first post was on July 30th, 2011. It was a Spy Myung Wol kdrama post featuring Eric Mun. Neither fascination ended well. Somehow negging Lee Min Ho was involved???

2: Why I Joined Tumblr

I started a Wordpress blog about K-drama style, Suit Distraction, and my second post on July 31st was a link to one of those posts. This blog only spanned 2011, but I ran a Tumblr sideblog suitdistracted (now @libraryofstyle ) from about 2011-2015. It was my most successful online venture by far!

Tumblr itself stuck because I have been able to follow my interests more fluidly and stick with my mutuals, some from other platforms of the past.

3: Then vs. Now

In 2011 I was stuck in not-for-me Oklahoma, watching Korean dramas partly as a way to explore more of the world. I was between jobs, (some hours at my brother's then-job) working on my career as a writer with a lot of moral support but little visible success. It had been 4 years since I went to a big-deal writing workshop, and I'd published a few poems but almost by accident.

Now, I live in home-to-me Western Mass., work in a bookstore while still trying to start a writing career, but in the meantime got a degree at a Historically Women's College, and had a lot of eye-openings.

I'm still a follower of Jesus's teachings, but find it really easy to see how little those have to do with the Evangelical Right I was raised in. I thought a lot of this was obvious, but some of the questioners I knew then that have gotten the impression that God is really invested in America as his nation???**

I also have figured out I'm not just a Third-Culture-Kid or Geeky Artist, I am autistic. So. That makes sense.

4: Fandom Drift?

I watched a LOT of dramas in a season of my life when I was working on yarn for an Etsy shop of handspun, and filling my days around writing with house-keeping and projects.

It's not that I don't appreciate dramas but that I kind of caught up to being a discerning viewer around the same time access got a little trickier and my needs for media changed. I stream Critical Role while doing chores, because it's less visual. I don't sit at my spinning wheel for hours the last several years.

But I still thing Healer is the best thing I've ever seen in TV for *me personally*. I still think Gong Yoo is a wicked hottie. And I love that connecting with people about k-drama at a time when it was still a fresh wave in the West meant getting to be part of an upcoming fan culture in a way I hadn't before!

5: Side-blog/Name Confessional

I originated this blog with this username, which is kind of wild to me. I mean, 14 years ago I was 25, and while it feels quite some time ago it also feels like a fresh new handle. I like it, and I have used it to try and reset my LJ and set up a Dreamwidth. (Neither initiative stuck.)

I have, other than "suitdistracted" started 5 sideblogs. I should delete a few. One was from my coaching phase. (I am grateful for everything I got from the coaching training, including the impetus to go to college, but I also have been deconstructing THAT while listening to Maintenance Phase, an excellent podcast).

One was very recent, to anonymously post stuff about losing my parents. I also didn't post a ton there but it was a pressure valve for some hard moments in a weird phase of grief.

The fanfic one and the fiber arts one are pretty openly crossposted, haha. I stopped siloing the fiber arts one for the most part.

6: What's Next?

I wish I had the guts/energy to do something really wild and multimedium after watching Strange Aeons videos about Tumblr performance blogs but I have tried to at least post a bit more about my fandom takes.

I was so anxious early in my social media life that I feel like I have to be super-intentional about curating and this is the easiest place ot resist that. I like that this is accidentally totally not part of the ecosystem of "me as writer" that the other accounts are.

We'll see!

1: First Post

What does your /archive show?

2: Why I Joined Tumblr

How did you end up on here? What were you posting?

3: Then vs. Now

Where were you when you started? And now?

4: Fandom Drift?

Did you have a major fandom starting on Tumblr? Have you had major phases?

5: Side-blog/Name Confessional

Have you started a bunch of sideblogs? What topics did you try to prune from your main? Have you changed your username?

6: What's Next?

Anything you intend to do differently with your blog here, or things you're doing elsewhere?

[openphrase123]

i realize this may not be the best time to ask because of the last post you made, but how do you find the motivation to keep up with so many projects at once? the fact that you can is both inspiring and also very scary and i'm jealous. "average person writes 1 fic in their lifetime" WRONG. ficwriter openphrase123 who writes 3276453287 fics in their lifetime all at once is a statistical outlier and should not be c

oh this answer got long here's a readmore

well first of all. i have a boring dayjob that lets me marinate big ideas on the backburner. i can turn my thinking brain off for 90% of my projects at work. i've been working there for seven years, i can plot fanfiction in my head without taking a single performance hit LOL

second. um. i'm thirty in like four months. that is in NO WAY old, but i have been on this earth long enough to know when i, specifically, cannot execute or follow through an idea. i only pursue projects i know i can reasonably finish without going crazy. i just kind of. know how my brain chemistry works? i have reasonable expectations for myself?? i'm friends with my brain even if it likes to overthink or be anxious or have seizures or go down weird ocd-adjacent thought paths

third, which feeds a lot into the above point. but when you are in your teens and twenties it's going to take you some time to figure out the rhythm of how you work. i like to take a lot of mini breaks in between what i'm doing. this does not work for my girlfriend, who has ADHD and is like "if i take a break i will never recover" so she doesn't do that. brains are all different and you gotta find what works for you

fourth. well. this one might just be me. but the reason i have like 8 concurrent projects is because when i get tired of one, my brain is VERY happy to latch onto another one. no matter what i'm doing, something is getting done?? that's why i was writing 3 fics at once trying to decide which one to do next. and why i couldn't figure it out and had to leave it to a tumblr poll

and, fifth. idk. i don't write fanfiction when i don't want to? if you look at my ao3 account i haven't done it since. like. 2021? and before that the last time i wrote any fanfiction was in like 2013. of which i cannot track down that old accout but i swear it probably exists?

s.sixth??? and this one is going to sound the braggiest. and maybe it is a little bit. i'm good at this? not like. naturally. i wasn't born writing 100k fanfics. but i've been writing fiction for like. most of my life. i wrote a lot of awful stupid shit before i started writing good shit. i'm not falling asleep at the wheel or anything but after you're making art for enough time, it more easily falls into place. after doing it for so long you develop an intuition for the kinds of projects you will be sufficiently motivated for. i don't know how to describe this without sounding like a pretentious asshole. maybe i can allow myself to be for like five minutes. i've earned it

i hope that helped??? my brain kind of just. does stuff. i've trained it over the years to do stuff in the direction that makes me happy!! i wish my brain would let me go clean my bathroom instead but eh. tradeoffs?

[tinks-forbidden-elixirs]

[Mature Content]

Welcome back to Smajor's Smexy Diamond Tour! :D Like I said before, this is my first time experimenting with a fic like this (or of this rating) as a sort of Writer's Training Wheels. I like to think of it as Tink's NSFW Testing Grounds.

This is the second chapter in this series, and definitely not the last. I had a blast writing the dialogue for this one! Have fun!

Chapter Summary:

Scott continues his task of collecting diamonds with a new goal in mind: to have as much fun as he can along the way. His deal-making takes an interesting turn when he runs into a former teammate.

Fic Summary:

When Scott read his secret task at the start of session seven, it seemed fairly straightforward. He was sure he could get it done without too much hassle. You must ask other players what you can do for them in exchange for diamonds, they set the amount and the task. Simple enough, right? You succeed when you have made a total of 10 diamonds from AT LEAST 3 other players. Again, simple. Easy. A few diamonds per deal, a quick trip around the server, and he’d have everything he needed before they even hit the break. You must accept their first offer, and cannot convince them to give you more diamonds. Simple. Right...? But then a stray dirty joke leads Scott down a very different route with his task than expected. Even if it had been a slip of the tongue, Impulse’s first comment had counted as the other half of Scott's deal...and Scott was already holding the diamonds. Granted, Scott knew he didn’t have to say yes. He could march right over to the Secret Keeper and hit fail, ending his task before it even began. He could. He wouldn’t.   OR: Scott's task is worded slightly differently, and an unexpected (and satisfying) opportunity falls into his lap.

Scott/Martyn, 8.2k words, Secret Life setting

(Future chapters to come with other characters. 5 deals Scott makes in Session 7, and 1 time he doesn't need to make a deal at all.)

[fantrollology]

Walking it Back: PT 1

Characters: Fledge, Alaska

Word Count: 2,103

uhhh i started this over a year ago! i sit on things for a while. id like to get better at writing stuff more consistently but idk im happy w how it came out! hopefully u will not have to wait as long for part 2.

if u read it ummm ty! <3

---

“Hm.” The girl's eyes studied an unremarkable intersection on the floor of the exam room, avoiding the gaze of the doctor standing a few feet from her, who pressed the door closed behind himself following his greeting. Her fingers played with the paper pulled over the examination table.

“Something the matter?” While his tone seemed as genuine as she could gauge, the question made her regret acknowledging the misnomer at all. He set a bag down on the counter across from her and brought out his clipboard from under his arm.

She shook her head.

“Please, it’s alright. What’s up?”

“Uhm,” she paused. Her feet pressed at each other gently over the side of the table. “No one calls me that anymore.”

“Oh, well what do people call you now?” he flipped to the front page of his clipboard and leaned gently against the counter, facing her.

“Uh, Fledge.”

He smirked. “That stuck, huh?”

She shrugged. The little hexagon where the tiles met remained interesting.

He shook his head at his clipboard.

“General Drakon is so cavalier about that sort of thing. I wouldn’t be surprised if everyone thought that was your actual name if he was the one to introduce you. Still though, surviving this long?” He let out a little laugh. “That’s a lifelong nickname now, I’m sure.” 

He looked at her as if he were going to wait for acknowledgement, but then continued. 

“I’m not much of the nickname sort myself but, hey, I think I’m willing to make an exception for you.” He scratched something onto the clipboard.

“Okay.”

He tucked the clipboard back under his side and lopped himself down on the office stool. Its momentum gently wheeled him into the range of Fledge’s downturned line of sight.

“Do you remember me?” he asked.

She let him slide his way into her vision and then quickly found another spot on the floor to look at. She shook her head.

“That’s fine.” He waved a hand. “I’m Dr. Alcess Alaska. I conducted your entry psionic evaluation a few sweeps ago. Couldn’t have been more than an hour or two.”

Fledge nodded.

“I’m here with you today to talk about a project proposal.”

Fledge nodded.

“So, you’re aware how even though you’re stationed here, you’re actually a member of the Imperial Psionic Corps, yes?”

Fledge nodded.

“I’m aware you’ve had some training, but do you know much about what they do?”

“A little.”

“What do you know?” he asked, in an attempt to coax a more-than-two-word response from her.

“They’re…” it felt exhausting for Fledge to even think of saying a full sentence. She breathed out. “They’re all psionics, and they do stuff for the fleet.”

“That’s the jist of it, yes.” 

“But,” he raised a finger, “They’re all very specialized psionics, not helmsmen or telekinetics or simple mind-readers. They receive individual training for their abilities.”

She knew that, of course. It was the whole reason she was a part of it. Still, she nodded.

“There’s a standard timeline for progression through the IPC’s induction, but after doing your entry evaluation I found that there’s a lot of potential with your abilities that I think deserve more unique attention.”

He started to say something else, but then cut himself off. He studied her floorlocked gaze, how her fingers crushed the paper between them.

“Fledge, do you know much about psionics? Your psionics? How they work, I mean.”

Fledge shook her head.

He drummed his fingers on the clipboard for a moment before scooting across the room to grab his bag from the counter. He opened it on his lap and set a couple things on the counter as he rooted through it, then wheeled back over to Fledge. He then reached back in and pulled out a colorful plastic brain and a small container containing a few plastic lobes. He removed the lid from the container and set it on the examination table next to Fledge, then set the bag on the floor and lifted the brain from his lap.

“Alright, so, stop me if I say anything you already know. Okay?” He waited for her acknowledgement this time, a barely perceptible nod, and then removed a blue lobe from the back of the brain, that Fledge could now see was held on with a magnet.

“This is the cucular lobe. All trolls have one, but in psionics, it’s a little larger. The shape and the other lobes it has contact with can affect the sort of abilities a psionic has and how they might control them.” Fledge watched keenly as he set the small, normal lobe on the table, and picked up a larger piece of the same color from beside her. “This one is more like yours.” The strong magnet clicked the lobe into place at the rear of the brain.

“See how it curls up past this,” his finger dragged along the brain, along marigold yellow and crimson red plastic; “the occipital lobe, and over to this one? The parietal? This is why your abilities are affected by touch, why you can ‘feel’ electromagnetic energy the way you do.” He offered her the brain. She let him pass it to her and immediately began picking off the other lobes and letting them snap back into place.

“You have what we call a material-responsive M-Type ability,” he continued, watching her play idly. “You can manipulate, but your abilities are moreso characterized by their sensitivity, your extrasensory perception, rather than their ability to make drastic physical changes. More typical of ceruleans, but yours have a certain versatility, and there’s a lot of potential I believe could be accessed through some implants and, of course, appropriate training.”

He took another piece from the container, a long, thin, curved, grey piece. He held it up.

“This is a type of foci. There’s several different kinds; you may have seen other IPC members with the foci behind their ears; those are the most common. This one is an implant and mostly invisible once installed. They allow for the observation of lobe activity, enable additional cerebral pathways, and can be used to enhance psionic ability in a number of ways.” 

He gestured for the brain. She held it out to him and he snapped on the piece, which curled from the front left of the organ back and over the cucular lobe. He withdrew his hands.

“I believe that, by using enhancements to magnify your psychic perception of electromagnetic energy, you can better control the ability. Instead of blowing up televisions and feeling static, you could…. turn the lights on and off, you could…”

---

A shot fired through the skull of the troll in front of her, spattering green viscera across the dry ground at Fledge’s feet.

She hadn’t been paying attention when the olive stepped forward and raised her weapon. Some fleet officer had been talking to whoever these trolls were about whatever they were doing-- a mutiny, maybe? -- whatever. It wasn’t Fledge’s turn. Fledge knew what the signal was, she knew how aggressive these trolls were allowed to get, and she knew what she was meant to do when either of those conditions were met. She just hadn’t done it without her gloves before. The thought had distracted her. Her hands dropped from rubbing at the nodes embedded in her wrist as the body thwapped to the ground. She didn’t need to look to know the sniper's barrel was already shoved down into the dirt, the more experienced soldier berating them— Stop, that’s what she’s for.

C’mon fledgling. Pay attention. Be here.

One pulse. Forward, 170 degree arc. This will dispel incoming psionics and ballistics, but will dissipate after about three metres.

A strong enough magnetic field through the brain is enough to disrupt regular synapse operation and cause seizures. One at the door, two on the balcony. Close the circuit, an invisible spherical tie around their head, and then release. Her fingers twitched about in front of her. It was a shot of air through her nerves, crawling down behind her eyes and across her body like a cool drink of water. Her eyes hunted around for another to show themselves. When none did, her fingers ground into her palms, deaf to her surroundings until a hand met her shoulder.

“That was good. Quicker on the pickup next time, maybe,” the officer quipped while she examined the damage, then started walking, letting her hand slip from Fledge’s shoulder. “Let’s see if whoever is inside is more reasonable,” she hummed.

Fledge followed as the others behind her dealt the finishing blow to the incapacitated troll near the door, another that fell from the balcony. Her mind began to warm again. She lifted the edge of her jacket, touching the bit of green flecked onto the edges. Would that wash out?

---

Alaska waved a hand as if to catch an answer from the air “...move ferromagnetic material. Just… apply magnetic fields and induce current more deliberately, precisely.”

She turned the brain gently in her hands, her thumb ran over the implant. A piece of metal in her head?

“We wouldn’t start with the foci, since your brain is still developing, but it would definitely be a part of this at some point. For now, I think it’d be best to do more research first. Like, where and how exactly do you feel electromagnetic energy?”

He raised a hand as her mouth opened. Ah, one of those not-question questions.

“I’m sure it’s hard to explain,” he continued, “but we can observe it. Before we can enhance, we would get you some peripherals, external gear to gauge what we can.” He gestured over his arms, his clipboard now set beside her on the table. “That will allow us to finely examine the activity of your culural lobe and its relationship to your movements and nerves. I theorize that down the line it might end up being beneficial to install internal receivers in other places too, since your perception is very likely beyond what’s processed by your CL, but that can wait.”

“I have some reading for you here…” he bent down from the stool and pulled out a packet from the side of the bag. She set the brain in her lap to take it from him. “One of the documents goes over the details of this specific project, but I also included some information on focii and some articles on other MRM psionics.”

“And this—” he reached over and tapped the corner of the packet, where a small, stiff card was paper-clipped to the front. “—is my contact information, so you can message me for any follow-up questions you might have.” He smiled and his hands returned to his lap.

“Of course, if you have any questions for me now I’d be more than happy to answer them.”

She nodded slowly as she thumbed through the pages. Diagrams of brains, titles containing words she knew, others she didn’t. She had questions, she was sure, but she didn’t know what they were or how to ask them.

“None right now?”

She shook her head, not looking up from the packet in her hands.

“Alright, well if anything comes to mind, you reach out, okay? Then, when I’m back next perigee, we can go over everything again, and make a decision.”

“I’ll do it.” It seemed so obvious to her. This was why she was here. Whatever doubt she had could be addressed later.

“I like the enthusiasm,” he chuckled, “but I won’t have time to start until next perigee anyways. I’ll be ready then if you’re still on board, okay?”

“Okay.”

“You can keep the brain, if you want. I have another.” She didn’t know if she wanted it or not, but he decided for her as he lifted his bag from the floor and wheeled his chair over to the counter to put the rest of his things away.

She followed suit with her new belongings and clicked the lid back onto the container of spare lobes. The clear box fit nicely into her jacket pocket, and she tucked the packet under her arm as Alaska had done with his clipboard. The brain stayed in her hands.

She hopped off of the examination table. Her thumb ran over the implant that curled around the organ. A fleeting thought, or maybe one of those questions she didn’t know how to verbalize, tried to etch its way to the surface, to piece itself together in her mouth, but got cut off by the doctor’s voice as he opened the door for her.

“It was good seeing you again, Fledge.”

[writing-whump]

The Road Less Smooth

Summary: Isaiah and Seline argue during a car ride, not realizing Seline's fever. Contains emeto. 

Seline didn't want to go.

Visiting the representative of the West European Pack seemed entirely unnecessary, if not downright dictatorial to her. Why did she need to go? She was from Eastern Europe, so she was resigned with the representatives at home. Why did they have to keep track of where she was studying, what she was doing, and where she decided to belong?

The audacity and injustice of it all were driving her crazy with anger.

Isaiah offered to drive her. The message came from him, so she wasn't happy with him, but since she was scared to drive anything over 50 kilometers per hour, effectively banning her from all highways, his offer shortened her 4-hour long train drive to a direct 2.

Seline knew she should be thankful. And not let her anger out on the messenger. Then again, she thought Isaiah didn't belong to a pack to be free and not to follow orders. Not to mention what a good mood he was in. He was smiling behind the steering wheel, fingers tapping it lightly in synch with the music. He had his formal suit on and his long black coat, which she was starting to see as characteristic to him. All polite greetings and smiles. Was he enjoying this?

"So. How is the university going? I hear you finished your bachelor's last semester. You decided to continue on the same faculty. You like it there so much?" One of Isaiah's many attempts to make conversation. 

Seline wasn't one for small talk. Either say something you really want to know or shut up. She would be content just leaning against the window and listening to music, though plugging in her headphones seemed a little too rude.

"It got real worse last semester," she grumbled at the reminder. "Got a really chaotic teacher that makes us do a totally useless project, just because they got money and funds for it. So much for scientific independence. You just research whatever the politicians see as trendy to research."

Isaiah raised his eyebrows, throwing her a look. "You intend to stay in science?"

"I wanted to. But now I think I would much rather be independent. Make my own writing courses of sorts. Not be bound by anybody else's decisions."

"Just the market's whims," he remarked with a grin.

Seline hissed at that but nodded. "Yes. But the market is way fairer than anything I would believe the state to do." Despite the a/c blasting in the car, she felt warm. Uncomfortably warm. She pressed her palm against the opening for the cold air.

"So, what are you specializing in? Where did the writing part come in?"

"I guess you could say I got that from the witchcraft. I'm a Singer. I sing water and air into obedience and the most effective are original songs. All the writing necessary made me into an expert on writing theory." She waved at herself, the air suffocating and hot but flashing a satisfied snicker in Isaiah's direction. "I bet you couldn't name a book on writing I haven't read."

"That's an unusual approach. Most witches I know use pentagrams or incantations. Did you want to study it at the university?"

Her face fell a little. "You can't exactly study creative writing in Europe. Buuuut there is a lot of other stuff you can study, like film analysis, popular culture, media communication, epistemology, psychological processes for creativity…I found a good master that combines all these, so I can research the creative process itself." She gave him a measured look, blue eyes the shade of an upcoming storm. "You are studying psychology, aren't you? Rather unusual for a shadow wolf."

He smiled at that. "I like to stick out a little."

"Yeah. I thought you were different." Selined sighed loudly, leaning her head against the window. "Except we can't manage everything we wish for, can we?"

Isaiah gripped the steering wheel tighter. "Whatever do you mean?" 

"They call, and you obey. Like a good little lapdog." Seline stuck her chin out, watching him defiantly. 

"Is that what you think?" Isaiah didn't seem ruffled at her words at all, a little grin growing on his face. "I don't agree with this any more than you do."

Seline scoffed at that. "And why should I believe you? You pretend to know the gold is just glitter on the cage - like you successfully got rid of it - yet you are driving me to the gates yourself."

A long, tense silence stretched between them.

"Should I be more angry, Seline?" Isaiah was still smiling, but there was something darker about his tone and the way he focused his gaze on the road. "Should I rage, provoke, and complain like you?"

"Better be angry than pretend to smile and do nothing!" Her voice raised before she could stop herself. 

"Anger is a weakness. It gives you away. Why should I allow such an emotion to rule me?" His eyes were fixed on the road. 

"You are a shadow wolf. It's kinda of expected. I can rage all I want, and it will always be inappropriate. But you got the perfect excuse,” she waved her hand in frustration. 

"I don't believe in excuses." His voice was quiet but cutting. 

"No. You believe in lies. Masks and moods and faces, it's all you are. The polite and funny one today, the serious and scary one tomorrow." Seline crossed her hands on her chest.

"All the masks are me. Different faces of me, different roles I take for the situation. They are tools. My extensions. Wouldn't you change your cloak according to the weather?" His dark sea-green eyes flicked to her for a moment. 

"I would not change it to fit other people's expectations," she said proudly. 

"If I know what people want, I can get what I want much more easily. So even if I disagree with this policy, it's better I take you myself and not let somebody force you. It's better to look relaxed while you are alert and watching. It's better not to be ruled by emotions while they rule everyone else. So yes, I'm taking you to the gates myself, but I also know all the holes in the fence." He eyed her, eyebrows furrowing slightly in annoyance, before smoothing over. "You just want what you think you can't have." 

Seline frowned angrily and looked away. As much as she disagreed, it got her thinking. She didn't realize he had so many answers figured out for himself. 

"I find anger safe,” she said into the silence. “It's better than fear. Gives you energy and motivation to do something. To stand up for yourself or change what's wrong."

He raised one perfect black eyebrow. "So you are afraid of me?"

"No-I…" She gulped, her throat constricting. Something about his intense tone, about the speed and emotion of the debate, made her keep talking. "I'm tired. Of not feeling anything. Of feeling too much and not being able to do anything about it, because it's unseemly for witches.” 

Because I should be calming you down, but I envy your freedom to be angry.

He gave her a long look. "You can be angry all you want around me,” he said quietly. 

She hid her face in her palm as if wanting to wash away the tension. "And you will stay calm? Is that the mask you want to wear for me?" 

"I'm the one who wants to wear the mask. I'm the one crafting it, the one willing to change it so it fits you better. Does that count for nothing true?" 

“You sure are poetic about it,” she grumbled, pressing her hand against her forehead. There was a dull pounding in her temples, and the air still felt disgustingly hot.

“Seline? Is something wrong?” Isaiah asked, concerned.

She wasn’t sure. The car ride, the smothering heat, the pins and needles in her arms…she wasn’t even sure why she was reacting so strongly to the conversation. Although she usually never got motion sick, her stomach was rolling rather aggressively. She squeezed her eyes shut, hand covering her mouth for a second.

“Do you think we could take a little break?” she pressed through her teeth. There was a nauseating shiver crawling up her spine and neck. If only the car could stop moving for a second.

“Sure thing,” Isaiah said, detecting the urgency in her voice. He turned towards the left line leading to the nearest rest spot. “Just a few minutes.”

Seline held her eyes closed, breathing slowly through her nose and mouth. Something was definitely wrong.

Once the car finally stopped, she immediately burst the door open, gulping at the sweet, fresh air. The nausea rocked through her like she was on a boat, and she could feel liquid coming up her throat.

Seline stumbled quickly out, only to sway and fall to her knees. Scrambling awkwardly, she wanted to get some distance between herself and the car. The world was spinning and blurry around her and she lost track of how far she was. A wave of vomit spluttered from her lips. Seline could do nothing but spit it out helplessly. 

Her stomach was hurting, cramping hard. She whimpered softly as another wave of sickness rushed out of her.

A cold hand on her arm made her look up. The outline of Isaiah’s middle long black hair, subtly wavy at the ends, hovered over her. He was kneeling beside her, pulling hair out of her face. She felt the milky-like vomit drip from her lips and chin and would have burst into tears if another wave hadn’t made her choke and hang her head in surrender.

“You are okay. Take it easy. You will feel better in a minute,” Isaiah said, hand running through her hair to her back.

“Ugh. What about this seems -uurp- okay to you?” 

He chuckled, rubbing her back as it arched again and she was heaving another gush of vomit. 

“Just a minute. It will pass soon.”

She took quick panting breaths, trying to clear her head. There was still that blurry film over her eyes, the green of the grass mixing with blue over her. Isaiah’s hand was grounding on her back, his touch assured and steady. 

She spit on the ground, her eyes clearing. “Go away,” she said. The embarrassment was hitting her hard now, frustrated tears running down her cheeks.

“A little late now,” he smiled, gathering the strands of hair on the other side of her face behind her ear. Then he charmed out a clean tissue our of his pocket. “You should have told me you weren’t feeling well.”

“Didn’t realize,” she mumbled, taking the offered tissue. At least she could clean up her face a little.

A cool hand pressed against her aching forehead. “You are running a fever.” 

“No wonder I was so snappy,” she admitted, leaning into his touch without thinking. Everything was so hot, only his skin seemed to be of desirable temperature. 

“I didn’t see a difference to your usual self,” Isaiah teased. His touch was so gentle like she was made of glass. “Do you still feel sick?”

She assessed herself, then shook her head no. Now that she had thrown up, the nausea lifted like it was never there. If only she wasn’t still so warm. Despite the sensation, a shiver ran through her and she hunched her shoulders.

“Your wish came true,” he said, wrapping his hands around her from behind, dragging her with him as he stood up. Her head felt woozy at the movement and she clutched at his hands around her torso. “The trip is canceled. You are going straight home tonight.”

He guided her towards the car and helped her sit down again. She blinked at the haziness that overtook her, feeling bone-deep tiredness crushing over her. Closing her eyes, she leaned back. 

She felt his shadow above her before disappearing to hunt down a water bottle from the back. Accepting the bottle, she settled it securely in her arms but didn’t have the energy to drink it just yet. 

The car jumped a little as he got inside, shutting the door gently. She rolled her head in his general direction, squinting. Everything was so hot and confusing again, swimming in and out of focus. Was this still real? Maybe she was dreaming.

Isaiah started the engine and then squeezed her knee. “Hang on, darling. We’ll be home in no time.”

[argentumcor]

@paranorahjones tagged me in this. I'm not usually one for this sort of thing but I've been looking at writing-qua-writing to get some stuff in order so I figured I'd do a little navel-gazing (procrastinating).

How did you get into writing fanfiction?

Oh goodness. I think my first fanfic was for KotOR back in…before 2008, before I graduated high school. It’s lost to LiveJournal I believe, or FF.net. Several things are. They were fine, as I recall. Written when I was a lot younger for sure. I had to write them, though.

How many fandoms have you written in?

To go by AO3, 30 that I would consider actual separate fandoms. Many of those are one-shots, sometimes just odd ideas I had about something I watched or read or played, things I needed to get out of my head.

How many years have you been writing fanfiction?

Must be around 16, though there were several years-long breaks in there. I am a dried-up old woman. You'll never be actually cool until you're over 30, kids, and then you won't even really care, get over it.

Do you read or write more fanfiction?

Frankly, read. I read very fast, I write not as fast, no one writes as fast as I read. For whatever fandom I’m working in, with exceptions, I will read new things and things I liked to help keep me motivated and inspired. As you can see from how many fandoms I’ve written for, I devour new fiction by nature. Verily, I hunger for it.

What is one way you've improved as a writer?

Pacing, pacing, pacing. I write my own stuff under my real name- I will not dox myself, partly paranoia and partly a sense of personal artistic ethics- and fanfiction has been my training wheels especially with pacing. It is the hardest part of fiction to me, something intuitive you have to have a go at until you find the right sense of it.

What's the weirdest topic you researched for a writing project?

Hmm. I’m not a great barometer for weird. In recent memory, I spent a lot of time walking around every stupid alleyway and cranny of Night City in Cyberpunk 2077. I spend a lot of time feeling around in the guts of the fandoms I write- sometimes that’s really what it feels like you are doing.

What's your favorite type of comment to receive on your work?

Hard to pick. It’s really nice when someone gets what you’re doing with structure and theme for longer works, but the people who are just struck plan by something I wrote are very special to me. All my commenters are, really. You guys rock. You know what though? The ones who say things like “oh thank God I found this, it feels like it was written by an adult who cares about the characters as people and not some teenager trying to get off”, I like those ones best because I totally understand.

What's the most fringe trope/topic you write about?

Hmm. It’s a hard life, being a neo-paleo-counter-reformationist, but somebody’s gotta do it (rosary fics).

What is the hardest type of story for you to write?

Crossovers most of the time. I have an X-files/SG-1 crossover I may never come back to because it required me to hold this kind of early aughts sci-fi mentality in my mind for two shows that both sync and do not sync and also isn’t where I, emotionally, am at these days. I don’t like to write crossovers generally because of that kind of thing and, even with reading, most of them are like a food combo only explainable by pregnancy hormones.

What is the easiest type?

Brief character studies where you’re looking at a character’s mindset during events. It’s simple and focused.

What is something that you've been too nervous/intimidated to write, but would love to write one day?

I started many moons ago, but never got around to reviving or really doing anything with, a Halo/Firefly crossover based on the end of Halo 3 that would have replaced Serenity. The crew finds some weird, old salvage adrift in the black…also my Firefly continuation since we’re on the subject, another ‘this is where the story is going’. I wonder if those notes are anywhere. No, no, wait, stop…

What made you choose your username?

I liked the sound of it. I’m Silverheart most places and argentumcor on Tumblr because Silverheart was taken so I just put it into Latin because neo-paleo-counter-reformationist and also, importantly, I am lazy.

Huh, I broke the formatting a bit? So it goes. I'll tag @womaninwinter because now she is double-tagged and this amuses me.

[kinetic-elaboration]

October 11: Friday Night

Accomplished much today; still need to shower. Work was pretty quiet and afterwards I stayed out a little longer to enjoy the weather, in particular one of my remaining opportunities for such enjoyment before it starts getting dark too early. I feel sort of wheel-spin-y with most creative projects but at least I… want to want to work on them? I don’t know. My motivation to do work at home was in part to maybe have time to think about it some more but that hasn’t happened (I didn’t think it would, really). It’s too late now to add additional tasks to the agenda, and also I’m tired. I do have a bunch of train time tomorrow though!

Anyway, it really was nice out, and I enjoyed myself. Got home, did pretty much everything I’d planned to do—cleaning, cooking, packing—and also went down a bit of a rabbit hole finding the right cord for my phone, to replace the fire hazard the original has become :/ Unfortunate. I’m pretty tired now but the only thing I still need to do is shower. I would like to write just a little bit before bed. I glanced over what I did last night and it’s quite rough so we’ll see.

I’ve also gotten back into reading Moby Dick and am pretty close to finishing. I mean, I’ve gotten to the bits with Moby Dick, so. Not much left. I’m probably past the halfway point of The Green Man as well. Soon it will be time to break out the spooky stuff for Halloween.

…Accomplishing stuff today after work reminded me of an earlier period of more predictable/steadier productivity that I feel I’ve rather slipped from again, that I’d sort of forgotten about. I could get back to that, I think. Doing things actually does build energy, I just feel like I run on a deficit a lot, I suppose in part just because it’s the end of the year. I just… want many things very much. My brain is striving for something.

Gotta shower. Gotta get to sleep. I’m getting up early tomorrow!

[roblesgavin]

⸻ peter gadiot, 35, cis male, he/him // in the MASONBORO neighborhood of Wilmington, you’ll find GAVIN ROBLES who’s lived there for FOUR YEARS and they spend their days working as the OWNER OF THE HIDEAWAY. They’ve been described as COURAGEOUS, RESOURCEFUL, RESENTFUL, AND MERCURIAL by the people that know them. This is his story.

“Every time I think maybe I’m heading in the right direction, I end up in a place I never even knew could feel this bad.”

triggers: car crash, alcohol and drug addiction

As a child, no one thought of their dreams realistically, or at least that would be Gavin’s argument. Never did he see his dreams, whichever one he ended up sticking with and pursuing, amount to anything. They were always these big ideas and something of grandeur and escape, since it also seemed that all kinds pretty much thought their hometown was boring. His first attachments to hobbies and likes were all things automotive, starting with collecting toy cars then building model cars and eventually working in the garage alongside his father. Gavin and his father got along best when they had a project they were working on together, and when his dad heard that he was interested in being a racecar driver someday they got into building go karts. He raced as a young teen and eventually grew into bigger vehicles as he grew along with his talent behind the wheel.

The graduate from karting was FIA Formula racing, and it was his biggest ticket out of the small town quaint life that Wilmington offered Gavin. He was fortunate to travel around the states and even a few stops outside with his success in karting but with Formula racing everything became a bigger and grander scale. Gavin kept winning and it seemed as though there was no stopping his rising star until a crash during his chase for his second Formula 1 championship nearly took his life. The recovery process and the time it took not only for his body to heal but also his mind was costly, and Gavin never made it back that season. His attempt the following year was a near disaster as his mind simply wasn’t right for racing anymore. Gavin couldn’t shake the newfound claustrophobia he had being in the tight driving space of the car, and he couldn’t get past the panic attacks he would sometimes have — even in the middle of a race. It all prompted him to take time off, go back to karting and working on builds, rather than continuing to force his dream of greatness.

It was another year before Gavin made it back to any kind of real racing circuit, only it wasn’t Formula 1 that he returned to. He began sports car racing and challenging for championships yet again. Success would be found and Gavin would win not one but two world championships before it would all be torn from him yet again with another horrible crash during a race. The road to recovery was difficult once more but even more so to his mind and spirit when the doctors advised he not race again, for damage done to his body and his head. His family and then girlfriend convinced him to take the doctors earnest requests in giving it all up, telling Gavin that he could manage a team or train other drivers. That he could open a garage and build custom cars and karts. Not being able to live his dream anymore and do what he loved had a dark effect on him, with a broken spirit and an unfortunate addiction to pain pills he began to drink too much. It took his girlfriend leaving him for Gavin to enter into rehab and try to make something of the shambles of his life.

There was a lot to regret and a lot of mistakes made because of his addictions, but he had one thing he could turn to and that was music. When he was a kid his uncle taught him how to play guitar and Gavin had fond memories of them sharing music together. Playing and writing music helped him in his darkest times and he had no desire to play in a band or perform, no desire to make anything of his own music. It was all personal enjoyment for him but with the money sitting in his bank account he decided to open up a blues club back in his hometown once he had returned from rehab. He named it The Hideaway for too many reasons, likely obvious ones but it was something for him to do and music had a way of soothing the demons that laid under the surface. Despite his faults, his addictions and the way his broken spirit can lay out onto other people, the blues club has become successful and gives Gavin a bit of meaning.