#top 10 outdoor sports

[thearticelheaven]

The article on the Top 10 Outdoor Sports that was recently published by The Article Heaven can be found here. Click the link, then carefully read the blog post about the best sports to play and how to show off your endurance.

[e1dritchjackal0pe]

𝔚𝔞𝔱𝔠𝔥 𝔣𝔬𝔯 𝔗𝔢𝔢𝔱𝔥

Summary: Tired of being trapped in the suffocation and monotony of your life, you make the hair triggered decision to abandon it all and escape to an eccentric town in California.

You never expected to get spirited away by a charming man one night on the boardwalk. But you should have known from the look in his eyes that he was nothing but bad luck.

Warnings: Fem bodied reader, fem pronouns. 18+ MDI. Oral (F!Receiving), unprotected sex, creampie, sex outdoors, mild gore (blood drinking). Reader is dodging red flags like it's a profession. Not proofread.

Notes: 14k words. I rewatched The Lost Boys a few nights ago and couldn't resist writing for one of my favorites.

Santa Carla is almost jarring to witness. Even in the day, when the mid sun is bright and blunt on the shifting scape of graffiti and grimy corners and sidewalks marred with old gum, it's unabashed in its abnormality. It's entirely unlike the hushed, quaint little streets of your hometown, with its lush lawns and the little elderly ladies in their Sunday best, speaking amongst each other in gossip that's quiet and passive aggressive. A complete one-eighty of the punks that skulk down these avenues with black smeared around their eyes and worn cigarettes dangling between their pierced lips while they lug old boom boxes over their shoulders, spitting out metal and rock and roll. 

Just the sight of them would have been enough to send the old committee in your town into a conniption, banding together to drive the demonic filth from the city limits. But here, no one bats an eye to this sort of thing. It isn't shocking to the locals to see a man who's old enough to be your grandfather gliding down the pavement in hot pink booty shorts that are tight enough to show what he's packing. 

Your own mother had nearly been sent into a spiral when she had heard about you wearing a crop top - she hadn't even seen you herself. Someone had snitched to her apparently. Your best bet is Audrey. She's always bored on her shifts at the market, sitting at her register with a glazed overlook in her eyes until she manages to find something worth blabbering about. You're sure she had all but flown over to the phone on her lunchbreak to snitch and warn your mother that she had spied you perusing over the ice cream freezers with your stomach shamelessly bared for the entire world to see. 

It's pretty embarrassing to have your mother barrel her way into your kitchenette at the middle of 10 p.m. to scold you for "acting like a harlot." 

But here it's normal. People are dressed in so many different styles. Sporting hair dyed from fried bleach blonde to bright neon green; decked out in leather, ripped jeans; women and men alike strolling around in tight swimwear that leaves little to the imagination with diamond bellybutton jewelry that glints in the sun. Tattoos on tanned skin and manicured nails with leopard print. 

Your mind still hasn't caught up with it all yet. It's like you've stepped into a music video, or another world entirely. It's like the air is permanently charged. Electric and humming, pulsing like something alive. Fluttering in your stomach like a flock of nervous butterflies. But that's probably just the anxiety. You've dangled between pure excitement and tension for the past few days that you've been here. Forcefully fixed there by the stubborn ball of apprehension that's tucked itself behind your sternum like a heavy rock. It's almost makes you nauseous. So caught up in your nerves to truly let go and enjoy the moment. To revel in the reality that you've finally escaped. That you've finally managed to wrangle yourself free of shitty little town in the middle of nowhere and have run off to a place where no one will notice you. Where you can blend into the masses and disappear without the worry of judgement. 

It's just not that easy though. It never is. There's guilt behind your panic. The dread that you've just abandoned her. Left her without little more than a letter tapped to her front door before you shoved most of your belongings into a couple of suitcases, took up all of the money you've saved up over the past three summers and vanished in the early morning without a trace. 

It was dumb maybe. But you prefer desperate. You had to get out. You had to do it while you still had a chance, while you're still young and hopeful. Before Gallatan could eat you up of all your worth and turn you into one of those judgmental ladies perched out in front of one of its buildings with a mean scowl on your face. You had to do something before you lost sight of yourself or became the woman your mother wanted you to be. All barefoot and pregnant with another baby on your hip while your husband - probably Oliver Palmer if she could have a say so - was busy at work. 

The idea to run had snuck into your head, all forbidden and frenzied. You had shunned it for as long as you could, ignoring it while you droned away at your job, pouring the same grouchy bastards' hot coffees and running the same sunny side up eggs and suspiciously damp pancakes in trade for measly tips. And then one day, for no particular reason at all, it had all just become too much. Too stagnant. Too gray. You had to go before you'd suffocate, and that's how you found yourself cruising down the highway with the window rolled down to let the crisp air in, still damp and fresh with morning dew. 

You couldn't look back now. You wouldn't. Still, that wouldn't keep the guilt from biting at you. From nipping at your heart, a little bit at a time. It stung. It twisted in your chest like a knife, your selfishness. But you'd been selfless your entire life. Dating the man she had wanted you to date, taking the ballet classes that she had wanted you to take, wearing your hair up the way she wanted. For once you were going to put yourself first, even if it was a tad foolish. 

Your newfound liberation didn't banish the anxiety away completely though. The first night here once the high had finally worn off, you had been forced to face reality. And the unfamiliar walls of the dingy hotel didn't help, with its shabby wallpaper and linens that smelt faintly of generic detergent and cigarette smoke. It was alien. Unnatural almost, the chirp of crickets traded in for the rhythmic thumping of music pouring out from the bar across the street. You had stayed inside, hidden away by the locked door, trying desperately to tune out the noise of your own scattered thoughts with the audio of the TV. Using the soft, watery light that spilled out from the screen as a nightlight to try and ward off the confusion and unease in the pit of your gut. 

Your sleep had been difficult. Spent tossing and turning on the mattress, its springs creaking lightly with each shift as you tried in vain to ignore your own guilt. Helplessly fighting off the images of your mother pacing about her living room, wearing a pathway into the blush-colored carpet, nipping at the edges of her polished nails with tears in her eyes. The urge to reach over for the landline on the nightstand had nudged at you so insistently that you had to unplug it to keep from dialing her number. You knew that if she answered, if you heard the sound of her voice drifting out in that worried, angry stream that you'd be unable to keep yourself from packing yourself into your car and driving all those miles back to Gallatan. 

The morning after you had been unable to resist the allure of the call from outside. Like a slave to your impulses, you had allowed yourself to get caught up in the magnetism of it all. It's as though the scent of the sea had coiled around your throat, salt and wind taking ahold of you to usher you into the wonder of it all. You had spent the entire day exploring all of the shops that Santa Carla had to offer. Everything from quaint little outlets full of sage sticks and minerals that claimed feats such as granting fortune or banishing negativity, to music shops, and boutiques with lingerie and toys that you'd only ever seen in Playgirl magazines and cheesy sex tapes hidden in the back of your town's video store. 

It was a wonder in every corner. Everything in the imagination placed to draw your attention. To lure you in. And it had succeeded, stringing you along. Like a moth drawn to dazzling lights you had let it take you. Santa Carla is always a spectacle, but at night is when it truly comes alive, and the boardwalk is the pentacle. It's as though the entire town is lit up in a thousand individual pyres, burning and flickering, a kaleidoscope of neon and thrills. 

It sounds dramatic, but your first night on the boardwalk had nearly left you breathless. It was a place that's likeness you've witnessed in movies, or maybe the pathetic little county fair Gallatan throws each year. But the tiny kiosk of buttered corn-on-the-cobs and the pony rides are nothing in comparison. 

You had felt like a kid in a candy store despite your initial apprehension. Once you had seen it in all of its glory, wooden pathways swarming with chaotic masses, and carnival games and seedy stores adorned along the streets; sugar and salt and the musk of weed tainting the air in a distinct brand all cultivate to create a unique kind of charm, you had been unable resist.  

Like thousands before you, you had fallen for Santa Carla, like a mouse falling into a vat of honey. 

And it doesn't take you long for you to give in a splurge a little, ignoring your limited funds in favor of spoiling yourself. It's only something small, like finally trading out the pair of corduroy pants that you'd worn for years in favor of a couple skirts. Your favorite is lightyears away from anything you would have been able to wear before. Tight, dark, buttery leather that molds smoothly to your hips. Just low enough that you don't feel exposed but still skimming up past your knees. It's beyond any of the clothes that you had allowed yourself to purchase, but it feels nice to wear. Even though you still find yourself subconsciously tugging the hem down every once in a while, there's something undeniable freeing about wearing it. Like some kind of middle finger to all of the people who had kept you stunted and trapped. And as a final fuck you, you had immediately tossed your old pants in one of the trashcans settled outside the shop. 

You've been out here every night since, basking in the energy and the buzz that prickles over the boardwalk. A sort of treat for yourself after spending all of the hours in the day job searching, walking into all of the vintage themed diners and hole-in-the-wall thrift shops to turn in your applications. You don't have a long-term plan as of now. If you're planning on staying here. If that's even a possibility for you. But it'd be nice to have some extra cash while you try and figure that out. Something to keep you afloat while you try to course your future. 

Tonight is just as charged as last night. Shifting and alive with the bodies of tourists and locals alike, all looking for entertainment. You wander aimlessly, people-watching as you go, admiring the different kinds of groups as they all meander around in search of excitement. Children clutching onto the stuffies that their parents have won at carnival games; a gaggle of girls laughing happily as they cling onto each other as they navigate through the crowd; a couple walked by you in a rush earlier, the boyfriend spilling out what sounded like desperate apologies that were going completely unheard. 

Despite the speed of everything else around you, you're content to take your time, strolling around while you idlily drink your soda from the cherry-colored straw. You aren't in any particular rush to get anywhere. The dusk is still visible, occasionally peeking past the buildings and the horizon above the sea, all thin and dusty in a rich blue. You have all the time in the world to enjoy yourself, at least for now. You have no desire to go and hold yourself up in your dingy hotel room, clicking through basic cable to try and find something worth watching while you hopelessly chew through another cheap delivery pizza. 

The excitement is contagious out here, and you're in the mood to indulge. You let your feet carry into a record shop, a quick glance at the magenta neon sign above declaring it as one of the many music shops displayed along the boardwalk. The cashier posted behind the front desk shoots you a lazy nod before quickly returning to the porn mag boldly held in his hands. You grimace when you see it, but it doesn't keep you from drifting further into the dimly lit depths of the store, glancing over the many aisles of records as you go. 

You've burnt yourself through most of your music, playing them ceaselessly in favor to listening to spotty radio stations that turned to static whenever you drove through mountains. If you hear another song off of Like a Virgin you might actually lose your mind. 

It takes you a moment of searching the place before you find the cassette tapes, most of them organized in the back of the shop in shelves secured to the walls. The variety is a little overwhelming and the flimsy laminated signs taped above the racks did little to help. Either people have just been shoving tapes back wherever they fit, or the employees have been doing a lousy job of organizing the shelves, because despite claiming to be arranged by genre, you've found Metallica mixed in with Duran Duran, and Def Leopard and Anthrax placed with Prince. 

It doesn't bother you much though, and you keep searching over the massive collection of music, stepping around other customers and squinting through the dim golden lighting to read the album names properly. You barely notice it at first. A light brush along the back of your neck. A pressure that prickles and skips down your spine. It's so soft that you almost mistaken it for the press of your shirt nudging at your back, but it feels different. 

Like the weight of a stare. Warm and insistent. It has buried animal instincts welling up to the surface. It's kneejerk when you sweep a searching glance over the few people dotted around the shop, skipping over faces that don't meet your stare. They're all caught up in their own personal bubbles to notice your discomfort. 

Somehow, it only makes you feel more on edge. Viewed by a potential danger that you can't see. You don't know why it makes your breath snag, but it does. Someone is watching you. But no matter where you look, you can't find them. It has your mouth running dry, even while you assure yourself that it's nothing, nervously tapping at the straw in your soda to distract yourself. Something electric is trembling down your spine, magnetic and alien. It grips ahold of your neck, looping around your throat like static fingers, catching you on a string to tug you around on your feet. Your focus shifts somewhat frantically, with the hope to reassure yourself that no one might be sneaking glances at you, and then, your stare is suddenly moving all on its own. When you notice him and you have to wonder how you missed him in the first place. 

He's standing off on the other side of the store, separated by rows of music. You notice his fingers calmly flipping through vinyl's, the silver rings banding his fingers winking softly in the red neon spilling out from behind him. Your eyes seem to have a mind of their own as they continue in their sweep up to admire more of him. He looks like a rockstar. Like he had leapt out from an album cover, with fluffy long blond hair. It's messy, spilled out like a lion's mane, wild tips glinting in shades of gold and the cherry red that's projected from the neon. 

The first thought you have is dumbstruck and a little captivated: He's gorgeous. He looks like the type of guy that would be spotted making out with models at some exclusive Hollywood club, not here in some dingy shop with a blow-up doll and random movie posters taped to the ceiling. 

His eyes shift up then, sudden and unwavering as they land directly on you. It's shocking as they pin you down, prompting a tight gasp from your lungs. His stare is firm but playful, shooting through your body like an electric current. You turn back around like you've been caught doing something you shouldn't, latching you attention back onto the cassette tapes like they're some sort of lifeline all while your cheeks burn with embarrassment. 

You didn't miss the amused smirk that had nudged at his lips before you looked away. Almost as though he was expecting you to have been admiring him, all cocky. Self-assured. The hazy air seems too thick now, the ting of cigarette smoke stinging at your lungs is all acrid and heavy. You could choke on it, but you're determined to remain in place. You keep still, secure in your spot as you search the disorganized tapes. Seeing but not really noticing them anymore, the letters and titles all melting into nonsense as you tap at the sweating paper cup clutched in your palm with your fingertips. 

You don't know why you feel so nervous. You haven't been like this since your first crush on Christian Bakely. It's bashful. Almost timid like a juvenile, fickle attraction that you have when you're young. It makes you want to scold yourself for developing some sort of superficial, puppy love for the first hot guy you've seen since you've left home.

You will yourself to move down the aisle a little more, going slowly to at least try to appear unbothered while you've become horrendously aware of yourself. A part of you entertains the idea of leaving. There are a million other stores just like this posted along the edges of the boardwalk, but you're quick to squash down your unease. You aren't going to run out over something so stupid. He's probably already forgotten your blatant staring anyway, traded in his amusement in favor of flipping through records and forgot that you even exist. 

You try to do the same. 

Your attention perks up when you notice a tape that gets your focus and you're quick to pluck it free from its place wedged between the rest. You listen to the song pumping softly from the overhead speakers, falling back into the gentle lull of it all. The delicate hum of the crowd shifting just outside, the chill of the hard plastic casing in your palm, the sweet syrup of the soda on your tongue as you take another sip. It's gentle. Calm in a way that isn't curated. 

"Nice choice."

The voice drifts from over your shoulder, but before you fully register it, you're already jumping. You think your heart skips when you do, fluttering briefly as you jolt on your feet. 

"Jesus Christ," you hiss through your teeth. You can't hide the glare on your face when you turn to look at the figure standing beside you, but your mind just about falls silent when you realize that it's the pretty blonde that you had been gawking at. 

"Shit. Sorry, that was my fault." He holds one of his hands up in a placating gesture, like you're some cornered animal that might startle otherwise. Except he doesn't look all the apologetic. He's smirking, almost like he's pleased. Eyes all bright with mirth like you've done something funny. "Didn't mean to make you jump." 

You don't believe him. 

"It's fine." You offer a weak smile, torn from your nerves which are frayed between adrenaline and the warm flutter in your chest. Somehow, he's even prettier up close. His features are sharp with a strong, a straight nose that connects to high, pronounced cheekbones like you've seen on old statues. His lips are plump. Rosy and pink. But it's his eyes that really get you, glittering faintly under the light in a blue that's too soft for the mischief lurking around the edges. It takes you a moment to remember what he had initially said, and you have to all but wrangle the delicate thank you out from your throat. All while you know that there's no way in hell that someone like him is listening to Cindi Lauper in his free time. 

He doesn't look like any of the men from your hometown. Most of them were just as clean cut and blue-collar as the rest, with worn steel toed boots and baseball caps smeared with grime and sweat. They were handsome in the well-mannered, country kind of way. Hats off at the dinner table sort of guys, even though more than half of them have wound up drunk and lost in someone else's field more than once. But this guy was the type that you've been a victim to fantasizing about more than once. Helpless daydreams about unobtainable rockers. 

You can smell his cologne with how close he's placed himself next you, rich and masculine and heavy with something that smells earthy. Damp like dark soil. It has your mouth going dry. It you want to lean in towards him to draw more of it into your lungs, but thankfully you snap out of it before you could actually act on the urge. It makes you horrendously aware of the face that you're staring at him again. 

You snap out of your daze, casting your attention back over the shelves to keep yourself from shamelessly ogling him any more than you already have. God, you're like some lovestruck middle schooler all of a sudden. 

"You're not from around here, are you?" He remains at your side, nearly brushing his arm with yours while he briefly pulls a tape from its shelf before poking it back in. Something tells you that he's pretending to inspect them just as much as you are now. 

"What gave it away?" You dare to shoot him a glance. The tension that had turned your muscles taught finally beginning to thaw. 

"Nothing," he shrugs. Then he's shooting you another lopsided grin. " I'd just figure that I'd remember seeing a babe like you walking around." 

It's undeniably corny, but there's something in the way that he delivers it, the way that he carries himself that sells its charm. You find a weak laugh bubbling from your chest, still nervous but also reluctantly content. You shift down the aisle a few feet and like a brand-new shadow he follows. 

"I bet you say that to all the tourists that come through here." You draw another sip from your drink, and you're a little disgruntled to find that it's almost empty. 

"I may have used it once or twice," he admits. There's no hesitation when he says it, still displaying as much ease and bravado as he has been. 

"And has it ever actually worked for you?"

"I'd like to say that I'll be successful for a second time, but I guess we'll see how tonight goes." 

The look you give him is playfully unimpressed, openly toying with him in a way that seems oddly natural. All of that pervious uncertainty shifting and melting down into something new but fluid. His eyebrows perk up in mock disbelief, an arm raising to flatten a palm to his chest as though he's shocked by your answer. 

"Damn, shot down already." 

"Afraid so." You mirror his shrug from earlier before slipping around the corner made by the edge of a rack, continuing in your search. It feels a little like a chase as he trails after you, all lazy in his pace but no less motivated to keep you in his sight. 

"So what brought you to Santa Carla?" he asks from behind. 

"Kind of just passing through, I guess. Needed a break, you know." 

He nods like he might understand. "Well you lucked out coming here. There's always something going on; parties, drugs." He pauses for a minute. When his voice dips out its right up against your ear, coiling low and dark to tremble down your spine. "Murder."  

You spin around to face him then, a gasp snagging in your throat. But when you see him, he isn't close behind you at all but a few feet off. He almost seems delighted to have your focus back on him. Confusion nestles in the back of your mind. You could have sworn that he was directly behind you. That you had felt the subtle weight of his chest on your back, the brush of his breath on the nape of your neck, but he would have had to have leapt back to be standing as far away from you as he is now. 

Odd. 

You clear your throat, trying to collect yourself as you latch back onto the memory of his voice. "Wai- Murder?" 

"Oh yeah, people die here all the time." It's almost bored how he says it, like his discussing some monotonous fact and not tragedies. "It's like a nightly thing." 

You wait for some kind of a punchline. Or some reassurances that he's only joking but it doesn't come. He must pick up that you're expecting some kind of explanation, but he must find it funny because that smile is back, just hinting at the corners of his mouth.  

"Murder capital." His eyes get a little big when he speaks, somehow entirely serious and teasing all at once. "There's been talk for years about anything from a reclusive serial killer hiding away in the hills to a black market, or maybe devil worshippers." 

Figures that in an attempt to escape from your old life that you'd manage to flee to a place where killings are apparently "a nightly thing." An extreme exaggeration you hope. You can practically imagine your mother laughing at you, all snark as she revels in your less than stellar luck. Like some kind of joke from the universe. But now that you think of it, this town would be a prime place for a black market or a cult or whatever. With the massive influx of visitors that rush through here in the summer, it must be easy to snatch people up off the streets without too many noticing. 

He laughs at your troubled expression. The silver-plated belt that he fashioned to the shoulder of his coat chimes softly as he shifts himself into your space with a grin, flashing teeth that look sharp. "Don't worry, I'll keep you safe." 

You still haven't entirely adjusted to his blatant flirting. Sure, you've encountered your fair share of horn dogs at your past job. Men who would leave their phone numbers on their checks or shamelessly stare at your tits and ass while ordering. Still, you never had someone approach you out in the open like this, apart from maybe at the bar when egos are high and liquored up.  

But he's clearly confident. Dripping with a roguish charm that's magnetic. You could almost call it intoxicating, the energy around him is palpable. The way he moves is rushed and light, like a puppy that's too hyper. 

"I think I'll manage on my own." But there's no snark in it. It's friendly. A warmth that he shares as you both exchange smiles. You pluck another cassette from its shelving, one you'd been eyeing during the conversation, but you can't manage to pry your attention entirely from him. "I mean, I don't even know your name. You could be a murderer or some cultist creeping around for his next sacrifice." 

"You found me out," he teases. Eyes shimmering and blue, all mischief. "There go my plans for the night." 

"Sorry about your luck." 

He shakes his head. "Nah, it's good. Besides, I think you might be too cute to cut up." 

"Oh, well thank you so much," you gush in a mimic of appreciation. 

"Of course," he jokes easily. He's holding a hand out then, his voice just a little bit more authentic as he waits for you to take it. "The name's Paul." 

You have to tuck your empty cup in the crook of your other arm to accept it. When you do it nearly shocks you how chilled his skin is. His fingers are cold, palm smooth and almost icy against the warmth of your own, but you don't pay it too much mind. Instead you give him your name, speaking it softly through a light smile. He repeats it under his breath, and you try to ignore the pleasant ripple of heat that runs through your body at the sound of it. How he cradles it on the tip of his tongue like he's testing it out and found that it tastes sweet. 

"So, are you still looking for some excitement?" 

You fall silent, eyeing him a little suspiciously. "It depends. What did you have in mind?" 

The grin that spreads across his face is much more puckish. Much more so than the ones before it. There's almost something dangerous there. A darker edge to his stare like you've lit a fire in him somehow. He nods down to the tapes clutched in your hand, and before you can realize it, he's taking them in his own. 

"These are the only ones you want?" he asks, backing away from you. It leaves you confused, watching him with your words lost in your throat. 

"Uh, yeah?" 

He hops back on his feet like an excited kid, jerking his chin like he wants you to follow him as he continues to walk backwards in the direction of the register. He doesn't pause for you to catch up, suddenly twisting on the heels of his boots. He acknowledges the cashier as he draws closer to the direction of the counter, but his lips have drawn up tight like he's repressing a laugh. Like he's in on a joke that you aren't. 

You feel like you're being guided by an invisible string as you urge yourself into a hesitant walk, squinting at him through a bewildered stare as you quicken your pace to keep up. But he doesn't switch gears to approach the register at all, instead he's making straight for the front door of the shop. The employee must come to the same conclusion as you do, because suddenly he's dropping his magazine to stand up from his chair with a jerk. A loud shout already raising up high to demand Paul to stop. 

Paul only tosses you a look over his shoulder, glancing back at you like he's confirming that you're still trailing after him, and when he sees you, he flashes an impish thousand-watt smile.

"C'mon! We gotta make a run for it."

And then he's bolting. Lurching towards the door with quickness of a high-strung dog let off its chain. A part of your brain stalls, and for a moment your body follows suit, freezing still for less than a split second but it feels like an hour as your mind splits down the middle between two decisions. The clerk is screaming, clammy skin flushed red with anger as he attempts to climb over the front counter like he means to body slam Paul in a tackle. But he's already shoving the glass door open, the bell above sounding his quick leave in a metallic cry. 

You should stay back. Keep far away from the random stranger that picked you out in the middle of a random store and is attempting to shop lift your cassette tapes, but before you can properly decide, your body is already in motion. You can hear your feet thumping across the carpet as you rush over to the door that's beginning to slip closed. 

"Oh, you fuckers!" The clerk yells so loudly that you're sure he's probably spitting. There's a violent clatter as the tray of lighters that were beside the register make contact with the ground in a messy thump. It has all the impact of a gunshot, and it's all it takes for your system to flood with a burst of adrenaline. You slip through the door before it can close in on you, escaping out into the chaos of the night like a bullet. 

Paul grips your arm once you're out, using it as leverage to guide and pull you through the oblivious crowd. He's cackling and howling into the air like a madman, practically skipping as he tugs you forward. You think that you might be laughing too, but it's hard to tell through the blur of it all. The world around you is a rush of colors, lights and sounds. Someone thumps against your shoulder as Paul ushers you through the sea of bodies, but his grip is firm, fixed tightly around your wrist like a cuff. 

The voice of reason chants in your head for you to jerk yourself from his hold. To vanish into the cover of the crowd and pretend that tonight never happened. But you don't do that. Against all common sense you allow yourself to be spirited away by some giggling maniac with a pretty face. 

His eyes are wild as he looks back over at you, the reflection from the lights of the nearby amusement park rides glinting bright in them. Everything about him might be a red flag, but like a fool you find yourself chasing after him. Running towards the rush; the excitement sparking under your skin and turning your blood white hot. He lifts the cassette's up, still secure in his hand as he waves them in the air like trophies. 

You aren't sure how long you two keep running for, but eventually you both slow to walk. The even pace allowing you to catch your breath as he guides you to a set of motorcycles that have been parked along the edge of the boardwalk, the back wheels nearly pressed up against the wooden railing. He releases your arm only so he's able to circle around the one at the end of the line with red rims.  

He holds your stare as he swings a leg over to mount the seat, making himself comfortable on the bike. Only then does he hand you the cassette tapes back, and you take them with shaky fingers. A product of the adrenaline that still thrums through your limbs like an electric current. You make sure to tuck the tapes safely in your jacket pocket. It seems dangerous to accept them. It feels good too. 

"You know, if you were trying to impress me, you didn't have to all that." 

"No?" his eyebrows perk up. "I wish you would have told me sooner then, babe." 

"Oh, so it's my fault then." 

"Nah. I steal shit all the time." 

You can't help but to scoff. Still, there's a bit of a genuine laugh in there too. He hums lowly, leaning forward to hang his wrists over the support of the bike's handlebars, spreading his thighs to get comfortable. You almost hate how pretty he is. It isn't normal. There are bonfires burning on the beach down below. The pyres reaching high enough that the light casted by the fire spills over his hair like sunlight, gold and amber and red. He almost seems otherworldly. Like a spirit that's been raised to tempt you. To lead you astray. God, you think you could let him. 

"The question still stands." He tilts his head, watching you expectantly. "Still lookin' for a thrill?" 

Time pauses again, churning down into a placid stream. This is another moment when you should say no. And it's right there, held just at the base of your throat. A small puff of air and the word slip out, materialize out on the warm summer air with a punch of finality. That's all it would take to cut this night short. To put a cap on all of it, bottling it all up so you could let it collect dust and become a distant memory. 

The voice of reason, bearing a striking resemblance to the sound of your mother's, echos in your head. Chanting from the sidelines for you to back away from him before he drags you down into a pit of trouble that you can't crawl out of. But when has doing anything she's wanted you to do gotten you anywhere? 

"Yeah, I think I am." That's your answer. 

"What are you waiting for?" 

He scoots himself forward, straightening his posture a little and slipping his hands around the handlebars. It's a clear enough invite, and you don't let the air around you both stagnate. You grimace a little when you drop your empty soda cup on the ground, leaving it to drop while you move to lift an arm up to grip onto his shoulder. Using it for stability as you swing your leg over the seat of the motorcycle. He doesn't waste any time starting it, kickstarting it before you've even sat down on the seat. 

You try to be mindful of your skirt as you lower yourself down onto the leather cushion. Tugging it down as low as it'll sit while scrunched up around your spread thighs. 

The bike is loud. It's engine purring in a great roar, metallic and sharp in your ears. It thrums under your legs, almost like a living, breathing thing. Pulsing as the engine hums and spits. You're quick to slip your arms around his waist, ignoring the stubborn layer of hesitation lurking underneath the exhilaration of it all. You cling on to him, shamelessly tucking your chin over his shoulder as you drape yourself over his back. He doesn't seem to mind, passing you a joyful glance, turning his head just enough that his nose almost brushes over yours. 

"Don't be shy now. Better hold on tight." 

That's the warning you get before he revs the engine, sending the bike into a jarring lurch. You yelp when the bike blazes off like a rocket, squeezing your hold around his middle tighter to keep yourself from blowing off the seat as he swerves it down another strip of the boardwalk. 

He's laughing again. Sounding like a madman as he suddenly directs the motorcycle to the left, smoothly jerking the front wheel to dip it into a turn. Your heart falls down to your ass when a descending staircase drops down in front of the bike. It seems as sudden and daunting as a cliff, but you don't have time to shout. Your cry stays lodged in your lungs, and you only have enough time to tuck your head into the crook of his neck, hiding your face in his hair just as the bike speeds down the steps in a quick glide. The bumps are just barely felt by the speed that he's gunned the motorcycle into, but it doesn't stop your stomach from flipping. 

He might be laughing, but it's difficult to tell if the vibrations rattling his ribcage are from the engine or not. But based off of what little you know of him; you wouldn't put it past him in finding your panic funny. 

The tires meet the loose sand with a brief drag, spinning for a fleeting second as the bike darts off like a bat out of hell. Once you can feel the solid ground rushing beneath you, you're able to get yourself to lift your head up from the safety of his neck, peeling your eyes open to sweep a cursory glance around your surroundings. 

You see the bonfires first. Burning and twisting in the night like glowing spires, flickering in molten amber towers that reach at the sky. People are scattered around them, some holding beer bottles while they dance. You can't hear it over the howl of the wind in your ears but you're sure that they're all laughing. All barely holding in their mirth as they cavort around the fires. And you can smell the smoke in the air, spicy and pungent, melding with the salt of the beach. 

It all passes by in a blur, the ocean little more than a pale, twisting smear. Foam tumbling over sand. But the rest of the water - what lies beyond the waves, is a vast black. Stretching out farther than your eyes can perceive. You only get hints of it in the traces of moonlight crossing over the water like silver lace. 

The nervousness coiling in your gut finally begins to unwind, and the tight grip of your arms around his ribs follows, slackening just enough for you to slip your hands up to his chest instead, letting you sit up just a little straighter. It makes you extremely aware of how scant the tight fishnet shirt he's wearing truly is. You can feel his skin from between the mesh netting, trepid and soft on your palms. Your fingers flex, the urge to remove your hands bolting up as though you've touched something hot, but somehow you find yourself hesitating. You don't remove them. And he doesn't seem bothered by it in the slightest. Weaving the bike through the bonfires scattered around the beach and coasting it just a little too close to the people walking and dancing around on the sand. 

He just narrowly misses running over a few of them. Calling out an unworried, "Get out of the way!" when he nearly clips a guy in the shoulder and sends him diving on the ground to avoid being struck. The man's angry shouting trails after you both, a dim, warbling sound that's quick to die over the wind and heavy rumble of the motorcycle. But Paul's laughter almost sounds louder than all of it. Pitching high over the balmy night air like the cackle of a coyote out on a hunt. 

You feel a little guilty, but you can't keep yourself from answering with a similar laugh, all light and airy. Welling up from your chest with an ease that makes you feel alive. It's like you've shed a skin, almost. It's easy to pretend that you're flying. It feels like you are, with the wind pulling at your clothes, nudging at the shape of your face like the sweep of prodding fingers. You can't really remember a time when you've felt so far above the world, miles from your worries and insecurities, soaring past the anxieties that keep you awake at night.  

You twist back a little to look over your shoulder, emboldened by the rush in your veins to watch as the man clumsily scrambles up from the ground, kicking up a spray of dirt as he lifts an arm in the air to flip you both off. 

"Sorry!" you yell after him, but it doesn't keep you from smiling. 

Eventually Paul veers off of the beach, cutting through a parking lot that he uses to merge onto a vacant street. The boardwalk grows smaller and smaller behind you, the lights of the rollercoaster and rotating Ferris wheel growing dim until it's hardly more than a few faint dots in the distance, just barely peeking out over the roofs of buildings. He shoots through downtown, blowing past a redlight without any care. He doesn't slow a single time, ignoring the speed limit like it's merely a suggestion. The way he drives is insane, and it makes you wonder if he has a license at all. Probably not. 

Uncertainty unfurls when the houses making up the edges of town grow sparse, thinning out until you only pass a few odd little homes bordering the edges of the backroad he's taken you on. You ignore it when he turns his bike, veering off the worn asphalt and onto a dirt path. It looks well-traveled enough, thankfully. The headlight on his motorcycle spilling over the beaten dirt, highlighting the prints left by a vehicle's tread that seems fairly recent. 

Apprehension prickles at the nape of your neck, that old instinctual feeling again. It weighs a little in your gut like a physical thing. Your brush it off, telling yourself that you're only being paranoid. But a pair of animal eyes peek out from the field growing on the side of the road, glimmering in the passing headlight like a couple of coins; it seems like a bad omen. 

You keep your voice trapped in your mouth, letting your concerns fall silent as he guides the bike up an incline, driving it up a path where tree branches stretch out like reaching fingers. It's like you've been holding your breath, keeping yourself suffocated as the motorcycle eats up the ground, powering up the hill until it levels out into something flat. You see immediately why he brought you here. 

From this high up, you can see it all. The entirety of Santa Carla is laid like stars glimmering in the night. Streetlamps, porchlights, and the entire boardwalk flickering in the distance in shimmers of gold and silver. It looks so small from this perspective. Like the little model towns that your grandfather used to make in his basement. Like you could walk right up to it and place a building in your palm. It's a stunning view. One that makes you wish you were able to take a picture of for safe keeping. 

You've hardly noticed that he's parked the bike, stopped it close to the edge of the hill and killed the engine. But once you realize the silence it becomes heavy. But not necessarily in a way that's uncomfortable. It's a blanket draped over your shoulders, soft and inviting. You have to remind yourself to move, unmounting the bike to stand up on legs that have become weak from the heavy thrumming of the engine. 

Paul's quick to follow, shifting up with an ease that you're a little jealous of. Your muscles feel like Jello. It makes you quick to walk over to the picnic table positioned out in the center of the barren lot, settling yourself up on the weathered wood to shake some feeling back into your legs. Paul is fast to follow, practically skipping over, jewelry jangling as he jumps himself up on the tabletop. He begins absentmindedly picking at the chipping old paint, tearing it from the notches that have been carved into the wood, defaced to immortalize the initials of lovers.  

"What did you bring me all the way out here for?" you ask. 

"This is one of the nicer spots in Santa Carla. Figured I'd show you." 

"Oh, yeah?" you tilt your head, rotating a little in your perch on the bench. "What's the best?" 

A smile pushes at the corners of his mouth. It's another one of those amused, secretive little looks. Like he's in on something. "Maybe I'll show ya some time." 

"I'd like that," you agree. There's a small bout of silence then. You've gained the feeling back in your legs and it inspires you to sit up from the table, stretching out your limbs as you approach the rounded edge of the hill. A delicate breeze rolls up the slop, shuffling the leaves with a delicate hiss, carrying the scent of wildflowers and the hint of the ocean. It such a simple thing but it abates some that paranoia, loosening its talons, even if just a little bit. 

The weight of the cassette tapes in your pocket press against your stomach. Nudging there like a reminder. It has you glancing back over your shoulder, and you see that he's already watching you. The way he holds himself is relaxed, but there's something intense reflecting in his gaze, burning and hot. It makes your heart skip a beat, body flushing with warmth. It could be the shadows, but you think his smile grows. 

There's a flash of his teeth. "You'd have to stick around for that." 

He doesn't wait for your response as he shoves off of the table, bounding from it with a jump that rattles the silver on his chest. It's like you're both magnetized to each other, unable to stray far now that you've crossed paths. A part of it is almost frightening. You've had crushes of course. A couple random fling before, and a relationship - as complicated and fleeting as it had been, but you can honestly say that you've never been so swept away by a guy. Never enough to that'd be willing to become an accomplice in theft; never enough that you'd get on the bike of stranger and let them carry you off to spot in the middle of nowhere. It's as though all of your common sense has been picked up and dumped out on the ocean tide. Even worse is that you really don't care. 

Maybe you're just caught in the whirlwind of it all. Spun up by the excitement of finally being able to do things on your own terms without the worry of hundreds of people watching. Or maybe you're just addicted to the discovery; when you look at him, all of those concerns seem to melt away. Thinning and evaporating like snow in the summer sun. It's terrifying. It's thrilling. 

"Maybe I will, maybe I won't." 

It's almost as though he takes it as a challenge, stepping into your space like it's where he belongs. His cologne sweeps back over you again, bold and muddled with the spice of tobacco. Combined with his proximity it makes you a little dizzy, fingertips prickling with warmth as he fixes you with a stare that seems the seize you, burrowing down like he's cradling some delicate, wild piece of your soul. 

You just barely notice when his hand slips into your coat pocket to grasp the tapes tucked inside, like he's confirming that you still have them. He seems pleased when his fingertips slide over the hard plastic covers, as though it means something to him. His face hovers just a little above yours, noses nearly brushing. With the glow of the moon emitting from above, it makes it easy to see how his gaze flickers down to your lips. Like he's considering if he should try kissing you or not. You don't think you'd mind if he did. 

"At least you'll have something to me remember me by," he muses softy. 

"I haven't known you for very long but believe me when I say that there's a very slim chance of me forgetting you." 

Emboldened by your response, he cocks his head, daring to lean forward just enough that you can feel the faint press of his lips on yours. Not kissing, but just enough to tease the possibility. It's a little pathetic how something so simple has heat licking through your veins. The line you're treading on feels dangerous. Like you're dangling on the edge of some unknown territory. And you are. But what makes it so particularly daunting is the uncertainty of where this might go. 

Something about Paul is already addictive. Like a shot of liquor after a long week. You've always been the type to keep yourself from getting too attached, but he's like an adrenaline rush. It'd be so easy to get hung up on a guy like him, and the last thing you want to be is one of those women lying awake in bed, staring up at the ceiling while they fantasize about the one that could have been. Spending the remainder of their years living back in the memory of that one night in the past. 

He's a temptation that you've never had to face before. Bursting into your life with all the subtly of a firecracker, abrupt, explosive and invigorating. You want to hold onto that. Grip it tight with greedy fingers and enjoy this - whatever this is - for all it's worth. 

He speaks then, his voice has dipped into something low and hushed. Almost like a secret being exchanged, a promise being made. "I'm happy to hear it, but I like to be thorough." 

You think he's the one who kisses you first, but you really can't be sure. It a little daunting, how it completely sweeps you up. There isn't any of that dramatic stuff, like explosions, or fireworks, but something about it just feels right. It already makes you breathless. Time stretching out and yawning, heat draping over your body like you've been dipped in warm honey. 

The way he kisses you is starved. Passionate and fast like he's trying to have all of you at once. His teeth nip at your lips, a sting that he soothes with the tip of his tongue when you gasp. There's hardly any build up. He approaches it like he seemingly does everything else; just pure intensity as he reaches for you with eager hands that seem to be everywhere all at once. Squeezing at your hips, pressing down at the base of your spine to mold you close to him, and then he's cradling your jaw with chilled fingers. 

You can't help moaning into his mouth, a quiet noise that's still definitely heard if the way he smiles into the kiss is any indication. You aren't bothered by his smugness though, only encouraged by it. You slip a hand over his stomach, feeling the lithe muscle under cool skin. It's cute when his abdomen twitches under your palm. He reprimands you by biting at your lip again, only enough for a slight sting, but you really think that it was only an excuse for him to dip his tongue into your mouth, letting you fully taste each other. 

There's the subtle sugar of something sweet on his lips. Probably some kind of treat from back on the boardwalk. It mixes with the distinct rich pepper of tobacco, all warmth and cream on his tongue, but there's the edge of something almost metallic lurking beneath it all, almost as though he's been sucking on pennies. It isn't enough to be distracting, and you can't be bothered to pay it any mind as he turns you around without breaking the kiss to blindly back you up until your lower back nudges into the rough lip of the picnic table. 

He practically mauls you once he has you pinned, consuming you with a hunger that's infectious. It has you tugging at his hair, clawing your nails through the thick of his soft waves, dragging them along his scalp and it rewards you with a throaty groan that has sparks shooting up your spine. He must enjoy it because he's breaking his mouth away from your and immediately latches it onto your throat. The scratch of his stubble as you arching into his body, your head lolling back to bare more of your throat which he quickly takes advantage of. His tongue laps out at your skin like he's drinking up the subtle salt there, sucking softly like he wants to brand you with the shape of his mouth. 

The gasp that leaves you is wrangled when he wedges a thigh between your legs, bending his knee to press it flush against your cunt. Your grip on his hair squeezes tight. Holding on like it might help keep you grounded. Like it might keep you from float up to the heavens. The weight of his leg on you makes you cruelly aware of the wet patch that's dampened the center of your underwear. It's a little embarrassing, already being this worked up by a little making out, but he lights you on fire with a frustrating ease. It's unfair how he's already taking you apart piece by molten piece. 

He licks up the base of your throat, sucking at the edge of your jaw before he speaks against your skin like he doesn't want to pull away. "Can I eat you out?" 

You swear the question could have knocked you out. He says it casually, but his words are slurred. Almost like he's drunk. It's all moving so fast. Your head is spinning, and your heart is racing, chugging blood through the same artery that he traces with his tongue. It's hard to remember how you've gotten here, curled up in a stranger's arms while he grinds his thigh between your legs. This night has gone completely off the rails. Hurtled far past a simple night out to a haze of chaos and heat. It doesn't really make any sense to be here right now. 

But when Paul manages to tear himself away from your neck to meet your stare something seems to fall into place. You don't think you'd want this night to have gone any other way. 

There's a desperation glimmering in the blue of his eyes, bright and hungry. It has you contained in place. Swallowed up by the fervor in his expression, the gluttony in how he holds onto you. 

At this point you don't think it needs to be said, but you find yourself nodding anyway. "Yeah - yes. Fuck, please." 

He flashes you a grin before he's dropping down onto his knees without any fanfare. You decide to help him out a little, planting your hands onto the tabletop to heave yourself up on the surface, spreading your legs open to make room for him. It's brazen, the short length of your skirt scrunching and riding up high on your thighs, flashing the pale fabric of your underwear. His attention zeros in there immediately, stuck between your legs with an intensity that's almost concerning. He's looking at you like you're a piece of meat. All splayed out. It's a compromising that almost has embarrassment creeping beneath it all, but there's a perverted brand of delight on his face, and it's mixed with a strange kind of sincerity that has that shame fizzling out. 

He slips a hand up to cup the back of your knee, lifting it up to hook it over his shoulder so he can trail kisses up the sensitive skin of your inner thigh. It's much slower than the starved bites and licks that he had given you earlier, the ones that you can still feel on your neck, aching dully from where he had sucked. It's like he's teasing you now. Too caught up in his own desire to indulge you yet and it feels like torture. Just the weight of his head parting your legs open, the brush of his wild hair against your skin has you flushing with heat. 

Your hips rock on their own, rolling in an effort to seek out friction that isn't there. The press of your underwear on your cunt is like a taunt, applying a barely there pressure that has your lungs skipping with a silent gasp. 

You don't expect the smack that he cracks down on the outside of your leg. It's more surprising than painful, but you jerk anyway, subconsciously trying to escape the smarting that fizzles across your nerves. The look that you shoot him is one of shock, but he doesn't look the least bit apologetic. Expression all smug as he presses his lips down on the crook where your leg joins your pelvis. Slipping his tongue out to lick at the tender skin there, running it along the seam of your underwear. 

"Feelin' greedy?" he smirks up at you, looking so smug that it nearly irritates you. "There's no need to flip out babe, I'll give you what you want." He kisses you over your underwear, gripping both of your knees to spread you open wider, giving him the room to nose at your cunt from over the damp fabric. There's something so vulgar about the way that he mouths at you while you're still wearing panties, circling your clit with the point of his tongue before flattening it to suck through your underwear. 

It makes your spine bow, fire and smoke blazing up your back and smoldering beneath your skin. There's a plea right there, just at the base of your throat but thankfully you don't have to voice it. He slips both of his hands under your underwear and tugs it down roughly, giving away his own impatience as he moves back just enough to be able to rip them down past the heels of your shoes. 

You're pretty sure that he pockets them, bunching them up and stuffing them inside his coat. But you don't get a chance to scold him - not that you would if you were able - because he's dropping his mouth open to lick a stripe up your bare cunt, splitting you open on his tongue. It has your fingers flexing, dragging your nails over the edge of the wood in a wild claw to have something to keep you anchored. It doesn't do much though. Not the chipped, textured paint under your palms, not the faint chill of Paul's hands clamping down on your skin, it fades out into a meaningless blur. Distorted to the sidelines as your brain blocks everything out, banishing it all into a muted background noise as the sensation of his mouth commands all of your focus. 

It's mindless how your body chases after its pleasure, your hips attempting to thrust under the unforgiving hold of Paul's hands to build the pressure coiling hotly in the base your abdomen. His grip is practically steel bands, vices around your skin to hold you open and immobilized while he torments you with the ceaseless drag and curl of his tongue. 

"Paul, come on, please," you beg. Panting out into the sultry summer air. It's stupid how easily he's pulling noises from you. Tense, breathless moans that drift over the hilltop in a shameless stream. It almost makes you a little thankful that he drove you both out here in the private little lookout, far away from potential witnesses. Based on the joined initials etched and written into the wood, presumably with pocketknives and permanent markers, you'd wager that this is a popular date spot. A cute little place for couples to admire the town lights and take advantage of the privacy while they hookup. You definitely aren't the first person to be splayed out here on this table. A part of you wonders if you aren't the first person that he's brought out here. 

You try to ignore the flickering of something stinging and unwelcome that lashes its way through your chest. It's obscure and startling, blinking in and out like a ghost, and you're quick to snuff it out. To turn it over and ignore it entirely. If you didn't know any better, you'd say that it felt suspiciously close to jealousy, but that's a route that you aren't going to dare to go down - a load of baggage that you have no desire to unpack. Not for a stranger, no less. 

Your hand pries itself from the edge of the table to grip onto his hair, fingers slipping down through his roots to thread through in the way you think he likes. You're almost instantly gifted with a pleased groan and his tongue dips inside of you, lapping up your taste like he's starved for it. 

You nearly sob when he pulls himself back from you, parting his lips from your cunt just enough to mumble out something; his voice slurs, thrumming against your clit as he speaks. "Don't worry about being rough, pull harder if you want." And then he's smothering himself back between your thighs. You do as he says, mostly out of reflex as he traces over you in tight circles that has your nerves running hot, your muscles burning as though you've been submerged in steaming water. 

A finger prods at your cunt, running up just along his mouth to get it slick enough and then he's thrusting it inside without little warning, filling you up with a smooth stroke. You moan out raggedly when he suckles at your clit just as he crooks his finger, brushing it in deft swipes. Your grip locks on tight in his hair, digging in through long, golden strands while he practically turns you inside out. Your grasp has to be painful, but he doesn't seem affected by it in the slightest. His effort actually seems to double each time your fingers tug and claw, like he might like the sting. 

You don't know why you enjoy the thought of that, but you do. Your hips jerk sharply at the idea of it. Of how he might react from your nails slashing down his back, leaving red cuts behind. Reminders of you on his body. How he'd sound while you bite bruises on his neck and shoulders; the bursts of red and plum placed where they would peek out from the worn collar of his shirt.  

"Oh, my god - Paul." 

You can already feel your orgasm rising up, winding up your body in an almost violent twist. It's eating at you rapidly. Climbing up at a rate that you can hardly track. You can feel yourself tensing; each individual muscle drawing up. Your lungs squeeze in your ribcage, rendering you breathless. You turn into a broken record, a stream of words and his name spilling out of your like a chant. It hits you like a freight train. Searing and rippling up your body in a splashing of stars that leaves you keening into the open air. 

He doesn't part from you, coasting you through the remnants of your orgasm with the stroke of his fingers and tongue, sucking steadily at your clit until your thighs shake. You have to tug him away by the grip on his hair, pulling his head back sharply to give yourself relief before the pleasure could become too much. He yields to you reluctantly, nipping pointed bites up the tender flesh of your legs as you drag him to stand. 

You feel almost outside of yourself as you grip onto his shoulders, clutching onto his coat while he crawls himself over you, notching his hips against your own like he belongs there. You're still floaty from your orgasm, pleasure thrumming and hopping along your nerves in a pleasant buzz but somehow you still want more. It burns and burrows deep in the pit of your stomach, lighting a fire in your veins that you haven't felt in a long time. Not like this, at least. 

His lips crash against yours in a meeting of teeth and tongue. It's almost animalistic, how you both reach for each other. His hands are all over you again, grabbing at everything he can like he's trying to commit the shape of your body to memory, like he wants to brand the warmth of your skin on his palms. And you're just as desperate. Your own slip down as a pair, reaching with trembling, frantic fingers for the buckle of his belt. You struggle blindly with it for a minute, fingertips slipping uselessly over the smooth metal from the way they tremble. You'd swear if your mouth wasn't occupied.

You can taste yourself on him, just subtly sweet and smearing on your own lips. It's dirty. Filthy, but it only makes it hotter; the very idea of breaking the kiss seems like torture, so when he huffs a laugh in your mouth and tries to pull away to help you with his belt, your other hand moves on its own to cradle the back of his skull. Keeping him pressed to your lips with an annoyed groan. 

"Don't." You demand into the kiss, nipping lightly at his pout to draw him back in. He complies easily, but that doesn't stop him from laughing a little. 

Finally, you manage to slip the leather free from buckle, tugging it loose from over the prong to pull it open. And then you're fumbling with the zipper, tracing over the metal teeth to find it, tugging it down like it's molten on your fingertips once you do. You're almost delirious with a single goal, slipping your hand down inside to feel him, and you don't hesitate to take him within your palm. He hisses lowly when you grip him, thrusting up in an uneven grind to chase after his own pleasure. 

He pants into your mouth when you swipe your thumb over the head of his cock, smearing a drop of precum to aid in your glide and it makes the clutch of his fingers around your hips squeeze. Bordering close to almost painful, but the ache of it ebbs into an afterthought. He's thick in your hand, so hard that it has to be uncomfortable. You take pity on him, unable to string either of you out any longer than you already have and take him out of his pants. 

He moves like a man possessed now, slipping of his hands down lower to hitch your thighs high around the trim length of his waist, and then he's reaching down between the thin gap of your bodies to bat you hand out of the way, taking ahold of himself. Gripping the base of his cock to slide it between your legs, grinding the head against your clit in teasing strokes. It makes you whine, the sensitivity from your orgasm lights over you like small bolts of electricity and yet you find yourself raising your hips to chase after the feeling. 

"Gonna let me fuck you?" He scatters kisses along the corner of your mouth and the edge of your jaw, much too tender and saccharine for what this is. Cradling you like a lover would despite the ardor and desire saturating the air like the perfume of whisky. It makes a pathetic little piece of you melt, turning syrupy and pliant like a strip of wax held over an open flame. 

You find yourself nodding, swallowing thickly as you try to find your worn voice again. "Yes - just stop teasing." You lock your legs tighter around him, drawing him in closer, aiding his cock in grinding over your pussy like it'd help urge him along, and luckily for you it seems to snap through the rest of his restraint. There's no warning as he guides himself down to your entrance and drives himself inside in a single stroke. 

He punches the air free from your lungs as he buries himself to the hilt, the both of you groaning in relief through the stretch. He's so deep, holding you open around his girth, and you know that you're going to feel him for a few days after this. You hope that you do. You want this night to be vivid in your memory for as long as possible. You want it tattooed into your skin, stained behind your eyes like watercolors, sunk bone deep. 

You can't remember the last time you've been able to exist beyond the pressures and judgement of the world. A thousand miles above prying eyes, confiscated within the hushed intimacy of your own bubble - except for the first time in what might be forever, you aren't alone in it. It's a shard space, gone from quiet and lonely to fiery and scorching. Howling in the dark. You think it's too late. You really are going to be one of those women staring up at the ceiling, fantasizing about that one perfect night from a decade ago. But right now, you really don't give a damn about that. 

All of the thoughts rattling around in your brain are turning into mush, liquifying like hot sugar on stove. It's like you've been engulfed. Ate up by the wet bite of his mouth on your throat, the persistent weight of his hands clumsily tugging up at your shirt and bra to ruck it them over your breasts. He doesn't take his lips off of your neck once; it's like he's been captivated by the smooth stretch of skin, lapping the flat of his tongue over the column of it like he wants to stain the taste of you on his mouth. But it doesn't keep his hands from taking greedy handfuls of your breasts. 

You gasp when his chilled fingertips squeeze around the shape of them, the frigid rings around his fingers force you to gasp and arch into his palms. He plucks at your nipples, circling around them in tight circles that has your voice pitching as he drives his cock into you. The way he fucks you is unrestrained but no less practiced, burying himself into you with calculated strokes that have you tearing at the seams. 

You don't know if you've ever felt so full, so spread out in your entire life. Granted you aren't the most experienced person. A lot of your practice coming from an ex that frequently left you high and dry and a couple of flings you met from the bar. One of which wasn't the most satisfying affair considering that his roommate had burst in before things could really get good. But Paul has to be the first guy that's ever really taken your pleasure into any real regard. All the others were quick to get you off with a sense of obligation, as though your pleasure was transactional so they wouldn't feel too much guilt for using you to get themselves off afterwards. 

He fucks you like he wants to. Like he's hellbent on making you cum as quickly as possible. Like he needs your pleasure to satisfy his own. 

"You're so hot," he groans. His teeth clamp down on the muscle in your neck like he might tear flesh, inspiring a muted ache up your neck but he lets go before it becomes too violent. His voice is all gutted, like he's growing drunk on the bliss cutting though his body. "Fucking squeezing me." 

He sounds just as wrecked, and it you can't help how your cunt clenches down tight around his cock, strangling another rough groan from the base of his chest. The small silver plates of the ornamental belt he has fixed to his coat dig into your exposed skin, pinching at your abdomen from how closely he pins your bodies together. It's like he's trying to join the two of you together, pressing into you until you live in the same body. 

You tear uselessly at his shoulders, digging your nails into the thick material of his jacket so wildly that you think you'd probably be able to rip it. You pant into his hair as he laps at your jugular, breathing in the fresh, chemical fragrance of the hairspray that styles the soft gold in selfish gulps. All of it cumulates, tiny little elements stacking on top of the other until the ecstasy starts to raise again. Maybe it's just riding off the afterglow of the first orgasm, but somehow, this feels like it's going to be stronger. More devastating than the one that still hums under your skin. 

You almost mourn that you're so close already, and a part of you tries to shun off the thick rapture building between your thighs entirely. You don't want this night to end yet. You aren't prepared for the awkward silence that will inevitably come next. You don't want to live through the silent ride back into town, where he'll drop you off at your ramshackle hotel room and presumably drive out of your life forever, leaving you to stand outside on the balcony outside your door while you listen to engine of his bike fade out and grow silent like a dying pulse. 

But he seems bound and determined to have you reach your high. One of his hands strays down from your chest, sweeping low until his knuckles are dragging over your clit in firm figure eights. A moan shudders through you, your ribcage wracking from what almost sounds like a sob. He doesn't let up though, driving you directly towards a yawning precipice that promises to swallow you up whole, and you can't do much else but cling onto him like he's a buoy in a storm. 

"Paul - I - " 

"Let me feel it. You're so close, baby, just let go." He bites at the shape of your ear; voice low and rich as he fucks himself into you like he wants to watch you black out. "I want to feel you cum all over me. You can take it." 

Like a slave to his voice your body draws up tight, muscles bunching up to strip you down of all you're worth. You kind of hate him for hurtling you towards the edge already, but you can't keep yourself from chasing after it. It's dirty, the cum between your thighs squelching lewdly each time he plunges into you, his skin meeting yours in damp smacks. And yet he cradles your cheek like you're something delicate, running the print of his thumb over the swell of your cheekbone in a gentle brush. It's all a juxtaposition of the other, and it has you crumbling. 

"You'll taste so good, just let go for me." The fires burn a little higher, white-hot and lashing, turned into an inferno that uses your bones as kindling. His teeth drag over your skin, sharp points gliding over flesh. You don't remember them feeling so lethal, like they could rip you open with a single touch, but it's hard to focus through the haze of it all. He bites deep and you swear that skin gives under the pressure, nerves lighting up light they've been doused in fire, parting like butter under a serrated knife, and the world erupts in a flurry of embers.  

This must be what it's like to be struck by lightning, static curling your toes and fingers, cosmos bursting in your eyes. You think you might scream. A chorus of his name that sounds like a prayer and a plea for help all at once as rapture's injected directly into your veins. It's almost brutal as pleasure rolls its way through you, seizing you up and stripping you to piece like a burst of dynamite. Just like before he fucks you all the way through it, pumping himself deep inside until he shudders, cock twitching inside of your cunt as he spills over into his own orgasm. 

It's almost abrupt how he drops you both back down onto the support of the table, leaning his body over yours like he's gone boneless. Crowding you in with his weight while he continues to grind himself against you without pulling out, drawing his pelvis on your overstimulated clit. You moan at the static searing through you, writhing under his body as he guides out your pleasure until it stings. 

But you can't find the strength to stop him, staring past his shoulder and up at the sky while your thoughts spin and flatline. You feel like you're floating, admiring the way the stars above twinkle and shift in an iridescent sheen with a drunken kind of fascination. You've felt good after sex before, but you've never been reduced to a state like this. It's like you're no longer in your body, tethered to it only by a thin, pulsing string, almost giddy from the pleasure. 

It's like you've been cocooned in warmth, something alcoholic tingling at your fingertips as he sucks and laps at your throat. Groaning softly while he cradles your skull, just barely thrusting himself into you like he doesn't want to stop. And despite how sensitive you've become; you don't think you want him too either. You're sense of time has gone all fuzzy, turned sluggish and pleasantly warm as you drift on your high, all loose limbed and heavy. 

It could be seconds or hours before he finally parts his mouth from you, a hollow sting digging into your neck as canines slip free. It's strange. Far from the bites that he had scattered over your throat before. It feels deep. Like he'd broken skin and pierced deep. He still hasn't pulled his face from the crook of your neck, licking up your throat like it's layered in sugar. Your skin is warm. A starling sensation against the weird chill of his tongue. Damp and hot. For a moment you think that it might be his spit, but it's not cold enough for that, trickling lazily down your throat like a slow leak. 

You're face pinches in confusion and will yourself to remove your arm from around his shoulder. An almost herculean task considering that your limbs have turned to lead from the dopey effects of your orgasm, but you force yourself to move. Years have passed by the time your fingers curl around your neck, dragging over your damp flesh to collect the liquid that's smearing over it. 

You blink sluggishly when you raise your hand up over your face, trying to focus past the blur that smudges around the edges of your vision. For a moment you think that you're hallucinating it. That the dark liquid staining your fingertips, glittering in the dark, tinged red and running hot from your body heat isn't real. You're trapped as you stare at it dumbly, horribly transfixed by the thick of it dripping down the crook of a finger in a single rivulet. 

You think your heart stops, a wild panic setting in as you scramble beneath him to try and slip free. But suddenly the comforting weight of him is now as unyielding as a snare. A cry locks in your throat, snagged behind the catch of your quivering lungs. 

A hand catches your wrist as you struggle, silver jewelry winking in the dark like a warning, horrible talons sprouting from its fingertips. It paralyzes you in place, the ice pumping through your frantic heart, turning your lethargic limbs into heavy stone. 

It's then that he chooses to lift his head from the vulnerable stretch of the throat that you had offered so foolishly, placing a kiss to the ache that you now know is bitten flesh. Your thoughts run into scattered cries, a litany of voices rattling around in your skull like taunts and yells. Shrieks that chant, told you so, over and over again in a bitter, acidic stream. And then you hear the echo of his voice. 

It's like a nightly thing. 

God, he had been toying with you this entire time. 

You can't escape. Too weak to move. Too overcome with fear - drained and so wrung dry that the adrenaline singing throughout your system falls useless. Your bones tremble with a broken cry, tears tainting your waterline, but even that isn't enough to keep you from seeing him as he is now. The logical part of your brain scrambles to find reason, but there is none as flashes of burning amber pin you down - the eyes of an animal's, peering from a face that's gone bestial. Inhuman. A demon's face stretched over a human skull; jaw smeared with a rich red like a feral dog that's been feeding on a fresh corpse. The smile that you had once loved is now tainted. Ruined by the blood that soaks his mouth; lips peeled back into a grin. But that charm is ruined, stretching into something sadistic and sharp, violent teeth baring in the dark. 

It's cruel when he guides the hand that he has caught within his own up to his mouth, easily bending your limb, overpowering you as though you aren't resisting him; made instead out of weakened clay and not muscle and bone. He snickers when you try to jerk your arm from his hold, like you're a mean kitten that he's picked up by the scruff. 

"Don't worry, I'm not going to hurt you, sweetheart." 

You don't believe him. And suddenly the conversation you had back in the record store seems like a twisted joke. You think back on all the smiles he had passed you then. Like he was in on a joke that you weren't. But now you are and it's like the universe is laughing at you too for being so dumb, digging the knife in deeper for being so naive. The cassette tapes in your pocket are now as weighted and crushing as stones. 

His tongue slips out past his mouth, lips parting as he takes your fingers into his mouth, licking up the blood there like it's something precious. A drug in short supply. Despite the amusement glinting in his eyes, there's an unmistakable fringe of something intense and determined peeking through it all, as though you've made a bargain that you didn't know you were signing. Etched out your name in blood and written over your soul for the taking. 

"I think you're too sweet to part with, babe. " He places nauseatingly tender kiss to the palm of your hand - a mockery, and dead in the center, where you'd maybe slice your hand for a blood pact, and you know now that you aren't going to escape. At least not with your life intact. His eyes gleam like gold. Like two roaring fire pits. Hellmouths opening wide to consume you, bones, blood and all. 

"I think I might keep you."  

[graciereadshannigram]

Scifibabe's '24 Kinktober Masterlist

hi y'all, so stoked to have you here!

below are links to each day’s prompt with a brief preview of the fics. click the links to find full summaries, relevant tags, and the ao3 link :)

xoxoxo,

Grace

Oct. 1: Handjobs – Caught In His Desire

ft. Hannibal providing his particular brand of "help" while Will's mind is on fire

Oct. 2: Voyeurism – Press Play for Horror

ft. a sex tape left for Jack, they flip!, and a bonus Jimmy + Zeller appearance

Oct. 3: Public Sex – Neon Desire

ft. bathroom sex, and top Will/bottom Hannibal

Oct. 4: Sensory Deprivation – In Hannibal's Hands

ft. autistic Will, an established relationship, and coming untouched

Oct. 5: Rough Sex – Where It Hurts

ft. vulnerable bottom Hannibal and protective top Will

Oct. 6: Anonymous Sex – Predators in the Night

ft. alternate first meeting, dark Will, top Hannibal, and more bathroom sex

Oct. 7: Virgin – Seduced for the First Time

ft. fun use of Will's empathy, top Hannibal, and a light daddy kink

Oct. 8: Cock Warming – Where Thought Dissolves

ft. agitated Will, Dom Hannibal, and subspace as therapy

Oct. 9: Praise Kink – Devour You Whole

ft. manipulation, Hannibal catching feelings, and insecure Will

Oct. 10: Face Sitting/Overstimulation – Not So Fast

ft. needy omega Hannibal, and sleepy but enthusiastic alpha Will

Oct. 11: Knife Play – Want to Feel You from the Inside

ft. what if Will showed up at Hannibal's after being released from the BSHCI with a knife instead of a gun?

Oct. 12: Breath Play/Dirty Talk – Breathless Submission

ft. under-negotiated kink but everybody has a good time anyway

Oct. 13: Aftercare – In the Quiet I Am Yours

ft. an established relationship and Will gently surfacing from subspace

Oct. 14: Collaring – In the Temple of Our Minds

ft. a collaring ceremony in their shared memory palace

Oct. 15: Teasing – Just a Touch

ft. Will stuck in a vehicle with Jack and Alana while Hannibal sends him provocative texts

Oct. 16: Nipple Play – Marveling at a Spoon

ft. stoned Hannibal, need i say more?

Oct. 17: Period Sex – Where Flesh Bleeds and Hungers

ft. trans Will, some mild gender dysphoria, and a Hannibal all too eager to make his Will feel better

Oct. 18: Massaging – Gentle Revelations

ft. non-sexual intimacy and vulnerable Hannibal

Oct. 19: Fisting – Hush Now

ft. daddy!Will, need i say more?

Oct. 20: Cuckolding – After Everything We've Been Through

ft. a woman who looks suspiciously like Alana, straight smut (stick with me pls), possessive Hannibal, and Will crying during sex.

Oct. 21: Bath Sex – Something Sacred

ft. mute Hannibal recovering from his wounds post-fall and a very tender Will

Oct. 22: Thigh Fucking – Vocal

ft. a shared motel room with only one bed, a darker Will, and bonus best friend Bev POV

Oct. 23: Breeding – In Our Own Way

ft. Will matching Hannibal's freak

Oct. 24: Somnophilia – call it love (because it is)

ft. Hannibal being creepy set sometime during S1

Oct. 25: Pussy Slapping – Count

ft. Will's been naughty!! with another appearance of trans Will :)

Oct. 26: Pegging – A Hollow Imitation

ft. an intense level of pining, Molly being a great sport, and Will coming to some rather obvious conclusions

Oct. 27: Hate Sex – Into the Abyss

ft. feral, animalistic sex following a violent altercation, and top Will

Oct. 28: Impact Play – Hurt Me

ft. Will needing release after a long day and Hannibal being only too happy to provide

Oct. 29: Branding – Blade Kissed Flesh

ft. a very possessive Will Graham and a happy-to-go-along-with-it Hannibal Lecter

Oct. 30: Sex Pollen – Into the Woods

Chapter 1, Chapter 2

ft. magical realism, Will's Becoming, and a lot of outdoor sex

Oct. 31: Free for All – I'm So Hot

ft. SELF-CEST and hand wave-y time travel stuff

[dizzywhims]

By chance is there is a version of your Sour Legacy Challenge rules that is text only? I’m visually impaired and my screen reader does not work well with the graphic format. The DX is a recent thing — happened during the pandemic and worsened since — so I’m new to accessibility options on my tablet/computer. I’m tech savvy, but this is a whole different world to me now and I feel bad asking, but I don’t have anyone to translate/type out things for me. Much thanks xx

Ah, I'll type it out here! Next time I make a challenge I'll keep that in mind. Have a good one!

Sour Legacy Challenge

Summary: They say trauma is cyclical and fame is fleeting. So how will one homeless, heartbroken 17-year-old with a dream affect the next 10 generations to come?

Guidelines:

Play on whichever lifespan suits your gameplay style. I'll be using Simkhira's lifespans so I can take my time with each generation. If you want a real challenge, stick to normal.

Your heirs can be whatever gender you please. Feel free to set your own heir rules, just make sure to prioritize the generational goals first.

You can sign off on each generation once you fulfill the aspiration(s), reach the top level of the career, master all the required skills, complete all the generational goals and have the next heir reach Young Adulthood (YA).

Build a graveyard where all the heirs of the legacy will rest. Keep their ghosts alive and complete the Sugar Skull collection by the end of the challenge in remembrance of them.

Zero: Brutal

Summary: God it's brutal out here. You're 17, you're dropping out of high school and you've found yourself completely on your own with one dream: become a pop star.

Aspiration(s): Musical Genius

Traits: Gloomy, Music Lover, Self-Assured

Career(s): Pop Star

Skills: Guitar, Piano, Singing

Generational goals: Start as a teenager with $100 and a guitar. Make two best friends. Drop out of school when you're a B-lister. Reach global superstardom.

One: Traitor

Summary: As the child of a teenage pop star, you're life is as glamorous as it is chaotic. You're used to being loved. But, will anyone ever be in love with you?

Aspiration(s): Serial Romantic

Traits: Romantic, Insider, Self-Absorbed

Career(s): Trendsetter

Skills: Charisma, Photography, Writing

Generational goals: Have negative relationships with all your exes. Elope, have a child with, and divorce a noncommittal sim all within two weeks.

Two: Driver's License

Summary: Your bff's house was your sanctuary from a parent with a revolving door of partners. You're not sure you'll be good at it, but a secure family of your own is all you crave.

Aspiration(s): Big Happy Family

Traits: Family-Oriented, Maker, Perfectionist

Career(s): Plopsy Seller

Skills: Parenting and any two skills related to your Plopsy business

Generational goals: Live in the suburbs your entire life. Date and break up with your childhood bff as a teen, and then marry them as a Young Adult. Have a dramatic divorce before your children grow up.

Three: 1 Step Forward, 3 Steps Back

Summary: Your parents divorce destroyed your idyllic childhood. You move as far away as you can the second you're old enough and vow to never be like them...

Aspiration(s): Mt. Komorebi Sightseer and Extreme Sports Enthusiast

Traits: Adventurous, Loves Outdoors, Bro

Career(s): Part-Time Barista

Skills: Rock Climbing, Snowboarding

Generational goals: Love a hot-headed sim with 1+ other bad traits. Have their kid but never marry them. Keep a close relationship with your siblings but not your parents. Complete the Simmies collection.

Four: Deja Vu

Summary: You're great at pretend. Especially pretending that one parent isn't crazy and the other doesn't love the slopes more than you. Might as well make a career out of it.

Aspiration(s): Master Actor/Actress

Traits: Ambitious, Foodie, Childish

Career(s): Actor/Actress

Skills: Acting, Dancing, Fitness

Generational goals: Live in Del Sol Valley. Marry one famous actor/actress and become enemies with another. Have a child that is a celebrity with a bad reputation.

Five: Good 4 U

Summary: Child stardom often comes at a price, no matter who your parents are. You bunker down in the desert where the people act strange, but at least they don't hate you.

Aspiration(s): Villainous Valentine and Strangerville Mystery

Traits: Lazy, Hot-Headed, Noncommittal

Career(s): Job Hopper (meaning you just switch jobs often)

Skills: Video Gaming, Juice Fizzing

Generational goals: Have a bad reputation and lose all childhood stardom by YA. Have children from multiple failed relationships. Never hold down the same job for longer than a season.

Six: Enough For You

Summary: Self-sufficiency was how you dealt with a deadbeat parent. You strive to be nothing like them and you work hard to achieve that. But will it ever be enough?

Aspiration(s): Renaissance Sim

Traits: Geek, Neat, Proper

Career(s): Have 3 different careers over time, but get to Level 10 in 1

Skills: Follow the aspiration guidelines for skills (since you have to develop so many for Renaissance Sim)

Generational goals: Earn 2 or more college degrees. Adopt 1 child and make them an A student w/high responsibility and low emotional control. Complete snow globes and postcards collections.

Seven: Happier

Summary: In your adoptive home, emotions were weakness. Now you struggle to keep your head on straight, and all you want is a peaceful life surrounded by furry friends.

Aspiration(s): Friend of the Animals and Country Caretaker

Traits: Loner, Erratic, Animal Enthusiast

Career(s): Animal Farmer (not official, just make your money through animal farming)

Skills: Pet Training and Fishing

Generational goals: Only make money through animal related activities. Marry a local in Henford-on-Bagley. Complete the feathers and village fair ribbons collections.

Eight: Jealousy, Jealousy

Summary: Being a farm kid is great... until kids at school ostracize you for it. All you want is a new persona so that no one ever finds out that your childhood bff was a llama.

Aspiration(s): Party Animal and Mansion Baron

Traits: Jealous, Materialistic, High Maintenance

Career(s): Vlogger (again, not official - just make your money through vlogging)

Skills: Media Production and Mixology

Generational goals: Fail out of college after reaching rank 3 of a spirit organization. Have an Enemies-With-Benefits relationship. Befriend and betray a B-list or higher celeb.

Nine: Favorite Crime

Summary: It's bittersweet to think about the damage that we do. Your parent only cared about themself and what they could get from people. Now it's your turn.

Aspiration(s): Public Enemy

Traits: Evil, Kleptomaniac, Hates Children

Career(s): Crime Boss

Skills: Mischief, Handiness, Programming

Generational goals: Your only friend is your romantic partner-in-crime. Have multiple children and have them all taken away but one (your heir). Host a gold star lampoon party.

Ten: Hope Ur Ok

Summary: You're the product of an infamous criminal and 10 generations of trauma. But you refuse to let that make you cold. It's time you break the cycle.

Aspiration(s): Friend of the World and Zen Guru

Traits: Good, Outgoing, Genius

Career(s): Doctor

Skills: Wellness and Logic

Generational goals: Complete the Sugar Skull Collection in honor of your ancestors. Live in an eco-friendly tiny home. Have a romantic relationship with Father Winter.

[louisupdates]

FITFWT23: TOUR RECAP MASTERPOST

FASHION RECAP: NORTH AMERICA, EUROPE (Top Ten)

LITHOGRAPHS and PORTRAITS

OUTRO SONGS

IQ 123: Tour promo and production interviews

TOUR TECHNICAL SPECS [TPI MAGAZINE]

GROUP PHOTOS NA

Louis’ care for his fans

NORTH AMERICA

26 May - Mohegan Sun Arena, UNCASVILLE, CT

27 May - Bank of New Hampshire Pavilion, GILFORD, NH

29 May - Place Bell, LAVAL QC

30 May - Budweiser Stage, TORONTO ON

1 Jun - Blossom Music Center, CUYAHOGA FALLS, OH

2 Jun - Michigan Lottery Amphitheater, STERLING HEIGHTS, MI

FITFWT23: WEEK 1

3 Jun - The Icon Festival Stage, CINCINNATI, OH

6 Jun - Kemba Live! Outdoor, COLUMBUS, OH

7 Jun - TCU Amphitheater at White River State Park, INDIANAPOLIS, IN

9 Jun - Saint Louis Music Park, ST. LOUIS, MO

PORTRAITS, 1st set [10.6.2023]

IG stories and selfies [10.6.2023]

10 Jun - Starlight Theatre, KANSAS CITY, MO

13 Jun - BMO Pavilion, MILWAUKEE, WI

15 Jun - Huntington Bank Pavilion, CHICAGO, IL

16 Jun - The Armory, MINNEAPOLIS, MN

17 Jun - Harrah’s Stir Cove, COUNCIL BLUFFS, IA

19 Jun - Denny Sanford Premiere Center, SIOUX FALLS, SD

21 Jun - Red Rocks Amphitheatre, MORRISON, CO: CANCELLED 😪

24 Jun - Wamu Theater, SEATTLE, WA

26 Jun - Doug Mitchell Thunderbird Sports Center, VANCOUVER BC

27 Jun - McMenamins Edgefield Concerts, TROUTDALE, OR

29 Jun - The Greek Theatre, BERKELEY, CA

PORTRAITS, 2nd set [29.6.2023]

PORTRAITS posted 30.6 [x]

30 Jun - Louis Instagram recap

30 Jun - The Hollywood Bowl, LOS ANGELES, CA

1 Jul - The Chelsea at the Cosmopolitan, LAS VEGAS, NV

3 Jul - Arizona Financial Theatre, PHOENIX, AZ

6 Jul - The Pavilion at Toyota Music Factory, IRVING, TX

7 Jul - Moody Amphitheater at Waterloo Park, AUSTIN, TX

8 Jul - The Cynthia Woods Mitchell Pavilion, THE WOODLANDS, TX

PORTRAITS, 3rd set [9.7.2023]

9 Jul: Louis Instagram recap

10 Jul RTL Radio Interviews

11 Jul - St. Augustine Amphitheatre, ST. AUGUSTINE, FL

13 Jul - Hard Rock Live at Seminole Hard Rock Hollywood, HOLLYWOOD, FL

14 Jul - Yuengling Center, TAMPA, FL

15 Jul - Cadence Bank Amphitheatre at Chastain Park, ATLANTA, GA

18 Jul - Ascend Amphitheater, NASHVILLE, TN

19 Jul - Charlotte Metro Credit Union Amphitheatre, CHARLOTTE, NC

21 Jul - Red Hat Amphitheater, RALEIGH, NC

22 Jul - Merriweather Post Pavilion, COLUMBIA, MD

PORTRAITS, 4th set [23.7.2023]

24 Jul - MGM Music Hall at Fenway, BOSTON1, MA

25 Jul - MGM Music Hall at Fenway, BOSTON2, MA

27 Jul - TD Pavilion at the Mann, PHILADELPHIA, PA

28 Jul - Stone Pony Summer Stage, ASBURY PARK, NJ

29 Jul - Forrest Hills Stadium, NEW YORK, NY

PORTRAITS, 5th set [31.7.2023]

North America FAN EDIT

AUGUST 2023 GAP 1 recap

AWAY FROM HOME FESTIVAL

19 Aug - Parco Bussoladomani, LIDO DI CAMAIORE, Italy

AUGUST 2023 GAP 2 recap (including the 28 launch)

EUROPE

29 Aug - Barclays Arena, HAMBURG

31 Aug - Royal Arena, COPENHAGEN

1 Sep - Spektrum, OSLO [Bigger Than Me anniversary content]

PORTRAITS, 6th set [2.9.2023]

2 Sep - Hovet, STOCKHOLM

4 Sep - Ice Hall, HELSINKI

DORK MAGAZINE PHOTOS 2022 w/ links

5 Sep - Saku Arena, TALLINN

7 Sep - Arena Riga, RIGA

PORTRAITS, 7th set [8.9.2023]

8 Sep - Zalgiris Arena, KAUNAS

10 Sep - Tauron Arena, KRAKOW

11 Sep - Atlas Arena, ŁÓDŹ

13 Sep - Wiener Stadhalle D, VIENNA

14 Sep - Stozice Arena, LJUBLJANA

15 Sep - Budapest Arena, BUDAPEST

PORTRAITS, 8th set [16.9.2023]

17 Sep - Arenele Romane, BUCHAREST

18 Sep - Arena Armeets, SOFIA

20 Sep - Plateia Nerou, ATHENS w/ links to AOTV announcements

SEPTEMBER 2023 GAP recap

1 Oct - Bilbao Arena Miribilla, BILBAO (VIZCAYA)

3 Oct - Altice Arena, LISBON

5 Oct - Wizink Center, MADRID

6 Oct - Palau Sant Jordi, BARCELONA

PORTRAITS, 9th set [7.10]

8 Oct - Pala Alpitur, TURIN

9 Oct - Unipol Arena, BOLOGNA

11 Oct - Rockhal, ESCH-SUR-ALZETTE

12 Oct - Sportspaleis, ANTWERP

14 Oct - Accor Arena, PARIS

15 Oct - Ziggo Dome, AMSTERDAM

17 Oct - Lanxess Arena, COLOGNE

19 Oct - O2 Arena, PRAGUE

20 Oct - Mercedes Benz Arena, BERLIN

PORTRAITS, 10th set [21.10]

22 Oct - Olympiahalle, MUNICH

23 Oct - Hallenstadion, ZURICH

FITFWT23: LATAM promo begins [28.10]

Twitter spree: part 1, part 2, part 3, part 4 Hall Of Fame, [31.10]

IGTV [1.11]: transcript, gifs [x] [x] [x] [x] [x]

8 Nov - 3Arena, DUBLIN

10 Nov - Utilita Arena, SHEFFIELD

11 Nov - AO Arena, MANCHESTER

12 Nov - Ovo Hydro, GLASGOW

14 Nov - Brighton Center, BRIGHTON

15 Nov - International Arena, CARDIFF

17 Nov - The O2, LONDON

18 Nov - Resorts World Arena, BIRMINGHAM

FITFWT23 has come to an end!

ROLLING STONE UK 2023 AWARDS

23 Nov - Camden Roundhouse, LONDON

[ratatatastic]

(Top photo of Niko Mikkola: Joe Puetz / Getty Images)

Now that Niko Mikkola is in the NHL, his older sister, Nina Linnainmaa, laughs hysterically when she remembers the story.

As it goes, 20 years ago, the now-24-year-old St. Louis Blues rookie was in daycare in Finland and was asked what he wanted to be when he grew up.

“Ice hockey was always his thing, so he said that he will be an NHL player,” Linnainmaa recalls, bursting between words. “But he had a backup plan, and that was to be the driver for the trash car. You know, those cars that pick the trash from people’s houses? Garbage truck! That seemed like a compelling option. NHL player or drive the garbage truck.”

When Mikkola is told over the phone that Linnainmaa has shared that with a stranger, you can almost hear the 6-foot-4, 185-pound defenseman’s shoulders slumping.

He sighs and can only surmise that the big truck had him in awe.

“Yeah, probably that’s why,” he says, shifting the conversation back to hockey. “But I think it was NHL player. I always like all kind of sports, so probably that’s my career option.”

It has turned into a wise choice for Mikkola, who scored his first NHL goal in San Jose on Monday night. Just 21 games into his NHL career, the fifth-round pick from 2015 has many in awe of his veteran-like ability. In an era in which young defensemen are coming into the league looking like forwards and wanting to make their marks in the offensive zone, he seems to enjoy coverage responsibility and physicality.

“Yeah, he has a different element in today’s game,” Blues general manager Doug Armstrong says. “He’s a defender, and there’s not a lot of defenders out there anymore.”

It’s as if he chose the more thankless of his two career aspirations.

To learn more about how that make-up evolved, The Athletic spoke to those who have known Mikkola since his garbage-truck-loving days, those who were there for his path through Finnish hockey, and those who identified him as a player who could make an impact at the NHL level.

A young Niko Mikkola skates at an outdoor rink in Finland. (Photo: Nina Linnainmaa.)

Sports were always part of life for Timo and Pirjo Mikkola’s two children: Nina, who is three years older, and Niko.

Timo played ice hockey and was a coach, so that was the family’s main sport in Kiiminki, a municipality that is now part of the larger city of Oulu. Both kids played, and Pirjo would volunteer at the rink.

Mikkola played for his dad from ages 4 to 10, and as he grew older, he was always on the ice.

“He would spend a lot of hours on ice hockey,” Kinnainmaa says. “Even after the official trainings, he always wanted to go to the public rink to skate with his friends.”

Blues defenseman Niko Mikkola rollerblades with his sister, Nina. (Photo: Nina Linnainmaa.)

And if it wasn’t hockey, it was some other competition: soccer, baseball, skiing or orienteering, which combines hiking and navigational skills.

“We used to compete a lot. And it didn’t matter where, we competed,” Linnainmaa says. “Our parents would sometimes play a trick on us and say, ‘Run around the yard, and we will take time.’ They didn’t take time. They were just telling us, ‘OK that was a bit faster than last time. Please try again.’ That was their way (to get rid of us).”

Asked who won those races, Mikkola doesn’t hesitate in responding. “Me.”

Linnainmaa jokes, however, that her younger brother has never won a fight between the siblings. She let that slip in an interview with a Finnish gossip newspaper a few years ago.

“That became like a headline, like shocking news: ‘Niko has not won against his sister on a fight,’” she says. “He was embarrassed.”

Mikkola didn’t find out what his sister had said until he read it in the article.

“I was laughing first, and then I call her,” he says. “I say, ‘Don’t say that again.’ She was laughing.”

So is it true?

“I don’t know,” Mikkola says.

“Yes,” Linnainmaa says. “I was three years older, and Niko moved away when he was 15, so …”

In 2012, Mikkola left Kiiminki to play for the U18 team of the Finnish Elite League’s KalPa, which is located in Kuopio, about 3 1/2 hours away from his home. He would be living on his own, which he admitted was “a little bit scary.” But his parents would visit and bring him food, and Linnainmaa wasn’t worried. Her brother had always been independent. When he was little, he would pack his own hockey bag, making sure he had his helmet, skates, etc.

“It’s not just something he learned,” she says. “It’s something he’s always been.”

Mikkola played just 12 games in his first season for KalPa but suited up in 46 his second year and finished with four goals and 17 points.

“It was kind of like a fresh start,” he says. “I did get more ice time on that team, so I feel like that was good for me for sure.”

Meanwhile, the defenseman was sprouting. His dad is 6-foot-1 and both his mom and sister are 5-9, but Mikkola was well on his way to towering over all. In 2014, the year before he would be eligible for the NHL Draft the first time, he grew three inches.

“Niko was in Kuopio, and I was busy with my university studies, so living in different cities, I didn’t see him often,” Linnainmaa says. “It was like an instant that he became so tall.”

But despite his game developing and his frame extending, Mikkola, not unsurprisingly, went undrafted.

Timo Koskela, a former Blues area scout in Finland, was in his first year with the team when he spotted Mikkola.

“He caught our eye the year he went through the draft, but in the second year, his game really improved,” Koskela says. “But he was a late bloomer, a little bit, over here. He was a lanky kid, but every time when I saw him, the two things that caught my eye: He really wanted to make a difference and his ability to skate as a big man.”

In Mikkola’s third season with KalPa, 2014-15, he had nine goals and 23 points in 37 games on the U20 team and also made his first appearance in the Finnish Elite League. But still, when Central Scouting released its mid-term rankings of European skaters in January, he was not among the 210 on the list, and when the final rankings came out in early April, he was No. 111.

The Blues thought at the time they might be able to get Mikkola in the sixth or seventh round of the 2015 draft. But that changed when Koskela watched him at an international tournament in April, two months before the draft.

“He played really well at the end of the season, and I was nervous because there was a lot of scouts (at the tournament),” Koskela says. “I kind of thought that he wasn’t (a secret) anymore.”

Two years earlier, the Blues had made a trade with New Jersey, sending forward Matt D’Agostini to the Devils for a conditional 2015 seventh-round pick. The condition was if D’Agostini was not re-signed by New Jersey, the selection would become a fifth-rounder.

D’Agostini was not re-signed, therefore the Blues got pick No. 127 from the Devils.

“I remember we were discussing closely, like, ‘What would be the right time to take him?’” Koskela says. “We had a pick early in the fifth round, and we thought that’s the place where we can get this guy.”

Then Koskela had an idea. A day or two before flying to the U.S. for the draft, which was held in Sunrise, Fla., that year, he would drive to Kuopio to meet Mikkola in person.

“I wanted to get an idea of how many teams interviewed him,” Koskela says. “I waited a long time to be the last one who could interview him before the draft, so that’s why I drove and tried to get all the possible information. But you know, Niko was smart. He said he had some interviews.”

Mikkola says he wasn’t fibbing when he told Koskela that he had spoken with 10 to 15 NHL clubs.

Either way, the Blues knew if they wanted him, they had to grab him sooner than later.

“He was late on to our list,” says Bill Armstrong, the club’s ex-director of amateur scouting, who drafted Mikkola. “Timo kept talking about the kid, and then he played well in the late tournament. We went to go see him at the end of the year, and everybody just came away excited about him. You’ve got to give a lot of credit to the area scout for really going to town on him and getting him on the board.”

That year, the Blues took Vince Dunn in the second round, followed by forwards Adam Musil and Glenn Gawdin in the fourth.

“As the head scout, at that point, you’re looking for something of a quality,” Bill Armstrong says. “I’ll give you an example: So, OK, a guy has 110 points in junior, but he has no size and he’s just playing with somebody good, so his game is not going to translate. … He might be a great junior player, a great college player, a great European player, but you want to see NHL qualities so you can sink your teeth in and say, ‘This is why we’re taking this guy.’ With Mikkola, we could sink our teeth into the quality of his size, his compete and his ability on the defensive side of the puck.”

So after Carolina made its pick at No. 126, the Blues took him. Mikkola actually thought the fifth round is about where he’d go, and because typically only players who are projected to go in the first few rounds attend the draft, he was not in Florida.

“No, no, no. He was in the sauna somewhere in Finland,” Bill Armstrong says.

Actually, with Rounds 2-7 taking place in the afternoon, Mikkola was out for dinner with some friends when his agent called to tell him the news.

“I think I was like one step closer,” he says.

Before he became the Blues’ GM, Doug Armstrong worked in Dallas under Bob Gainey, and one of the many lessons he learned from the Hall of Famer applied in the decision to keep Mikkola playing in Finland after he was drafted.

“The feeling was: Until you can play in the World Championships, there’s enough you can develop over there,” Armstrong says. “A lot of organizations see it totally different. They want to get them over to North America as quickly as possible. I personally have no problem leaving a European there until (age) 22-23 and let them just develop in a very comfortable environment.”

Mikkola agreed with the decision.

“I wasn’t ready for the NHL back then, but I was growing up as a player,” he says. “There’s no rush to get there if you’re not ready. So I stayed for a couple of years. I think that was good for me, growing up as a player. … I found more of my game, like my style.”

Growing up, Mikkola had watched skilled Finnish defensemen Teppo Numminen and Kimmo Timonen, along with the likes of Janne Niinimaa and Joni Pitkanen. But he modeled his game more as a sturdy blueliner who liked to defend.

“He has a big frame, and since I’ve known him and played against him, he’s always been willing to go in and battle and lay the body on people,” says Jani Hakanpaa, a Ducks defenseman who played with and against Mikkola in Finland and trains with him in the offseason. “He knows how good he is, and that’s one thing that keeps him going. He always wants to challenge himself and be in your grill out there. He always wants to win and be the best guy out there.”

Koskela remembers a story that demonstrates Mikkola’s competitiveness. It was Mikkola’s second full season playing in the Elite League, and he was eyeing a more prominent role on the team.

“The coach (Pekka Virta) told me that he interviewed Niko and he asked, ‘What’s your goal for the upcoming season?’ and Niko told him, ‘To play in the top six,’” Koskela says. “They had a really good D that year, and the coach told him, ‘OK, this is the list. Who is the guy that you are going to push out from the lineup?’ Niko’s answer was, ‘That’s your problem, but I’m going to be one of those six who’s going to play.’ And he did it.”

“Just be confident and trust myself,” Mikkola says. “I knew I’m going to take that spot on the team. Yeah, I took that top-six spot.”

Niko Mikkola participates in a Blues’ camp in 2017. (Photo: Scott Rovak / St. Louis Blues.)

The Blues would get glimpses of Mikkola’s ability when he visited St. Louis for development camps, rookie tournaments and one training camp.

“The first thing you notice is his size,” Doug Armstrong says. “He’s got great reach, good size. And then you watch him play, and he’s competitive. He was raw at that time, but he is a very competitive person. You either have that or you don’t have that, and he had that right from the get-go.”

For the first time, Mikkola was measuring himself against future NHL players.

“I felt pretty good at that time,” he says. “I just knew that it was my goal to get here someday.”

After one final season in Finland, Mikkola came to North America in 2018-19, making the transition to a new country, new language and smaller rink in San Antonio, Texas, where the Blues’ AHL affiliate played at the time.

Everything translated.

In 70 games, Mikkola had just two goals and nine points, but his defensive play was impressive.

“You don’t have that much time on the puck, so that was the thing maybe took a little time, to move the puck quicker than back in Finland,” he says. “The Blues said that, and I felt that myself. But it was getting better.”

Doug Armstrong remembers the minor-league reports on Mikkola.

“It just re-enforced what you saw his first time: that high level of competitiveness — sort of a North American stature to his game,” he says. “He was willing to play on the edge. He fought. He did the things that aren’t common in European hockey. Then the rougher edges started to get smoothed out. His passing became accurate, quicker, harder. His reading the first play was becoming natural to him and just keeping the game in front of him.”

The World Championship was in Slovakia the next season, and when Jere Lehtinen, a former NHL player who is Finland’s national team GM, reached out to Armstrong. The two were in Dallas together.

“Jere said, ‘We don’t really have him on our radar screen,’ and I just said, ‘Well, he’s played really good in the American League this year,’” Armstrong recalls. “So they brought him in, but he had to go there not knowing if he was going to make the team.”

Jukka Jalonen, the coach of the national team that year, already knew Mikkola, having coached him in 2015 at a U20 international tournament.

“He made an impression for me, but back then, he didn’t have great puck skills,” Jalonen says. “He wasn’t that major, to be honest with you, because he was a younger guy. (But) we hadn’t seen him so much lately because he had played for AHL team. I thought we will need size on our roster in the World Championships. (Lehtinen) was also very positive watching him play on TV from videos.

“When he came in, right away we noticed that he will make the team.”

The configuration of the World Championship lineup is a little bit different because teams play as many as 10 games in 17 days, so they dress eight defensemen. Mikkola was in the second pair, logging about 14 to 16 minutes per game, which included time on the penalty kill.

In that tournament, which features many NHL players whose clubs aren’t in the playoffs, Finland ran into some serious offensive talent. Sweden, whom the Finns edged 5-4 in overtime in the quarterfinals, had Vancouver’s Elias Pettersson and Toronto’s William Nylander.

“I remember that first faceoff in overtime,” Mikkola says. “It was like Nylander, Pettersson and like (Oliver) Ekman-Larsson. Yeah, I was like, ‘Oh fuck. I have to skate hard.’ But it went pretty well.”

Finland advanced to play Russia, which had Washington’s Alex Ovechkin and Evgeny Kuznetsov and Pittsburgh’s Evgeni Malkin, in the semifinals, and blanked them, 1-0.

“Just looking back at the last minutes of the game, (Mikkola) did a good job of handling them,” says Hakanpaa, who was also on the team. “He doesn’t care who’s coming at him, if it’s Ovechkin or Malkin.”

Niko Mikkola defends fellow NHL rookie Kirill Kaprizov at the World Championship in 2019. (Photo: Robert Hradil / Getty Images.)

Finland won the gold-medal game 3-1 over Canada, which was led by Vegas’ Mark Stone and Philadelphia’s Sean Couturier.

Mikkola finished the tournament with two goals and five points in 10 games and was a plus-3.

“He did exactly what we wanted or imagined,” Jalonen says. “He didn’t play the power play, but still he had five points, which was very good. … I remember him defending against very good NHL players. He’s a little bit like a horse. He’s in very good physical condition, and he battled all night long.”

“I played pretty good,” Mikkola says. “It was kind of a breakout, for sure.”

Back in San Antonio in December 2019, Mikkola was anticipating a visit from Linnainmaa and her boyfriend (now husband), spending a few days together for Christmas. But with the couple’s flight laying over in Chicago, Mikkola was called up by the Blues. So they rented a car and made the five-hour drive to St. Louis.

“We wanted to make sure that when we were in the United States, we will get to see Niko at whatever costs,” Linnainmaa says.

Unfortunately, Mikkola didn’t play that night, but he did skate in the warmups.

“We made these really big placards, saying, ‘Niko’ and ‘Mikkola,’” Linnainmaa says. “There were like three times that the security personnel were stopping us saying, ‘Why do you have those kind of fan posters?’ They were OK because they were only ‘Niko Mikkola.’ So we went to really near the ice hockey rink, hanging our cards there. I think that I got noticed by the team.”

Nina Linnainmaa and her boyfriend show support for Linnainmaa’s younger brother, Blues defenseman Niko Mikkola. (Photo: Nina Linnainmaa)

Mikkola, who beforehand begged them not to embarrass him, doesn’t believe any players saw it.

“But our equipment guy noticed and asked me if I had family here,” he says. “I was like, ‘Yeah, my sister and her boyfriend.”

Shortly after, Mikkola was re-assigned to San Antonio, and they got their holiday time.

His sister had returned to Finland by the time he was recalled again and made his NHL debut against the Sharks on Jan. 6, 2020.

“The first game, we had to watch. That was huge!” Linnainmaa says. “Niko texted us that he will play on that night. So, yeah, we spent 30 Euros ($35) to get to see the game. I think he was excited, but sometimes it’s hard to tell because he doesn’t like scream or anything. He just says, ‘OK, I will play tonight in my first NHL game.’ You know he’s excited, but he’s really casual.”

“I know it’s a big deal, and those are big moments,” Mikkola says. “For sure I was a little bit nervous, but that was a very exciting day.”

He remained on the Blues’ roster for five games, averaging 14:22 of ice time. He was impressive enough that two weeks later the team signed him to a two-year, $1.6 million contract. It’s a one-way deal, meaning he’ll be paid an NHL salary even if he’s assigned to the minors.

“I give him credit. We’ve obviously given him a one-way contract because we think he can play in the league,” Doug Armstrong says. “When he’s in there, he’s proven he can play in the league. It’s just a matter of a consistent opportunity.”

In 16 games this season, Mikkola is averaging 13:17 of ice time, and that elusive first goal came Monday.

“He’s done a great job of kind of doing what’s been asked of him,” Blues defenseman Justin Faulk says. “He’s open to everything. He listens. He works hard. And as a young guy, if you continue to do that, it generally makes your job a bit easier. You start to settle in and get more comfortable. He hasn’t played a ton of games, but he’s going to have an opportunity here to kind of cement his spot in the lineup and show what he can do. We all think he’s capable of kind of taking the reins and stepping up.”

In addition to now being a regular in the NHL, Jalonen says, “I’m sure he’ll be fighting for a spot on the national team for the (2021) Olympics. He has a chance to be involved, for sure.”

Linnainmaa can’t fathom the opportunities her brother is creating for himself.

“It’s hard to believe because there are so many people that dream of it,” she says. “But on the other hand, he has always been really hardworking and diligent and responsible person. So, in a way, he had the qualities to make it.”

“Niko has done the work,” Koskela says. “I was the first guy who saw him play, but keep the credit for Niko.”

Don’t talk about credit with Mikkola, though.

“I don’t think about it like ‘I made it,’” he says. “I’m still on the way, and there’s still things I want to do to be better.”

And whenever his hockey career ends, there will always be an opportunity to drive the garbage truck.

“Yeah, usually you don’t play ice hockey when you’re 60, so you still have some good years after the career,” Linnainmaa says.

“He can do that when he’s retired from the first part,” Doug Armstrong adds.

“That’s true,” Mikkola says.

-

The Athletic | 3.10.21 (x)

[rogue-durin-16]

since U WONT OPEN UR DMS but I still need the tea- Top Ten Memorable Moments of ur shitty country club job???

-addie🫰🏿

Damn okay, here goes the tea in no particular order ☕🍵

(disclaimer: I'll use fake names bc privacy)

1. First day of work, my boss and I were talking in the indoor restaurant when a bat fell from the ceiling. Turns out there was a bat nest above us.

2. Slowly finding out everyone who works there is related?? Like there's a bunch of my cousins but ALSO 80% of my coworkers are all a big Colombian family??? And then there were other coworkers who married into said Colombian family and cousins from those people who married into the Colombian family???? And then there was this one guy around my age who we'll name idk Joe, who's surprisingly not related to anyone so idk how he got there.

3. Discovering everyone hates my uncle and low-key ending up agreeing with them at the end of the summer.

4. Learning the hard way that a soccer game or any sports match equals HELL at a pub (I literally wasn't able to leave my barman duties in 5 hours straight).

5. That one time my manager (a 31 yo awkward introverted guy) didn't know how social interactions worked and instead of smalltalk, he told me his and his wife's whole life in detail, and because I listened, EVERYTIME he was alone with me HE DID THE SAME. HONEY. your wife being an orphan ISN'T SOMETHING I SHOULD KNOW. (Mind you, his wife was also my coworker)

6. I was too functional and accidentally ended up as head waitress on The Big Day™. Never doing that again btw.

7. Sugar stops bleeding. Or at least it's supposed to. I found out on a tender July night when so-called Joe SLIT HIS FINGER AND BLOOD STARTED GUSHING FROM IT? Both of our shirts got ruined.

8. I could write down a whole top ten moments from this last weekend, but a highlight from it was that there were three terrible storms and so-called Joe, our manager and I got absolutely drenched while serving dinner because the clients refused to move from the outdoor restaurant into the indoor one. Also, the kitchen was completely flooded.

9. I briefly met a client who reminded me of my dad. I reminded him of his daughter apparently. He gave me 50 bucks just because. Rich people are weird.

10. During the summer, my coworkers nonchalantly mentioned that the place was haunted and idk why I didn't believe it but I should have lmao.

[lunalillyhbhb]

Lea's home

Chapter 6 pt.1

The top floor of Lea's house is occupied by a private gym. It's equipped with everything from treadmills, rowing machines and cycles to weights, bars and dumbbells. It also has a 10 m long pool. It is a pretty nice gym. While I'm not exactly allowed to use it freely as I see fit, I'm not too bothered about it as the owners rarely use the gym facilities. And being on the top floor (a lot of stairs), it's as good as deserted. Almost like it's MY personal gym. Now and then when college ends early, I rush to Lea's house to use the gym quickly before my shift starts.

The only issue is Khushi, the appointed trainer of this residence. Khushi is a muscular woman, with defined facial features and beautiful brown eyes, a straight pierced nose and plump lips. Her long black hair is usually braided and drapes her back like silk on a sculpture. Her flawless brown skin define her lean muscles so prettily, she would make a perfect anatomy model. A long time outdoor and mountain marathon running enthusiast, she has a lean build with long arms and long legs, as well as perfectly sculpted D cup breasts.

Being a trainer, she specializes in all things sports and exercise, and frequently monitors the vitals of the family to keep track of things like body weight, fat percentage, muscle weight, loss/gains.... and most importantly: heart beat and blood pressure.

I just know she must be an excellent candidate to be hooked up.... heart being listened to.... the way she places her hand on her chest when she stands watch... the way it subtly bounces... but I haven't dwelt on it. I rarely use the gym and when I do, I have to make sure Khushi isn't there to rat me out to the owners. As such, I avoid her and rarely interact with her.

What a pity.

Today happens to be one such day, classes ended early and I have 2 hours till my shift starts. I decide to make the best of it and rush over to Lea's place. As the maid I have access to the house schedule. I notice that the gym is due for a cleanup, and there's no classes scheduled. Perfect. I could bring my maid uniform and in-case someone comes in, I could quickly change into my maid uniform and get to work. Simple.

I race up the stairs, open the glass doors to the gym and slip inside. Once in, I spot my favourite cardio activity: the treadmill. I quickly wear my shoes, tie my hair into a messy bun, turn on the machine, and start.

5 mins go bye and my heart has settled on a steady 140 bpm, going strong. I decide to jog for 15 mins as warm up, and hit my biceps today. Suddenly I hear a tussle from the staircase. My body immediately goes into panic mode as I swiftly turn off the machine and run to the changing room. Once inside, I hear footsteps, and quickly attempt to remove my crop top. In my panic I fail to notice the footsteps nearing the changing room. As I slip out of my tights the door barges open. I freeze, heart thudding in my throat. Khushi is staring at me, in my deep cut sports bra and tights halfway removed. She smirks.

"My little kitten, what were you doing in here? Changing clothes?"

She speaks in a sensual yet pleasing tone, capable of pulling everyone's attention to herself. Her loose tank top over black cycle shorts accentuates her curves and muscles even more, she looks incredibly sexy.

"H-hey Khushi, how come you're in today? I am scheduled to clean the gym so I was just changing into my uniform here...."

I pray she buys it.

She doesn't.

"The treadmill was slowing down when i entered, you have anything to do with that? Seeing how we're the only people here... and I definitely didn't use it...."

She knows. Why is she doing this to me? Why's she so strict? Just let me go!

"I'm really sorry Khushi, please don't tell the owners!"

My heart stammers as I scramble to look for an excuse.

"But you know I must my little kitten! The other workers are not allowed to use the equipment without permission and you know this!" she says this in a calm berating voice, as she traces her manicured fingernails across my cheek and down my neck. Her finger subtly rests on my carotid pulse, and I can feel it pushing against her finger with such force, and I know she's feeling it.

Her finger lingers there for a moment longer. I can see her beautiful eyes calculating her next words, and suddenly it lights up. Oh no.

"Ok. I'll help you, I'll keep it a secret......under one condition."

There it is. I'm going to agree to it no matter what, else I loose this haven of a job.

"Yes, anything, tell me what I can do!"

Her whole demeaner changes in a split second, and she's back to her upbeat bubbly self. "You can help me out with my sports medicine thesis! Just follow my instructions to the tee and I'll keep your secret between us.... hell, I'll let you use the gym facilities without getting caught! How's that of a deal, sweet right?"

I want to say yes immediately, so badly, but I know there's a catch. There's something she's not explaining fully. Otherwise, this would be too good to be true.

I sigh resignedly. "Umm..... Ok. Let's do this. What do you need help with?"

She perks up, eyes shining with mischief. "I need to record the cardiovascular changes of the heart before, during and after exercise. This exercise includes and cardio and weight training. Of course, I'll be doing the grunt work and hooked up on monitors, I just need you to tell me how it's beating, the blood pressure, and help me record it properly. I might need to record yours here and there, for baseline if you don't mind."

Yes. YES. This is what I wanted. I've wanted to do this. I've waited for an opportunity like this, and I can't let it slip by.

"YES!" I blurt out, sounding a little too eager for my liking. She smirks in response.

"You can remove your tights, don't change into anything new, It makes movement easier for you."

I got a little shy, but i am in no position to make demands. I see her removing her own shirt and cycle shorts, her sculpted breasts snugly sit in a sports bra with a matching set underwear. I can't believe I get to see all this. My eyes drink in her entirety, memorizing everything about her curves, her hips, the way she walks, everything.

She opens her bag and grabs two sets of steths, attaches one firmly to her mitral valve. She makes her way to me and without asking for permission, she palpates my left breast, moving them around as she sees fit. Finally she settles for my mitral valve as well, and securely attaches the steth. My heart is beating fast, fluttering lightly. I know she felt it. I try not looking at her breasts, try not to locate for any visible palpitation. The steths are connected to a recording device, monitoring both our heart rates. The right arm is connected to a blood pressure cuff, continuously relaying the rise and fall.

Both these devices are also connected to her laptop. Finally after finishing her setup, she looks at me, a sense of hunger in her eyes.

"Watch me closely, please. Keep an eye for my heart." She says, steadily getting on the treadmill and starting her run.

The machine whizzes to life, and she starts stretching her limbs and her eyes sharpen, like a wild cat ready to pounce on its poor prey. I begin recording, keeping an eye out for the changes along the way. Initially her pump starts with a steady 90 bmp with the usual 120/80, breathing steady and deep. Slowly she increases the speed and 10 mins in, she is going fast, almost sprinting. Her heart is pumping amazingly at 190 bpm, with an astonishing 195/110. I envision her arteries working hard, trying to accomodate the mucle forcing blood at such high pressures through them. Khushi is so focused that she remains quiet staring straight ahead. I so badly want to listen to the sound of her organ, but I don't want to do anything that could potentially upset her, lest she revokes her offer.

She stops after 15 mins total, breathing heavily and fast. With her hands clutching her chest and eyes closed, she looks slightly worried. She suddenly looks at me, steps off the treadmill and closes the distance. With a shine in her eyes she grabs my hand and forcefully places it over her sternum. Her sports bra, soaking in sweat, does little to muffle the powerful pump, and I instantly close my eyes as I feel her thump away at 190 bpm, shaking my hand. Her body covered in sweat and her ragged breathing makes it hard for my hand to stay in position but that hardly affects the way her heart pumps forcefully, so beautifully, pushing her chest away from me. Khushi's heart is amazing. My other hand reaches for the headphones which are connected to the steth but she bats my hand away, her lips puckered like she's annoyed. I feel her recovery beats and watch her slowly gain back her breath.

I am completely entranced. My mind starts stripping her and I envision pushing my fingers inside her where I know I can torture her little heart a bit further, pushing it to its boundaries. I wonder what kind of face she'd make.

"Next is the pool!" she quips in her cheerful voice, pulling me out of my trance. She motions for me to bring the setup to the indoor pool and I set it up in the corner, free from potential splashes. I wonder how her heart will react this time. I am desperate to be a part of her, and my mind is filled with unspeakable thoughts. I can't wait for this pool session.

[dark--whisperings]

✨ 15 Questions for Friends ✨

Thank you to @willameena and @tideswept for the tag!

---

1. Are you named after anyone?

Yes! I'm named after one of my mom's best childhood friends. More specifically, she gave me the name because she didn't want people to be able to shorten my name/give me a nickname.

Plot twist: I have many nicknames, regardless.

2. When was the last time you cried?

Last week. I'm an emotional human, okay?!

3. Do you have kids?

I have a fur child named Kira! She's an 11 year old f5 savannah cat.

4. What sports do you play/ have you played?

I used to competitively ski! I did both downhill racing and freestyle/park. I also used to play basketball and volleyball... actually currently trying to find a volleyball league in my city and take it back up!

5. Do you use sarcasm?

Depends! I love being sarcastic, but only with the right folx and In jest. Time and a place is key!

6. What's the first thing you notice about people?

How they interact with me and others, and their stance on the current world landscape. I'm at the point in my life where I have no patience for ignorant, selfish idiots, and want to surround myself with people who are empathetic, genuinely connect with others, curious, open-minded, and willing to critically examine their biases and challenge their worldviews.

7. What's your eye colour?

Hazel! But it's funny... they do change colour, depending on the lighting and the colour I'm wearing.

8. Scary movies or happy endings?

I propose a third and fourth option: science fiction and psychological thrillers.

9. Any talents?

I have a scary-good memory. If you tell me your phone number, I'll automatically remember it.

10. Where were you born?

Canada!

11. What are your hobbies?

Hiking, camping, paddleboarding, anything to do with the outdoors, art, writing, baking, reading, being a geek (this is a full-time hobby, OKAY?!), crafting.

12. Do you have any pets?

See #3! 😜 My cat is my child, and my child is my cat. INCEPTION.

13. How tall are you?

Almost 6ft. I literally can't go out to the grocery store without someone asking me to get something off of the top shelf for them.

14. Favourite subject in school?

Biology!

15. Dream job?

This is a really hard one for me! I've done quite a few different types of work, and have many things that I would love to do. That said, I think my current career is actually my dream job, even though I didn't know it years ago! I'm a project manager, and I have the extreme privilege of being able to work in social justice.

---

No pressure tags: @mischievouschan4 @thegingerwrites @underacalicosky @isthisfree @palfriendpatine66 @wibzenadarksiderwithasoftheart @grapenehifics

[thearticelheaven]

Some interesting outdoor sports which can be consider as one of the best sports you should experienced in you life if you want to unleash your stamina. The Article Heaven have published a list of top outdoor games tat you can play at any time. Just read the blog by visiting the link.

[eolewyn1010]

Downton Abbey Fashion 22 - 1920s outdoors fashion

This season’s outside looks go from the plainest plain all the way up to the most ostentatious bling. Minor spoiler: Shirley MacLaine gets all the most glamorous looks.

But Maggie Smith still goes first, if only so I can gush a bit over fluffy, shiny grey velvet. If you look closely, I think someone could even be bothered to embroider a subtle pattern on this, which comes close to overkill, but it’s barely visible. If we want overkill, we’ll get a big old hat wrapped with velvet and tulle, and what looks like an outright bouquet of little fabric flowers.

One grey velvet coat is not enough, so we get another one. Familiar collar style, too; Violet has one coat that has a smocked collar like this in beige. Although if my memory serves, that coat was undecorated otherwise, which was for the better. This seems a little unnecessarily ostentatious with the embroidered sleeves and the rosettes on the front? Then again, the Dowager™ is wearing a goddamn tiara here, so it’s safe to say she’s going all out.

Much more muted, this looks like mourning garb, but I think it’s what she puts on for the baptism of her great-grandchild. And I adore the collar shape and its embroidery, plus the little soutache running over her shoulders. It’s also cute hat time again! How much velvet do you have to put into the crown if you gather it up so wavy? I don’t know, but anyway, the embroidery around the brim matches the coat perfectly. Fun fact, I almost failed to recognize this when Violet wore it as mourning attire in season 4, despite keeping it with the same fabulous hat. All she did was slap a fur on top of the coat.

This is almost more of an Isobel coat than a Violet coat, by virtue of the lapels shape and the color. Which by no means is to say she looks bad in it; it’s lovely. The fabric has a subtle waffle structure, so I think this is pretty warm. The three-button closure on the side pops nicely, and Violet wears another velvet hat, although this one is less grand. The color seems to be a tad more plum than the coat.

Is this a mourning gown that I failed to sort into the right category? It’s very black-dominated, but it’s also massively ostentatious. Tulle yoke, high lace collar with a sparkly brooch, embroidered bodice, hems and cuffs of the jacket beaded to hell and back, silk everywhere… Girl, who are you trying to impress?? You’re Maggie Smith; you’re already there three times over! But there’s no arguing with a chic hat. Well, the brim isn’t all to my taste, but the ruffled element with the feather and bejeweled brooch as a centerpiece? Awesome, 10/10.

A beige coat consisting entirely of lace (is this allowed to call itself lace? whatevs) and a matching hat that I find kind of adorable because the crown seems to be made to imitate petals. Also, I kind of love the blue ribbon on it; it shines so nicely on the pale background.

And a keeper into season 4, Violet is back on the purple shades with this walking dress. The material of the upper layer is a flowery damask, if subtly so, the more lilac under layer is plain. Well, plain silk satin; you know how it is. There’s the soutache around the trim and spreading onto the shoulders, and she has two hats matching in color that she wears to various occasions with this. I have a mild preference for the latter because embroidery, and because the purple feather on the first one looks more artificial than the black one.

For an outfit that I feel we only ever see on this one occasion, hunting / picnic in the Highlands and then never again (update: I was wrong; it only takes four more years in-universe), Violet sports this neat walking suit in brown and grey tweed. Interestingly and cut from these shots, Edith siths next to her in a different color but in exactly the same tiny checker. Well, Edith doesn't have a fur stola to brag with, but I’ve come to associate fur so strongly with Violet that this outfit would look incomplete without it.

--------------

Enter Martha Levinson. This woman is all glamor and no shame, so she walks up at Downton in black-golden damask (or is it brocade when there’s gold thread in it?) and shiny brown fur, and a hat that leaves me in awe of its material. Who even does these fabrics? Plus a couple pheasant feathers in a brooch with a small black gem, because why not. If you told me the closure of her handbag is pure gold, I would not be surprised in the least.

This coat manages to be a tad more subtle, if only because this time just the collar is fur but the cuffs aren’t. I quite like the pale piping on brown fabric, makes for a harmonic match. I can’t see much of what the hat is made of, but I’d guess a whole bouquet of feathers.

And again with the fur. Martha never tones it down. Orange silk? Definitely. Brown velvet hat? Sure. Beaded and bejeweled embroidery? Why not. Pearl earrings? The big ones, please. Feathers? At least half a dozen. Interestingly, despite the opulence of it all, none of her outfits really veer off into tasteless, and while she loves her bling as much as Violet does, she keeps up with the fashions of her time. In fact, she celebrates them.

--------------

Strangely, I seem to remember Isobel wearing this several times, but I don’t have shots of it other than from Mary’s and Matthew’s wedding rehearsal? Eh, never mind; behold a pretty burgundy walking suit with long pointed lapels. She had a similar one in season 1, but that one had velvet lapels that weren’t pointed. Other than that, she settles into slanted hats this season.

Another slanted hat and a somewhat boring brown tweed coat, but it does give a nice background to the pretty scarf. This arrow collar shape is one we’ll see again a few times, if my memory serves.

A lovely blue walking suit she wears a few times plus a hat that I could swear was Mary’s… But anyway, Isobel pairs this blue with an ivory blouse and Crawley cameo earrings. So far, so well-established. Except, now she also has a matching cameo necklace? I’m intrigued.

My favorite of Isobel’s walking suits this season, although curiously one she doesn’t repeat in later seasons, despite the supreme look. I think it’s pale grey, but the lighting in the first picture makes it look ever so slightly lilac? Ah, whatever. I adore this collar and how excellently Isobel matches this darling hat to the outfit.

--------------

And now for a total contrast point – Susan MacClare only gets the least stylish, least flattering outfits. Like, I know the loose 1920s cuts call oversize to mind, but why can she not afford a coat that fits her? Because if it would fit, it would look quite nice. I like that rust color, and the buttons for closure and on the collar are a cute little bit of decoration. Also, the hat may be nicer than the dull color gives it credit; this seems to be velvet, and I can get the tiniest glimpse of a patterned hatband.

--------------

You see, it’s not like pretty brown coats aren’t a thing, because Cora just casually struts up in this and makes me die of envy. The collar embroidery! The white shell buttons running down the sleeves and cuffs! And then she also tops it off with this nice hat style, the brim folded up on one side and decorated with feathers in a lovely silver pin. No notes to this outfit; I want it.

And she keeps serving! This one comes back on the screen after The House of Elliot in 1992 and The Grand in 1997, and it has a color leaning a bit more toward chestnut, probably because it’s velvet and velvet has a complex about being outshone in terms of color depth. Too bad, because it only serves as the backdrop for this very rich, very gorgeous embroidery that doesn’t just keep it to some trim on cuffs and hem, no; this reaches up half the sleeves and half the length of the coat. And the effect is wonderful. I’m not a great fan of the first hat with that swirly embroidery, but the occasion also marks the return of Cora’s pheasant feathers on a pretty patterned wrap.

[simsstuph]

🤍

i was tagged by @zosa95 Thank you so much 🤍

are you named after anyone? - Yes! I am named after my mom. :)

when was the last time you cried? - A few days a go, my mom passed and I'm emotional around mother's day.

do you have kids? - Yes, two girls 💗💗

do you use sarcasm a lot? - Yes, it is my love language lol

what sports do you play/have you played? - Softball, all day everyday since Jr. High and basketball just for fun.

what's the first thing you notice about other people? - Their demeanor, definitely if they have a smile.

eye colour? - Poop brown. LOL

scary movies or happy endings? - I'm a sucker for both. Love a good horror movie, but also LOVE happy endings.

any special talents? - None.

what are your hobbies? - Sims 4, reading, anything outdoors. When the sun is shining you can catch me outside. I looooove going on long walks as well (def top 10 fave things to do).

do you have any pets? - 4 cats - all rescued pretty recently.

how tall are you? - 5'6

fave subject in school? - Science and english.

dream job? -  To become a nurse! I love helping people.

I tag @mosneakers @queeniecook @wannabecatwriter @samssims @pink-chevalier and anyone else wanting to play. No obligation tho!

[writernopal]

Get To Know My OC - Pt. 5

I was tagged by @dogmomwrites here, thanks so much!

Hoo boy it's been a while since I've done this one! Yeah, you read that right, this is part 5! I have parts 1-4 from forever ago that I did for the main cast of AASOAF, Mariel, Axtapor, Fay, and Wilkes. You can find their posts by clicking their names if you're curious to check them out!

SO this time we'll go with the cast from M.O.W, starting with Lexlar!

There are two loud voices in the hall just outside. They banter to each other with ample familiarity and in a language you’ve never heard before. Curiously, though, you only hear one set of footsteps. Was the other voice perhaps coming from a listening stone or some other similar device? No, that wouldn’t make any sense. That second voice is too loud for it to come from something like— The door flies open and your eyes widen as you see the man that steps through. He’s a giant! Tall, broad, admittedly top-heavy, and probably three times as thick as you, constructed of pure muscle and scars. He throws his arms wide and beams the brightest smile in your direction. “Oi, look at ye! Nay know ye proper, but I reckon I’ll take a shine to ye just fine!” His voice thunders around the room as if he’s completely unaware that he’s not in some kind of arena or other loud outdoor equivalent. He strides over, an impressive confidence in each step, dropping his arms to slap the sides of his legs loudly before extending a hand to you. “Been Bosun Lexlar. Pleasure to meet ye!” You put your hand in his after giving him your name and you wonder if it was some kind of mistake to do so. He nearly crushes it in his grip, completely unaware of your pained grimace. He gives you a satisfied slap on the shoulders and takes his seat across from you, eager to begin.

1. Are you named after anyone?

Nay nothin' like 'at. He replies with a pleasant smile.

2. When was the last time you cried?

Ah! Why talk 'bout the somber, ey? Give me 'nother.

3. Do you have kids?

Nay, gotta gift wi' 'em though. Tykes take a shine to me like because I act as they do. He replies with a sheepish look.

4. Do you use sarcasm?

Oh aye. He responds with a comical sort of frown. Get's a rise right quick outta Hartim! He laughs, as he fetches a few leaves from his pocket and stuffs them in his lip.

5. What’s the first thing you notice about people?

Mmm. He thinks as he chews. Their mouths, 'haps? Ye can spot a lie right quick if ye look close 'nough.

6. What’s your eye color?

Bronze. Color o' strength! He declares proudly as he flexes a single bicep and gives it a few slaps.

7. Scary Stories or Happy Endings?

Oh, happy endin's. He replies almost immediately. Life nay been long for most, best to gather what joy ye can from yer years.

8. Any special talents?

If'n a wager been at hand, then aye, I have any talent ye can imagine!

9. Where were you born?

City o' Hantaph in The Heartlands o' The Empire proper. He says with a measure of pride but there is something melancholy in his tone.

10. What are your hobbies?

Gamblin'! Been a right thrill. He nods to himself, very pleased with his answer by the looks of it.

11. Do you have any pets?

Had a jungle cat when I been a recruit in the Reserves. Near bit my finger off. He raises his right hand, pointing to his crooked pinky. Let the fucker go 'fter 'at.

12. What sports do you play/have played?

Never been one for sport. 'Less I be placin' a wager on it. He laughs, pushing the leaves to the other side of his mouth.

13. How tall are you?

6’10”. Colossal thin' as my Pa, Kava rest 'im.

14. Favorite subject in school?

Ah, I been shite at books. Nay liked any o' it. He laughs.

15. Dream job?

He thinks for a long while, rubbing the spot on the tip of his snout between his nostrils. Suppose it nay matters, long as there been adventure promised.

Tagging (gently): @tabswrites @void-botanist @writingmaidenwarrior @pheita and anyone else who wants to do this!

M.O.W Taglist: @moonluringfrost @writeblr-of-my-own @illjustpretend @sparatus @outpost51

Join/leave the taglist using this Google Form.

[littleeggrock]

thanks for the tag @foxymc!

1. Named after anyone?

Nope :D

2. Last time you cried?

anxiety attack brought on partly by homework and partially from getting Invisalign and not vibing with how it felt in my mouth last tuesday :D

3. Do you have kids?

i have a son, he is a stuffed dinosaur from target i named Gerard. i share custody and co-parent with another friend. he looks like this + a grey shirt with dinosaur patterning and a green jacket over top that we bought him at old navy

4. What sports do you play/have played?

i took karate for 3+ years, quit because i didn't want to take the 5 hour blackbelt test, and now i'm on a synchronized swimming team, which was genuinely the best decision i have ever made, highly recommend the experience

5. do you use sarcasm?

whenever applicable, i like it a lot :)

6. First thing you notice about people?

general behavior, what are they doing? how do they act? should i interact or avoid?

7. Eye colour?

hazel-ish brown, though i've been told several times they look almost red in the right lighting

8. scary movie or happy ending?

scary movie all the way give me The Horrors

9. any talents?

nothing too special, i'm pretty generic

10. where were you born?

Minnesota dont'cha know :D

11. hobbies?

reading, writing, drawing, the basic lmao. i also really like analyzing horror games and movies, or anything that catches my interest

12. any pets?

leopard gecko, his name is Rusty and he is The Idiot ever but i love him anyways, and a Lhasa Apso mix (dog) named harry because when i got him he was very hairy lmfao

13. How tall are you?

5'3 on the dot, i'll kick ur shins

14. favourite subject?

English/language arts all the way it's the only class i get to read and write about interesting stuff

15. dream job?

something outdoors that i can do with my hands lmao, hopefully working with animals or wildlife in some way? something that won't make me want to put my head through a wall.

tags! i'm gonna tag @flunkett and @rain-is-cool :D hey guys

[louisupdates]

FITFWT23: FASHION

NORTH AMERICA

@fashionlouist bracket winners! all the looks

Via LWTHQS

26 May - Mohegan Sun Arena, UNCASVILLE CT [Vetements shirt] [Lacoste shoes] [Lacoste polo] [Lacoste track pants]

27 May - Bank of New Hampshire Pavilion, GUILFORD NH [Marni x Carhart shirt] [Adidas shoes]

29 May - Place Bell, LAVAL QC [Palace x Adidas t shirt] [Ahluwalia shirt] [Adidas shoes] [By Parra shirt]

30 May - Budweiser Stage, TORONTO ON [A Bathing Ape shirt]

1 Jun - Blossom Music Center, CUYAHOGA FALLS, OH [Calvin Klein tank top] [Stone Island pants, Adidas Osweego shoes]

2 Jun - Michigan Lottery Amphitheater, STERLING HEIGHTS, MI: [1017 Alyx 9SM T-shirt] [Axel Arigato shoes]

3 Jun - The Icon Festival Stage, CINCINNATI: [Fred Perry polo] [Adidas Osweego shoes] [424 shirt] [Nike shorts] [Nike slippers]

6 Jun - Kemba Live! Outdoor, COLUMBUS OH: [Calvin Klein tank top] [J. Lindeberg pants] [Axel Arigato shoes] [28 OP hoodie] [28 OP shorts] [Adidas Osweego shoes]

7 Jun - TCU Amphitheater at White River State Park, INDIANAPOLIS: [Paul Smith T-shirt]

9 Jun - Saint Louis Music Park, SAINT LOUIS: [Obey knit polo]

10 Jun - Starlight Theatre, KANSAS CITY MO: [Raf Simons t-shirt]

13 Jun - BMO Pavilion, MILWAUKEE: [Fred Perry shirt] [Adidas Samba Og shoes]

15 Jun - Huntington Bank Pavilion, CHICAGO: [28 OP hoodie] [Sergio Tacchini jacket] [Lacoste pants] [Lacoste shoes] [Calvin Klein tank]

16 Jun - The Armory, MINNEAPOLIS: [Vintage Umbro England football shirt] [Pangaia hoodie]

17 Jun - Harrah’s Stir Cove, COUNCIL BLUFFS, IA: [Lacoste shirt] [Adidas shoes] [Y-3 hoodie and shorts] [Adidas shoes]

19 Jun - Denny Sanford Premiere Center, SIOUX FALLS, SD: [Umbro 2004 vintage home shirt]

21 Jun - Red Rocks Amphitheatre, MORRISON, CO: POSTPONED [Nike t-shirt] [Sergio Tacchini shorts] [Nike shoes]

24 Jun - Wamu Theater, SEATTLE: [Calvin Klein white tank top] [Grand Collection pants]

26 Jun - Doug Mitchell Thunderbird Sports Center, VANCOUVER BC: [Burberry shorts] [Ksubi shirt]

27 Jun - Mcmenamins Edgefield Concerts, TROUTDALE OR: [Adidas Jamaica jersey]

29 Jun - The Greek Theatre, BERKELEY CA: [ERL t-shirt]

30 Jun - The Hollywood Bowl, LOS ANGELES: [Stone Island jacket for Hollywood Bowl ad] [Adidas x Wales Bonner jacket] [black mesh tank top]

1 Jul - The Chelsea at the Cosmopolitan, LAS VEGAS: [Palace Skateboards t-shirt] [Adidas Gazelle red shoes]

3 Jul - Arizona Financial Theatre, PHOENIX: [Black Sabbath vintage t-shirt] [Calvin Klein white tank top] [Rick Owens x Champion track pants]

6 Jul - The Pavilion at Toyota Music Factory, IRVING TX: [Devá States t-shirt] [Stone Island swim trunks]

7 Jul - Moody Amphitheater at Waterloo Park, AUSTIN TX: [Tom Ford vest] [Lacoste pants] [Salomon shoes]

8 Jul - The Cynthia Woods Mitchell Pavilion, WOODLANDS TX: [Saul Nash matching set] [Axel Arigato shoes]

11 Jul - St. Augustine Amphitheatre, ST. AUGUSTINE FL: [Burberry shirt] [Umbro vintage shorts]

13 Jul - Hard Rock Live at Seminole Hard Rock Hollywood, HOLLYWOOD FL: [Casablanca Paris polo]

14 Jul - Yuengling Center, TAMPA FL: [Alyx 9SM AAUTS0393FA01BLK0001 ARCH LOGO t-shirt] [Soon To Be Announced t-shirt, Mastermind pants]

15 Jul - Cadence Bank Amphitheatre at Chastain Park, ATLANTA: [soundcheck: Mastermind pants] [Casablanca Paris t-shirt] [Adidas Sprinter shorts]

18 Jul - Ascend Amphitheater, NASHVILLE: [Stone Island sweater for Australia announcement] [28 OP track pants] [Celine polo]

19 Jul - Charlotte Metro Credit Union Amphitheatre, CHARLOTTE NC: [Lacoste pants]

21 Jul - Red Hat Amphitheater, RALEIGH NC: [28 OP pants] [Paul Smith t-shirt] [Stone Island shorts]

22 Jul - Merriweather Post Pavilion, COLUMBIA MD: [Nike England jersey] [Sergio Tacchini shoes]

24 Jul - MGM Music Hall at Fenway, BOSTON: [Stone Island pants] [Salomon shoes]

25 Jul - MGM Music Hall at Fenway, BOSTON: [Andersson Bell t-shirt]

27 Jul - TD Pavilion at the Mann, PHILADELPHIA: [Prada tank top], [CP Company pants], [Thames MMXX polo]

28 Jul - Stone Pony Summer Stage, ASBURY PARK NJ: [Maison Mihara Yasuhiro shirt] [Sunflower Mike shorts]

29 Jul - Forrest Hills Stadium, NEW YORK: [Tom Ford tank top] [Prada pants] [Axel Arigato t-shirt]

outfits courtesy of lbfcult

[windsweptinred]

Get to know me tag game

(extended addition)

So I've been tagged in three seperate tag games. And since I'm notoriously bad at following instructions... I thought, I'll just do them all at once. 🤷😅

Thank you for the tag @bobbole @martybaker @marlowe-zara @just-cosmere-fan and @mashumaru

Enjoy the essay I guess? 😅

Are you named after anyone?:

One of the three virtues? I dunno, it's probably a Catholic thing. My name sounds like I'm a Vampire Slayer love child.

When was the last time you cried?:

I'm from the north, we don't do that here. We just stare stoicly into the distance.

Do you have kids?:

One, my daughter. I'd have loved to have had more children. But sadly that doesn't seem to be what fate has in store for me.

What sports do you play/have played?:

I used to dance when I was younger, but yeah... I'd rather knaw off my own knees then do sport.

Do you use sarcasm?:

Eyes some of the answers I've given.

What's the first thing you notice about people?:

Something beautiful about them. Not in a shallow way. You spend enough time around artists for a living, you start to notice how lovely someone's elbow is. How someone holds themselves just so. How pretty someone's hair looks in a certain light. Stuff like that. Every body is it's own work of art.

What's your eye colour?

Blue/Grey... Picture what you think the skies in Britain look like, 10 out of the 12 months of the year. That.

Scary movie's or happy endings?:

Both, neither, like everything else in my life it entirely depends on my mood. I'm an intemperate creature prone to whimsy.

Do you have any talents?:

I'm far too English to admit to being talented at anything. (Insert embarrassed, awkward mumbling). I have been told I'm fleet of foot upon the moorland. Is being a moor elf a talent?

Where were you born?:

Gods own county.

What are your hobbies?:

I dabble in many an art and craft. I love walking in nature, I'd be out there every day if I could. TV, film, books, podcasts. There's so much wonderful media at our fingertips today, it's amazing when you stop and think about it. My beloved scrapbooks ofcourse, cataloguing my life and loves in an array of pictures and washi tape.

Do you have any pets?:

I have a literal zoo.

How tall are you?:

Taller then a pony, smaller then a horse. Glad we could clear that up.

Favourite subject in school?

History, I've always loved history. I'd have spent my entire education in history if I'd been allowed to.

Dream job?:

I love my current job. But if I had to pick another, something where I could be independent, outdoors and busy. Something as simple as a postlady or a moorland warden would see me happy.

Spicy/Savory/Sweet? :

I can be whatever you want me to be you delicious little love muffin. 😏

Favorite colour? :

I'm pretty sure people who barely know of my existence here on ye olde tumblr could answer this...But red.

Relationship status? :

Married a year and a half now. Engaged on Dream and Hob's centennial anniversary, married on national hobbit day.

Last song? :

Joan Jett, Dirty Deeds

Last movie?:

The Hunger Games, The Ballad of Songbirds and Snakes.

Currently watching?:

I've just wrapped up Interview with the Vampire season one and am rewatching True Detective season 1. Both, mwah. Chef's kiss.

Currently consuming?:

A glass of shiraz, while stroking a white cat. I like to get my cultured Bond villain game on on a Tuesday evening.

3 ships? :

Corinthiel (The Corinthian x Daniel Hall), Danbert (Herbert West x Daniel Cain) and The Devil's Minion (Armand x Daniel Molloy).

Current obbsession? :

Daniels apparently.

First ship? :

Daiken/ Kensuke. Can you remember when we used to flip the names depending on who was top/bottom 😅. But Daisuke x Ken from Digimon 02.

Currently working on?:

1001 ideas. Working on absolutely none of them. I need a motivational kick up the jacksie.

(I won't tag anyone and force them to answer this monstrous list. I'm not that barbaric. Unless you want to, then by all means have at it. Let me know and I'll tag you, 90s chain mail style. You'll have to answer and forward it to 5 other people within 24 hours or 'IT' will come for you!)