#why the fuck do you want this homicidal bicycle

[koraichalcum]

your friendly trainer's guide to: APEX KORAIDON

Something to bear in mind: dont catch him. Actually don't look at him. Don't be within 1000 feet of him. It's probably best you're not even around the crater base at all should he be prowling on the outside walls. He absolutely knew you were coming and in fact is probably hunting you as we speak-

But let's say you miraculously survived and even managed to catch Apex Koraidon.

He hates you.

Oh he absolutely hates you.

The worst thing you can do is mistake him for an animal. Apex is something akin to an ancient misplaced being; he has complex thoughts and needs ( though very angry and very proud ) and basically throwing him in a pokeball is calling him less then that. He's both a predator and a dragon with an incredibly intricate culture, rules and even language and he won't tolerate disrespect or being mistaken as Pokemon in the regular sense of needing domestication or friendship.

And he's still going to actively hunt you out of revenge as soon as your guard is down. Apex is a prehistoric predator, the apex of his time and dominant of his species. He was made in a world without humans and that everyday was one to survive. He's not made for domestication, he does not WANT domestication, an easy or kind living, or companionship. He's evolutions perfect killing machine made to take down mega fauna in solitude. He thrives on territorial clashes, fights with mesozoic giants like Tyrantrum and Roaring Moon over kills, and driving out rivals from his hoards, mates, clutches and territory.

In fact giving him offerings, kind words or otherwise is an insult to a proud ancient dragon and will make him two times as hostile. You're calling him weak, a hatchling, prey or otherwise and any proud dragon and predator would sooner die with their dignity then get help like prey.

And whatever you do DONT pet him, or ride him, or any of that sort unless you want to be trampled, thrown off violently or your limbs going missing. Not unless he says so. A dragon's scales and plume are a mark of power. In his time the brighter more battle worn hides and feathers are to be admired and respected. Touching them without permission or needlessly is a backhand and especially if you attempt to touch the softer underbelly or fringe. Same thing with trying to climb him. As said before, he's not an animal or a tool and doing so is saying different. You're going to be mauled.

A relationship with Apex is near impossible and any exceptions are in the extreme cases or by force like a masterball. In hypotheticals the closest one can get for him to consider you an equal rather then prey or an enemy is being his rival where he considers you as worthy in battle. Things like challenges, bets, and competition in ancient dragon culture is venerable, pitching ones own raw power against another. There is no respect for competitors who cheat or use anything else but their actual strength. Yes even the loser in the bet has at least the dignity that they committed with their power only.

Before being driven away from their kill or den of course.

Apex does not owe any one person his attention, his strength, or his nonexistent friendship. Any working together is usually done by force of circumstance and only for that time. His literal ideal life is hunt, rest, breed offspring, protect his den and hoard and then die if not from injury let it be in battle by a bigger opponent. Nothing else and he's happy with that.

[finalmemesx]

The Last Book on the Left

By the Last Podcast on the Left.

"I am paid literally hundreds of dollars to suck on television."

"Always use a condom."

"I'm actually supposed to be a very important millionaire."

"Disgustingly, this is an actual genre on Pornhub."

"This is before they started killing people!"

"There are more red flags in this relationship than what you see in Google Maps when you search for bagel shops in Brooklyn."

"You have no business having this level of confidence."

"Now I am scared."

"None of us care what you learn in your fancy law school books."

"They might as well have been driving Jigsaw's bicycle."

"If you want to get out of responsibilities, you do something badly and no one asks you to do it again."

"It would be really inspiring if it didn't lead to so much homicide."

"Most cold-blooded SOB is Stone Cold Steve Austin."

"I hope to play them in the eventual CW teen drama about his life."

"It's hard for a parent to comprehend their child might be a vampire."

"You gotta get good at the cunnilingus and keep yourself in the game."

"Oh wait, that's bad."

"Fucking metal! But also incredibly scary."

"This is like blaming the road for you crashing your car while drunk."

"I can't be mixing any thoughts of brunch into this."

"Remind me to get a 'not welcome' sign on my door immediately!"

"You look at them like Wayne looked at the Excalibur guitar in Wayne's World."

"Here is where I tap out like Kurt Angle tapped to Chris Jericho."

"You're living a metal god's dream."

"Most homosexual lifestyles involve going to work, making dinner, watching Top Chef, and going to sleep."

"I will say if someone really loves kombucha, they might be a serial killer."

"More information that gives me pause regarding my friendships."

"Evidently the recipe isn't the only secret there."

"That's a city ordinance violation."

"Excuse me while my skin crawls off my body."

"I would have loved to see their Tinder profile."

"I also haven't committed dozens of murders."

"I am certain this made you very popular at school."

"You're finally ready for Hollywood!"

"Weed makes me want to watch movies, eat a burrito, and stare at the sky to see if any stars move."

"I'm completely romanticizing the life of a detective."

"When are you guys going to catch that motherfucker?"

"Life you haven't stroked it covered in popcorn."

"But those people are nerds."

"We've got a nerd alert!"

"It really was a different time for angry mobs of people."

"It's official, I am never having children."

"This is why I only hung out with the troublemakers in school."

"I fucking hate you."

"I do it better and I can come faster."

"And what I wouldn't give for a taste of that sweet Baba Yaga milk."

"This is where humor saves people from becoming a cannibal."

"You have to put the blame on yourself if you get caught."

"Nothing good happens under a bridge."

"Sounds like a Hardy Boys mystery."

"I'm not going to sleep for the rest of the week, but it was fascinating information!"

"Similar to when I get super stoned and realize all the Domino's I just ate."

"And I thought the fleshlight was a bit extreme."

"What the hell was going on in the 1980s?"

"I'm never going to trust my neighbors again."

[hartigays]

big brain thot: wheezie being the one to get rafebarry together👀👀

“wheeze, you can’t just show up here like this.”

she hasn’t even gotten off her bicycle yet, helmet still in place and everything. she looks up at rafe with big eyes, rolling them as slowly and dramatically as humanly possible.

“i just did,” wheezie points out, unclipping her helmet and setting it in the front basket of her bike.

rafe eyes her warily, then relaxes a bit. his eyes flicker back towards the trailer. “how’d you even know i’d be here?”

“topper,” she tells him simply, shrugging.

“topper?”

another overly-dramatic eye roll. “yes, topper. he came by looking for sarah and i asked him if he knew where you were. i need help with something.”

“and topper told you i’d be here?” rafe asks, brows raised.

topper is a lot of things, but is he the type of person to send a kid to a coke dealer’s trailer? no, absolutely not.

“i encouraged him,” wheezie replies, a little too vague for rafe’s liking. he narrows his eyes and she sighs. “fine, i kicked him in the crotch until he gave it up. happy?”

rafe snorts at the mental image.

wheezie finally climbs off her bike, standing in front of rafe with her arms crossed. “so, are you going to help me or not?”

he really doesn’t want to say yes. but he’s sort of always had a soft spot for wheezie - she’s one of two people who don’t make him feel completely homicidal.

(the other is sitting back in the trailer, smoking a joint and watching some boxing match on his old as shit tv. the thing has antennas, for fuck’s sake.)

rafe glances back at the trailer again, then turns back to wheezie, scrubbing a hand over his face. “fine. but you can’t come inside, wheeze, i’m serious.”

“why, because of drugs?” wheezie snorts, flicking her hair over her shoulder. “please. i’m pretty sure you smoked weed in my room when i was like, five.”

“that’s not the point,” rafe huffs, his fuse shortening ever-so-slightly. “just tell me what you want.”

for the first time since her arrival, wheezie looks mildly uncomfortable. she bites her lip, looking towards the treeline.

“i want to learn how to fight,” she says, and her voice sounds so small that rafe sort of feels… bad.

which is like a new milestone or whatever, so this is sort of a big moment for him.

“why do you need to learn how to fight?”

wheezie doesn’t say anything for a long stretch. then, her cheeks get red, and the words burst out of her. “i’m getting picked on at school, alright? this girl keeps saying she’s going to beat me up after class and i can only hide from her for so long, you know?”

rafe is mildly taken aback, never figuring wheezie for the type to get bullied. she always seemed self-assured and well adjusted, with a sizable group of friends and an active social life. for a middle schooler, anyway.

“what’s her name?” rafe asks, indignant on his sister’s behalf.

if he had to choose a sister to be the target of bullying, it’d definitely be sarah. wheezie, on the other hand, is just a kid. and if someone is threatening to kick her ass, rafe sure as hell is going to find out who.

“i’m not telling you her name, rafe,” wheezie says. “i don’t want you going and knocking her door down to threaten her or whatever. i want you to teach me how to fight so i can hold my own.”

rafe would probably just kill the kid, not threaten her, whoever she is. but he doesn’t tell this to wheezie, biting his tongue for once.

he rocks back on his heels, then sighs, and beckons for wheezie to follow him into the trailer.

wheezie throws her arms up as if to say fucking finally, following rafe inside.

barry is still smoking on the couch, but when he sees wheezie trailing after rafe, he has the presence of mind to put the joint out with an awkward cough.

“you gonna tell me who your little friend is, country club?”

“i’m his sister, wheezie,” she says before rafe can speak, rolling her shoulders back and holding barry’s gaze steadily.

“wheezie?” barry repeats, then laughs, wagging his finger in her direction. “you funny, kid.”

wheezie gives rafe a look, clearly judging him for his choice of company.

“jury’s still out on you,” wheezie tells barry, eyeing him.

barry actually throws his head back when he laughs this time, and rafe can’t help but eye the line of his throat, his mouth going a little dry.

the worst part is, wheezie notices him staring. she raises a brow at rafe. he just coughs and looks away, regretting every decision he’s made in the last ten minutes.

“look, she wants to learn how to fight,” rafe tells barry. “i figured two heads would be better than one?”

“or you just a pussy and know you can’t beat nobody’s ass, rafe,” barry says, reclining back on the sofa, staring at him through heavily-lidded eyes.

“neither can you,” rafe reminds him.

always reminding him. where rafe has failed, barry has too. rather consistently, as a matter of fact.

“fair ‘nough,” barry says after a stretch, leaning forward again. “two heads, then.”

wheezie coughs, and they both turn to look at her. she gives them a bored look. “are you two done having a moment? or do you still need a minute? because i can step outside if- ”

“shut up, wheeze,” rafe groans, pushing her towards the couch.

they spend the next hour and a half discussing fighting techniques, and the cardinal rules of fighting. the ones rafe and barry abide by, anyway.

there aren’t many. they spend the majority of the time discussing technique.

when wheezie gets sick of listening to them yammer on about the different types of headlocks, she starts to get restless.

“oh my god, i didn’t come for the rules of fight club, alright? will one of you just show me how to punch this bitch in the face?”

both barry and rafe shut up immediately, barry’s mouth dropping open in mild surprise.

rafe just snorts, mumbling fair enough under his breath.

and that’s how rafe ends up watching barry do some sort of shadow boxing with wheezie in the living room. rafe re-lights the joint, watching the scene before him in amusement.

“no, kid, you ain’t gotta do all that fancy shit with your legs,” barry is saying at one point, then demonstrates some sort of kick for her.

rafe forgets sometimes that barry has military training, and despite the fact that he gets his ass beat on a regular basis, he’s a pretty damn good teacher.

the joint is long gone by the time wheezie looks at her watch, cursing.

“shit. rose is gonna kill me,” wheezie mutters, fumbling for her phone.

“just tell her you’re staying at a friend’s,” rafe suggests. “it’s too dark for you to bike back anyway.”

“you could always drive me, you know,” wheezie reminds him. then, her eyes flicker down to what’s left of the joint (basically, the filter) and backtracks. “well, he could.”

she’s pointing at barry, and barry shrugs.

rafe, however, finds himself wanting wheezie to stay. dare he say it, he might’ve actually missed his sister.

he’s pretty sure he’ll regret it later, but regardless he says, “we’ll get you something to eat and you can crash here if you’re too tired to go home after.”

something to eat ends up being freezer-burnt pizza rolls, but wheezie doesn’t complain. she eats her food while scrolling through her phone, glancing up at rafe and barry every now and then.

they’re conversing quietly about a drug deal they have set up later, a big one. rafe doesn’t think wheezie is listening, but he also doesn’t notice the way she keeps glancing up at them, her eyes flickering between them with an unreadable look on her face.

and then, out of nowhere, “are you guys dating?”

rafe looks at her sharply and he sees barry do the same out of the corner of his eye. barry’s mouth had shut so quickly that his teeth clacked together, and rafe can see him rubbing at his jaw.

“what the hell, wheeze?”

wheezie raises her hands in mock-surrender, but still rolls her eyes. “it’s just a question, geez. but thanks for the answer.”

“the fuck is she talkin’ about?” barry asks, his gaze flickering between rafe and wheezie.

“you two,” wheezie explains slowly, looking almost bored. again. rafe is starting to think he’s had a bad influence on her. “you’re dating, right? like that’s why you’re always here, right?”

the latter question is directed towards rafe, and he feels his stupid cheeks betray him, burning red.

“oh, right. you’re men, of course you haven’t talked about it,” wheezie sighs, then stands up and brushes invisible crumbs off her shorts. “well, i conveniently have to use the bathroom, so. use this time wisely, i guess?”

then wheezie disappears from the small kitchen, leaving rafe and barry sitting in thick, palpable silence.

“so… what the fuck just happened?” rafe asks when he can’t take the uncomfortable silence any longer, pointedly not looking at barry.

when barry shifts in his seat, rafe can feel it, and he realizes all at once just how close they’re sitting.

“she thinks… “ barry trails off, shifting in his seat again.

“that we’re dating,” rafe finishes, swallowing around the golf ball-sized lump that has mysteriously appeared in his throat.

rafe can feel barry looking at him. he can feel the heat of his gaze, and wow, wheezie is taking a really long time in the bathroom.

“that what we been doing, country club?” barry asks, and rafe looks over at him so quickly that his neck pops.

rafe searches barry’s face for any trace of humor, but comes up empty.

they’ve been practically living together for months, ever since rafe gave up trying to please ward and joined barry’s little side business. and if he really thinks about it, they have lapsed into something almost nauseatingly domestic.

it’s like. like rafe’s been in this weird, fucked up relationship this whole time, and he’s just now realizing it. and realizing, at the same time, that he doesn’t want it to end now that wheezie has gutted them both and laid everything out in the open, where neither of them can hide.

jesus fucking christ, is he in love with barry? barry the drug dealer?

well, rafe supposes that’s what he would call himself now, too, so. maybe it makes some sort of sense after all.

“i don’t think so, but i think we should now,” rafe finally says. he doesn’t know why he says that last bit, it just sort of slips out before he realizes what he’s saying.

but he doesn’t take it back either.

barry is too quiet next to him. the silence goes on for far too long, and rafe is starting to debate internally whether or not he should dump wheezie’s body in the swamp or somewhere off shore.

finally, barry speaks. “startin’ to think you may be onto somethin’, rafe cameron.”

“so is that a yes?” rafe huffs, already feeling exposed enough as it is. he doesn’t need barry speaking in shades of gray.

suddenly, there are fingers wrapping around his jaw, gentler than rafe would’ve anticipated, and then barry is turning rafe’s head and kissing him.

like, really kissing him. rafe feels like he’s being turned inside out, his insides shifting and adjusting, rearranging and adapting to make room for barry.

it’s not a particularly long kiss, but it’s sure as hell the best one rafe has experienced in his life.

“they teach you that in the army?” rafe asks when barry pulls away, aiming for nonchalant but failing due to the heavy rise and fall of his chest. and the fact that he can’t stop staring at barry’s mouth.

barry just smacks the back of rafe’s head, shoving him lightly. “get the fuck out my kitchen, country club.”

rafe is about to respond when the bathroom door opens, and wheezie pokes her head out.

“ugh, thank god you’re finally done. you should invest in a bathroom fan, you know,” wheezie tells barry, “i could literally hear everything.”

she shudders and gags, barry laughs, and rafe vaults himself out the nearest window.

well, he tries to. barry catches him by the waist easily, dragging him back into his seat. wheezie just rolls her eyes, pinching the bridge of her nose.

“okay, well, since you’re done being a drama queen, i think i’d like that ride home now.”

[anunvalidcritic]

LOKI: S1-EP5

(DISCLAIMER: MY OPINION IS MY OWN AND CAN BE DEEMED INVALID TO THOSE WHO DON’T CARE FOR IT.)

Well, last episode we met at least 4 Lokis from different timelines and one of them is worthy of Mjollner! Let’s see what they offer for our Loki, shall we?

                             JOURNEY INTO MYSTERY

It’s pretty cool to see Loki in his natural skin tone.

Alright, I see everyone is gettin’ that cardio in. 

I also see that they wanted to go all out for the dimension of Loki’s 

ELDERLY MAN LOKI looks goofy af LOL

FINISH HER SYLVIE!

“When we prune a branched reality, it’s impossible to destroy all of its matter. So we move it to a place on the timeline where it won’t continue growing. Basically, the branched timeline isn’t reset. It’s transferred... To a void in time.” - RENSLAYER

TIME KEEPERS do not I REPEAT DO NOT = UTOPIA

ICONIC DIALOGUE

ALLIGATOR LOKI - *keepin’ up with the pace of the group.*

OG LOKI - “I suggest we take a breather, so I can ask several thousand questions.” 

FUTURE LOKI - “Tough, gotta keep moving so we don’t die.”

OG LOKI - “Okay, but what’s your plan?”

WORTHY LOKI - “Don’t die.”

OG LOKI - “Okay understood, but beyond that?”

FUTURE LOKI - “Don’t die.”

OG LOKI - “’Don’t die.’ Is not a plan. It’s a general demand of living. If you’re Lokis, you should always have a plan... WILL SOMEONE PLEASE EXPLAIN TO ME WHAT THE HELL IS GOING ON?! *Goes on a rant*

       -me: I’ll tell you what... if CHILD LOKI says some slick shit I’ll be floored.-

       -ROFL WHY DID ELDERLY LOKI LOOK BACK AND FORTH LIKE THAT!?!?! I’m dyin’!!

      -I’m glad he didn’t find the Alligator’s perscene peculiar kmsl. 

CHILD LOKI - *pulls a dagger on OG LOKI* “Stop wailing or you will signal Alioth.”

WORTHY LOKI = BOASTFUL LOKI

ELDERLY LOKI = FUTURE LOKI

“We’re in a shark tank. ALIOTH is the shark.” - FUTURE LOKI

KMSL ROFL ALLIGATOR LOKI ain’t fuckin’ with sharks AT ALL

“He’s overly sensitive like the rest of us.” - FUTURE LOKI

Naw, because this little banter legit has me cryin’ with laughter. 

ALLIGATOR LOKI blinkes

oop... KID LOKI such that shit down real quick. 

OH HE’S RUNNIN’ SHIT!?

THAT LITTLE BASTARD KILLED THOR?!?!?

OH SO WE BOWIN’ DOWN DOWN HUH!!?!??!!

BOASTFUL LOKI lookin’ a little too proud after hearin’ that lol. 

Not the candy canes at the throne. It deadass

MISS MINUTES ain’t with the homicide shit LOL.

RENSLAYER, you better sit cho ASH KETCHUM Pokemon havin’ ass down somewhere!

Please tell me she had the time pad on her. 

BOASTFUL LOKI lyin’ through his teeth.

listen ALLIGATOR LOKI is about that LIFE!!! HE gives no fucks!! He stays squared up!

FUTURE LOKI = WISE LOKI

“To tell you the truth, I miss my brother, and I wondered if he missed me, if anybody else did.” - FUTURE LOKI

AYE I FUCK WITH HI-C!

ICONIC DIALGOUE

OG LOKI - “Have any of you met a woman Variant of us?”

FUTURE LOKI - *shakes his head in disblief* “Sounds terrifying.”

OG LOKI - “Oh, she is! But that’s the kind of what’s great about her.”

I can’t stand them for laughin’ at OG LOKI rofl

Damn and I thought that was SLYVIE. WE CAN’T HAVE ANYTHING!

woah woAH WOAH wtf did SLYVIE just do!?!?! (besides the fact that she obviously used her powers)

“We prefer snakes to wolves.” - POLITICAL LOKI

BOASTUFL LOKI ain’t shit DAMN

“Why the hell is there an alligator in here?!” - POLITCAL LOKI

all these LOKIS in one room are just trifflin’. 

it’s the bicycle helmet for me.

Not me thinkin’ that boat was the Titanic LOL

Now hear me out... that car is lowkey cool. 

“You throw a rock at a LOKI out here.” - AGENT MOBIUS

SLYVIE = the brains of the group

“Paper cutting a cloud to death?” - SLYVIE

back to RENSLAYER ol’ trifflin’ ass

HUNTER B-15 THE REALEST MOTHERFUCKER in the TVA besides C-20, LOKI, SLYVIE, and AGENT MOBIUS. MISS MINUTES as well.

“You only want it, she needs it.” - HUNTER B-15

ICONIC DIALOGUE

AGENT MOBIUS - “That’s even if he is a Loki.”

FUTURE LOKI - “He is green isn’t he?”

AGENT MOBIUS - “I don’t know he could be lying. The long con. Of course, that just makes him more likely to be a Loki. It’s always the game within the game with you guys, which I respect.”

“It’s never too late to change.” - AGENT MOBIUS

“It’s cold.” Yeah and what about it??

I’m going to need them to stop stating the obvious. 

What kind of fuckin’ blanket is that?!? It has no cushion. thin af. 

Bro what kind of small emu is that? Its head is literally a sphere. 

ALLIGATOR LOKI said he ain’t goin’ no where.

LOKI = Spark egnitor

lol those small emus walk funny.

LOKI = A true olympian 

FUTURE LOKI brought out all of ASGARD

I know these mofo aren’t walkin while holdin’ hands. I can’t stand when ppl move slow.

Come on LOKI we ain’t got all day you better hurry up and master that shit!

LET’s GET A FUCKING MOVE ON!!!

ofc that’s where it ends!

___

It was unfortunate that FUTURE LOKI had to go, but I really enjoyed this second to last episode. We saw how a LOKI who had put his/her/their complete faith into other. And that, my friends... that was beautiful. We are one episode away from it all ending. I hope you all have still remembered that everyone’s a critic when their opinion matters the least. 

-------

Here are the links to past and future episodes:

EP1 - EP2 - EP3 - EP4 - EP5 - EP6

[voiceracha]

voices | chapter one

a stray kids thriller au

genre: crime, thriller, angst

warnings: violence, mature themes & language

voices masterlist

watch the trailer here

01 | MURDER AT MIROH CAMPUS

word count: 1.6k

Wednesday, 17 June – Two weeks before

Mornings were always chilly and serene at Miroh University. The campus was large and commodious enough to hold its own little town, building a community amongst the students and staffs as if they were one big family.

There were rows of shops and cafés just on the outskirts of the campus—old fashioned with intricate designs contrasting the modern architecture of the main academic buildings. As it was a weekday, students were out and about whether on foot or on bicycles, getting to and from classes in different parts of the place. Those who were having a free time, however, could usually be found in the cafés and restaurants surrounding the area.

Inside one rather small café, with calming ambience and the pungent aroma of espresso, several students resided at round tables for two and four, either alone or with a peer. The television became background noise, hanging in one corner of the café near the entrance where everyone could see it. On one side of the place were multiple bookshelves holding a myriad of books ranging from fiction to nonfiction.

It worked as both a bookstore and a library, as one could buy the books or simply borrow it to read as they drink coffee. Some students sat there to study, and some found their escape between the shelves, reading comic books and manga during their free hours as they took breaks from the real world.

For Seo Changbin, it was his workplace.

The literature student stood behind the counter, waiting for a woman to make their payment for three thick, postgraduate physics textbooks. He smiled at her as he received the money and waved when she turned to walk out the door. The bell jingled after her, and the door closed without a sound.

Being the son of the owner, he chose to work a couple shifts at the café when he had no classes. The café was his father’s inheritance from his grandparents, and he didn’t mind managing it while his parents worked. There were two other employees, but since they currently had classes, Changbin remained alone behind the coffee machine on Wednesday mornings.

His degree course required a lot of reading, analyzing, and writing, and he could do all that from behind the counter when there were no customers to attend to. Sure, he could easily do all three at home, but he liked having the smell of coffee and the white noise of insignificant conversations floating around him as he read a dreadful Charles Dickens novel. Sometimes he wanted to hit himself in the head for choosing to study modules such as Victorian literature. What was he thinking?

Changbin sighed before going back to making coffee for himself as there were no new customers. It was 9:56 a.m., and the ones present in the café looked well occupied enough, immersed in their reading or speaking in low volumes to their friends. One of them, though, was thoroughly studying and typing away at their laptop at a table close to the counter.

Of course, it was law student Lee Minho.

For him, Changbin’s café “Streetlight” was like a second home. The table near the counter was his table, and he could always be found studying or resting there if he wasn’t out with his beloved boyfriend. It was a rare sight, seeing him without the other boy around, but they were both their own individuals who studied different things—they needed their own time and space to get work done.

“Binnie, can I have another latte please?” Minho asked, briefly looking up at Changbin who was about to pick up a novel from his stool.

“One latte coming right up.”

Changbin took a cup from beneath the counter and began making it when the news came on at ten o’clock sharp. He glanced at the TV every once in a while as he prepared Minho’s latte, just in case something important came up.

“Breaking news for the people of Miroh Campus: the murderer strikes again,” said the reporter, a man no older than twenty-five. He stood at what could clearly be seen as Pace Park, surrounding the manmade lake in front of the main building of the university. “Two bodies identified as Choi Hwa Sung and Park See Hyun were found here at the Pace Park jogging track this morning, believed to have been victims of a homicide incident last night.”

Hearing the gasps of the customers, Changbin placed Minho’s cup aside and turned the volume of the TV up for them to hear better. As the reporter continued speaking, he took the latte and brought it to his friend’s table, placing it beside his previous cup and taking a seat across from him.

“Police have arrived at the scene and the ongoing investigation will be carried out by the finest detectives of Bay 8. Sources of death have not been confirmed, but it is believed that the victims were violently beaten up to death, despite no weapons being found on the scene.”

Minho whisteled lowly as he turned away from the screen, instantly picking up his cup of hot latte and taking small sips of it.

“Who do you think did all that?”

Changbin shrugged, his eyebrows knitted together in a frown as he met his friend’s eyes.

“Honestly? I have no clue. It’s hard to tell the good guys from the bad ones these days, and the killer could be walking among us without us noticing at all.”

“Well, whoever it may be, this clearly isn’t the first time.”

Just then, the bell jingled above the main entrance and in came Hyunjin, dressed in matching black sportswear. His skin glistened with sweat, and he used the small towel around his neck to dry it.

“Look who it is,” Changbin grinned while his best friend made his way towards their table. “Where were you? It’s already ten.”

Hyunjin pulled a chair from the next vacant table and sat down between the two.

“Running, duh? Where else would I be?”

“Bro, you stink,” Minho pinched his nose dramatically.

Hyunjin only made a funny face at him in reply, sticking out his tongue. He wiped his face with the small towel while the TV behind him switched from the news to a detergent advertisement that no one cared about, so Changbin used the remote to decrease the volume once more.

“So, who do you think the murderer could be?” asked Changbin.

Neither of them noticed, but Hyunjin almost choked on his own spit and stopped his movements abruptly as soon as the words left his friend’s mouth. He felt his heart hammering in his rib cage, the sudden urge to throw up building at the back of his throat and clawing at his skin.

“Murderer?” he replied slowly, his voice barely audible. The look of confusion on his face only made Minho and Changbin chuckle, which he received with a sigh of relief.

“Oh my god, you’re clueless!” said Minho, slapping his right arm lightly. “They just informed on the news that there’s two dead bodies found at the park, where you always run at, and you don’t even know.”

“He only cares about running, Minho. He even forgot he’s supposed to meet us here forty minutes ago. Now we gotta push our meeting to another time.”

Hyunjin didn’t know why his friends sounded so calm when the news of two students being found dead just dropped on them, but he gulped and tried to put on his best nonchalant tone anyway, smiling smugly at his friends.

“Please, I’d rather run until my lungs give out then sit here and hear you two discuss your conspiracy theories.”

Changbin stood up, Minho’s previous cup of latte—now empty—in one hand.

“They’re not conspiracy theories,” he said, defensive. “They’re actual crime cases that Minho studies and I’m interested, okay?”

“Then why the hell do you need me here?” asked Hyunjin. “I’m not interested in that.”

“You’re here because you’re my best friend and I need you to back up my points against this lawyer wannabe.”

“Aw…” Minho smirked, lightly punching Hyunjin’s arm in a teasing manner. “Changbin and Hyunjin sitting in a tree—”

“You better shut the fuck up,” Changbin pointed at the older man from behind the counter, his eyes shooting daggers at the latter who was laughing in his seat.

Minho’s phone rang right then, and he excused himself to answer it.

“Must be the love of his life,” Hyunjin teased, wiggling his eyebrows at Minho.

“Shut up,” he whispered before holding his phone to his ear. “Hello?”

When he was done talking twenty seconds later, he ended the call and began gathering his books, placing them in his backpack.

“Let me guess, Master Han Jisung awaits?” Changbin raised an eyebrow, amusement glinting in his eyes.

“You know he’s gonna whoop your ass if he knows you call him that, right?”

“Not if I whoop his ass first.”

“Well, tell him I said hi,” Hyunjin said, pulling Minho’s latte towards himself since the man didn’t look like he’s gonna take it with him.

Minho nodded, “Will do. He needs help with his photography assignment on the other side of campus, and also, I’m a great model so...”

The two friends made gagging noises at him as he laughed, and they waved goodbye until Minho walked out the door, making his way towards his motorbike.

“Okay, that reminds me,” Hyunjin started whilst standing up, “I need to meet Felix and discuss about our short film, so I’ll see you later?”

Changbin pouted for a second before sighing.

“Fine, see you later. And you’re paying for Minho’s latte.”

Hyunjin groaned and gave Changbin the money while the latter laughed at him.

After giving his best friend a quick hug, Hyunjin took one step out the door, and his smile disappeared with it.

[ CHAPTER TWO ]

[frangipanidownunder]

Hope you feel better soon! Could you maybe write something with jealous Mulder?

I can’t believe I wrote dog!fic and that it ended up being slightly NSFW.Naughty BoyThe drive back fromOregon is long, tiring. And smelly.

“Did you really haveto bring that thing?” he looks over his shoulder at the dog staring back at himfrom behind the bars of his cage.

“Mulder, that thing isa dog. And how else am I supposed to get him back home?”

“I heard you can traindogs to ride bicycles these days, Scully. The return trip from Oregon to Washingtonis…”

“Mulder! You just sawa monster, a were-lizard, we solved a case, possibly prevented many morehomicides, and,” she draws in a dramatic breath, “I had fun. Why do you have torain on my parade now?”

He puts another seedin his mouth and turns up the air-conditioning. “You’re going to have to changeits diet, Scully. That thing smells worse than the inside of my gym bag.”

“What gym bag?” shesays, turning around to speak to the dog, “Daddy doesn’t have a gym bag, doeshe?” The dog yaps.

Mulder thrums hisfingers against the steering wheel, flexing his jaw. “I threw it out. Alongwith the three pairs of unwashed socks that had stuck to the bottom of it.”

She chuckles and thecar fills with light sparks and fresh air. He turns to her. “Daddy, Scully?”

 He finds himselfbuilding a kennel for Daggoo, to a design that Scully clipped from Bark magazine, to which she subscribedfor its ‘thoughtful and well-researched material’. He’s tempted to scrunch upthe pages from the back-issues and use them to line the base of his handiwork.The kennel has a window and a front deck. For fucks’ sake. Why does thisfurball need a front deck?

“Because he likes tosurvey his territory, Mulder. And he can do that from the safety and shade ofthe verandah. Dogs can burn in the sun, Mulder. He’s got white fur. And unlessyou want to rub sunscreen into him every day, I think this is a greatcompromise, don’t you?”

“You never rubsunscreen into me, Scully,” he mutters, hammering the last nail into the wooduntil it pushes so far in that the timber splinters. He crawls back a few pacesand turns towards her. She’s standing there, backlit by the late evening sunthat picks out the gold of her hair. He sits on his heels and takes it in.

“Do you like thiscolour, Mulder? It’s called Aegean Teal. I thought it would be calming for him,you know? Considering his background, it must have been awful being in the shelterlike that.”

“Aegean what?” Helooks at the tin she places on the grass next to him.

“Teal, it’s abluey-green. Like the ocean.”

Daggoo yaps andlollops over to him, leaping up and unbalancing him so he winds up on his asswith the dog licking his face. He pushes at it but it won’t leave him alone.

“Awww, Mulder. Hereally likes you. He doesn’t kiss just anyone like that.”

The dog’s tongue issandpaper against his cheek and he rubs saliva off his skin with the back ofhis hand. “Give me bile, any day.”

“What was that,Mulder?”

He shakes his head. “Isaid, I can’t wait to get on with the painting, Scully.”

 It’s not often Scullycooks. Especially not so early on a Sunday morning. The smell from the kitchenis thick and aromatic, and he breathes it in as he stretches sleep away.

“Scully, did you makemeatloaf for breakfast?” he asks, pouring coffee into two mugs. “I’m not surewhat I did to deserve the break from that chia gloop thing you keep giving mebut I’ll take it.”

He slides a cup overto her and she folds the corner of the newspaper down to eye him. She slides abowl of chia gloop over to him.

“I made meatloaf forDaggoo. He needs nourishment.” She looks at him and swallows a spoon of chia.

He rubs his hands overhis gut. “Right. Maybe I’ll get myself another gym bag.” He pulls out his chairand goes to sit down. Daggoo looks up at him.

“He seems to havetaken a liking to your seat, Mulder.”

“Right,” he says,taking the next chair. Daggoo leaps onto his lap. Scully smiles and hishammering pulse softens a little.

“He seems to havetaken a liking to you too, Mulder. You love, Daddy, don’t you, Daggoo?” Sheshucks the dog under the chin and he barks on command, panting out meaty breathover Mulder’s face.

 Sunday afternoonsrepresent lazy paper-reading by the fire, or on the verandah, dependent onseason. They represent pottering in the yard, taking the occasional run,surfing the net for cryptid sightings or unusual clusters of lights or weather eventsor Victoria’s Secret runway models and they lead to Sunday evenings whichusually lead to good food, good red, her feet on his lap, shared showers andearly nights. Which lead to…

           Or they used to. Now, they walk thedog, play with the dog, cook for the dog, shop for the dog. And then Daggoosits on her lap and she gives him a bath then crawls into bed complaining thatshe’s exhausted.

           He pulls her to him, dropping a kissto her head and massaging her shoulders. “Why so hard, Scully?”

           “I could ask the same of you,Mulder.”

           He chuckles. “And you, a medicaldoctor.” His lips find hers and she reciprocates with a long, long kiss. Hebreaks it to breathe and she whispers soft kisses over his jaw and chin. “Betterthan that dog,” he says.

           She pushes him onto his back andstraddles him. “You like him, Mulder. You just don’t realise it yet.”

           “You mean it’s some kind of latentreaction?” He reaches under her vest and rubs his thumbs over her nipples whichharden instantly.

           She breathes out, “Yeah.” Shepresses her fingers into his chest and finds his nipples with her thumbs,rasping her nails back and forth. She bends and licks each one. “Like that,Daddy?”

           He thrusts up and grinds himselfinto her. She pushes back down and the both moan into each other’s mouths.Daggoo lets rip with a cacophony of grating yaps from the yard. Scully pullsher head up and licks her lips. Mulder watches the pink of her skin recedes. Thedog starts again and he curses.

           “He’s lonely,” she says.

           “Scully,” he says, letting his headflop back against the pillow. “He’s got more toys than Walmart. He’s got aMcMansion and five acres. He receives better health care and nutrition thanprobably 50% of the population. He is not lonely. He is spoilt.” He can’t stopthe pout as she climbs off him and grabs her robe.

           “Mulder, he’s a shelter dog. Hecomes with issues. You knew that when I rescued him.”

           “You didn’t rescue him, Scully. Youstole him.”

           She looks over her shoulder at him. “Whatare you gonna do, Mulder. Arrest me?”

           “Only if you let me fleece you andhandcuff you.”

           She walks to the window. “I think he’srunning around out there barking at bats.”

           “Figures,” he says. He pulls herpillow over his lap and squirms.  “Can’tyou lock him in his kennel?”

           “Remand him, you mean?” She giveshim the eyebrow.

           He sighs out harder than he meansto. “Scully…can’t you just, I don’t know, climb back in with me and forget thedamned dog for an hour or so.”

           She eyebrows him again. “An hour,Mulder? Jeez, is that a promise?”

           He lifts the pillow and nods.

           She snorts and leaves the room. Heleaves it a minute before getting up and limping over to the window. It’s coldand he sighs as his ardour cools along with his bare chest. He finds histee-shirt and pads to the kitchen. He sees his jacket, draped over the chair withhers, and fishes into his pocket for the flashlight.

           “Scully? Did you get him yet?”

           “No,” she calls from themid-distance.

The arc of his flashlight beam picks her out, angelic in white. Daggoo’sflurry of barks moves closer and she grabs him, picking up the furball and depositingit on the verandah of the dog house.

           “Now, you naughty boy. You stayhere,” she says and pushes Daggoo away and he yaps, wagging his tail at thegame.

           “You never call me a naughty boy.” Mulderpulls out the handcuffs and dangles them between the dog and Scully.

           “Mulder! Not out here!”

           He chuckles. “Who’s going to bewatching?”

           She holds onto Daggoo’s collar andblows a strand of hair from her face. “Says Mr Paranoia 1994.”

           “I’ve got yours too,” he says, bringingout the second pair of handcuffs. “And I found a spare set.” The metallicjangle fills the momentary quiet.

           “Mulder,” she says, and her voice ishoarse. He can’t tell if it’s arousal or panic.

           “It’s okay, Scully. I’m not thatdesperate. I was going to link them together and make a chain to keep him on.”             She goes to speak but he cuts heroff. “It’s only for tonight. Tomorrow we can get a proper chain leash and nextweekend I can build a run for him. Imagine that, his own territory to patrol. Ithink he’ll like it, don’t you?”

           She rubs the dog’s ears and hewhimpers into her hand. Mulder knows how he feels.

 The straps of her vestslip down her shoulders and he exhales. Scully in white cotton is just aboutthe sexiest thing he’s ever seen. He loves silk and satin and black and red butScully is purest and most beautiful in white cotton. She sits astride him andhe’s hard in an instant.

           “You promised me an hour,” shewhispers and her hair brushes his face as she leans over to kiss him. Then sheadds, “Daddy,” and he just about loses it there and then.

           She rolls her pelvis back and forthand Daggoo begins a soft howling outside.

“Naughty boy,” she purrs.

“Yes,” he says, “I am.”

[waynebomberger]

A Long Answer to a Stupid Question

Hello!  I'm back from my family vacation, and you'll be glad to know that Paris, France was absolutely formidable:

Yeah, I realize the Tour is usually in July, but this year they moved it up to February just for me. Now that I'm back, I'd like to address a question someone posed in the comments section of my last post, and I'm doing so for two reasons: 1) It's a question that pops up semi-regularly; B) I find it really annoying so I'd like to answer it definitively once and for all. And now, here is that question: Anonymous said... I guess one question would be why someone so involved in cycling would live in such a gawd-foresaken-place when it comes to actually riding a bike in the first place? Is there a worse place on earth? Perhaps Sydney Australia? But the weather's better there so perhaps NYC is the worst? February 22, 2019 at 8:31 AM Then, after various insightful comments from other commenters: Anonymous said... Some guy from upstate: "Clearest advantage as transportation" I get that, but Snobby writes a lot about FUN rather than just slogging through congested streets using a bike as transportation. The challenge of finding a fun place to ride seems semi-impossible in a place like NYC, DC or (gawd) Florida so I don't think it's odd to wonder why someone so involved in the activity/lifestyle (rather than a simple schmuck who just uses a bike to get around) would choose to live in a cycling hell like NYC. February 24, 2019 at 4:51 AM Okay, before anything else, this comment was in response to my latest Outside column, which is specifically about the NYPD.  So sure, I'll move someplace else in America where there aren't issues with law enforcement, just as soon as you tell me where that is.  Go ahead, I'll wait. I thought so. All right, now that we've got that out of the way, let's address the cycling part, specifically: I guess one question would be why someone so involved in cycling would live in such a gawd-foresaken-place when it comes to actually riding a bike in the first place? Well, for one thing, I was born here.  For another, if you read my lengthy CV you know that once I grew up I realized I wanted to be in book publishing, an industry which pretty much only exists in a meaningful way in New York.  (And yes, my first three books were published by Chronicle Books, which is based in San Francisco, but nobody who already lives in New York moves to San Francisco to begin a career in book publishing, and no writer anywhere moves just to be close to their publisher.) Oh sure, there are people who finish high school or college and decide, "Hey, Tucson seems like a cool place, I think I'll pack a rucksack and live there for awhile."  That's fantastic for them, but I'm simply not wired that way.  I was born clenched of sphincter, not free of spirit.  Furthermore, if I've got a lifetime of roots in a place that's not only interesting and full of opportunity but also happens to be the very best place in the country to pursue my professional ambitions then why the would I pull up stakes and leave?  And on top of that, it's not like I had any idea when I was 21 that I would wind up a semi-professional bike blogger.  Not only was there no such thing as a blog, but the fixie craze was still like a decade away--and even then, living in New York meant I was in the perfect place to make fun of it. Oh, and one other small thing: my wife has a highly successful career in--you guessed it--book publishing, so if you think I'm going to say "We need to move to [x] because riding bikes is more fun there" then you don't really understand how life works on any level. And what about the fun part, anyway?  Are there more fun places than New York City to ride a bike?  Undoubtedly.  In fact, as a semi-professional bike blogger I've visited a number of them.  However, that doesn't mean I'm going to drop everything, move to Gaioli in Chianti, and ride my own personal Eroica every day for the rest of my life--because again, that's not how life works.  (And also the tight sphincter part.) Even so, what a lot of people don't realize is that New York City and the surrounding area is actually a fantastic place to ride a bike, especially when you consider what a massive metropolitan area this is.  Here are just a few reasons why:

You can race your road bike pretty much every week (and often multiple times a week) from March through September ;

There's a outdoor velodrome in Queens and you can race there too;

There's a cyclocross clinic on Randall's Island as well as an actual sanctioned cyclocross race in Queens;

There is excellent road and mountain biking just outside the city, and if you don't like riding a lone there are about a zillion teams, clubs, group rides, shop rides, charity rides, fondos, etc.;

You don't have to set foot in a car to do any of the above--but if you do get in a car now you can do all the regional road, mountain, and cyclocross races, too;

Don't want to race?  Go bikepacking.  Go camp on a beach.  Go up into the mountains.  Go take a foliage tour of New England and ride though covered bridges and shit like that.  It's the Northeast for fuck's sake, there's great riding here!

Even the weather here gets a bad rap.  However, riding conditions in spring and fall are generally superb.  Yes, summer is hot, but that's true in most places.  And while the winter may seem daunting, the fact is that brutally cold days are relatively few, and one advantage of living in a big city is that even when it snows the roads are rarely impassable by bike for more than a day or two, which means even if we get a fuckload of snow you'll probably be able to ride in Central Park within a couple of days.  For people like me who can't bring themselves to ride the trainer, that's a big deal.

But let's set aside ambitious recreational exploits and look at regular everyday knocking-around-town riding.  Do we have our fair share of homicidal motorists and knuckleheaded cops?  Of course.  This is America, after all.  Still, having ridden in many cities around the country, I'd say we're easily among the best places to ride a bike, and in certain respects we are very possibly the best place to ride a bike.  The reason for this is that the bicycle is--and has always been--very much a part of the fabric of this city.  A place like Portland may have a higher percentage of bike commuters, and it may be a less stressful place to ride simply due to the lower density, but I doubt there's any place in America that rivals the sheer diversity of people on bikes you get here in New York City.  Ride around here and you'll see people of every race, gender, age group, and income bracket using bicycles of every conceivable kind--including for work.  Ride around Portland and you'll see a bunch of interchangeable white people in Showers Pass jackets.  (I'm not trying to knock Portland.  I really like Portland.  But, you know, it's Portland.)  Sure, a place like Portland is ostensibly more of a bike city.  But there's nowhere else in America where riding a bike to get around is as boringly normal as it is here in New York.  In that regard, to beat us you've got to leave the country, that's the bottom line.

Now I'd certainly never try to convince someone they should move here, nor would I try to talk someone into loving New York City if they've spent real time here and discovered they hate it.  And who knows, maybe one day when the kids are grown I'll retire to some cycling paradise.  (There are definitely other places in this country I could imagine myself living one day, more on that tomorrow.)  In the meantime though, if you're looking for everything life has to offer--including top-notch cycling--this is a pretty good place to be.  There are eight million of us here after all, and while we may be crazy, we can't all be stupid, can we?  (Though if you're a New Yorker who's both crazy and stupid apparently you get to be president.)

from Bike Snob NYC https://ift.tt/2EvtUYp