Van(der)
@bloodiedhound.bsky.social
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DO NOT FORGET WHAT I AM. ____________________ roleplay. young pit fighter vander au. written by berry.
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𝙎𝙤𝙢𝙚𝙩𝙞𝙢𝙚𝙨 𝙄 𝙘𝙖𝙣𝙣𝙤𝙩 𝙩𝙖𝙠𝙚 𝙩𝙝𝙞𝙨 𝙥𝙡𝙖𝙘𝙚
𝙎𝙤𝙢𝙚𝙩𝙞𝙢𝙚𝙨 𝙞𝙩'𝙨 𝙢𝙮 𝙡𝙞𝙛𝙚 𝙄 𝙘𝙖𝙣'𝙩 𝙩𝙖𝙨𝙩𝙚
𝙎𝙤𝙢𝙚𝙩𝙞𝙢𝙚𝙨 𝙄 𝙘𝙖𝙣𝙣𝙤𝙩 𝙛𝙚𝙚𝙡 𝙢𝙮 𝙛𝙖𝙘𝙚
𝙔𝙤𝙪'𝙡𝙡 𝙣𝙚𝙫𝙚𝙧 𝙨𝙚𝙚 𝙢𝙚 𝙛𝙖𝙡𝙡 𝙛𝙧𝙤𝙢 𝙜𝙧𝙖𝙘𝙚
HA. Will he?

Shirt back on. An exaggerated, looow ✨bow✨ before he leaves him to his daydreaming.
pausing mid-dressing.

side eyeing him.

alright that's enough time to put his shirt back on it's still kinda chilly—
Flexing for no reason aaat all.
... or whatever it is they say nowadays.
another (sun)day, another slay.
the sweat from his brow, inspecting his work.

“Think that’ll hold?” Harlan asks, dubious.

Vander claps him on the shoulder, standing, a smirk on his face. “Not even a little.”

Greer snorts. “Guess we’ll find out the fun way.”
floorboard, checking for weak spots. “You two best hurry. Ain’t got all day to babysit you.”

Vander twists the wrench, gritting his teeth as the rusted bolt resists. His forearms strain, but with a sharp creak, the pipe gives way just enough for him to jam a sealant patch over the crack. He wipes —
above. “We should just patch it and pretend we didn’t see it.”

Vander huffs. “And when it floods mid-shift? You plannin’ on swimmin’ to the stockroom?”

Harlan grumbles something under his breath, but kneels beside him anyway, passing over the wrench.

Across the room, Greer kicks at a loose —
The Drop isn’t open yet, but it’s never really quiet. Vander crouches near the bar, sleeves rolled up, hands braced against a heavy pipe running along the wall. A slow, steady [ drip ] echoes against the floorboards.

“This is a shit job,” Harlan mutters, arms crossed as he watches from —
Reposted by Van(der)
<— Fuckin fell asleep. Of course he would.
That—was one trial too many, oof. Gonna plop down in a booth and rest his eyes for a few minutes. Or more.
Humming whatever tunes come from the jukebox as he makes notes in a little notebook. Next to it, on the bar, an array of bottles and tumblers and shakers and a generous amount of ice cubes.

He's been testing new ideas, coming up with new mixes, seeing what's good or not so much.
That—was one trial too many, oof. Gonna plop down in a booth and rest his eyes for a few minutes. Or more.
Humming whatever tunes come from the jukebox as he makes notes in a little notebook. Next to it, on the bar, an array of bottles and tumblers and shakers and a generous amount of ice cubes.

He's been testing new ideas, coming up with new mixes, seeing what's good or not so much.
Humming whatever tunes come from the jukebox as he makes notes in a little notebook. Next to it, on the bar, an array of bottles and tumblers and shakers and a generous amount of ice cubes.

He's been testing new ideas, coming up with new mixes, seeing what's good or not so much.