#mostly just fluff

[sentientcave]

Part 1 - Part 2

Contains: Gals being pals, homoerotic speculation, brief mentions of alcohol and kink (conversationally)

SFW - Word Count: ~2.8k

You only had a few days to get used to living with Soap before she was gone again, but now, without her exuberant presence, the apartment feels emptier than it did when it was just you living there. You fall into a familiar pattern, running the occasional errand, but mostly just getting up, getting coffee, going to work and going home. It’s… lonelier than you expected.

You’re not sure when to expect her back. When you’d asked, she’d just laughed. “As long as it takes, kitty. Dinnae worry. I’ll have Katie send ye the rent if I’m no’ back before month end.” She didn’t explain who Katie was, and you were a bit afraid to ask. She’d probably just tell you that it’s a classified matter anyway.

The idea that she could be gone that long, or even longer, makes your stomach clench with worry. Perhaps you’ve only known Jamie for a week or so, really, but she’s already gotten under your skin and made a home for herself. There’s signs of her all over your apartment too— The big green couch, her 3 in 1 soap in the shower (That you’re pretty sure she didn’t use once during the days she’d been there, electing instead to use your products), her winter jacket in the closet, her ‘going out’ boots in the hall. A picture of her and her cousins stuck to the fridge with a Rangers Football Club magnet. It’s the only picture you have of her, and it’s many years old, featuring a gangly, teenaged Jamie that hadn’t filled out into the powerhouse of a woman that you’d met.

You’re wiling away the hours at work, when your favourite barista, Alex, comes in after her shift and chats with you while she browses the romance section. She only ever buys the ones with horny oil paintings on the cover. For the aesthetic, she says, but you're pretty sure she's just a harlequin fan. You can’t blame her. You love a good romance too.

"You ever go to those workshops?" she asks while you’re cashing her out. She gestures at the board behind you. "I've been thinking about going to the ropes one, but haven't worked up the courage to go alone."

"No! I probably should sometime. I think my landlord runs one of them. I'm not sure which though." You slide her books into a paper bag and hand her the receipt.

"Here. I'll give you my number in case you ever want someone to go with. I think it could be fun." She scribbles down her number on the back of her receipt and slides it back across the counter to you with a smile. “I’ve been thinking about—”

The door jangles. “Heya, kitty!” It’s Jamie, grinning ear to ear, a freshly healed scar on her chin and a bandage on her arm, covering half of her SAS tattoo. She sidles past Alex and comes around the counter to hug you tightly. She smells like sweat and gunpowder. She must have come straight to you after getting home. “Missed ya. Been a right slog the last few weeks. Ghost got hisself shot and ugh, he’s all fine out in the field, carryin’ on no problem, but as soon as we’re back at the safe house he’s cryin’ about how much he needs me tae take care of him. Just an absolute wet biscuit of a man.” She glances over at Alex, like she hadn’t even noticed her standing there. “Oh, hello, cutie. Sorry, didnae mean to interrupt.” Her eyes zero in on the reciept with the phone number scrawled across it.

“Oh, it’s, um, it’s fine,” Alex says nervously. “Are you— Um—”

“Alex, this is Jamie. She’s my new roommate. Jamie, Alex. She works at the coffee shop down the way.”

Jamie sticks a hand out, but leaves her other arm wrapped around you. “Nice ta meet you. Been in there a couple times but ye must work the mornin’ shift, aye? I’m always due on base early mornin’.”

“So, you’re, um, military?” Alex asks. She winces slightly when Soap shakes her hand.

“Sure am. Sorry, hen, didnae mean to squeeze so hard. Ye get used to it bein’ a bloody cock measuring contest with the lads on base. Gotta adjust for civvies.” She smiles apologetically. “What were you girlies goin’ on about before I came in? Don’t want to leave your conversation unfinished before I get to monopolizin’ our girl’s time, aye?”

“We were just talking about the workshops. On the board. Alex mentioned that she was thinking about going to the ropes one.”

“Is that the one yer handsome landlord runs?” Soap asked. “And is it like, knots for boats and whatnot, or the fun kind? Wouldnae mind tyin’ ye up, kitty.”

“I’m… Not sure. It’s kind of unclear, but there’s an email listed. I’ll get some clarification.” You give Soap a side-long glance. She looks a bit more excited than you’re sure what to do with. “And besides that, there’s no way I’m letting you tie me up.”

The light in her eyes only gets more intense. “You gonna tie me up, kitty? Have yer way with me?”

Alex clears her throat, looking a bit nervous. “Well, um. I’ll see you around. Text me and let me know about the course. Or if you just want to hang out. I’m free after one like every day.”

“I can also keep you apprised of when we get a truck-load of harlequins in, give you the first go through,” you say. “I’ll see you Wednesday, eh?”

“Yeah. Bright and early.” She smiles at you. “And, um, nice to meet you, Jamie the roommate.”

“See ye around, Alex the coffee girl.” Soap waited for the door to close behind Alex before she spoke again. “Looks like she’s got a little crush on ye, kitty. Didnae know I had so much competition.”

You roll your eyes. “She doesn’t. She’s just being friendly.”

“Oh sure, kitty. Me too.” Soap withdrew a step and leaned against the counter. “Ye want to come out for a pint tonight? It’s a tradition, with me and the lads. We go out, get blootered, captain goes home early, Gaz flirts with someone’s girlfriend, and then we have a scrap outside an’ Ghost breaks it up. Ye can help him, it’ll be good ta have another voice’f reason to balance us out.”

“I think a pint is a far cry from, er, getting blootered,” you say, laughing. “But sure. I don’t start work till eleven tomorrow. I can stand to get a little silly. So long as you’re sure the lads don’t mind. I don’t want to overstep.”

“No’ possible. They like you a lot. Maybe a little too much, if ye ask me. I’m goan to head home and get cleaned up, aye? Do ye mind if I eat the leftovers in the fridge? I’m starvin’.”

“You already ate them, didn’t you?” you ask. There was really no other reason why she would know that there were leftovers to eat.

“Weal. Yes. But yer a kind soul, kitty. I knew ye’d say yes. I’ll buy all yer drinks tonight tae make up for it.”

“Oh fine,” you say. It’s hard to even imagine being mad at her. You suspect that it’s a waste of energy, when she’s just a big puppy dog of a person. Scolding her for anything isn’t likely to change her behaviour, it’s just going to make her feel terrible during the scolding. And you don’t quite have the heart to scold Soap, with her big blue eyes. “I was going to go round to the shops tonight, so maybe you can go tomorrow? I have a list, and I can give you money for it. I just work till five and I won’t have a chance.”

“I can do tha’, kitty. When d’ye get off work today? Three?”

“Five. A couple more hours. Shouldn’t be long.”

“Hours! Aw, c’mon, kitty.” She pouted, as though that were going to get you out of work any faster. “Can’t ye close up early? There’s no one here.”

“Jamie, it’s my job. If I closed up early every time I felt like it I wouldn’t have a job for very long, and then you’d be the one looking for a new roommate.”

Jamie grumbled about how she wouldn’t let that happen, as if she had any control over the state of your finances, but headed home to shower without too much more complaining, although she rather disconcertingly mentioned offhand, as she was heading out the door, that she would go through your closet and find you something cute to wear. You really hoped that didn’t mean pull everything out of your dresser drawers and make a mess.

Things pick up at the shop enough to keep you from dwelling on what Jamie was up to— And she was uncharacteristically quiet on her end as well, only texting you once with a blurry picture of Red Herring scampering down the hallway captioned with CREATURE SIGHTING, and a second one of her and Red cuddled up on the couch, faces smushed together. You take a sneaky picture of a customer with a yellow coat and bright orange boots with Big Bird: Confirmed written across it. You’re careful to leave their face out of frame, but you do feel a bit bad about it, and elect to ‘accidentally’ not ring through one of the books, giving it to them for free instead. The return text makes your transgression against public decency almost worth it.

LMFAOOO<

Finally, it’s time to lock up the store and walk home. It gets dark early now, and the sun is already setting over your street, the shadows growing long, the gold light of dusk painting the edges of the clouds, and the buildings with a little gilt paint. It feels good to know that Jamie’s home. You feel like you can breathe properly again, like you’d been holding your breath for weeks and weeks, not knowing if she was alright. You’d been sleepwalking through your days, and you’re finally awake again, able to appreciate the colour of the sky and the half-familiar and familiar faces you walk by. You know you must be smiling, because you get plenty of smiles in return.

Happiness is an infectious thing.

You check the mailbox for the usual pile of flyers and bills, and sort through them on the way up the stairs. Mostly just junk, and your internet and credit card bills. And an envelope with so many stamps on it that your address is written off to the side in cramped letters. There’s no return address on it.

You unlock the door and drop your bag to the side, in it’s usual spot. Soap’s work boots are neatly placed beside the nearly identical ‘going out’ boots, dusty and worn in from the weeks away. Jamie is sitting at the table, scribbling in a notebook, Red Herring sitting on the table beside her, bapping at the end of her pen every time it approaches his side of the notebook.

"Hm-- Oh! Hi, kitty!" Jamie closes the notebook, tucking her pen inside, and gets up from her seat at the table. Her hair is wet, down around her shoulders to air dry, and she's wearing a tank top and a pair of black boxer shorts with a skull pelvis on them. You suspect that they belong to Ghost. The idea that he wears skulls all the way down to his skivvies makes you like him even more.

Are they dating? You're not sure what the rules are for military relationships, but you suspect that a lieutenant dating a sergeant is not allowed under usual circumstances. Not that you could blame them. Ghost is huge and actually pretty sweet, under the growly voice and mask. He was covered in cat hair by the time he'd gone home, all those weeks ago, because Red liked him so much. And Jamie was a tall, beautiful, muscled-up amazon woman. And they had their whole warriors bond thing going on. It wouldn't be a surprise for them to be interested in each other. The flirting she’s been doing with you is likely no more than just playful fun. You don’t really mind, you just have to keep yourself from reading into it too much.

“Welcome home, by the way,” you say as Soap grabs you into an even tighter hug than before. “I missed you. And I was starting to get worried.”

“You didnae get my letter?” she asked.

“Letter?” you ask. You hold up the envelope with all the stamps. “This?”

“Oh! Guess it didnae make it back before I did. No time to read it right now, kitty. Ye’ve got ta get ready.” She pulls the stack of mail from your hand and tosses it down on the counter before dragging you down the hallway towards your room.

“Do I have time to shower?” you ask mildly.

“Do ye need to?” Soap leans in and sniffs you audibly, trying not to laugh. “Smell fine to me, kitty.”

You giggle and swat her away. “I could smell better."

“Bah. Fine. I’ll wait in yer room, I found a few cute outfits for ye.”

“You don’t have to. I’ll be a few, if you want to get ready yourself.”

“Psshh, it only takes me a minute. Want ye to help me with my eyeliner too, if you don’t mind. Ye do that little swooptie thing? Whenever I try tha’ I cannae get them even.”

“Of course.”

You shower and towel dry your body, before you wrap it around yourself. It's one of those nice extra big ones that actually covers everything. You bought it after making a mad dash across the hall when Fern's boyfriend was staying over, trying not to flash him, and made the decision immediately after to not go through that kind of stress again. He had become a too-regular presence in your home to ignore in the months before Fern moved in with him.

Jamie makes you try on five different outfits before letting you settle on a skirt that hits around the knee and a flowy yellow tank top, and she finally goes to get dressed herself while you dab on makeup and fix your hair. After weeks apart, having Soap back is refreshing, even if she does have a low tolerance for personal space. Out in the field, that closeness is probably necessary, it probably keeps her and her teammates alive, but here it only serves to fluster you and set your off balance. Jamie doesn’t seem at all aware what effect she has on you, and her flippant, flirty comments don’t help matters either.

Helping her do her makeup is the trickiest part, really. She’s twitchy and fidgety, and you end up pinning her flat to the flat to your bed, one hand holding her jaw and the other holding your eyeliner pen, a knee on either side of her rib cage. The angle is awkward when you do the other eye, and you have to lean in closer, steadying your wrist against her forehead. You don’t remove your hand from her jaw until you’ve finished either, well aware that she’ll start talking the moment you release her and make it impossible to finish up neatly.

“There!” you say, sitting back to admire your handiwork. She blinks up at you for a long moment, her blue eyes made all the more bright by the contrasting band of black on her upper lid. “Actually—” You twist and grab your makeup bag, and grab her face again, adding a swipe of peachy pink lip-gloss to her mouth.

Uncharacteristically, she just lays there for a moment, still quiet, looking dazed and flushed. For a moment, you feel a rush of… Well, you would hesitate to call it euphoria, but there’s a certain satisfaction in rendering Soap speechless and pink, when she’s an amazon, and you’re just a round little woman who’s idea of a workout is stocking shelves and crating books around.

But then again, you are sitting directly on her diaphragm, and you know you aren’t light. “Oh, goodness, I’m squishing you, aren’t I?” you scramble to get off of her, and offer her a helping hand up. “We should get going.”

“Right. Yeah. O’course, kitty. Let’s go.” She pulls in a deep breath, shaking off the daze, her familiar devastating grin sliding back into place. “Wouldnae want to keep the lads waiting, aye?”

Maybe it’s just wishful thinking, but you think, just maybe, she does want to keep them waiting. You snag a cardigan from your closet and stop to to give Redd Herring a scritch behind the ears before you follow her out into the hallway and lock up the apartment.

She offers you her arm, like she’s some kind of gentleman (which she would not be, even if she was a man), and you take it, looking forward to the night out.

***

Image Credits:

Top Row: 1 - 2 - 3 - 4 - 5 Bottom Row: 1 - 2 - 3 - 4 - 5 Background

Any other graphics used are canva elements

[snail-day]

Thinking about babies again, what's new 😮‍💨

Gojo would be over the moon when you tell him you're pregnant (the little freak inside him would show everyone the little piss test and all) pressing excited kisses to your belly, looking up at you like you're the most incredible person in the world. He talks to the baby before they can even hear him, whispering jokes and telling stories. His favorite moments are when he can feel the little kicks, he gets a giddy smile everytime before pressing a kiss to a stretch mark or two.

But then he starts reading. About the risks. The complications. The fragile nature of it all. Suddenly, the strongest sorcerer alive feels powerless. His excitement turns into quiet anxiety, masked behind nervous jokes and late-night research.

The first time he holds them, his breath catches. They’re so small. So soft. So warm. Their tiny fingers curl instinctively around his, and he feels it, the shift in his entire being. A weight heavier than anything he’s ever carried, yet lighter than air.

Anxiety for the first time crawling over him. He’s scared. Terrified, even. What if he’s too rough? What if his touch, so used to battle, isn't meant for something so delicate? His hands tremble the first time you ask him to hold them on his own, a wobbly smile on his lips thats begging you to not hand the fragile creature over. But then, the baby lets out the tiniest yawn, their little face scrunching up before settling against his chest. And just like that, the fear melts away.

He learns. Slowly.

How to support their head, how to sway just right to stop the cries, how to tickle their tummy without worrying about breaking bones. He learns that they love the sound of his voice, giggling whenever he whispers nonsense. That their tiny grubby fingers grab at his blindfold, fascinated by the fabric, and that they light up whenever he enters the room.

Satoru is completely smitten. This small creature becoming the greatest gift. He kisses their chubby cheeks until they squeal, blows raspberries on their belly just to hear their laughter. Learns to appreciate all the slobber kisses that reach his cheeks. The teething phase where they bite on his jacket or his fingers. Carrying them everywhere, showing them off like they’re the most precious treasure in the world. Which, to him, they are. (Oh how he'd brag to Nanami if he managed to have a kid first).

When they fall asleep against his chest, soft breaths puffing against his collarbone, Satoru feels like his heart might just burst. They’re so tiny, so warm, so safe in his arms. He presses a few more kisses to the top of their fuzzy little head, inhaling that sweet, new-baby scent.

As he sits there, holding them close, he wonders - how bad can the twos and threes really be? Because right now, he’s excited for them. For the giggles and wobbly little steps, for the endless chatter, for their silly little thoughts and questions. He wants to share sweets, wants to sneak them treats behind your back with a conspiratorial wink. He wants to play at the park, wants to see them coming running with bugs, snails, and flowers in their hands as that tiny, delighted voice comes calling, "Daddy look!"

Gojo Satoru, the strongest, the untouchable, the undefeatable, completely, helplessly in love with his baby. Maybe being this strong has never felt as important as it does now, with this little life curled up against his heart.

[humanjarvis]

everybody (including me) thinks caleb cries and throws up when he sees you naked for the first time, but what if he doesn’t?

what if it’s closer to the feeling of all being right in the world? validation, vindication, satisfaction, assurance. you were meant to bare yourself to him, he was meant to see you. it’s just the natural order of things.

it’s proprietary, almost, the way he looks at you. like the moment is expected. like he’s the only one who should.

it’s not that he’s dismissive or entitled toward your body—he’s still reverent and appreciative, subtle awe coursing through his veins.

but it’s not awe that you’re his. he knows you’re his. it’s awe that you’re you. that anyone on this godforsaken planet could look like you, act like you, be like you. be as perfect as you are. be as perfect for him as you are.

so when caleb saunters up to you, placing a hand on your bare waist like it belongs there—that’s exactly what he’s thinking. because it does.

[kitamars]

lovey dovey (alt ver of the first one under the cut!)

[formulaforza]

— caught in a blue summ. but to love her is to need her everywhere (a gentle kind of love) charles x fem reader, wc 4.1k ish, no warnings, no y/n! fueled by one single praise from @silverstonesainz

You’re three paragraphs into an all-too-lengthy work email when he sits down in the chair next to you silently, one elbow on the sage green tablecloth. He sits in the chair sideways, something you can both see and feel, even without looking away from your phone screen. His presence is accompanied by the gentle thud of two heavy glasses. 

You look over briefly—long enough to suggest to him that his presence is mildly perturbing—and then return your attention to the email. You can hardly concentrate over the jazz band in the corner of the hall, rotating through their collection of love songs sung in different romance languages, and now a strange man has set up camp next to you, only further reminding you why you shouldn’t be responding to emails when you’re out of office. 

“Hi,” he says, after more seconds of silence. 

You finish your email before you give him the time of day. “Hi,” you smile, soft but forced. “Who are you?”

“Charles,” He smiles, holding his hand out to shake yours. You stare at his waiting hand until he takes it away. “Nice to meet you,” he laughs, moving one of the drinks closer to you. “For you. White Negroni. Céline told me it’s your drink.”

You give him a sideways glance before looking past him, scanning the reception hall for your friend. She should stand out in her bridesmaid dress. The wedding invite had specifically requested guests to follow a color code, and nobody was wearing that shade besides the bridesmaids. Your eyes finally land on her, glass of champagne in her hand, long blonde hair falling over her shoulders, leaning over to whisper something to the groom—her brother. No doubt the two of them conspiring, a theory only proved when Mathéo’s eyes land on yours from across the room. You roll your eyes. 

“How do you know Céline?” you ask, as if half the guests here tonight aren’t related to her. 

“I went to school with Mathéo,” he says, and you nod slowly, confusion growing, curiosity peaked. “I suppose technically I went to school with Céline as well.”

“I went to school with Céline,” you say, and Charles furrows his brows. 

“Are you sure?” He asks, and you laugh softly, picking up the drink he’d offered, pulling the garnish off the lip of the glass and dropping it on top of the ice. “I’m serious!” He says, matching your laugh, taking a sip of his drink. “Because I would remember you. And I do not remember you.”

“I’m sure,” you shake your head, bringing the glass to your lips. “Lycée. Première.”

Charles nods. “That is why. I was graduated by then.”

Someone laughs so loud at the next table over that it steals both of your attention. It’s the mother-of-the-bride, and she's visibly drunk in a way that only a divorced French socialite can manage. The sudden attention tones her down, and the room is once again filled with wealthy laughter and crisp clinking crystal glasses. 

You love weddings. You love this wedding; the delicate scent of blooming lavender, the smoked salmon canapés and delicate foie gras pâté that sit half-eaten at most of the tables, the perfectly chilled glasses of champagne waiting to be toasted, and the sun. The golden sun that casts itself across the terraces and into the tall windows, painting the dancing figures in golden hues. 

And then he’s speaking again, and you look back at him, and the sun casts a warm shadow through his brown hair that you're noticing for the first time. “Parles-tu français?” he asks. 

You wince, tilting your head to the side, holding up two fingers pinched together. “Un petit peu. Je suis grec,” you explain, pulling your hair around to drape over one shoulder. 

“Ah,” he says. “How do you say, ‘Would you like to dance?’ in Greek?”

You smile gently, taking another sip of your drink. It’s important to keep yourself paced. Especially when you’re staring at someone who looks like that. “Θα χορέψεις μαζί μου?” You finally say, and he stares at you blankly. The expression forces a laugh from you, which in turn pulls one from him. 

“Again?”

“Θα χορέψεις μαζί μου?”

Charles nods for what feels like a very extended period, before downing the remainder of his drink. “Tha horeps…” he winces at his pronunciation so you don’t have to, “mazi-moo?”

You smile at his hopeful expression, and wonder if he’s more hopeful for a correct pronunciation or an agreement to dance. You shrug, swirling your drink around the glass, looking past him to your friend again. 

She’s watching you this time and wears a grin the size of the wedding. She holds up both her thumbs, and then makes a heart with her hands, pretends to have it beating out of her chest. You shake your head, smiling softly, eyes moving back to Charles. 

“One dance.”

— — — 

Your feet drag across the stone pathway like maybe you’ll slow yourself down and get to spend a half-second longer on the phone with him. You hear it over the voices of drunken uncles pouring from open windows and the radio sat on one of the sills playing a Christiana classic. The air is warm, but dry, and the elastic at the end of your braid tickles the skin on your back while you walk. 

Ahead of your scraping shoes, a cat cleans their paw in the yellow of a porch light. You’re in Paros, and life is so sweet you’re finding porch lights and the smell of your yia-yia’s karidopita to be the most romantic thing in the world. 

“I’m nearly home,” you hum into your phone’s receiver. He laughs on the other end, and you wish all the aunts with the drunken, ballad-performing husbands could hear it so they’d stop asking when you’re going to settle down. It would make sense to them, then, the way you behave about Charles. It would all make sense if they heard him laugh, if they could imagine his dimples. 

“Well, you should probably hang up, then,” he says. You roll your eyes. Your cheeks ache from smiling all evening. Your cousin joked before dinner that your face was going to freeze like that if you weren’t careful. 

“I should,” you agree, but you don’t hang up. You stay on the line, quiet, and stop in front of the resident street cat—he’s small and sweet and purrs against your skin when you run your hand over its sleek black fur, scratch your nails under its chin. You’d bring him home if you knew he didn’t belong to someone, to everyone. “Or you could.”

He laughs again. It’s like honey. You’d swan dive into it if you could, drown all slow and blissfully. “I’m not the one nearly home,” he retorts. I could get far from home again, you think. You could do another lap around the neighborhood. You’d already done it thrice, and then two more times after that. What’s another in the grand scheme of things? “I’ll call you again in the morning,” he says, like it’s routine. You suppose it’s sort of becoming that. 

You take a seat on your porch steps. Voices pour out louder, now. They’ve gotten rowdier with every lap you’ve done. A cousin pulls the old squeaky door open behind you, and you jump in your seat, turning around to see who’s busted you. They hold their hands up defensively, mouth a quick sorry like they’d walked in on you changing, and disappear back into the house. You pull your braid over your shoulder, twirl it around your finger carefully. Nervously, you ask:“Do you think we speak too often?”

“Why do you say that?”

You shrug like he can see it. “We talk too much to be friends.”

“Do we?” You imagine him quirking a brow goofily, based solely on his tone of voice. 

“Yeah,” you chuckle, dropping your braid. “Yeah, I think we do.”

Charles sighs. All you can smell is cinnamon and walnuts. You wonder which one of your cousins ate the heel of the bread while you were out walking. “Well, good thing I would never be just friends with you, then.”

The apples of your cheeks burn like they’d been pinched. You flatten your dress over your legs and a careful giggle tumbles from your lips, teeth biting down on the stupid smile there. “Good thing.”

“Goodnight?”

“Yeah,” you nod. “Goodnight.”

— — —

It’s raining in Milan when you pinky promise your best friends that you and Charles aren’t dating. 

The sky has been threatening all afternoon, dull and gray and humidity that was anything but friendly to your hair. It poured through the window like your own personal heatwave every time you walked past the open kitchen window,coated the tiled countertop in an irritable condensation. 

It came wafting through the air with the smell of the impending storm when you opened the door to your friends. Finally, after hours of building up, heavy raindrops patter against the porcelain of your kitchen sink, forcing you to hastily close the window while giggles pour from your friends’ mouths. 

Between your two hands, you can count the number of times the lot of you have been in the same time zone since graduation, let alone the same city. You’d spent the entire humid day wiping condensation off the counters and cutting cheese into perfect cubes and gathering the nicest bundles of grapes you could from the three grocery shops within walking distance. 

The sound of the storm against the glass is drowned out by red-wine laughter and tales of big cities and big dreams, all so vastly different. You sit with your legs crossed underneath you, phone face-up on your thigh, the stem of an empty wine glass pinched between two fingers, twisting the glass around mindlessly.  

Your phone buzzes, for the fourth time in eight minutes. And for the fourth time in eight minutes, you pick it up, abandoning glass on the cluttered coffee table next to the week-old vase of pink anemones. 

Stop texting me, he’s messaged. Enjoy your time with your friends.

You smile softly, your incriminating grin illuminated bright OLED white in contrast to the soft yellow lamp lighting the dim room. You stop texting me, you replied, because you’re a pig-tailed girl on the schoolyard when you talk to him, your normally composed, carefully developed persona melting into a puddle of mush at the mere thought of him. 

Can’t, he responds. I am bored. 

Why? You’re never bored.

“Oh, my God!” your best friend, Roma, teases in broken English, her Italian accent not nearly as light as the cube of ​​Gorgonzola she’d tossed at your head from the other end of the sofa. “Who are you speaking to?” She questions. 

“Just a friend,” you say too quickly, too defensive for anyone in the room to believe. 

Roma quirks her brow at you, curious grin painted on her face. “Yeah? Just a friend?”

“I’m serious,” you insist, turning your phone off. You set it face down on the table, and it vibrates there almost immediately, all of your friends’ eyes watching for your reaction. The corners of your lips tremble, fighting a soft smile, and you shrug, bringing your empty wine glass to your lips, turning your head up to the ceiling, the last few drops of red falling through your lips. And then it vibrates again, the bright colors of your background pouring out in a soft ring of light around your phone. You still don’t flinch, but Roma does, lurching forward and snatching it up before you have time to react. 

“‘Because,” she reads. “‘I’m normally speaking with you at this time,’” she looks over to another friend, grinning,“From Charles. With the emoji that does like this,” she says, mimicking the blushing emoji you have next to his name.“But with the pink on the cheek, yes?” She continues explaining. 

You sink into the sofa, popping that cube of cheese into your mouth before gathering up the baby hairs and bangs that had fallen loose from your ponytail, carefully twisting the hair into a tiny, thin braid coming out from the middle of your hairline. 

“Just your friend?” Roma questions, and you don’t have to look up from your distraction braid to know she’s raising her brows and grinning at you. 

— — — 

You sit next to him in the fourth row of church pews, one leg crossed over the other, desperately wishing the wedding mass program that sat on your lap was a paper fan, not yet having resorted to the lengths some of your fellow guests had gone to and actually using the cardstock to cool down. 

One leg is crossed over the other, the tip of your heel-clad foot threatening to tap the back of the pew in front of you with every awkward, uncomfortable roll of your ankle you attempt. At least your dress is sleeveless, you think. Charles is not as lucky, a formal suit perfectly fitted to his frame, one arm draped behind you over the back of the pew, his fingers mindlessly twirling one of the tiny braids that riddle your ponytail. Neither of you speak nearly enough Spanish or know nearly enough people for this to be any sort of enjoyable. 

“Do you understand them at all?” You whisper, your head falling onto his shoulder. “Because I do not.”

“Absolutely not,” he whispers back, kissing the top of your head, his hand finding yours, interlocking in your lap. “And I am about to die from heatstroke.”

You nod. “You, me, and the rest of the church,” you sigh, pretending not to hear the crying baby or the stressed mother in the back of the church. You figure she has the eyes of enough judgy relatives to drown out any soft sentiments from a stranger.  “Can they just kiss and wrap it up?” You ask, and as is on cue, the newlyweds are locking lips under the cathedral candlelight. 

“Oh shit,” Charles giggles, the two of you hurrying to stand with everyone else in the room who understood what's been happening for the last hour and a half. You hastily adjust the skirt of your dress, feeling quickly to make sure you hadn’t sweat-stained the fabric, or worse, the bench you’d been all but stuck to. “Thank God,” he says, just above a whisper, just loud enough for you to hear. 

The church quickly funnels out of the church behind the couple, filing into the cars that were driving to the reception location. Police officers line the road on either side, cameras and strangers gathered at their barriers. You walk out with your hand interlaced in his, watching every step you take down the steep concrete stairs. 

“Is it like this every time one of you gets married?” You ask, staring at the uniformed officers. They’re a stark contrast to the summer air, to the leaves of the trees drenched in sunlight, and to the flowers buzzing with bees. It feels like you’re at a royal wedding—the ones with professional watchers and ceremonies that get broadcast to millions of people around the world. But it’s not that. It’s just your boyfriend’s teammate. 

“Um,” Charles shrugs. “I’m not sure, to be honest,” he admits. “I don’t think so,” he continues, letting you duck into the black sedan first. “I think it’s just his family.”

“Gosh,” you breathe out, relaxing in the calm of the air-conditioned car. “It’s like a whole production.”

“I know,” he shakes his head, uncapping a water bottle that was waiting in the car door cup holder and passing it to you first. “It’s like they’re Spanish royalty or something,” he laughs. 

You nod animatedly, drinking down the water before passing the now half-full bottle to him. “Exactly like that!” you laugh. 

— — — 

“Three wishes,” you grin, spinning around to face him, antique Arabian oil lamp in your hand. 

The second-hand shop smells like vintage leather and dusty velvet. La Dolce Vita plays from the store radio, and it sounds like it’s on vinyl even though it isn’t. The store is full of gaudy outfits and gaudier decor, and there in the middle of it is you and Charles, the ladder laughing every time the former makes the same joke about twenty different items, each uglier than the one before, being ‘just what I was looking for.’

“I wish for unlimited wishes, obviously,” He says, and you shake your head.

“Absolutely not. That goes against Genie rule number three.”

It’s chilly, the early morning dew still crisp in the air. A gentle breeze pours in from the propped open door, and with it comes the smell of fresh pastries and espresso from the bakery next door. It smells gentle and warm and makes the vintage store feel like your yia-yia’s house on the last morning of your last visit to her house. 

You’re wearing your favorite pair of jeans, a pair of pink sneakers, and a sweater that was your favorite before you shrunk it a size in the dryer the day before. You cover up the fashion faux pas with a tan wool coat and long, hardly managed hair. He’s dressed like you, but elevated. Always more elevated than you, even if the only brand he seems to bring into his closet anymore is his friend’s. 

“Ah,” he nods, pulling you closer by the opening of your coat.  “Of course,” he smiles, speaking softly. “And what are the other rules?”

“Oh, you know,” you shrug, dimples digging into your cheeks at the mere sight of his. “No bringing people back from the dead, no making someone fall in love,” you hum, “and no wishing for more wishes.” 

Charles quirks a brow, dropping his head to the side. “Those are stupid rules,” he protests, pouting. “What if those were all three of my wishes?”

You shrug, holding up the lamp to his eye level. “Got to get educated on Genie’s, man,” you tease, cheeks aching. “I don’t know what to tell you,” you giggle, stepping even closer. “Them’s the rules.”

“Them’s the rules,” he repeats. “How about…” he says, leaning in, still grinning. “Wish one,” he says, pressing a soft kiss into your lips. “Wish two,” he says, repeating the action. “And,” he grins, pulling away momentarily to tuck a piece of hair behind your ear. You think you could die on the spot, melt right into a puddle on the shop floor. Your face is so hot. “Wish three?” he says, and as a surprise to nobody, leans in to kiss you again. 

“Nope,” you shake your head, desperate for another breeze to blow through the shop, to cool you down, to keep you standing. “I expected better wishes. Very… μη πρωτότυπο.”

“Mi protótypo?” he repeats, and your grin grows.

“Not original.”

— — —

Charles’ apartment couldn’t be more different than yours, and not even solely on a decoration level. Fundamentally, you two come from two different spaces, and trying to merge those spaces has been nothing short of a treat. 

Not that your decor styles are the same either, because you think his are one-of-kind. So one of a kind, that the two of you had gone through each other’s apartment with yard-sale stickers from the corner store, tagging everything you refused to mesh with in red, and everything you refused to part with in green.  Who else can say they have three dozen racing helmets and trophies in the living room, a blown-up shot of a homeless American man on their dining room wall, and a piano that costs more than your net worth in the foyer? That is some perfectly Charles Leclerc decor, and if you had told yourself once that you would be endeared by all of it, you’d have laughed in your face. 

But you do. You adore it, the way it perfectly encapsulates her personality. And you adore him, and the way he put a green sticker on a total of seven things in his whole apartment because he wanted to make sure it felt like your space too. 

“Why did you not label any of these boxes?” He asks, the two of you stood in his dining room. In your dining room. In the dining room. 

“Um…” you hesitate. “You know, I was going to. I really was,” you nod, staring at at least twenty cardboard boxes, each of them completely indistinguishable from the others, not a single identifying marker on any of them. 

“And then?” He asks, shoving his hands in his pockets, rocking on his heels, the herringbone hardwood creaking under his feet with the shifting of his weight. 

“And then I realized I packed my Sharpie,” you nod.

“Mmm,” he hums, scratching his beard, his fingers moving over his face and into his hair, combing through it stressfully. He’s so patient with you. Hopelessly patient with you, and would never admit it. “But you could not find the box it was in?” You shake your head, agreeing with his statement. “Because you forgot to label any of the boxes?”

“Because I didn’t label any of the boxes,” you confirm, an apologetic look painted across your face, eyes soft and sweet, attempting to remind him just how much he loves you. “And suddenly the movers were there. And now I’m here.”

“Oh,” he sighs, wrapping his arms around your chest from behind, kissing the top of your head. “I love you so much,” he says. “I love you so much,” he repeats, voice blank, unconvincing. 

“Yeah,” you nod. “I was thinking we start in the dining room,” you joke, smiling softly, pulling a chuckle from his lips. You can always count on him to laugh at your stupid jokes. Even when he’s pretending not to be annoyed with you.“I’m sorry,” you say softly, kissing the forearm crossed over your chest. 

“I know,” he hums. “It’s okay. It won’t be too bad.”

— — — 

A soft summer breeze floats through the air, blows through the linen pinned to clotheslines in the neighborhood. It brings with it salt air and the careful wafts of cinnamon and nutmeg and eggplants and tomatoes. You sip a glass of Retsina, ignoring the bitter and accepting the sweet. 

The olive trees are draped in endless strings of lights, and gentle, traditional music plays from the live band and the wooden stage your uncles had built with your dad. Your Yia-yia moves around from table to table pinching the cheeks of your cousins, reminding the single girls to check their shoes for their prince charmings. 

The sun is setting on the water, golden shadows cutting around the soft cement architecture. The air is light. Charles wears a tan linen suit with an evil-eye boutonniere. You wear a white dress and a cold coin in your left shoe. 

“You told them no to the money, right?” He asks softly, sipping a glass of white. 

“I did,” you nod. “Well. I told my parents,” You shrug. “Whether or not they convey the message to the four hundred other people here, I guess we’ll find out.”

“It’s weird, no? A first dance and a last dance?”

You smile softly, watching a stray cat hurry down an alleyway. “My family keeps coming up to us and pretending to spit,” you giggle, “But the second dance is where you draw the line in the weird sand?”

“None of it’s weird” he shakes his head, reaching to tuck a curly piece of hair behind your ear, adjusting your veil accordingly. “It’s all you,” he says, leaning in to kiss you softly. His lips are soft, and he tastes like apples and melon and citrus, as easy to kiss as ever. “And I love you.”

“Ah,” you nod, a teasingly soft smile parting your lips. “He loves me,” you say, pretending to wipe sweat from your brow. “I was worried.”

“You act very worried,” he grins. “Wedding dress and all.”

“Oh,” you feign surprise as if you've noticed the setting for the first time. “This old thing? The one that costs a quarter of my salary?”

Charles nods, humming. “That’s the one. Keeps taking my damn breath away.”

You look down at yourself, an innocent, girlish smile draped over your lips, the pink shades of the sunset painting themselves warm over your cheeks. A gust of wind blows through the space, the breeze gently blowing through your veil, through the fabric of your dress. 

“Are you ready?” You ask, watching the sun creep closer to the horizon, be swallowed up inch by inch into the sea, using your hand as a shade-visor. “No time like the present, right?” You add, downing what’s left in your glass. “Our second dance as newlyweds.”

“Our second dance,” Charles nods, holding out his hand, waiting for your fingers to interlock with his. “Let’s go.”

[kjack89]

Wrote a little something, because I couldn't resist <3 Thanks for the inspo!!

one of my silliest headcanons is that Grantaire's birthday is on valentine's day and he's soooo bitter about it

[alchemistc]

He likes occupying the same space as Tommy. It's - every time he looks across a room and sees him he just wants all the space between them to disappear. And - okay - yeah - Tommy has, like occupied space inside of Buck so there's - there's a little Pavlovian tic somewhere in the goo Tommy's smile can turn his brain into but also -

He likes the way it feels when they're side by side - naked or clothed - and Tommy arches his shoulder to smack it into Buck's. He likes the way his eyes dart, when they're breathing the same air and he's thinking about kissing Buck - which is a look he relishes now as much for the knowledge that he's about to be kissed as for the knowledge that he'd seen this look a half dozen times before they ever got to the kissing part. He likes the way Tommy occupies Buck's space - never overbearing but always close, close, close like if Buck asked they'd melt pieces of themselves and stick them together before everything cooled back down. He likes the way they can't quite hold hands without their arms brushing, and the way Tommy ducks his head when Buck exaggerates a flirty head tilt.

He likes a lot of things about Tommy.

He likes the way he grudgingly enters a gay bar because it's not really his scene and ends the night with a drag queens feather boa wrapped around his neck while he sings the Gaga parts of Shallow even if he gets a little pitchy.

He likes the way Tommy boops his nose, out of the blue while he's listening to Buck explain something that has no bearing on either one of them or the thing they're working towards together - still listening with rapt attention but also a little devastatingly charmed by Buck's rambles, of all things.

He likes the way his nose scrunches up when he laughs, soft and genuine, the way when he's really feeling it the ears draw back too.

He likes the way he sounds, that first time (and every time after) Buck found his prostate and he whined like a fucking siren.

He likes the way his face softens even when he's tired, worn around the edges as Buck flings a sock into his laundry basket and tucks his head up under Tommy's chin.

He hates the way Tommy shuts down every time Buck tries to bring up the future.

And it's not like - it's not like Buck isn't aware they'd sort of speed run some milestones. House keys swapped with the sort of flippancy you'd expect out of two guys whose schedules rarely lined up. A drawer in Bucks's loft for the clothes Tommy always left behind, because for some reason he liked to fling them over the balcony instead of stuff them back in his overnight bag. A toothbrush at Tommy's a month and a half in, which wouldn't be all that strange except for he'd gone out of his way to buy the same electric one Buck had in his bathroom vanity. The pin to each others phones, swapped and repeated until it was muscle memory and three weeks ago Buck had grabbed the wrong phone but he'd seen the lock screen of the two of them from their hike in Fern Dell and he'd punched the code in like it was rote before he'd even been fully awake.

Tommy'd hit a wall, though, the first time Buck brought up his lease. And it wasn't - Buck isn't always the best about understanding the shit going on in his own head, but he actually hadn't been going any particular direction there, it'd just been something to fill the lull that had popped in his head and -

Of course, when Tommy froze the fuck up Buck decided to poke at it like a particularly nasty yellowing bruise.

Kids - not his own, just the nebulous idea of them. (Tommy shifted to a conversation about cars so smoothly it'd taken Buck half an hour to notice.)

Marriage - not his own thoughts about it, just that Bobby and Athena had an anniversary coming up and man didn't it suck that Maddie and Chim never got the wedding they wanted and he'd gone to one once in Montana and it'd been in a barn and they'd had candles in Mason jars for their centerpieces before that was the thing to do. (Tommy booped his nose and scrunched his face and held out a ladle of tomato sauce for Buck to try and - son of a bitch he'd known it needed more acid and that Buck would get distracted with recipe talk.)

Homes - the idea of them. Tommy's century old ranch style rental and how it fit him, Bobby and Athena's hunt for a new home, how quiet Eddie's always felt without Chris there, and Tommy had spent an hour listing off all the things he'd fixed up for his landlady and the rent she'd been stubbornly stuffing back through his mail slot every time she found out exactly how much the labor alone for a full copper repipe cost.

So it's.

He's just.

He hates that he's about to do this, here, with his ankle hooked by Tommy's toes under the table at Micelli's when they're supposed to be enjoying six months but he's been on edge for weeks now and he's - God he wants this to work but if Tommy doesn't want to talk future then are they just gonna spend their whole lives stumbling into the next milestone? He doesn't want -

"I had something I wanted to ask -," Tommy starts, right as Buck opens his big mouth and blurts, "I want kids and that's kind of a deal breaker for me."

Tommy blinks.

Buck blinks back.

Not much better than Hot Chicks, as far as Buck is concerned. But Tommy's mouth quirks at the corners, and he jiggles his toes against the back of Buck's ankle, and -

Tommy blows out a breath. "Oh thank God."

"What?"

So he's -

Buck's confused.

"You've been fishing for months now and I thought you were..." Tommy grimaces. When he leans forward to reach for Buck's hand, his arms are tense and his fingers are clumsy. "I thought we'd gone too fast and you were throwing us in reverse and stepping on the gas."

"What," Buck says again, and rewinds.

Kids: where he'd tried to drop the bomb that there was one out in the world who already had half his genetic code and then blazed along to talk about how Chris was his favorite person in the world and Maddie had struggled with Jee and the whole foster debacle made him terrified of all the stress involved in state sanctioned parenthood.

Marriage: where he'd made some dumb joke about how many marriages ended in divorce and then reminded Tommy how much he hated the fact that weddings cost like a third of a years salary, and then told a horrendous anecdote about the way Eddie had asked Buck to come by one night after Shannon only to find him keyed up out back, with the fire pit going and Shannon's things still tucked into their plastic bag on a stool right next to it.

Home: where he'd told Tommy the house in Hershey was like a prison and he'd never felt more himself than wandering the continent trying to find himself and how the loft was suffocatingly open and of the two places where he always felt welcome, one had burned down and the other had been missing an occupant for so long it had felt sad and oppressive.

Foot in mouth Buckley.

"I brought up my lease and you looked like you were trying to figure out if you could hurdle three tables in one leap to get to the door."

Tommy groans. It's. Buck wants to be annoyed by it but he's charmed as ever.

"That - I did do that."

"So. I'm just. Tommy, I..." Because he's given himself time to think about it, since then, and he really doesn't want to re-up his lease but he's also not sure where to go from here.

"It wasn't what you're thinking, though," Tommy says, and there's a wry tilt to his grin. "Irene wants to sell me the house," he continues, and - there's got to be a point, here.

"Okay."

He likes that house. The lived in feel, the easy walk to a little public market where Buck can always find something healthy and Tommy can always come home with a growler of some new craft beer, the avocado tree in the yard and the renovations Tommy has spent half a decade on.

"When you brought it up I'd just spent two weeks trying to convince myself it was too early to ask you if you wanted to sign up for a mortgage with me."

Six months. A redo of their first embarrassing date. The wine, instead of pitchers of beer. I had something I wanted to ask -

"I want to be married, someday," Buck says, and Tommy's thumb skitters over his wrist. "And - the kid thing. That's still a deal breaker."

Tommy nods. Maybe not a surprise, but - still. That feels important.

"I still don't understand equity," Buck says, and Tommy. Tommy laughs.

"I can teach you," he says, and Buck swallows. He wants to call the waitress over, ask for too many canolli because Tommy's sweet tooth is a tyrant and Buck is still mystified by how he manages to always be so trim despite the amount of sugar he consumes.

Buck narrows his eyes. "How long a mortgage?"

He has a settlement from the city that's just been sitting around, mocking Buck for years. It'd make a good dent even with LA real estate. Tommy smiles. "Oh, 30 years, for sure, but we could refinance at least a few times."

"That's - a long time."

"Housing bubble might pop soon, and then we'd just be stuck in it."

"It's good we both have dependable government jobs."

Tommy's eyes crinkle, but his face gets serious after a moment. "Evan."

"Ask me."

Maddie's gonna fucking flip, Buck thinks. Eddie is definitely gonna give him a side eye. Bobby - Bobby will get it, probably.

Tommy hums. "You wanna share the tiramisu?" His grin is just this side of teasing, and Buck knocks a knee into his in retaliation. His eyes go soft and warm. "You wanna buy a house with me, Buckley?"

[skzdarlings]

alternate ending ; sharing a bed ; chan

original sharing a bed one-shot with chan.

author's note: i do love the final smut edit (and it's my most popular piece so clearly i was right!) but i always missed this fluff version. the love confession is very cute in this one.

content info: still some suggestive content, the first half of the story is the same and there's some heavy kissing, but this is definitely the fluffy director's cut lol

word count: 1800 words

-

You let yourself into Chan’s room, expecting to find him awake and working despite the hour.   Whenever you sleep over, your friend is more than happy to let you sleep in his bed when you can’t get comfy on the couch.   Many nights have passed that way, nestled under his blankets and falling asleep to his typing and clicking and absent-minded humming.   He likes to work through his nights so you sleep until morning then leave when he turns in.   

He must have been tired tonight.  His laptop is shut, the room dark save for the little flickering lights of his computer station.  Chan is in bed already, laying with his back to you and the blankets tucked around him.  He is sound asleep, so much so that he didn’t even hear your gentle knocks. 

You feel bad for disturbing him now.   Commandeering his bed is a little different when he is already in it.

You turn to leave when the blankets rustle behind you.  Chan’s groggy voice breaks through the silence, a raspy, “Babygirl?  That you?” 

Maybe it’s the cold floor under your bare feet, maybe it’s the late hour, or maybe it’s the roughness in his voice, but despite how many times Chan has playfully and affectionately called you baby girl, this time a little shiver brushes up your spine. 

You turn back around, wrapping your arms around yourself.   Thanks to the faint light from his work area, you can see Chan clearly even in the dark.  He has rolled onto his back and is rubbing a hand over his face. 

“Sorry, Channie,” you whisper.  “You sleep.  It’s fine.” 

His blanket slips down his bare chest and he drops his arm, looking at you with crinkled, sleepy eyes.  His curly hair is an endearing mess, though your eyes go a little lower when the blanket falls to his waistline.  You quickly lift your gaze from his abdomen to his sleepy eyes.  He squints at you as he adjusts to the darkness.   

“Everything all right?” he asks, still groggy. 

“Yeah, don’t worry,” you say, as if that has ever stopped Chan from worrying anyway. 

He is a little more awake now, his brow pinching as he looks at you.  All at once his face goes slack with realization.  A smile pushes at his dimples. 

“Right,” he says.  “The couch sucks, yeah?  Sorry, wasn’t thinking—”

“Don’t apologize,” you say with a little laugh.  “It’s your bed.” 

“Auuggh,” he says with faux-agony, “I’m such a bad host.” 

You cannot hide your amusement, smiling when he slaps a melodramatic hand over his heart.  As usual, the goofball makes himself giggle with his dumb little theatrics, the sound twinkling in its delight.  Your heart skips a beat.  

“All right,” he says.  “No worries.  Big bed.  You wanna share?” 

It isn’t really a question because he doesn’t wait for an answer, flipping open the covers for you to slide in. 

When you step towards the bed, he throws up a cautionary hand and laughs again.

“Sorry, uh, just wait one second,” he says.  “I’m not, uh, technically decent.”

Your eyes drop again.  The blankets only just reach his hips and when he shifts to get out of bed, it becomes abundently clear that Chan is completely naked under the covers.   You very nearly choke on your own spit, swallowing hard as your frantic eyes dart around his body.  He is seemingly oblivious to your startled state, turning his back to you as he steps out of the bed.  The sheet slips smoothly off his body.

Without thinking, you spin around to give him some privacy.  This plan fails spectacularly as his closet door is a big mirror and you end up looking at him through it. 

He is nonchalant, walking up to his dresser.  Your view is his backside but you have no complaints.  You know you shouldn’t stare, but you do, eyes on the breadth of his shoulders, the definition of his arms, going down his sturdy back to his ass where you linger a beat longer, then diving down his strong thighs until the view is blocked by his bed.   You watch him step into a pair of boxers, doing a little jump before snapping the band around his hips.  He turns around and you quickly close your eyes, grateful he cannot hear your heart going a mile a minute. 

“All right,” he says pleasantly. “All good now.  Come on.” 

He gets in the bed first and holds it open for you.  He is smiling so sweetly and you feel like the world’s nastiest horniest monster, gawping at him as you stumble to the bed.  You try not to think about how Naked Chan was laying between these sheets just moments ago.  

Somehow, you slide into the bed without making a huge fool of yourself.  You even manage to settle down, albeit stiffly.  So stiffly that Chan notices and laughs again, that same bubbly giggle as he reaches out to tweak your nose. 

“Y’okay?” he asks, his bare face so open and sweet that you melt with both affection and embarrassment. 

“Mhm,” you lie.  Your heart skips another beat when your leg brushes his under the covers. 

“C’mere, silly,” he says, wrapping his arm around you and tugging you across the bed.   You go with a squeak of surprise, planting your face in his bare chest.   “Better?” he asks.

“Mmmhf.”

With a little more shuffling, you settle again.   Chan lays on his back with one arm wrapped around you, you on your side just as snuggly holding onto him.  You rest your head on his chest, your fingers bouncing where they rest on his abdomen.   It takes a lot of effort not to start tracing the lines of his body, and even more effort not to drool all over him, but you do manage. 

Your heart is still beating quickly.  You are way too awake to just drift off.   Still, there is something cozy and safe about laying in his arms.  Even though you can’t sleep, you are content to rest in silence.  Your close your eyes and let your breathing follow the same cadence of his chest as it lifts and falls. 

You begin to slip into a drowsy, dream-like state, but you are awake enough that you feel his hand slip down your back.  It doesn’t go lower, but he touches the base of your spine and holds you a little closer to him.

“Baby girl,” he whispers.  “You awake?” 

You are lucky you don’t mewl like an overly amorous kitten.  A few little pets and a whispered name and he almost has you whimpering. 

Not trusting yourself to behave, you pretend you are fully asleep.   He just sighs, his thumb rubbing a little circle on your lower back.  You keep your eyes firmly shut the whole time. 

“I’m so fucking stupid,” he whispers.

He sounds exasperated. You don’t think it’s your fault, because he lovingly tips his head to rest it on yours.  There is another moment of silence, so you assume he was talking to himself about nothing particular, but then he releases a deep breath. 

“I told myself I was gonna talk to you tonight,” he says, still whispering and still exasperated.  “Talk to her when you meet for coffee, Chan.  Buy her favourite tea and tell her.  Tell her now, Chan, while she’s sitting on your couch.  Don’t hide in your room.  She’s hugging you, Chan, tell her now...” 

You try not to get ahead of yourself, but it sounds like your friend is grumbling his way through a love confession.  A grin tugs at the corners of your mouth.

“Does it count if I tell you while you’re sleeping?” he asks.

Yes, you think.  You massive dork.

You have no idea how one man can be so dweeby and so hot at the same time, but Chan manages it.  His hand covers your hip while his other hand brushes hair out of your face.  Is he staring at you with the same lovestruck goofiness that you looked at him?

You get your answer when he speaks again. 

“Love you, baby girl,” he says, voice gone even softer than his previous whispers.  His hand falls away and he sighs.  “Maybe you’ll, like, internalize it or something, in your sleep, yeah?  Please. ‘Cause I’m crazy about you.  I love you so much.  I’m so fucking stupid.  What am I even doing right now?  Fuck, I’m a fucking idiot.” 

You crack an eye open.  His eyes are closed and he looks incredibly pained by his performance despite thinking you didn’t even hear it.    

Joy is a bubbly thing in your chest, threatening to burst out of you with an explosion of giggles.  You restrain yourself in favour of another manouvre. 

You shift as if moving in your sleep.  Your hand slides up his chest and hooks onto his shoulder while you lift your head.  He must be looking at you because you feel a little puff of breath against your cheek. 

“Channie,” you murmur in a sleepy voice. 

“Yeah, baby, I’m here.  What’s up?” 

You blink your eyes open and hit him with the most tender, wanting expression you can muster.   He visibly swallows. 

You wrap your hand around the back of his neck, your nails scratching the way he likes.  Sometimes he just plops his head in your lap and shoves your hand somewhere up there to tickle and scratch his head.  You know what makes him happy and it causes the usual shiver of pleasure.   Combined with your steady gaze, it makes him effectively pliant.  You easily pull his head closer. 

The once impossible space between you is finally closed.  Your lips come together in a gentle, careful kiss, one that is interrupted by his sharp intake of breath.  You take in a shaky breath of your own. 

“Chan,” you whisper.  “I love you too.” 

“Oh,” he says, staring at your mouth.  “Good.  That’s good.”  He smiles when you giggle, then he brushes his nose against yours.  “Good thing.  Otherwise it would have been really awkward when I do this.” 

He rolls over you, kissing you with such ardor that you feel as if you are melting into his sheets.  You hum sweetly against his lips as he gathers your hands to pin them by your head.  When he licks into your mouth, you arch against him and make him moan. Your knees cradle his hips as he settles against you.  

His head falls to the crook of your neck where he kisses you softly. 

“Chan,” you say, a breathy sound.  You wrap your arms around his neck. 

“Yeah, baby girl,” he says.  He kisses under your jaw, your cheek, then your mouth again.  “I got you,” he says. 

Knowing it’s true, you smile into the next kiss. 

[gothamite-rambler]

Jason (answering his phone): Hey.

Cass (extra sweet): Hi, baby brother!

Jason groaned.

Jason: Cass, you're only six months older than me.

Cass: Yeah so that makes you my baby brother! Enough about our sibling dynamic, I’ve been kidnapped.

Jason rolled out of bed, literally landing on the ground with a thud.

Jason: How do cats land on their feet with ease? Also, kidnapped?!

Cass: Mm-hm. Two big guys pointed their guns at me and led me to a van. I'm at their hideout with a lanky guy wearing a blue mask.

Blue mask: Not the most insulting thing I've been called.

Cass: They let me have one phone call to tell my loved one they demand fifty thousand dollars for my release.

Jason (rolling onto his back, exhausted): Cass, one question.

Cass: Yes?

Jason: WHY DID YOU JUST LET THEM KIDNAP YOU?!

Cass (lying): I don’t fight, remember? I’m a ballet dancer!

Jason let out an exhausted sigh, tapping his fingers on the floor. Bruce had told them not to fight as heroes to ensure no one figured out their identities. Except here was Cass, wearing a full-body black bat suit that concealed her face.

Jason: Just kick them in the balls and run!

Cass: I needed a day off from ballet dancing. They aren't harming me; they’re actually rather nice for criminals.

Kidnapper in pink face mask: Thanks! We just need the money.

Jason: That makes sense. Second question, why did you call me and not the big pubba?

Cass (laughing): He's in a business meeting. Plus we haven’t spent time together in the last six weeks. I thought we could go see Wicked after you bring the "briefcase."

Briefcase - Gun, 'cause he's going to save her as Red Hood.

Jason (standing to his feet and heading to his closet to change into his hero suit): I do want to rewatch Wicked and at least this isn't Tim. The briefcase will be there in thirty minutes; I just need more details.

Jason tapped a tracker button on his phone to trace where the phone Cass was using was. Cass picked up the paper with the crudely written ransom note, squinting her eyes.

Cass: I’m sorry, blue mask—it says Dove or Oove?

Blue mask: Damn it, pinkie, I told you to let me write the ransom note! It’s Dove, sweetheart.

Jason (grossed out, in his head): Eww, I’m hitting him with my pistol just for calling her that.

After gathering the information he needed from the ransom note and the tracker, Jason turned to his bed. He was about to move his pet cat to a different room before taking his spot in bed when he saw the calico cat had claimed his spot and was loafing contentedly.

Jason (sarcastically): Awesome, you’ll protect my spot while I’m out. Thanks, Austen.

Austen meowed in response, continuing to loaf.

[mediumgayitalian]

He doesn't quite wake up with the sun.

Well, not literally.

When Will first stirs Nico is still deep in the trenches of his own subconscious, and tonight it is sweet. Tonight he can smell the magnolias in the forests of the South, where he wandered for hours, learning to be comfortable with the size of his hands and the weight of his feet on the ground. Tonight he can hear his sisters' humming, both of them, Hazel's high, sweet voice with Bianca's baritone. He can feel, even, the warmth of his duvet, heavy around his shoulders. None of it makes sense, not together, but it is comforting regardless, and he does not want to leave.

He does not get much choice, in the end. The dawn's sun beams softly through the open windows, and beside him Will wiggles, eyes narrowed carefully as he tries to extract himself from the cage of Nico's arms without waking him. Nico blinks the bleariness out of his eyes, and sees the edge of Will's tongue peeking out of his mouth.

"Y'coulda jus' woken me."

Will jumps.

"Aw, shit. I almost had it this time."

Nico's eyes slide back shut. "Not even close," he snorts.

"I was so. I was up a whole twenty minutes before you sensed it like the little sonar you are."

Will's padding footsteps sound louder than they really are in the quiet morning, echoing off the frigid marble; Nico exhales slowly and maps his steps in his mind: his trek to his drawer in the cabinet, rooting around until he finds his scrubs, his six quick steps to the ensuite, his muffled crash and poorly muffled cursing as he stubs his toe, like he does every morning, on the edge of the doorway.

"Mother -- fucker," Will hisses, clamping his teeth shut at the last minute.

Nico smiles.

He doesn't realise he has fallen back asleep. In his dream, he still hears Will's footsteps, still sees his shadow through the shade of his eyelids as he passes, fluttering from one edge of the room to the next. In his dream there is still the ruffle of the bandages wrapping against his wrists, the tear of a brush as he yanks it through his perpetually-tangled hair. In his dreams Will his humming, terribly off-key, to a song that has not yet been invented.

In his dreams their room is made of hardwood floors and gigantic windows, on an apartment across the street from Mount Sinai. Their blankets smell like peppermint and magnolia body wash.

"I'll see you later," Will murmurs, pressing a kiss to his forehead, his temple, his cheek. In Nico's dream there is a pressure next to him as a hand leans into the mattress. Will hovers above his face. In his dream he smells toothpaste. "I'll be back before you're up, Sleeping Beauty."

"You will not," argues Nico weakly, and his huff is swallowed by Will's teasing grin.

"Love you."

Twelve footsteps to the door, rubber soles slapping the hardwood. The obsidian doors scrape open, and when Nico blinks awake again, they are closed and cold, and the sun is brighter.

He smiles, and goes back to sleep.

[elsecrytt]

satoru gojo knows he's not wanted. only needed - a weapon for killing curses and curse users, day in and day out, the lynchpin of jujutsu society.

he's fine with that, most of the time. the truth is, when suguru left, he thought that was the end for him. he was never very good at friendship in the first place, at making people like him.

he has a difficult personality, and he doesn't want to change. people willing to deal with him as he was were few and far between, and they never had that immediate connection like he did with suguru.

even if it left him unbearably lonely. it's just not in his nature to mince words, to hold back, to play nice. if he couldn't be satoru gojo, then what else did he have left?

and it's fine, most of the time.

but some of the time, it's not. it's really, really not. sometimes, it's worth it to try, just the tiniest bit, not to be a complete ass and drive away a pretty face who seems unbothered by his attitude.

that's how he ends up with you - a non-sorcerer. he hasn't told you about sorcery in general and doesn't want you to know.

to him, your shared penthouse is his safe space. he never walks or drives there, only ever teleports so that no one can trace him there. no one, not even at the school, knows that he primarily lives there.

he spends every spare hour (sometimes even just ten minute) he can there. finishing missions early, darting off after lessons, eating there whenever he can.

satoru only sleeps whenever you sleep. he never showers alone, never does his nighttime routine on his own.

that's all precious time he could be spending at your side.

washing your hair, your face, cleaning up alongside you. laughing and splashing and making a little more of a mess if he can get away with it.

here, there are no curses, no former friends turned traitor, no one who needs his help.

you smile as soon as you see him, hear him, run up to hug him if your hands are free.

he's on the lock screen of your phone. once or twice he's caught you just staring at it, delight painted all over your lips.

all you want from him is his company -

and god, is he ever aware, you're the only one alive who does.

most of his coworkers dislike him to various degrees. even his students have mixed feelings about him sometimes.

he does his best, he really does, but he can't bring himself to get attached to someone who might one day leave.

you won't, though (you can't), so he's free to love you all he wants.

he'll freely confess - he's overcompensating. pouring all the missed opportunities to bond, all the awkward moments where his attitude turned other people away, into the dam that is your relationship.

you don't mind his funky schedule (too much), you're a huge homebody who likes having date nights at home.

you smooth off all the rough edges of his personality - the arrogance, the smarmy comments - with a laugh and a taunt, a hand in his hair that he can't help but lean into like the domesticated pet he is.

god, he loves you. he loves you so, so much, unreasonably so - loves coming home to a "satoru! welcome back~", loves bringing home meals from different places and watching you try them with delight (you joke that his mysterious job must be as a delivery man, which he laughs at more than he should), loves coming home to your unnecessary attempts at cooking every now and then, something indescribable curling in his chest.

he loves sitting and talking with you about the latest show you're watching, telling you about his "coworkers" and "juniors" (sometimes he has to stop himself from giggling about it) and how annoying his latest day at work was.

sometimes it's sort of vague and vapid but it's fun when it's with you. sometimes it's deeper stuff, real stuff ("my oldest friend passed away recently" "one of my juniors at work has a complicated family situation") and you seem to always know just what to say. talking to you always makes him feel better.

he worries, sometimes, that he's not as good to you as you are to him. he tries - god, does he try - to show you the extent of his love, if he can't afford the words or time, then in deeds.

you're taken care of for the rest of your life, that was a given. the penthouse is in your name, various trusts set up in the impossible event of his death.

you have full access to a joint account that was actually just yours, set up for you by him - he just didn't feel like trying to convince you to accept the money.

he buys you things, of course. food mostly, to eat together, but also little trinkets and manga and souvenirs of the various places he goes to. little pieces of his life to share with you.

and when he can, he does do dates. every second he gets to spend with you is like gold, and he spends them all fully invested, eyes locked on you and yours, walking on air the entire time just from your presence. ready to talk about anything you had an interest in.

he's just that infatuated. satoru could talk for days to anyone, but you're the only one who'd listen, who'd chatter back just as enthusiastically. he wants you on speed dial every moment he's away.

shopping trips, too, he's always happy to play dress up, to dutifully compliment you even though privately he thinks you look best without any clothes -

and that, too, he does for you. he makes no secret of his affection for your body. spares not even a second getting to his knees, nuzzling against your thigh, cheeks flushed as he looks up at you with pleading eyes won't you feed me, pretty please, i'm starving~

he shows you he loves you. with hands and mouth and body, as a sorcerer should. silent curses falling from his lips as his body joins to yours.

it seems almost cruel of you to let him have this. why can't he live here forever? why can't he always be inside you?

satoru gojo knows he is the absolute last person who should be complaining about this, but why is life so unfair?

why can't he spend every minute of every day by your side? touching you? talking to you?

in his wildest dreams he's not killing curses or sorcerers or changing the world.

he's in bed with you, by your side from the moment he wakes up to the moment he falls asleep. that's his dream, just you being there, always.

he worries most of all what he'd do if you ever fought.

you're not the type - you "need space to calm down" sometimes, which is usually just you going back to your room. you "want to have a calm discussion" where you sit and listen to him and talk about feelings, and you have this way of making him talk.

you're good at communicating, at making people feel better, and understanding others. sensitive in a way that he's not.

you're never out to hurt him, even when he can tell his time away is grating on you, his constant absences and flightiness rightly off-putting.

you never argue with him, never make demands, and that's how you got together in the first place, the perfect match.

(it scares him, really, being made for battle as he is. where's your fighting spirit? wouldn't you cry and scream and beg if he was going to leave you? wouldn't you go to war for your love? he knows he would.)

but deep down he knows it's there. a massive part of his life is hidden from you - things that are important to him; his mission, his students, his power.

he doesn't know what to do, really.

he wants to keep you safe, unworried. he wants to keep this island of peaceful, mundane happiness in his life.

he wants you to love him, wholly and completely, for all that he is. he wants to hear you tell him he's doing it right. that you're proud of him.

there's so much he wants now, compared to when his life was just teaching students, killing curses, and waiting for the day he'd have to kill his only friend.

satoru isn't sure which one is better. because even though he hopes he can have you how he wants, and the rest of his life too -

he's starting to think it might not be possible.

[sorry-not-feeling-it-right-now]

Thinking about writing shenanigans with Smitten and Cold

Smitten would write the most sappy and fluffy romance stories with happy endings every time. Cold would say that it’s getting predictable of how the story ends every time.

Smitten gets peeved and told Cold to write a romance story himself. Cold takes the challenge.

Smitten reads what Cold has written and lo and behold it’s the most heart wrenching, most antsy love story with pinning and longing that can never be filled.

Smitten cried reading it. He hated admitting that.

[varpusvaras]

Jason gets his new ID card on a Thursday.

It's somehow simultaneously completely unremarkable, and also making his head reel. It's not even the first new, official ID card he has had in his hands - he needed one for the licence, after all, so he'd got one then - but it's still new in every way possible.

Jason turns the card around a couple of times, just to make sure that it's real. It is. New and shiny, with his own face looking back at him from the front. His face is also somehow the same old and completely new at the same time. It is very much him, in the picture, but Jason feels like he is looking at his long lost twin brother rather than at himself. His hair is freshly cut, completely black. His skin is tanned more than it has been in years, from spending a lot of time under the California sun during the past few weeks. He is wearing a light blue button-down shirt, one that Jason wouldn't usually never be caught in publicly.

It is him, still.

Jason is pretty sure he shouldn't have gotten neither of his new, official state-issued ID's so fast, or gotten everything else sorted out so quick either, but Roy has his own ways of doing things. This is the one time his previous government-connections came in handy, he had said after Jason had said yes, and then he had kissed Jason on the forehead and told him not to worry about it.

Jason had let Roy take care of it all. Doing things for others is how he shows affection, and Jason had felt that Roy had needed to take care of Jason even more than Jason had needed Roy to take care of him. Not that Jason is complaining about it. He still feels a bit untethered, and most things are taking entirely too much out of him, either physically or mentally, though Jason is not sure which is which most of the time.

Not that it really matters.

He finally turns his eyes away from his picture to what is written on the rest of the card. His birthday is correct, for once, since this is an official card and not a fake one for whatever purpose Jason had needed one over the years. His address is also on the card, and Jason cannot help but feel a sense of elevation for it. It makes him feel a little stupid. It's an address (Roy's address, their address, Jason officially lives there too-), not a new name or anything like that.

Jason is not really sure if he can look at the name on the card and not immediately combust on the spot, if the address is making him feel this way already.

The ring on his finger feels heavy. Jason takes a deep breath and moves his thumb where it had been covering the rest of the text.

Jason Peter Harper.

It's his name.

It's him.

Jason reads it again. Then again. Then again once, twice, three times more.

Jason Peter Harper looks at him from the picture while he does so. Jason's head is really spinning, and he forces it to stop, hard.

It is him.

He is Jason Peter Harper.

He is the man in the picture on the card.

That's him.

The door opens and closes in the hallway. Roy comes up to Jason when Jason doesn't answer to his greeting.

"Everything okay?" He asks, as he gets to Jason's back.

"Yeah", Jason manages to get out from his mouth. "My new card came in."

"Oh, already?" Roy says. "That was fast. Let me see?"

Jason lifts the card up a bit, so Roy can read it over his shoulder. From how close Roy is standing to him, Jason can hear the small, gentle stutter in his breath as he reads the name. It isn't like neither of them had not seen it already, written like that, since it is in other forms they had filled out, but apparently, it is still making Roy feel just as much things as Jason does.

Jason hopes that it never stops doing that for either of them. Or at least, not for a very long time.

He needs something to last.

"Nice name you got there, Harper", Roy says, and Jason swears that he can almost feel Roy's smile on his skin. He then feels Roy's body pressing against him, warm and strong and solid. Roy wraps his arms around Jason, his head dipping down to rest on Jason, and Jason turns to look at Roy's hands and at the mathing golden wedding band he has on his finger.

"You're mine", Roy says against Jason's shoulder. It is what he has been saying, ever since the clerck at the City Hall had put their name on the paper, singing their lives together. You're mine, you're mine, you're mine, and no one can say otherwise.

Jason had needed to hear it.

He still does.

Jason looks up at the card. It's strange, how a little piece of plastic can tell everyone who he is.

Jason breathes in and closes his eyes, just feeling it all.

His name is Jason Peter Harper. He's alive.

His name is Jason Peter Harper, and for the first time since he died, he thinks he can be happy.

[warydoom]

BatLantern Headcannons

(Inspired by the wonderful @caesyy)

Alfred is the one who *actually* manages their schedules to avoid overlaps on patrols if possible. He once let them patrol together for a week as an "experiment." The crime rate didn't drop, but reports of "two idiots in capes arguing loudly over the best way to eat a hotdog while a mugger got away" skyrocketed. Oracle had to mute their comms twice.

Bruce, despite his initial (and ongoing, to some degree) paranoia, has a designated coffee mug for Hal in the Batcave. Alfred insists. Hal, of course, uses a different one every time just to see Bruce twitch, but the existence of "Hal's Mug" (usually one with a ridiculously cheesy pilot slogan) is a quiet admission of acceptance. Hal also sometimes pucks Damian up from school. Usually when Alfred is just too tired. He has designated nicknames for each one of the kids.

Bruce won't verbally gush over Hal's cooking the way Hal does for his sandwiches, (sometimes Bruce making breakfast in bed for Hal ends with them forgetting to actually leave bed). But he will pointedly leave an extra-large portion of whatever Hal made for him "for later patrols," which Hal knows is Bruce-code for "this is amazing, I want more." He also actually eats what Hal makes, a high compliment from a man who often forgets meals.

Hal once tried to help bruce make the super special breakfast sandwich. It involved screaming, extra grease, and Alfred calmly handing Bruce a fire extinguisher. Hal is now banned from breakfast preparations. He still helps Alfred in the kitchen at all other meals.

Bruce, being Bruce, has rules. Hal, being Hal, considers these rules more like "strong suggestions" and delights in finding (or inventing) loopholes. This leads to many "discussions" where Bruce is trying to maintain his stern composure while Hal argues like a particularly smug lawyer.

Bruce: "Jordan, the rule was no constructs in the dining room." Hal: "Technically, it was a cutlery construct, Bats. For eating. It's thematic!"

Their civilian bickering is legendary at Wayne Manor. It's less about life-or-death mission stakes and more about who left the cap off the toothpaste, whose turn it is to choose the movie (Hal always picks something loud and dramatic, Bruce picks mystery movies to make fun of them), or Hal "helpfully" rearranging Bruce's meticulously organized bookshelf "to give it more personality." Alfred just sips his tea.

Bruce has an internal catalog of Hal's petnames for him, ranked by annoyance level. "Spooky" is mildly tolerable. "Batsy-Boo" elicits a death glare. "My Caped Crusader" gets an eyeroll. But he never actually tells Hal to stop. It's just… Hal.

No matter how much Hal bratted, or how stern Bruce had to be, Bruce's aftercare is meticulous and unwavering. It's often silent – cleaning up, tending to any marks, holding Hal. Hal, for all his bluster, sinks into it like a cat. This is where a "Sweetheart" might slip out from Bruce.

Hal is on a perpetual, often failing, mission to make Bruce laugh. This involves terrible puns during patrols, ridiculous construct shapes (a giant rubber chicken to whack a minor inconvenience villain), and attempts to get Bruce to dance at quiet moments. Bruce's lips might twitch upwards sometimes (once in a blue moon), which Hal counts as a monumental victory.

At Justice League meetings, Hal will make tiny, almost invisible construct distractions that only Bruce (with his hyper-awareness) would notice – a tiny green bird pecking at Superman's cape, a miniature race car zipping under the table. Bruce's jaw will clench, a silent promise of a "debriefing" later. He never does this when the situation is *actually* serious, though.

Bruce rarely raises his voice, but when he drops it to that low, gravelly Batman tone, specifically for Hal during… negotiations… and calls him "Jordan" with a certain weight, Hal practically melts, like an ice cream on a hot day. It's the auditory equivalent of a firm hand.

Alfred Pennyworth ( the human, not the cat) has a soft spot for Hal. He sees the genuine affection beneath the bickering and appreciates that Hal can sometimes make Bruce forget he's Batman for a few hours. Alfred always ensures Hal's favorite snacks are stocked and might "accidentally" leave out photo albums of a younger, slightly less broody Bruce when Hal visits.

[beefcakekinard]

listen to the fireplace roar

Buck/Tommy | Rated E | 3,403 words

[read on ao3]

Summary:

Buck and Tommy take a vacation to a snowy cabin - and get to enjoy some alone time together.

[moonsglare]

thinking modern!au feixiao thoughts again… feixiao who loves having you as her pretty passenger princess in her souped up supra. alongside her fighting skills, her car is something she’s also super proud of. she worked a lot of shifts at her uncle huaiyan’s shop to convince her guardian yueyu that she could get one, so she holds it near and dear to her heart. all of the car’s mods were done by her own hand—with some helpful assistance from moze, specifically when it came to tuning the ecu. and she certainly put it into action, sneaking off to participate in a street race here and there. it’s how she ended up making friends with an older foxian, yukong, who would also haunt these meet-ups in a downright monstrous nissan gtr that other racers could only look enviously upon. yukong’s retired now, though, very busy looking after her 2 year old daughter that feixiao adores.

in any case, feixiao’s had a bit of a history with living life in the fast lane. it’d always been a source of worry for jiaoqiu and moze, but feixiao had mostly just let their concerns go in one ear and out the other. she cares for them, she does, but how could they understand what it’s like to live life on a timer? she can’t let the world pass her by, needs to chase it down, and if that means doing nearly 200 on the freeway then so be it. but somehow, that worldview had since fractured—and she can trace it back to when she met you. now, with you in her car, she finds herself wanting to slow down. to indulge in every soft laugh, every sigh, and every breath she can draw from you. her car has gone from a place where she comes to forget, to a place where she wants to indent every moment into her memory.

she loves taking you out on long drives, maybe to go somewhere out of state for the summer. she’ll have several playlists on her phone, a mishmash of your favorite songs and her own, and you both take turns belting out the lyrics in the car. if you get some food at a drive-thru, expect to be hand feeding her fries or helping her sip her drink. she’s gotta keep both hands on the wheel, after all. and if the drive stretches on into the night, and you fall asleep in the passenger seat, she’ll slowly pull over and grab a blanket she’s started keeping in the backseat and draping it over you. when the car starts moving again it’s with an intentional, quiet gentleness, the machine purring softly as it moves down the road under feixiao’s expert hand. it’s a long journey, but there’s a warm comfort that’s wormed its way into her heart, knowing that you’re right there next to her for the entire ride.