#and maybe i like the taste of sawdust okay whats the fucking problem

[lovers-rck]

a guide to (not) sleep

pairing ellie williams and fem. reader

this is something new im trying out. it happens in the tlou universe (meaning: there is an apocalypse happening, but it's not the *main* theme) with some changes like ellie and abby not trying to kill eachothers everytime. wow, the magic of fanfiction!!

the original idea was to do a big long fic but i wanted to do a short version first to test the waters and see how is welcomed.......... so if you like it you can tell me by commenting, reblogging or whatever you want!!!

also the title is the first thing that came to mind so maybe i will change it later? i don't know yet.

ok too much talking. goodbye. enjoy.

☆

love isn't for ellie.

she tried, and tried and tried; it never worked for her.

riley was the first one, but we don't talk about her.

then it was cat; she had short hair, a face sprawled in freckles and a cool gun tattoo machine. ellie and cat lasted a good 3 months.

after cat, dina appear. her big smile and nasty jokes was what got ellie walking on walls for weeks before she had the courage to talk to her, and when she did, they matched perfectly, or that was what ellie wanted to think.

dina was perfect; funny, kind, beautiful, and all the good things, but ellie was not, and that was the problem; they didn't match with certain.... qualities.

that and the fact that jesse was crushing hard over dina.

so that was ellie's panorama; with two (three) failed relationships, she began to accept that maybe -just maybe- love wasn't for her, and that she had to take care of the things she was good at, like killing clickers; riding shimmer; critiquing joel's coffee, among other mundane things.

the months passed, jackson's ice froze and thawed, shimmer's shiny fur revealed among the tiny snowflakes melting in the first warm temperatures after a long, hard - too hard, if you ask her- winter in that new society.

the pages of ellie's journal absorbed every drop of ink that swore how in a world like that there was no place for love, with pretentious adjectives that ellie once read in an old dictionary that maria gave her as a birthday present and has already forgotten the meaning. page after page, clotted ink and textured paper bore witness as ellie swore, with all his life, that dina was the last shot, the last bullet left in that gun, and that ellie had wasted it.

but then you showed up.

ellie began to notice how her body unconsciously gravitated towards yours, seeking your accidental touch and your comforting closeness; ellie sometimes fantasized that it was the lack of vitamins in her body, the last traces of hypothermia showing up in her immune system provoking little hallucinations.

she doesn't know if it was the effects of the poor quality of care she was taking of herself, or if it was something else, but it was enough for ellie to consider that maybe - just maybe - her gun had one more bullet available; one more attempt, timidly hidden among the barn sawdust and tree leaves, waiting to be used.

that and you were fucking fun to be around.

"so, abby came and she hug me by surprise" you say, laughing and smiling at the memorie "i was so scared. i thought it was a clicker"

ellie nods, thinking who the fuck abby is. she doesn't know if she wants to know.

"that's fucked up" is the only thing ellie utters. abby? is abby that red haired girl that is in charge of the improvised supermarket at the end of the -again- improvised street? no. that can't be her.

"right?" you say, eating a piece of cake that ellie did or did not steal from the birthday of her neighbor "i told her that"

ellie ate a piece of it too. she didn't know how cakes tasted before the apocalypse, but she thinks this is okay.

"so what did she say?" ellie asks.

you shake your head, sucking your index finger, wiping off the frosting "she laughed"

maybe it was that girl you taught to ride last month. ellie remembers you said it was a lot of fun.

but what kind of riding were you talking about?

"so who is abby, anyways?" ok. easy. that was good, ellie thought. no one could ever suspect anything.

you looked at her for a second, an expression that ellie couldn't decipher but quickly faded.

"uh... remember that girl who killed two clickers at once on patroll? like, she choked them with her arms at the same time and knocked them down?" you say, the beginnings of your eyebrows coming together in a frown, looking at ellie.

oh, she remembers. she remembered very well.

"mhm, no, not really" ellie acts nonchalant, looking at her short and damaged fingernails.

"she has a braid, a blonde braid" you say, recalling

ellie purses her lips, shaking her head slowly "mh, no, i don't remember her"

she remembers. she remembers so vividly how envy consumed every bone in her body when she heard that news, seeing how your eyes widened in surprise and your smile widened so wide it reached your ears as you listened to the great deed that this abby had done, telling that story like she just found the cure; ellie wanted to roll her eyes so bad.

"dude!" you say, holding out your arms "muscles? like, very big ones?" you ask and ellie shakes her head once again.

"mm, no, sorry, i don't think i know her" ellie mumbles and has to restrain herself from snorting.

"well, whatever" you say "the thing is, i thought i was gonna die right and there"

ellie nods again, and her body slams into the mattress of her bed.

today was a rest day. jackson was resting quietly, some patrols were coming in and out frequently, absurd patrols to just kill the time and pretend to do something productive.

the town was having a good run the last few days, the amount of clickers around the area had almost halved, the injured people had been cured, and while food wasn't in short supply, it wasn't alarmingly scarce either, and that was something to celebrate at times like these.

it was a quiet day in wyoming.

so you and ellie were trying to kill time before getting back to the routine, and the hours seemed to be ticking away.

ellie was too proud of her room; it was comfortable, warm, and hers. on the walls were posters of savage starlight that joel kept getting for ellie on his patrols, warm christmas lights taped up, polaroid pictures with the image too faded from the sunlight coming through the window, sketches and chords of songs.

you loved ellie's room, you thought it was the coolest thing on the planet.

"you going for a nap?" you say, putting the cake away.

"uh, i don't know, maybe?" ellie murmurs, rubbing her face "i don't know what else to do. i'm bored."

"yeah, i could do a nap too" you say "I'm a bit tired"

ellie nods, a bit dissapointed that you go away so early, but she finds herself surprise when you grab her blanket and accommodate yourself in her bed.

ellie will have looked at you for a long time before you feel her eyes on you.

"uh, it's okay if i stay here?" you murmur, looking at her and ready to run away if she tells you to.

ellie finds herself in a trance that forces her to come to her senses as fast as she can "yeah, yeah" she says.

"are you sure? you don't seem so sure"

ellie wants to slap herself on the face.

"no, please, stay. you can stay if you want" she spoke, and regrets immediately by how needy she sounded.

you giggle and nod, curling up against one of her many pillows, the blanket resting on your body like a marble sculpture of a veil "thank you ellie" you smile slightly "have a good nap".

ellie can't seem to find the words so she turns over, afraid to move to much to the point that her bones will fall out of her body as she feels you so close. ellie can feel, hear, how your breathing slows down as the minutes pass, becoming calmer.

she doesnt know how much time passed on, but ellie feels her body take on a cold temperature, so she does what anyone would do; she reaches for the blanket to cover herself.

but she brushes against your body.

ellie's hand, as clumsy as her owner, accidentally brushes against your body as she reaches for the blanket. she doesn't know which part of your body it was, and she has the feeling that it's better this way.

ellie has never been with a woman. oh, well, maybe she is lying because she has, in fact, been with cat, but that was just a few touches right and there, more curious than desirous, nothing too affectionate to make an impact on ellie. but the thing is, she has never been with a woman, never slept with a woman.

like, really sleep, rest, take a nap, rest your eyes -as joel often says-

it was something so intimate that ellie had never been able to do with anyone. it was the moment where she was the most helpless, the most adrift, the most vulnerable. the time where all her baddy personality destroys itself to show her true self.

so ellie thinks, thinks, thinks, thinks and thinks but there is only one question that keeps coming up in different formulations, but it always remains the same:

how is ellie williams going to sleep with you next to her?

[yowyowyaoi]

*Kakuzu and Hidan return to the hideout after a mission; Kakuzu goes straight to his room, and after a while, Hidan follows him*

Hidan: Oi, ‘Kuzu … is something wrong?

Kakuzu, sitting on his bed quietly counting out a stack of money: No. All is well. 

Hidan: *pauses, then moves to stand at the edge of the bed* You’re lying to me, fucker. When ya lie to me ya don’t let me see your eyes.

Kakuzu: In case you’re somehow not seeing what’s in front of your eyes, I’m engaged in something else at the moment, and it requires my full attention.

Hidan: Oh, gimme a fuckin’ break, man. You could count that shit blindfolded. Seriously, what’s up your ass today? You’ve been acting weird since this morning.

Kakuzu: I doubt that you’d understand, brat. 

Hidan: I wish you’d stop treating me like some dipshit kid, old bastard. Me and you … we’re not just fucking, right? We … we got something else goin’ on, right?

Kakuzu, quietly: Yes, we do. 

Hidan: Okay then, you need to start telling me when things are wrong instead of finger-fucking your money.

Kakuzu: *sighs, and scoops up the bills on the bed, putting them on the dresser before patting the spot where they had been* Shut that door, and then come and sit here, please.

*Hidan does as asked and sits by Kakuzu*

Hidan: Well?

Kakuzu: *reaches out with both strong arms and pulls Hidan against his chest, resting his chin in Hidan’s hair*

Hidan, blushing: O-oi! What the hell?!

Kakuzu: Hidan. I … I don’t think I can do this much longer …

Hidan: Well then let go of me, weirdo!

Kakuzu: Not that! I mean … this whole thing. Being in the Akatsuki. The missions, the fighting, the constant traveling and injuries and cheap food and sleeping outside in all kinds of weather … I just can’t anymore.

Hidan: … have you said any of this to Leader?

Kakuzu: Tsk; of course not! He’d kill me for sure!

Hidan: 

Hidan: If you left the Akatsuki, what would you do? Where would you go?

Kakuzu: With luck, drop off the face of the earth. Find a secluded woods somewhere, build a nice little cabin. Hunt, fish, trap furs. Grow things, maybe. But … I can’t. 

Hidan: Why?

Kakuzu: Hidan. As you said earlier, the situation between us involves more than our sexual relationship. In my planning I need to take you into consideration. As absurd as I think they are, you’ve made it clear that you need your Jashin rituals, and the killings, in order to survive. More than that, in order for you to be happy. I can’t uproot you away from something that provides you with a steady stream of —

Hidan: ‘Kuzu. You’ve got to be the biggest dumbest fucker of all time. You realize that I actually need YOU more than any of that shit?

Kakuzu: You do?

Hidan: Yeah, I do. What if we did this thing, and went and made a home for ourselves? Had some little fuckers and all that? It’s not like I still couldn’t find people to sacrifice or you couldn’t still be hunting bounties, right? We’d just have to be careful, and it’s not like we ain’t already used to being careful and shit, so we —

Kakuzu: *pulls Hidan into a deep kiss*

Kakuzu: Hearing you say “we” … makes me feel better than anything in this world. I love you, Hidan.

Hidan, face on fire: L-love you too, you old sap. Now what are we gonna do?

Kakuzu: We have plenty of time to think about it. And at any rate, I know how we can solve at least one of our problems…

*picks out a few large bills from the stack he’d been counting*

Kakuzu: Let’s go out to eat, get some real food for once, eh?

Hidan: … you mean meat?

Kakuzu: Yes, all the bloody meat you want. And bread that doesn’t taste like sawdust, and potatoes …

Hidan: Dessert too?!

Kakuzu: *smiles* Don’t push it, brat.

[quillquiver]

and it’s good

DeanCas coda to 15x19: ‘Inherit the Hearth’

He hasn’t stopped praying.

From an empty world to one filled with people, Dean has gone to his knees every night—on the floor, the gravel, the dirt—and prayed. Head down. Face pressed to his knuckles. Dear Cas…

From each failed plan to their eventual, anti-climactic victory, Dean shares it all. And when it’s all over, when they wake up the morning after with no Jack, no Cas and no world to save, it’s bittersweet. Confusing. Like being released into the wild after living in a cage.

Where does he go from here? What does he do?

What does he want?

Sam doesn’t have a problem finding his own answers, but then again, he never has; he was the one with the life outside The Life: the college boy, the dreamer. Dean… Dean needs some time to adjust. Regroup. Grieve, maybe—whatever the hell that looks like. So, he serves himself a bottle of Jack, grabs a box of Pop Tarts, and makes his way to his recliner. First day of freedom? Dr. Sexy and sweet oblivion sound awesome.

“Hey, uh, what’re you—” Sam cuts himself off, skidding to a halt in the doorway of the Dean Cave. He’s got that pinched look on his face, the one that means: inevitable bitch face, concerned edition. Dean waves him off.

“Chilling out,” he mutters, taking a long pull from the bottle. “Figure I deserve a vacation.”

Sam narrows his eyes. “A vacation.”

“Yeah, genius. A vacation. You know, a little me time?” Dean takes another pull. “You got a problem with that?”

Sam shifts his weight. Frowns at the floor. It’s weird to see him like this; he’s so big, now, but that move is straight out of his teen years—when he’d been gangly and awkward and angry and unsure. He looks up, resolved, and Dean heaves an internal sigh. Whatever the fuck Sam is trying to do, he doesn’t want any part in it.

“What if you come with me?”

“Nope.”

“Dean—”

“Look, Sammy, we fought the big fight, we won, there ain’t nothing left to do,” Dean says reasonably, bitterly, turning back to the DVD menu. “So I don’t wanna go into town, or to the store, or wherever else you’re planning on gallivanting to today. I’m gonna watch my show, drown myself in booze and pass the fuck out, because that is what I’m owed. Capiche?”

“Eileen texted. I’m… I’m going to go get her.”

It’s weird, Dean thinks, how many times a heart can break. He clenches his jaw and swallows the lump in his throat, blinking rapidly. Allows himself a second—one second—of envy and jealousy before he slaps a smile on his face and nods. “Good,” he says. He means it. “You should.”

“So…” Sam trails off.

“So…” Dean echoes.

“…Come with.”

“Sam, I’m not gonna crash your romantic reunion okay? That’s weird.”

“Dean—”

“Sam.” And there’s more that comes out in that word than he ever intended. It hangs heavy in the air between them before dropping to the ground like a stone. Loud. Shattering on impact. Dean thinks his voice might have cracked and his vision is blurring because this pity? This is fucking worse. Shoving a Pop Tart in his mouth, Dean chews with his mouth open in the vain hope that his table manners will prove an adequate distraction, but that shit hasn’t worked for a long time.

It tastes like sawdust.

“Just go,” he says. “You have to go, man.”

It’s as much a plea for his brother as it is for himself, and for one long, terrifying moment Dean thinks Sam’s going to refuse. That he’s gonna be dragged across the country to witness his brother find happiness in a way he will never be able to have.

…But Sam is kind, not cruel, and when those big eyes of his fill with tears, Dean has never been so happy to have given himself up. He watches as his little brother’s shoulders slump. As he readjusts his duffle.

“I’ll be home in two days,” Sam says. “If you’re dead, I’m gonna pissed.”

“Yeah yeah,” Dean replies, forcing himself to tease. To be excited. He deserves this. “Go sing in the rain or whatever.”

“Or whatever,” Sam volleys back, a smile tugging up the corner of his mouth. He looks so happy, and Dean can’t stop himself from mirroring the expression. It hits him all at once, then—a sucker punch to the gut, the heart—that no matter what, he did right by his little brother. That he’s grown up to be smart, and kind and caring, and now he can be happy. And Dean—Dean’ll figure it out. But Sam’s taken care of and that’s… good. That’s a lot.

“Hey, Dean?”

“Mm.”

“I love you,” Sam says. He’s seven and thirty-seven and Dean feels something inside himself ease and break all at once.

“Yeah,” he murmurs. “I love you, too.”

Sam grins.

***

There’s no more frozen pizza.

It’s already a fucking travesty that the pizza place doesn’t deliver to their secret underground bunker, but Jack polished off the last two pies—and while it’s a little bit hilarious to think of the ‘New God’ (his kid) scarfing down shitty plain cheese in his pjs, it’s also awful, and painful. So Dean slips on his shoes, grabs his keys, and shoulders on the jacket with Cas’s handprint over his hole-y sleep shirt.

It’s not like he’s sober, but he’s done worse.

It feels like a shitty pizza day, so Dean makes a beeline for the Wal-Mart and its frozen section, stocking up on two of every topping from the cheapest brand they’ve got. He grabs popcorn, chips, twizzlers and margarita mix, because fuck it, and smiles at the cashier. It’s not an epic romantic reunion, but this is what normal people do, right? They take an entire day and wallow without the weight of the world on their shoulders.

Dean’s cradling his spoils, twizzler hanging out of his mouth, shuffling out of the garage when—

He freezes.

The kitchen. There’s someone banging around in the kitchen.

Not like aggressively banging—one quick sweep around the area confirms no signs of forced entry—but just like… moving shit. Washing the dishes from this morning, or getting ready to make something new. Dean’s heart is caught between hope and heartbreak and he forces himself towards the latter. It’s probably Charlie, or Bobby or Jody or Donna or, hell, even Jack or Claire. No one else can get in. And if it’s something dangerous… well, Dean doesn’t have a weapon on him, and his damn pizza’s thawing.

But it’s not Charlie or Bobby or Jody or Donna. It’s not Jack. It’s not Claire.

…It’s Cas; freshly showered, dressed in Dean’s fucking clothes, making himself a sandwich.

He’s beautiful. Dean’s shirt—AC/DC, the one with the mustard stain on the collar—is just a little small on him, and he’s humming, and Dean has to blink once twice three times to make sure he’s not a goddamn mirage but no he’s still there, still scooping grape jelly onto the good bread and then putting the dirty spoon on the counter like a friggin’ heathen and—

“Are you gonna wash that?”

It’s sure as fuck not what he’d meant to say, but it gets the job done. Cas drops the spoon—the spoon—and whirls around like a kid caught with his hand in the cookie jar. “Dean,” he breathes, like Dean’s name is some kind of benediction. Like it’s important.

Dean clutches his groceries tighter to his chest. “A-Are you…?” he asks. Steps forward. Steps back. Stares because he can’t, he can’t— “Are you real?”

Cas is barefoot. He’s quiet when he steps across the linoleum. His hair is turning fluffy where it’s drying and his eyes are blue and bright and he’s a miracle. “I’m real,” he confirms quietly. His hand twitches by his side, and Dean thinks that’s fair. Thinks that he gets that Cas has reservations because of—because.

But they’re unfounded. 

Dean drops his spoils because they’re an afterthought; nothing is more important than knowing, than reaching out to touch his fingertips to Cas’s shoulder. To his jaw. He can’t stop the tears from springing to his eyes like he can’t stop himself from laughing. Smiling. And suddenly he has Cas in his arms and he smells like Dean’s soap and Sam’s fancy shampoo, and they’re holding—clutching each other, and Dean turns his head because it has to be now he has to say it now: “Cas, I—”

“I know,” Cas interrupts. “You don’t have to—I know.”

“Yeah?” Dean asks, voice high with something like hysteria. The whole thing is so absurd, so insane, so fucked, that it’s all he can do to bury his face in Cas’s neck. To squeeze his eyes shut. To talk. “Well, you’re a friggin’ moron,” he says. “And you got no goddamn idea what you’re talking about, because—because you changed me, too, you dick.” Cas’s fingers dig into Dean’s waist and Dean’s heart pounds like it’s trying to escape and his throat is dry and he’s sweating and he’s gonna be sick, he’s gonna die— “A-And I love you.”

He wrenches himself away, then, glaring like he dares Cas to take the words away from him. “Okay?” he asks, rhetorically. Menacingly. It’s a declaration and a confession and a challenge. And Cas meets his stare unflinchingly. He reaches up to thumb at the wetness on the apple of Dean’s cheek. “Okay,” he says. He nods. Leans in. “Okay.” Their mouths brush. “Good.”

It’s not even a real kiss, so Dean can’t be blamed for how he chases; how he breathes good, in faint agreement like a lovesick fool, and moves until they’re kissing good and proper—slow and sweet and then deep and wet and it’s good, it’s so good, he’s so good.

Later, they’ll have to make every thawed pizza. They’ll drink the margarita mix and share the same popcorn bowl and pay no attention to Dr. Sexy playing in the background. They’ll talk about Chuck and Jack and Sam. They’ll stare. They’ll tease. They’ll flirt.

But for now, Cas twists his hands in Dean’s shirt and Dean buries his hands in dark hair. They pause for breath only to come together, again and again and again.

And it’s good.

[autisticandroids]

2, 6, 12, 14, 27, 47.... foods questions

2. Grilled cheese or PB&J?

pbj, always. i like grilled cheese, sometimes. there are some truly delectable grilled cheese sandwiches out there. and it’s hard to beat a grilled cheese with your tomato soup on a cold night.

but peanut butter is the forbidden fruit. 

my mother is allergic to a great many things. this has influenced my taste in two ways. some of the foods she can’t eat, i have developed a serious distaste for. shellfish, salmon, most preparations of eggplant, etc. even some things which she dislikes because even though she’s not allergic to, it seems that she ought to be, like coconut, i hate.

but sometimes it went the opposite way. some of these forbidden foods - tamarind, pumpkin seeds, sesame, cherries - i covet. peanut butter is in this second category.

though i must say, i don’t usually go for jam on my peanut butter sandwiches. i tend to go elvis style, banana slices and honey. occasionally i will treat myself to a fluffernutter, a monstrosity which, if you have never lived in new england, i gleefully invite you to google.

6.  Top three cuisines?

okay. i’m officially declaring that this will be americanized versions only. i’ve traveled a lot, over the course of my life, and i’ve always eaten like a king, even in countries whose national cuisine is universally reviled. but i feel like it’s unfair to compare that way, you know? so this is gonna be just for stuff i eat in america, or make at home.

- italian food, but only the way they do it in new haven, connecticut, and surrounding areas. 

- chinese food because if you told me right now if i could never eat another bao i’d die on the spot, actually. this is also cheating a little because some of the chinese food i cook myself is a lot more like chinese-chinese food than americanized chinese food, since i’ve actually been to china and stuff, but even if i were to never cook my own chinese food again and only ate at american chinese restaurants it would still be on here.

- third is hard. third is hard. thai food? polish food? indian food? vietnamese food? it’s hard. i think i’m going to have to go with japanese food. i would be a hypocrite if i didn’t, because i just spent two hours making a passable imitation of takoyaki, with vegetarian fish chunks. 

i feel kind of odd about this, because i’ve always had the sense that americanized japanese food is even further from japanese-japanese food than most americanized cuisines, because it’s so limited in scope. like, american japanese food is pretty limited to either sushi, or trendy street food/ramen places. 

i always had the impression that, for example, while american chinese food is very americanized, and really only reflects the cuisine of guangdong, it might at least have something to do with what immigrants from guangdong were eating at home during the early waves of chinese immigration. i have similar impressions with other immigrant cuisines. but i do not have this impression with american japanese food, since it was really limited to sushi and whatever side dishes sushi places sold, and the expansion of things like ramen shops and street food in the last few years seem to be driven less by immigration and more by a rising trend of mainstream western culinary orientalism and weeabooism. so i feel like it’s probably incorrect to claim japanese food is one of my favorite cuisines since the american version of it is so limited.

also, just realized that i would die for a good banh mi right now so i’m changing my answer, vietnamese food.

12.  What do you get on your bagels? What WOULD you get if you had access to anything you wanted?

you can’t go wrong with a good egg and cheese. i nearly always get an egg and cheese. they’re unbeatable.

sometimes, in a certain mood, i will get strawberry cream cheese instead. sometimes, in a very certain mood, i might get just plain cream cheese, but that’s unusual.

it really does not matter what you get on a bagel. what makes or breaks a bagel sandwich is not the filling, but the bagel itself. a good bagel could make sawdust and coffee grounds delicious, and no filling on earth can save a bad bagel. 

there are, of course, mediocre bagels in the world, but those are best treated with the same respect as ordinary sandwich bread, and filled accordingly.

14.  Favorite mug you own

i don’t own a ton of mugs, but since, i’m home with my parents right now, and they have a whole collection, i’ll give me favorite of theirs, which is my mom’s spock mug.

what makes this mug special is that it’s as big in terms of volume as a cappuccino mug without actually being one. instead of being as wide or wider than it is tall like a cappuccino mug, it has the same proportions as a normal mug, just scaled up. this makes it easier to hold, and easier to drink from, while still being fucking huge. plus, the wide mouths of cappuccino mugs when compared to their height mean that anything held in them goes cold in five seconds flat, while this mug has the upright shape of a traditional mug and so holds heat longer.

also, this mug has spock on it.

27.  What section do you immediately head for when you walk into a bookstore?

i’m not a huge bookstore person? i’m very hesitant about acquiring new material possession which have a finite term of usefulness, even moreso if i have to actually pay for them, and i am well aware that i will read most books only once, and some not at all. for actual reading material, i tend to prefer libraries or ebooks, to keep from adding more unmanageable clutter to my disastrous living space. libraries especially, since they’re free, and also i have a deadline to either read the damn book or give up on it.

in libraries, i tend to head for either the y.a. or adult genre fiction sections, since that’s what i go for, though usually when i come into a library i already have a book in mind. i also tend to head to audiobooks. i love audiobooks, they’re wonderful, i’ve gotten through so many books that way.

however, when i do go to bookstores, i don’t go to the stuff i would normally actually read. in more chain-y, new-book bookstores, i tend to go to the novelty books, the kind of stuff libraries don’t have. coffee table books with pictures of cats, comic collections, joke books. and i tend to check out the displays, see what’s up. 

i’m also way more likely to go to the nonfiction sections of these kinds of bookstores than used bookstores or libraries, for two reasons. first, because i tend to think nonfiction makes for good gifts. if you give someone a book it comes with strings attached, no matter what, but those strings are different for different kinds of books. a novel comes with an obligation to read it cover to cover, and not just read it, but enjoy it, or at least come up with an interesting opinion on its contents. a nonfiction book does not have to be enjoyable, merely informative, and it’s a lot easier to be informed by a book than to like one. plus, most of the time you don’t actually need to read the whole thing, because although they do tend to have overall arcs and maybe overarching arguments, a lot of nonfiction books can be informative even if consumed in small chunks. second, because in chain-y, new book bookstores, the nonfiction section tends to be glutted with the sort of fun, digestible pop-nonfiction that i tend to read if i must go for nonfiction, while libraries and used bookstores run more towards the drier, probably more informative but less enjoyable sort.

in used bookstores, i tend towards a different pattern. what i look for in used bookstores is stuff that’s interesting because it’s old. cookbooks, art books, fifty cent science fiction novels. i especially like very old history and social science books; near my college there was a used bookstore that had an entire shelf of psychoanalysis books, and another of histories of like, medieval european art and design, all written in like the forties. the kind of stuff that’s out of print so wouldn’t be in a new bookstore, but is probably outdated, inaccurate, useless, and unpopular, so it isn’t in too many libraries either.

47.  How do you top your ice cream?

i’m not a huge ice cream person? like, ice cream gives me a stomach ache pretty much uhhhh always. if i’m having it in my house, scooped into a bowl, i don’t generally top it with anything, ditto with stuff i get from an ice cream shop, but the most common way i eat ice cream is actually in like, bar form? like you know those dove bars, like a bar of vanilla ice cream dipped in chocolate. does that count?

i definitely like stuff mixed into my ice cream, i’m a fiend for cookie dough and brownie chunks. maybe my favorite ice cream flavor ever came from a local ice cream shop which has tragically since shut down. it was called kettle crunch and it had chocolate covered potato chips mixed in.

i guess i always get toppings at like, those trendy froyo places that go by weight and have a buffet of toppings? but honestly, when i go to those places, i rarely get any actual froyo. usually i just fill my bowl with popping boba because they always have it and i love it. i get some fruit too, and sometimes i get some of the candy, like a few gummy worms or a kit kat. but the popping boba is the star of the show.

ok now i’ve gotten distracted researching buying popping boba online. apparently it’s not hard, but it seems like a lot of the time it comes in seven pound bucket. like i could get a small amount of the common flavors, but i have just now right now discovered that there is such a thing as chocolate popping boba and i’m losing it because it only comes in seven pound buckets but i need it.

also, chilli pepper popping boba, which has the same problem, but also holy fuck.

[ill-skillsgard]

Ascent - Bill Skarsgård

Title: Ascent

Warning: 18+ voyeurism/masturbation/language

Description:  A collection of scents and scenes strung together by strange sequences of secrecy and surveyance.

A/N: DAMNIT YOU GUYS. This is my 3rd time posting this fic. It will no longer include the image of the sexy Bill look-alike wanking because wE cAn’T hAvE NiCe tHiNgS. Also, please don’t ask me to send the image because I can’t be sure of ages and I won’t be dinged for providing pr0nz to potentially underage people. I’m so sorry. I tried!

ISO: Quiet roommate; preferably female. Males acceptable too if you're cleanly. Split rent loft in quaint & upscale Rosewell neighbourhood with everything included. 1200 upfront first and last and then rent can be negotiated. E-mail. Do not call/text.

I only had 900 dollars on me but I figured if I e-mailed the person that had put out the ad and set up a time to meet the following week then I could earn enough in tips to cover the rest. Easy as that. Breathing became a little less laboured once I sat back on my futon and realized that I wasn't quite as fucked as I initially thought. Then I wondered how in the hell somebody could use the words quaint and upscale to describe the same neighbourhood. Which one was it? Quaint or upscale? How could it be both? All I was sure of was that I had to find a roommate quickly. The new landlord of my apartment building had decided that I had something to do with the junkies shooting up in the storage unit behind the building, as though I had knowledge of it the whole time and failed to make a report of it, therefore, making me part of the problem. But it wasn't just that; this guy was a jackass of ultimate proportions- a seedy little rich momma's boy that had inherited his parents' sense of self-entitlement and strings of real estate offices spanning across the city and surrounding counties. We did not click at all upon first meeting when he made his rounds to see exactly what kind of tenants he would be dealing with. In fact, the moment I opened the door to my apartment and he peered in to see the apparent cluster-bomb that had gone off in my bachelorette pad, he set his sights on destroying me, or at the very least, evicting me. If only I hadn't answered the door in my stained sweatpants and wrinkled t-shirt from a decade ago when my taste in music remained under-developed. If only I hadn't had the day's worth of crusted mascara stuck in the inner corners of my eyes like black boogers. If I had thrown my hair up in a semi-cute messy bun, rolled down the waistband of my stretchy pants and tossed on my only reputable sweater maybe things could have gone differently. But I didn't. Instead, I let him catch a glimpse into the trash-covered world of crooked posters, laundry and pizza boxes. His prissy, Gucci-wearing ass got one whiff of my body odour and my fate was sealed. Whatever though, shit happens. Even if Millennial pretty-boy newbie landlord hated me, I didn't quite hate myself. Sure, I had had better times in my life but there had also been much worse. I was just going through my annual depression when the Summer was long gone and the scent of leaves rotting in the gutters rang in the impending frost. Who wanted to do anything but sit around and play video games or watch TV for six straight hours after work? Certainly not I. I e-mailed the guy living in Rosewell because I had been through that area once or twice and remembered that it was one of the nicer neighbourhoods; its remnants of old city charm and decadent architecture still intact. That's when I gave it a second thought. 1200 for first and last month's rent was not that much, considering the location. My brain caught up with me and I recognized that there would probably be dozens of people replying to the listing and that my chances were diminished to almost nothing. Oh well, I read on and circled more potential ads with the tip of a fresh permanent marker that was starting to give me a headrush. By some grace of luck, I received an e-mail back the next day from the person that had put out the Rosewell advertisement. It dawned on me that I also didn't know whether he or she was a he or a she or a they. It seemed mundane to ask but the person didn't include their name in the reply and their email address was an obscure reference that I wasn't sure I understood. My imagination decided to take a jog and came upon the silly little notion that perhaps this was one of those things when serial killers lure in unsuspecting victims with promises of rent so cheap in a gentle neighbourhood where nobody would think to look for a body. It was classic of me but I couldn't pretend like I wasn't thinking about it. At least death would help put a stopper in my rut. I didn't know what to expect, walking up to the building with a face sectioned off into quadrants- each with their own tiny glass door and artful wrought iron laced balcony. What kind of a person lived inside? Was it a peppy university student with a small dog and a knack for pulling off an active-wear-is-all-I-wear look? Could it be another snotty, uptight rich boy like my fuck-bag of a landlord? Or perhaps it was a nice older lady that fancied her wine and lived in an effortlessly baroque den, lined with books and trinkets from her travels abroad. Either way, I just hoped they approved of me since I had taken the time to shower, put on a bit of makeup and dress like the clothes I owned weren't questionably clean or variably dirty all the time. The door was painted black and nobody could see through the glimmering panels of stained glass that made up an intricate checkerboard of red and blue with two cantaloupe roses coiling up and away from each other, petals agape and ready to fall. I gave the door a good look over with a smug grimace that was just a feint for my awe. The place was definitely too nice for me but I soldiered on and smiled when I heard the door being unlocked. A man opened the door and the scent of wood and something else immediately wafted out like a ghost casually passing by. Not only was he a man, but a looming sculpture dressed in a sagging brown wool sweater that threw me off from my rehearsed speech. He was tall, pale and had such striking eyes behind his glasses that I couldn't quite meet them without feeling some hint of discomfort. It was like somebody had tossed a limp rug on the statue of David the way his knitted sleeves hung loosely around thick veiny wrists. "Hi. Bill," he motioned to himself. "Won't you come in?" "Um, yeah. Sure." The mud room was painted in tarnished blood orange and was home to a wooden rack full of men's shoes. There were trainers with hints of dirt on the toes and soles, leather dress shoes with the fancy gold buckles on the front, more dress shoes, stylish suede ankle boots, and beaver fur lined moccasins. I could taste the transition from the cool Autumn air to the musky inside of the home. The floors were all wood, the banister leading upstairs was carved from another expensive type of tree and the shelving units were solid oak stretching from floor to high ceiling. Every wall was home to some kind of meticulously placed decorative object. But there were also family photos to lend the place a warm and happy glow. Or it could have just been how the sun shone through the clear bay windows. I was led through the house, past a large cupboard tucked beneath the staircase and a small writing desk that was home to a  vintage typewriter cased in filigrees of polished silver. It was then I noticed all the framed book pages lining the walls. We entered a kitchen and I was blown away by how roomy it was compared to the tight, warm front that made up the mudroom and what I had determined was a living room that had been converted into a reading room. There was no TV but there was a chaise lounge with a stack of old books reaching up to a cascading hand-carved armrest. "This is the kitchen. The fridge will be mostly yours. I just use the bottom shelf and the crisper on the left. I just ask that you keep your section clean." "Right," I nodded. "The stove is gas, the fireplace is gas... Everything is gas in here. Um... It gets kind of cold in the winter because the electric baseboards don't really work. If you turn them on it makes the whole place smell like burning sawdust. So... You can use a plug-in heater in your room but... Just wear slippers on the floors." "Oh, okay. Good to know." "Uh... Yeah. The laundry room is through there. I also keep my bike back there. There's another rack mount for a bike if you have one." "No, just my car." "Hmm," Bill pondered with a grimace. I bit my lip and hoped that he wasn't biting his lip from derision. He took in a breath through one of the daintiest noses I had ever seen on a man and adjusted his glasses for a moment before pulling them off completely to wipe the lenses on the hem of his brown knit sweater. "Parking can be kind of a bitch around here," he warned. "Yeah, " I chuckled. "I probably pulled around the block six times before something opened up." "You'll have to get used to that... Or just get a bike like everyone else." With a forced laugh, I attempted to hide the odd sense of shame that he had instilled by suggesting that nobody around these parts bothered with silly things like motor vehicles. Fuck, that could mean he was some sort of health nut that would turn his nose up if he saw the types of meals I made for myself and how lazy I could get. Aside from his alarming curtness, Bill seemed to be calm and easygoing. The house was a wooden ladder of a place; stacked with his worldly possessions and Scandinavian accouterments. It was easy to conclude that he was a single man that kept to himself and I did my best to show him that I fit into the same category. Although, it seemed as though he had already decided that I was moving in. He referred to everything as his, mine or ours and led me through the rest of the house like both our minds were already made up. "Here's the room. It's right next to mine. You have an en-suite bathroom. Toilet kind of acts up once in a while and the shower drain is prone to clogging but it's all easy fixes. Oh... And the walls are kind of thin. I ask that if you have guests over in the evening to keep the socializing downstairs. I suppose I can't really stop you from having people in your room but... I do enjoy my quiet." "That's okay. I don't really hang out with too many people," I said. Bill strolled into the center of the empty room, the soles of his shoes hitting the floor echoed off the bright white walls. He had his hands shoved into the pockets of his trousers as he spun on a heel to face me. His shoulders drew up to his ears and for the first time, he cracked a smile. It didn't last long and was accompanied by a shrug of closure. "What do you think?" He asked. "It's nice. I like it. A lot. It's very... Homey." Bill nodded, "yes. So will you take it?" "Uh... You don't have any questions for me? Or anyone else to show the place to?" His full lips set into another grimace as though my question scratched the scab off of a wound that had yet to close. Swallowing hard, I immediately began to regret my inquiry. I should have just been grateful that he saw fit to trust me without so much as delving into my history. "To be frank, I'm not really interested in knowing a lot about you. The less we know about each other, the better. I just need a quiet tenant that won't bother me much and you seem like a sensible woman with your own distractions." "Oh." "I don't mean to sound insensitive." "It's okay. I get it." "You have a job, of course?" "Yes." "Well, that's all I need to know. Just make your rent payments on time and we'll get along." "Not a problem. Sounds good." The entire moving process took a little over a month to complete. I gave my notices where they were due, rented a small truck to pack my things into and drove it across town after handing the keys to the fuck-bag landlord who seemed more than thrilled to watch me departing. Bill had already given me keys to the house and when I arrived the first of the month he was nowhere to be found. Luckily, my possessions didn't extend further than my bed, wardrobe, futon and a couple of side tables that had collected more dust than I thought. After hauling up the ripping black trash bags I had stuffed full of clothes, I tried to decipher a way to get my bed up the winding stairs without scratching the wood or getting myself stuck in a corner. It would have been easier if I had another set of hands and I wanted to clear the halls of all my things before Bill came home and saw the clutter in the front hall. Something told me he was not a fan of mess and I had left a heaving trail all over the mudroom, halls and stairs. With my bed frame already stuck on the first few steps, I decided to sit down and reevaluate my strategy. It was definitely a two-person job that I would not be able to complete on my own. "Fuck, " I cursed as I pulled out my cell phone to make a call to the only person I knew that would be willing to give me a hand; my cousin. On the third ring, I heard the sound of the door opening and footsteps coming through. I was sat on the stairs pouting, my cell clutched to my ear and my breath hitched in my throat.  Bill looked up at me from the first-floor landing through the rails of the staircase and smirked at me. "Need some help?" He asked. I immediately terminated the call to my cousin before he could pick up. Shooting up from the fifth step up, I smoothed out the front of my shirt and tried to make it seem like I wasn't about to burst into tears of frustration. "Um, yes. Sorry. I thought I could do it by myself." "No worries," Bill said as he lifted the edge of the bed frame that was hanging off the first step. We dislodged the frame and slowly carried it upstairs but not without a few grunts of effort and sighs when we finally made it to the top floor. Bill's arms were bulging with the strain and when he helped me gently lay the frame down on the floor I couldn't help but stare at the muscles I never knew he had. We had only had a handful of encounters and each time he had been wearing baggy clothes that veiled the true form of his body. Bill helped me bring everything else I had upstairs and once the last of my belongings arrived he evaluated the mess that I would have to organize myself. Half my clothes were spilling out of bags and my furniture was yet to find a proper place. "Well, I'll leave you to it. Unless you have anything else?" "No. This is it. Thanks for your help." "No problem," he nodded with a small pointed smile that brought out a sweetness in his face before exiting the room. I heard the sounds of his footsteps drumming down the stairs but before I had the chance to get to work unpacking, Bill came back. When I looked up at him he had a peculiar look on his face that I couldn't read. It may have been a cross between uncertainty and embarrassment. "You um... These were on the stairs," he showed me what he had clutched in his hand and the moment I realized that the black material in his hand was a pair of my underwear, I paled. "Oh my god," I laughed uneasily. "I'm so sorry. They must have fallen out when I was dragging the bags up the steps. My panties looked crumpled and insignificant in his large hand as he dangled them between two fingers for me to grab. When I caught them I stuffed them in my pocket immediately and blushed even harder than I had when he had come home to see me flustered on the stairs. "It's all right. Could be worse things to find," he pointed out. "I guess so," I chuckled. Bill smirked at me, eyes darting to the pocket that contained the stray panties and gave me one last glance before leaving me to stew in my mortification. Once I was certain Bill was gone, I took the panties out to evaluate just how embarrassed I should have been. The last thing I needed was for my new roommate to have already discovered a pair of my dirty underwear on the floor. They were generic and made of stretchy faux lace that covered next to no ass cheek but I would have considered them to be a good go-to pair nonetheless. Based on visual inspection and a quick sniff, I was assured that everything checked out and Bill hadn't had the displeasure of picking up a pair of my period panties with the permanent stains in the crotch. If anyone had to have found a pair of my underwear I was glad it was a sexy pair and not ones that I had been hanging onto since high school. But because it was a man that had found them, I felt a strange yearning for approval. I thought about what he could have been thinking about for a long time as I set up my bed and unpacked my necessities. It was going to be weird having a roommate.

~*~

Bill was a strange man. Bill had an office in his room and a writing desk stacked with papers and manuscripts. Bill was a writer. When I asked him if I could read something he had written he said nothing. He only peered at me warily over his wire-framed glasses. We were in the kitchen at the same time and I figured it friendly to strike up a conversation. I had seen all of his papers and looked at all of the stuff he had in the house by then and deduced that he had to have been a writer. All I got from him was a gentle shrug of his stately shoulders and a mumble that I couldn't hear. "You're a writer, aren't you?" I continued. "Yes. I suppose, in a way I am." "Ever had anything published?" Bill rapidly shook his head and muttered, "not here, no. Back home... In university. But not here." The subject of him being a writer seemed touchy so I left my line of questioning at that while I boiled water to make tea. I couldn't help but watch him on the other side of the kitchen preparing his lunch because he was comically lanky yet carried himself with graciousness and poise. His side profile was vexing to me as well. It was then that I realized that Bill was not just commonly handsome, but sculpted in a way that I wasn't used to seeing. With a cute boyish nose and arrestive eyes that shone light green through the lenses of his glasses, I felt that old familiar pang of a crush plunging its way from my chest to my gut and all the way down to my groin. He didn't speak much and I hardly ever saw him because he was always in his room with the door shut. I had a feeling that me bringing up his writing had alarmed him into keeping the door closed at all times. It must have been an adjustment for him to go from living alone to having somebody sleeping in the room right next to him. I tried not to make much of the crush but the times that I did see Bill I always tried to stare for as long as possible. He was a mystery to me; a person living in the very same quarters but with a totally separate life that I had no windows into. Bill had pictures of him and a lot of other people that looked kind of like him so I tried to piece together what his family was like without asking him personally. The family photos were all in chunky brass frames and placed in a strategically sporadic way on the wall shelf. There were many books and three different runs of encyclopedic information stacked side by side with their brightly dyed leather spines displaying a prestigious title and the volume number, but it was the pictures that intrigued me most. By the looks of it, Bill had a lot of brothers and a sister. The longer I analyzed each shelf the more I managed to paint a picture of him for myself based on his belongings. There was a photo of Bill next to some other men of similar heights and facial structures, all dressed warmly and huddled together, each with his own version of a charming smile on. It was amusing to see pictures of him smiling since he had hardly tossed more than a crooked smirk my way. I wasn't sure if Bill was standoffish or if he thought me a slob because of the first day I arrived. The house was cleaner than any place I had ever had by myself and I gathered that he liked to keep it that way. I remembered what it had said in his ad about cleanliness. Maybe I had disgusted him. He had been so sold on having me as his roommate but that was weeks ago and he hadn't tried to engage me much since. It didn't weigh heavily on my mind for long. After all, even though I was the crusty definition of a bachelorette, I could put it together that trying to fuck my roommate that I didn't know was probably a surefire way to complicate things beyond repair. And the place was nice. I wanted to stay and I wanted Bill to like me.

~*~

I walked into his room when I knew for certain that he was gone. I don't know why the sudden urge overtook me and steered me to his bedroom door. I opened it and a waft of his scent came over me. It was like fresh cotton and chopped wood or an old book that had been kept in pristine condition. His writing desk beckoned me so I went without hesitation to cast my eyes over the papers on its surface. There were some printed pages full of words with hand-written notes scribbled in the margins. One of the most eye-catching pieces was a mostly blank white page that had been the last of the bunch to be placed upon the altar of his creative expositions.

I can't get enough of the scent that she left behind.

After reading that one line, I snapped out of my mindless intrusion and left his bedroom at once. Why I had gone in there in the first place was a mystery and I was overcome with guilt that pushed me in the direction of avoidance. I felt somehow he would know that I had gone into his room without permission.

~*~

A man from work had asked me out on a date and I stood in the shower vigorously washing the shampoo out of my hair. I was already late and had to scramble to put together an outfit out of what little clean clothing I had. There had been no time for me to do any laundry so I made do with an old sundress that I had worn the shit out of the Summer before, a pair of black nylon leggings with a hole in the crotch and the only pair of underwear that I could find that wasn't stretched out from me wearing them. I had laid out everything on my bed and bustled around trying to find my good face moisturizer and the only high-end lipstick that I had been coveting for the better part of two years. When I got dressed, I had somehow lost pieces of my attire along the way and rushed around looking for the underwear that I had dubbed acceptable to wear out on a date. My phone went off with a notification from my date saying that he was circling around the block again because he couldn't find a place to park. I quickly messaged him back and told him I would be down in five short minutes. Forgoing the panties, I hiked on my nylons and hoped that the skirt of my dress would manage to cover me enough all night that I didn't accidentally flash my pussy while getting in and out of his car. The date was boring and I didn't find myself connecting with him as we had at work. Maybe it was because we were co-workers or maybe it was because he was smiling too much at me the whole time, but I decided to put an end to the night after a dessert and the last of a bottle of cheap wine. When I got home, I shut the door and pulled my vibrator out of my empty underwear drawer.

~*~

In the morning on one of my days off, I stood in the kitchen making myself a pathetic breakfast of two pieces of toast with a slice of tomato and chunks of a too-ripe avocado splattered between them. First I was focused and calm and then suddenly I felt like something had materialized behind me. When I turned around, I let out a gasp as I noticed Bill standing next to me with no shirt on, his hair a mess and his eyes half-closed. "Sorry," he breathed through his nose. "Need a glass, please." I got out of his way and watched as he opened the cupboard that I had been standing in front of and took out a clean glass to pour water into. My eyes were drawn to the burgeoning of hair from his armpits when he reached to the top shelf. Without saying a word, he filled his glass from the tap and then walked back upstairs casually sipping his water. I don't know how he had managed to sneak up on me without me hearing the floorboards protesting beneath his feet but it had happened and my heart continued to race until I heard him enter his bedroom right above the kitchen.

~*~

I had tossed my laundry into the dryer and let it run while I left for work. When I got home my laundry was all folded and put back in my basket. My jeans and work pants were on the bottom, my shirts the second tier and then several pairs of my panties had been folded neatly in halves and placed on top. "Um... Okay," I whispered to myself, lifting the basket off the dryer that was still rumbling full of Bill's laundry.

~*~

A nap was on the immediate horizon for me when I got home from work. I kicked my shoes off as soon as I got in the door and made right for my bedroom. Bill must not have heard me climbing the stairs as I hadn't heard him come up behind me the week before because his door was open and what I saw halted me in my place and robbed me of the abilities to breath or think. There he was, laying on his bed naked with his right hand wrapped around his dick. But it wasn't that he was stroking himself that caught me completely off-guard, it was what he clutched to his nose and mouth with his other hand; the pair of my panties that he had discovered on the floor all those weeks ago when I first moved in. Rooted with panic and intrigue, I covered my mouth and watched on from the third-to-last step at the man taking deep breaths of my underwear while he pulled on his cock and massaged his balls. When I heard a faint groan leave his mouth I felt my floodgates crashing open. The tingle I felt budding from my clit grew so strong that my hands went numb and my face turned red-hot. There was no way that Bill hadn't heard me coming in the door and ascending the steps. But if he knew that I was there watching him play with himself, he didn't acknowledge it. He was in his own world of pleasure, getting high off the fumes that I had infused into the fabric of the underwear he was meddling with his fingers. I wanted to watch him shoot his cum from the tip of his cock but I was so scared that he would see me that I cowered back so that if his gaze did travel beyond the walls of his bedroom, perhaps he wouldn't catch me staring. Another long, deep moan left him and the sound of it somehow filled every sense I had. It was as though I could smell what he was smelling, feel how he was feeling and the taste left behind in my mouth was wetted with saliva being over-produced by my own sexual appetite. I pictured him kissing my clit, pushing my legs back and using his tongue to bore into me, letting it run down, down, down so he could taste every inch of me. A gasp nearly escaped me when I saw him push the crotch of my stolen panties into his mouth. His head dropped back into his pillows and his slow, languid strokes of his cock turned erratic. "Fuck!" He emitted after spitting the panties out and dragging them down his body to wrap around the base of his shaft. "Fuck, fuck, fuck... Mmm, my god." After a minute of every muscle in his body flexing, it looked like he was inches away from coming and I leaned forward with my hand out on the last step to balance myself so I could watch the end result. It took a bit longer than I expected but I watched on unblinkingly until he finally managed to pump out an orgasm that ripped through his body and exited him in a glorious spurt of cum. Then there was another spurt and another, all landing in a perfect sticky mess over his stomach and chest. The sun coming in through his window glittered over his spackled body while a dryness hardened my tongue. I gawked as he moved to mop up his own mess with my black lace panties. What he was going to do next was as much a mystery to me as the last ten minutes I had spent as a voyeur. His cock laid over the top of his thigh and shrunk with each passing second while he rolled my panties up into a ball with his fist. All of his muscles relaxed and he sank further into the bed, closed his eyes all the while my stolen cum-soaked panties remained clutched to his chest like a cross. I could almost smell the musk permeating from the open door. Slowly, I descended the stairs one by painstaking one.

[absollnk]

Censored and Slightly Refined version of “Three makes a fucking Burrito” I’m using for school (to clarify this is 2k words of agent 24 fluff)

Censor count (excluding minor swears): 8

Three's apartment was divided into four main sections: Bedroom, Bathroom, Living Room, and Kitchen. All of them had their own set of odors, but the Kitchen had the most by far. While the others wouldn't have more than a couple, the Kitchen's got butter, burnt microwave pizza, garbage, burnt cheese, vanilla air freshener, burnt tortilla,  T h e   S i n k…   That's all Three can remember off the top of her head. It's an omnipresent reminder of the fact that she isn't physically capable of actual cooking, or baking, or anything else of the sort. And that's a problem, because she wanted to surprise Eight with a nice, homemade dinner at least once before one of them kicked the bucket. And why not today, she thought. It would only be harder as she got older.

     Homemade. That's it. The thing that Three can't do. Her skillset is limited to cereal, kool-aid, and stuff with instructions on the package. Anything else never happened, and that's a problem because yada yada Eight, yada yada surprise. 

Damnit, now Three's procrastinating.

Three snapped back to reality and was staring right at her tiny electric stove. It had only two panels for pots or whatever they're called, and only one of them has she ever used. It had a huge black burn mark that's been building up over time that Three hides with a pan whenever the landlord visits. It was probably mostly cheese and ramen juice. 

Who was Three kidding. There was no way she could cook anything even remotely fancy for Eight. Not without help from the Bastard™.

Three sat herself on the counter, pulled her phone out of her pocket, and almost called Four before messaging her instead. It would be harder for her to ask questions.

Three: Hey

Four: This is already suspicious

Three: I need your help with something

Four: I'm honored, what do you want grumpy

Three: Im going to ignore that

Three: I need help with cooking something

Four: Hmm

Four: Is it for Eight?

Hmph.

Three: No

Four: I know you aren't cooking for yourself, you sad little swamp monster

Four: And there's no way you're doing it for anyone else

Hmph.

Three: Well played

Three: Help me or I remove a corner of your head with a brick

Four: Fine

Four: I'm only helping because I know you love me :)

Three: I love you like a sister

Three: >10% of the time

Four: :}

Three: Help me

Four: First of all, what do you even want to make for her?

Oh, that's another thing. Three doesn't know what Eight likes. All she had for most of her life was basically nutritious sawdust, so nearly everything up on the surface is fantastic to her. It's hard to tell what she likes more than other things.

Three: No clue, she likes everything

Four: Well, then what does she like more than average?

Four: Gee whiz, Three. Use your head!!! Do you have any more brain cells than your name implies?

Three: Listen

Three: If I knew, I would've told you, twat. It's hard to tell what she likes extra

Three: Wait just had an idea

Three: I should make her something she's never had before

Four: That might be difficult

Four: Didn't Eight gain like ten pounds right after she escaped because Off the Hook took her to so many food joints?

Three: Yeah but

Three: Im like 84% sure she's never had a burrito

Four: Gourmét

Three: Shut the hell up

Three: You know just as well as I do that her first burrito better be a damn good one

Four: True

Four: So a burrito it is?

Three: Yeah

Four: Ok that's not that hard

Four: What do you think she would like in a burrito?

Three: Probably just bean and cheese or something

Three: Maybe a little bit of hot sauce

Four: Do you have those things?

Three: Damnit

Three: Hold on I'm gonna go get those real quick

Four: Are you serious

Three: Yeah give me like ten minutes

Four: Good luck

Three checked the time as she dashed to the door. 6:03 P.M. She had exactly twenty-seven minutes to have a perfect bean n' cheese ready before Eight finished clothes shopping with Off the Hook. 

Three was fully aware of how illegal it was to super jump anywhere in Inkopolis that wasn't currently being used for recreation (turfing/ranked/league). She was also fully aware of how unenforced that law was. Every other day or so, you would get to see some random idiot land on the rooftop of some random building because they're in a rush. It was Three's turn to be that idiot. Again.

Three ran up her apartment complex's stairwell until she reached the door to the roof. It was covered in mechanical nonsense that she didn't recognize but found familiar after being seen so many times. Three was very confident in her super jump accuracy. Working for the NSS is the reason, no doubt. All those launchpads every other minute… Ever since Three chewed up and spat out and on Octavio, she hadn't missed a single jump. Except for the time she was in a panic and almost got flattened to the road.

Three aligned herself with the closest grocery store, shifted into a squid, and took off. She soared through the air and landed right on the roof of a MakoMart. Not the one modified for turfing. 

She dropped off the side and jog-ran around to the front entrance. The automatic doors slid open and Three dashed inside.

It wasn't too busy, being Thursday. It looked to be mostly filled with Jellies and older Inklings. Three was very familiar with the store. She's bought food almost exclusively from here since moving into her apartment 3 years back. She still had almost no idea where anything was because she only buys six or seven things over and over again.

She snatched a basket and walked along the outsides of the aisles, scanning the signs for the things she needed. She knew cheese was at the back with the other refrigerated stuff, she'd get that last.

Three saw "tortillas" on a sign along with other bread and bread-like items above an aisle near the center of the store. Unlike most MakoMarts, this one carried almost exclusively food and a few other essentials. It didn't have to be so disgustingly large like the rest of its locations.

It occurred to Three that she had no knowledge on the difference between the two types of tortillas. She knew that one was good and that the other should be reserved only for the residents of Extra-Hell, but she didn't know which was which. She had no choice. Time was running slim already, it's 6:06. Only 24 minutes left. It's time to call.

Four picked up on the first ring. "Sup?"

"I don't remember which tortillas don't taste like garbage."

"Just get the name brand ones."

Three dropped a pack into her basket and instantly had second thoughts. It was like one of those scenes in cheesy horror movies when Protagonist picks up the object that just happens to be cursed.

"Are you sure? I think they hate me."

"Were they more expensive?"

"Yes."

"Then you're good. Now go get some canned microwaveable beans. You don't have the time or equipment to make anything better." Four hung up.

After Three found all that she needed, she speed-walked back to the front of the store. The place's only downside was the lack of self checkout; talking to a cashier was necessary.

On the contrary, the amount of open lanes was usually more than the amount of customers, so that was a plus.

Three found an empty lane and threw the ingredients onto the conveyor. She started fumbling with her watch before anything even reached the dude about to scan her stuff.

He seemed to notice Three's hurried state and tried to work quickly to match it. Because Three only bought three things (tortillas, bag of shredded cheese, mild hot sauce), the cashier had her total in under 15 seconds.

"927 g, please." Three held out her wrist and he scanned her watch, taking the needed money. "See you again on Friday," he dismissed her. Three gave a thumbs-up and dashed out the automatic doors.

Three ran back around into the alley and super jumped back to the roof of her apartment building from there. She took the stairwell back to her floor and ran to her apartment and kicked the door open. She left it unlocked because:

A. she would only be gone for a short time, and

B. no one would want her stuff anyway.

Three dumped the food onto the counter and called Four. She answered on the fifth ring.

"Hot sauce," she said immediately.

"I'm back," Three replied.

"What.. the hell? You were only gone for, like, 6 minutes."

"Yeah, and Eight gets back in 22."

"Okay, you need to slow down," said Four. "Making a burrito takes less than five minutes and you know her moms are always late. In fact, I'd recommend just waiting for a bit so Eight doesn't have to eat cold burrito."

"I.. fine, you're right. What should I do in the meantime? Should I turn on the stove early? What pan should I- nevermind I only have one. I should rewash it to make sure it's clean..."

"Girl, chill out," said Four. "You have so much time right now. Your pan is clean. Put the cheese in the fridge and wait like twenty minutes before you start doing anything. Then call me back."

Three took a deep breath. "Ok. Talk to you then."

"Now you're getting it. Bye." Four hung up.

Three spent the next twenty minutes mentally preparing for 6:28 p.m. and the events that would follow. It was like preparing for a hard boss fight, except losing wouldn't just mean wasting a few hours. It would mean disappointing her. Gorl. Eight.

And that can't happen.

Finally, Three watched as the timer on her phone hit zero. It was time. She called Four yet again and she answered on the first ring.

"I was expecting you," Four said.

"It's been twenty minutes," Three replied.

"You're an absolute child," Four said. "Turn on the burner."

So that's what it's called. Burner.

"How high?" Three asked.

"It literally doesn't matter. Just remove the tortilla once it gets nice tan spots on both sides."

After a hectic five minutes of preparing a burrito, four more of starting over, and Four's patience being worn thin, Three had something she was satisfied with. She had to admit to herself, it looked good. She wrapped it in tinfoil to preserve the heat.

No more than 24 seconds later did Three hear a knock on the door. "I'm hanging up," Three told Four matter-of-factly.

"Oh, come on!" She complained. "I worked hard to get you here. I'm going to see.. hear the payoff."

"Fine, but shut up."

There was another knock. "Hello? It's Eight."

“And us,” Marina shouted.

"Be there in a sec!" Three turned to her phone. "I said shut up."

"I didn't say anything!"

Three opened the door and Eight was there, flanked by Pearl and Marina. "Hi," Three said.

"Why are you smiling so unnaturally wide?" asked Marina.

"No," responded Three.

"That doesn't even make sense," said Pearl. "What's burning?"

"No I'm not," said Three. Eight snickered.

"You know, you're lucky," said Marina. "Any other time I would do a full-scale search of your apartment, but we have to announce a Splatfest tomorrow."

"She'd also interrogate you detective-style," said Pearl.

"Ah" was all Three could generate as a response. It's not like what they said deserved a better one.

"We'll be fine," Eight told them.

"Well, alright then. See you soon," concluded Marina. 

"Be safe," added Pearl as the two ran off.

"Three?" Eight called after a few seconds. "You there?"

"Yeah, sorry," Three said. "Those two know how to get into my head."

"Everyone does," Eight pointed out.

"Soooooo, I, uh, made you a burrito."

"Ooohh! Is that what's on fire?"

"No! That's just what my stove smells like. Here." Three lead Eight to the section of her counter that functioned as a table. 

"Tada," said Three with minimal enthusiasm.

"Uh, eating metal doesn't really.. work. I've tried."

"Oh, l need to take off the foil… now tada."

"Ooooooohhhh!" Eight oohed. "That's what that is! I've seen them in commercials and stuff but I didn't know what they were called. They looked good."

Eight took a moment to figure out how to hold the burrito and took a bite as Three watched in anticipation. It felt like one of those cooking shows but completely not at all at the same time.

"It's good!" Eight said after swallowing her bite.

"That's all?" asked Three, slightly disappointed.

"Well, it's warm and it tastes good and it's a little spicy, which I really like, but the crust is kinda weird."

"Crust? The tortilla?" Three asked. And then it clicked. She took another from the bag to make sure. She took a bite out of the tortilla and gagged.

"Haha, got ‘em," said Four through Three's phone.

Three threw the phone into the dishwasher, slammed it shut, and started it.

[cherikyassss]

To call it a farce would be a bit of an understatement.

All Charles wanted was a nice Thanksgiving- the first he’d hosted himself since he moved to America when he was a child. There was supposed to be roast turkey and yams and three different kinds of pie. Instead, there was burnt potatoes, liquid soap in the cranberry sauce, and a powerful mutant leader tied up in Charles’ bathtub.

How had it come to this?

Naturally, Charles blamed Raven. It had been his sister’s idea for Charles to host Thanksgiving, in spite of the fact that he couldn’t cook to save his life, and she’d been so infectious in her enthusiasm that Charles just couldn’t help going along with her ideas. Of course, Charles could never have predicted that, on the morning when the dinner was due to take place, he would be walking back from the university he taught at only to come across the leader of the Brotherhood of Mutants- Magneto- dressed up in his customary extravagant garb, taunting the police officers that surrounded him by beating them with their own guns. Charles wasn’t one for violence, so stopping the fuchsia fiend was somewhat of a given. Kidnapping him, though? Well, that was another matter entirely…

“You can’t keep me here!” Magneto protested, looking beyond ridiculous as he glared up at Charles from the bathtub, arms bound by thick black cord, cape laid out beneath him making the entire bath look like it was full of magenta water. “This is… this is unconstitutional!”

Charles pulled a face. “I think you lost your right at ‘constitutional’ when you used your powers of iron manipulation on the New York Police Department to send all of their blood distinctly southwards… I’d heard you were somewhat of an unusual character, but I haven’t heard of many villains who disable their foes by way of mass erections”.

Magneto sniffed disapprovingly. “They always come at me with guns… It gets so boring disabling them so easily- sometimes I like to have a little more fun”.

“Mm, I bet you do…” Charles replied, shaking his head. “Well, you’ve had enough fun for now- I have a very important dinner to host, so you need to stay in here and remain quiet until I’m done. I’ve disabled your powers with my telepathy, so don’t try anything fancy. In fact, don’t try anything at all. If I hear so much as the slightest peep out of you I will use my powers in an entirely more alarming way, and it won’t be to give you an erection- I can assure you of that”.

“Don’t be so sure…”

Charles paused, looking down at the bathtub, eyebrows raising at the hint of a smile just forming at the corner of Magneto’s mouth. Wait, what?? What was going on here? Magneto wasn’t actually flirting with his captor, was he?

“Oh, I, um…” Charles trailed off, realising in an instant how flustered he was becoming as he felt a certain blush begin to colour his cheeks. “Just… behave, okay Magneto?” he finished, rather unconvincingly.

“Erik…” came the response, delivered with a smirk from behind lowered eyelashes. “Please, call me Erik”.

“Erik…” Charles said softly, enjoying the taste of the word. “Alright then, Erik…”

Charles was still thinking about ‘Erik’ later that afternoon, when he was sat at a large table surrounded by guests, all of which were eagerly chowing down on mouthfuls of food. Despite some earlier wobbles in the kitchen Charles had managed to put on a fairly impressive spread, and everyone seemed happy with Charles’ efforts. Well, almost everyone…

“What is it, Erik?” Charles asked sometime later when he’d stolen a moment away from his invited guests to deal with his rather less invited guest- one who would just not fucking stop prodding at Charles’ mind for attention, exhibiting remarkable control for someone who claimed they’d never met a telepath before.

“I’m hungry…” Erik grumbled, shifting slightly uncomfortably in the bathtub. “All that food you’ve made smells so wonderful, can I not just have a bit?”

Charles’ brows drew together in a frown. “You’re my prisoner, Erik… Why would I feed you?”

“Ahh, human rights?”

“You’re not a human, you’re a mutant- as you gleefully pointed out when you were fighting with those policemen earlier”.

“True… Well, mutant rights, then. Come on, Charles- you don’t want me to starve, do you?”

“Not if you’re going to keep moaning about it…” Charles muttered, trying to ignore the smug look of victory on Erik’s face as he watched Charles turn away and leave the room, returning later with a hastily prepared plate of food.

“You’re going to have to help me eat that, you know?” Erik said, exacerbating the ridiculousness of the situation as Charles rolled his eyes and positioned himself on the edge of the bathtub, picking up a fork and carefully offering it to Erik. Erik ate the forkful of mashed potato eagerly, his tongue darting out to chase up the remnants smeared on his lips, and Charles suddenly found himself fighting to control a surge of arousal at the sight.

“You’re blushing, professor…” Erik murmured.

“Am not…” Charles muttered in response, knowing he was lying, knowing the rush of blood to his groin was likely nothing to do with Erik’s powers, and everything to do with Erik’s steely eyes and defined jaw and broad shoulders and impossibly slim waist. “It’s just, um… hot in here”, Charles finished lamely.

Erik grinned, the look of a predator that had just caught its kill. “I think that’s just you, Liebling”.

Well, fuck.

Later, Charles was sitting once more in his dining room, listening to excited chatter and laughter from around the table, and trying to ignore the six-foot distraction he knew was currently sprawled in his bathtub- the distraction that had said with some glee: “I’ll see you for dessert!”

Dessert was a strawberry cream pie, and Charles could already imagine how sinful Erik would look with strawberry sauce on his lips. It’s for that reason that Charles decided to give Erik something else entirely…

“A granola bar?” Erik huffed, looking at the offering in Charles’ hand in disgust. “Really?”

“You’re a prisoner, remember Erik? Prisoners get basic rations”.

“Yeah, basic rations usually means food, not compressed sawdust…”

Charles sighed. “Erik, do you want this or not?”

“I suppose…” Erik sulked.

The granola bar ended up not being as good an idea as Charles had hoped… Erik devoured it eagerly, and Charles tried not to tremble every time Erik’s tempting lips closed around the length of the bar, particularly when he was sure there were moments when Erik would just hold it in his mouth, nibbling slowly on the end…

“You’re ridiculous”, Charles said eventually, reaching to wipe a crumb from the corner of Erik’s mouth and immediately jumping when Erik’s tongue darted out to lick the pad of Charles’ thumb.

“Hey, you’re the one who’s running around kidnapping people…”

“I don’t kidnap people all the time!” Charles protested, popping the last of the granola bar in Erik’s mouth. “This is a special, one-off, unprecedented event”.

“Oh, so you’re saying that normally you don’t take hostages, but I was just so unbelievably irresistible that you couldn’t stop yourself from tying me up and taking me home”.

Charles scowled. “I’m definitely not saying that…”

“It’s okay, Charles”, Erik grinned. “Believe me, this is unusual for me too. Normally when people try to stop me I disable them with a mere flick of my fingers, but you just looked so cute I found that I didn’t want to fight back”.

“So, what? You’re now claiming that you allowed yourself to be kidnapped?”

“Over a decade of leading the Brotherhood and this is my first capture. What do you think, Charles?”

“I think you’re going to have to get out of my bathtub soon…” Charles sighed, standing up and moving towards the door. “Because I’m going to need to have a shower and go to bed before long…”

Erik’s smirk grew wider. “Well, don’t let me stop you…”

This was stupid. Charles knew it was stupid enough kidnapping the leader of the Brotherhood of Mutants in the first place, but actually starting to like the man? Flirting with him? Completely fucking ridiculous.

The only problem was, as Charles stood at his doorway saying goodbye to guest after guest, for once he found that the logical part of his brain didn’t seem to be working. Erik was a villain, a criminal, an ostentatiously-dressed egomaniac. He just also happened to be pretty much the most attractive person Charles had ever met. And Charles wanted him.

But in spite, of that, Charles wasn’t going to have him. This had gone on for too long already, and there was only one thing to do now- Charles would have to let Erik go.

Charles burst into the bathroom, fixing Erik with a determined look that faded a little in the wake of the sight of Erik sitting there, legs spread apart, arms folded behind his head (as best as possible considering his wrists were still bound), an unbelievably compelling grin on his face.

“I’m letting you go…” Charles said, eyes trailing down Erik’s body and honing in on the impressive-looking bulge in his trousers. “…In the morning”.

“Normally I’m not one for celebrating this stupid American holiday, but suddenly I find myself feeling incredibly thankful…” Erik smirked.

“Well, you can show me how thankful you are just as soon as I untie you…” Charles replied, crossing the room towards the bathtub, and sitting down on the side of it.

“Are you sure you want to do that? I might attempt to escape. Maybe you should just tie me up somewhere more suitable, like the bedroom…”

Charles paused, looking down at Erik and feeling a pulse of desire run through his body like electricity.

“Happy fucking Thanksgiving, indeed…” Charles replied, before reaching for Erik.

The next morning Charles awoke alone- a slightly troubling realisation, but understandably preferable to waking up to find you’ve been dismembered by an egomaniac mutant. Charles pulled on some clothing and shuffled sleepily downstairs, getting as far as the bathroom door before he paused briefly at the sight of light coming from inside.

Pushing open the door, Charles looked inside to find Erik lying in the bathtub, a cup of tea clutched in his hands as he smiled up at Charles.

“Erik… What the fuck are you doing?” Charles asked in confusion.

“Well, I enjoyed our little bathtub rendezvous last night so much I thought I might like to repeat the experience, only this time you can join me in here”.

Charles smiled. “Do you not remember how I said I wanted to have a shower sometime soon? I’m not sure I can do that with you lying fully clothed in the bath…”

“Ah, but of course…” Erik replied, placing the cup of tea on the bathroom floor and reaching down to swiftly peel off the t-shirt that Charles recognised as his own, and after a moment removing his underwear too.

“Much better”, Charles replied once Erik was fully undressed, crossing the room towards Erik’s open arms. Of course, Erik became rather less welcoming when Charles quickly turned on the shower, dousing him with cold water. But within seconds he had wrestled Charles into the bathtub with himself, using Charles’ body heat to warm himself up.

“I’m so thankful that you kidnapped me…” Erik murmured, lips brushing against Charles’ own.

Charles beamed. “Me too, darling”, he replied, before leaning in for another kiss.

Many thanks to @pinkoptics for flailing with me about this idea!