#i'm sure this is a lukewarm take at best

[ishouldsleepbut]

me: nah, it's about coming out

source of images: https://americansongwriter.com/the-meaning-behind-goo-goo-dolls-iris-song-lyrics/

[scare-ard--sleigh]

if succ were real in the one piece universe it's absolutely what croco and mihawk talk about when they're on the couch with buggy's head ahdhsdhdh

[transform4u]

In the heart of bustling Austin, Texas, where the twang of southern drawls blends with the eclectic rhythm of city life, there was Chad Dalton, a buff wannabe bodybuilder, and personal trainer. At twenty-eight, he stood tall at 6’5” with a physique sculpted by years of relentless training and the grit of his rural upbringing. A former college football star turned gym trainer, Chad's presence in the fitness world was as commanding as his massive 269-pound frame.

Raised in a tight-knit southern community, Chad had brought with him not just his imposing stature but also an accent that marked him as unmistakably Texan. He wore it proudly, knowing well how it charmed the ladies or at least he believed it did. His alpha male demeanor and penchant for straight talk. The fact was Chad was a fucking douchebag.

Days were regimented with protein shakes and weightlifting sessions, a routine instilled by his former coach who had driven him to victory against their fiercest rivals. Now, Chad found himself in the role training others in the gym where his own legend grew. But mostly he liked to belittled the gay men in gym for their weak bodies. His impressive gains and bulging biceps made him a sight to behold, drawing admiration and envy alike from those around him.

And now here he was training people in this fancy gym instead of playing ball for some big-time team like everyone expected him to do after graduation. But screw them! Chad knew what was best for himself—and that meant staying single and focusing solely on improving himself physically so that no woman could resist his charm (or at least not for long).

Chad harbored views that were far from politically correct. His online rants against what he called "PC culture" and his dismissive remarks about "SJW chicks" were a stark contrast to the charismatic trainer who effortlessly charmed women at the gym.

One fateful evening, Chad found himself at a gay bar. It wasn’t the men he sought there, but rather the women—easy targets, he thought, like shooting fish in a barrel.

As Chad leaned casually against the bar, his eyes scanning the room for his next conquest, he spotted Samantha. With her blonde hair cascading over her shoulders and a figure that turned heads, she stood out even in the dimly lit bar. Determined to make an impression, Chad sauntered over with his characteristic confidence.

"Hey there, gorgeous," he drawled in his deep southern accent, flashing a grin that he knew had won over countless women before.

Samantha, however, gave him a skeptical look, her eyebrow raised as she sipped her cocktail. "Oh, hey," she replied coolly, clearly unimpressed. "You're quite the charmer, aren't you?"

Chad chuckled, undeterred by her lukewarm reception. "Can't help it when I see a beautiful lady like yourself," he replied, leaning in a bit closer.

She sighed, her annoyance thinly veiled. "Look, Chad, right?" Samantha asked, crossing her arms. "I'm not really into the whole 'gym bro' thing. All my friends here," she gestured subtly to the crowd around them, "they're all gay. I'm not sure you're their type."

Chad blinked, momentarily taken aback. "Oh, come on now, I'm just having a good time," he protested, trying to charm his way back into her good graces. "I'm sure we can find some common ground."

Samantha smirked, her eyes twinkling mischievously. "You know what, Chad? You seem like you could use another drink. Let me get you one," she said smoothly, turning to walk towards the bar.

Chad grinned broadly, thinking he was making progress. "Sure thing, sweetheart. I'll take whatever you're having," he called after her, watching as she ordered two drinks from the bartender.

Little did Chad know, Samantha was more than just a pretty face. As she whispered a quick incantation over one of the drinks, a sly smile played on her lips. And incantation that would turn Chad in the most stereotypical gay guy at the bar, at least what Chad would believe to be a stereotype. "By the power of three, by the might of me, transform this man into what he truly would hate to be. Make him gay as a rainbow flag flying high, with a love for glitter and all things shiny. Let his voice be like honeyed whispers in the night, his body lean and toned with just enough muscle tight. Give him confidence that knows no bounds, charm that turns heads around. May he become the stereotype he makes fun of so much, fill him with gay lust."

She slid both drinks across the bar towards Chad, who eagerly picked up the one she had touched.

"Here you go," Samantha said sweetly, handing him the glass.

Chad lifted the drink to his lips, taking a long sip and smacking his lips appreciatively. "Thanks, Samantha. So, tell me more about yourself," he prompted, trying to keep the conversation flowing.

But as the last drop of the enchanted drink slid down his throat, Chad began to feel a strange sensation. His muscles seemed to relax, and a warmth spread through his body. Confused, he looked around the bar, suddenly aware of the vibrant energy and the laughter of the patrons around him.

As Chad continued to sip his drink, unaware of Samantha's magical intervention, a strange sensation began to creep over him. At first, he felt a light-headedness, as if a fog had settled in his brain, making his thoughts feel like they were wrapped in cotton candy. Samantha watched with concealed amusement as Chad's voice started to rise in pitch, a puzzled look crossing his face.

"So, Samantha, I was saying," Chad began, his words coming out in a higher, more melodious tone than before, "what do you do for fun around here?"

Samantha nodded along, her smile widening as Chad's once towering presence seemed to shrink before her eyes. His shoulders relaxed, and his posture subtly changed, losing some of its imposing stature. Chad's height diminished gradually, inch by inch, until he stood at a more modest 5 foot 5, a far cry from his former 6 foot 5.

Chad blinked, feeling disoriented as he looked down at himself, noticing the sudden change in perspective. "Whoa," he muttered, his voice now distinctly softer and more delicate, was there a bit of a lisp even? "Something theels... different."

Samantha chuckled softly, her eyes twinkling mischievously as she observed the transformation taking place. "Looks like that drink had a bit of a kick, huh?" she teased lightly, handing Chad a napkin as he nearly stumbled against the bar, feeling off balance in his suddenly smaller frame.

Chad glanced around nervously, suddenly aware of the curious glances from other patrons in the bar. "What... what's happening to me?" he asked, his voice tinged with a mix of confusion and a hint of panic.

Samantha leaned in closer, her tone reassuring yet tinged with amusement. "Relax, Chad. It's just a little magic," she explained cryptically, watching as Chad's features softened, his muscles seeming to lose some of their bulk.

As the reality of his transformation settled in, Chad realized with growing alarm that he was not only physically shrinking but also beginning to adopt mannerisms that felt foreign to him. He clasped his hands together nervously, noticing the delicate shape of his fingers and the way his shoulders seemed to naturally curve inward.

"I... I feel different," Chad murmured, his voice now almost musical in its softness. "What did you do to me?"

Samantha chuckled again, a twinkle of mischief in her eyes. "Let's just say, you're about to see the world from a whole new perspective," she replied cryptically, gesturing for Chad to follow her as she led him towards the dance floor, where the rhythm of the music seemed to beckon him with a newfound allure.

As Chad tentatively took her hand and joined the dance, his movements were now graceful and fluid, a stark contrast to his former swaggering gait. Samantha watched with satisfaction, knowing that her playful spell had set in motion a transformation that would challenge Chad's perceptions of himself and those around him in ways he never expected.

As the music pulsed through the club, Chad's body moved with a new grace and ease that he had never experienced before. His movements were lithe and fluid, every step and sway feeling strangely natural yet unfamiliar. Gone were the bulky muscles honed from years of football practice and intense weightlifting sessions. Now, all he seemed to crave was the rhythmic beat of the dance floor.

With each passing moment, Chad felt lighter, as if a weight he hadn't realized he'd been carrying was lifting from his shoulders. The transformation was subtle at first, imperceptible to anyone but himself and Samantha, who watched with quiet amusement from the sidelines.

Chad's once prominent biceps and pecs began to shrink, the defined contours softening into a leaner, more slender form. His legs, once thick with muscle, now became toned and sleek, perfect for the agile movements of dancing. Abs that were once chiseled began to flatten slightly, a faint hint of definition remaining as his body reshaped itself.

But the most astonishing change was happening to Chad's face. Lines that had etched themselves from years of determined focus and occasional scowls smoothed away, replaced by a youthful glow that seemed to emanate from within. His features softened, his jawline becoming less angular, and his eyes sparkled with a newfound warmth and openness.

As his body continued to transform, Chad felt a curious sensation—a sensation of time rewinding. Memories of grueling football practices and weightlifting routines began to fade, replaced by a simpler desire for movement and joy. He felt a lightness of being, as if shedding layers of his former self to reveal a truer essence beneath.

And as the minutes passed, Chad's age seemed to rewind as well. From 27... to 26... to 25... and down, down, down until he settled at 21, the age where life had seemed full of possibilities and freedom, unburdened by the expectations he had once carried.

Samantha watched with satisfaction as Chad, now transformed into a young man with a twinkish charm that suited him far better than his former alpha persona, grinned back at her with a newfound radiance. His once cold demeanor had melted away, replaced by a warmth and kindness that drew people to him effortlessly.

"Wow," Chad murmured, running a hand through his newly tousled hair, feeling the lightness of his transformed body. "I... I feel different. Younger. Free."

Samantha nodded, her eyes gleaming with amusement and pride. "You look great," she said simply, knowing that Chad's journey was far from over but that this night had marked a profound shift in his life.

And as Chad embraced his new self, dancing under the lights with a joy and abandon he had never known, he realized that sometimes, a little magic was all it took to uncover who you were truly meant to be.

As Chad danced under the pulsing lights of the club, a transformation deeper than his physical appearance was taking hold. The music seemed to seep into his soul, stirring emotions and memories that felt simultaneously foreign and strangely familiar. With each beat, the memories of his rigorous gym routines, football practices, and the once cherished protein shakes faded like distant echoes.

He couldn't recall the details of his workouts or the names of his former teammates. The competitive drive that had fueled his athletic pursuits now seemed distant and irrelevant. Instead, a newfound appreciation for artistic expression blossomed within him, sparked by the melodies that enveloped him on the dance floor.

Chad's conservative edge softened and dissolved under the influence of the music. Ideas and beliefs he had staunchly defended began to shift, replaced by a liberal openness to new experiences and perspectives. He found himself drawn to conversations about social justice, equality, and inclusivity—topics that had never held his interest before.

As the night wore on, Chad's interests continued to evolve. He discovered a deep love for musical theatre and showtunes, melodies that spoke to emotions he had never fully explored. Memories of his college years resurfaced, reminding him of the acting classes he had once taken, the stage he had once tread upon with dreams of performing.

"I used to love acting," Chad murmured to Samantha between songs, his voice soft and introspective. "I remember now... I wanted to be an actor."

Samantha smiled knowingly, her eyes reflecting pride in Chad's newfound self-discovery. "You've always had a flair for drama," she teased gently, watching as Chad's face lit up with a childlike enthusiasm.

"Yeah," Chad nodded, a spark of excitement igniting in his eyes. "I'm going to be totes hungover for classes."

As Chad continued to dance, the rhythm of the music intertwined with his shifting identity. Memories of his former self, Chad the alpha gym bro, seemed to dissolve like mist in the vibrant lights of the club. Instead, a new persona emerged—a carefree and effervescent spirit that Chad had never known before.

"Sammmyyy!" Chad exclaimed with a giggle, his voice tinged with a playful lilt as he twirled around Samantha, who watched with a mixture of amusement and awe. "You're, like, my fag hag now, right? I totes don't wanna ditch you, but like, I'm here to snag the cutest boys tonight. It's Pride, for gosh sakes!"

Samantha laughed, her eyes twinkling with affection for the transformed Chad, now Gabriel—or Gabby, as everyone called him. She nodded along as Gabby spoke in cute little TikTok lingo, his speech peppered with heart emojis and playful hashtags.

As the night progressed, Gabby's transformation continued. His once sturdy frame morphed into something more lithe and youthful, clad in tight booty shorts and a crop top that accentuated his newly slender physique. His hair, once meticulously styled, now tumbled into a tousled mess of blonde locks that framed his youthful face.

Gone was the crude and brash language of Chad, replaced by the sweet and endearing chatter of a cute and somewhat vapid himbo. Gabby flitted from group to group, flashing bright smiles and striking poses for selfies, his newfound charm drawing admirers like moths to a flame.

"OMG, you guys are so cute!" Gabby squealed, snapping a series of selfies with a group of fellow partygoers. "Let's get this on TikTok, like, ASAP!"

Samantha watched with pride as Gabby embraced his new identity with unabashed enthusiasm. It was as if a weight had been lifted from his shoulders, allowing him to embrace the freedom and joy of being his true self—a persona that shimmered with positivity and a zest for life.

As a rising TikTok star, Gabby had amassed a following drawn to his infectious energy and charming personality. His videos were a mix of dance challenges, lip-sync performances, and heartfelt messages about self-love and acceptance. With a knack for engaging storytelling and an unapologetic love for all things fabulous, Gabby's feed was a vibrant reflection of his newfound identity.

In addition to his social media success, Gabby was pursuing a degree in Theatre, where his natural talent for performance shone brightly. He could captivate an audience with his singing voice, whether it was belting out a Broadway ballad or charming patrons in a cozy bar with his favorite showtune.

Gabby woke up the next morning, his body still sore from the night before. Hungover as fuck. He glanced over at the muscular otter sleeping soundly beside him, a smile tugging at his lips as he took in their intertwined limbs and sweat-dampened skin.

As the first light of morning filtered through the curtains, Gabby stirred, slowly becoming aware of the warm, solid presence beside him. His eyes fluttered open, and he turned his head to see a man lying next to him, the sheets barely covering his muscular, hairy chest. Gabby blinked, trying to piece together the events of the night before and struggling to recall the man's name.

Sensing Gabby's movement, the man beside him opened his eyes and smiled warmly. "Good morning. I'm Brad, by the way."

Gabby’s heart skipped a beat as he took in the sight of Brad. He had a rugged handsomeness that seemed almost sculpted—strong jawline, perfectly tousled dark hair, and a five o'clock shadow that gave him an effortlessly masculine appeal. His deep brown eyes were filled with an inviting warmth that made Gabby’s pulse quicken.

Brad’s body was a marvel to behold. His broad shoulders and expansive chest tapered down to a well-defined abdomen. Each muscle seemed to be meticulously chiseled, and his skin bore a healthy tan that spoke of time spent outdoors. The light dusting of hair on his chest added to his raw, primal allure.

Gabby couldn’t tear his eyes away from Brad’s pecs, which were impressive and inviting. His gaze lingered, tracing the lines of Brad’s muscles, and he felt a surge of desire. Brad noticed Gabby’s stare and grinned, his eyes sparkling with mischief. He gave Gabby a slow, deliberate wink and began to flex, his muscles rippling under his skin.

Without warning, Brad pulled Gabby close, their bodies pressing together, and captured Gabby’s lips in a passionate kiss. The intensity of the kiss made Gabby’s head spin, and he melted into Brad’s embrace, his hands roaming over the hard planes of Brad’s back. Brad’s strong arms wrapped around him, holding him firmly yet tenderly.

Gabby’s mind raced, filled with the overwhelming attraction he felt for Brad. Every touch, every movement only heightened his desire. Brad’s kisses trailed from Gabby’s lips to his neck, making him shiver with anticipation.

"I can’t wait to go again," Brad murmured against Gabby’s skin, his voice a low, husky whisper that sent shivers down Gabby’s spine.

Gabby could hardly breathe, his heart pounding in his chest. The morning sun bathed them in a soft glow, and for a moment, the world outside ceased to exist.

Gabby couldn't help but feel a rush of excitement as he gazed upon Brad's muscular form. He was everything Gabby had ever fantasized about in a partner—strong, confident, and undeniably sexy.

"Wait," he said softly before leaning in for a passionate kiss that left Gabby reeling with desire. When they finally broke apart, Brad looked deep into Gabby's eyes and said simply: "I want you."

Without another word, they tumbled over and over in bed together. Hands roamed freely over each other's skin while lips locked hungrily together in fiery kisses that left both men breathless yet yearning for more. As Brad reached down to stroke his hard cock against Gabby's ass cheek teasingly through his briefs—a silent invitation accepted without hesitation—Gabby felt himself melting into pure bliss under this newfound lover's touch...

Gabby gasped as Brad's fingers traced a path down his spine, sending shivers of pleasure coursing through his body. He couldn't help but moan softly in response to the sensation, arching his back slightly to give Brad better access.

Brad chuckled softly against Gabby's neck before leaning in for another passionate kiss that left both men breathless yet yearning for more. As their tongues danced together teasingly within the confines of their mouths, Gabby felt himself growing increasingly horny and horny—a feeling only heightened when Brad finally pulled away with a wicked grin on his face.

"Ready?" he asked playfully before reaching over to grab a condom from the bedside table without waiting for an answer; clearly implying that he was going to take what he wanted regardless if Gabby was prepared or not…

Gabby nodded eagerly, his heart racing with anticipation as Brad rolled the condom onto his already-hard cock. Without further ado, he positioned himself behind Gabby and slowly pushed into him in one smooth motion.

Gabby let out a soft moan of pleasure at the sensation of being filled so completely by someone else for the first time; it was both exhilarating and terrifying all at once—a heady mix of emotions that left him reeling with desire for more. As Brad began to move within him slowly yet deliberately, Gabby couldn't help but wrap his arms around Brad's shoulders tightly while arching his back slightly off the bed in response to each thrust; their bodies becoming one fluid motion as they lost themselves entirely within this moment together…

Their passionate lovemaking continued well into the afternoon, fueled by an undeniable chemistry that seemed to ignite between them from the very beginning. As Brad's movements grew more urgent and primal with each passing minute, Gabby found himself matching his rhythm perfectly—lost in a haze of pleasure as he surrendered completely to this newfound connection between them.

Finally, after what felt like hours but could only have been minutes in reality, Brad let out a loud cry before collapsing onto Gabby's sweat-dampened skin. For his part, Gabby couldn't help realize he was now nothing but a horny, slutty twink and he loved it. Time to make a Grindr profile.

[thisapplepielife]

Written for the @steddiemicrofic September challenge.

Take a Picture, It'll Last Longer

September Prompt: Shower | Word Count: 399 | Rating: M | CW: Locker Room Nudity | Tags: Pre-Steddie, Set During S2, Hitting the Showers, Steve Harrington Has A Big Dick, And Eddie Munson Can't Help But Notice

Eddie always waits until the crowd clears a bit before he finds a spot around the circle of showerheads. He doesn't like this part of the day, but he doesn't like to smell like a sweaty ball sack, either.

So, he waits his turn, sprawled across the wooden bench in the locker room, debating on if he'd get away with lighting up a cigarette. Maybe, but he really doesn't need another suspension. Or a third senior year.

When he sees the last of the loud, grab-assing jocks exit, he heaves himself to standing, heading towards the shower room. 

And is promptly stunned by the sight of naked Steve Harrington, head tilted back, water spraying on his face like he's in a goddamn porno.

Eddie's stuck. Eyes unable to look away, as they just rove over Steve's body, going down, down, down.

He's fucking big. 

A shower in the shower.

That's all Eddie can think. Steve's a shower, not a grower, and Eddie's transfixed, knowing he shouldn't be staring, but he's still gonna, and if he gets caught, well, fuck it. Worth it. Harrington can whip his ass if he wants. 

"Take a picture, it'll last longer," Steve says, eyes still closed, and Eddie isn't sure how he even knows Eddie's there.

"Does it have its own headshots to pass out to the fan club?"

And Steve barks a laugh at that, opening his eyes, meeting Eddie's. 

"Now there's an idea," Steve says smiling, totally unbothered. Eddie would be unbothered too, if his dick was that big hanging soft against his thigh. King Steve might be dethroned, but he's clearly still well-deserving of his confidence.

Eddie steps up to the adjacent showerhead, turning the handle, starting his own spray. Steve hands him the bar of soap, and this is the most homoerotic thing he's ever experienced. He takes it, lathering it up in his hands.

"What's it like being a shower?" Eddie asks.

"Wouldn't know," Steve says, all easy-like, as he rinses his hair, "I'm a grower."

"Fuck," Eddie hisses, like he's been scalded, only the water is lukewarm at best now that he's the cow's tail to getting showered.

Steve laughs, and the movement of his arm catches Eddie's attention, eyes following it downwards. Steve cups his cock, and then he meets Eddie's eyes, wet lashes making him look even prettier, "Wanna see?"

Fuck yes, Eddie wants to see.

If you want to write your own, or see more entries for this challenge, pop on over to @steddiemicrofic and follow along with the fun! 🚿

Notes: I couldn't resist the shower/shower homograph of it all for this prompt.

[bluelockmaniac]

baking disaster (ft. itoshi sae)

synopsis: you try to persuade your boyfriend into making cookies with you, but he's not the best baker.

cw: lots of fluff!! mentions of making out, i think sae slaps your butt once

author's note: i literally had to watch a cookie tutorial to make this fic because if baking were a sport, i'd definitely be on the bench permanently. so, i apologize to all bakers out there.

here you were, sitting on the couch next to your boyfriend, desperately clinging onto his chest as he fixates his bored gaze at what he called a 'pathetic excuse' of a football match. the only somewhat affectionate gesture he's giving you is an unexciting arm slung carelessly around your shoulder.

while sae was in practice, you had dedicated two hours dolling yourself up; attending to every little detail of your appearance carefully. you even lit a few vanilla-scented candles in the living room to romanticize the atmosphere, all in order to have a fun date night and bake cookies together. so, why have you spent the last thirty minutes attempting to convince him to follow through with your plans?

"sae," you whine softly, deliberately pressing more of your body against him as you bat your eyelashes pleadingly in an attempt to get his attention, and hopefully change his mind.

"pleasee, just this once! bake chocolate chip cookies with me!"

he cocks his head subtly, looking over at you with half-lidded eyes. "i told you already, darling. i can't bake for shit."

"i know you're probably more likely to start a kitchen fire than bake a decent cookie, but that's why i'm here!"

you look up at him lovingly as his hand travels to your cheek, giving it a light squeeze.

"if that's what it takes to shut you up, then i guess i'll make these lukewarm cookies."

he quickly plants a chaste kiss on your lips as the trace of a very unnoticeable—yet unmistakable— smirk appears on his mouth.

in the kitchen, you rolled up your sleeves and gestured towards the pantry and cabinets, instructing sae to look for the dry ingredients with a rather authoritative tone.

"sae, find the flour, baking soda, and salt. they should be in there somewhere."

he rolls his eyes and gives your ass a light slap, "when'd you get so bossy, pretty?"

you giggle as he disappears into the pantry, turning your attention to the bowl on the counter. with determination, you begin to vigorously beat the soft butter and the brown and white sugar together until it formed a chunky mixture.

"y/n," you hear your boyfriend's frustrated voice call out as he walks closer to you with a displeased expression. "i can't find the ingredients, where'd you even bury them?"

"oh sweetheart," rolling your eyes with a mocking grin tugging on your lips, you teasingly smack his chest and enter the pantry, effortlessly locating the loathsome ingredients that caused your lovely boyfriend's annoyance. "you really couldn't find the ingredients that were practically screaming their location? how lukewa—"

"y/n."

"cute, i meant cute!" you defend yourself with a wholehearted laugh, unaware of the genuine smile forming on sae's lips as he tucks a strand of hair behind your ear (his smile quickly dissipated into a more subtle one once you turned towards him).

"sae, get me two eggs... in the fridge."

he lets out a soft sigh and places them on the counter, looking at you for further instruction. "well?"

you shake your head, feigning disappointment as your hand finds its way to your forehead.

"crack the eggs, silly,"

"oh, right..."

"and make sure to do it gentl—"

crack

sae slams the egg on the counter with an unnecessarily excessive force, sending shells and egg whites flying everywhere across the kitchen.

"oh. oops." he says blankly, staring at the slimy mess in his hands— and the counter. he looks over to you expecting to be scolded, but is instead greeted with your loud laughter, your banging fists assaulting the poor counter.

"seriously sae...haha...ha... what did you expect would happen??"

he glances away in embarrassment and quickly washes his hands. "shut up."

"it's okay, love, you can try aga—"

"no."

"—thought so. okay, i'll do it, can you measure half a teaspoon of salt? the measuring cups are over there."

you point somewhere in the kitchen as you turn your attention back to the bowl, cracking two eggs and adding vanilla extract into the mixture.

"baby, let's mix the dry ingredients now!"

you say excitedly as sae appears behind you, placing his hands on your waist as he gently kisses your neck.

without you noticing, your boyfriend scoops a handful of flour. "y/n."

when you turn around, unsuspecting, he brings his hands close to your face and blows the flour from his hands, dusting your cheeks and nose with the powdery residue.

"what the— sae!" you were caught completely off guard at his playful and not so sae-coded gesture, and after seeing him laugh—a rare sight to behold—you couldn't help but break into laughter as well (his laugh is very contagious).

"you look adorable,"

he teases, caging you against the kitchen counter with his strong limbs, preventing you from returning his pleasant surprise.

"heyy, that's not fair!" you huff in annoyance as you squirm around his arms.

"life's not fair, mi amor."

after (a small session of making out), you instruct sae to mix the flour, salt, and baking soda—which he does uncooperatively— you mix combine the powdery compound with the wet mixture.

"alrightt, time for the fun part!" you exclaim cheerfully, lightly smacking the bag of chocolate chips against his chest as you stare at his powder-covered face. a few moments ago, while you were making out, your flour-dusted hands left many imprints on his cheeks. "i'll add the amount you want because you look adorable."

he rolls his eyes, an irritating smirk ghosting over his mouth as he attempts to brush away the lingering flour from his face. "hm. then don't add too mu—"

"on second thought, your charm won't sway me into accepting your very absurd demand— they're chocolate chip cookies, sae, not classic cookies!" you protest, pouring in a bit more than a cup of chocolate chips into the batter, meeting his gaze with a proud, cheeky smile as he sighs and raises his hands in defeat.

"you're a brat."

—

you sit on the kitchen counter, a proud smile on your lips as you watch him awkwardly roll the chocolate chip dough into imperfect little spheres, then place them onto the baking tray in a slightly messy arrangement. you had managed to persuade him after telling him they would resemble miniature soccer balls, and now looking at his attentive features, you couldn't help but snap a few pictures to treasure this moment.

giggling softly, you affectionately ruffle his hair, teasing, "i've never seen you so focused on anything other than soccer, handsome."

he huffs and presses his lips together before giving you a light nudge. "you brought out my hidden talent."

"pftt. yeah. talent." you snort mockingly, running your hand soothingly up and down his back.

rolling his eyes, he pushes the baking tray in your direction, a faint pout on his lips, "oh, be quiet."

you carefully place the tray in the oven before joining him in the living room, where he immediately plops down onto the couch. attempting to squeeze in beside him, you gently nudge him, "sae, move over," but he looks at you lazily and shrugs, "just lay on the other couch or something."

puffing out your cheeks in frustration, you chose to lay on his chest instead. without hesitation, he quickly pulls you closer by the waist, snuggling you warmly as his hands find their way to your ass.

fifteen minutes later, you cautiously remove the tray from the oven (sae didn't remove it because he was scared of the heat radiating from the oven) and set it on the counter to cool, your eyes sparkling with excitement as you lean against your boyfriend. "baby, don't they look delicious?" you ask eagerly, impatiently tapping your fingers against the marble surface. "meh," he replied nonchalantly, purposely trying to annoy you.

"okay pretty boy, you taste it first," you say with a short giggle, offering sae a cookie near his mouth. hesitantly, he takes a bite. with soon-to-be misconceived pride, you optimistically ask, "soo, how does it tas—" your words trail off as he spits the cookie into the trash, his face contorting in disgust. "blegh,"

you were caught off guard, and rolled your eyes in disappointment, "oh come on, sae. it can't be that bad," you say confidently, taking a daring bite of the cookie in an attempt to prove him wrong. however, this fleeting confidence immediately turns into regret as you gag and hurriedly spit it into the trash. "ew, what the fuck?" you choke in disgust, reaching for two glasses and hastily fill them with water. you pass one to sae and quickly chug down the water to wash away the unpleasant taste.

"why is it so salty?" you ask in confusion, closing your eyes as you ponder in thought. you suddenly notice your boyfriend's uncharacteristic type of silence, watching how he presses his lips together and avoids meeting your gaze. there is definitely a subtle hint of guilt in those narrowed teal eyes fixated on the baking tray of cookies. your eyes widen in realization, "wait a minute," you begin, connecting his behaviour with your growing suspicion.

"sae, show me the measuring cup you used to measure the salt,"

"...it's over there," your eyes follow his finger, and eventually settle on the culprit responsible for the cookie failure—the measuring cup sitting innocently on the kitchen counter.

you smack your forehead at the comical mistake sae had made, then turn to look at him. he was still trying to avoid your eyes, but eventually sighs and meets your gaze awkwardly.

"sweetheart, that's a 1/4 cup, not half a teaspoon! that's about eleven teaspoons too many!" you say shaking your head with amusement.

he runs the back of his neck as he yet again focuses his eyes on something else,

"...oh."

bonus:

late at night, you two are cozily draped over the couch, wrapped in each other's arms. sae had ordered takeout to make amends for the baking mishap— although he stubbornly claimed "it was deliberate— to enhance the flavour,". despite the cookie baking failure, you enjoyed you and your boyfriend's special bonding in the kitchen. you wished the next time you two baked together, it would turn out a success.

"don't wanna. also, why am i rolling the dough on your lock screen wallpaper?"

thank you for reading! comments appreciated :)

[velnoni]

Jesus, I LOVE how you interpret ford. Can NOT emphasize how much I enjoyed reading ur hcs for demi!ford! (and then I also have a much more personal appreciation as someone who’s prob demi. so, I’m excitedly shaking your shoulders a little.)

So how would things progress romantically for demi!Ford and reader, building off ur last set of hcs??

It's so nice to hear this, honestly 💓 and ofc, I'm glad you can enjoy these hcs on a deeper level! This ask is also gonna be a long one so buckle up.

Ford x Reader Romance Headcanons

Link to previous headcanon mentioned in ask

As mentioned in the last post, the two of you would consider a romantic relationship after Ford finished traveling with his brother. Something like traveling the world for anomalies would definitely take a minimum of a year to be frank. And you genuinely missed the guy. You missed the way he fixed his glasses (why doesn't he get a new pair?), the sassiness that came with him debuking theories, and his deep voice. Work wasn't the same without him.

Seeing postcards of him and Stanley always made you happy. And sometimes you would trace his clean penmanship in the letters he would mail to you. There would be days when you would receive multiple pages consisting of findings, personal life, and so forth. And you'd do your best by updating him about the Mystery Shack, your job & your own life in return. Because it was mail, there would be delays in the messages, but nothing neither of you could handle.

As time passed, the letters continued to pile in your drawer. You couldn't help but wonder if Ford and his brother would make it home safe. How does puncing an octopus in the eye even save the day? Those twins were such rascals, you swear.

Sometimes, you will dry out flowers and spray them with a light fragrance before mailing the letters away. Flower language is a wonderful thing, and on a particular night, you placed a chrysanthemum in the mail for the twins' safety. You were sure Ford would understand immediately.

The next letter you got back had a hydrangea. At some point as the days grew longer, you'd recognize your feelings towards Ford, especially after Mabel learned one summer you were the pen pal Ford spoke so fondly of.

When the brother touched back to land, you didn't find out until a couple of days after, both twins greeting you after work. You were incredibly excited over their return, noticing the differences in their behavior and how happy they both looked. The sea did them well, especially Ford. If your eyes lingered on him for a second longer, he didn't notice, but Stan will.

When Stan retires to bed, he shoots you two a wink, you being perplexed and Ford grumbling from his chest at his brother's implications. With the two of you alone, it reminded you both of when y'all started hanging outside of work. The night consisted of jokes, bantering, stories, and one too many cans of soda.

"May I be frank with you for a moment?" he asked. You turned your head in his direction and nodded, "What is it?" Ford would look away for a moment and then clasp his hands together, playing with his fingers, a tick of his when nervous. "S-Stan had told me recently you seemed interested in me. Ahem, well, allow me to elaborate. Romantically. Typically, I don't listen to Stan's gibberish, but he pointed out some discrepancies in your behavior." You made a small show of it by looking at Ford brown eyes and the way his peppered eyebrow creased in presumed concern. Leave to Stan to catch you red-handed. You reach out for an open bottle of soda and sip on the lukewarm contents. Ford was kind enough to be frank with you, and you appreciated that, a pro from a man of science.

"Yeah well...he's not exactly wrong." You swish the soda around in the can, wishing the sloshing sound could be more distracting than Ford's lips parting in surprise. "I genuinely do like you. You're a good man and company, Stanford. Got a few skeletons in the closet, but who doesn't? You're kind, enthusiastic about your work, and you're doing your hardest to move on. It's so easy to speak to you, and I really enjoyed your letters. It made life more bearable, y'know? And yes, I also see you as cute, but that's beside the point."

You glance at Ford, noticing how the tips of his ear were beet red and gave a tiny smile of reassurance. "Look, I wasn't planning on telling you at all. If this makes you feel uncomfortable, I can—" your cut off mid sentence when the older twin raised his hand to stop you.

"I'm sorry, I—" he coughs a bit and stares at you, clearly ready to speak. You prepare yourself to be let down gently. "I...I also feel this way towards you as well." You could hear the anxiousness in his voice and see how his lips turned down.

He would continue to confess about how you were someone he didn't want to let go of. But that even though he was confident enough that he had romantic interest, he was unsure how to go about it or if he wanted to tap into the potential of such a thing. It's been so long...

You reassure him he doesn't have to do anything and that you're happy he would be so open about it towards you. You can't help but chuckle at the irony of it all— the both of you felt like teenagers. He questions you about relationships, your experience, expectations, and so forth, and you answer to the best of your ability.

In the end, you two decided to give it a go. For Ford, he would like to go slow with the dating process, preferring outings that didn't require much physical contact. This could consist of book dates, picnics, movie marathons, dinner, etc.

For the most part, this worked great, Ford is very calculating even while dating, but you hope he'll be more comfortable eventually. It would be months until Ford kisses your cheek, and if it weren't for the scratchiness of his stubble, you wouldn't have noticed. It happened after watching a movie, and you returned the kiss. Ford will shyly cup his large hand into yours.

Ford at first will overthink everything in the beginning of the relationship, wondering if he's competent enough for you or if he's asking for too much. You reassure him that's not the case but sometimes he'll worry.

He's a superstitious man at heart and would prefer for your relationship to be quiet but not out of embarrassment. Half a year will pass before he would be okay enough to cuddle with you in a bed (clothes on). The most you two would do is give small kisses and tight hugs that led into the best naps.

He's an old man, he's bringing flowers when he picks you up for date night because it's classy and he enjoys the smile on your face when you smell them. Sometimes, he will offer you a ride home as well.

Please don't play Mario Kart with him...

He likes when you give him back massages (sweater on) and will gladly return the gesture.

Arguing with him is a nightmare, though. Man is stubborn as an ox and will not listen until you both properly calmed. And even then, he has his pride to uphold—something that has to run in the Pines family. Try to bribe him with hot chocolate if there needs to be a sit down.

Are sexual encounters on the table? Yes but he'd appreciate a discussion about it and if he even feels comfy enough to do so at the moment. He's trying his best to be more open minded and honest, you're his safe place. He's the type of guy to schedule sexual intimacy and no I'm not joking, he's a stickler for time. You don't know whether to be flabbergasted or amused. Probably both.

All in all, expect a simple and healthy relationship with Ford. He's learning just like you are.

Thank you for the ask! Please like and reblog, I'd greatly appreciate it.

[anachronismstellar]

Hey yo, SVSSS fandom, I arrive uh *checks the clock* three years late and at one in the morning because this idea won't leave my head.

I don't think I'm going to write more of it, because I'm already two long fics deep and *shrugs* I'm also too much like our poor Airplane: high on caffeine, without enough time to write all that I want to write, and this idea deserves better

Basically, after canon, the system got bored? And as it can't mess up with the protagonist, it went on to torture our poor Mobei Jun, curious to know why he's Airplane's fav character and the only character that was kept the way Airplane originally wanted the story to be.

It's just a scene, and if you wanna adopt this idea go for it! Just tag me please, I wanna see your takes on it! :D

Anyway, scene under the cut! TW: Canon mentions of blood, torture and- let's be honest, the System itself should be a TW.

Hope you like it!

Mobei Jun couldn't see who said it, the stench of blood and piss burning his nostrils, the room too hot for him to think. Somewhere on his mind, a voice that screamed too much like Shang Qinghua kept repeating, "Get up, get up, get up, GET UP!" but he couldn't move, both his arms and legs bound by heated metal.

----

"Oh, that won't do."

"That won't do at all," the voice repeated, closer than before. Too close, the little Shang Qinghua voice in his mind would say. He forced himself to blink, head lolling to the side as lukewarm hands grabbed his face, pushing his hair back, a thumb pressing on his demon mark.

"You were written to be better than this," the voice- no, the man mumbled, followed by an annoyed "Tsk", his touch slowly bringing Mobei Jun back to the present, blue eyes widening as he recognized the soft yellow An Ding Peak robes.

"Shang Qinghua?" he tried to ask, but for sure, he only managed a gurgled sound, throat too dry to say anything. Besides, the man - should he call it a man? - in front of him had his servant's voice, but his posture was all wrong, too confident, too sure of himself. Daft fingers pressed on his cheeks, forcing him to look up, making his breath stutter.

"User 001 is not available at the moment," the strange man wearing Shang Qinghua's face said with a smile, too polite, too calm. There was also something really wrong with his eyes, as if someone had taken Shang Qinghua's warm brown ones and swapped with a poisonous green that glowed in the dim room.

"Where's Shang Qinghua?" he managed to speak, blood dripping from his lips as the room got impossibly warmer. Mobei Jun could feel in his conscience slipping, his strength melting from his bones as he did his best to keep himself awake, to not close his eyes and let himself even more vulnerable to his torturer.

"User 001 is not available at the moment," the man repeated again, and then once more, as if mocking Mobei Jun's hazy mind. "There, I hope you understand. Important things must be told three times. Now-" The thumb on his demon mark pressed further, the inhuman strenght tearing a scream from Mobei Jun's throat as a pain thin and sharp like a neaddle splited his skull in two. He couldn't think he couldn't breathe- Where was Shang Qinghua- Was he hurt? Did this skinwearer kill him?! He had to-

"Protocol 24978 generated. System's mission engaged: Author's favorite."

None of those words made any sense, what-

"I hope you enjoy our services!"

Mobei Jun's world went blank in a flash of white.

[signedkoko]

Yoooo are requests still open or did I miss the window? If I did, just ignore this lol! In light of the season finale, may I request a Husk/Reader (headcanon or whatever you feel) where the two of them spend the night before the extermination spending time together? Maybe taking about how they're both scared but will do each other's best to protect one another (and their new friends 🥺) and cuddling for comfort? Drown me in whatever fluff you got 💖💖

Husk X Reader [Comfort]

In which extermination is just a day away, and the only thing in the world that matters to him is you. Reader is genderneutral.

Being together was the single thing he looked forward to in all his time in hell

And to think it may all end in a single showdown tomorrow, to say he was terrified was an understatement

You'd both decided to stay and fight for the hotel; it was the only place that had ever welcomed you both without a list of exceptions and clauses

Well, Husk had been forced, and where Husk went, so did you

But you'd taken kindly to calling it your home

His wings were folded around you, bubbling the two of you in a cacoon that included your comfortable bed and warm sheets

The hotel was eerily silent, as everyone had resigned to their own spaces to do whatever they felt they needed to, mostly to say goodbye in case they didn't get the same opportunity later

Husk was far from the emotional type, but recently he''d found himself letting his walls down

And who got him at his least defensive except for you?

Seeing you curled into his grap, he couldn't help but trace his claws along your arm, hoping to soothe you further

He knew you were scared; you'd gotten along so well with most of the patrons—hell, you got along with almost everyone he ever saw you meet—and he was sure you were more worried about others than yourself

His gaze is sombre, best described as lukewarm, as he shifts from the cold thought of losing you and the warm thought of seeing you wrapped up in his wings like a present

" Husk? "

" Mmh? "

" You're sad. "

" Well, Ive seen a lot in my life, but I don't think anything prepared me for tomorrow. "

His gruff voice was just as tired as yours, almost exhausted by the idea of what tomorrow might look like

The way you pushed your head further into his chest told him you felt the same, too

He didn't believe in Charlie's plan, but he hoped that if anything happened, you'd be forgiven by the heavens and let in on his behalf

Author's Note - This feels like such a sweet and salty mix of emotions but I still hope it's what you were looking for! I'm glad I got to another request of yours xoxo

[silence-burns]

Just A Prank

Fandom: Fast and Furious

It'd been a while since Han had a chance to meet with so many familiar faces. With the sun high in the sky, and the smell of barbecue in the air, it was almost possible to enjoy it all.

He tried his best to ignore all the photos being taken of him by Tej and Roman enjoying themselves a little too much.

“You did hear me when I told you that I don't need all this?” Han asked, even though he already knew the answer.

“Shhh, let the geniuses work. You're coming back to life in style!”

“Your silly dating app is no magical tool.”

“Oh no, no, pretty boy, the magicians are all in there, trust me,” Roman chuckled, not looking up from Han’s phone.

The day was too nice to stain it with pointless arguments, so Han turned back to his beer. His drink was slowly becoming lukewarm, both the sun and his warm palm working to heat it up.

He smiled to himself when he noticed Dom and Letty arrive in the driveway. Their boy was already running halfway through the yard. Han could've sworn it was only yesterday when he was taking his first steps. He made a mental note to visit the area more often. He had many reasons to.

“And what might this be? The lone wolf, drinking himself unconscious before the main course even arrives at the table? That's not a good look on you, Han.”

He glanced up at you and the beer froze halfway to his lips. You’d managed to sneak up on him, but no matter how many times it happened, his heart always skipped a few beats.

“I'm glad that being fashionably late is always a good look on you, then,” he replied through a tight throat, wondering whether you could hear the sudden rasp in his voice.

“How sweet. Good to know that one thing hasn’t changed.”

The smile you offered him blinded him more than the sun behind your back, but before his brain unfroze, Roman popped up right next to him, pushing the phone into Han’s hand.

“60 seconds on the app and look how successful you already are! The more the merrier, but I'd still suggest looking through this part in their profiles, just in case—...”

The rest drifted from Han's mind the moment he noticed your eyes looking down on his screen. There weren't any obvious changes on your face, but he saw the tension in your shoulders.

“Have fun,” was the only thing you said before you walked away from his spot to greet the rest of the ever growing family. Many voices overlapped, but he still only could hear yours.

Roman was already gone, unaware of what had transpired. He drifted off to the barbecue, acquiring a plate and a fork from somewhere Han couldn’t see.

Han put his beer down. He’d lost interest in it, and conceded the fight for its temperature to the sun.

The day wasn't supposed to go like this. It'd been a while since he last saw you. The time away had only made him miss the missions when the two of you paired up together more. Even if nothing ever happened, he could feel the invisible pull, as if gravity itself wanted to push him closer to you.

Getting it out of his head was a difficult task, and it only felt worse the closer he was to you.

Hours passed, and even though Han enjoyed the party and catching up with everyone, one thought at the back of his head wouldn't let him relax. He'd already turned his phone off, because dealing with the constant meaningless notifications was beyond his patience, but the harm had already been done. He could feel it in the way you made sure to be busy when Han approached, and how the only times you looked in his direction were during polite but group conversation that bounced from one topic to another.

It’d taken Han all of his self control not to run after you when he noticed you finally walking to the side, probably to lug a new crate of beer to the tables.

The evening sun was painting long shadows behind the house, but you still noticed Han following you.

“You can take the second one, if you're so eager to help.” You nodded to the side before walking past him.

Han took half a step to the left, blocking you ever so slightly.

“It was a misunderstanding,” he blurted quietly. He could've found better words to put everything back in place, but none came to him in the past few hours. “Roman was just being an ass. It's a very natural state to him.”

“I don't know what you're talking about. As far as I'm concerned, you are an adult capable of making your own choices. Have your fun, enjoy the world. That's what life is all about, right?”

The smile you presented him was just as wide as he remembered it, but it held no joy that used to pull him in like a moth to a flame.

“Life is more than shallow enjoyment. Especially when you bind yours together with another one.”

You snorted under your breath. The crate was not getting any lighter and your arms began to ache, so you put it down next to your feet. As much as you wanted to move on and get back to the party, it didn't look like you were getting a chance soon, unless you decided to walk directly through the blooming bushes next to the path.

“Han, we've been through this already. Just because we've—...”

“I was a fool for not making myself clear before, but I intend to fix it.” He took half a step closer without taking his eyes off you. “There is no reason for me to look at any of those strange apps Roman insisted on, because no one I actually want to find is in there. They are right in front of me and I have been too blind to see them.”

You blinked. He was still there, staring at you with a complicated mixture of hope and worry painted over his face. It was a strange sight coming from a person usually so composed, but a part of you was relieved to hear him.

“You could've just asked me to dinner.”

Han leaned down to effortlessly pick up the crate by your feet. “I could and I will. How about we start with a beer first?”

[originalaccountname]

Uhh i just finish stormbringer and i didnt quite understood Rimlaine relationship im sorry if this comes off as annoying its just that i read some of your analysis and you explain thing very good, thanks in advance 💗

Their relationship is complicated and contradictory. Ultimately, their lack of communication (both in talking and listening) dug a hole so deep between them that they both had to die before it was fixed.

I'm gonna attempt a timeline to break it down, so you can see what happened. This got way too long despite my best efforts so I'm putting it under a cut:

At an undisclosed time, Rimbaud, a spy/special agent working for France, goes to defeat a mad scientist and ability user, Pan. Pan had created a sort of puppet, named Black No12, who could manipulate gravity and obeyed him blindly. Rimbaud managed to cut the link between them, and Black No12 turned against and killed his creator and master.

Rimbaud took Black No12 under his wing as a fellow spy for France. He trained him and made him his partner. He gave him a name, his name from before he changed his identity to become a spy: Paul Verlaine.

Rimbaud wanted the formerly brainwashed person he found to be independent. Despite his origins, Rimbaud wanted Verlaine to feel human. He was his friend and wanted him to be happy.

Verlaine, on the other hand, was haunted by not being or feeling human. He felt lonely and isolated, and Rimbaud pushing so hard to make him feel human only rubbed salt in the wound. But he didn't tell Rimbaud any of that.

Rimbaud gave Verlaine the hat right before their operation in Japan to retrieve project Arahabaki. The hat had a special ability alloy woven into it meant to make sure no outside instructions could be used to brainwash him again. That was Rimbaud trying to guaranty Verlaine complete agency, one step closer to making him human. This was only a grim reminder of what he was to Verlaine. After the lukewarm reception of his gift, Rimbaud starts to feel permanently cold.

When they got (what they thought was) the artificial human from Project Arahabaki out of the lab, Verlaine was taken by the Bungou Stray Dogs curse of seeing yourself in other people and wanting to save them to save yourself. Verlaine told Rimbaud he was taking the child and going into hiding to raise him as a normal human being, to protect the child from the same pain he felt. Rimbaud, who hadn't realized how his dear friend suffered, still didn't understand and tried to reason with Verlaine that they couldn't possibly turn their backs to their home, and that the child would still be with them in France.

This poor communication resulted in Verlaine feeling trapped and choosing to shoot his only friend in the back. They fought and Rimbaud got the upper hand before he got surrounded by the lab's guards and desperately tried to use Arahabaki to defeat them too. This ended in the Suribachi incident and his loss of memory. Verlaine still had enough strength to stop Arahabaki/Chuuya's rampage before vanishing who knows where.

Fast forward 8 years, Fifteen happens, with Rimbaud, now permanently cold, who got some of his memories back. Rimbaud wants to know more than anything what happened to his partner and friend all those years ago, and is even willing to kill Chuuya (and Dazai) for it. As he dies, he remembers what happened that night while they were escaping, and how Verlaine chose to shoot him in the back over Chuuya. He tells Chuuya that he was probably human all along, and to live no matter what, before vanishing into thin air.

One year later, and Verlaine has found Chuuya and decided to try again to take him so they can be lonely together. He's trying to both isolate and protect Chuuya in a twisted sense of responsibility and kinship (and the power of projection). When Verlaine finally loses himself to Guivre, he manages to tell Chuuya about how he stopped Arahabaki 9 years ago in Suribachi so Chuuya could do it to him now. Chuuya understands from this that Verlaine might have felt lonely and oh so bitter about the world, that he might have hated his existence, but he had found friendship in Rimbaud and wished to save the world in his name. One person had been worth it, so he couldn't just destroy it all.

After the fight is over, Verlaine is dying from Guivre's energy having been depleted by Chuuya's efforts. As he dies, Rimbaud appears: Rimbaud has created a singularity with his own ability at the time of his death, maintaining his mind alive in his subspace by absorbing himself as his ability on loop. He's like the Old Boss was in Fifteen, just a puppet, not a human... but he's still Rimbaud. And Rimbaud wanted his friend to live and be happy.

Rimbaud apologizes for not understanding Verlaine's struggle with humanity and incidentally handling it badly. Then, he passed on his ability, now a singularity, onto Verlaine to replace Guivre as his source of life: a lot less powerful, but enough to keep him going. Rimbaud tells him he's glad Verlaine was born because he got to meet him, and disappears for good.

Verlaine realized then, way too late, that he really cared about Rimbaud. Rimbaud spent a whole year as something that wasn't human just for the chance of seeing Verlaine again and apologize to him. That got to Verlaine too. Since then, he's been hiding in the Port Mafia's basement, uncaring of the world, and mourning his friend and the friendship he passed by without knowing.

In the shortest, in-novel words possible:

[hoshigray]

hi! i’m not quite sure if you’re comfortable with this but could you do toji taking care of his bratty gf that’s on their period? no pressure especially if you’re not comfortable! thank you so much! <33

Oh, dw anon, I'm totally comfortable writing this kind of stuff, but thanks for checking with me tho c: Didn't know what approach to go with this, but felt like fluff would be the best fit (since ik not everyone's into period sex; perhaps an idea I can go back on later *shrugs*). Please enjoy, and I hope you like this! ♡ Also, this is 3 for 3 on the request streak, holy shit haha! Cw: Toji x fem!reader - fluff - Toji trying to be a good bf and lowkey domestic - the reader is a lil whiny, but Toji still loves you - tummy massages!! - some light-hearted comedy; reader trying to annoy Toji lol - pet names (baby, sweetie, princess) - just you and Toji being a couple :3 Wc: 1.1k

"Toji?"

The man hums but doesn't turn to you, watching the television from the floor while you lay on the couch.

You try again. "Tojiiiiii~"

He rolls his eyes at your sing-song attitude, finally turning to your face. "Yeah, baby?"

"Would you please add more water to the kettle for me? My water bottle's getting cold, and my feet hurt."

With a huff, he gets up and walks to the kitchen. "Sure thing, sweetie." You hum into your couch pillow while wiggling on the water bag you're lying on, taking in whatever's left of the lukewarm storage bottle.

Today has been quite a busy day on your end. Amid two midterms, a group project, and a paper due at 11:45 p.m. tomorrow, you still have work to do today. And to top it all off, your period started two days ago, meaning you're suffering as of now. Not only is stress from college drowning you, but your body makes the pressure tenfold more painful to the point of wanting to shut down.

This is why you've spent your Friday afternoon cooped in your apartment and avoided talking with or seeing anyone, trying to focus on your work while dealing with your personal predicament. Especially texting your boyfriend, Toji, that you won't be able to see him for dinner at his favorite ramen place.

Nevertheless, the older man comes knocking on your door with a bag full of your favorites from the restaurant, saying he'll just spend the night with you at your place and help with whatever you need. Though you tried to decline his offer, his company has been very comforting.

However, since he came here with sincere intentions, you want to test his patience. With a cheeky smile pulling your lips, you start your act.

You hear Toji press the button to heat the water up, his heavy steps prominent of his return to you in the living space. He plops back down on his place on the floor, leaning against the couch you're lying on and putting his attention back on the TV.

Well, he tries to.

"Tojiiii~," You see the rise and fall of his shoulder sync with the heavy exhale escaping through his nose. Giggles are stifled, but your smile is wide when he looks back at you with one brow scrunched down.

A stern "What?" is thrown in your direction.

A tiny giggle slips out. "Can you please massage my tummy?"

He looks dead at your face before he scoffs. "Do I look like your personal maid or somethin'?"

"No, you're my wonderful, handsome, and caring boyfriend," You bring a foot up to tap his shoulder, to which Toji grumbles. To his dismay, you continue to tease him with your poking. "As a caring boyfriend, you should attend to your lady when she is in insufferable pain."

"Poke me with your toes again, and I'll chew 'em off." Okay, that's when you stop pestering the older man, holding in your laughter as he scowls with a devilish smirk. Another huff of air exits his lungs before he gets up from his spot once again, and you reposition yourself for him to sit on the couch facing you. He places the water bottle on the floor. "You got your own hands, doncha?"

"Of course, but I asked for your hands." He glares at you though you pay it no mind, lifting your shirt to pat your stomach. "Now, massage me!"

Toji shakes his head yet lifts his hands and places them on your exposed abdomen, calloused and scarred fingers squeezing your plush skin. "So annoyin', ya fuckin' brat." You blow a raspberry. "I shoulda stayed at the ramen joint."

"Pfft, please, you know you don't go there alone anymore. Might've gotten bored and brought yourself here regardless." You close your eyes and sink into the feeling of the man's fingers rubbing your stomach.

He only replies with a small 'hmph' and continues with the task thrown onto him.

This continues for a few moments, and you enjoy the man's hands roaming your belly. His palms and fingers' rough yet gentle manner makes you feel like the cramps are no longer a problem. It feels so pleasant. Curious, you open an eye to stare at the man before you.

The look on Toji's face displays nothing but pure focus, looking at his work as he massages you. Raven bangs cast shade from the ceiling lights. The man had soft emerald eyes, yet keen as they zero in on your physique as he skilfully kneads your abdomen with his digits. His lips are kept in a neutral line, and you can't help but look at his scar when he licks his teeth.

The more you examine him, the more you realize just how lucky you are to see this side of him. And maybe how lucky you are to have such a man deal with you even during times like this.

"Whatcha lookin' at me for, princess?"

Toji's gruff voice snaps you back, realizing he caught you surveying him. A grin dashed on his face. You decide to toy with him one more time. "Oh, Tojiiiii."

The smirk immediately disappears, replaced with a look that screams mild annoyance. You let out a burst of laughter, rocking your head back and forth and laughing harder every time you peer back at his face. "Fucking what now, ya damn brat?" He doesn't try to hide the irritation in his voice, and you can feel him glare holes into you while you laugh into your hands.

You calm yourself down, speaking in chuckles. "You know I love you, right?

"Shut the hell up." Not a single change to his face.

"No, I—pfffthaha," giggles escape your lips as you try to center yourself to speak appropriately, placing your hands on his big ones that rest atop your tummy. "I mean it, I really do! I appreciate you coming here and dealing with me and my whiny ass. If you hadn't been here, I'd probably be rotting in my bed right about now. I love you, so thank you for watching out for me."

Toji's face slowly molds away from his peeved expression, now relaxed and exhibitng a look of slight astonishment. You can make out a tiny shade of pink under his eyes and earlobes, yet you choose not to point it out to showcase your seriousness with a loving smile. He scoffs, shakes his head, and leans close to your face.

"You're somethin' else, ya know that, kid?" He flicks your forehead, resulting in you groaning from the diminutive mistreatment. But he quickly places a kiss when you're done squirming from the pain. "I love ya too, baby. Always."

You beam at him. "Even when I'm whiny?"

Finally, he laughs. "Yeah, even when yr' whiny. My whiny, annoyin', cute-ass princess."

"I said whiny, not annoying."

"Whatever." The two of you exchange laughs and kisses on the couch, completely disregarding your assignments and the kettle ready with hot water. It doesn't matter nor compare with the adoration you experience from him right now, so you indulge yourself for as long as you can.

[baratiddyappreciator]

Dating Jack HCs

I've gotta do some more writing for my fav because I love him so much and he deserves more, just in general. NSFW included, because I would do THINGS to this man and I know some people would too, so Minors DNI.

Big appetite, but he's not picky. He'll eat pretty much anything you give him with little to no hesitation. Trying to do some baking and you're not sure if you added too much sugar? Just give him a spoonful of the batter and he'll tell you, flat out. He is partial to foods that he grew up familiar with, since it's what he knows best, so making him a good hearty meal. Steak and vegetables are a popular choice for him, but a nice chicken pot pie with bread is something that will have him melting.

He's not entirely helpless in the kitchen himself, but he's not really good at doing much. He can cook something the way he likes, and he can make basic things, but more advanced meals usually wind up either a bit burnt or a little undercooked. He's got an odd affinity for pancakes and waffles though. Get him to make you some and they're the softest, fluffiest pancakes and waffles you've ever tasted.

He's not really a movie or book guy, if he's bored, he'll go work out or exercise, but he does push things too far sometimes and give in to letting himself relax for a bit to let his body recover before he starts pushing himself again. This is your chance to make him enjoy your favourite pieces of media with you. You matter a lot to him, so he'll pay attention, actively participating by asking questions. He'll look at you with all the love in the world in his eyes, when you're talking about it.

On the other hand, if you take an interest in his past, in Goudou, he'll fall for you and fall for you HARD. You want him to teach you how to do something he cares about? He's putty in your hands for the entire duration. He doesn't expect you to push yourself as hard as he pushes himself, but he will push you to do your best. It stops when you say that you're done, or until he thinks you're not able to keep going.

He's not really one for physical intimacy, but with you, that starts to change. He likes holding your hand while the two of you are walking. He likes putting his hands on your shoulders while you're just standing around doing something, be it waiting in line or just standing around. After the first year of being together, he'll do whatever you want him to. Need him to pick you up so you can look at something on a top shelf? Absolutely, no hesitation, you let him know if you want to come down because he'll just assume you want to be up there for the rest of the time you're there.

He's rough and clumsy about affection at first simply because he's not sure of what you're wanting. His jaw is stiff when you kiss him, his hugs are a bit too firm or too loose, he doesn't really hold your hand, more like cupping it. Until he gets more comfortable, his affection remains lukewarm. You know the second that it just clicks for him, because all of a sudden he's just there, his hugs are tight and warm, he hold your hands properly. He's just so warm with his affection.

Please remember that this man is both blonde and pasty, because he won't put on sunscreen unless you ask, and he WILL get burnt. Will he complain about it? No, but you'll know he's miserable because he'll be moving very carefully, like everything hurts (because it does). Get some aloe and make this man sit down, he'll fall asleep before you get even half way done.

Holding his hands is a fantastic thing. His entire hand engulfs yours, you can feel all the little scars and calluses on his palms and fingers, and if you really pay attention you can feel his pulse. Laying on his chest is something else entirely, because all you can hear is his breathing and his pulse.

NSFW upcoming, if you're a minor then get lost??? We don't want you here?? Annoying ass kid, goddamn.

I love my man, my sweet little blorbo, I'm going to chew on him in a sexy way.

You can't really tie him up, because sometimes he'll get a bit too excited, either the restraints or the furniture you've tied him to will break, but he encourages you to try. If you're not one to take the risk on that, then just tell him to grab the headboard. He'll grab it and he won't let go until you're done.

RIDE! 👏HIM! 👏 RIDE HIM! He teases you when he's on top, but when you're riding him, he just goes dumb, it's like his brain leaks out of his ears, he'll lay there and watch you like you're an actual diety as you use him for your pleasure, and he encourages you to do so, because then he's assured that whatever is done is something that you want.

He doesn't really have any specific fetishes beyond biting and a strong breeding kink, so he's happy to try out whatever you like. The only think he is staunchly against is a daddy kink. Don't call him daddy, that will immediately kill the mood. The only other thing he has a problem with is him being the bottom. He's big, and him letting himself being that vulnerable takes a lot of trust.

Biting him while having sex just drives him fucking WILD, even if it's just a nibble. The second your teeth touch his skin it's game on, he'll have you pinned to the mattress faster than you can blink, though you're not really going to be processing much more than that until he finishes with you.

He makes it painfully obvious when he's thinking about getting you in bed, he'll stare right through your soul (before he fucks it out of you) and hover around you. The best way to get him to say fuck it and fuck you is to wear one of his sweaters... And not much else. Laying on the couch reading a book? Not anymore, he's got your legs over his shoulders, and you're seeing white.

Everything about this man is big. Big hands, big arms, big tits, and a big dick. He's got a girthy thirteen incher, and it is veiny, curves upwards at just the right angle to make you go insane. He knows he's big, and he's not the kind of guy to force something to fit, so he won't even try to push his cock into you until he knows you're ready.

This man is incredibly pliant to what you want to do. Something you can do is just walk up to him while he's laying down, push his head back and ride his face. He won't complain, he'll just get to work on you. Fuck his throat or his tongue, he won't care, he'll be in bliss. That mouth may be intimidating, but it works wonders.

He's got such big, thick fingers, they're perfect to ride. Just reach over and grab his hand, he'll let you use them, anything for his love. If you need him, you can have him, subtle or not. Grind on his thigh to take the edge off, or drag him off to a bathroom to have him take the edge off.

He's got that really big scar right across his front, and it cuts really close to one of his nipples. You'll find that one is a lot more sensitive than the other, and trust me, they are sensitive. There's not much you can do to phase him, but playing with his chest is one way to get him riled up.

[bluespiritshonour]

Oh my God!

I just caught up with World's Finest: Teen Titans and I absolutely have to write this out:

First of all, I love this cover:

The thing that caught my eye: “you're grounded.”

Not the dramatic “you're fired” as if the motherfucker didn't raise that damn kid in his own damn house for YEARS.

(I know. I know. Bar on the ground, but what would you?)

Also, the anger palpable on Bruce's face and Dick's absolute disregard for it. I'm laughing here y'all. This is what teenagers act like. This is what fights between parents and children look like.

Also. Dick Grayson, I've been missing. You're back from war!

I love how curt he is. The “Get lost” hits in all the right places. We love a strongly-principled character that stands for what he believes in. With all the lukewarm Dick Grayson writing floating around I felt like walking into a coffee shop while it's snowing outside.

More of this writing, please.

I'd been waiting for this moment all through this series.

This conversation.

I compare things all the time. It might not be the right thing in every field but I think it serves well when it comes to comic books. We all have personal “canon criteria”—for example, mine are “Darwyn Cooke wrote this Bruce so I'm taking it as valid characterisation ” or “Every version of Bruce played by Kevin Conroy is valid”. (Minus Bruce Timm bullshit!)

Which was what cinched my hatred for Bruce after reading a Robin short story that Cooke wrote and alluded to Robin: Year One in it. I mean, I might not fuck with Dixon, but am I going to call even Cooke's Bruce OOC? No. It means Bruce is a jerk. Full stop.

Waid is one of the writers I respect (excluding Kingdom Come. I hate it and I can't put my finger on the why. But I just do: I hate it. I hate it for Clark. I hate it for Diana. And I'm a professional Bruce-hater so let's not even go there. I hate it for Dick too.)

And Dick and Bruce's relationship has a lot of baggage from the fact that a) Bruce is himself traumatised and fails to meet Dick's emotional needs b) he wasn't ready to be a father when he adopted Dick c) Dick simply suffers from being the eldest—the test child.

And very rarely have I seen writers manage to walk on the thin line of complicated-but-dedicated-and-strong.

Young Justice cartoon did it. Dick and Bruce's relationship is going strong. But they fight and have different values. And Dick can see all that is wrong with Bruce's approach to vigilantism in particular and life in general.

Grimm (Legends of the Dark Knight #149-154) did it right. Where Bruce hurt Dick deeply and made him feel unwanted all the while overthinking about Dick's well-being. Way to go, buddy! You can see the repercussions it has for Dick while simultaneously stare at this man who's tying himself into knots trying to think how best to parent.

I think that's what most Bruce and Dick comics miss: the excessive worrying. They don't show the worry, make them fight for drama, never address it apart from throwing out a “it's because Bruce's worried” (bitch, where?) and have Dick running back to Gotham at the first chance. It sounds an awful lot like “your parents hurt you 'cause they love you” bullshit.

I think World's Finest manages it well because foremost, Bruce says, in words, that he's worried about Dick's well-being. He's taciturn, he's putting constant pressure on Dick all in the hopes of making him quit Titans. All this makes him a jerk. But I don't hate him for it.

It's between Dick's “you don't trust me” and Bruce's “no, I don't trust them.”

Most teenagers clash with their parents. It's normal. That's what Waid has shown here and I love it. It feels very—normal?

Especially when the Bats aren't normal! Bruce sure as fuck ain't a normal parent. But there was something very bitter-sweet coming-of-age in this conversation.

Bruce does all those things that are bad for Dick and his growing independence. You're not supposed to handle teenagers like that.

He's worried and taking desperate measures. “If I punish him, then maybe he'll obey me and quit Titans and then he'll he safe”—lots of parents who don't know how to deal with teenagers do it.

But the sequence of it: Bruce is worried → Bruce wants Dick to quit Titans → for Dick it means proving himself to be better, to not get hurt (as if he can control that beyond a certain point) → Bruce being alarmed at Dick's insistence to stay with the Titans and taking desperate measures like benching him.

At least it makes sense.

Compare it to Dixon's Nightwing origin story, which honestly, personally I think was lazy writing. Drama for drama's sake. “You’re fired because you're spending too much time with the Titans.” The same writer also had Bruce say that he did it because he wanted Dick to strike out on his own. Blah, blah, blah.

And no matter whatever happens he'd never ever say it to Dick's face that he's worried about him because—well, reasons.

Robin: Year One logic:

I'm worried about Dick's health so I fire him. He runs off and can get hurt? He joins a school for assasins? None of my business. He can get hurt on his own, I don't care as long as it is not on my conscience. Peace.

—Bruce “professional narcissist” Wayne.

So, yes. When faced with this book(WF: TT), I'd call Dixon's writing lazy.

I'm also comparing this to several other instances when Bruce verbally says (never to Dick, mind you) that he loves that Dick's a better person and better vigilante than him. But in the same book he'd yell at Dick for exactly the same thing. (I consider that lazy writing, since BTAS made sure to show a shot of Bruce smiling whenever Dick was happy/not like him).

I like this thing here where he says it to Dick's face. He's still grounding him for “discipline's sake” or whatever—very, very IC for Bruce.

But he also lets Dick know that he appreciates his values, that are different—better—than Bruce's own.

I can stomach that.

Honestly Bruce's writing in this book felt like BtAS writing (pre-Bruce Timm fuckery). That's a compliment.

P.S. Waid's a good story-teller overall. His Superman: Birthright was one of the first Superman comics I read and I fell in love with Clark right away.

Peace ✌️😂

[theshadowsingersraven]

I don't understand why people are so adamant about the idea that SJM would/could change her entire writing style, love for fated mates, and patterns for Elain and Elain only.

Like, why? Why does everyone suddenly care about the "ethics" of a mating bond or the "wants of the character" just when it comes to Elain? Why do people suddenly stop loving fated mates, forced proximity, strangers to lovers, etc. when it comes to Elain? Why do people suddenly believe that her love story with her mate could overshadow her own growth and development when that didn't happen with Feyre or Nesta?

I don't understand why people in this fanbase treat Elain with this random ""autonomy"" that was never given to Feyre or Nesta. It's giving such infantilization for a character that these people swear up and down is underestimated (true) and yet they do the exact same thing the Inner Circle does, but in real life.

"Elain doesn't like Lucien!"

1. We don't know that. We don't have her POV, and she's only ever said that she doesn't want a mate, not that she has an issue with Lucien. We need her POV to know for certain how she feels. If you don't think we need that and her "body language" or "observable reactions" are enough, respectfully, nothing you say about Elain is going to be worth my time. If you can't acknowledge that a character can have more complex internal feelings that don't match her external expressions, especially considering how Nesta and Feyre behaved with their mates prior, then I don't want to hear any of your analysis. It seems surface-level at best, and I'm not interested in starting and ending character analysis at their surface-level, external behaviors.

2. Okay, say for instance that she doesn't like Lucien.

And?

Did we not all read Feyre going through not one but two enemies to lovers, forced proximity dynamics with both Tamlin and then Rhysand?

Feyre quite literally referred to Tamlin as her captor, and built traps in her room because she didn't feel safe in his manor.

Did any one of those same people give nearly as much of a shit that she didn't like either of them or wring their hands about it to this degree?

I can tell you one thing: I shipped Feylin during ACOTAR and then Feysand during ACOMAF, as I'm sure plenty of people did, too. And a majority of these people adore Feysand.

What about Nessian during ACOFAS and ACOSF?

Did any one of them give a shit that Nesta didn't have a "choice" either when SJM wrote a forced proximity love story for her character? When Nesta kept pushing away Cassian and told him to leave her alone? And Cassian believed that she wanted nothing to do with him? Shouldn't that greatly upset those people?

It didn't upset me because I like enemies to lovers and forced proximity tropes. I didn't question the morals of ethics of the tropes or the mating bond during their book. And if those same people didn't either, then I raise them all, as well as generally most of the fanbase this question:

Who cares if Elain doesn't like Lucien? Elain is a fictional character written by a fated mates and enemies-to-lovers author.

Like...what do you guys think you're reading? Do you not expect her character to change and evolve and thus feel differently about things?

I'm tired of these lukewarm, inconsistent takes that only prove that people just don't want her to be with Lucien because he isn't "as hot" (when everyone in the series remarks on how handsome Lucien is) or broody like Azriel is. I'm tired of people projecting themselves onto Elain and claim that they want what "she wants" when not a single one of us know for sure what she wants, and it's just an excuse for people to feel "correct" or "just" in their preference.

Everyone wants something for Elain if you have skin in the game for her endgame ship. Because you have to. Elain will never be able to choose her endgame for herself because she is a character, and SJM or fanfic authors writing her decide for her.

That is just how writing works. Love to break it to you.

Yes, she wanted Azriel at one point. But he rejected her by calling their almost-kiss a mistake, and then she gave back the necklace. There are no interactions between them on page after this.

We no longer know for certain what Elain "wants". We only have the last time SJM put on page what Elain currently feels toward Azriel and Lucien from other character's point of view.

Elain's character deserves better than the infantilizing stans that treat her as if she's somehow so beleaguered and victimized. She's not. She's a character with trauma, just like her sisters. She's a character that people will villianize or adore, just like her sisters. She's a character that gets both warranted and unfair criticism, just like her sisters. She's just a character.

Everyone's love or appreciation or disdain for her is real, but Elain herself will never be real. And some people really, really need to internalize this.

[siriusleee]

a better year

a/n: i linked this one to ao3 a week or so ago, but i figured i'd do it now i'm procrastinating the next chapter to adamantine chains lmao this is my take on the bookstore au tags: mentions of sex but nothing explicit, cursing, signs of ptsd, , original female character, retirement from the military, bookstore au 6.7k words summary: He takes her shoes off of her while she insists she can do that herself. He slips the right one off when the fireworks go off outside; the entire town is bathed in their light. "Midnight," she says as Simon rises up on one knee in front of her, ready to tell her goodbye and good night. She kisses him over the mask. She doesn't mention it the next day.

The official order rolled in on plain white paper, an unceremonious carrier of his future. He was the first to go: a sign that the team was being unraveled slowly. After all, they're not young men anymore. 

"You'll receive your pension; it's enough that you shouldn't have to work again. And we've made sure that you have an official background. It's not much, but it's what we can do."

Laswell doesn't move her eyes from his, her fingers clutching a pen so hard her knuckles are white. 

"It's for the best Simon," she says, setting the pen down carefully on her desk, "and if it makes you feel better: everyone will be released soon. I'm sorry."

He's not dumb; he knows these things only last so long. Forced retirement is something to be celebrated - celebrated that he lived long enough to have one, celebrated that his body isn't rotting in some foreign country, a home for worms. Celebrated that the 141 made it out mostly intact. Mostly together. 

Johnny claps him on the back and promises that when Laswell brings him that paper when Johnny gets his own forced retirement, he'll come to find Simon. 

Simon doesn't stay in England - he doesn't like the way the gray settles around him. He leaves the apartment Laswell set up for him untouched, a note for Johnny for where to find him. 

He finds a small house to rent somewhere in the American Southwest, spitting distance of Alejandro's territory. It crosses his mind more than once to make the trip across the border, to see how Alejandro's doing; to see if Rudy is still scared of fantasmas . 

But he isn't a fantasma anymore; he's just Simon Riley.

And it's just Simon Riley who paces the aisles of her bookstore, trying to find something to take his mind off of the fact that he is utterly and completely bored. 

"This is the third time you've been here this month. I'm not putting you into debt am I?"

Her accent is different from everyone else's in town - still decidedly American, just not from here American. Simon ignores her, his eyes focused on the row of books in front of him. She sighs heavily, but drops it, leaving him behind to stock the end cap. Last week's murder mysteries replaced by this week's contemporary romances. 

"I need to lock up you know - I can't stay here all night." She speaks as if it's not odd that Simon only comes in on Thursday nights - the only night of the week she stays open late to rearrange the end cap displays, to vacuum the floors to perfection. 

"You haven't even cleaned the windows yet," Simon replies, pulling a fantasy book from the shelf: something about a world full of malicious fairies and a secret world beneath New York. It's something new. 

"For your information, I did that before you got here," she says, pushing herself up from the floor with a groan. "And I have a life. I can't sit here all night and wait for you to pick a random book off the shelf."

"I never said you didn't."

Simon places the book as she dips behind the counter, a lukewarm cup of coffee left beside the cash register. She drinks from it, wincing at the taste as she rings the book up.

"That'll be seventeen forty-five."

Simon gives her a twenty and she breaks the change, counting out how many pennies he's supposed to have on her fingers. 

"You going to be back next week?"

"Why?"

"I want to close early next Thursday; I need to know if my best customer is going to be here or not."

Simon doesn't speak as he takes the plastic bag from her hands. She waits for him, eyes never leaving his as she sips her coffee, waiting on him to answer. 

"I can come by Friday instead."

"I'm closed Fridays."

"What about Wednesday?"

"I can stay late Wednesday."

He leaves her with just a crinkle of the plastic bag and the chime above the door.

***

He spends too much time at the gym ignoring Johnny's text messages. Johnny tells him Price was next - swearing that he was going to retire to the countryside where he can smoke his cigars in peace. Maybe find himself a nice girl to cook him dinner every now and then.

His fingers hover over the buttons, almost messaging Price to tell him congratulations. But Simon's not sure it really is. 

He's alone at night; no one's in the gym at two in the morning. No one's there to watch the way he slams the weights down when he's done or hear the way he gasps for breath after lifting too heavy - the tear in his chest that never quite healed right burning him from the inside. 

The walk home is quick; the stars shine brighter than anything he'd ever seen in England. The closest he ever got to seeing them like this was in the Middle East, but he hardly noticed the stars then. He wasn't expecting to be left looking up.

He sits in the shower at home. He can't stand the way the water hits his skin, but can't stand the idea of sitting in the water either. So he stays huddled in the corner of the bathtub, the water barely touching him. 

Simon Riley thinks about death. 

He thinks about what would happen if he died right now. 

He thinks about what it's like to die twice. 

***

The door is locked when he comes by Wednesday; he feels foolish standing there with his hand still pulling on the door, knowing it won't open beneath his touch. Foolish to think that she would-

Foolish when his heart ticks a beat as she comes around the corner. Foolish when he steps inside just a second after she unlocks the door.

"Sorry, my last employee must have locked the door on their way out. So did you like last week's book?"

"It was alright."

The silence is almost awkward as she locks the door behind him.

"Let me know when you're ready. I just made coffee in that pot behind the counter; you can have some if you want. I shouldn't drink it all myself."

She leaves him behind to disappear into the store room. He paces the aisles aimlessly, waiting for something to jump out at him. It's quiet tonight; the music that's usually playing softly over the speakers is absent. Simon can hear her through the storeroom wall moving boxes around, the sound of a box cutter piercing the quiet every so often. 

She reappears, a box in her arms that she drops heavily onto the counter. Simon watches her over the bookshelf of non-fiction works as she pulls each book out, scans it into the computer, and stacks them on the counter 

When the box is empty, she breaks it down and leaves it on the counter. She looks up, almost catching Simon staring at her. He ducks away, taking a book on the Korean War with him. At the counter, she can barely see him over the stack of books in front of her. 

"Last week was fantasy and this week is the Korean War? You certainly have varied tastes."

Simon hands over the fifteen twenty-two he owes her, her hands linger in the distance between them. 

"Do you have a job?"

"What?"

Simon's taken aback at her candor. I used to have a job he thinks, as he pockets his change. 

"No, I don't."

"Do you want one? I need a weekend worker. It's just me on Saturdays and Sundays now my other guy quit to go to college. I can't pay you a ton, but I kind of get the feeling you don't need it."

He falters for a moment; that's all it takes. If he's being honest with himself, he misses taking orders, missing feeling useful to someone.

"I can do that." 

"Can you start this Saturday?"

"I can do that."

She's locked the door behind him before he realizes they don't even know each other's names. 

***

Her name's Billy.

"What's your name; I probably should have asked that before I hired you."

Simon doesn't answer, placing the box down slowly before he answers. It's odd, telling someone his name. His real name. 

"It's Simon. Simon Riley."

She looks him over, elbows resting on the counter. 

"What?"' He asks, uncomfortable under her x-ray analysis of him.

"Just didn't peg you for a Simon. You know with your general countenance; the mask and all that."

She doesn't ask why he has the mask on. Simon gets the feeling that she never will. 

She works him like a dog; he's moving some of the shelves around when he thinks that this is probably the reason her last employee quit. It's like being ordered around by Price again, but this time his enemy is the dust. He doesn't stop moving until well after noon; sweat gathering in the small of his back. In her office, Billy is on the phone, yelling indistinctly at the person on the other line.

He doesn't have to watch her to know she's angry when she slams the phone down. He expects her to storm out of her office, to slam the door shut behind her. But she doesn't. When she comes out she's calm.

On Sunday she shows him how the books are organized, and she has him switch around the genres.

"Romance sells best during the spring, and mystery best in the fall and winter. So we need to pull the mystery books up to this front aisle and move the romance towards the back. These shelves roll so they're easier to move."

She's meticulous; Simon moves the same shelf four times before it's lined up exactly where she wants it. His constellation prize: cash wages handed to him at the end of the day.

"No paycheck?"

Her nails tap against the counter, the white paint chipped.

"I haven't processed your paperwork yet. I can take the money back if you want."

Simon pockets it.

They lock up together. It's warm outside, but she still tugs a hoodie over herself whenever she finishes, tucking her keys into the pocket.

It's a complete coincidence that they set off in the same direction. 

Simon wants a cigarette; his fingers itch for the pack in his pocket. But she'd said earlier in the day that the smell was disgusting and she couldn't breathe whenever someone with cigarette smoke on them passed her by.

They split up two blocks away from the bookstore. She motions up to the upstairs apartment of a shitty duplex. It's not the kind of place he expected her to be in.

"This is me. I'll see you next Saturday right?"

"I'll be there."

"Good night Simon."

She doesn't wait for him to say anything; not that he would have known what to say. She's up the stairs and inside (she didn't unlock the door; he has to restrain himself from going upstairs to tell her to lock it next time) before he can think of anything to say.

He smokes a cigarette at the bottom of her stairs; watches the outline of her against the curtains in her window. A fat black cat peers down at him, peers down at the cherry of Simon's cigarette in the darkness. The street lamp is burnt out, the shadows dark. He stubs the cigarette out on the sole of his boot and throws the cigarette butt out in the street. 

He's almost certain she'd chide him for that - the same way she did a kid who had the audacity to throw a cigarette down in front of her shop. 

His apartment is extra cold when he gets home.

***

"Maybe Price has it right: a life in the countryside. A pretty girl to cook you a few meals. Maybe a dog to curl up at your feet," Johnny drones on the other end of the line. Simon doesn't answer, his focus on cutting the potatoes in front of him into meticulous cubes. Johnny doesn't need him to speak. 

"What about you L.T.? What have you been up to?"

"I'm not a lieutenant anymore Johnny."

"You'll always be L.T. to me. And don't ignore the question."

Simon drops the potatoes into a pot, waiting on the answer to unstick from the back of his throat.

"Not much. I go to the gym a lot."

He doesn't tell Johnny how he has to break his gun down and put it back together three times each night before he can sleep.

"That it?"

"I'm working at a bookstore."

"A bookstore! A few months out and you're domesticated."

"Watch it, Johnny."

A pause.

"I have to go L.T.. Gaz is yelling at me."

Their goodbye is the silence that follows. 

***

Billy's arguing with a customer when he arrives Saturday morning.

"Listen, dude, I don't care what price you want to pay. This is my business and I set the prices. If you don't like it, you're not being forced to come here."

The customer drops it when Simon steps behind the counter. 

"I hate that guy," Billy tells him as she hands him a box cutter. "He comes in every week and tries to get me to lower my prices. It's a bookstore; I'm not getting rich off of this. I can't afford that. Anyway-" 

She sweeps her hair behind her shoulders. Simon catches a hint of a tattoo behind her right ear and a glint of cold chain disappearing beneath her shirt.

"Finals are coming up for the local community college so I had two different study groups book the tables in here today. They're usually pretty good, we just have to make sure to keep the coffee pot refilled for them because they'll drink it dry. It's $5 if they want coffee - per person don't let them try to swindle us - but they can refill it as much as they want."

Her fingers tap against the counter. Her nails are blue this week.

"If they ask about selling us their textbooks, tell them to come back next week. I have a shipment of children's books coming in - you can sign for it if I'm busy. Do I need to show you how to use the cash register or can you figure it out?"

"I can figure it out."

"Ok. The code is 4532. For now, do you mind breaking down the boxes in the back room and taking them to the dumpster? It's hard for me to reach to open up the dumpster lid."

She doesn't wait for him to answer before she disappears into the back room.

This Saturday is busy. 

Simon's about to snap at a kid who won't shut up about how the comic section is too small when Billy appears beside him. 

"I'll take over here Simon. There's lunch in the back room."

He's thankful for her in that moment.

He's more thankful when the storeroom shuts behind him and locks. The table has a small bag with his name written on it. A sandwich from the deli across the street and a bottle of water inside.

There are no tomatoes on the sandwich.

Just like he always orders it.

***

He smokes a cigarette again outside her apartment. But this time he tucks the butt back into the pack. He'll throw it away at home.

***

"I want to put a coffee shop in here," Billy tells him when the store is slow. She traces the right side of the store with her fingers.

"And I want to open the shop up earlier and stay open later."

"Why don't you?" Simon asks without looking up from his task of the day: putting 'half-priced' stickers on books that aren't selling well.

"I'm not making enough money. I have just enough to pay you and my weekday employee and the overhead cost of this place, plus pay myself. There's not any extra coming in. The bank-," she pauses, red nails scraping at a piece of tape on the counter, "the bank is willing to give me a loan on the coffee shop stuff - the machines and all that - but I don't have the money for the renovations. My contractor told me he'd have to build the cabinets, open up the drywall and put an extension on our water pipe. A water filter needs to be installed. It's just - it's just a lot."

She slides the stack of books he's already put stickers on off of the counter and into her arms.

"Maybe next year."

***

The next time Johnny calls, Simon can hear the strain in his voice. 

"It's my turn L.T.. Laswell said I failed the psychological and I can't stay."

"You going to keep good on your promise to come to be my annoying neighbor Johnny."

"Not yet. I want to go home to my mom for a little bit. Maybe next year L.T.."

"Next year's going to be a big year I guess," Simon says more to himself. 

"What's that L.T.?"

"Nothing Johnny. We should be happy we made it out."

Simon knows Johnny's not happy: not happy he never received the rank he wanted, not happy he has to go back home and take care of his mom again.

"You're right L.T.. I'll call you again when I'm home. How's the bookstore thing?"

"It's going alright. Bye, Johnny."

"Bye."

In the silence after the call, Simon thinks he should get a cat. Something to make the apartment less quiet; something to give him purpose when he's there.

Something that won't crawl all over him at the end of the day.

***

He needs something to do with his hands.

That's what he tells Billy when she arrives at the store on Saturday morning and Simon's ripping up a portion of the carpet, a stack of flooring waiting to be installed.

"So you have to do it when I'll have customers here?"

"Tell them it's a new addition; they'll be alright."

"I'm not paying you extra for this."

"I didn't ask you to."

Billy looks at him, one foot tapping a sharp staccato muffled by the carpet. 

"Fine."

She pauses for a moment, Simon's knife running down the carpet to separate it from the floor beneath. She picks up one of the pieces of flooring, turning it over in her hand.

"What is this?"

"It's vinyl. It's waterproof in case you spill something."

Billy drops the plank back onto the stack and leaves to unlock the front door.

Simon revels in the way his shoulders burn at the work, the way the rough concrete scratches his knuckles once everything is pulled off the floor and he has to start laying down the underflooring. He revels in the way his back cramps as he's bent over.

In the way he feels useful.

It takes him all day to get half the flooring down.

Billy doesn't speak to him about it, doesn't ask where he got the money from, or why he's suddenly doing free renovations on the place. 

Simon knows she appreciates it by the way she drops down his lunch - no tomatoes, just a water to drink- beside him without expecting a thank you. By the way, she chides the little kids who come over to ask him a million and one questions, he doesn't know how to answer and brushes them away from him. 

She catches him smoking in the back alley on his break. She's polite enough to turn back when she realizes he has his mask down and keeps her back turned to him.

"That shit's going to kill you."

"It can only hope." 

Simon can tell she's giving him a withering look at him from her position half inside the doorway.

"If you come in smelling like that cancerous poison I'm not going to talk to you for the rest of the day."

He must smell because she doesn't speak to him for the rest of the day, not even saying goodbye when they depart at her apartment.

Simon hides the cigarettes in a drawer when he gets home.

***

It's Price that reaches out to him first, a quick phone call, a holdover from their days in the field.

"Are you holding up?"

Not "how are you holding up?", but "are you holding up?" The difference between three letters is so vast Simon doesn't know how to cross it.

"I'm doing fine."

"Johnny told me you've got a job?"

"Just something to keep me occupied."

"Is that all you've got?"

"What more do I need?"

The receiver is filled with the sound of Price inhaling a cigar; Simon can almost smell him through the receiver.

"You're not Ghost anymore Simon. It takes more than that to survive this."

Survive this . As if this is the most dangerous mission Simon's ever been on as if being forcibly retired has some sort of great mortality rate. 

"Understood."

He listens to Price's dial tone for five minutes before he hangs up.

Maybe it does.

***

He paces the town at night. Once the gym doesn't become enough to wear him out, doesn't help his brain relax, he walks the streets. 

He thinks more than once that someone is going to call the cops on him and report him for being suspicious. 

But Simon Riley isn't Ghost anymore. Simon Riley is someone not worth noticing. 

It's almost surprising how well the little town sleeps with the remnants of Ghost stalking through it; how now one seems to have any idea of what he was once - and still is - capable of.

He steals a lot of time sitting on people's steps, on the stoops of little houses, picking the petals off of the flowers in big pots, and lining up the shoes and toys that were left disarrayed in the chaos of the daytime. He wonders if someone is going to catch him on their security camera and name him the town freak, but no one does.

He keeps up at it enough that he can feel the shift in the air, feel winter creeping in. He notices it in the way more and more boots are left outside, by the plants with plastic coverings over them, protecting them.

He finds himself, more often than not, taking the long way around to stop at the bottom stairs of Billy's apartment. Most nights the lights are off, and the window open. He wants to tell her to stop doing that, to lock the window, but he doesn't know how to say it without giving away his nights. So instead he keeps watch, hands buried in his pockets as he counts the moths in the streetlights. 

Sometimes though the lights are on and he can hear the sound of her house through the open window. Sometimes the cat peers down at him as if prepared to leap through the window screen at him - sometimes she grabs the cat, never looking down at Simon; more often than not the cat curls up in the windowsill without budging. 

A few times he could hear her talking to someone, the conversation muffled from above. He wondered about who she could be talking to so late at night. Why she was up in the middle of the night to talk to someone? 

He makes his way home as the town starts to wake up.

***

He moves once - to a tiny house in the middle of town, just enough to have a yard big enough to cross in two strides.

He tells Johnny it's because he was tired of the noises of the neighbors. 

He tells Johnny it's because he's taken up woodworking and needs a spot for the tools.

"What are you building you old bastard?"

"Some cabinets."

"For what?"

"Mind your own business, Johnny."

It takes weeks to get them perfect. Eventually, though, they're good enough to put in the back of a rented truck. 

He does it on a Friday when no one is around. He tells himself that it's easier that way, no one walking underfoot. 

That night he lets himself admit - just for a moment as he sits on the shower floor - that he didn't want to see her face if she's disappointed by it.

***

She refuses to open the door for him the next day, opting to yell at him through the glass instead.

"You cannot keep making renovations to my store without asking me!"

"It's no big deal; open the door."

"No big deal: you put a floor down, you handbuild cabinets, and you broke into my store to install them!"

"You gave me a key."

"Not for that!"

It's a stalemate: Simon poised with his hand on the door handle, her hands tucked into the pocket of her jacket.

"I still have to do the plumbing."

She massages her eyes before leaning forward to turn the lock. Simon steps inside with the biting wind.

"You're fucking irritating, Simon Riley."

I know .

She makes him put up the Christmas tree - a fucking monstrosity that takes up the entire front window. It takes him all day to get the decorations to her standard; her yelling through the store at him to move something incrementally to the left or right.

Billy leans on the counter, shuffling through official-looking papers and refusing to look at Simon when he's finished.

"Thanks to you," she says, never looking up at him, "I have to start getting the paperwork processed to be able to serve food and drinks here."

"Is it difficult?"

"It's not easy."

Their conversation pauses just long enough for her to check out a customer. She turns back to Simon as soon as the door shuts.

"Why are you doing all this Simon?"

He doesn't answer, and he realizes as he stands there, hands folded behind his back and spine rigid that he needs to tell her something, but all he notices is the black ink mark on her cheek. She doesn't pressure him to answer, but she doesn't let her eyes leave him.

Simon breaks first, eyes cast down to the floor.

"Ok," Billy whispers under her breath, "you don't have to answer, but just let me know when you're going to do something else. Can you text me next time before you start?"

"I don't have your number."

She doesn't ask for his phone, instead, she tears a corner of a piece of paper off and scribbles her number on it. Her hands don't shake when she holds the paper out to Simon, but his shake when he takes it. Simon can tell Billy notices. He stuffs the paper into his pocket, pushing it past his keys and his phone. 

"Hey, Simon," Billy chews on her lip.

"What?"

"Are you busy tomorrow night?"

***

Johnny's chatting his ear off, Simon's barely paying attention to him as he stares at the shirts thrown out on his bed.

"- L.T.? Simon?"

"What? Johnny, what?"

"Are you even listening?"

"No, Johnny. I'm not."

The static of Johnny's disapproval.

"What could be distracting you from my wonderful conversation?"

"I'm busy Johnny."

"With what?"

"Nothing Johnny. I just have somewhere to be later - I'm trying to get ready for dinner."

"Dinner? Like with someone else?"

Simon hangs up on him.

***

Simon wants to pretend that he doesn't have the path to her house memorized; doesn't have each step calculated to know when exactly to stand on the bottom step at 6:59 so that he can knock on her door right at 7. But he does, so he hovers on the bottom step for an extra minute.

She doesn't answer when he knocks; she yells through the door for him to come in. In his pocket his phone buzzes every few seconds, Johnny sends another message insisting that Simon tell him who he's eating dinner with. Simon thinks for a moment about blocking his number for the night.

Billy smiles at him from behind the counter, elbow-deep in bread dough. All at once, Simon feels overdressed taking in the large shirt covered in flour Billy's wearing. 

"Hey. Sorry, dinner's going to be like 30 minutes later than I said. I couldn't get this shit to rise properly for like an hour."

"It's alright."

Billy must sense his apprehension because she jerks her head at a chair pulled up to the counter. 

"Come sit down."

Simon appreciates the order. Billy rolls the dough out on the counter, measuring the thickness with her knuckle with a precision Simon would expect out of her. He has to keep himself from staring at her; instead, he analyzes the rest of the apartment. 

He can see everything but the bedroom from his one spot; that door is firmly shut. It's clean but the type of clean houses have whenever someone new is coming over and everything is thrown into a closet. After a few minutes, Simon thinks he needs to speak.

"What are you making?"

"Rolls. I made - uh - what is the fancy word for it - beef bourgine?"

"Beef bourguignon?"

Billy smiles down at the dough as she cuts squares out.

"I'm glad one of us can say it - I can cook, I just can't speak French."

"Do you always cook like this?"

"Only on special occasions."

Special occasions . 

It's awkward at first for Simon to sit there while she moves about the kitchen, putting the rolls in the oven and cleaning the counter; Billy doesn't speak much and Simon knows she doesn't feel the need to fill the silence either. 

His phone buzzes again - under the counter he checks it.

Johnny:

don't leave me hanging lt tell me whos it is

"Your girlfriend?" Billy teases without turning to look at Simon from the other side of the kitchen. 

"Not exactly," Simon says, muting the phone and shoving it back in his pocket. 

"Do you have one?" Her voice is prying, but she doesn't look at Simon as she pulls bowls down from the cabinet. 

"A girlfriend?"

"Yeah."

It bubbles inside him - just once - the urge to tell her about himself . He swallows it down.

"No."

"Not even back home?"

"Back home?"

She grins at him slyly, setting two glasses of water down in front of the two of them.

"Why do you think I have to keep paying you in cash? Your um….paperwork didn't exactly list you as being an employable American. And you have - you know - an accent."

Simon doesn't realize he's leaning toward her until his elbows hit the counter. 

"No, not back home."

She seems satisfied by that answer - or she doesn't have time to ask anything else. Behind her the oven timer beeps and she turns to pull the rolls out. They're barely out of the oven whenever she ladles the stew into the bowls and pulls two rolls off one for each of them.

 Pushing the bowl towards Simon she opens her mouth - Simon thinks she's going to ask something else but she just shakes her head. 

"I'm going to eat over there, so you can eat too," she says passing him a fork. 

"No cameras?"

"None you can see."

She retreats to the other side of the room and drops down on the couch so that she's facing away from him. Muffled behind a door to the right, Simon can hear her cat meow once. 

They eat in silence; Simon knows she's only eating slowly to give him time to finish without her accidentally turning to see his face. He doesn't need it: he realizes he hasn't had a meal that hasn't consisted of a sandwich or some form of potatoes in weeks; he eats fast, slowing down just as he finishes to keep from embarrassing himself. 

He sets the bowl down with enough dramatics that she can tell he's done without having to turn around. It's quiet again when she comes into the kitchen and takes his bowl to rinse it out in the sink. The sound of the water makes his skin crawl; it clashes with the domestic feeling of being taken care of. 

She laughs quietly to herself as she dries her hands on her shirt, lifting it up just enough to expose the little shorts she has on underneath.

"Something funny?"

"Not really funny," she says, hands stilling in her shirt, "I don't know - it just - I - well it's about this time of dinner that guys usually try to take me to the bedroom. I was just thinking about how different this night would be with anyone else."

With anyone else . 

That bothers him some.

"I don't suppose that's what you came here for," she grins at him as she speaks, resting her elbows on the counter. "Besides we don't even know each other."

"We work with each other every weekend," Simon retorts, not sure why he feels the need to prove her wrong.

"And we barely speak the entire time."

She points at him, her bright yellow nails glinting in the light.

"I've never seen you in anything other than long sleeves, even on the hottest day. You could have like fucking tentacles under there and I wouldn't know. And you don't even know anything about me."

For once, Simon doesn't think - he does.

He pushes his sleeves up slowly, each one nearly to his elbow. Billy leans forward, just enough to see the tattoo ink and scars that mar his forearms. Her fingers twitch against the countertop like she wants to reach out and touch him, but they stay still.

"Do you - do you only have tattoos on your arms?"

Simon reaches up to hook one finger in his collar and pulls it down just a half inch - just enough to show her the ink there.

"Your turn," Simon says, dropping his hand down. Under the counter, it lies fisted on his thigh.

"My turn?" Billy asks eyebrow cocked at him.

"Do you have any tattoos?"

She licks her lips once; Simon can see her thinking. After a pause she reaches down to grab the edge of her shirt - Simon's heart clenches. She lifts the hem up, just enough to show him the edge of a tattoo on her side, disappearing beneath her shorts and rising above where she lifted. She laughs a little as she drops the shirt.

"Is that all we need to know about each other?"

"It's a start."

***

He finally tells her he was in the military four Sundays after the first one. She'd told him at work she was too tired to cook and apologized, promising to make it up to him. So when he showed up at her door with a pizza and a promise that he was just dropping it off on his way home, he was surprised when she asked him to come in.

Each week they coaxed something new out of each other: a snippet about their families, about their travels. He loves Kentucky; she's from the East Coast. Her father died young. He's from England.

She's curled up in the recliner the cat on her stomach - they're watching something on television but they're both not really paying attention to it. So he blurts it out - a new confession in this weekly therapy.

"I was in the military."

"I guessed. The British Armed Forces?"

"The SAS."

She frowns and Simon stiffens.

"Is that like a unit or something?"

"Yeah."

This time she grins.

"Is that why you always lock my door behind you when you come in?"

"No. I do it because you never know who could come in when you're alone."

"You mean when you're not here."

Yes.

"No."

She rolls over, clutching the cat to her chest so as to not dump him on the floor until her feet hang over the arm and she can eyeball Simon across the room.

"I can shoot straight."

"Can you?"

***

She can. She takes him through the desert on Friday afternoon, bundled up against the cold. Out where they can target practice without anyone bothering them.

She hits every target.

***

"Christmas is this weekend."

"Yeah."

"So you know we're closed right? I'm not paying you time and a half."

A pause longer than he's used to.

"Are you doing anything for Christmas?"

"No."

"Do you want to come over?"

***

She makes Chinese on Christmas. A tradition she says because when she was younger the only places open were Chinese restaurants and her dad couldn't cook. They didn't have real dinners until she learned to cook herself, but it was always Chinese on Christmas.

The cat has a bell around its neck for the holiday and it latches onto Simon for the night. She wrinkles her nose at the cat and calls him a traitor. The cat doesn't seem to care. 

"I didn't get you a present," she says, putting her bowl on the coffee table. From his spot in the kitchen, Simon speaks.

"I didn't get you one either."

"Well, you're slowly building me an entire coffee shop."

"That's not present."

"Well, it's not exactly in your job description either."

He leaves his half-eaten bowl on the counter to drop down on the couch. She's sideways in the armchair, shirt riding up and a bruise on her shin. She's back to white nails.

"I can make out with you for Christmas; other guys have liked that present."

Simon's heart nearly stops. 

"Excuse me?"

"I'm just kidding Si."

Just kidding .

***

She begs and pleads with him to please go out to the bar with her for the new year. He doesn't have to drink, she says, she can drink enough for the both of them. 

She does. She doesn't even make it until eleven.

He carries her home on his back. Her door is unlocked and wants to think about how dangerous that is, but all he can think about is her warm breath on his neck.

He drops her unceremoniously onto the couch - he thinks about carrying her to the bedroom, but that's one place the door has always been shut to. 

He does take her shoes off of her while she insists she can do that herself. He slips the right one off when the fireworks go off outside; the entire town is bathed in their light.

"Midnight," she says as Simon rises up on one knee in front of her, ready to tell her goodbye and good night.

She kisses him over the mask.

She doesn't mention it the next day.

***

By summer, Simon has the entire cafe portion of the store finished. He's embarrassed when she hangs a sign over the area: 'Simon's Spot'. 

"What?" She asks, peering down at him from the top of the ladder. "You built it."

***

He breaks during the summer. Billy calls him on a Tuesday, asking if he knows anything about air conditioning systems.

"You built the cafe, so I know you're handy."

He doesn't. But he can figure it out. 

After hours the bookstore is sweltering. Billy has the blinds pulled down in a futile attempt to keep out some of the heat and the setting sun. Her shirt, already cropped short, clings to her with sweat when she unlocks the front door for Simon. 

It takes him two hours but he figures it out. When it kicks on she looks up at him, one arm resting on his shoulder, and tells him he's her hero.

He makes it all the way to her apartment - the promise of something for dinner and a cold drink as for payment the ruse - before he does it. 

It's dark inside, dark enough that when he locks the door behind him, he slips his mask off. She turns to ask him something - he doesn't hear it; he's too busy kissing her, pushing her back against the kitchen cabinet. 

It's messy - the kissing - he can't remember the last time he kissed somebody like this - all teeth and tongue and need.

When they stumble into her room, he doesn't take his shirt off, and she doesn't ask why.

***

"Come visit me L.T.. Scotlands beautiful this time of year."

"I'll have to book two tickets Johnny; that's not cheap."

"Alright, you cheap bastard you can afford it."

[visceravalentines]

sugar stuck in your teeth

They're grimy and tired and Benson's neck is sore. Randy gives him a shoulder rub and thinks hard about the allure of being a biological organism.

2.5k words. canon divergence, boys on the run. established relationship. implied sexual content, nothing explicit. sweat and oil and general nasty. sharing of a toothbrush. so fluffy i'm spinning it up and putting it on a stick and selling it at a carnival. read on ao3 here if that's more your speed.

They spend a full day on the road. Seven hours across Texas through scrub and sand. Nothing to see. No end in sight. Randy falls asleep in the dead-eyed sun of mid-afternoon and wakes up in the dark, dry air whipping through the car from Benson's window rolled all the way down. 

"Hey." Randy sits up, disoriented, mouth gummy and tasting of bygone Mountain Dew, bladder fit to burst. "Why didn't you wake me up? You've been driving for hours."

"Didn't want to stop." Benson's voice is rough. Randy can read the exhaustion in his posture, the way he grips the wheel with both hands. "Besides, you looked like you could use it."

Randy shifts in his seat. He hasn't slept well all week. "Well…it's my turn now. Let me take over."

"Nah." Benson rolls his neck slowly. "Town's up here in like ten minutes. Figure we stop for the night."

Randy peers through the bug-splattered windshield and sees lights in the near distance. "You wanna find a motel?"

"I'd fucking love a motel. Gimme that lukewarm shower and a box spring mattress. Fucking luxury."

As it turns out, they get none of that. The only place in town has a sign that says Closed and no lights on in the lobby. Doors all locked, despite Benson's best efforts to rattle them open. 

He doesn't say a word, doesn't even curse, just slumps defeated back to the car with Randy in tow. "You want the backseat or the front?"

"Benson, I slept for hours, I can–"

"There's not another town for forty miles and if I spend one more second on that fucking highway I'm gonna peel the skin off my face."

Randy doesn't argue. "I'll take the front."

"You sure?" Benson tosses a weary look at him over his shoulder. He squeezes the back of his neck and winces. 

Randy nods. "Yeah, I'm sure." 

The front sucks. You either have to fold your legs to fit around the steering wheel, or risk nailing the thing with your arm or your head. One time he hit the horn with his knee and scared them both so bad they ended up packing up and driving through the night because neither one could fall back asleep. 

He's had plenty of rest. Benson should get the back. 

They leave the car parked in the rear lot of the motel and pick their way through the scrub in the dark to take a piss, elbow-to-elbow. Randy barely feels self-conscious anymore. At the start he used to walk ten paces away and make Benson turn around. But that seems silly now. Benson's seen and touched every inch of him. This is nothing.

Benson zips up and takes off down the sidewalk with a haphazard sense of purpose. Randy has to jog a little to catch up. Benson holds out his arm and he ducks beneath it, the weight comfortable across his shoulders. By now Randy feels like he belongs there, pinned against his side. 

He reeks. They both do. It's been three, almost four days since they last had a shower, been making do with baby wipes and clean underwear since they left Tennessee. Randy almost can't stand it. Back home, he showered every day, sometimes twice a day if work was rough. Right now, he could scrape the grime off himself with a fingernail. 

He's adjusting to this level of awareness of his own body, like he's just now cognizant of the way his skin fits. It makes him sort of anxious. But he's coping. He doesn't really have a choice. 

And it's funny–Randy doesn't mind Benson's stench at all. He's uncomfortable with his own stink, but he actually thinks Benson smells kind of…good, maybe. In a gross kind of way. It's such a foreign concept that he keeps inhaling a little too deep at this distance just to prove it to himself. 

"What're you doing later?" Benson asks, oblivious. 

Randy clears his throat. "Um…not much." 

"Oh. Huh." Benson squints down the road towards the distant light of a gas station, the only thing in town that looks alive besides the two of them. "Well, how about I take you to dinner?" 

A smile steals its way onto Randy's lips. He hooks his pinkie into Benson's pocket. "That might be nice." 

"Yeah?" 

"Yeah." 

Benson takes a deep, thoughtful breath. "There's this place…Seven-Eleven?" He casts a dramatic sidelong glance in Randy's direction. "You heard of it?" 

"Yeah, I…I think so." 

"It's just fantastic. The beer list? Unbelievable. And the atmosphere, well…there's really nothing like it." He's talking with his hands, throwing them off balance. Randy stumbles happily along with him. 

"I don't know, um…I've heard they don't have Pringles. Like, the big can. Just the little ones." 

Benson scoffs. "Well, now, don't you worry your pretty little head about that. You can get two of the little ones if you want. It's on me." 

"Wow." 

"I know." 

"That's–that's really generous." 

"Well, you're gonna have to put out." 

Randy coughs out a laugh, looks at his shoes to hide the heat in his face. "Sounds, um…sounds fair." 

"Randy, come on." Benson laughs, gives his shoulder a shake. "You're giving it up for two cans of Pringles? You gotta know your worth, man." 

He'd give it up for less, but that's beside the point. "Maybe toss in some peach rings and we have a deal." 

Benson gives him a squeeze. "Fuck yeah, alright. Now we're talkin'." 

They pick their way through the snack aisles of the gas station, select a few staples they aren't sick of yet. Benson salutes the clerk behind the counter like he's an American hero. They make their way back down the road to the motel in silence save for the crunching of chips and cellophane. 

It's a beautiful night, still warm from the sun, everything orange beneath the sodium streetlights. Not a soul in sight save for them. This town looks like every other one and Randy likes that, likes that it's starting to feel like coming home when they stop for the night in a new place with a single stoplight. 

They lean against the trunk of the Chrysler and pass the Big Gulp back and forth. It's too late for caffeine so they got root beer, extra ice, because Benson likes to fish it out and chew on it. There's too many streetlights to really see the stars, but that doesn't stop Randy from trying. He sucks the sour off a peach ring and feels a little bit nauseous and a lot filthy and an overall, bone-deep sense of contentment. 

Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Benson twist his head, trying to roll out his neck again. It's not the sharp jerk of his familiar tic, not quite, but it makes Randy nervous. He's been doing it all night. He wonders if it was something he said, something he did. He still doesn't know what exactly he's trying to shrug off every time, but he knows enough to tread that ground lightly.

"You okay?" he asks, tries to make it casual. He swallows the peach ring whole and has to fight it all the way down his esophagus. 

"Yeah." Benson nods, winces slightly. "Yeah. Just sore." He grips the back of his neck and stretches, lips hitched in a grimace. 

Randy can imagine. Slumped in a car days on end, cracking the damn thing all the time. He sets the Big Gulp on the trunk, thinks, hesitates. Commits. 

"Would you, um…would you want me to rub it out for you?" 

Benson looks at him warily as he considers the offer. He's slow to answer, but Randy is patient. Doesn't push it. Lets him think about it. 

Finally he nods. "Sure. Why not." 

Randy clambers up on the trunk and sits behind him. Benson leans back between his legs, rests his elbows on Randy's knees, hangs his head forward. The space between them is awkward all of the sudden. Too close, not close enough. Too many clothes on. Too much skin exposed. 

Randy is nervous and he's not sure why. He thinks fleetingly of their first time, his first time, and the way Benson's hands hovered an inch over his skin and shook a little bit. This isn't that, but it feels kind of the same. "You can…tell me to stop if you want. Whatever you want. It's okay." 

"How about you start and then we'll see." 

Randy brushes the curls at the base of Benson's neck hesitantly with his thumb before he wraps his hand around the muscle of his shoulder, gives an experimental squeeze. "Right…there?" 

"Higher." 

He moves his hand up and tries again. "There?" 

Benson hisses through his teeth, cringes. "Yeah. Fuck." 

Randy sets his hands on either side of his neck and squeezes gently. 

"Yeah. Right there."

Benson's all tension beneath the skin, stiff and warm under his cold fingers. Randy thinks about the color of his muscles, the white of bone underneath them. He's pretty sure he's never touched anyone like this before, not even Benson, not like this. Not friendly or sexual, just…intimate. 

"If you want me to stop, just–just say so, okay?" 

Benson grunts an affirmative. His skin is oily and his muscles are taut as bowstrings, so riddled with knots it feels like buckshot lodged in his flesh. Randy presses his thumbs in deep and pushes up along his spine, again and again, feels a flush of satisfaction as Benson melts back against the car. 

"Fuck," he moans. 

"Hurts?" 

"Yeah. Don't stop." 

Randy's nothing if not good at taking orders. He falls into a rhythm, slow and steady, works over his neck and shoulders and back again. Benson swears up a storm and lets out a low whimper whenever he hits a sore spot. 

"Sorry," Randy murmurs every time. 

Benson never replies, but that's okay. He doesn't tell him to stop either.

At first his hands are balled into fists against Randy's knees, but after a while they go slack. He relaxes, finally, allows Randy and the car to support his weight. It's a selfish thought, but Randy hopes he's the first person to do this for him, or at least the first in a long, long time. Benson doesn't have a lot of firsts left. He wants this one. 

Before long, his hands are cramping and he worries he's going to rub his neck raw but doesn't want to stop touching him, doesn't want to forfeit this new familiarity with his body. So he eases up, cheats a little bit, combs his fingers through his greasy hair and scratches at his scalp. It makes his chest feel tight, the way Benson leans into his touch with his eyes closed and groans under his breath. 

When he finally pulls away, Randy tries to subdue his disappointment, until he turns around and reaches up to hook a hand behind Randy's head. 

"C'mere," Benson mumbles, tugging him close and meeting him halfway for a kiss that tastes like peach rings and root beer. Randy grips his forearm and for a second, in his mind's eye, everything drops out and disappears into the void, save for them and the car and the stars. 

When he breaks the kiss Benson doesn't let him go, holds him in place with their foreheads pressed together. Neither of them speak. Randy focuses so hard on Benson's breathing he forgets to breathe himself. There are words, but they creep by in silence like animals in the dark. 

"We still got water in the back?" Benson says at last. 

"Mmhm." 

"I'm gonna brush my teeth. Change into my jammies." His jammies are a pair of basketball shorts made of more holes than fabric. 

"Okay," Randy says. 

Neither one of them moves. The crickets chat amongst themselves in the brush. 

"You still want the front?" Benson asks. 

"Sure." 

"Thanks." 

"No problem." 

Benson sighs softly through his nose. He lets go of him and steps back, shuffles from one foot to the other and stares at Randy for a long time, hair sticking up in all directions. Finally he goes to dig through the backseat for the water jug. 

"Looks like a bunch of fuckin' raccoons live in here," he mutters. 

Randy chuckles, looks at his hands palm-up on his lap. He's got Benson's skin beneath his nails, his sweat and oil worked into the whorls of his fingerprints. He's never been so close to another person. Spent his whole life maintaining a safe distance from everyone around him, treating his body like a blast zone. Now the idea of distance is laughable. They share everything but toothbrushes. Hell, he's been inside him. Randy always figured he would never reach that level of connection with anybody. 

He brings his hand to his face and hesitates for just a second before he sticks his thumb in his mouth. The salt of Benson's sweat is familiar on his tongue. He tastes his skin on his skin. He knows him. He knows him. And Benson knows him right back. 

He's craved this sort of intimacy his whole life. Laid awake alone countless nights and ached for it, mourned bitterly for what he never had and assumed he never would. But now he lies awake with Benson beside him and basks in how wrong he was. In how real he feels in his arms, wearing a second skin of grit and spit and whatever else. 

He doesn't want to sleep in the front. 

Randy twists to call over his shoulder. "Hey…um, Benson?" 

"Yeah?" he says around his toothbrush. 

"You think we could…both fit in the back?" 

Benson spits on the asphalt. "No." 

"Well…could we try?" 

Benson snorts. "Fuckin' clingy, huh?" he says, but he sounds amused. Randy feels those dark eyes appraising him like a pair of hands fumbling at his clothes. He tugs absentmindedly at the collar of his shirt. Well, Benson's shirt. "Yeah. We can try." 

Randy hops off the trunk and joins him in the evening routine, bumping shoulders, bumping elbows, their voices small and close in the night. 

"Gonna sweat to death together back there," Benson says. 

"That's okay." 

"If you say so. Think I might skip the jammies. That cool?" 

"That's–that's fine, yeah. That's good. Hey…is that my toothbrush?" 

"No, yours is green."

"That is green." 

"No it's not." 

"Yes it is, the light makes it look weird." 

Benson looks at the thing again. "Oh. Whoops. Does it really matter?"

Randy gives this serious consideration, thinks about his mouth and everywhere it's been. Thinks about the state of the rest of him. Thinks about pressing his body to Benson's in the backseat, sticky with sweat, breath on his neck. 

He wants to say yes, it matters, but he doesn't feel it. He tastes salt on his tongue instead.

"I guess not," he shrugs.

Benson hands it to him. 

"Your turn, then."