#who loves to chew on plastic trees

[intothemelwoods]

Do you have a normal Christmas tree, or do you have cats?

[violentdelightsandviolentends]

Cherry Wine. aka - Cherry, Part Two.

everything feels like love when you're drunk... right?

pairing - bestfriend!steve harrington x female reader

warnings - smut. cursing. alcohol consumption. characters who wouldn't even recognise their own feelings if they smacked them in the face.

word count - 3k

author's note - I love it when people walk each other home... if you couldn't tell. I think some of our most honest conversations happen on the street at 3am. thank you so much for all the love on Cherry!! I hope you enjoy this part two. friends to lovers might just be my favourite trope ever. it gets me everytime :(.

as always, if you enjoyed, please reblog!! reblogs are the only way to circulate my fics <3. thanks, angels.

part one. part three. part four. series masterlist. masterlist. inbox.

His eyes are glued to you.

They have been since he watched you pour just a little too much cherry vodka into your red plastic cup.

He keeps trying to catch your gaze across the smoky room, multicoloured lights clouding his vision. There's some sort of punk song playing through a stereo system somewhere, the beat of the guitar thumping through the wooden floorboards and into Steve's bones.

You're laughing, head thrown back at something Eddie has said. He's funny, Steve thinks. But not that funny. He watches carefully, refraining from intervening right up until the moment you almost trip over your own foot and into the curly haired boy. Steve's moving across the room before he can even process it.

"Cherry," he teases, hand snaking around your waist to hold you upright. "You okay?"

You turn in his hold to throw your arms around his neck, looking up at him with big doe eyes.

"Stevie."

You say his name so sweet that he stumbles and almost takes you down with him.

"You okay?" you giggle.

"I'm good. You good?"

"I'm good."

You sway with him for a second, closing your eyes and revelling in the warmth of his hands on the bare skin of your waist.

"You're a little tipsy, huh?"

"Just a little."

"You wanna go home?"

You chew on your lip for a moment, weighing up your options.

"Can we go to your place? I don't wanna face my parents like this."

Steve leans in to press a kiss to your forehead, brushing the hair back from your face.

"Of course. Let's go, hm?"

"Let me grab my jacket. I'll meet you by the door."

You slink off upstairs, leaving Steve alone with Eddie.

"Just friends," Eddie mocks under his breath quietly.

"What?"

"Nothin'."

Steve stares at his friend with a brow quirked, stormy look on his face.

"All I'm sayin' is - I don't look at my best friend like that. Don't hold 'em like you just did. Don't have sleepovers either."

"I've known her since we were kids. It's different."

"I've got friends I've known since kindergarten. I don't kiss them on the forehead."

"I wouldn't put it past you," Steve mumbles, finished with the conversation. "Whatever, man. You don't get it."

"Oh, I get it. You're in love. Steve and Cherry, sitting in a tree-"

"Don't call her that."

"See? You're defensive over her nickname, because you gave it to her. Don't be an idiot, Steve. Life's too short."

"Yours will be, if you don't shut up."

Eddie takes that as his cue, shaking his head as he leaves to go and complain about the music choice.

Steve meets you outside, chuckling when he sees you shivering as you hold your jacket.

"Cherry, put your coat on. You're freezing."

You look up at him, slightly bewildered, and he fights to keep the smile off his face. Taking it from your hands, Steve slips the jacket around your shoulders, hands skimming up your arms to warm you.

"Better?"

"Better."

You slip your hand into his and begin to walk away from the noise, finally taking a deep breath when you're down the street.

"You okay?"

"Yeah," you reply, nudging him with your shoulder. "Feet hurt though. Fuckin' shoes."

You both stop, Steve kneeling down in front of you to unbuckle your heels. You look at him questioningly and he winks, cheeky and full of love.

He slips them off your feet and sits down on the curb, taking his sneakers off and gesturing for you to step into them.

"No, Steve. I chose to wear these, it's my own fault."

"I know, and they looked cute. But now you're going to wear these."

You step into the shoes reluctantly, holding back tears when he kneels and ties your laces tightly. Rising to his feet, he presses a kiss to your forehead before intertwining your fingers again, picking up your heels with his other hand.

You're both quiet, as you walk. Neither of you needs to say anything. It's always been this way. Steve's not good with silence usually, but with you, it's more than comfortable. Sometimes, you'll sit for hours in his bedroom doing your own things, content to just know the other person is there.

"Minnie Lawson kept asking about you tonight."

You try to keep the disdain from your voice as best you can, praying Steve doesn't pick up on it.

He does. He doesn't mention it.

"Oh yeah?"

"Yeah."

You keep walking, smiling occasionally when you catch sight of Steve's socked feet next to yours.

"What did she say?"

You mentally kick yourself for bringing it up, but take a deep breath and tell him anyway.

"Kept asking if you were single."

"And what did you say?"

"Told her she needed to ask you herself and that I'm not your secretary."

Steve cackles at this, loud and endearing. The sound makes you grin, whether you want to or not.

"Shit, Cherry baby. What did the girl ever do to you?"

"I didn't mind when she asked the first couple times, but the more she drank, the more she forgot. She couldn't remember if she'd already asked so kept asking again."

He laughs again, squeezing your hand where it still holds his tightly.

"She didn't talk to me."

"Didn't think she would."

He looks at you for a moment too long, your eyes meeting the floor to avoid his gaze.

"Mikey was asking about you tonight, you know."

You'd had a crush on Mikey in ninth grade, the summer after he'd gotten tall and started to look less like four walking limbs and more like a man. He was a nice guy, if not a little boisterous sometimes.

"Yeah?"

"Yeah. Said you looked pretty. Wanted to know if you were still with the Douchebag."

You chuckle at the hatred in Steve's voice at the mention of your ex boyfriend.

"And you said..."

"That he was in the wind, thankfully."

"Dodged a bullet with that one."

You lean into his arm, savouring the warmth of his skin you can feel through your jacket and his long sleeve shirt.

"Mikey wants to ask you out."

"Really?"

"Yeah, really. Is that so hard to believe? You're a catch, you know."

"I don't know. Boys like Mikey never look at me, usually."

"I look at you."

Your breath hitches in your chest. It's like your heart has forgotten how to beat.

"Yeah," you whisper. "But you're Steve."

After a moment, you add,

"My Steve."

You rest your head onto his bicep, still clutching his hand. He leans down to press a kiss into your hair, resting his cheek there for a moment.

"You're worlds apart from boys like Mikey, Steve. He's nice, but he's not you."

You're not sure where all this sudden truth is coming from, but you're wondering if the cherry vodka has maybe hit you a little harder than you first thought.

"And you and Minnie Lawson aren't even in the same league. You've got nothing to worry about."

You both process Steve's words, before he starts stuttering.

"I mean, not that you, not that - it's not like you were worried, I'm sure. I bet you weren't. I just mean... you know what I mean, right?

Thankfully, you do.

"I know what you mean. I always do."

He stops walking, turning to face you on the sidewalk, hand never dropping yours. You're not sure where you are, but you know Steve knows. He'll keep you safe. Always.

"Okay," he breathes.

"Okay," you breathe.

"I love you," he breathes.

"I love you," you breathe.

"I don't want you to date Mikey Carter," he breathes.

"I don't want you to date Minnie Lawson," you breathe.

You both inhale deeply, following the other person's lead.

"I can't stop thinking about the other night," Steve whispers, so quietly you'd have missed if it you weren't so in tune with him.

Your lungs constrict for a second, all the air leaving you at once.

"Me neither."

You're stood in the street whispering to each other, frightened you'll burst the bubble you've accidentally created.

"I feel bad," you confess.

"Why, honey?"

"Because I... I didn't return the favour. I just let you get into bed and fall asleep. Sorry."

Steve's hands come up to cradle your face, eyes searching yours as if he's reading his favourite book.

"I didn't want you to. I told you, it wasn't about me, it was about you. I didn't... I didn't initiate it so I could get something in return."

"Sorry."

"Stop apologising, Cherry. You've got nothing to apologise for."

"Sorry," you reply without thinking, causing both of you to double over into fits of laughter.

Steve wipes the happy tears from your cheeks, gaze never leaving yours. You look at each other for a moment, feeling the atmosphere shift. The world could collapse around you both, and neither of you would notice. It's just you and Steve. Nothing more, nothing less.

He leans in gently, pressing his lips to yours in a featherlight kiss. He tastes like beer and spearmint.

"You're wearing your lipbalm."

"You've been chewing your gum."

He chuckles, kissing you again softly.

"You wanna go home?"

"Please. You're in your socks, and I look like a clown."

He looks at your feet and laughs, the sound much too loud for the early hours of a Sunday morning.

"Let's go, Cherry baby. My warm bed awaits us."

The stars guide you home hand in hand, Steve stealing the occasional kiss when you happen to be looking in his direction. You kick off his shoes by the door, running straight up the stairs to change out of your uncomfortable dress. Steve stops by the kitchen to grab you both a glass of water, bounding up after you and spilling half the liquid in the process.

He stops in the doorway when he reaches his room, breath caught in his throat. You're stood in just your panties, bare back to him, rifling through his drawers to find the soft grey shirt you always steal.

It's a sight he's seen before. Something is different this time.

"Where is it?" you ask, not turning around.

You know he's there. You know he knows what you're looking for.

This is what love is, he thinks suddenly. The knowing. The unknowing. The knowing that the other person knows. The other person knowing that you know. Unspoken knowledge.

"Bottom drawer, left," he chokes out. "Washed it."

You slip it on and turn around, pouting. The boy quirks a brow at you in question.

"Doesn't smell like you. Smells like your detergent, but not you. Will you wear it, when I leave?"

"Yeah," he chuckles, fighting the blush from rising across his chest. "Anything you want, baby."

Steve shrugs off his clothes, slipping on a fresh pair of boxers before sliding into his side of the bed. You're in the bathroom, humming a tune that he can't quite place but knows he heard tonight. He watches you through the open door as you sway gently, ready to jump up and catch you if need be. You pee with the door still open, and Steve chuckles. It's like you've been married for twenty years.

"Can you please turn the fan on? I'm hot."

"Anything for you, Cherry Pie."

You jump into your side of the bed, sitting up to face the boy next to you. It might be 3am, but you're both wide awake, veins buzzing with endless possibility.

"I've been thinking," you murmur quietly.

"Never a good sign."

"Shut up."

You both laugh, and you can't help but grin. What a miracle, you think. To be alive at the same time as a boy like Steve Harrington. To know him. To love him.

"Will you let me return the favour?"

It's a vague question, but Steve knows exactly what you're asking. He chokes on his breath, tilting his head to look at you.

"Babe, you don't have to-"

"-I want to. So badly."

Steve inhales deeply, willing himself to calm down.

"I don't have to, if you don't want me to. But I can't stop thinking about the way you'd taste."

The boy thinks he's died and gone to heaven. Dreaming, maybe.

"Honey... fuck."

Steve nods, bottom lip caught between his teeth.

"Yeah?"

"Yeah. Please. Jesus."

He's breathing so frantically, you're worried he might pass out. The last thing you need is your best friend unconscious.

"Breathe, Stevie. It's just me and you."

"Me and you."

"Always."

He comes back down to Earth, so you lean in to kiss him, all tender and cherry flavoured. Tangling your fingers into his hair, you push him backwards so he's leaning against the headboard. You straddle his hips, plush lips pressing into his neck, his chest, his collarbones. Steve's practically melting, a puddle of love and affection beneath you.

"Let me take care of you," you whisper into his ear, and who is he to deny you when you ask so sweet?

You crawl down his body until you're situated between his legs, thick thighs bracketing you in. You kiss along the inside of the muscle, nipping as you go and revelling in the way he jumps and hisses. It's nice to be the one in charge for once.

You scratch your nails along the bulge in his boxers, smirking when his hips buck up into you. You think, for a moment, that you'd happily lie here and tease him like this for hours, just to see when he'd snap. But this isn't the time for games, so you store that thought for another day.

"This still okay?"

"More than okay," he replies, all breathy and ungrounded. You link your fingers with his and squeeze, and all his nerves melt away.

You don't let yourself begin to think about why he's nervous. You know Steve's a ladies man, you know he's done this many times... so why is it different with you? You wonder if maybe you should talk about it afterwards. You're not sure if either of you are ready for that.

Mouthing at him over his underwear, you hum in contentment at his warmth. He's always run hot, every part of him. It's one of your favourite things.

You hook your fingers into the waistband of his boxers and tug them down, throwing them onto the floor somewhere. The room is dimly lit by the lamp on the nightstand, the lightbulb casting shadows across Steve's slightly sweat damp skin. The fan acts as a soundtrack, white noise breaking up the silence.

You look at him and bite your lip, buzzing with anticipation. It's not like you haven't seen each other naked before, but it's different like this.

"Just... tell me what you like or what you don't like as I go along, okay?"

Steve smiles in adoration, running his thumb over your cheekbone gently.

"Okay."

You wrap your hand around him and curl your wrist, holding back a smirk when the boy whines. It's a pretty sound. You'd like to hear it again and again until he loses his voice.

Leaning in, you lick up the length of him, groaning at the salty musk. His taste, his scent, his sounds... it's all so Steve. He's the centre of your universe, everything around you just Steve Steve Steve.

Taking him fully into your mouth, a hand flies into your hair, tangling his fingers. He doesn't move you, just tethers himself to something real, something grounding. You take him as much as you can, working up a rhythm between your tongue and your hand. Steve's breathing as if he's just ran a marathon, chest heaving and lungs burning.

He finds his voice, suddenly.

"Oh fuck, baby."

"Shit, Cherry. Fuck, just like that."

"That's it, atta girl. Perfect girl. My girl."

"Oh, you're so good. So fucking good."

He tenses, fingers tightening in your hair once again.

"So close, baby. Don't stop. Please."

You double down on your efforts, twisting your wrist in that way you've figured out he likes as you hollow your cheeks and suck. The boy sees stars, vision going white.

The noise he lets out as he finishes will be forever engrained in your mind, a never ending symphony that no orchestra could ever recreate.

He goes lax, collapsing back against the bed as you swallow, never breaking eye contact. You stick your tongue out as proof and he groans, deep and gutteral.

"Kiss me," he chokes, too blissed out to move.

You crawl up his body and press your lips to his, squeaking in surprise when he slips his tongue into your mouth to taste himself.

"Filthy," you laugh, resting your forehead against his.

"You love it."

You shake your head, but can't wipe the grin from your face.

"I love you."

"I love you more."

After a second, you giggle.

"What's funny?"

"I'd like to see Minnie Lawson do that."

Steve laughs, loud and melodic in the low light of the room.

"She's got nothing on you, Cherry baby. No one does."

You process the words, heart stuttering in your chest.

"We should talk about this," you whisper.

"We will," he assures, tugging you into him so your head is resting on his chest. "Tomorrow."

Lines have been crossed, lives have been changed, but the stars above your heads remain the same. They'll always guide you back to Steve.

The lamp flickers, the fan hums, the crickets sing their night time lullabies.

The boy leans down to press his lips to yours. He tastes like cherries and every kiss for the rest of your life.

@allcheesemelts @valerievortex @swiftsgirlfriend @steviespookie @betweenstarsandsatellites @mrsjoequinn @enigmaticloki

[roosterforme]

Covering the Classics Part 2 | Bob Floyd x OC

Summary: Anna knows her new coworkers want her to meet their friend Bob. But she's too hesitant, afraid to get herself in a situation where she's pining after someone new. During a spur of the moment shopping trip, Bob is delighted to bump into a woman he can only describe as adorable. Too bad he's never been great at the follow through.

Warnings: Fluff, angst, adult language, eventually 18+

Length: 3600 words

Pairing: Robert "Bob" Floyd x Female OC (this story is part of the Beer Boy/Sugar and Jake/Jessica universe)

Covering the Classics masterlist. Check my masterlist for more! Thank you to @mak-32 for the beautiful banner!

By the end of her first week teaching, Anna had learned many things, almost like she was a student herself. That nice, secluded ladies' restroom she found was secluded because one of the toilets regularly overflowed. The coffee in the teacher's lounge was actually disgusting, but the donuts were available every day. And Dr. Pham from the sociology department asked her out three times on Thursday, apparently because she wore her hair in two braids like Princess Anna from Frozen, a mistake she wouldn't be making again.

And she was so tired. She started to lose her voice on Friday morning from how much she had to talk in her lectures. She took the wrong notes to class with her and had to improvise an hour long class on Emily Dickinson, because she was too afraid to give one of her students the keys to her office door. So she sweated it out, but managed to sound somewhat coherent as she dismissed her class at noon.

She pressed her lips together. If she ran to get her sandwich and peanuts really quickly, she could join her new friends by the weird tree. After two days of joining them for lunch, she really liked both of them. She just didn't want to get their hopes up about their friend Bob whom she was supposedly perfect for.

Anna wasn't perfect for anybody. And frankly this Bob guy sounded like a dreamboat, which just made it worse. He'd probably laugh after taking one look at her, and if she opened her mouth and tried to talk to him, he'd run away scared. She already turned down their invitation to go to the Navy hangout bar on Saturday night, citing that she was too exhausted. But it was really because she needed to stand firm with herself and do everything she could to protect her feelings from now on. 

After another few seconds of contemplation, she went to her office and got her lunch before heading to the quad. But today it was just Jessica there eating lasagna and garlic bread from a plastic container while Anna's stomach growled in jealousy. 

"Hi," she greeted after she chewed up a bite of her perfect looking lunch. "It's just us today. Dr. Rosenthal apparently had a bunch of questions about the math curriculum and took Advanced Calculus out for a long working lunch at Covewood."

Anna had barely been in the city for more than two weeks, but even she had heard of Covewood. "That's a five star restaurant. A romantic date night hot spot."

"Mmhmm," Jessica agreed as she sunk her perfect teeth into the garlic bread.

Anna realized her own experience was fueling her next sentences, but she said them anyway. "Isn't she married? Her husband is okay with that?" she asked softly.

Advanced Physics burst into laughter. "Bradley loves Dr. Rosenthal. He's in his seventies, and he's one of the sweetest people at the school. They have him over for dinner sometimes. He actually did my tenure review."

"Oh," Anna replied, embarrassed that she could hardly relate to someone who trusted their spouse. "That actually sounds really nice."

"Hey, are you sure you don't want to come out tomorrow night? No pressure. I just think you'd have a fun time. The guys are all sweethearts."

Anna looked down at herself and her sad sandwich. She didn't even have money to spare for a beer that she would probably drink half of before she wanted to leave. And it didn't matter if the guys were sweet, she knew her two new friends would be champing at the bit to see how she and this Bob person interacted. "Not this weekend," she replied. "Maybe another night."

Instead of socializing, she spent her Saturday window shopping in North Park. She had a budget of exactly zero dollars, but she could entertain herself for hours this way. She gasped when she found a two story bookshop that claimed it contained new and used and rare finds, and she ran across the street to get to it. 

It was darker and quieter inside than the sunlit, traffic filled streets, and when Anna took a deep breath, it reminded her of a cozy library. The clerk behind the register waved instead of speaking, so really, it just kept getting better. When she noticed the wooden sign on the wall informing her that The Classics were upstairs, she made her way up the creaky steps to a loft area with row after row of tall shelves. 

"Perfect," she muttered, walking to the end of the open space and turning down the last tight row of bookshelves. She wasn't alone, but the only other occupant was a tall, slim man with broad shoulders and tidy, sandy colored hair. He seemed to be so absorbed by what he was reading, he didn't look up when Anna reached for an enormous copy of Shakespeare plays.

She almost moaned out loud; it was annotated and contained every play she had to teach in her Thursday morning English 300 class. It was well worn, and the cover felt nice in her hands. Shit. Of course it was seventy bucks. That was more than she spent on groceries last week. Maybe she could expense it to the department? She should probably know how to do that. Maybe she could text one of her new friends and ask if that was allowed. 

But she slid the book back into place as a Vonnegut she didn't yet own caught her eye. She reached out for it with a steady hand, but as soon as her fingertips met the spine, a much larger hand, complete with graceful yet calloused fingers, wrapped around hers. Everything suddenly smelled clean like soap and also intriguingly like tea leaves. And then she heard a voice next to her ear that made her bite down on her lip as a ripple of pleasure teased her spine. 

"Oh. I'm so sorry."

--------------------------

Bob had never been to this store before, and he wasn't really planning on stopping by today, but Mickey dragged him in and then ditched him for the children's section at the back of the store. Bob looked around downstairs, but as a poetry fan, he found that section to be seriously lacking, so he headed up to the loft instead.

He considered himself well-read until he realized how many classic novels he'd never even heard of before. And they all sounded really depressing. Which was kind of the point, he supposed, but if he was going to get something new to read, he was in the mood for a more upbeat story. Maybe a romance or a European adventure he could get lost in. Maybe a sweeping, romantic tale where the nice guy gets the girl for once. 

After several tries, he still wasn't finding anything close to what he was hoping for. As he re-shevled The Bell Jar, he decided to just reach for a book at random. Cat's Cradle by Kurt Vonnegut? Maybe that would be more his speed. But when he reached for it, his fingers wrapped around a soft hand complete with glossy, burgundy fingernails instead of the actual book. He jumped an inch in the air, because he hadn't even been aware anyone else was in the aisle with him, let alone a woman who smelled like sweet perfume.

"Oh. I'm so sorry," he stammered, already mortified. Then she turned to look at him over her shoulder, and he wanted to jump off the loft railing and run out the shop door. There was only one word to accurately describe her: adorable. She had dark red hair done up in a messy braid, big brown eyes, and a smattering of freckles across her nose. "Oh."

"It's okay," she replied softly as she tried to hand him the book. "You can have it."

He shook his head, completely distracted, as he kept finding more things about her face that he liked. A grin curled along his lips as he said, "No, it's all yours. Really. I was just looking for something new to read."

She glanced down at the cover and then back at his face, and maybe he was imagining things, but it looked like she was blushing a bit. "Wow. I wasn't really expecting anyone else to be interested in reading a sarcastic take on global destruction on a sunny Saturday afternoon."

His eyebrows shot up. "Is that what it's about?"

Her laughter was also adorable. "Yeah, I mean... it's Vonnegut," she said with a bit of an eye roll. Oh no. She knew what she was talking about, and he kind of didn't. He was probably about to sound like an idiot. 

Bob cleared his throat and pointed at a random spine to buy himself time. "What's this one about?"

She cocked her head slightly to the side and said, "Two murders and a kidnapping."

"Oh," he said with a little laugh. "No thanks. How about this one?"

He wasn't even looking at the books now at all, preferring to watch her facial expression change as she checked another title. "Oh, that one's good. Also about murder."

He chuckled and pointed at another. "This one?"

She smirked and looked up at him. "Jealousy, rage, hatred, and also a lot of murder."

"Wow," Bob replied with what he was sure was a stupid looking smile. "I was hoping for something a little tamer? Perhaps less murder-y? Maybe I should go down and look in the children's section?" He jerked his thumb over his shoulder and listened to her laugh again.

"I could recommend a few books with little to no murder. Maybe even a happy ending," she told him, and he watched as she pushed her braid over her shoulder. 

"I'll believe it when I see it," he said as he crossed his arms over his chest. To his shock and amazement, her gaze followed his movement, and her blush returned.

When her tongue darted out between her lips, Bob could feel his heart beating in his temples. Her brown eyes drifted back up to his face, and he wondered if this was how Jake or Bradley used to feel when girls paid attention to them at the bar. It was decidedly really exciting. 

He was going to be bold like his friends. He was going to ask her for her number. Maybe he'd see if she wanted to help him shop for some books, and he could buy her that horrible Vonnegut that she wanted, and then he'd ask her very nicely for her number. 

"Floyd!"

Bob watched you jump as Mickey's voice echoed through the store.

"Floyd! Let's go!"

"S-Sorry," Bob muttered, stepping past her and heading for the loft railing. "Just... hang on for one second?"

As soon as Mickey looked up and saw him, he said, "We gotta go, man. I got some books for my nephews, but we'll be late to grab a drink before D&D if we don't leave now. You know how she gets when we're late." He was shaking a bag of books and heading for the door.

Bob did know for a fact that Jessica got annoyed when they showed up late because they got hungry or distracted on the way to The Hard Deck. "Just give me a minute," he told Mickey, but he was already outside. 

He swiped his sweaty palms on his jeans and turned around to find the aisle empty. Oh no. He checked the next row of shelves, and the next, and the next, until he got all the way to the stairs, but the adorable redhead was nowhere to be found. And he had no idea what her name was. 

"Hello?" he called out softly, checking each aisle again until he was back where he started. Bob might have believed that he imagined the whole entire exchange with an attractive woman, except that there was one book propped up against the others right where he and she had been standing. 

"A Room With a View by E. M. Forster," he mumbled as he picked it up and turned it over in his hands. He glanced around again, but she was well and truly gone, leaving nothing except for what seemed like a book recommendation. 

"Floyd!"

Bob sighed and tipped his head back in frustration. "Coming!"

He descended the stairs slowly, head swiveling in every direction, searching for brown eyes and a braid while he held the book. Gone. He paid for A Room With a View and headed outside to find Mickey looking quite annoyed. What he didn't see was the mystery girl watching him from the far end of the loft.

-----------------------

"She was real," Bob insisted as he held his glass of ginger ale a little tighter. "Just because you were too busy yelling doesn't mean I made her up in my mind. She had red hair and brown eyes."

Mickey gave him a skeptical look. "That's actually a really rare combination. And I know for a fact you happen to have an excellent imagination, my friend."

Bob cradled his forehead in his hand. "Why didn't I ask for her name and number?" Then he paused. "You know what? It doesn't even matter. There's no way she would have agreed to give it to me." 

He thought about the book he bought sitting on the front seat of his truck next to his dice bag and character sheet, and he considered just going home for the night. Maybe he could start to read the book. Maybe he'd feel like writing.

Then he felt an arm slip around his waist. "Hi, Jessica," he said as he blushed when he looked down at Jake's petite girlfriend. A second later, Bradley's wife was next to him as well, and Bob realized they were wearing matching smirks.

"Hey, Bob," Jessica replied, giving him a little squeeze. "We were just wondering if you happened to like redheads."

Mickey snickered before he tipped his beer bottle back and finished the drink. "He loves them. Daydreams about them."

Bob shot him a withering look. "She was real."

"Who was real?" Bradley's wife asked as her husband came up behind her and set his chin on her shoulder. Great, now he was going to have a full audience of people informed about his embarrassing afternoon of not even knowing how to ask a woman what her name was.

"There was a cute girl at the bookstore in North Park earlier," he muttered. "She had red hair, and I fumbled the ball."

Bradley chuckled. "You know what your problem is, right? You're too nice. Sugar met me when I was an absolute fuckboy, and she fell hard."

"I've been having a decade long lapse of judgement," she replied, and Bradley kissed her neck. "Don't listen to him, Bob. Girls love nice guys."

But Bob knew they didn't. Even the woman from the bookstore dodged him after approximately five minutes of flirting. If you could even call that flirting. He finished his ginger ale, and said, "We need to go. It's almost time for D&D. I'll drive."

Mickey nodded and said, "I'm ready." He could probably tell Bob had reached his limit with this conversation. His friend may be an extrovert to the extreme, but he was good at recognizing when Bob needed a break.

Jessica nodded as well and patted him on the chest before she pranced off into Jake's open arms. They shared the most adorable looking kisses before Jake straightened out her glasses and tucked her hair behind her ear. "Have her home by midnight, Bob!" he called as he released her. 

Bob nodded wishing there was someone besides the elderly woman who lived in the duplex next to him that cared if he was out past midnight or not. Even though he always looked forward to playing Dungeons & Dragons, he kind of wanted to head home and call it an early night. Nothing sounded as good as sending an email to Nat before reading his new book. But he would wait until later, and maybe he would even be in the mood to get his laptop out.

-----------------------

Anna went back to her studio apartment empty handed. Well, that wasn't quite true. She didn't buy any books, but she did splurge on a six dollar bottle of wine which would probably taste disgusting. She just hoped it would help her sleep through the night after reading some sad poetry and eating a piece of toast for dinner. 

That guy from the bookstore was going to linger in her mind for a long time whether she wanted him to or not. She was more attracted to him after five minutes in his presence than she was to Kevin at any point in the past five years. And if she was going to start thinking about Kevin, she was probably going to cry. 

The toast was good, but the wine was bad. And she did cry a little bit. She was never going to get attached to the idea of being in a relationship ever again. She was never going to have herself that level of intimacy just to have it ripped away. She wouldn't allow it. Relying on herself would have to be enough. Handsome strangers with muscular, veiny arms and cute glasses who made her laugh were not part of the plan. That's why she ducked behind the end cap after she left him a book she thought he might like. She watched him buy it for himself, which left her almost breathless. If she allowed herself to, she could picture him sitting in a coffee shop sipping some tea and reading that book.

"Enough," she whispered, vision a little sloppy from the wine. She opened up the website called PoetsAmongUs, read a bookmarked collection about how good it would feel to be loved completely, and passed out. 

The realization that she was going to have to spend all of Sunday afternoon getting ready for the week was made slightly easier by the fact that she only had four hundred square feet of space to clean. And then she thought about the beautiful home she once had in New Jersey, and she had to finish the bottle of wine to help her get through her notes on The Great Gatsby.

She was still thinking about that hot guy with the glasses on Monday when she grabbed a donut from the teacher's lounge. Indulging in a little fantasy here and there about being loved and cared for wouldn't be so bad. And putting his face to it just made it even sexier. When she wasn't teaching, she let her mind wander to some possibilities that would never happen again. Pretty eyes, lean muscles, soft looking hair, pink cheeks. He probably had nice friends, too. He probably never cheated on anything in his life.

"Hey, Anna? Are you alright?"

She looked up from her bag of peanuts and realized she'd been so deep in thought, she wasn't paying attention to the lunch conversation. "I'm sorry," she replied, fighting the urge to groan. She wasn't very good at this stuff and should have probably just eaten lunch in her office like she did the past few days. The fact that it was Wednesday and she was still distracted was concerning to her. 

"Don't apologize. You just seem lost in thought," said Jessica as she ate another perfect looking lunch. 

"Do you want some chips and hummus? Bradley packed me too much food today," her other friend said. And of course he did, because he sounded like a damn dream.

Anna ate a few chips and sighed. "Have either of you ever had your heart smashed to bits?" She didn't really mean to say that out loud, but now that she had, she was met with an awkward silence that she wanted to run away from. 

"Yeah," Advanced Calculus replied softly. "And I did it to myself."

"Not my heart as much as my hopes and dreams," Advanced Physics added. "But for me, I think that was much worse."

Now the silence that followed wasn't quite as painful, but Anna was still a little embarrassed. "Yeah. All of the above." She cleared her throat and tried to think of something else to talk about, but her mind was still on the bookstore. "Hey, why didn't you tell me that San Diego is full of hot guys? They are literally everywhere. I went window shopping in North Park and got sucked into a bookstore, and I bumped into a guy with glasses who smelled so nice."

"Ohhh, what did he look like?"

Anna sighed. "You know how you can just tell a guy is really strong even though he doesn't have bulging muscles?"

"Mmhmm."

"He was like that." Anna bit into her sandwich and chewed it slowly. "Pretty eyes, kind of the color of a lake. Sandy hair. Wire glasses. Soft spoken. He smelled like a cup of tea." 

A few seconds later, she was snapped back from her drifting thoughts as Advanced Calculus asked, "Did you say this was at a bookstore in North Park?"

"Yes," Anna replied with a nod. 

"Did you get his name?" Advanced Physics asked. 

"No," she answered, still embarrassed over the fact that she hid from him.

And then she thought she was going to get whiplash again.

"Was he about six feet tall?"

"Was he slim but not skinny?"

"Did he blush when he smiled?"

"Will you please come to the Hard Deck this weekend?"

--------------------------

Bradley is so proud of the fact that Sugar fell for him when they were in college. Beer Boy just gets better with age. This little Bob and Anna meet cute might spell disaster when they figure it all out! Thanks to @mak-32 and @beyondthesefourwalls

PART 3

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[upsidedownwithsteve]

DAY THREE: Steve Harrington x fem!reader

When Steve was three years old, his parents would take him to Hawkins country club to spend Christmas Eve in the dining hall. There were other families, all just as wealthy, mothers glittering in jewels, fathers smoking cigars, kids his age who were wearing miniature bow ties and tartan dresses, all frills and bright smiles.

The year after, they spent Christmas Day there too, all the food and wine they could ever want already prepared and offered on silver platters for them. Steve was allowed to bring one new toy, a plastic speed boat that had miniature figurines with deck shoes and sunglasses. The year after that, they stayed at the country club overnight and his mom declared there was no need to put up a tree at home.

When Steve was ten, he was deemed old enough to sit at a different table from his parents in the dining hall, sitting with children he didn’t know as they all tried to work out which fork to use with course number five. He sat on Santa’s lap, a man that looked uncomfortably familiar underneath his white beard, but he smelled like whiskey and he gave Steve a jigsaw puzzle of a cowboy with a white horse.

Steve hated jigsaws.

At fifteen, Steve stopped going to the country club. He waved goodbye to his parents on Christmas Eve, his mom’s lipstick print on his cheek, the house dark and quiet. No tree, no lights, just a movie and a takeaway pizza.

It was fine.

Steve didn’t mind it. Not really, not that much.

Then he met you.

You with your dumb, woollen jumpers and love for oversized hot chocolates, smelling like candy canes and somehow always having glitter on your cheeks. You with your love of old movies, the black and white Christmas films that his VHS player had a hard time not chewing up. You with your bright eyes, always excited and pleased to see him, arriving on his doorstep on Christmas Eve with a bag full of treats, oversized marshmallows and a pair of slippers that you never even wore. You who tucked yourself into Steve’s life and Steve’s side like you’d always been there, ready to create your own festive traditions with him.

You bought him too many presents, every year, crinkling your nose when he fussed and kissing him stupid when he handed you a pile in return. You spent the whole year listening to him, finding out more about the boy than he thought anyone would ever care to do. The new music he liked, the movie he missed at the cinema, now on video. His favourite chocolate, wrapped in shiny gold paper, the kind of sweater he liked, soft and not scratchy from that store at the mall he always liked to gaze at.

You tied everything up with a bow, made eggnog and gingerbread cookies in his otherwise empty kitchen, bare feet on the cold tiles because you’d left your slippers in his room, but it didn’t matter. You’d curl beside Steve on the sofa, tucking your freezing toes beneath his thighs.

Steve didn’t mind. Not really. Not in the slightest.

Steve didn’t mind at all.

[bookshelf-dust]

who’s pretty?

eddie munson x fem!reader

word count: 2,527

warnings: swearing, kissing, smoking (DON’T YOU EVEN THINK ABOUT IT), slight seasonal depression, innuendos/suggestive tone towards the end, allusions to nudity, fluff

a/n: hi!! i’ve been super excited to work on some christmas related fics, so here we are. i think it turned out super sweet and i think i might even like it! i really hope you guys like it too!! thanks for putting up with my shit. <333

————

Eddie spit out the plastic wrapper stuck between his teeth, setting the christmas tree cake in his mouth while he readjusted, tossing the film beside him on the porch and holding on to his cigarette more firmly.

Situated, the boy took an aggressive bite of the cake, red and green sprinkles crunching as he chewed. He swallowed, and took a slow drag, letting the smoke fill his lungs. He looked down, assessing the white icing covering his fingertips.

Eddie scarfed down the rest of his cake, licking the residue from his skin. Little Debbie wasn’t doing anything to soothe the ache in his chest. Neither was his cigarette.

Eddie watched the neighbors across the dirt road—it could hardly be called a street—wrap lights around their porch beams. Once up, they plugged them in, warm white lights illuminating the dingy gray of their trailer.

He tapped the ash off into the tray next to his thigh and scoffed a little. He always preferred the multi-colored lights to those.

He perked up, though, as the cat belonging to those very same neighbors leapt from the cat door and out into the sand, presumably in search of a mole or a cricket to snack on.

Eddie scratched his nails against the porch, watching for the cat’s head to snap up and notice that attention was waiting for him across the way.

He bounded over to Eddie, a black streak in the cool and foggy blue of the afternoon, starting to rub over his shoes and calves. “Hey, buddy.”

Eddie scratched behind the cats ears, rubbed his belly when he flipped over. But his visit was cut short as something moved in the overgrown grass and the cat shot away, back to business.

Eddie sighed, pushing off of the worn in wood, moving back inside.

The holiday season used to be Eddie Munson’s favorite time of the year. His uncle Wayne usually got two weeks off of work, and he’d spend them with his nephew, watching cheesy Christmas movies and eating themselves out of house and home.

He never got much in terms of gifts, nothing big or grand. But every band t-shirt Wayne brought home from the thrift store made Eddie’s heart grow two sizes. Every couple guitar picks or album that had a poster in the sleeve that Wayne would watch Eddie giddily tack up in his room.

As for Wayne, Eddie found that mugs were a very good gift, and could mean a lot. They did mean a lot.

Wayne didn’t love anything more than a nine-year-old, doe eyed Eddie running up to him with the present he’d hid in his room all December. He felt the same way when Eddie was twenty.

But it hadn’t been the same in recent years. It hurt, but Eddie knew that’s how it worked. Things changed, and the things you loved as a kid don’t feel the same as you get older. They aren’t the same.

Wayne didn’t get two weeks off for the holidays anymore. The plant wasn’t as abundantly employed as it used to be. He was lucky if he got Christmas Eve off and not just the day of. When Wayne was home, he was tired, and it wasn’t the occasion that it once was, full of hyper Eddie shenanigans.

But Eddie missed it. He missed going on walks to the rich neighborhoods to look at their elaborately set up light displays. He missed laying in bed at night, even long after he knew that Santa was actually Wayne and everything else was capitalist bullshit, trying to go to sleep so that his presents would be delivered.

Fuck, he missed being a kid.

He was lost in this mental turmoil spiral when the door slammed and Wayne returned from picking up dinner. Eddie hopped up, ready to help get plates out and make sure the restaurant hadn't forgotten anything.

"Hey, kiddo?" Wayne asked once they'd settled down to eat. Eddie looked up at his uncle from his place on the floor. With his legs crossed and hands bare of any jewelry, Wayne thought his nephew looked lightyears younger. Like his little boy. Eddie hummed in response.

"Merill's has a good bit of trees left. You wanna go pick one out in the next couple days?" Eddie's eyes lit up and he moved to sit on his knees, stuffing pizza crust in his mouth.

He finished swallowing, "Yeah, of course. You sure you won't be too tired or anything?"

Wayne watched as Eddie scanned for his next breadstick. He'd had that nervous habit since he was little: occupying himself while waiting for a response in fear that something would go wrong.

"No, bud. I'll be just fine."

And so they drove up to the farm and brought home one of the smallest and scraggliest trees--just like they always did. Wayne said those had the most character.

Later when it was getting dark outside and both parties were resting from getting the thing inside and in its stand, Eddie realized it was past time for Wayne to be at work, and he wondered if he'd possibly zoned out enough to entirely miss his uncle's goodbye.

He slipped down the hall, only to see Wayne sorting through various holiday lights. "Uh, Wayne?"

"Yeah, bud?"

"Aren't you late for work?"

"No, bud. I've got time off. Suppose I should've mentioned that, huh?" Wayne hadn't forgotten to tell Eddie. How could one forget that they had time off from work? He'd simply wanted it to be a surprise.

Eddie might've been very good at concealing his feelings in general, but Wayne knew he was bummed that Christmas had changed for the both of them. Wayne looked up at Eddie, who was practically beaming.

"Really? How long?"

"Two and a half weeks."

"Shit." Eddie was grinning hard, cheeks pinked and knees bopping slightly. He was excited.

"Guess that means your happy?" Wayne handed the boy one end of the lights to plug in and check they still worked.

"Well, yeah, duh."

"What would you think about asking Y/N over? She could spend the night on Christmas Eve and then the day if she's up for it. Thought maybe you'd like that. I could cook or somethin'."

"I think she'd love that. And you don't have to cook. She'd gladly eat take out, I know."

That night, Wayne stepped out of the bathroom to see Eddie lying on the floor in front of the tree reading, but also staring up at the colored lights in awe. Wayne felt his eyes get glassy and blinking the oncoming tears away. His boy.

He walked over, crouching to plant a prickly kiss in Eddie's curls, only to ruffle them afterwards. "Night, Eds."

Eds. His uncle was the only person that had ever called him that before you. He didn't say it often, but it was one of his favorite things to hear. "Night, Wayne."

————

"Hey, precious." Eddie swung the door open for you, simultaneously shoving a cookie in his mouth.

"Afternoon, Edward." Eddie wrinkled his nose at the use of his birthname, which you kissed in greeting.

"Want a cookie? They've got sprinkles."

"In a second. I've brought a gift for your pretty tree." You set your bag on the coffee table.

"Who's pretty?" Wayne asked, emerging from the back of the trailer.

"You Waynie," Eddie quipped, earning himself a playful smack on the back of the head.

"The tree is pretty, Wayne," you supplied. "I brought it presents. Sorta."

Eddie watched as you dug around, pulling free two ornaments, though he couldn't quite make out what they were.

"Here, Wayne, this one's yours." He held out his hand, and you set the object in his palm. His was a little Garfield ornament. The cat was wearing blue pajamas and was holding a little teeny coffee mug.

Wayne laughed appreciatively. "That's a good one, sweetie. Thank you. Will you find it a good spot on the tree for me?"

"Sure!" He squeezed your shoulder and watched as you put it front and center, towards the middle of the tree, that way Garfield could keep watch.

Wayne walked off into the kitchen, giving you space to give Eddie his prize.

Eddie waited patiently, though that was often a struggle for him. "Okay, I might've gotten you two. But I couldn't not get one of them." Eddie held out both hands, grinning expectantly. It was simple, really, the more you looked at it. A black sphere with purple lettering. One side said Master of Reality, the other Black Sabbath.

"Holy shit," Eddie said, turning the ball over in his hands. "Where'd you find this?"

"The record store in town had a whole bunch of old ornaments on sale, like they'd been cleaning out the back, and I thought you'd like it. Do you?"

Eddie smacked a dramatic kiss on your forehead. "Are you fuckin' kidding me? Of course I like it." He couldn't take his eyes off of it, mainly because it was so sweet of you to have gotten for him, but also because he thought it was funny that the store still had one considering how long the album had been out.

Eddie was lost in thought when you approached him with the next one. "When I went to get a book last week they had this little tree covered in book-related ornaments, and I saw this and I gasped so hard the lady behind me asked me if I was alright."

Eddie laughed, throwing his head back, and you took the opportunity to hang the ornament off of the tip of your finger to show him. He looked down, only to see a small painted ornament that looked like a book. It was The Hobbit.

"Baby." You were the one grinning like an idiot now. That one earned you a sweet kiss on the lips.

“Isn’t it cool?” You asked, pointing out that the text was raised and everything, that the spine even had ridges.

“It’s so cool.” He spun around to walk the few feet into the kitchen. “Wayne, would you look at this?”

Eddie’s uncle did as requested, smiling at your gesture. “That is very cool, Eds. Looks better than the copy you’ve got.”

“It totally does!” The boy wasn’t even slightly offended.

Eddie marched over to the tree, nestling the ornament amongst the others, along with his Black Sabbath one.

He turned to you, taking your face in his hands.“Thank you, sweetheart. I’m gonna be so annoying about those now.”

“I know. I prepared myself on the way here.” The smile he gave you was brilliant, and there was no other way to describe it.

————

The three of you spent a good portion of Christmas Eve making cookies: gingerbread, snickerdoodles, shitty sugar ones with sad icing jobs. Though, you did make sure to get most of it done early so there was time to chill.

You watched loads of movies. How the Grinch Stole Christmas had been on that morning, and Eddie extravagantly performed “You’re a mean one, Mr. Grinch” for you, poking at your sides to get you to smile.

Eddie rented Die Hard for you, just because he knew you had the hots for Alan Rickman. He slipped it in the VHS slot, only for Wayne to say, “This the one with her pretty boy in it?”

Eddie practically cackled as you sunk into the couch more than he thought possible.

“He’s not a boy,” you argued. “He’s a total man, thank you very much.”

You watched Gremlins, and Eddie laid his head in your lap. You missed the way Wayne looked over at the two of you, in awe of how lucky he was that his boy had found someone so good. He thought about how happy he was to have this little family.

Wayne picked up food from Benny’s, not wanting to have to cook two nights in a row.

At the end of the night, Eddie finished off his first pile of rentals with Silent Night, Deadly Night. You didn’t mind, not with how excited he was about it. You loved a good slasher anyhow.

It was well past midnight when the film was over, and you cleaned up the popcorn mess while Eddie rinsed cans out for the recycling before the both of you slipped away to allow Wayne some rest before the big day.

Eddie had been in the bathroom while you went into his room to get changed. You slipped out of your pajama bottoms, opting for no pants at all considering Eddie was like a human furnace.

You heard the door click shut behind you as you pulled your shirt over your head, leaving your back bare to him. Eddie wolf-whistled.

You through the shirt at him, aiming for his face, only for him to catch it instead. “Usually it’s dinner and a show, not bedtime and a show, but I’ll take it, hot stuff.”

“Shut the fuck up, Munson.” Eddie giggled to himself as he stopped you from putting on your own shirt, reaching for one of his own. He pulled out his worn in Master of Reality t-shirt.

“Seems appropriate, don’t you think?” He slipped the fabric over your head. “Stick your arm through—there you go.” Once settled, he kissed you sweetly before giving you a light slap on the ass as you climbed into bed.

“C’mon now pretty boy, let’s see my bedtime show.”

Eddie shimmed out of his sweats for you, stepping out of them with a flourish. You giggled at his underwear, which had little Santa hats on them.

“Don’t laugh, they’re comfortable!” He took off his shirt and you made grabby hands at him.

You sat up on your knees to kiss his spider tattoo and then the demon, making sure to hit them all. You made him spin to get the newer one on the small of his back: very sexy bat wings.

Eddie crawled into bed with you, switching his lamp off. “Now, look, I know I’m insatiable, and you’d probably love to stay up all night kissing me, and sweet-talking me, but we gotta get to sleep if we want Santa to come.”

He tickled his fingers up your arm when you stared to laugh, burying your face in his chest.

“Eddie, my love, you haven’t got a chimney.”

He scoffed, fighting a laugh. “You doubt Santa’s abilities to get me my presents though I lack the typical vessel? He has his ways, baby. Damn.”

Eddie reached for your thigh, grabbing hold and swinging it over both of his before kneading at the squish of it. He patted it fondly before he kissed your forehead.

“Merry Christmas, you little shit,” you said. “I love you.”

Eddie snickered. “Goodnight, pain in my ass. I love you more.”

The holiday season had officially climbed right back up to being one of Eddie Munson’s favorite things. He thought, laying there beside you that night, that you and Wayne were the best people in the world.

It felt like all the shitty Christmases had been leading up to this fucking excellent one, and he was over the moon.

————

please let me know if you liked this! feedback is always appreciated!! comments and reblogs mean more than you know. <33

[gloryhrs]

━━ ⟡ 𝓒𝐔𝐃𝐃𝐋𝐄𝐁𝐔𝐆, shunsui k.

✿.*･｡ ꒰ 𝐛𝐥𝐚𝐜𝐤 𝐦𝐚𝐥𝐞 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫 — r. & shu are happily married! ◝(^◜◡◝^ )◜, pet name usage — hubby, kitty, my dear, shu being an extreme romantic, r. is part kitty! /ᐠ . ˕ .マ, smth short n' sweet until i finish my kenpachi & ichigo os! ⸜(｡˃ ᵕ ˂ )⸝ ꒱

“Kitty, where are you?" The captain of the 8th division Shunsui Kyoraku walked the corridors of the Seireitei, waving the bell. The man had been looking for a you for nearly ten minutes and didn't want to sleep without his darling husband by his side, so he kept ringing the bell. He thought it was strange because you could hear and smell him from a mile away.

“Aw, man, did he fall asleep without me?” The captain's shoulders slumped with sadness until he heard the sound of footsteps. “There he is!” When he sensed a familiar presence approaching, he instantly turned around and opened his arms for the man, who turned out to be you, his husband. You smiled and quickened your pace as you saw your husband's arms wide and ready to catch you. “Shu!” You laughed as you wrapped your arms and legs around his neck and nuzzled your face against his cheek, causing him to laugh and return the hug.

The captain kissed your forehead with a tiny eye squint, as the amount of sunshine radiating from you was astounding. “Kitty! I thought you went to sleep without me.” You shook your head, your ears swaying with you, while the captain faked a pout. “You know that I can't sleep without you. You’re my giant teddy bear!” You nuzzled your head into his cheek once more, making a small purring sound. When he noticed your charming demeanor, Shunsui swore he felt something pierce through his chest.

“Did you bring any cake?! I can smell cake!” Your eyes twinkled as you smelled the air for the scent of strawberry deliciousness. “Hm? Oh, yeah. Jushiro made some, so I bought one for you and me.” He laughed again when you leaped out of his arms and started bouncing on your toes. Shunsui knew you liked strawberries, so whenever he saw something strawberry-related, he would always get it for you. That explains why your ring is red!

When the captain took out the plastic container containing the pink frosted strawberry cake, your eyes sparkled even more. “Ah! Shu, I love you!” You jumped back into his arms, almost knocking him down in the process. As he stood and accepted it, you held and kissed his face ceaselessly; the feeling of your soft lips against his skin made him feel like he was in heaven.

“I love you even more, my dear hubby. But we should leave because I'm still meant to be working on the paperwork Nanao gave me earlier.” The man scratched the back of his neck, the thought of Nanao discovering him and chewing him out sent shivers down his spine. You watched as the man turned around and knelt down slightly, beckoning for you to climb on his back. He didn't have to tell you twice! You jumped on his back with ease and kissed his cheek one last time.

The tree shade remained over the couple as they slept comfortably, without a care in the world. Shunsui buried his face in your hair as the wind blew through his gorgeous brown hair. The pink flowered kimono was draped over you and his shoulders, with him frequently fanning away the butterflies that flew around your ears with his straw hat. The man slept into your soft h/c hair until a familiar sensation pricked his nose, causing him to awaken and sneeze.

“Eh?” He observed your h/c ears twitching when he looked down. Shunsui's heart burst out of his chest when he watched you nuzzle your nose into his chest before flicking your ears once more. He moved one of his hands up to your scalp, giving it a light scratch. Your purring could have put anyone into cardiac arrest. “How adorable.” The man commented as your luscious lips snorted peacefully. Because you and he were both busy people, you would constantly slip away to your favorite hiding locations to nap and eat your favorite snacks.

You were the most handsome thing in his eyes. From your soft brown skin that was little to no scars, your soft hair that blended in well with with your adorable cat ears, and your soft but fierce ( e / c ) eyes that he loved staring into. Ah, he still can’t believe you chose to marry someone like him. The man was too busy admiring your beauty that he didn’t notice you had already woken up. “Hm? Is there something on my face?” You rubbed your eyes while he watched you touched your cheeks and nose. He chucked, “No, I’m just admiring how beautiful my husband is.” He gave you a lazy smirk, his thumb stroking the crumbs off the corner of your lips.

You smiled before crawling onto him, now straddling his hips. Shunsui raised his eyebrow before a pervert like smile appeared on his face. “Oh? Are we gonna get busy? Don’t worry, I’ll let you be in charge this time.” He smirked as your cheeks warmed up, causing you to pinch his cheek making him hiss in pain.

“Will you stop that Shu!” You continued to pinch his cheek as you waved his hands around in a surrendering motion. Once you let his cheek go the man rubbed his face with crocodile tears leaving his eyes. “My dear kitty doesn’t love me anymore! What shall I do?!” The man whines dramatically as you snickered and rolled your eyes. “Don’t be such a baby, Shu. You were the one who was having a negative mindset! Who the hell wants to get busy out in the open like this?” You sighed and pinched your nose as Shunsui muttered something under his breath. You tilted your head, “Hm? Did you say something?” You narrowed your eyes at your husband who had a pervy smile on his face. "Me, besides—we’re pretty far away from everyone—" "Don’t even think about it!"

© gloryhrs, 063023. — notes and reblogs are appreciated! (≧∇≦)

[rivertalesien]

Death is not the end.

The rusty creak of a weather vane cut through the quiet over the leaf-strewn grounds.

Staring at the words carved in stone, Clarke traced them in her mind, over and over, as she pulled at a handful of weeds and replaced the old dead flowers with the fresh-cut bouquet she’d bought at the little supermarket on her way to the cemetery. 

Death is not the end. Death is not the end. Death is not the end.

She thought about the cashier who’d wrapped the flowers for her, an older woman, maybe as old as her grandmother, someone who should have retired by now (but who can retire anymore, she’d wondered). The surgical paper mask had slipped down the woman’s nose several times as she looked down at the thin sheets of paper, the skin of her fingers worn almost the same.

Who were they for, she’d asked, absently, reaching for a strip of tape off an old plastic reel of Scotch.

Is it someone’s birthday? Spooky time of year for it.

Clarke shook her head and smiled, reaching for a packet of Wintergreen chewing gum. Her heart was skipping and the sudden stops were making her dizzy.

“Oh, it’s a date, huh?” 

“Sort of.” 

Sliding her card through the reader, she declined the receipt and gave a short thanks to the woman, who adjusted her mask and eyed her as she took up her purchases and made a slight gesture with one hand.

“It’ll get better, you know. It always does.”

Clarke was unsure what the cashier might be referring to: maybe she was thinking of the pandemic, maybe she thought someone was ill. Nodding, she pushed gently at the double doors and stepped outside, moving smoothly past a neglected pile of small pumpkins resting on hay bales.  

Reaching for her keys Clarke took a small breath, grateful that the skies were still clear even if it smelled like rain was on its way and the trees were drizzling red and gold around her car.

It’ll get better. It’ll get better. It always does.

Death is not the end. 

Then what is it?

She shook slightly and remembered where she was.

Touching the engraved L and E and X and A, as if her fingers could reach through the letters and caress the person this once was; a face she hadn’t seen in three years, a voice she hadn’t heard, a kiss she hadn’t shared with anyone else.

A grief that wasn’t going away.

“I love you, Lex. I miss you so much. I don’t know what to do.”

It was dark by the time she left and the leaves were piling high on the grass, crunching beneath her shoes like old newspapers.

She could still smell the rain on the way, but something had shifted. She was tired. Bed would be easy tonight.

As she started the car and drove off, the weathervane creaked again.

And changed direction.

*

“I know it’s a bad time, Clarke, but I was wondering if you could come in for just a bit on Monday? I’ve got someone I think you’d be good with and maybe it’d be good for you. Just call me back when you get this. Love you.”

Clarke deleted her mother’s message, tossing her phone on the saggy green couch before flopping down in Lexa’s old leather armchair. It had been her dad’s and she’d lugged it around from Navy dorms to small apartments until it had finally found a permanent home in the little Craftsman they’d bought six years ago. Clarke laughed a little to herself. For something she was so devoted to, Lexa had rarely sat in it. She just liked the aesthetic of it. And that it was her dad’s.

They’d lost their fathers at almost the same time, both men working in different parts of the same building, both unable to escape when a bomb went off in a bathroom and took out nine floors in just under two minutes. Clarke had received a single text: I love you, sweetheart, hours before she’d finally answered all the missed calls, still trying to avoid Finn, and couldn’t stop crying for days afterward.

They had met at the memorial service, where the President gave a speech that rang hollow and bitter and hypocritical and Lexa was forced to stand at attention with her squadron and salute the man who had helped ignite and fund the war that led to the terrible tragedies that seemed to be plaguing random cities all over.

Clarke had noticed her outright, recognized her from the news reports, though she looked more polished than the footage of her in a flight suit, giving a press briefing from an aircraft carrier in the Atlantic somewhere.

Commander Woods’ elegy to her father had been through clenched teeth and pain, perhaps only partly from the wound in her shoulder, where she’d taken two slugs from an enemy rifle only three weeks before. Standing before the congregation in the Sixth Avenue Church, Lexa had first said the words Clarke couldn’t get out of her mind, even now, almost ten years later.

Death is not the end.

Finn had shown up, though, uninvited, wanting to pay his respects, wanting to apologize, again, wanting Clarke back, again, and it was Raven who surprised him and dragged him out, offering Clarke a small apology as they left. She had just wanted to get some air, to be alone, to not listen to her mother grieving with all the other widows and to expel Finn’s presence for good. She could hardly picture her dad, even with his photo on the tall easel. Nothing felt real.

She hadn’t expected to see the rumpled military figure sitting on a small bench under the church’s stone lichgate, tugging at the knees of her uniform trousers, as if irritated with the material. She hadn’t expected her eyes to be so soft and gray or how quiet her voice could be. They’d sat together under the small shelter as the rain fell and the world slipped away.

Curling up in the chair, Clarke lingered in that memory: how an hour had passed and then another and how phones rang but no one answered them and how, when the rain let up, Clarke made sure Lexa followed her home.

Always staying a few steps ahead, sometimes turning to look back, never speaking, not even when they got to the door.

Clarke left it open as she stopped in the middle of the empty living room and waited as the door was closed and long fingers pulled down the zipper of her dress, then the straps, smooth over her shoulders, as a gentle breath warmed her cheek. As arms slipped around her and held her tightly, groping her breasts, as lips pressed rough and sweet at the wild pulse in her throat.

She could always smile at the memory of that first time, both in terrible need of something, anything to bury the ache, to feel anything but their pain. How they clutched and clung and held on for dear life as they lost themselves in one another and found it too perfect to stop. She could remember every detail: the color of the ceiling, the contrast of Lexa’s jacket, the polished shoes kicked into a corner as she was lifted, laid against the table, almost eaten alive, almost until she was screaming.

It was torture now, remembering how Lexa felt, how her hands shook, the glint of her watch, the scent of her shampoo, her red-rimmed eyes staring up at her from between her legs as she burrowed into Clarke’s soul through her cunt and made her forget.

Days of fucking and sleeping and so few words passing between them; that’s how it was, until Lexa had to return to assignment, had to fly off into hell and gone and how they had both shuddered, almost painfully, at that last time, in the back of the rental, where Clarke had bit her so hard it left a scar under her ear and they cried in frustration at one last release, slotted so hard and hot between them, pressing until it hurt, hoping the hurt would make goodbye easier.

But it wasn’t and it didn’t and it only took three years to get a yes out of her, and a ring, and a place for her dad’s chair.

Reaching between her thighs, Clarke ached now, worse than any ache she’d ever known, and pressed into herself until the ache settled a little and she could lose herself in sleep.

Outside, the rain fell.

*

“Oh god you’re soaked. Come in, quick.”

Clarke held the door open as Raven entered, dripping but smiling, holding what looked

like a bag of groceries.

“I was in the area, thought I should visit. Wow, Clarke. What have you been doing?”

Shaking off her jacket, Raven made a slow inspection of the living room, noting all the piles of books and boxes and empty fast food bags.

Hanging up her friend’s coat, Clarke shrugged, wrapping her arms around herself as if cold.

“Just thought I’d do some spring clinging, dust, you know.” 

“Well, it’s October, and aren’t these Lexa’s?”

Picking up a dusty volume, Raven flipped through the pages.

Clarke dropped back into the leather chair and nodded.

“Yeah, I just thought I’d maybe go through them. Figure out what to keep.”

“She really had a library, huh?”

“If you want something, just, go ahead.”

Raven stopped and looked back at Clarke, curled up in her spot, a red-wine throw draped over her shoulders. 

“Hey, I stopped at the Dragon and brought some food. I got those noodles you like and the chicken. We can eat and I’ll help you clean up.”

“I’m okay, Raven. Really.”

“You haven’t been to work for a week.” 

Clarke sighed and pulled the throw up to her chin.

Why does everyone have to fuss?

“I’m fine. I get down sometimes. I’ll get over it. I’ll be back at work on Monday.”

Kneeling by the chair, Raven picked invisible lint off the blanket.

“Abby said you were thinking about quitting.”

“It’s got nothing to do with Lex. I’ve been thinking about taking up painting again and I just need a little less stress in my life. That’s good, right?”

Raven nodded.

“You’d really walk away? I mean, it’s kind of been your life, Clarke.”

Gritting herself, Clarke took a calming breath.

“I haven’t decided anything yet, I just need some time to do that. I need something different, Raven. I’m not like my mom. I’m not like Wells. They just don’t get it and I’m tired of having to explain it. I’ll be fine. I just need…something else.”

She was everything and she’s gone and took everything with her.

Rubbing at Clarke’s covered foot, Raven attempted a smile.

“I’m sorry. I’m not here to pile-on. Come on. Let’s eat and sort some books.”

*

It was after midnight when Raven left, taking a box of books with her.

Clarke had tried to offer Lexa’s piano, but Raven doubted it would fit in the car and doubted further that Clarke really wanted to part with it. Music was Lexa’s first love, even if her dad and the military put it second and it was a love she shared with Clarke through mix tapes and play lists and old vinyl and late night slow dances in the kitchen.

In such moments they would dream up names for their fantasy lounge act, with Clarke draped across the piano like Michelle Pfeiffer in The Fabulous Baker Boys, but all the good ones were taken and Lexa had read where the actress had to wear knee and elbow pads for the scene, so the idea was often floated around but then abandoned by the time they reached their bed.

Sitting at the dusty keyboard, Clarke tried to remember a few notes Lexa had taught her, an old Billie Holiday song she’d always loved.

Ask the sky above And ask the earth below Why I'm so in love And why I love you so Couldn't tell you though I tried do Just why I'm yours

Resting her head against the top of the fallboard, Clarke’s hands stilled and her eyes closed, and in her mind she could see Lexa beside her, playing quietly, never looking up from her hands as the melody unwound itself from the instrument.

When you went away You left a glowing spark Trying to be gay As whistling in the dark I am only what you make me Come take me I'm yours

She remembered it was Halloween and she’d forgotten candy again and the clock had stopped and the rain had stopped but the music was too gentle and comforting and she could hear it clearer now, imagining a warm shoulder against hers, moving.

How happy I would be to beg or borrow For sorrow with you Even though I knew tomorrow You'd say we were through If we drift apart Then I'll be lost and alone Though you use my heart Just for a steppin' stone How can I help dreaming of you I love you I'm yours

The song ended and she felt herself breathless with racked sobs that wouldn’t stop, even as strange, familiar arms held her and rocked her, silently, and clear gray eyes met hers and nothing was real but everything was real and she felt her heart sinking and rising so painfully it might have been shock: the unspoken wish, fulfilled.

“Are you here?”

No sound, only graceful caresses across her cheeks, her temples, through her hair, and those eyes that saw through everything and said everything.

“Are you here?”

Silence again, then something like a smile.

“Do you want me to be?”

Tears were catching on her jaw, dripping into her neck and Clarke felt herself laughing. Maybe she was dying. Maybe this was the end of everything.

She pressed the longed-for face between her hands and the answer frozen the air between them--until their lips deliquesced in yes after yes after yes.

[layla4567]

A MERRY CHRISTMAS

Loki x Mobius // Modern AU

Summary: Loki and Mobius (more Loki than Mobius) compete with their neighbors to see who has the best decorated house Warnings: None i think A/N: It's the first time I've written something about Loki or any character in general and I don't pairing him with the reader, but they are such married couple material

━─━────༺༻────━─━━ ─━────༺༻────━─━

Loki looking through the window muttered and grumbled intelligible words with visible annoyance. The night was clear but cold. Mobius, seeing him so focused with his gaze fixed on the glass and what was beyond, approached behind Loki with curiosity, trying to understand his babbling.

"Loki what the hell are you doing?"

"It's the Ronans, darling. They're decorating their house with lights and reindeer…"-he said without looking at him

Mobius placed his hand on his shoulder and looked through the window, standing next to him.

"Well yes, and? It's almost until Christmas and that's what they usually do in the earth or Midgard as you like to call"

"I know and that's why I want to do the same!"-Loki said sliding the window curtain abruptly to close it.

Loki walked from right to left, chewing his growing anger; if he were a cartoon, smoke would have come out of his ears and feet with every step he took. Mobius scratched the bridge of his nose and sighed. With a squeeze on Loki's arm he stopped him.

"And may I know since when you want to become familiar with these customs and traditions?"

"Since they have better things than us!"-He raised his hands to the ceiling in exasperation.

"I don't think they have better things than us"-Mobius approached the window again and drew the curtain-"I see some plastic reindeer, colored lights, we have that. Mmh a Christmas tree, a snowman and-"

Suddenly the gray-haired man stopped in mid-sentence, which seemed suspicious to Loki.

"What? What's wrong, what did you see?"

Mobius regained his speech and cleared his throat carelessly.

"Oh nothing, It's just a Santa Claus…"

"I wanna see it"

"It doesn't matter, Loki-"

The god of mischief ignored his words and came closer to see Santa Claus. It was a beautiful and large inflatable doll that looked like a typical pot-bellied man dressed in red.

"It really doesn't matter, Mobius? Look how big it is."

Mobius looked out the window again with Loki and suddenly his neighbor went up to the roof and placed the doll in an even bigger sleigh full of reindeer, and of course with a sack full of gifts. Loki looked at his partner who was now deadly serious and with his jaw clenched.

"Loki.."

"Yes dear?"

"We need a sleigh and a Santa Claus"

Loki smiled and suppressed a giggle, and hugged Mobius from behind, placing his chin on top of his head.

"Of course my love"-and kissed his hair

─━────༺༻────━─━

"Alright, we now have everything we need, we can now pay fo- Loki!! Loki, leave that snowglobe, you're going to break it and it's very expensive!"

Already in their comfortable house, Loki and Mobius left the Christmas decorations on the living room floor to unpack them and decorate the outside of the house.

"We would have bought the giant snow globe"-Loki said

"I already told you no, I didn't have any more money left"

Mobius bent down to open the boxes and take out the lights and other things.

"Come on Loki, give me a hand with this."

Between the two of them they unwrapped reindeer and snowmen the size of a dresser. Mobius hugged the smiling snowman adorned with a little hat on his head and trudged towards the door. Loki looked at the bubble paper carefully and sat down inspecting it. His fingers without thinking burst a small bubble and his eyes opened in surprise. Mobius, who was surprised not to have Loki by his side, turned around with a grimace due to the weight of the doll and saw his partner sitting on the floor watching the security wrapper like a child

"Mobius, what is this..?"

"That's what you use to keep fragile objects from breaking, why?"

"Oh for nothing"

Loki burst another bubble again and when he did he couldn't stop. Then one became two and two became three and so on until a new addiction inadvertently arose in him. Mobius snorted angrily and exclaimed

"Loki please stop fooling around and grab a reindeer to put outside!"

"Oh yeah! Sorry"

Loki jumped up and grabbed the red-nosed reindeer and approached Mobius holding the door with one foot so he could get out. It was snowing outside and it was a strong contrast between the warm and cozy atmosphere inside thanks to the lit fireplace. Mobius Loki left the objects in the snow and with their arms on their hips they looked at the outdoor part of the house.

"Ok I think we will have a lot of work ahead of us"

"Look who's coming there"-Loki pointed out

Suddenly his neighbor Mr. Ronan came out of his house grabbing a medium-sized cardboard box.

"Great, they're probably coming to show off their expensive decorations."-Mobius whispered

"Hello Mobius, Loki, I see that you are also going to decorate your house for Christmas."-he laughed happily

Mr. Ronan was a somewhat unpleasant man to deal with, he always boasted that his house was always the best decorated and every year he won some Christmas contest. His wife and children were just as petulant as him.

"Hi Jerry, that's right and it seems like you're not done yet."-he said awkwardly

"Ha ha of course I'm not done yet, now I'm about to put up more lights!"

He put the box on the floor and opened it, taking out long strips of colored lights.

"More lights? But his house already looks like a disco ball"-Loki said softly.

Mobius nudged him in the belly to which Loki grunted. Jerry stood up confused and Mobius smiled nervously.

"Well, we won't bother you, we're going to put up our decorations."

Mobius pointed to the reindeer and the Nivee doll and Jerry looked at them with a mocking smile, at that moment Loki looked at him with a threatening and serious face.

"Oh, that's all you were able to buy? What a shame, if you want I can lend you some items, there were many leftovers from last Christmas."-he laughed

Ronan's words seemed kind but his sarcastic tone was unbearable and mean. Loki lowered his chin, tensing his muscles, and moved closer to his neighbor, but Mobius grabbed him by the waist and gently pulled him back.

"It's not necesary thanks"-The gray-haired man growled under his breath.

Jerry went away to set up the lights and Mobius and Loki approached the reindeer and the snowman.

"If I see him again I will cut out his tongue."-Lloki said

"It's better to ignore him, he's always like that."

"But he made fun of our decor!"

"Then let's show him that ours is better, we'll make him bite the dust"

Loki looked at his proud partner and kissed him on the head.

"Well said"

─━────༺༻────━─━

"Come on Loki you can do it! More to the left!"

I'M DOING EVERYTHING I CAN!!

Mobius gave Loki instructions on where to place the sleigh with the great Santa Claus, but the patience of the god of mischief was running out.

"This is ridiculous!"-Loki said with his hands on his hips.

Mobius grimaced and snorted until he heard the voices of his neighbors. When he turned to look he found Jerry Ronan with his wife and two spoiled children looking up at our roof and laughing.

"Problems with your decoration, neighbor?"-Jerry mocked.

Mobius clenched his fists and forced a smile.

"Don't worry, there's nothing we can't solve…idiot"

He whispered the latter so that they wouldn't hear it. Loki continued fighting with Santa Claus until, furious, he accidentally kicked the sack of gifts and they fell down, getting caught in a bush. Mobius did facepalm

Loki saw how the neighbors laughed and saw his children point at him and stick out their tongues.

"Let's see who has the last laugh, spawns of evil"

Loki came down from the roof and made some daggers appear and when he was about to walk towards his neighbor Mobius grabbed him by the waist and stopped him.

"Whoa, whoa, What do you think you're doing?"

"Mobius, they laughed in my face, I'm going to teach them a lesson"

"I agree but not that way. Come on let's finish the decoration"

And so a kind of pitched battle began where each neighbor added more decorations. Lights, snowmen, giant gingerbread cookies, etc. From time to time Loki would cheat and use his magic to deflate the neighbor's reindeer or burn down his Christmas lights. But the final surprise was some fireworks that Loki managed to conjure and that left the neighbors stunned. In the sky was a bright, emerald green Christmas tree. Loki stood behind Mobius with his hands on his shoulders and looked at the sky and then looked at the neighbors with a proud gesture.

"Take that and your lousy house"

Jerry and his family frowned and grunting, they went inside their house, muttering expletives. One of the sons even gave him the middle finger. How rude. Mobius laughed and turned to see Loki.

"What a unique Christmas, huh?"

Loki smiled "But with you, you make everything better"

Mobius smiled and hugged the black-haired man.

"Merry Christmas Loki"

"Merry Christmas to you too, dear"

─━────༺༻────━─━ ─━────༺༻────━─━

Well I was supposed to publish this before but I was writing other things so I forgot, sorry xd

Merry Christmas y'all :)

[scriveyner]

always summer #20

always summer #20: fireworks | bungou stray dogs |👿🐯 | #kinktober 🔞| ~1100 words

Dazai was perched on the metal guardrail, watching the sea of pedestrian traffic flowing between the park attractions. It was dusk already, and this stretch of the arcade was lit by strands of bare-bulb lights strung between vendor stalls, interspersed with colorful, if faded, pennant flags. The lights on the attractions moved in patterns, under which people clustered for chances to win cheap prizes by knocking over milk cans or popping balloons with darts.

Continue on ao3 or:

Chuuya was a dark figure weaving efficiently through the ever-moving throng of people; he emerged near Dazai carting two covered boxes, a plastic garbage-bag-sized bag of popcorn under his arm, and enormous drinks in his other hand. To his credit, he was managing all of this food without the telltale red glimmer of his ability at work, and Dazai could only be a little impressed at the fact that he was holding both enormous cups in the same hand by their bottoms.

“What’s all this?” Dazai asked as he was handed a box, hot with food inside and the bottom wet with grease.

Chuuya looked around. “Huh, did we lose Atsushi and Akutagawa?”

“They’ve been gone a while now, just like you. Atsushi-kun was hungry, and Akutagawa-kun clearly loves indulging him.” Dazai plucked a perfectly deep-fried piece of food out of a sea of soggy fries. “What is this?”

“Dunno. Chicken, hopefully. They were deep-frying everything in sight, so there’s no telling.”

Dazai bit into it without further inspection and made no noise of distress, so it was at least edible. Chuuya leaned the closed plastic bag of popcorn against the rail before he opened his own box of food. “Glad I didn’t bother to haul food over for them too, then,” he said, and Dazai nodded his head, absently people-watching. “The burger prices here are obscene, they must be making money hand over fist. We oughta get in on it.”

“Opening a food truck in a heavily tourist-infested area and price-gouging?” Dazai chewed on a fry. “Retirement plans are for people who aren’t planning on killing themselves when they finally convince the love of their life to join them in the sweet abyss.”

“Remind me to take you off the liability insurance.”

Dazai smirked to himself and continued to eat fries, still watching the crowds of people and looking to pick out a familiar pair but not seeing them yet. “Hey, how many cheeseburgers do you think Atsushi can eat?”

Chuuya tilted his head back, elbows hooked over the rail. “Total, or in one sitting?”

“I don’t think there’s a number high enough to gauge the first.”

“Point. Counterpoint,” Chuuya pointed at Dazai with a fry, who then leaned over and took it from Chuuya’s fingers with his mouth. “How much money you got, because I’m pretty sure it would bankrupt the Port Mafia.”

They both laughed, the noise lost under the clamor of the amusement park.

~*~

The promenade was the place to be, filling up quickly with people all lining up for the best positions to watch the show. They were far enough away from the wide, paved paths around the lake the amusement park sat on that the risk of discovery was minimal, but all the same Atsushi kept a nervous eye out for movement. “If you were so worried about being caught,” Akutagawa said breathlessly, leg hiked over Atsushi’s hip and shoulders pressed to the bark of the large old tree, “you wouldn’t have initiated.”

“I wasn’t thinking about that,” Atsushi said distractedly, hands shifting back to Akutagawa’s hips, holding him tight and keeping him pressed back into the tree. “I wasn’t thinking at all, really, I just really, really wanted to kiss you.”

Akutagawa wet his lips and groaned softly; his hand curled in Atsushi’s shirt. “You’ve done more than just kiss me,” he grunted, but he wasn’t chastising, just stating a fact that he was clearly, clearly enjoying. He grunted again and let out a soft little groan as Atsushi changed his stance, which changed the way his cock was pressed into Akutagawa’s walls.

“It’s not my fault you looked so cute coming off that roller coaster,” Atsushi was panting now, bouncing Akutagawa slightly on his dick, half grinding and half thrusting. “Your hair was all silly and you were smiling, what was I supposed to do?”

“You were supposed to kiss me, ah,” Akutagawa’s legs tightened on his sides. “There.”

 “There?” Atsushi found the spot again and honed in on it, and they were lost in each other, shortened breaths and soft moans shared between them. Akutagawa’s mouth stayed open as he panted, hand tight on the back of Atsushi’s neck, and Atsushi’s eyes were locked on his, so close, so close—

In the distance, they both could hear the roar of the crowds and, a split second later, thunder in the night as the fireworks show began in earnest. The brilliant colors lit them up even hidden as they were in the tight cluster of trees, golds and reds and greens dappling Akutagawa’s skin; and he laughed, catching Atsushi’s shirt in both hands and pulling him into a kiss as they rocked together.

“Come on,” Akutagawa moaned against his mouth and Atsushi shifted his grip, one arm now braced against the tree, Akutagawa pressed nearly double as he slammed in again and again, until Akutagawa was sobbing his name, fingers crooked into claws and digging into Atsushi’s skin through his shirt.

Atsushi’s breath was harsh against Akutagawa’s ear, “Ryuunosuke, Ryuuno—ah, fuck…”

Akutagawa shuddered, Atsushi throbbing inside; all the tension built up and released. He could feel his heartbeat so fast, their chests nearly together; finally, Atsushi exhaled low and long.

“Sorry,” he managed, panting hoarsely into Akutagawa’s ear, the flush on his skin drowned out by the faint echoes of color bursting from the sky above. “I didn’t pull out.”

Akutagawa’s fingers tightened on the back of his skull for just a moment before releasing, his heart beating nearly as fast. “You must take responsibility for cleanup then,” he said, finally, and Atsushi laughed, nuzzling his face and kissing him again before pulling out with a wet noise.

“I can handle that,” he said, going smoothly to his knees in front of the wobbly-legged Akutagawa. He let Akutagawa support himself with a leg thrown over his shoulders, and Akutagawa twisted both his hands in Atsushi’s hair as he slid his fingers through his own mess before beginning to clean him.

Akutagawa watched the fireworks through the trees, as the show finally drew to a dramatic finale. “They’ll be looking for us,” he said idly, shuddering as Atsushi’s fingers thrust in deep, then his breath slid over Akutagawa’s sensitive dick.

“Let them look, I’m not done here.”

[4phuwinss]

I Am From

I am from the culture of the crashing waves against the jagged rocks of the shore, while churches sing their songs.

As well as from the culture of ancient prayers echoing among the sun-soaked streets and the hum from bustling bazaars.

The cultures which intertwine so effortlessly, yet mangle each other like a thorn drawing against the skin.

From my father who is strong and determined, scars covering his brown-skinned body, telling the stories of his childhood on the island.

From my mother, who is gentle and caring, scars that veil her damaged heart, telling the tales of her Islamic upbringing.

I am from a home where love overpowers all, no matter the sound of shattering plates, slamming doors, and yelling echoing down the hall.

Where food means forgiveness, whether the savory steak or the mouth-watering chocolate cake.

I am from the prolonged nights on the road in the mountains; the soaring heights that made my stomach churn any time we neared the edge.

The sharp, distinct smell of wet evergreen trees, bark, and mud filling the cramped car with the windows down.

I am from a sweet yet pungent smell of gasoline that would overwhelm the nose at every stop.

From the lingering lysol mixed with urine in the bathrooms, where the toilet lids were fragile and damaged.

And from the foggy, clouded mirrors that were marked with streaks from harsh scrubbing, that no amount of Windex could fix.

I am from the meals of Subway and gas station sandwiches. The crispy lettuce that was no longer crunchy, but soggy and tough to chew.

I am from the crumbs of chips flooding the car seats nestled underneath the plastic bags and wrinkled up saran wrap.

The frigid air swarming the car as soon as the windows creaked downwards,

The soft yet rugged blanket I kept with me, covering my small body,

The body growing with every move we made.

I am from the crowded hallways where laughter and voices echoed through corridors.

Where people migrated in flocks, like birds swarming the vibrant blue sky above the school.

I am from the irritating ringing, not to dismiss us, but to remind the teachers.

I am from the sleek, smooth papers that were textured with tiny ink letters.

From classrooms engulfed with deodorant far too rancid to rid their body odor,

And the perfumes where the alcohol overburdened the fruity scent.

From the giggling and snorting amongst friends at the circular tables,

To the salty, stingy tears and quiet sobs that reminisce the quiet winds in the woods.

From the sugary fruits we would pass around after hours of our stomach rumbling like a broken machine.

To the crammed gymnasiums where athletes and parents alike would flood the moments the doors open.

The early mornings where our bare skin made contact with the chilled basketball court.

From the numbers that flash a watermelon green, guaranteeing us our spot to wrestle.

To the moment our shoes step onto the mat, the whistles blowing and coaches screaming,

To the teammates cheering on the mat, celebrating a win

From the mixture of the tangy sweat and tears that drip down our bruised and damaged bodies,

From the wins and losses that weigh heavy on our heart, like a boulder crushing against our chest.

The lessons that we learn through discipline and hard work, to the family we have through bonds not blood.

I am from a place of love.

Where home was not a structure held by wood and nails but rather the relationships we built.

The branches of genetics and connection rather than the materialistic buildings.

I am from a place where holidays were not needed to spend time together.

A place where the houses and parks were filled with howling and chuckling of childrens and adults alike.

Where the aroma was filled with a citrusy spice, hot like the grill's flame.

Our relationships intertwined like the baskets we weave from the leaves from the trees.

From a culture where respect was a given not a privilege,

The aunts and uncles who were merely childhood friends,

Those aunties who wore flashy gold jewelry that clanked against each other each time they wave their hands,

To uncles who wore their colorful i’e because they couldn’t fathom wearing pants at home.

Where passing by an elder prompted a quiet “Tulou” as you bowed whilst walking,

A place where names like “sosisi” and “valea” were terms of endearment rather than insults.

A place where love can spread thousands of miles, across the powerful ocean.

From a place where our family is our pride, and our pride determines our family.

[vasilinaorlova]

From a Novel

People are cutting soap bars with knives on camera now, and videos are going viral. I watched the videos obsessively. What does the virality bring to the authors of the Instagram accounts who cut soap bars with sharp knives? Do they get paid for their effort? The light alone is already art. Videos of cutting soap bars belong to the general category of “satisfying videos.” Hours upon hours of satisfying videos had been made and uploaded, including videos of slime meshing, hydraulic press crushing objects, shredders chewing down plastic bottles and bowling balls. Soap bars are prepared to be cut in advance. The soap is softened somehow. There is a technology to the process. The creator makes accurate cuts in the soap bar. First in one direction, and then the other, in a chess crossing, the creator cuts the cuts and then cuts across the cuts made previously. When the soap bar has dried, the light is on, and the background is carefully curated, the creator takes the knife and begins to cut the soap bar on camera. Bits of soap bar are detaching from the soap bar with a pleasant pop. Pop-pop-pop-pop-pop, bits are falling into the bowl—usually, a bowl, but sometimes the background is more elaborate. The master of the genre cut the soap bars against other soap bars, aligned waiting to be cut. Some creators seem to be cutting soap bars for years. Creators perfect their soap-cutting skills and bring those skills to the level of art. Some creators orchestrate whole symphonies of cutting soap. I have watched one forty-minute video where soap bars of carefully selected colors were cut, and the video was just one out of the whole rows. The videos had poetic titles, like Fall is in the City, and The Dash of Spring. The Love Symphony, featuring red and black soap bars and a lot of glitter, 120,000 views. The Farewell to the Dream, yellow, blue, and white soap bars and roses and boxes created out of soap, also with glitter but also foam, 145,000 views. The artist created especially beautiful flowers and boxes out of soap to crush in her hands on video with a “satisfying” sound. The viewers commented that they especially appreciated that she had clean hands in the beginning of each fragment of the video, crushing the new and new rows of her boxes and flowers. There were also microaggressors in comments, asking how many hours did she spend putting together those boxes, or what she did to all the cut soap, mixed with glitter? Glitter was bad for the environment. The videos had hashtags “autonomous sensory meridian response” and “ASMR,” the words tantalizing in and of themselves. What was the meaning of “sensory meridian”? I have been mesmerized by soap cutting videos, sitting on my sofa after tennis, the light of the Texas sun entangled in the branches of a pecan tree behind the window.

[eris-snow]

𝐀 𝐅𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐧𝐝 𝐂𝐥𝐨𝐬𝐞 𝐁𝐲

Tags: Deku's birthday series 2023, izuku x fem!reader, angst

And it’s stupid that you feel this way, because, who falls in love and stays devoted, to someone who is always out of reach?

I asked 3 different people on how to cheer you up, but no one got it quite right, so I ended up going with my own idea. I’m glad that you’re feeling better. P.s, my offer still stands. I’m a wall away if you need to talk. Just swing by.

- Izuku

That was Izuku’s note to you yesterday. One you find pasted so haphazardy on your Mathematics test paper that…for some reason had Shakespeare on it.

This was probably right before your little incident had taken place.

Last night was a painful blur that was highlighted by Izuku’s warm arms around you, Izuku’s comforting words, Izuku’s steady patting on your back that reminded you how to breathe again.

To cut to the chase, it was a lot of…Izuku.

Thankfully, the nerd made the swift conclusion after accessing your cursed sleep-talking and wolf howl of a scream to assume that he had died in your nightmare. And technically, that was sort of true.

Kind of.

That night had scared the living daylights out of you, and probably out of Izuku as well. He hid his fear well, but…you remember his trembling fingers and shaky exhales.

He had been scared too.

--

“Izuku, I’m going there on Saturday.” You announce as you slam your tray down at his table. Green eyes meet yours, his smile dissolving as his eyebrows crunch together in confusion. It takes 5 seconds for him to realise what you’re talking about. “Oh.”

Katsuki stares between the two of you, fork in his hand and a look of petulant frustration lining his features. “Where?” He spits, stabbing his cutlet. “Stop being so vague like y’all are hotshots sitting around King Arthur’s round table. We’re teenagers who have class in twenty minutes sitting at a table made of plastic. Quit with the theatrics.”

You sighs, slumping down in your seat. “Hi, Katsuki.”

“Shortie.”

“Kacchan!” Izuku frowns. “Starlight meant the lake. The clearing she showed me when you refused to join us on our picnic a month after the war ended?”

Sharp, scarlet eyes widen in recognition as he chews his food, eyes flying to you. “You mean—”

“Yes, that clearing with the weeping willow tree thing.” You interrupt, eyes conveying your message loud and clear: Zip it.

Katsuki shoots back a glare, which ultimately says: Don’t tell me what to do, asshole.

“I don’t give a shit,” He grumbles, stabbing his food again. “That spot is practically a ‘you’ spot. I want nothing to do with it.”

It was a nice little clearing you’d found not too deep into the forest. It was one of those spots that were straight out of a story: A crystal-clean lake that was small but beautiful, and a weeping willow that casted a shadow for shade.

You used to go there often.

Turning back to you, Izuku gives you a hopeful smile. “Can I join you? I want to visit Mom.”

You nod your head. “Of course. We can have a picnic there! It’s been awhile since we last went. We can even skip rocks or find other games to play!”

Smiling to himself, Izuku takes a bite of his meal. “Sounds great, Starlight.”

--

When I introduced this game to you, it wasn’t my first time playing Secrets.

Izuku tilts his head and looks at you questioningly, Post-it note still in his hands. Was this game introduced to you? Did this mean you played this game with someone other than him? The thought makes his stomach churn. He doesn’t like that idea.

“Oh, stop with that look,” You chide as you do your sit-ups. “It’s not what you think.”

“Well, what am I thinking then?” He demands, shoving the sticky note under his bottle as he walks over to you. He sits down on the floor next to you, holding your ankles so that you can perform the sit-ups at a faster pace.

Expression neutral, you don’t stop your reps as your reply without missing a beat. “You look like I just betrayed you for introducing a bonding game from my childhood to you, but you know that isn’t fair so you’re not saying anything so that you don’t come off as selfish.”

“I didn’t say that!” Izuku defends quickly.

You pause mid-sit-up. “Did you think it though?”

His head droops. “Yes.”

You laugh, a smile forming on your lips. “I used to have this…friend. We used to live pretty close by, actually, before he-uh,” You swallowed, eyes hazy for a moment. “Moved.”

Izuku doesn’t stop you and lets you continue. “We came up with it together. At first, it was just a form of communication, like passing notes in class. But slowly, it became more…personal.” You smile fondly while you recite the memory, and Izuku listens carefully, hanging on your every word. “We started falling into the habit of doing it more often until it was on a daily basis. Simple things like, ‘I was actually really mad when this happened, even though I pretended that everything was fine.’”

Your smile is so tender as you recall the origins of the seemingly meaningless game. But this isn’t meaningless to him. This was special beyond words, even though it seemed ordinary or simple.

“That sounds really nice,” The One For All wielder comments, eyes swarming with understanding.

“It was,” You agree, eyes shifting to Izuku. “I introduced it to you because you’re someone I trust. I just…wanted you to know that you could do the same.”

A fiery blush creeps across his face as his heart melts when he hears you say that. He hadn’t realised how lucky he’d gotten when you became his friend. Izuku’s eyes are averted as he fiddles with the fabric of his sweat-soaked shirt. “You’ve made me really want to hug you now, but I can’t because we’re both gross and drenched in sweat.” He grumbles, making you laugh.

“I’m sorry,” You tease, nudging him playfully.

“You’re not forgiven.”

The both of you burst into a fit of giggles, before he helps you up. “Ready to go? We still have homework to do.”

Nodding, you grab your water bottle and follow Izuku out of the gym to head back to the dorms. And that’s when that question comes back.

“How are your nightmares?” He asks quietly, changing the subject. “Did you sleep better last night?’

You wish you could just forget last night. And the stupidest thing is, that had been the best sleep you’ve gotten in weeks.

“Dreamless,” You confirm, rubbing your own arm sheepishly. “Thanks for yesterday. That, uh, meant a lot to me.”

“No, no! It wasn’t a problem! I’m glad I was there to help.” In all honesty, Izuku’s relieved. He knows how painful it is, getting bombarded with wave after wave of nightmares that seem so vivid. “Do you…get those nightmares a lot?”

There’s a pause, before you nod. “Yeah. Yeah, I do.”

“I know how that feels,” He admits, “I hate dreaming about losing people.”

Your scream echoes in his mind again, and it makes him shudder. He can’t stand the nightmares that he loses you in.

“Me too,” Your voice sounds…small, uncertain, so Izuku leaves the subject as that. Instead, he switches back to your story about your game with him, still interested in what you had to say.

“What did happen to him?” Izuku asks suddenly, standing outside the dorms now.

“Huh?”

“I meant, the guy you originally used to play the game with. Is he still around?”

You stare at him with a surprised look, a myriad of emotions flashing through your eyes. Your smile is dismissive, but there’s a hint of sadness in it when you reply.

“He’s long gone now.”

[lastlycoris]

[The air above your bed seems to waver and shift, like a mirage. When you put your full attention to it, it becomes increasingly clear, coming into focus like a magic eye puzzle.

Soon on your bed you plainly see what is a large red tote bag that can be opened with a zipper. Around the strap is a little note that reads:

Hi! Thanks in advance for letting me meddle! Love meddling. Anyway, much like your phone, this bag and its contents will only be perceivable to you. On the subject of its contents: use your imagination! Anything that can conceivably fit in this bag- from a single malt ball to a whole torpedo sub, along with any tools needed to eat it. To get you started, I've included a mini charcuterie board with sealed bags of cured meats, fruits, cheese cubes, and crackers. Also a homemade cola and some peanut butter chocolate chip cookies (let me know if you like them). Put whatever you don't eat back into the bag and seal it and it will go away! Cheers!

Not mentioned but clearly visible in the bag, along with the rest of its promised contents, is a plastic toy centipede with a smiley face.]

The sudden air shimmering like a mirage surprised her initially, but Euridice never felt like she was in danger. It's clear to her someone was trying to send something. And if it were dangerous, the potted willow tree in her jail cell would've alerted her to it.

The red tote bag, which came into view like a focused telescope, fell onto her bed without any fanfare, but what caught her attention was the little note on it.

Euridice read through the note quickly - and when she read what was in it, her gaze towards the bag immediately became covetous. Opening up the bag in a hurry, she took out the peanut butter chocolate chip cookies first. She wasn't a big fan of sweets, but after having no sweets for the past couple days, she'd been craving them immensely.

The peanut butter chocolate chip cookie tasted like salvation - like letting go of a stress that she hadn't known she was carrying . It was sweet and nutty and delicious - and she almost didn't mind the shadowy hand peeking out of the floor and nabbing at a cookie.

Almost.

She quickly took hold of the creature's wrist - and immediately realized the disparity in their strength. Immediately, she and the cookies were sent to the floor. She crashed - but the cookies didn't.

She finally got to see the creature that's been stealing food from her - at least food from another world. The dark grey cryptid was vaguely shaped like a small girl except it didn't have a face - though that didn't stop it from chewing on a cookie. On top of its head was something vaguely shaped like a Y with two horizontal lines underneath - a Yuan symbol - China's symbol of currency. And she couldn't help but wonder if she was being taxed for these multiversal transports.

More importantly, the cookies were stacked on top of its head, its bangs forming the shape of a plate. It lifted part of its body out of the floor to place the cookies back on the bed. It then took another cookie before disappearing from view.

She blinked.

Okay. Fine. She'll forgive it just once because it saved her cookies - even if it was its fault they nearly fell in the first place.

Munching on another cookie, she notices the small toy centipede with a smiley face, getting her definite answer on who sent the food here. She pulled out her phone.

[ Thank you, Luna. I received the food, and I definitely found the cookies delicious. You are a life saver. It also seems like it attracted the local cryptid too because it took one also - and then another, so I guess it liked it too. I'll definitely get into the charcuterie board too. Once again, thank you. ]

[hoursofreading]

How to Be Perfect

BY RON PADGETT

                                                  Everything is perfect, dear friend.                                                   —KEROUAC

Get some sleep.

Don't give advice.

Take care of your teeth and gums.

Don't be afraid of anything beyond your control. Don't be afraid, for instance, that the building will collapse as you sleep, or that someone you love will suddenly drop dead.

Eat an orange every morning.

Be friendly. It will help make you happy.

Raise your pulse rate to 120 beats per minute for 20 straight minutes four or five times a week doing anything you enjoy.

Hope for everything. Expect nothing.

Take care of things close to home first. Straighten up your room before you save the world. Then save the world.

Know that the desire to be perfect is probably the veiled expression of another desire—to be loved, perhaps, or not to die.

Make eye contact with a tree.

Be skeptical about all opinions, but try to see some value in each of them.

Dress in a way that pleases both you and those around you.

Do not speak quickly.

Learn something every day. (Dzien dobre!)

Be nice to people before they have a chance to behave badly.

Don't stay angry about anything for more than a week, but don't forget what made you angry. Hold your anger out at arm's length and look at it, as if it were a glass ball. Then add it to your glass ball collection.

Be loyal.

Wear comfortable shoes.

Design your activities so that they show a pleasing balance and variety.

Be kind to old people, even when they are obnoxious. When you become old, be kind to young people. Do not throw your cane at them when they call you Grandpa. They are your grandchildren!

Live with an animal.

Do not spend too much time with large groups of people.

If you need help, ask for it.

Cultivate good posture until it becomes natural.

If someone murders your child, get a shotgun and blow his head off.

Plan your day so you never have to rush.

Show your appreciation to people who do things for you, even if you have paid them, even if they do favors you don't want.

Do not waste money you could be giving to those who need it.

Expect society to be defective. Then weep when you find that it is far more defective than you imagined.

When you borrow something, return it in an even better condition.

As much as possible, use wooden objects instead of plastic or metal ones.

Look at that bird over there.

After dinner, wash the dishes.

Calm down.

Visit foreign countries, except those whose inhabitants have expressed a desire to kill you.

Don't expect your children to love you, so they can, if they want to.

Meditate on the spiritual. Then go a little further, if you feel like it.

What is out (in) there?

Sing, every once in a while.

Be on time, but if you are late do not give a detailed and lengthy excuse.

Don't be too self-critical or too self-congratulatory.

Don't think that progress exists. It doesn't.

Walk upstairs.

Do not practice cannibalism.

Imagine what you would like to see happen, and then don't do anything to make it impossible.

Take your phone off the hook at least twice a week.

Keep your windows clean.

Extirpate all traces of personal ambitiousness.

Don't use the word extirpate too often.

Forgive your country every once in a while. If that is not possible, go to another one.

If you feel tired, rest.

Grow something.

Do not wander through train stations muttering, "We're all going to die!"

Count among your true friends people of various stations of life.

Appreciate simple pleasures, such as the pleasure of chewing, the pleasure of warm water running down your back, the pleasure of a cool breeze, the pleasure of falling asleep.

Do not exclaim, "Isn't technology wonderful!"

Learn how to stretch your muscles. Stretch them every day.

Don't be depressed about growing older. It will make you feel even older. Which is depressing.

Do one thing at a time.

If you burn your finger, put it in cold water immediately. If you bang your finger with a hammer, hold your hand in the air for twenty minutes. You will be surprised by the curative powers of coldness and gravity.

Learn how to whistle at earsplitting volume.

Be calm in a crisis. The more critical the situation, the calmer you should be.

Enjoy sex, but don't become obsessed with it. Except for brief periods in your adolescence, youth, middle age, and old age.

Contemplate everything's opposite.

If you're struck with the fear that you've swum out too far in the ocean, turn around and go back to the lifeboat.

Keep your childish self alive.

Answer letters promptly. Use attractive stamps, like the one with a tornado on it.

Cry every once in a while, but only when alone. Then appreciate how much better you feel. Don't be embarrassed about feeling better.

Do not inhale smoke.

Take a deep breath.

Do not smart off to a policeman.

Do not step off the curb until you can walk all the way across the street. From the curb you can study the pedestrians who are trapped in the middle of the crazed and roaring traffic.

Be good.

Walk down different streets.

Backwards.

Remember beauty, which exists, and truth, which does not. Notice that the idea of truth is just as powerful as the idea of beauty.

Stay out of jail.

In later life, become a mystic.

Use Colgate toothpaste in the new Tartar Control formula.

Visit friends and acquaintances in the hospital. When you feel it is time to leave, do so.

Be honest with yourself, diplomatic with others.

Do not go crazy a lot. It's a waste of time.

Read and reread great books.

Dig a hole with a shovel.

In winter, before you go to bed, humidify your bedroom.

Know that the only perfect things are a 300 game in bowling and a 27-batter, 27-out game in baseball.

Drink plenty of water. When asked what you would like to drink, say, "Water, please."

Ask "Where is the loo?" but not "Where can I urinate?"

Be kind to physical objects.

Beginning at age forty, get a complete "physical" every few years from a doctor you trust and feel comfortable with.

Don't read the newspaper more than once a year.

Learn how to say "hello," "thank you," and "chopsticks" in Mandarin.

Belch and fart, but quietly.

Be especially cordial to foreigners.

See shadow puppet plays and imagine that you are one of the characters. Or all of them.

Take out the trash.

Love life.

Use exact change.

When there's shooting in the street, don't go near the window.

[whisperthatruns]

The Long Labors

My grandmother said it was going to be long—as long as you can hold your lineage—depending on how long you can hold your tongue—as long as your tongue can wrap around the pit—of some stolen stone fruit—as long as you can hide your pitter-patter face—glued in sun-split splinters—lengthening shadows as long as your face—longing to be mirrored back—back to your daughter your mother your grandmother—freckle by freckle—furnished forever across—the long loaming haul—                     Collapsed in a pool of spit—my mouth over papers—raccoon doctorate—luxurious loser with thin branch fingers—no meat in the palm—no muscle in the bending—the farmer in me is atrophying—the cook the factory seamstress the clerk the mother in me is pooling out—all that I come from—all that I owe to them—what is left of me—what is—me: professorial rat—book-leavened and maddened in meetings—chewing at my desk on a frozen anything—microwave spun and splattered on lessons—wondering who packaged this—who spooned this glacial sauce into this plastic hull—whose hands whose daughter does she look like me does she like dancing in the gloaming—funneled into my greedy mouth—I: daughter of long labors—I: knock-off half-price guilt—I: impossible imposter big words big words—trying to prove what—and to whom—I wait to be seated at a restaurant—a white person enters and orders from me—“I want sweet and sour chicken but without bell peppers and brown rice”—and I almost take it down—                     In the twelfth hour of night-shift overtime—my mother gobbles the air of the facility—mouth opening a cavern or a bowhead whale or a sinkhole—gobbling up its oxygen its nitrogen its argon its skin its hair dust its swirling smog—collecting time collecting benefits—her eyes so baggy they carry a leaking pack of chicken breasts—she had planned to cook tonight for us—but look at the break room clock she is out of time and now—they will surely go bad—what a waste at $1.50 a pound—she returns to her station rubs tiger balm and lavender oil along her wrists and hands—chews dried ginger to keep awake—the root of herself sharpening salivating—reapplies pink lipstick swivels the tube upward—rituals of resilience—feeds letters to machines churning intestinal noise—electricity bills and love letters and baby photos and magazines ladies who lunch will take to the salon and credit card limited-time offers and reminders from the dentist and supermarket weeklies and postcards from Oahu—“you wouldn’t believe how blue the water how restful how peaceful bring the whole family next time”—ginger chew ginger chew—                     Who made this for you—do you know the song that reminds them of home—do you know to play the radio as loud as you can and roll down the windows and smack your cheeks ten times in order to stay awake for the drive—do you know who sewed on this button—do you know the murmuring leg ache from standing all day a tree for whom—do you know who processed the letter you received today—fed it into a machine with paper cuts as wide as a river you could float in—do you know how long you can hold your urine until your 15-minute break—the roiling pressure in the abdomen the tick-tap of the feet the hands—how much to tip the gas station attendant in Jersey how the smell sticks behind both earlobes—the temperature when flipping a wok the oil burns the white paper hat measuring salt at the brim—how your impatient face resembles a slowly rotting peach—worms in the snarl—do you know the name of  your fishmonger the name of  my uncle—the times he snuck in a call to say he will be late picking up his daughter fish scales glittered to his elbows like opera gloves—do you know cuticles peeling white like flecks of cod after washing dishes—do you know the smell of nail polish remover stinging bees in your nostrils—do you know the back—how the back curls how the back bridges how the back puckers and crunches—like packed snow no one else but you will shovel out—I look up how labor is used in a sentence—“the obvious labor”—“immigrants provided a source of cheap labor”—“negotiations between labor and management”—“wants the vote of labor in the elections”—“the flood destroyed the labor of years”—“industry needs labor for production”—anthropocene capitalism gentrification—what do these words mean—and to whom—helping my mother over the sink—I snip the ends of long beans 豆角 with kitchen shears—the ends rolling away—green lizard tails—I cut away each word like a long bean—gentrificat—gentrif—gen—ge—g—glugging the g—down the drain—                     If only lying on a beach—limbs loosened like an old garden hose—if only watching the movements of our stomachs—rising and falling like baby jellyfish—our thighs waxing and waning—in bristle-rough sand if only—reading a book the pages—wrinkled and curled like a snail shell—from falling asleep against our faces—if only devouring a cloud—full of no rain no metallic muscle if—only softness if only we—went off in the softness—into the downy relaxing abyss—what is this word—vacation—my grandmother asks me chili hitting the wok like delicious dying stars—                     My grandmother said it was going to be long—going out the door always late for work—shirt inside out—said go on and bounce a howling baby (my mother/me/et al)—while skimming oxtail broth—the fat sheen of look how well we eat in this country—lest you forget it was worth it—lest you forget—the dilation of the cervix going the contractions going the grip the placenta the shit the vernix the garbled life going the soft flashlight eyes the milk the teeth the nails the hand on heart the soup coagulating on the stove—you must go—for what gleams in the dark turns to look at you—remember this—                     The work and the afterwork and the work of being perceived as not doing enough work though you are working well over enough—will this ever be enough—when is enough enough—the chorus now: not until the knots of fat—melt in this wok—not until you have nothing left but this suet—this smear of high-heat lineage—gleaming in the gloaming—and it is yours and it is mine and it is your dream daughter’s and it will last longer than you will ever believe—believe us—

Jane Wong, How to Not Be Afraid of Everything (Alice James Books, 2021)

[pennywaltzy]

The Designated Secret Keeper (1/1)

A Sherlolly & John/Sarah Sawyer fic with bonus Mary Lives! An answer for day four of @mollyappreciationweek/September prompt list.

The Designated Secret Keeper - As Sherlock and John's families celebrate Easter together, Molly thinks about the secrets she's kept.

READ @ AO3

Molly watched as their daughter roamed around the yard, peeking under the rosebushes to see the brightly coloured eggs her father had put out last night. His favorite rosebushes had attacked him in the dark, and he was hovering over Mary as she reached under for the plastic eggs filled with candy. Rosie was making quick work of the hard-boiled and dyed eggs around the trees, and John was there to help in case Sherlock had put something up too high. But Rosie was tall for a four-year-old, and she didn’t seem to need much help.

Molly turned to Sarah, who was sipping some herbal tea and making a face. “Everything alright?” she asked.

Sarah shook her head. “Just morning sickness,” she said. “If I’d known how much of a pain in the arse it was going to be I’d have insisted we adopt.”

Molly chuckled. “Mine was set off by the smell of coffee. Poor Sherlock had to go nine months going to a coffee shop any time he wanted coffee, then brush his teeth and spritz on cologne before he got near me.”

“Poor guy,” Sarah said sympathetically. “Mine is getting better, so I’m hoping by the second trimester it will be gone.”

“I hope so, too.” Molly liked Sarah. When John said he had reconnected with an old flame and was bringing her to Molly and Sherlock’s wedding, Molly had been pleased it was Sarah Sawyer. She’d always liked her and as much as she loved Mary, she was glad he’d gone back to Sarah. The secrets between them had killed John and Mary’s marriage at the root, and no amount of counseling or anything of that nature could fix it. When John had given up the opportunity to learn Mary’s secrets but still held her to task, that had done them in. At least Sarah didn’t have any major secrets. She might have a few, but nothing on the same level as Mary’s.

Still, Molly missed Mary. She had deserved better, but she made sure to take plenty of pictures of Rosie when she could, and sent them via encrypted email to Mary. Oh, John thought she was dead, but she knew better. Collusion between herself, Mary, and Mycroft saved her life after the aquarium. It had been close; the gunshot had been real, but blanks had been used and she’d had a tablet of tetrodotoxin that she’d chewed when Vivian had aimed at Sherlock. Oh, Vivian had no idea what was going on, but Mycroft had figured out things that Sherlock hadn’t, and the substitution of blanks was one of the steps that had saved Mary’s life. Sherlock didn’t know, or maybe he suspected but couldn’t be sure, but John was happy again, and she didn’t want to rock the friendship between them by making him keep the secret too.

Molly was good at keeping secrets. Sherlock hadn’t even guessed she was pregnant until she was sick all over his arm when he offered her a cup of coffee, and even then, for the first day or so he thought she had the flu. She finally had to show him the positive pregnancy test for him to figure it out. But he was overjoyed, and that had precipitated their move to a village closer to his parents, 40 minutes outside of London. She loved the village life, and she was quite happy to be a stay-at-home mum, using her savings and investments and Sherlock’s inheritance to live off of so they could both be hands-on parents. And their Mary was flourishing; she was already speaking in small sentences and had a small violin she could play a bit.

And now there was today. John and Sarah had been married a fortnight before and come back for an Easter celebration with their family; Lestrade, Sally, Mrs, Hudson, Mycroft, Harry, and Sherlock’s parents were all set to come for supper that evening, but for now, it was just the four of them and their little girls enjoying an easter egg hunt. Molly took another picture of John and Rosie, and made a note to send the photos to Mary at some quiet point during the day. After all, Mary deserved a happy Easter as well.