#and someone has probably already done this

[specialgradefckr]

Teacher's Pet

tw: explicit content. nerd!gojo, teacher!reader, teacher/student, power imbalance. gojo is a SLUT for older women and also a very very dumb teenage boy.

You have to admit - grading papers is more fun with your best and brightest student mouthing your cunt under your desk.

He's a needy thing, a whiner to the core. Humming needily against your clit until you pet his hair and nudge his throbbing bulge with the toe of your high-heeled shoe.

It's the hand in the hair that makes him moan, though. He clings to your thighs like he's dying, lavishing your clit in kitten licks.

Something tells you he's not getting enough attention at home, but he's a senior, not some middle schooler.

He's a big boy now, and big boys don't forget to calculate for air resistance in addition to friction along the ground.

You hadn't marked any other students off for that, but you knew he was different. Better.

You told him so to his face when he came to complain to you about it. Told him that he was better than that, he should act like it.

Satoru Gojo was smart enough to be halfway through a college degree already, and here he was goofing around in your high school physics class. You'd met masters students who couldn't apply formulae as consistently and accurately as him.

That was where it started, you think. It was honest, sincere. He was so quick on the update, so concise, so good with his calculations.

You didn't get many students like that. It would be nice to see him go further, use his brain, apply himself and learn for the sake of learning. Because he can. Satoru has something great in him, and you want to see it shine.

The look on his face... you hadn't forgotten it even after going home that day.

Something in him changed after that talk. A good change, at first; always raising his hand, writing out his answers more thoroughly, asking discussion questions.

His face would just light up when you accepted his answers. He drank in every ounce of praise, attention, and conversation you could offer. Stayed after class to discuss material, even started reading different books to talk to you about.

When he told you he wanted to major in physics, get his degree - just like you had - you thought you'd really done something. Changed his life.

It was every teacher's dream, making a difference like that. Being a teacher hadn't been your dream, but knowing that you'd changed the course of Satoru Gojo's life, even just a little... it was a nice thought.

You couldn't deny there was a bit of envy in you, of course. He just understood things so much faster than you ever did, took to it all right away, acted like it was elementary.

And then, of course, he's spectacularly handsome. Beautiful, even. You didn't miss the way the other students - even some other boys - fawned over him.

On one notable incident one such girl had pulled him out of your after-class discussions - "Please, it's important, aren't your already acing Physics?" - and... well, maybe it was a hit of realism for you.

Maybe you'd gotten ahead of yourself. You were just his teacher, after all. Even a teacher can only have so much influence on his life. There were so many other people who knew him, cared about him, spent much more time with him than you did.

In the story of Satoru Gojo, you were a footnote, at best. Just a teacher he had in high school, nothing more.

The beautiful young man left the room with the beautiful young woman, and there you were, sitting, grading papers.

That could have been you, once.

Maybe you could have dated a smart colleague your age when you were in college, instead of someone older, cooler, more adult -

Just man enough to marry you, take out a hundred loans, and skip town to leave you holding the bag.

You'd watched the closed door with a nostalgic sort of bitterness. Then again, maybe it was never in the cards for you. You didn't have any family, much less a rich, well-respected one like the Gojo.

You probably never would, at this rate. And why would you even want one? Kids, with your schedule, with your debt?

You know better, now, than to expect a man to stick around to raise them. Maybe that was your one stroke of luck, that you never had a child.

It wasn't worth it to get a boyfriend. It wasn't easy like it would be for him; people fell over themselves to get Satoru Gojo's attention, to have his eyes on them. Girls left notes in his lockers, guys sucked up to him, everyone wanted a piece.

You're missing pieces. Old and jaded. With broken dreams of a PhD and a mountain of debt as your company. Who'd want you?

All you have is your work, and the pittance you're paid for it. At least you're good at it.

There's a little less enthusiasm in your voice, after that. When you take Gojo's answers - if you call on him at all - or give him his test results.

It just seems so pointless. The wind is out of your sails, the memory of youthful optimism and joy diminished when you remember what you are.

A leftover. Used up and discarded.

You keep your after-school discussions brief but respectful. It's hard to encourage him. Satoru Gojo is destined for success no matter what he does. He certainly doesn't need your help.

But then something strange happens.

You give a pop quiz and Gojo gets a B. His perfect answers start to crack. He doesn't show his work, doesn't do anything more than the bare minimum.

He does, however, go to office hours. But he doesn't speak - he just stares.

Those icy blue eyes. Bright. Piercing. Demanding, as if he has questions.

As if you have any answers he doesn't already know. Frustrating, beautiful, clever boy, he doesn't need your help, doesn't need anything from you, so why is he here?

"Can I help you with something, Mister Gojo?" You remember asking.

You remember him saying that you could. Stalking up to your desk like he thought he was slick. Eying you carefully.

You don't remember how it went down after that. What he did, how he started it.

But you remember to lock the door every time he's in here with you. If Gojo doesn't do it himself.

Or Satoru, rather. He always begged you to call him that during your first extra credit session.

You still remember his eyes. All wide open and pleading. "Please, sensei! Isn't there anything I can do?"

The memory brings a chuckle bubbling up your throat. The feigned innocence, the clumsy attempt at seduction.

Fuck, but he was pretty. Still is. Prettiest eighteen year old you've ever seen. And tall. All pent up and horny all the time, but so cute about it, so needy.

And you're - maybe you're a bit lonely.

And god, it feels so good to be wanted again.

"What's so funny?" He whines, breath hot against your folds.

You tap down on his dick with the tip of your shoe, enough that he groans again, "Keep going. You haven't earned it yet."

That just makes him whine again, but he closes his lips in your clit, fingers tightening on your thighs, tongue pressing hard into the swollen bud, pulsing through your core.

You stay casual, focused on the papers. Even as you feel yourself tightening up - Satoru can feel it too, you think. He always paid such good attention.

At least, when you were the one teaching him.

"There," you murmur, grinding your shoe into the bulge in his pants, slipping down one hand to his hair, feathery white, "Just a little more..."

He makes a grunt and your mind fills in the indignant I know, as if he's insulted you think he doesn't.

Satoru knows how close you are, and he laves his tongue over your clit, hard strokes, fast, enough to have you biting your lip as you tilt your head back, giving away as little as possible before -

"Ah," Light, airy, a sudden heat flits through you, rising up to your cheeks as release blooms between your legs.

You sigh a little bit, loosening your grip in his hair. When did it get so tight?

When you pull your foot away from his crotch, it's still noticeably hard.

"Hey," He looks up at you with big blue eyes. Wet, pink lips. Pleading face wet with your cum. "Can I come to your place?"

"That's not quite appropriate between a teacher and student," You drawl, giving his head a fond stroke.

Satoru's pretty white lashes flutter lightly at the touch, and he shivers just a little. Like he can't help himself.

"Pleeeeeaasse?" He whines, pressing himself up against you, "I'll be good. I'm so good. Aren't I? Come on, I did good!"

Your lips quirk to the side, as if in contemplation. Sure, he did well, but Satoru's always the cutest, the most obedient, the easiest when he feels like he's got something to prove.

"Half points," You say, packing up your papers, "You could have done better."

Not I've had better, or it could be better, or even I'm disappointed. No, you had to tell him you believed in him... and that he fell just short.

That's what lights up the look in his eyes, sends a wild insistence surging through him.

"Wait!" His hand wraps around your wrist as you stand up to leave, "I'll do it, I'll do better. Let me come with and you'll see."

Satoru looks so silly like this. On his hands and knees, half-crawled out from under your desk, looking up at you with puppy dog eyes.

But you're too old for this, for him. You know what happens next.

You take in strays, you get bit.

"I'll see you next time, Mister Gojo," You tell him with a smooth smile, and he withers at the use of his name, "Please try harder next time."

"But you ca-"

"On the next quiz, Mister Gojo," You speak over him with the firm, stern voice that always has him straightening his shoulders.

Poor thing. His dick is probably throbbing in his pants, if he hasn't cum in them already.

You close the door behind you when you leave, Satoru stuck behind you in the room.

You don't look back.

He's sulking, the next time you see him. It's adorable.

You watch him, elbow propped up on his desk, resting his chin on his hand while he stares out the window with a stubborn scowl on his face.

Precious. Look at those chubby, puffed-up cheeks. You could almost take a bite out of him.

"Mister Gojo..." You say, and he doesn't turn his head, "Mister Gojo."

Loud enough that the entire class turns to him, staring. Satoru takes a long moment pursing his lips and looking up at you wordlessly.

With an elegant, unbothered smile, you say, "Just checking to see if you were still with us, Mister Gojo. Now, as I was saying, the wave-particle duality can also be applied to matter, and in fact even subatomic particles can be demonstrated to behave like waves. This is important because..."

Approaching his table as you trail off, you look at him, brow raised in expectation, and Satoru looks away, silent.

"Care to fill us in, Mister Gojo?" You prod. Does he hate being called Mister Gojo that much?

"Nope," Satoru says, popping the p.

You have to hold back a laugh. "I see. Well, don't feel too bad, Mister Gojo," You say as you stride past his chair back up to the front, "It is an advanced topic. A high schooler like you wouldn't be expected to know that sort of thing."

That rankles, you can tell - "Because in quantum mechanics-"

"Moving on!" You speak over him, turning to the board and pulling down a screen.

The class shuffles as you lead them into the next lesson. Satoru is prickly, annoyed, his leg bouncing with errant energy the whole time it goes on.

He stands up after class, ready to walk up and speak to you, but you're quicker, already on your way out.

"Hey," He calls after you - never subtle, that one.

Once again, you don't stop. Maybe a few more days and he'll cool down.

It's something that looms in the back of your mind as you go about your day, teach your other classes, head back home.

This little stint with Satoru isn't going to last, after all. Really, you should be a lot more worried, since he's a student, and you're a teacher, but he's an adult so it's not like you'd face criminal charges.

You could be fired, but with how hard up schools were for physics teachers, you'd find a new position somewhere.

But Satoru isn't stupid. And you're discreet. It's not like you've done that much with him anyways.

It's fun, you can admit. A little bit of that energy from your youth, the joy of being wanted and chased and having a good-looking boy fall over himself for your attention.

Happier times. A better life. But those times are long gone, you're painfully aware.

You come home to a dingy studio apartment, with no more furniture than a bed and an end table. It's ramen again, tonight, and then scrolling on your phone in bed until you fall asleep. Maybe read some books you'd picked up from the library.

Just like you do every day. You have no friends left after your life went to shit. You wouldn't want anyone to see you living like this anyways.

It's cold, because you can't afford to pay much for heat, and you have to lock and deadbolt the door in case the loan sharks come by in the middle of the night again.

A reminder. Nothing good can last. You could pour all your heart into a man, all the encouragement and attention into your students, and you're still here, at the end of the day.

All you could do was enjoy what you had while it lasted. You could like Satoru, you could love him, even, but he'd never love you.

Couldn't even blame him. You didn't, either.

The next time Satoru catches you during office hours, he's well and truly desperate. Eyes wide and searching, frantic, door slamming and locking behind him as he stalked towards you.

"You're ignoring me."

"I rather think you've been ignoring me, Mister Gojo," You say, brandishing the formality like a shield, "Which is wholly inappropriate, considering I'm your teacher."

"Do you even like me?" He whines, leaning onto your desk, slipping his shades down to look you in the eyes, "You never want to hang out."

"Probably because I'm your teacher," The amusement in your tone is palpable, "I don't care to hang out around teenagers."

"Don't be like that!" Satoru leans in closer to you, "I know I get you off!"

You give him a sharp look. "Lower your voice. Satoru."

He stiffens up at that, avoiding your gaze, looking utterly scolded. Honey and vinegar, as the saying goes.

And maybe you do feel a little bit bad for him. He looks so morose, sometimes, listless. He is, after all, just a teenager who wants to be seen.

You slide your chair back in your desk, and it's a testament to your time together that Satoru immediately crouches to get underneath and between your legs.

You can't help a laugh, patting his head as he closes the distance, parting your thighs.

"Not today, sweet boy," You coo, sliding back even further.

Satoru's gaze is equal parts excitement and apprehension; he doesn't let go of your thighs. "What are we gonna do?"

You pull out a seat next to you. "Grade homework. It's time you put that brain to use."

The groan he makes is utterly hilarious. You laugh out loud, tugging him up by the hand, which he refuses to let go even when you shake it.

"I don't wanna," even as he speaks, he sits himself awkwardly in the chair next to you, scooting it closer, until you're touching, "Let's do something fun. I do all this stuff in class already."

"No you don't. You pout like a baby and refuse to engage with the material. It's very cute, but I know you're better than that, Satoru."

The redness on his cheeks brings a warm feeling to your chest.

"I could have answered it. You know that."

"I do," and you don't miss how his chest puffs up at that, either, "But I also know that you're my good boy, and good boys don't ignore their teachers. You can make it up to me, right?"

His tongue darts out to wet his lips. "...Yeah."

"That's what I thought," You say warmly, watching him get to work, "And with both of us doing this, it'll go twice as fast."

"I'm failing everyone," Satoru grumbles, and you giggle - this makes the tips of his ears red.

He grades the papers accurately, so you let his little comment pass.

But you don't start grading papers. Instead, your hand makes its way down to his thigh, making him tense up.

"What are you - "

"Be good for me, Satoru," You say, catching his bright-blue gaze in a piercing stare, "You can do that, right? You're such a smart young man. Focus. Don't move."

You can see the realization course through him (your clever boy) as your hand inches towards his cock. His adam's apple bobs as his eyes flick back to his papers.

"The faster you finish grading, the faster you finish. But I'm checking your work as you go," leaning in closer, "One mistake, and I stop."

"Do you think you can do it for me, Satoru?" You purr into his ear as you slip under his jeans to grasp him - he gasps. "Or is that too hard for you?"

You're pretty sure he's never been harder.

"Of course I can," Satoru's voice is impressively smooth, "You better get going. I've already started."

A grin creeps up your face. So he thinks he can last that long?

Running your hands around his dick, feeling it; there's already cum pearling up at the tip.

"I see you have," You say, casually leaning shoulder-to-shoulder as you look over the papers he's grading, "But so have I, no?"

Whatever he's about to say gets cut off by a sharp grunt that wilts into a moan as you squeeze him at the tip, rubbing your thumb over his head. Stroking, you coax his precum along his length.

Next to you, his body strains with the effort of containing himself. You watch him mark the papers with efficiency you've never seen in all your years teaching. What a good boy, indeed.

So cute. His pretty face tightened in concentration, eyes gleaming with desire, with that boyish glee in his own talent that Satoru wears so well.

Forget taking a bite out of him. You want to eat him up.

It doesn't help that he's throbbing, twitching in your hands. Satoru is long, too - pretty, you think, when you glance at it - and it sends a flash of heat down your core.

"Distracted by something?" There's an unmistakable pride in his voice, even though his whole body is half trembling at your touch.

His cock is practically jumping in your hand.

Half-scoffing, half-chuckling, you place a kick on his cheek - his cock spurts just a little bit at it, and you have to bite back a cackle.

"Of course not," You coo, "I thought long and hard to come up with a test that could actually challenge you. My best student."

Long strokes, now, combined with praise that has his dick jumping again, a full-body reaction of energy coursing through him.

"But I know you can do it," Leaning in, you lay a kiss against his neck, nuzzling into there affectionately, "You're such a clever boy. You can do it, right?"

His hips jerk, twitching, along with the sharp scrawl of the pen in his hands. No mistakes, not yet. And so close -

He says your name, then. "Sensei," when you refuse to answer to it.

You squeeze him harder, like you can hold onto him if you just clench tightly enough. Like his little pants and whimpers of your name mean anything more than that he's close.

Like just having him like this, in your hands, at your mercy, makes him yours.

Warm, wet, hot and spurting out - "No - no, no not yet- fuck - fuck," he half-heaves in a sound torn between anguish and ecstasy.

His arms freeze up at his sides, and he shivers, choking on a sob before he melts into the chair. All over your hand. Face flushed red hot with bliss.

White lashes flutter over his eyes, blue and blown wide in pleasure. His pretty mouth hanging open, panting.

There's one paper left.

"Tsk, tsk, tsk," You tut as you pull your hand away, wiping it off on his shirt, "And you were so close to finishing, too. I guess there are some things even my best student isn't capable of."

"Come ooooonnnn. You totally did that on purpose." Satoru slumps in your direction, still boneless. Face full of that boyish charm.

Still touch-hungry, even now, like a cat butting its head into your hand.

You snicker, even though you oblige him with a gentle hand in his hair, "Oh? I didn't know you wanted me to go easy on you."

Satoru leans over, into your shoulder, wrapping his arms around you, "Don't be like that, sensei~ I'll make it up to you."

And that gets a giggle out of you. Because he's cute, he's flirty, and maybe you get just a little wet at the thought of what his well-trained mouth can do.

He positively preens at the sound, nuzzling into the crook of your neck, holding you close.

Soft lips tickle at your throat. Then teeth -

You shove him away, gathering yourself in a moment and standing up.

"What-"

"Make it up to me? That's a reward for you. I don't reward failure." You say. It's meant to be teasing, but it comes out colder, harder than you mean it.

There's panic in his eyes as he looks up at you. Bright, blinding.

"What, you're gonna leave? Just like that? You can't be serious," He stands up himself, grabbing you by the upper arm, "Just stay. I won't even ask to go home with you this time!"

"That's enough, Mister Gojo," you say, shoving his arm off, striding towards the door.

"Don't leave," The words are low, mournful, "Just tell me what you want me to do, I'll do it! Don't leave me!"

This time, you do look back. Satoru stands there, looking after you, forelorn like some kind of kicked puppy.

That's just how it is, though. It's what he gets for loving someone older, unworthy of him. He should know better than to want a woman nearly twice his age.

In a way, you're doing him a favor. Making sure he doesn't end up like you did.

When he finally gives his heart to someone, it should be -

You slam the door behind you.

[stevieschrodinger]

Part One Thirteen

NSFW

“You want to listen to it while we fuck?”

“Ah, no, honestly I’ve jerked off to that song so many times now I’ve Pavloved myself and I’ll come in three minutes and twenty four seconds exactly.”

Eddie laughs. He can’t help it, which is silly really, considering he has his hands down the back of Steve’s pants. He can’t stop laughing, face pressed against Steve's solid chest, shoulders shaking with laughter. Steve’s ass is meaty and solid in Eddie’s hands, and Steve just wraps his arms around Eddie and waits for him to get it out of his system.

Eddie thinks he’s done laughing, but when he finally looks up and sees how serious Steve’s face is, he cracks all over again. Steve’s laughing with him now though, finally losing it, his chest moving against Eddie’s cheek.

It finally tails off, Eddie sighing, letting himself relax into Steve’s arms. He gives Steve’s ass a little jiggle. It’s a good ass. He can feel Steve scenting at the top of his head, that’s followed by a very firm chin rub, right across the top of Eddie’s head, Steve’s throat rubbing across Eddie’s face.

If Steve was an Alpha, it would be a definite declaration. If Steve were an Alpha, Eddie might have even reflexively tried to stop it from happening. Steve’s not though, so it just leaves Eddie with his soft Beta scent in his nose, and a sense of loose calm spreading all the way to his fingertips.

It’s different, that scent. Completely sets itself apart from every experience Eddie’s ever had. There’s no cross over, nothing from sense memory to send him back anywhere unpleasant. Just a fresh start, right under his nose, literally and figuratively. It’s a sobering thought though, and it’s not anything they’ve ever spoken about before; suddenly it feels relevant, “I’ve been with a lot of people, you know that, right?”

“Can we not discuss it when you’ve got your hands down my pants?” Steve answers, but he’s smiling, light and unbothered.

“Actually, I feel like every single conversation we have from this point on should be conducted with my hands down your pants.”

Steve snorts a laugh, looking away for a second to gather himself, Eddie gives Steve’s ass a jiggle, and Steve sighs, but it’s mock put upon and Steve's still smiling, “I know you’ve been with a lot of people, but the past is the past...it doesn’t change anything now. We both have a past, and we’ve both done things we’re not proud of...but I don’t see why it should hurt either of us now. Not when we’ve both come so far, you know?”

“Yeah but...you’re not the one out of us that’s fucked, like, a thousand people. I’d understand if...that was a problem.”

Steve sniggers, “pretty sure you haven't fucked a thousand people...but. Since we’re talking about it,” Steve suddenly tilts his head, looking proud of himself, “you’re probably fondling the guy with the highest body count in his high school and college.”

Eddie can only shake his head fondly, “so you’re okay with it?”

“Yeah, I’m okay with it. It’ll be different because it’s us.”

“Pretty sure there’s a finite number of ways to fuck and I’ve already hit ‘em all, sorry.”

Steve huffs, “firstly, I didn’t mean that literally, and you know it...and secondly…” Steve leans forward, takes Eddie’s mouth slow, soft. Gentle touches of tongue until Eddie opens up and lets Steve in. Steve pulls back, leaving soft, pecking kisses on Eddie’s lips, he uses the waist of Eddie’s pants to pull Eddie closer, both of them hard and pressing together. He whispers against Eddie’s mouth, “so you’ve had someone hold your hand and look into your eyes the whole time while they fuck you deep and slow?”

Steve follows it with a harsh, dirty grind, pressing them together. Eddie makes a breathy noise that he will deny for the rest of his life, “no?” he finally manages, weak and whispery. No ones fucked Eddie, not ever. It’s probably the one thing he’s never done.

“It’ll be different then, won’t it?” Steve whispers.

“Jesus,” Eddie looks away. Can’t possibly keep looking at Steve or he might explode or something. He chooses to scent Steve instead, chooses to try and retake a little control by letting his Alpha out for a minute, being a little territorial. He rubs his scent thoroughly across Steve’s neck and shoulder. Steve just takes it, letting Eddie work it out of his system before he settles into Steve’s hold again. Just, standing there, holding one another.

“I kind of imagined this differently,” Eddie admits quietly. They’re rocking together now, no music, just swaying slowly in each others arms in the middle of the room.

“Yeah?”

“Uh hu...I, uhm, imagined making it really special.” When Steve wasn’t in the picture, Eddie just liked to imagine simple things. Liked to comfort himself with sad but easy imaginings of Steve kissing him goodnight. Now, since they’ve been together, Eddie’s been imagining much more explicit scenarios very regularly. It doesn’t help that Steve has made them ‘take it slow’ and Eddie could die of blue balls at literally any moment.

Steve grins down at him, “so eating our weight in snacks at Gareth’s isn’t your idea of romancing me? Honestly I’m glad, I was at least expecting dinner-”

Eddie huffs at him. They’ve had a nice day. Steve clicked with the guys straight away, and Eddie can’t really express how glad he is that they all get on. Eddie was pretty sure they would; the guys are easy going and Steve is...well, Steve about everything.

But still, even though Eddie got teased pretty relentlessly, he’s calling today a win. The guys knew who Steve was, kind of. Even with Eddie’s recovery going strong, they knew something was up. Something other than the whole dealing with alcoholism and drug addiction and figuring out how to move on with his life despite all of that. The guys still knew.

They knew Eddie was pining. And Eddie didn’t know really, how to explain that he’d kind of fallen in love with some guy he spent less than two weeks with. Some guy who, actually, was a total professional through the whole thing and just...shouldn’t have attracted that kind of attention.

Completely Eddie’s fault that he caught feelings.

A guy who had to distance himself from Eddie because of Eddie’s own stupid choices. And, if Eddie’s being honest, for Eddie’s own good.

Gareth and Jeff seemed to get it though, when Eddie explained. Even though Steve was a guy, and Steve was a Beta, Steve was still just...Steve. And Chrissy still didn’t seem to believe that Eddie’s feelings were really real, not for a while, at least. But months later, when Eddie was still missing Steve and ended up, one really, really fucking tough and lonely night, writing Boy Scout...she seemed to get it after that.

They all got it, once they heard Eddie sing it, playing his acoustic for the recording. Eddie had struggled through tears for the recording, made his voice sound even more rough, harsh and undeniably brimming with emotion. That's the recording that made it to the album though. That's the one they used.

They all knew then, how Eddie felt. And if record sales are anything to go by, a truly considerable number of people also know how Eddie feels about Steve. Even if they don’t know who Steve is.

Eddie’s going to do his best to keep it that way; but they know they can’t keep it a secret forever.

These things have a way of coming out.

He didn’t need the guys spending all day teasing him for mooning over Steve, though. Steve had absently linked their fingers together at one point. Steve had been mid conversation, and Eddie happened to be standing next to him..and Steve just, took his hand. Like a totally normal, affectionate boyfriend would. Eddie hadn’t known what to do with himself, not really, he’s still getting used to being treated this way, and for it to happen in front of the guys...well, Eddie’s sure he’d been blushing like a virgin.

And then Steve had lifted their joined hands, and pressed a soft kiss Eddie’s knuckles.

Again, no thought to it whatsoever, just easy affection. The guys had all clocked it, staring at them. Eddie’s pretty sure he’d gone red as a tomato, but, thankfully, despite all the knowing looks they’d thrown his way, the guys had been merciful and not said anything.

Probably because they all seemed to like Steve so much.

“No...when I was daydreaming about this I wanted to whisk you away to Italy.”

Steve goes still, holding Eddie tight but leaning back, a hand in Eddie’s hair pulling Eddie around to look at him, “tell me about it.”

Eddie immediately pulls free and goes back to hiding, resting on Steve’s shoulder now, “you know, usual daydream stuff. Private jet. Roses. Strawberries and champagne, that kind of thing. Well, not the champagne but you get the idea. Rent a villa for a week, somewhere really nice. Take you to see all the places you want. Naturally I’d let you do all the talking, and I’d be incredibly impressed.”

“Well I do my best for the green owl...and I am absolutely terrible at taking my PTO, and the gym is pretty kind with it’s time off, I’ve probably got loads.”

Eddie pulls back, “wait...you’d let me take you?”

Steve smiles, kissing Eddie’s nose, “just this once. I’m not waiting until we’re in Europe to have sex though, just to be clear.”

It’s not really the done thing, when there’s a Beta in the mix, and it’s selfish to ask. Steve isn’t built the same as Alpha and Omega, when Steve bites Eddie, Eddie’s going to feel mated. He’s going to feel good; he’s going to be so flooded with endorphins he’s probably going to have one of the best orgasms of his life.

All Steve is going to feel is pain.

But Eddie is selfish, and he can’t resist, and so when the need suddenly rises up inside him, he asks anyway, leaning back in so his nose is practically pressed to Steve’s barely there scent gland, “you going to bite me, one day? Let me...bite you?”

“Only if you let me put a ring on it.”

Eddie doesn’t even need to think, “deal.”

“I want to get married outside,” Steve tells him, bending down and dislodging Eddie’s hands, hooking him under the thighs and lifting.

Eddie is an Alpha, he should not get off on being manhandled. He finds himself getting off on being manhandled, since it’s Steve, “that doesn’t surprise me in the slightest.”

Steve walks them over to the bed, throwing Eddie bodily into the middle somewhere, Eddie bouncing a little on the mattress, “late spring? Early summer?”

“Just as long as it’s not too hot, I don’t mind. Whatever you want.”

“Robin will be my best man,” Steve says, pulling his shirt off over his head.

Eddie stares at Steve’s bare chest, “I don’t want to talk abut your best friend right this second, funnily enough,” but Steve’s grinning, stripping off, then crawling nude up the bed, grabbing Eddie’s pants and boxers and peeling everything off in one smooth move.

Eddie pulls his shirt off, and then he’s naked. And Steve’s naked, kneeling at the bottom of the bed. And...they’re staring at each other. Steve is like...a golden fucking Adonis. He’s toned in the way you only really get when you have an active job. His chest is hairy, his skin is golden, and he’s got more moles than Eddie could have predicted but Eddie wants to find and take note of every single one of them.

Eddie’s still a little on the skinny side, he’s pale and his muscle is ropy rather than strong like Steve but...he doesn’t look ill any more. Doesn’t look sickly like he did at his lowest point.

Steve seems to like what he sees, if his cock standing to attention is anything to go by.

“Lube? Condoms?”

“Yeah,” Eddie points vaguely at the bedside table.

Steve crawls over there, rummaging, and Eddie felt like he was aiming too high when he bought supplies. Kind of felt like he was tempting fate, that the moment they got delivered Eddie would somehow be immediately punished for wanting this.

Steve grins when he sees what’s in the drawer, pulling out both boxes. They’re both brand new and sealed, and Steve peels the cellophane off both, one box of Alpha condoms, one box of regular. “You want to try?” Steve asks, holding up the regular kind.

“We could.” Eddie’s thought about it a fair bit, since the very first time Steve mentioned it, and he figures if there’s one person he’d be willing to try this with, it’s Steve.

“We don’t have to, we don’t ever have to.”

“Do you like it?”

“I...do. But I could live without it,” Steve answers honestly, or at least, Eddie hopes it’s honest. He’s got no idea how this will go. But it’s best they give it a try...Eddie can’t imagine that Steve is the kind of guy who would end a relationship over it...but he doesn’t really want to risk Steve becoming unsatisfied because Eddie won’t ever let him top. It feels like a small sacrifice to make.

“Then lets try, I’m about as far from my rut as I can be, my cycle’s leveled out...so it’s probably the best time to try for the first time.”

Steve nods, crawling back over, leaving a single condom and the lube next to them, “you should probably be on top though, for this first one, just in case.”

“Okay,” Eddie might be familiar enough now with Steve and his scent that he’s fine with being pinned by him sometimes, but being pinned with a dick in him? Eddie has no idea how his Alpha will react.

“Plus I’m not up to much for a little while once I’ve taken a knot, so if you want round two later then I’d better go first.”

Eddie wants to focus on the ‘round two’ part of the statement, because honestly, that sounds awesome. What actually happens is Eddie’s instincts become concerned with Steve taking someone else’s knot, and he rumbles out a little warning growl instead.

Steve settles next to him, all beautiful and naked and unbroken lines of muscled perfection, and he’s grinning, “what was that?”

“Apparently I don’t like the idea of you taking someone else's knot.”

“Ooooh, possessive huh? That’s nice. Well, don’t worry, it was a long time ago when I was young and dumb and willing to do anything to get what I wanted.”

Well that...that is a lot. Another small part of Steve’s past that Eddie didn’t expect. They don’t talk about their past much, neither of them do, and Eddie doesn't know about Steve’s motivations for that but...he just hasn’t felt the need to volunteer anything. It’s done now. That’s not who he is any more, not really.

“Hey,” Steve thumbs away Eddie’s frown, “don’t do that, it’s fine. I was still enjoying myself, even if I wish I could go back and give myself a talking to. Nothing bad happened to me Eddie, not like that.”

“Okay.”

“Okay,” Steve smiles, “good,” and then he leans in for a kiss.

They have made out a lot over the last few weeks. Like, a lot a lot. Like horny teenagers with their first beau kind of a lot. But...this is the same but different. Still soft, still nice, still...a little bitey sometimes. But still Steve. Except now Eddie can roll Steve onto his back and slide a sweeping hand across Steve’s stomach and over a naked hip and thigh. The head of Steve's cock brushes Eddie’s forearm as he does it, leaving a hint of stickiness there.

“You want me to open you up?”

“Yeah,” Eddie answers, “never...you know.”

“I know,” but Steve's grinning like he’s won something. “Come on.”

Steve rearranges them both, sitting himself up a little on a comfy pile of Eddie’s collected bedding, pulling Eddie after him to straddle his thighs. Eddie goes where Steve sits him, watching avidly as Steve cracks the seal on the new lube and pumping a fair amount out onto his fingers. He rubs his fingers together, spreading it a little, before he seems to be satisfied and slips his hand down between Eddie’s thighs.

Steve’s fingers are warm enough, and slick, but still the first touch makes Eddie yip and lean away reflexively, gripping at Steve’s shoulders, “sorry. Ready this time.”

“Just tell me anytime you want to stop, okay?”

“I ain’t a quitter,” Eddie replies confidently.

Steve raises an eyebrow, and then Eddie realizes what he just said. It’s not funny, it isn’t, but they both laugh anyway. “Okay,” Steve goes in again, and this time, knowing what to expect, Eddie lets him touch softly, rubbing at Eddie asshole for a second before pressing in with one finger. Which goes pretty easily, actually. It goes all the way in, right until Steve’s hand is pressing against Eddie’s body, “okay?”

“Yeah, yeah that’s good,” doesn’t feel like much, just a weird wet little intrusion. The second finger should just feel like twice as much, but it definitely doesn’t. Eddie is suddenly very, very aware that he has Steve's fingers in his ass, and he breathes out slowly.

“Still good?”

“Yeah, yeah I think so,” Eddie’s found himself staring at Steve’s chest hair, but Steve’s angling his head down, seeking eye contact. Eddie makes himself give it, he didn’t realize just how hard he’d been concentrating.

“Kiss me then?”

Eddie does. He has to keep hold of Steve's shoulders and lean down, but he does, kissing Steve slow while Steve gently fucks him on two fingers. The palm of Steve’s hand is pressing up tight behind Eddie’s balls, and it feels so good that when Steve pulls his fingers out, Eddie whines a little and tries to chase it.

He has to watch while Steve pumps more lube onto his fingers, and Eddie knows three fingers is coming. He braces a little, but there’s no need. The pressure is slow and even, and Steve’s used enough lube that there's no sting, just a little burn as things stretch to accommodate Steve.

Feels good, even, and Eddie’s panting a little into Steve's mouth when he goes back for more kisses. Steve eventually speaks against Eddie’s mouth, “put the condom on me?” he asks quietly, slowly and carefully pulling his fingers free of Eddie’s body.

“Yeah,” Eddie knows what it can be like opening one of these things with slippy fingers, so he’s happy to do it for Steve, holding his cock upright with one hand as he carefully rests the condom on the exposed head of Steve’s cock, like a little hat. Eddie deftly squeezes the air out of the end before sliding his hand down, unrolling the condom with it.

Steve’s pumping more lube onto his fingers while Eddie works, and without either of them needing to speak, Eddie keeps hold of Steve’s cock, keeping it upright so that Steve can slick himself up.

It’s suddenly very real, what they’re about to do, now that Steve isn’t distracting Eddie with his hungry kisses. Eddie’s scent must signal something, because Steve’s eyes flick up to Eddie even as he’s still working slick over his cock. It’s a little obscene to watch, really.

Maybe Steve will jerk off sometime for Eddie. Put on a show.

“Come here baby,” Steve guides Eddie’s face to rest in the crook of his neck, where the scent is strongest. It’s soothing; relaxing. Comfort. It has changed a little; subtle. Eddie probably wouldn’t have noticed if he hadn’t been scenting Steve a lot for weeks now but...this must be what horny Steve scents like. A little brighter, something in the organic parts that give it a little zing, almost citrussy but too subtle to really identify as anything. It’s just...a little sharp. A little fresh.

Still nothing at all like an Alpha or an Omega. Totally different, new, fresh, safe.

Eddie’s gone a little soft through this, kind of sporting a half chub now, but Steve’s scent helps, the wet head leaving a sticky trail on Steve’s skin. The drag feels good.

Eddie takes a greedy lungful as Steve notches the head of his cock at Eddie’s hole. He stills then, nothing happening for long enough that Eddie’s gearing up to say anything, but then he realizes; Steve’s waiting on Eddie. Eddie has the control here, Steve’s giving Eddie the power.

Eddie just has to take the first step. It’s up to Eddie to choose to act. It’s so quintessentially Steve...Eddie gives a gentle nip to the side of Steve’s neck, and then sinks down just enough that the head of Steve’s cock pops inside him.

It feels...big. Like, it’s a lot. Eddie has to wait, just after that, to let himself acclimatize a little bit, “Jesus,” he breathes out low, “did your cock get ten times bigger while I wasn’t looking?”

Steve snorts, “you just got a tight little hole baby, that’s all.”

“Yeah because it ain’t designed for this,” Eddie replies grumpily.

Steve bites his lips together, holding in a laugh, but he doesn’t say anything. Probably the smart move, and Eddie shifts a little, Steve keeps rubbing comfortingly along Eddie’s thighs as Eddie lets himself sink down a little.

He’s not going to say how big Steve is again, he’s not. There’ll be no living with the smug fucker if he says it again.

Eddie breathes out slow, it’s a terrible moment to be reminded of all the stupid yoga breathing Steve’s been doing with him, but, hell, if it works it works. Steve’s cock feels like a fucking tree branch by the time Eddie is seated in Steve’s lap, and he’s dragging Steve’s scent across his tongue like his life depends on it but...he’s done it.

He lets himself have a moment to settle, Steve’s hands roving across Eddie’s back now, “you good?”

“Yeah. Yeah, just a couple of minutes.”

Steve kisses Eddie’s hair, and waits. It feels like it’s in Eddie’s lungs, and Eddie is...still kind of skeptical about this. But...he’s tried a lot of shit, and this isn’t any different. Plus he kind of loves Steve, so he’s going to give this a fair try.

The knowledge that Eddie’s never going to have sex with another person, all being well, ever again, prickles along Eddie’s skin. One final deep breath of Steve’s scent, and a tiny, possessive rumble on the exhale, and Eddie lifts himself up. Steve’s hands move with Eddie, sliding down to cup his ass. Not holding, not guiding, just following the movement.

Eddie slides down again and...oh. There’s a little zing of something, where Steve must have brushed against his prostate. Eddie lifts again, sitting up now so he can watch Steve’s face. He suddenly regrets hiding in the crook of Steve’s neck, because Steve looks wrecked. Eyes are totally blown, lips red and shiny like he’s been biting at them, mouth open a little, skin flushed and the hint of a prickle of sweat at his hair line.

Well if that isn’t going to encourage Eddie, nothing’s gonna’.

He sits down again sharply, and Steve can’t hold it in any more, he moans, eye’s sliding shut and then popping open again, like he doesn’t want to miss the show. And, well, if there’s one thing Eddie knows, it’s how to put on a show.

He shifts again, more confident now, tucking his shins closer to Steve’s thighs so he can move more comfortably, he rests one hand at the back of Steve’s neck, leaning in for the kiss and he lifts himself back up. There’s that zing again, that little pop of pleasure that has Eddie huffing a noise into Steve’s mouth.

Eddie’s rhythm is probably pretty slow, and he’s maybe working the end two thirds of Steve’s dick, but it’s just the right place to touch on his prostate on every pass. It’s just the right amount of slippy drag on his hole. The condom is smooth, but Eddie finds himself wanting it gone, he pulls back a tiny bit, watches as Steve licks his lips, Steve’s fingers tightening briefly on Eddie’s hips, “we're going to loose the condoms at some point, right?”

“Yup. Yeah. Lets do that. Get tested.”

Eddie hasn’t been with anyone since he was at the center, he hasn’t been with anyone since he was last tested for everything. But he doesn’t know about Steve, and quite frankly, he doesn’t want to ask if Steve’s been with anyone in that time.

It’s not his business, and it feels like the answers going to hurt either way. Eddie puts it out of his mind.

Eddie just crashes his mouth back against Steve’s instead. Steve’s fingers slip to Eddie’s dick; he’s grown hard again at some point, probably those little touches of pleasure he’s been feeling. Steve’s fingers go straight for the base, following the rise and fall of Eddie’s body easily, he massages at the sensitive skin Eddie’s knot will pop from, Steve’s sure fingers encouraging it.

Eddie might be exercising more, but the burn in his thighs is getting pretty real. He doesn’t stop though, taking panting breaths against Steve’s mouth since he doesn’t have the air for real kisses any more. The pleasure helps, gives him something to work for, the feeling of being full of Steve, that little wave of pleasure every time Eddie moves, Steve’s two fingers and thumb, gripping Eddie tight now at the base of his dick, pulsing pressure there right on Eddie’s growing knot.

Eddie looks down; the head of his cock is red, leaking precome all over Steve’s skin. Another fat drop pools in his slit for a second, before a squeeze from Steve’s fingers has his cock twitching and it slides off the end to splat on Steve’s stomach.

“I’m gonna’ come,” Eddie breathes, Steve just makes a noise in answer, and then keeps making it, huffing little noises of pleasure. His head is thrown back, long line of his throat completely exposed to Eddie as Eddie rides his pulsing cock. It’s different, there’s no intense wash of scent with a beta orgasm, no splash of slick or knot to go on. Just Steve, huffing through his orgasm.

Eddie’s knot pops in the tight band of Steve’s fingers and Eddie bites softly at Steve’s shoulder, because god he fucking needs something in his mouth. Needs the feel of Steve between his teeth, and it takes all of his control to keep it light.

Well, it might bruise a little.

Eddie’s orgasm is a pulsing, live thing, his body squeezing and clutching at Steve’s cock desperately. Steve hasn’t even touched the head of his dick, just keeps firm pressure on Eddie’s knot until the final, weak spurts of come drip off the head of his dick.

Eddie sighs, lapping at Steve’s shoulder, relaxing a little.

And then Steve squeezes. Eddie cries out, mouthful of Steve’s flesh, body clenching so hard it pushes Steve’s now softening cock out of his body, making him whine and wriggle on nothing. Another thick spurt of come splatters Steve’s already messy stomach, and Eddie’s left a panting mess in Steve's lap.

“Jesus,” he finally croaks out, body still twitching with the aftershocks of his orgasm, his cock resting in it’s own mess against Steve. It must be a little awkward, but Steve still hasn’t let up the even pressure on his knot, and Eddie settles into the feeling of connection, Steve’s salty sweat addictive on his tongue.

The nice thing about this having sex and being a couple and all that good stuff, is that now Steve is in the bath with Eddie while he washes his hair. Eddie’s glad he went for the silly sized bath really, Steve can comfortably sit behind him, Eddie cradled between Steve’s thick thighs.

Once he’s all washed and rinsed, he lies back, both of them spread out, Steve’s soft cock pressing against the small of Eddie’s back, “how did you know?”

Steve makes an inquiring noise. He sounds sleepy, and Eddie almost feels bad for disturbing him, but it feels important.

“How did you decide I was ready now?”

Steve yawns, “told you, I saw the interview.”

Eddie turns in the water, repositioning so he’s laid out on top of Steve, facing each other. Can’t really resist giving their cocks a little rub together while he’s there, making Steve huff, “yeah, but what about the interview?”

“Oh. Oh, you were helping people. That was...it was kind of the last conclusion I came to, when I was...you know, recovering. I was pretty sure I wasn’t going to stay okay if I didn’t...have purpose. If I didn’t do something that felt important. Helping people was...it got me through everything, at the end. Kept me...once I started helping, I knew I’d never go back. Not ever. I knew you’d released the album, and what it was for...obviously I bought a copy, so I was...thinking about it a lot then. Listened to the album a bunch of times...and then I saw you talking about it...and I just knew. I knew it would be okay if I tried.”

“What if I hadn’t called?”

Steve shrugs, “then you didn’t. I’d have...been sad about it, you know but...we’ve got to do the best thing for ourselves, and I had to trust you to know what that was. So I would have taken your answer, no matter what that was,” Steve kisses Eddie’s forehead, “I was just happy for you.”

Eddie nods. Pressing his cheek against the damp hair of Steve’s chest, Eddie rests.

[mystii-gur0]

I lied, put your clothes back on. I'm about to tell you ALL the Ask Error/Errortale lore and explain to you how even after loosing his memories, sense of self, and sanity, everything Error!Sans does is still out of some futile, subconscious attempt to protect Papyrus, because despite everything, he's still Sans.

[growth-opportunities]

"Honey, I'm not blind. I saw your eyes flicking over to her every chance you got. Your little 'stretches' weren't fooling anyone, the way you craned your neck to look at her. To be honest, I don't blame you! Curves like hers stuffed into a sling bikini like that? She should have been charging! She probably does. But, well, we're on our honeymoon, baby. I don't want my new husband to be looking at anyone except me, even if they are dressing like a whore that would cost more than our wedding with a body that looked like it was designed by a group of horny teenagers.

"But we won't have to worry about that anymore, will we? I've been generous and left you with half of your height, but I'll keep taking inches every time I see someone other than me catch your attention. And don't think I won't. I'm already loving what the first few feet have done to me, not just making me tower over everyone else, but making my tits a few sizes bigger and making my hips wider to match? It feels so fucking good. You're lucky I left you anything at all! So every time I see your little eyes wander, you'll get smaller and I'll get bigger and we'll keep going until I'm your entire world! Okay, baby? Hehe, good. Let's head back to the hotel room. Too many distractions out here and I really want you to see everything your new goddess has to offer."

[forsaken-headcanons]

How good i think all the forsaken people's would be at cooking!(not including upcoming characters)

Survivors:

Elliot- His pizza is GODLY. Like the pizza in cartoons, all melty and real and oml that pizza is PEAK!! However, it's all he can cook.

Chance- They try, but.. little rich boy who likely had chefs cook for them, so.. safe to say he can't cook. (That, or option B, either chances food is GODLY or shit, it'd be a gamble!)

Twotime- They are GREAT at cooking, the only downside is how they get when given a knife. So, usually whenever they cook someone else handles the cutting aspect! But they are amazing at cooking besides that.

Guest1337- He used to survive off the bare minimum during war, he can cook but it's not exactly.. flavorful... he's trying but it tastes like nothing.

007n7- Hes a good cook! Has a wide variety of things he can cook, too! Think about the amount of food jobs hes probably had- also, fast food costs alot, and he can't let c00lkid starve! His experience as a dad makes him a terrific chef, even if the survivors tend to forget.

Shedletsky- He can't cook.

Dusekkar- OK, so i feel like he'd be a decent cook? Just in his freetime, hes never actually needed to cook and just doesn't it for fun, so it's not like. GODLY or anything, it's just average.

Taph- Pls dont let them cook. They can season food, but do NOT let taph cook for the love of spawn, PLEASE...

Noob- Cant cook, but great at baking! She liked baking things for g666 back before being forsaken, so he's a really good baker and tends to make dessert for the survivors.

Builderman- Average, but rarely adds seasoning- more flavor then guest1337, but not by much.

Killers:

1x- ONE EGGS ONE EGGS ONE EG- ok but in all seriousness, they'd be a good cook. She wanted to be better then his creator at SOMETHING, so.. top teir food.

C00lkidd- He can make pancakes! That.. that's it. Dude he's 10. Also, the only reason he can make pancakes is because when he was around 6, 007n7 was making breakfast and c00lkidd wanted to help- they ended up making pancakes alllll day, breakfast lunch and dinner. C00lkidd was so proud of himself, and it's a core memory.

Jason- Doesnt cook often, but hes average at it. The one cooking whenever 1x is too lazy or just did a round, he enjoys cooking and is trying to get better at it.

John doe- Before being corrupted, he was a decent cook. But. He's a feral animal now, literally has a spike as an arm.. don't let him anywhere near the kitchen. </3

(First time sending an ask here, if this list has already been done or I forgot someone pls don't throw tomatoes at me/hj also off topic but I'm SO FUCKING MAD that I didn't get a refund on elliot after he became free, pmo[ill get over it in like a week but still])

Shedletsky not being able to cook is amazing to me, same with Taph not being allowed into the kitchen. Those two would somehow find a way to blow up water./silly Welcome to the blog! We're glad you're here. :)

[yuechicake]

i find mhin's relationship with the other cast members fascinating, so i'm compiling my thoughts here in regards to how mhin discusses the others!

what is most prominent in regards to kuras is how highly mhin talks about him--a rarity, considering their usual acerbic tone. what makes kuras so different is how much mhin likes his kindness and goodwill. mhin values goodness and the sanctity of life as a scientist themself, but at the same time, they're wary of kuras's ulterior motives and thus can't let themself get too close to him--such altruism is frightening because it's simply too good to be true, and might mask other, more sinister intentions.

vere is someone who mhin speaks about with unrestrained vitriol, and there's no reluctant compliment or cool observation to be found. what mhin despises about vere isn't just the attempt on their life (though they aren't above personal grudges), it's vere's blatant disregard for others and his selfish actions that have no justification other than "he wants to act this way." vere's actions reinforces mhin's own notions about monsters, so what you see with vere is what you get--of course vere has done something terrible enough to warrant containment by the senobium. mhin has no pity for him, and assumes the worst of vere by default.

mhin is fond of leander for the same reason they're fond of kuras. they're slightly smitten by the idea of leander as the people's savior, and they're probably smitten by leander in general, as i think mhin is more susceptible to charisma and the persona of a good samaritan. at the same time, i think they also enjoy that leander is persistent and isn't put off by mhin's prickly demeanor. it might seem like a contradiction, but they enjoy when people try to get close to them despite how they act. it's a taste of the connection and vulnerability they long for, even if they will still deny it to themself at the end of the day. it's also why they're so quick to put distance between themself and leander, by immediately dissuading any notion they're part of the adderstones.

though all of mhin's relationships are interesting, there's something fascinating by how they view ais and the insight it gives to their mindset. ais, in mhin's own words, hasn't "done anything yet"--which means they're waiting for him to slip up and prove himself to be the monster mhin thinks he is. they expect ais to disappoint them and suspect he's the same as vere deep down. mhin's vitriol for monstrosity might be rooted in self-loathing, but it's interesting how they believe it to be inherent, not learned, which is why they're already bracing for the worst case scenario. what mhin hates about monsters the most is their disregard for others, when mhin has been shown to be someone who cares deeply about other people.

perhaps mhin wants ais to act differently, but they'll resent ais all the more for not choosing to be anything but a monster in the end. he can't be anything but his nature, so it'll be their fault for having any hope ais would be different, as possessing a monstrous nature only ever has one outcome. it's also possible there's some resentment if mhin's own monstrosity is inherent, while ais chose to make a deal with ocedeus, so mhin would despise ais for choosing to be monstrous instead of walking away, like mhin is unable to. at the same time, i wonder if mhin is ever jealous of ais and vere for their lack of restraint, when they're so cautious all the time in comparison.

[takeyrregrets]

Idea! So I was thinking, how about a always cheerful popular reader, like nothing can dampen his mood and no one has seen him upset + a delinquent.

So, the reader is from a poor family and lives in a run down apartment where the doors are squeaky and the elevator always shuts down. He only has his mother left after his father disappeared when he was young. And ever since young he always has been able to make friends easily, except for the fact that they never stick around, always disappearing for odd reasons, their parents getting a new job somewhere else, getting a new friend group, the same thing went for his things like for fucks sake his favorite ball got stolen by a bird. So after a while he starts to accept that nothing will stick around, enjoying his time with people and going out of his way to hang out with them. But, when he meets the delinquent he immediately falls in love never leaving him alone, before realizing that he probably shouldn't try getting into a relationship with him. So he starts trying to ship the delinquent with someone else, not knowing that the delinquent fell in love too and wasn't about to let him go.

Holy shit this was long

-🦭

𝗜 𝗪𝗮𝗻𝘁 𝗢𝗻𝗹𝘆 𝗬𝗼𝘂 𝗗𝗲𝗹𝗶𝗻𝗾𝘂𝗲𝗻𝘁 𝘅 𝗖𝗵𝗲𝗲𝗿𝗳𝘂𝗹 𝗠𝗥𝗲𝗮𝗱𝗲𝗿 this was a really cute!--And really sad prompt, also I love the amount of detail you put in omg

The elevator was broken again. Of course it was. You huffed a laugh under your breath, sneakers scuffing against the cracked tiles as you started up the stairs. Twelve flights wasn't so bad. You'd done worse. Your backpack swung side to side, stuffed with the leftovers Mrs. Langston had handed you from the bakery — she'd caught you eyeing the cupcakes again for what must be the hundredth time. People are nice, you thought, humming. Even if they don't stick around forever, even if jobs moved them or life swept them away — they stayed, for a little while at least. And that was enough.

You reached your floor, stepping over the spot where the carpet had worn down to nothing. Your apartment door squeaked when you pushed it open. Inside, the lights flickered once, twice, before settling into a dim yellow. Your mom's voice floated from the living room where she sat on the couch, counting out every dollar bill--figuring out how much could be spent for the following month

You smiled. You were lucky. It wasn’t much, but it was home. You liked the creaky floors and the peeling paint. They reminded you that some things could survive even if they weren't perfect.

You first met the schools so called "delinquent" when you were sitting on the curb after school, waiting for a bus that was already an hour late.

He was leaning against the bust stop sign, cigarette dangling from his lips, hoodie pulled up like he was daring someone to bother him.

You waved at him. Big grin, wide and open, like he wasn’t the scariest guy on campus. "You waiting for the bus too?" you asked.

He just stared at you like you’d spoken another language. Then shrugged, unsure, and suspicion all over his face.

You laughed, shoving your hands in your pockets. "Cool. Guess we’re both screwed, huh?"

He didn’t smile. But he didn’t walk away either.

That was enough. After that, you started showing up wherever he was. Park benches. Behind the school dumpsters. At the corner store where he loitered like he had nowhere better to be. You didn't ask permission. You just sat down next to him and started talking.

At first, he barely acknowledged you. But slowly — so slowly you almost missed it — he started listening. Then answering. One-word answers. Shrugs. Then eventually, full sentences.

He even walked you home once, shoving his hands deep into his pockets like he was mad at himself for it.

You thought he was just being nice. It felt better to ignore the fact he only acted this way with you. It hit you one afternoon. You were sitting on the curb again, eating cheap gas station sandwiches, and you looked over at him, and your heart just... ached.

You liked him. A lot.

And because you liked him..., you couldn’t be selfish.

You knew better than anyone that nothing good stayed. You weren’t going to drag him into that. You weren’t going to let him end up another thing you broke just by touching.

So you started trying to set him up with other people. Though he was quick to set you straight...

"You and Mari would be cute together," you said one day, kicking at a pebble on the sidewalk.

He didn't even look up from his phone. "No."

You laughed, playing it off. "What about AJ? He’s cool. He’s into the same music as you."

"No."

You frowned. "You can’t just say no to everyone, dummy."

"I can when they're not you," he muttered.

You froze. Your breath caught somewhere between your chest and your throat.

He realized what he said a second too late. His jaw tightened. His eyes darted away, like he wanted to shove the words back into his mouth.

You forced out a laugh — too loud, too fake — and shoved his shoulder playfully. "Don't joke like that!" you teased, heart cracking wide open.

He just stared at you for a long, heavy moment. Like he wanted to say something else. Something dangerous. But then he shoved his hands deep into his pockets and muttered, "Forget it."

You wanted to ask what he meant. You wanted to reach for him.

But you didn’t. Because you were a coward. Because you knew how this story ended.

Instead, you smiled your biggest, brightest smile — the one you used to hold yourself together when you were breaking apart inside.

"Let's go get slushies," you said, yanking at his sleeve. "Race ya!"

He let you drag him along, grumbling under his breath.

But you didn't miss the way his fingers brushed yours when he thought you wouldn't notice. You didn't miss the way he stayed close, always just half a step behind, like if he let you get too far, you'd disappear.

And maybe you would have, once.

But not this time. You were sitting on the curb again. Same spot as the first day you met him. The bus was late. (Of course.) The sky was smudged gray, the air heavy with that feeling right before rain.

He sat next to you, hoodie up, legs stretched out like he didn’t care about anything.

You wanted to say something. You wanted to tell him that maybe you were tired of letting things slip away. That maybe you were ready — terrified, but ready — to hold onto something for once.

But you didn't know how. So you muttered, softly, quietly, almost afraid he would actually hear "Hey Kaz?..What if...things actually stayed you know...constant..?" You looked up into the sky, eyeing the grey clouds with suspicion, avoiding his gaze "I mean, it’s kinda dumb, right? Stuff never stays. It's just better to enjoy it while it lasts." He was silent for a long moment.

Then he said, voice low, rough, like he was dragging it up from somewhere deep, "I'm not going anywhere."

You froze.

You stared at him.

He stared back, something almost desperate burning in his gaze.

Your heart hammered so loud you could barely hear yourself breathe.

"I—" He started, sitting up straighter, fists clenched on his knees. "I don't care if you think it's stupid. I'm not leaving. I don't care if you try to push me away. I lo—"

SCREEEEEECH.

The bus lurched around the corner, brakes screaming as it pulled up in front of you.

He flinched like he'd been slapped. You flinched too, the moment snapping like a rubber band stretched too tight.

He stood up fast, shoving his hands deep into his pockets, scowling at the ground.

You stood too, awkward and breathless, still half turned toward him, wanting to stay in that almost-place just a little longer.

But the bus doors hissed open. The driver leaned out, impatient.

"You getting on or what?" he barked.

You hesitated. He didn't look at you. He just muttered, "Text me when you get home."

You opened your mouth — to say what, you didn’t even know — but the driver honked the horn, and you stumbled onto the bus, half dizzy.

As the bus pulled away, you twisted in your seat to look back.

He was still there, hands stuffed in his pockets, hoodie slouched over his head.

Watching you.

Like he was afraid you’d vanish the second he blinked.

You pressed your forehead against the bus window and closed your eyes. Your heart was still racing.

He wasn’t leaving.

He had almost said it.

And you — You almost said it back.

Maybe next time.

[be-ready-when-i-say-go]

Heart of the Matter--Chapter 3: Vivification

Joe meets his rather elusive football icon, Trey Dominic, and worries he might barely be able to get a sentence out. But what waits for him is so much bigger than one singular first impression.

With matters of the heart on the line, every play will count.

Black Female OC x Joe.

Series Masterlist | Series Playlist | Joe Burrow Masterlist | Main Masterlist

____________________________________________

Joe is tired of cuming into his hand. 

Utterly sick of the feeling of his own palm. But he knows he can’t risk it with Marlowe, can’t cross that boundary even remotely as it currently stands. He hadn’t even had the gall to ask her if she was dating someone, let alone to think to ask if was interested in him. Even if he’s acting like a horny teenager now, Joe’s not one. So he knows when he needs to take things slow. And this thing with Marlowe, is a thing he needs to take slow. Needs to ease his way into that territory. Even if that leaves him most nights to a cold shower and his fist. 

Marlowe and Joe have only managed mostly text conversations. But even with that limited format, Joe can hear her replies in her slightly rough voice now. He waits for those replies now, hungry to hear anything from her. He likes hearing about her day, as simple as it sounds. He really likes Marlowe. But even if Joe is sick of cold showers and rubbing one out damn near nightly to the thought of Marlowe’s shy grin and perfectly pouty lips, he can admit that his text to Paige is phrased so poorly for what it really needs to convey. 

“Thinking with your dick right now is going to get you into trouble,” Joe mutters aloud. His house is quiet, even with the TV on the volume is muted. 

And Joe’s a fucking idiot for texting, I need to see you, to Paige. He knew it was a bad idea the second he tapped onto her thread. Paige is easy, willing. But she’s not the one Joe wants and even if Joe is terrified of fucking it up with Marlowe, that does not mean he should go diving dick first into Paige just because he’s sick of rubbing his aching cock raw his damn self. 

“So fucking stupid,” Joe growls at himself, tapping the corner of his pone to his forehead. 

But Paige’s reply has already been sent--damn near instantly to confirm if he was home or not. Which he is. Joe does want to have the conversion about ending their dynamic in private, to give her and him both privacy for the moment because Joe knows it’s only going to go south. But I need to see you is not the way to convey, I’m about to end this fling. 

The frustrated shout rips over his throat and leaps off his teeth and tongue. He’s already done it though. He’s already probably gotten Paige’s hopes up, has probably already made all the wrong turns and now there’s nothing to do but to face the consequences. 

It makes him a fucking asshole--the biggest kind. But there’s nothing to do now but to face the music. His phone chimes again--off the silent buzzing that it’s usually on. He turns the device too fast and loses his grip on it. The screen lands smack dab onto the bridge of his nose. But Joe’s quick to get the phone back into his hand. 

But it’s only the text from Paige, the one he hasn’t actually opened, only read the preview. On my way, Joey. 

Joe wants Marlowe to text him back. And he’d gotten Paige. 

Marlowe warned him last week that she was already gearing up to leave town again but needed to focus on Korey, her niece, until her parents returned from their mini vacation to celebrate their anniversary. Marlowe was taking over as primary caregiver. Joe wondered where the kid’s father was, or where Marlowe’s sister is. But he hadn’t asked. Something in his gut kept pulling the word back. Joe had drafted a couple texts with the questions. And each time he did, his bones would go a little cold. So he never pressed send. 

Even in the limited replies he’s gotten from Marlowe, when he’d learned that the little girl on her hip was not in fact her kid, there was relief— immediately relaxing him off the edge. The information came a couple days after her birthday, when she expressed her gratitude again to Joe for the dessert and he’d instantly replied that he was more than happy to do it and that he hoped that she’d celebrated the occasion the way she wanted. It took Marlowe a couple days to come back with, Can’t say birthdays are my favorite. But my sweetest (and only) niece handmade me a card, so I’ll be sobbing over this for the next two weeks.

Joe figured that in the interim, her replies might be slow. Though, it’s more like all her replies are a little slow. But they always come. Even if it takes her a couple days to get back, she’d have something, some sort of question or quip to carry on the conversation though, to keep it interesting. Her most recent update, aside from her parent’s safe travel and her gearing up for a flight to Atlanta, had been about longing for a local sunflower festival, not due until October, but she’d been going through photos and videos recently to post and came across the photograph of her and Korey in the fields, surrounded on all sides from last year’s run. A photograph Joe would kill to see. Yet, the photograph taken of Marlowe, resting on a bench with a bouquet of them in hand, had been a welcome addition. 

Joe’s text about hoping Marlowe had a safe flight for her work out in Atlanta—a hair showcase she agreed to do the makeup for a stylist she’d befriended—is the one still unanswered. Joe replied a couple hours after Marlowe told him she was headed to the airport. And instead of waiting to worry about Paige, who’d been on his radar to text, until after he got word from Marlowe, Joe decided to text Paige near immediately in all his infinite fucking cock induced wisdom just after he’d been damn near drooling over the picture of Marlowe with the sunflowers he saved. 

He wants the crush not to crush him. Though he knows he’s too far gone for someone he’s hardly had conversations with, it does feel easy with Marlowe. She makes it easy, thoughtful in her replies. Thorough and considerate when she knows that she might be away from her phone for longer than she usually is. She’s busy in more ways than Joe thinks he could ever truly understand. Yet, right now, it still feels like he matters. That even in the chaos Marlowe’s still carving out time for him.

The knock on the door raises the hair on the back of his neck. Joe turns to the sound and can see in the shadow of Paige. She’s shorter than Marlowe. “Fuck,” Joe mutters to himself. 

But there’s no turning back now. So he stands and crosses the foyer to the door, easing it open slowly. Praying all the while that he can find some way not to be an asshole. But Paige, with all her thin strands, long over her shoulder, and a shimmery professional dye job blonde with a shadowy dark brown root, pushes in through the inches of the opened door and loops her arms around his neck. 

Joe rears back, holds his neck stiff as she stretches up for him. 

The seconds are thick and long. He could give in. Paige is right there. But even the thought makes his chest ache and his stomach queasy. It’s not Marlowe and he can’t do it. So he eases the door close behind Paige and leaves his hands hovering at his sides. “I, uh,” he starts. 

“Oh, uh, your text sounded like this was different.” Paige scrambles away from him. 

“I need to talk to you,” Joe starts, like he should’ve fucking did from the start. 

“Yeah, okay.”

“You thirsty?” Joe offers, leading the charge to his kitchen. Kitchens are a good place to have this conversation, right? Except for the knives. But he’s pretty capable. 

“Uh, is everything okay, Joey? You seemed distant there lately. Distracted, maybe?” The nickname grates at his teeth from her lips. Paige’s voice is too sweet, too thin, and runny in a way that gets under Joe’s fingernails. 

“Just…a lot on my mind lately.” A thin answer, barely holds back the truth as he cracks open his fridge and pulls out the glass bottle of water for Paige. 

It’s all Marlowe on his mind, and some about football given the return nearing. But always Marlowe. Like right now, the ringer is still on Joe’s phone. And though he puts it face down on the counter, he keeps it close to him just in case Marlowe texts back that she’s made it safely. 

“A lot,” Paige repeats back. Her nails are short, painted with a clear base and white tips. Unlike the long rounded tips Marlowe wears. 

“Yeah, I-it’s important,” Joe settles on, tucking himself even further into the corner, up against the dishwasher. 

Paige nods. “Well, I’m all ears.”

He clears his throat, unsure of how to start this. Should he rip the bandage off? Should he ease her down slowly? The thing though is that Joe needs to put it all out on the table. So he starts with clarity. “I know it’s been a few months. And I have to ask just so we can get on the same page. Are you looking for something more? I know when this first started we agreed to keep things casual--”

“Yes, yes, I am,” Paige rushes out. 

Joe wonders if he can bring that guillotine to life. If it would hurt less than the way her face drops. Joe can feel the pinch in his brows, minute as it is, folding the skin of his forehead. Paige started around the corner of the kitchen island but has stopped and Joe knows it’s because of his face, his reaction. The way he’s folded his arms over his chest, eased back just a fraction even more into the corner. 

“Oh, wait, I thought—,” 

“We agreed on casual. That hasn’t changed for me, but I had a feeling it changed for you. And I just wanted confirmation.”

“Then what the fuck was your text, Joe? I need to see you, that’s what you said.” Paige’s voice raises, doesn’t hit the ceilings but it’s high and hurt. 

“Admittedly I wasn’t thinking with the right head when drafting that text.”

“You don’t fucking say so, Joe. Eight months. Eight fucking months with you and what? You’re going to throw it away.”

There--that’s what it is. The thing that’s been crawling under Joe’s skin, that’s been whispering at the base of brain but he couldn’t get his fucking finger on it. “We were never together, Paige.”

The words seemingly sting, cut because Paige takes a step back. “So it really was just sex. And what? Now you want to be a saint or something? It can still just be sex, Joey.”

“No, Paige. It was never just sex for you, was it?” Her chin wobbles and she can’t met his gaze. The answer lies silently between them.  “You can admit that here. To me now. I want the truth. But I can’t continue to see you knowing you want that level of commitment. I don’t want that level of commitment with you.” 

Joe won’t pull the it’s not you it’s me line. Because it’s both of them. It’s Joe wanting Marlowe and it’s Paige being desperate for him. And that’s messy, messier than it needs to be for anyone involved if Joe’s attempts to keep the facade up with Paige. 

“So that’s it?” Paige questions. “Just like that.”

“I don’t want to keep seeing you like that, no.”

“Like that?”

Joe tilts his head, unsure of where Paige is going, but clearly she sees something, hears it because she stares at him, eyes darting over his face down to his phone and then back to his face again. 

“Who else did you meet? Who is it?” Paige whispers. Like if she gives it too much volume it’ll shatter her chest. 

“Do you really want me to answer that?” Because he won’t. Joe won’t give her the satisfaction or the ammunition. If Paiged obsessed over Joe this much, he hates to think what she could do if she learned about Marlowe. 

“Spare me the good guy act,” Paige spits. “I deserve the truth. Who the fuck is it?”

“I’m not answering that.” He can see the swirling, the hurt and the anger brimming in the shaking of her hands. 

“Fucking asshole. I gave you everything! Everything you wanted. A fuck? I did that. A shoulder to cry on? I had that to give.”

Paige and Joe don’t talk--that’s why it worked. They could, at least in theory, get what they wanted without commitment. That’s what it was supposed to be, but clearly not to Paige. It had always been more for Paige. Probably from the inception. Maybe she hoped that Joe would eventually come around. 

“I didn’t ask for anything more than sex,” Joe returns. Even if Paige interpreted his actions that way, even if she hoped, Joe hadn’t done or said anything more than sex. That part is he sure of. At least, he thinks so.

“But letting me spend all the nights over here, that meant nothing? The way we’d wake up sometimes cuddling? The texts, the calls about how good I looked, how you couldn’t wait to see me again, that’s all what? Just you asking for sex?”

“I wanted to treat you like a human being. I did treat you like a human being. Was that wrong of me?” Joe implores, ears still waiting for the chime of his phone. Brows still knitting in the middle of his face at Paige’s indignation. “It’d be 1,2 am by the time we’d finish. So yeah, I’d offer to let you spend the night so you could get home safely the next morning. Yeah I text you about the night before or that I did want to see you again. What would you have preferred? That I treat you like a machine? Kick you out at 2 am? Text you, ‘Hey, I need my dick sucked. When are you free?’ Is that what I should’ve been doing? I’ve never asked you about anything more.”

“You’d ask me about my day!” Paige defends. 

“I was being polite.” It’s small talk. The kind of stuff people do all the time. And even if it kills Joe just a little to do it, he knows how to play the game. He wants to cringe at the realization, wants to say he’s leagues better. But, maybe, in the entire process Joe knew better than he suspected. That he knew better than he’d let himself settle in with. He was, in ways, trying to appease Paige just enough to keep her strung along.

“Fuck you, Joe. Fuck you and the high horse you think you’re on!”

It’s all Paige says before she turns. Her steps are stomps. They echo throughout the first floor, just like the slamming of his front door. The few decor pieces rattle, tapping against the walls at the force. He waits, though. Joe listens to see if the shattering of glass will come next. The seconds fall slowly. He follows the time with the thumping of his heart. Perhaps Joe was playing them both--stringing both him and Paige along on a ride that should’ve ended weeks if not months ago. 

His phone chimes.

Joe hurries to pick it up from the counter. Please let it be Marlowe, he chants to himself, please. 

He sighs at the sight of Marlowe’s name on his phone. Arrived with all limbs intact. We shall see if I leave here with all my digits and my wrist in working order though. Received the final run down the faces I’m working on tomorrow evening and it is a marathon. The text is paired with a string of crying emojis, the pale yellow face on screen a mixture of the tears and exhaustion. 

Lucky for you, I have wrist rehab exercises that I can pass along. 

Please do, if you still have them. I have a wrist brace but sometimes it’s not always enough if I’m working on a large volume of people. 

Of course. Let me find some videos and I’ll send them over to you. 

After Joe sends the last video, he creeps back to the front of the house. The little rack he installed next to the door for keys is a little crooked. But thankfully not much looks out of place or broken. The glass panes are all intact, which is a relief. His phone chimes again from inside his short pocket. 

You’re a lifesaver, Joe! 

Joe knows he’s not a saint. He couldn’t ever really be one either. But god, for Marlowe, he wants to be. 

__________________

Airports simultaneously bore and terrify Joe most of the time.

They’re monotonous, crowded, and tense on good days--a battle of dodging the rolling wheels, skirting around backpacks and duffle bags, listening for delays and cancellations. There’s an endless waiting at airports, the drag of carrying his bags on his shoulder. There’s an exhaustion from how late or how early it is that makes time feel unreal, moving at a snail’s pace inside and yet outside it’s moving all too fast. The seats on the plane and in the gates are uncomfortable to sit in for too long. They’re good for people watching, but an agony for a man like Joe who’s used to going, and going, and going. Throw in the obvious second glances, the photos he gets stopped and for Joe airports can feel a little bit like a rated PG-13 nightmare--boring but still jumpscare inducing at the right times. 

Yet, Joe’s not bored or terrified. The mid morning arrival coupled with a shockingly long TSA Precheck line should’ve grated at Joe’s patience, should’ve made his eye twitch because the one time he doesn’t boot for more lavish and private travel accommodations and he’s getting the shittiest luck. But, on this particular trip, with his suitcase at his heels, Joe’s more than happy to wait, to have to watch the line in front of him move inch by measly inch. Because just on the other side, just beyond the black ropes, is his gate. And just beyond his gate is the airplane and just beyond the airplane is her. 

The likelihood that he and Marlowe could get together while they were both in California looks rather iffy. She’s out there for her own work. He has his own work to attend to out on the west coast. At the very least though, they’ll be back in the same time zone. There’s hope simmering under his skin that Joe is desperate to keep in check. Her promise still echoes in his ears, “Yeah, if schedules align, I’d like to catch up in person.”

Joe plans to use California to his advantage. Though Marlowe seemingly only had a few days between her return from Atlanta before leaving for California, they’d managed a quick call. Her in the midst of laundry and sitting with Korey while Korey colored and Joe in the midsts of, well, not much. His weekend was pretty wide open. He’d been preparing for his own travel, but still had a few more days than Marlowe before he started the mad dash of packing, triple checking his flight information and travel accommodations. He was still in the bit of the zen before travel. And their conversation lasted a little over an hour. He asked her how the hair show went, she asked him about what he had planned in California. That simple question opened up the door even wider for Joe. 

And Marlowe agreed, “Yeah, if schedules align, I’d like to catch up in person.”

He could and would use California to his advantage. If the universe allows. God, does Joe hope the universe allows. The three days Joe lingered in Ohio after Marlowe left for California were filled with ache. She was three hours behind him and at every shake of his phone, Joe prayed it was Marlowe, hoped it was her sending even the simplest Hope you have a good day text. He wanted to know about her day, wanted to see how it was going, wanted to know that he floated on the edges of her days and awareness like she did for him. Joe will take anything at this point. 

At his gate, hat pulled down to cover his eyes, Joe watches the ticking minutes--knows Marlowe is probably still asleep while he’s contemplating how much caffeine he can safely consume, with the smell of it wafting from the nearby coffee shop storefront. He’d managed to make a cup before leaving the house, but it doesn’t feel like it’s kicked in. Even though Joe’s buzzing, he’s still under sleep’s spell. 

Joe stares down at the last few text threads--Marlowe’s is at the top. Just under it was the family group chat. Third and forth were the individual threads with Ja’Marr and Tee. And under that sits Paige. His last text-- I’m sorry again for how I handled ending things and things in general between us. I understand I didn’t handle it perfectly and I apologize for hurting you.-- it sits in green even though all the ones previous are in blue. Joe’s not sure Paige will ever forgive him. Yet, there’s still a sting knowing that even if he was attempting to take accountability it seemed to be falling flat. 

Joe had done the right thing and ended it, even if it was imperfect. Even if part of him does wish he’d handled it better, it was done. Joe swipes on the thread and selects to delete the entirety of it. It’s done, dead, like he said. There’s no use in dwelling on a past that wouldn’t serve him in his future. 

The muffled voice ever heads calls for his flight and his boarding group. Joe finds Marlowe’s text thread. Her hearted reaction to Joe’s text about promising he was hitting the bed early before his flight being the last notification he has. Save a little sunshine for me, Joe fires off—hitting send without so much of a second thought before shuffling to slipping his carry on onto his shoulder. 

The blossoming California morning sun is bright when Joe lands. When he finally peels himself out of the airport and into the sun, it warms his skin. His phone shakes—which feels like all it’s been doing since Joe landed, forgoing in flight WiFi and nestling in for a rather laborious task of using inflight entertainment from First Class. It’s not a habit Joe does often, but with the flight he wanted to catch just a couple extra hours of sleep given timezone hop and didn’t want the shaking of his phone to disturb him. Suspended up thousands of miles in the air should come with just a little bit of peace, if anyone asked Joe—space to be disconnected even if just for a few messily hours. Amongst the littered notifications is one, about an hour ago, from Marlowe.

How does that song go again? I got a pocket, got a pocketful of sunshine. Attached to the text message is a video. With his Bose earbuds nestled into his ear still, Joe taps on the gray play icon. The wind whips through as the camera focuses in the open pocket of a dark golden yellow skirt or maybe it’s a dress; Joe can’t tell. He just knows it’s Marlowe’s wrist, her fingers--nails painted a soft pale blue this time--reflecting back into the camera with the gold rings and bracelets. Just faintly in the background, he catches her voice, a soft hum to the melody she texted. Then her giggle cuts close to the microphone now, “Does this count, Joe? You caught me unprepared. Hope you had a safe flight.” 

It definitely counts, Joe replies. 

It sure as hell counts if just the sound of her recorded voice saying his name makes his heart race like this. Joe plays the video again, glancing every so often to the top bar, to see if he’s got another alert about the car on its way to pick him up. Joe holds his breath when Marlowe’s giggle echoes again. Does this count, Joe? 

Joe drags the bar backwards. Does this count, Joe?

Does this count, Joe? Like it would ever really be a question. Like his name could ever sound better in his entire life either. Like Joe really shouldn’t be contemplating when Marlowe got her nails done to change up the color, and he shouldn’t find himself liking both colors against her dark skin equally. But he thinks the red might edge out the soft blue just a hair. And he wonders how Marlowe picks those colors, if she rotates based on seasons, and if somehow Joe could get the glory of choosing a color, a style of nail that could turn his skin red if she pressed hard enough. 

Like he’s a horny fucking teenager. Get it together, Joe reprimands himself. Yet, the giant smile on his face remains even as the car eases to a stop in front of him. 

It’s not until evening, deep after dinner for Joe, that his phone shakes. How well do you do with slashers?

Joe spies Marlowe’s name as the sender. His body is tired, eyes already blinking with exhaustion from the time zone change--his body keeps telling him it’s 11, but the clocks only reflect back a measly 8PM. But where exhaustion had set up camp, it disappears as the words burn back into Joe’s retinas. He sits up in bed, the pillows against his back expanding with the release of his weight. This could not be what he thought it was--no way, no fucking way. He’d considered reaching out to make solid plans with Marlowe while he ate dinner, but it’d seemed way too soon. He’d just gotten into town and she’d been, from what Joe could tell, pulling some long days. 

I can protect you, if that’s what you’re asking. Not an actual answer, but casual enough. Yeah, casual enough--or at least that’s what Joe tells himself. 

Funny, she quips back. The addition of the eye roll emoji makes her sarcasm clear. But, there’s a rooftop cinema in town. They’re playing Scream tomorrow night. We could catch up. Get dinner first and then head over to watch? 

With a flurry, Joe heads over to his email. He remembers the wrap time being in the evening, but not excessively late. With a double, and then triple check as another text from Marlowe comes in, Joe swears his chest might combust. Marlowe was asking him. And it’s not a date--Joe would never allow himself an ounce of delusion to call it that. But it still makes him giddy. She was initiating. 

Movie’s at 10:45, so dinner at 8?

Though it would hurt just a little, Joe thinks he could sacrifice the extra hours of sleep just for her. Sounds good to me. 

Shoot me an address to pick you up at. And it shouldn’t make him blush, dear God, it shouldn’t. Yet it does. As Joe sends the address of the house rental he’s in, he can feel the burn creeping up on his chest and cheeks. 

It’s decidedly not a date, neither one of them had called it that. It wouldn’t be a date either. Yet, after Joe’s showered, towel still tied around his waist he finds himself hating everything he’d packed for his trip. He’d planned for casual ventures out, the shooting days, days where he’d venture through the city with no real agenda but time to kill. Joe had even considered how he’d make it work clothing wise should the opportunity to meet up with Marlowe arise and now that it’s here, he hates every single piece of clothing he’s packed. 

His phone chimes from the nightstand and Joe turns from the closet to look at the device. Should take me about half an hour to get to you. Leaving from here in 10. Forty minutes. Joe has forty minutes to make something happen and this will not be a last quarter grinder, that’s for sure. 

Marlowe’s punctual--the kind of punctual that feels too punctual to be happenstance. But at 7:45 PM on the dot, the agreed upon time she’d get him to make their dinner just a few minutes from his room, there’s a knock on the front door. Joe pauses his pacing, glances down to his phone and notes just how on the dot she is. But there’s no going back now. Slinging his bag over his shoulder, Joe double checks he has everything to get back inside the house. He double checks his bag for his wallet, phone, mints, and hand lotion, before he slips the sunglasses on top of his head. All items accounted for, Joe then cracks open the door. 

There Marlowe stands, a shy smile pulling at her lips. The jersey is big on her, the opening of the arms, triple the size they need to be for her. The 56 in white across her chest, her father’s number. Joe would know it blind damn near. And now, looking at how she’s dressed in the jersey and jeans, Joe’s glad he went for an elevated but still casual look in his black wash jeans and black sweatshirt sweater hybrid. He’d nearly worn a boxy casual button down but decided--at the least minute--to swap. 

“Hi, Joe.”

God, his name has never sounded better. “Hey, Marlowe.”

“You ready? Or do you need a minute?”

Joe could take as many minutes, as many seconds as he could be given, but he’s really not sure he’d be ready for the eagle eyed glance. Even if it is soft, even if she is smiling, hands shoved into her back pockets, Marlowe’s look feels all knowing, all seeing. Like she could see into the marrow of his bones if she looked long enough.

“Yeah,” Joe nods. “I’m ready.”

“Cool.” She hazards a step down and Joe flicks off the lights before ensuring that as the door closes, it locks. 

Marlowe’s agile down the steps, Dominic blasted across her back in white against the navy blue jersey. The headlights on the SUV blink as they approach. “I didn’t take you as someone to drive in LA. Traffic is horrendous,” Joe quips. 

“I like driving.” A simple return--easy, a factoid. One that Joe saves away, files it for all the things he’s learning about Marlowe. Things like, how Marlowe goes nowhere without jewelry--even in the baggier fitting jeans and her father’s jersey, her wrist and fingers are still dripping with bands and rings. Like the fact that she likes driving. Like the fact that her lips roll together into a flat line that make her nostrils flare when she’s embarrassed and though the blush isn’t evident against her skin, the face she makes says it all. 

“It’s cute,” Joe starts as she pulls away from the curb. “That you wear your dad’s jersey.”

“I like to keep a little piece of home with me, wherever I go. That and so they can identify my body. Dual purposes.”

Joe chokes on his inhale, a bit thrown off by the dark humor pouring from her lips. Not how he had her pegged, but he doesn’t hate it. Marlowe snorts, “Sorry. It’s a little dark up there.” She taps the side of her head, right at her temple to emphasize her point. Her collection of bracelets jangle at the action. 

“Preparedness is a useful trait. So, I can’t say I’m mad at it.”

The lights of the road make the one hand she has on the steering wheel—high at the top as Marlowe reclines back in her seat—dance. the bracelets and gems blink with every passing row of lights. The cabin of the car falls almost silent. The soft echo of the radio keeps them company.

“How’d the first day go for you?” Her question nearly gets lost in the echoing of the singing--an R&B station by the sounds of it. Songs that Joe can’t place immediately, but likes how they sound. This just feels right, feels like the music that Marlowe would listen to; music that just makes sense for her.  

“Pretty good. It’s, uh, hard to have a bad day when people are just sort of filming you doing stuff you’d normally do.”

“That’s good to hear. You sounded a little nervous, maybe? About coming out to LA.”

It’s not that Joe gets nervous about coming to California. It’s what California means for him--how much he is famous. Fame feels fleeting in Ohio. It’s tangible in all the ways Joe can’t go about his normal life, but California means he’s confronted full force with it. It’s how for a couple weeks in his life he’s more aware of every head that turns his way more so than he usually is. Not helped by his own habit of people watching, of scanning the crowd. Joe’s not nervous about the state or the city, he’s just trying to find the right way to breathe in his life, how much of an inhale he should take and how much of an exhale he needs. 

“It’s still all new to me. Trying to get comfortable.”

“What’s still new to you?”

Joe exhales, staring back out the front windshield. The city lights are dazzling, bright neon that are just starting to reflect off the asphalt in the setting sun. The horizon’s growing dark around them, sunset hitting about twenty minutes before Marlowe arrived. Marlowe wouldn’t think it’s silly. Or maybe she would, maybe she’d hear Joe’s reply and tell him to grow up, relax. It’s not that Joe doesn’t want to tell her, it’s that he’s not sure how to say, how to convey that sometimes when he wakes up, on bad days in particular, he wishes at times that the random order of the universe had chosen someone else. 

“Fame. I’m just a kid from Ohio, you know. I dreamed big but at times, it feels like I dreamed too big.”

“You’re where you’re supposed to be. If not, you wouldn’t be here.”

“Yeah,” Joe agrees. It’s what he tells himself when it feels too big, too heavy to carry. There’s some kid looking at him, who sees that he did it and believes they can do it. But sometimes Joe’s not strong all the time. “Sometimes, though, I do miss just being anonymous.” Sometimes Joe has to put it down; he can’t carry it all the time.  

“I understand that. I don’t think humans were built for fame, like mentally we’re not built for it as a species. I think it’s easy to forget just how fragile humanity is. The glitz and the glamour are alluring.”

“Sounds like you like fame?” 

“Fame only likes the parts of me I give it.”

Joe turns back to her. Marlowe’s pushed forward just a hair in the driver seat as she peers for the right turn she’s signaling for. When she looks back in Joe’s direction, her gaze briefly sweeps over his face and there’s an eerie seriousness to her words that reflects back in the down pull of her pouty lips--glossy and bright even in the blooming dark. 

“So who has all of you?” The question feels too heavy the second it’s done leaping from his lips. But even with her gaze not directly on him, Joe can’t help it. There’s an earnesty, something magnetic about her face that makes Joe want to ask, that compels him with little regard for any consequences. It’s her, it’s Marlowe that makes Joe just want more. Intoxicated isn’t even a strong enough word for it. It’s compulsory. Like there’s no way for him to pull out of her orbit. A gravitational pull he’s too weak to resist. 

“Alive or dead?”

Joe thinks back to the video--the one that started and almost ended his late night spiral--her grandmother who cackled with her, asked to be beat for the gods. Joe recalls the never seen Malia--his suspicion about being too close to the bear rises again. Would this make Marlowe run? Yet now, face to face, Joe can’t stop himself. He can’t fight against it. Like an infant who’s not yet learned that dancing next to the fire could get him burned. 

“Both,” he answers, breathless like he is after a gruesome run of suicides. 

“Family. Both alive and dead.”

Family. Such a final word, a damn near ear ringing answer as realization dawns over Joe. The question burns at Joe’s tongue, even as Marlowe pulls into the parking space, even as they’re seated. Joe shouldn’t, even as he’s studying the menu in front of him, he can’t shake Marlowe’s answer. 

I hope she and Malia get to catch up in heaven. I want in on the gossip, girls, when we’re reunited again.

“Is Malia your sister?” He almost thinks maybe ‘was’ is the better tense, but can’t bring himself to use it. Wouldn’t reduce her family to a past tense, when Joe knows that death wouldn’t end the bond for him or his brothers. 

Marlowe exhales long and hard, menu dropping to the table at the action. “How’d you find out about her?”

Joe ducks his head. That’s one way to put his foot in his mouth. Her discomfort is clear in his words, shaky as she asks the question. All his chances are probably ruined so he looks back up to at last face his sure destruction head on. When he takes her in again, Joe sees Marlowe staring him down, a tight gaze, lips pursed together. “I watched a couple of your videos on Instagram. You mentioned her in the post about your grandmother. I’m sorry though, about your loss, and for making you uncomfortable. You just-when you answered that family had all of you alive and dead, I was curious. You talk about Korey all the time.”

“Malia’s my sister,” Marlowe answers, seemingly able to unthaw just a little at the mention of her niece. But it’s all she says. All she gives Joe. She’s looking in Joe’s direction, but not seemingly at him anymore. The tight and stinging gaze now lost and unfocused. 

“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have asked. How is Korey?” Divert, divert, divert. That’s what Joe needs to do. 

But even though he’s desperate to change the subject, Marlowe seems less interested in that. Her gaze still not quite seeing Joe, still far away. “And Malia’s dead now. Like my grandmother.”

The confirmation Joe didn’t need to get this way. The thing he’d suspected. The very thing that got him into this mess. “We don’t have to talk about them.” He offers it softly, a way for her to change the subject entirely if she wants too. 

Marlowe blinks, eyes moving up just a little and when his chest feels tight again, Joe knows she’s seeing him again. “It’s hard to talk about them.”

“No worries; I get that.” Joe stretches, reaching across the table--half of him hesitating as the tips of his fingers brush over hers, a touch so light that Joe’s not sure it was real. Until she curls fingers up and around his briefly, and his whole right arm feels like it’s been shocked, a shot of warmth crawling up his nerves and tendons. 

Then Marlowe releases his fingers, just as fast as she embraces them. “Sorry.”

“No, don’t apologize. It’s my fault. You can bring them up next time, whenever you’re ready.”

“You-you asked about Korey, right?”

Joe nods, but doesn’t pull his hand back, not until she starts to retreat. “Yeah,” Joe answers, voice still soft as he can tell Marlowe’s coming back to the surroundings. “I did.”

“Her birthday is next week,” Marlowe laughs just a little, like remembering something that Joe can’t see. But her twinkle is back, the light on her face shining again. “I can’t believe she’s going to be three. The irony is that I’m surrounded by fire signs.”

“Three? Before you know it, she’ll be running off to college.”

“Don’t say that, Joe. Oh.” Marlowe falls back into her seat, a hand pressed to her chest. “I can’t. No, I can’t. She’s gotta stay little forever, my little stinkabutt. It was just yesterday I was taking the night shift with Dad to help get Korey to sleep through the night.”

Joe tries not to picture Trey with a tiny baby on his hip, or posed half asleep with baby Korey nestled into his arms. But Joe fails, and finds himself engrossed in how tightly knit the family sounds. “Was Korey a terror to get sleep trained?”

“Worse than me, according to Dad. But we all banded together to do what we could. You know? You do just about damn near any and everything for family. Or--at least the way we grew up.”

“I respect that. Family is important. So what is Korey into? Third birthday is pretty big news.”

“Bluey. So much Bluey. Gracie’s Corner. And sunflowers.”

Sunflowers are an interesting addition, the kind of thing that kids could love, but only if taught, only if they’ve seen someone they love liking them. “Did she pick up sunflowers from anyone in particular?”

Marlowe raises the menu. Her chin disappears, then her lips. Her nose slips behind the red leather covered menu. But her eyes are bright and the skin around them crinkles, giving away the smile tucked away. She shakes her head. “What would give you that idea?”

Joe can’t help his laughter, the sound bubbling from his chest. He shakes his head. “No, nothing would ever give me that idea.”

Besides the fact that Joe thinks Marlowe was built to love sunflowers and maybe, he’d even go so far as to say sunflowers were built for Marlowe. A bright and tall presence, once seen cannot be unseen. He is glad, now, that their drinks are ordered and the conversation around them is lighter to see Marlowe laugh. He can’t imagine how it must feel to lose people so close to him. Can’t begin to fathom how Marlowe’s getting through each day when it feels like everything that’s ever mattered is gone. 

But Joe notices, as they continue to talk, that Marlowe in the videos is vibrant and loud and Marlowe in person is much softer spoken. Still magnetic, just a tad shier than she appears in her videos. Fame only likes the parts of me I give it. The bubbly, upbeat parts. The parts of her that she lets fame get, and the rest is striped back, or maybe left bare. But even if she’s quieter than he’d originally guessed, she’s no less witty, effortlessly funny. 

Their plates are slow to be consumed--a conversation so easy to settle into now Joe can almost forget his earlier blunder. He’s sure he’ll always remember distant and foggy look in her eyes when talking about her sister and grandmother. 

“If you say Star Wars, I’m going to leave,” Marlowe warns after asking about his favorite movies as a kid. They still have an hour before the movie starts and as the conversation meanders, the intrigue about more personal details crept up higher and higher. 

“What’s wrong with Star Wars?” The offense is thick, but Joe can only laugh at the exasperation painting Marlowe’s face. 

“My father, that’s what’s wrong with Star Wars. That man has a marathon of it every fucking year. Right around fall, he plays the entire series, in order of film release and in chronological order. Jabba the Hutt terrified me as a kid. Scared Korey too, unlike her mom. I can’t handle Star Wars anymore.”

Joe knows that his childhood bedroom still holds a few posters up on the wall for the franchise. And he shouldn’t, Joe absolutely shouldn’t file away that information for the next time he does get to speak with Trey to bring up the franchise. Joe hisses, “So, you’ve got this whole thing, right? Because I won’t stand for Star Wars slander.”

“Actually, I think you should pay, to cover emotional damages,” Marlowe mutters. 

“Emotional damages, you say? You’re the one hating.” 

“An insignificant detail,” Marlowe huffs, grinning as she speaks. 

“Insignificant?” Joe replies with faux indignation. “You certainly know how to kick a man when he’s down. What about you? What were you watching?”

“You don’t look down to me.”

Joe couldn’t be down, not with Marlowe around. “I’m pretty tough. But seriously, what about you?”

“The Little Rascals. Before I fell in love with horror. We’ll see how tough you really are later tonight.”

She offers it so easily, like she’s not even trying and when the server comes back around and Marlowe asks for the check, Joe’s still sitting with his mouth gaping--a hole for a bird to nest in. But he’s so shocked by her. Enamored like seeing a constellation in the sky. “Horror?” Joe parrots back, like somehow he still can’t believe the answer. 

“Horror,” another singular word response. Like there’s nothing else to explain. Maybe there isn’t. But Joe wants more, wants to find out what drew her into the genre. What is it about horror that she likes so much? But she beats him to the punch, “So what is it about Star Wars that you like?”

The server returns with the check and Marlowe smiles up with a soft thank you before she’s reaching into her pocket. Joe’s stretching before he realizes, fingers just caching the lips of the black folder but Marlowe’s shockingly quick to pull it just out of his grasp. “What do you think you’re doing?” she laughs. 

“Paying?”

“No, I suggested dinner and the movie, so I’m paying. For everything. Keep those fingers off your wallet. Anything you want, I’ll get it tonight.”

It’s right there, dancing on his lips to question how much she means that, if anything really means anything. But Joe refrains, more taken aback by Marlowe’s assuredness. As if she would never dare make Joe pay for a thing when it was her idea to come out, though it’d been Joe’s desperation when he suggested getting together for an evening. 

“Now, Star Wars, talk to me about it,” Marlowe urges.

Joe doesn’t miss the way she slips her card inside and holds the check to her stomach, ensuring Joe won’t reach for it. But he might. Joe thinks he would fight for it more if this were a date. And maybe not even then. Maybe he’s hoping to just touch her again, feel the radiating warmth one more time. 

“Well, I guess, it made me feel like I could be the hero too. That and space is pretty neat too.”

Marlowe’s lips peel back into a grin, some of the gloss has worn off thanks to eating, but her lips still look soft and so plump. And Joe shouldn’t be doing this. He lifts his gaze back to her eyes as she speaks. “So, you like space.”

Joe nods. “It’s pretty cool, I think. Unlike boats.”

“I like the stars,” Marlowe offers in return. “Boats are okay for short periods of time.”

And Joe’s done for, he is utterly done for. Enough so that when the check is collected, he can’t help but blush at Marlowe’s pause to make sure there’s nothing else he wanted off the menu first. “No, I’m good,” he whispers, voice softly reaching through the chatter of the restaurant.

“Good.” She hands the check over and the one word melts Joe’s innards. There’s so much earnesty in the answer, like Marlowe wouldn’t want anything less. It makes him wonder what would happen if he did want something else, what she’d do if he wasn’t satisfied. 

Joe fills the small gap with a soft question, “What was it about The Little Rascals? I can’t say I’ve seen it myself though.”

“It was silly, charming, and romantic in the way best suited for kids. And it made me fall in love with pickles.”

“Pickles?” Joe questions, his sip of water interrupted by his laughter. “What do pickles have to do with a movie?”

“Watch it. Then you’ll see.” Not quite a command, and not a demand. A quiet offering. Like the film will speak for itself and she need not interject over it. 

“I’ll keep you updated.” He wants it to sound promising but not desperate. Though he’s already mentally mapping which streaming platform to try first tomorrow after his shoots. 

“Just make sure it’s the film.”

“I will. But we have like forty minutes until the movie now, and I hate being late.”

Marlowe only smiles, but nods. The server returns with the receipt and her card and she’s swift to add the tip and sign all the receipts. “Let’s not keep you waiting any longer.”

It’s more intimate than Joe accounted for, or assumed a rooftop movie could be. But the heater is clicked on with just a few twists, the singular blanket is handed over by the employee who leads them to their seat. There’s rows and scattered bodies of other singular seaters. But Joe stands in front of the singular lounge chair built to fit two people and two people only with limited space between them. “There were limited tickets,” Marlowe explains. 

They are a little early to the movie. Plenty of others could be on their way or could’ve had a last minute change of plans. So who’s to say what was left when she grabbed the tickets. And who’s to say that maybe Marlowe’s not trying to keep fate, but she looks at him a tad apologetic. So Joe takes it as the truth. 

The thing is that Joe’s not opposed to the intimate setting. In fact, the longer they stand next to each other, the more Joe is sure it’s not the fire heating his skin anymore. But he is still trying to find the lines, isn’t sure what this means to Marlowe or what she wants it to mean and he doesn’t want to send the wrong signals. Doesn’t want to go too hard on showing his interest in her if it’s not what she wants and doesn’t want to seem too aloof if she is interested. 

Admittedly, Joe could probably just ask. It was the easiest thing to do. But this is just catching up. That’s what Marlowe called it after weeks of texting, a couple of phone calls. They were catching up but catching up didn’t come with a manual, so Joe’s left here, watching as Marlowe slips into one corner of the chair. She peels back a corner of the blanket, still fluffing at her side of it. 

“Or are you too scared?”

It’s a challenge, playful, but still a challenge. Joe’s never going to back down from one. So he’s mindful, slipping the pouch to the front of his chest so he can recline fully back into the seat and takes the offered up end of the blanket and settles it across his lap, though the night’s not that chilly to really need it. 

“So you and horror?” Joe questions, unsure of where to put his arms. They’re not squished in the seat, but there’s inches, and probably not even enough to be considered inches anymore, between them. Marlowe eases into the corner of her section and Joe feels stiff as if he makes one wrong move the whole evening will fall apart a second time. 

“Yeah, me and horror.”

“What about it? Do you like being scared?”

“Relax, Joe. I don’t bite.”

Joe watches the shy tuft of laughter escape her, as it shakes her shoulders. The tease bashes at his teeth, Would you if I asked? He’s not going to fuck this up. Joe’s not going to cross that line. He swallows it back down, and instead comes back with, “That sounds like the very thing someone who does bite would say to create a false sense of security. You took me out to see a horror film. I have to remain vigilant.” 

“I like horror because I feel like if I pay close enough attention the thing meant to scare you is evident all along.” 

“So you don’t like being scared,” he tuts. More information to log away.

“Being scared means I haven’t paid close enough attention.” 

The words are heavy though. Joe watches as she picks at the corner of the blanket, her nails a soft click, click, click, as they meet with her worried fretting. Joe’s not sure if Marlowe is older or younger than Malia. But he can already see behind her eyes, the way she probably wishes she’d seen more before her sister’s death. A responsibility she’s not supposed to be carrying. Death comes for them all and when it wants someone, it will take. 

Marlowe would ever be a singular force strong enough to stop it. But clearly, as she sits here, she still wishes she could. That she berates herself for not being able to do such an asinine thing like influence the universe. Without hesitation, Joe reaches for her hand, the one picking and covers it with his. His thumb stroking over the joint of her thumb. The last click is soft.  

“You’re sharp though. A deadly eye,” Joe encourages softly. 

“Thanks.” 

The night hardly stands a chance against the soft yellow of the projector, the roaring fires that echo around them. As the film starts, Joe starts to pull his hand back, his chest radiating the warmth of her skin. But Marlowe flips her hand, making them palm to palm. Her fingers cup the space between his thumb and forefinger in a light hold. Grounding but light. 

“In case you get scared,” she whispers, leaning in just a hair to Joe so he can hear it.  And Joe is scared. But not about the film. He’s scared she’s going to feel the erratic thundering of his heart just in his palm. He’s terrified just how quickly Marlowe’s able to disarm him. Everything he’d normally do, all the rules he had—abstaining from touches like this in public, abstaining from the public in general unless it’s to build his brand—don’t matter in the presence of Marlowe.

[shoyastars]

Birthday Words - SFW

April 30th - Ray’s Birthday

Headlines and even the news announcing the Hero Binary Star’s birthday. You sigh as you know how these things usually go, everyone will want to give your boyfriend or Binary Star their gifts and attention, while you just want to spend time with him. You can’t help but curse the NAHA for hogging him.

You bring yourself to be reasonable again, after all… if everyone’s favorite hero wasn’t able to be seen on his birthday then people might cause useless drama over it, however some people still criticized the NAHA for making him work on his birthday too. A double edged sword, if only he had a cloning ability… wait scratch that, you didn’t… who knows what type of shit he could pull if he had one…

You turned off the tv and decided to go back to making a cake instead of going to a store. He liked your cake last year, so why not do it again this year but with more practice and with the help for decoration from YouTube tutorials that you thought Ray would like. You were more confident in this one, but only setting a cake didn’t sit right with you… yes you did it last year, but what gift could you give him? He can buy anything he wants, of course you were an option, but it really didn’t make your thought easy. You sigh tired, as you hummed to a relaxing melody playing in the background, somehow causing you to drift off into sleep, you felt so relaxed your eyes completely shut..

The buzz of your phone against the table annoys you enough to reach for it, in your half asleep state, you yawn and manage to answer the phone.

“Hello?”

“Hey Star, just wanted to call and see how you were holding up at home.”

Hearing Ray’s voice causes you to wake up instantly, looking at the date, you sigh in relief that you didn’t sleep the full day away.

“I’m good, just um… watching some tv and doom scrolling… a lot of things popped up about you.”

“I bet… but I’m more interested in spending time with you after all this…”

You felt your face head up, as much as he is supposed to have his birthday about him, he still can’t help but be selfish when it comes to you.

“Yeah yeah.. why make it about me though? Seriously if anything I should be more excited to see you today of all days.”

Ray chuckled as you smiled on the other end of the phone. Sometimes you wonder if you still were dreaming upon how the two of you crossed paths… it would’ve been one hell of a dream… but reality always has its surprises… speaking of surprises… his gift… many times have you thought of getting his gift for his birthday…. Yet… the obvious always settles in…. He can literally buy anything he wants or needs, but you were someone he’d rather have over any object he can use anytime.

“I’ll see you when you get home! Happy Birthday Ray.”

Ray smiles on the other end, a light pink across his face, hearing your voice was at all was definitely the best gift he’s had all day.

“Thank you Star.. I’ll see you soon.”

The beep as the call ends, the settling thoughts come in, you had no idea or at least have an idea for a gift for his birthday… maybe some would say it’s unnecessary, but you really couldn’t think of a better idea. You knew him well by now, you weren’t dumb not to notice. However… you were sure you didn’t have anything too interesting to the eye. You went to take a shower to brush off some of the nerves. Despite it all, you still wanted Ray to have a good birthday, thinking about it now, he probably didn’t have many… you wanted him to enjoy now, of course the gift doesn’t have to be too flashy, but you might as well make something by hand…. Like a card…

Trying to make something out of nothing is harder than people think, you did already make a cake, might as well make a card. As childish as it was, at least to you, you wanted to try and make something for him, you didn’t want to only give him the cake, but give him at least something meaningful. When you were done with the little design on the card, you thought of what to write, something heartfelt? But not too heartfelt.. Does that make sense? Either way, you wrote down what you wanted to say regardless, reading it in your head, reading it aloud… you sigh as you then hold it close to your chest, you both felt and heard your heart racing… will he like it, even if it’s nothing fancy? Is it enough? You know he would still love you, but you’re anxiety is saying otherwise…

Maybe add some more flare to the design…?

Hearing the door open and close causes you to jump a bit. Ray’s back?? What time was it?

“Star, I’m back!”

“Uh… One second!”

You looked at the card and went to just put it under the cake for now, the plate for it was big enough to cover some of it. You then hear him walking in, you of course tried to act cool.. he looked at you with a bit of worry.

“Everything alright?”

“Yeah! Yeah.. just uh… didn’t… except you home till later…”

“Something about fans not wanting me on the clock for too long. Kind of confusing since some wanted to meet me on my birthday to…”

‘Fucking called it…’

“Yeah… it’s a double edge sword situation.”

“No kidding… anyways, how have you been?”

“Just waiting for you to get back.. nothing too special…”

Ray looks at you suspiciously, you immediately realize your words and instantly regret it.

“Not what i meant, happy birthday by the way… but um… just waiting around ya know? Hehe….”

“…Right….”

He tilted his head to the side, smiling a bit. He crossed his arms leaning against the door frame.

“Made me a cake again?”

“…yeah! Well… I tried to make it better than last time.. have a few YouTube tutorials on how to make it better… but um… yeah..”

“Uh huh.”

You’d feel more awkward than embarrassed, he chuckled a bit. You looked away, that stupid face he made, it always made you so flustered… you’ve been with him for how long?

“I’ll go take a shower, then we’ll eat some cake together, how does that sound?”

“Sounds good… pretty good.”

“Good to know.”

He goes to where the bathroom is while you quickly check the cake, everything is all good, you moved the cake to the table, along with two forks, when he did get out you didn’t notice how he saw the card while you thought of getting drinks to. Encountering him in the kitchen with his back turned to you.

“What would you like to drink? If the cake I made turned out bad, might as well wash it down, am I right?”

“Did you write this?”

“Hm?”

When Ray did turn towards you, you saw the card in his hand. You immediately felt you’re face heat up, you knew you weren’t just forgetting drinks… you forgot about the card…

The look on you’re face only proved his suspicions, he smiles and goes to hug you while you were too busy thinking of how embarrassed you were that you forgot about you’re card…

“I know it’s not much.. I just-“

“Star, anything made by you is worth it, it’s gold even, a whole universe.”

“Ok… cutting it a bit far…”

“Either way.. I love it… but you know you can always tell me what’s written down, right?”

“Pfft, you know how that ends…”

Ray lets out a light chuckle, holding you close as he just enjoys you in his embrace. He’s going to treasure this moment… you just know it..

“I’ll be keeping this, however, let’s go and eat that cake you made for me.”

“What about the-“

“Water. Cmon! Don’t wanna eat it without the baker who made it.”

He teased as he went to the table with the cake that was made for him. The cake turned out good, you and Ray talked about each other's day, and made plans for tomorrow since you didn’t have work, a date to spend time together. He said it was his birthday wish, but you doubt it’s just that.. either way… safe to say, this birthday.. was a success..

For Ray, he always spent it alone, however when you first celebrated his birthday with him, it became something he looked forward to, a day to spend time with the one he loved… the one who he knew was his star.

The next day was a day where you two just spent time together, binge watched movies, some cuddling and some coffee, a day free of some stress, he couldn’t have asked for more. Holding you in his arms and making sure there wasn’t a single call for him to go into work. Don’t ask how, he just made sure… either way. He enjoyed his wish, a wish to make new memories and have more time together. He loved you more than ever, You were his, and he was yours. You were his Star, as much as he was you’re Ray. Happier than ever before.

His Star, and no one else’s.

Looking over the card you wrote for him, bringing a smile to his face. You were asleep next to him, he kissed you’re head before finally falling asleep.

“Two stars that orbit around each other, two who found each other to love, and to hold one another. Ray, you and I become those two stars, and I’ve never once regretted my decision to love you. You say I was you’re binary star, and you’re mine, we draw each other in, and we orbit. Just us in a pre ordained dance. Happy birthday, forever you’re Star.”

—

Happy Birthday Ray! Our favorite Hero!

[rangersoup]

The Lone Ranger Chapter 6

Here it is, finally! The long-awaited next chapter of The Lone Ranger!

“Is agent Dunn in?” Sam asks, approaching Brendick. He’d much rather deal with good cop than bad cop right now. He’s tired, his patience is short, and his temper is even shorter. He only managed to force himself to sleep for three hours this morning, and nothing about it was restful. “No, he’s busy. What do you need?” Brendick asks. His tone is short, but he still seems to be in an ever so slightly less insufferable mood today. “I found this,” Sam says, placing the trail cam, which is now tucked away neatly in an evidence bag, down on the agent’s desk. Him forgetting to turn it over to them sooner isn’t exactly a lie. He did forget, but he also held onto it longer than he probably should’ve. He’s already visited the tech people and had them enhance the picture of the brand. And he’s also already sent the picture to Ashlyn for her to decipher it. Brendick looks from him to the camera and back to him. He cocks a skeptical eyebrow. “You found it?” “Yes. I found it. It got missed when we were getting everything together to bring over.” “Seems like a pretty big thing to just miss,” Brendick snarks, picking it up to examine it closer. He then turns his cynical gaze back on Sam. “And I couldn’t help but notice, you conveniently weren’t around this morning when we came to collect everything.” “I had other things to be doing,” Sam says and turns to leave. The sooner he gets out of here the better. He has leads to chase down, and doesn’t have time to waste sitting here arguing with a pretentious FBI agent.  “We had our agents go take a stab at the neighbors.” Sam stops walking.   “I talked to a Mrs. Sanchez. She said she gave a trail cam to a Ranger Campbell.” Brendick sounds smug. “That’d be you, wouldn’t it?” “The one and only,” Sam says, turning back around to face the agent. He really should’ve walked faster. “This,” he holds the camera up and wiggles it around in the air. “Was not in any of the evidence logs.” “What do you want me to say?” Sam demands. “I picked it up and immediately got a call saying someone took a shot at my partner again. Things tend to slip your mind when that happens.” “You’re a ranger, things don’t just slip your mind.” “But here we are.” Brendick, unfortunately, has a point. He’s a Ranger. Things shouldn’t slip his mind, but this had. He’s losing his edge. He can feel it slipping away through his fingers, but he can’t seem to get a grip. “You’re really determined to stick to that story, aren’t you.” “The facts, yes,” Sam looks him dead in the eyes as he lies. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have other cases that need my attention, unless you wanna take them over too.” When he turns to leave this time, he’s serious about it. He’s done talking to this guy. Brendick can keep heckling him, he doesn’t care. He’s not stopping. “I better not find out you tampered with this,” Brendick calls after him as he heads for the door. “Wouldn’t dream of it,” Sam replies, giving him a patronizing hand wave as he goes.

Continue reading on Ao3

Tagging: @lemonlyman-dotcom @annoyingcloudearthquake @my-beloved-lakes @primal--scream @chicgeekgirl89 @heartstringsduet @paperstorm @carlos-in-glasses @neversleepuntilfive @thisbuildinghasfeelings @nisbanisba @emsprovisions @welcometololaland @henrygrass @firstprince-history-huh

And a special thanks to @futures-tense for beta reading for me!

[nebrasska-alasska]

In past posts you mentioned that one thing you and sonic (in your fanfic) relate to is giving your guests your own toothbrush. As a dentist, is it technically ok if you do that? Dental health wise?

Side note: should I be concerned that dentists have questionable takes on dental hygiene?

HAHAHAHAHA OOPS GETTING CALLED OUT RN XD I HAVE VALID REASONS I SWEAR (not really but here goes)

One of the times was with a partner, and it was one of their first times staying over and I didn't have an extra toothbrush like I had thought. So I was upfront with them about there only being one toothbrush (mine) and they didn't care, so we shared lol

The other time was an ex who had weaseled their way into staying the night, in a situation I wasn't super pleased about. They had done me pretty dirty the first time around and were trying to get back together, but I wasn't super interested but also wasn't like, confident enough at the time to tell them to kick rocks so I just went along with it. So then as we were getting ready for bed they found a spare toothbrush that had DEFINITELY been used before by someone else and asked if they could use it, and since I was kind of irritated about the whole thing I was like fuck you, "yeah, should be good, go for it" TROLOLOLOL (I AM NOT A ROLE MODEL PLEASE DO NOT LOOK UP TO ME I AM BEING SO DEADASS RN)

Long story short, you probably shouldn't be sharing toothbrushes? Idk with a partner is probably fine if y'all already be kissing, but that's also under the assumption that you both have good dental hygiene and take care of your teeth. If your partner/person you're sharing a toothbrush with has cavities or any sort of gum disease like periodontitis, you definitely do not want to share due to the bacteria involved, but honestly based on the reaction the sharing toothbrush bit got, I think the vast majority of people are already NOT partaking in this activity LMAO

[schiavonaintherye]

someone else has probably done this already but still. current hyperfixation go brr. drops this and runs away

(none of the screenshots are mine, mostly from reddit or the red dead wiki)

[deeversuswords]

PAIRING — Pro Hero Bakugou Katsuki x Vigilante F!Reader RATING — Explicit CONTAINS — heavy angst, enemies to lovers (sort of), mutual pining, slow burn, eventual smut, moral ambiguity, cheating (not between katsuki/reader), unhealthy relationships, unhealthy coping mechanisms, grief/mourning, dark themes (past abuse, stalking, kidnapping, torture, quirk trafficking), violence, swearing, open but hopeful ending, dual pov (mostly reader), no use of y/n◆ married bakugou katsuki—not to reader—and has a daughter too SUMMARY — Running away would be the sensible thing to do. Getting as far away as possible from him, the one person who’s your ticket to losing your freedom. Not searching for him out of stupid curiosity and showing up at the last place you should: his house. They say curiosity killed the cat, but yours seems to always end up as the key unlocking doors that should probably stay locked. Because when you open the door to Bakugou Katsuki’s life, it’s not a loving marriage, not a happy family of three you find, but falsity, forced duty, and a dark secret that threatens his very own life. Bakugou Katsuki, the pro hero tasked with catching you and your downfall. And you, the vigilante exposing ugly truths for a living—his salvation.

➥AO3 LINK // ➥AO3 CHAPTER LINK // ➥TUMBLR CHAPTERS LIST

CHAPTER WARNINGS — n/a

WORD COUNT — ~2.9k

a/n: the good news is that I got a rough outline for part 2 (I know how it begins, how it ends, and some of the things that need to happen in between). the bad news is that my perfectionist brain needs a lot of kicking to learn that drafting = get the damn words out, stop trying to write like it's final. perfectionism struggles 💀

as for a chapter note. reader's bff enters the scene, and we also get a glimpse into her past.

“What happened to you?” Your best friend’s concern carried through the quiet hallway of his apartment building. “I called you the entire evening. Your phone’s off. And what happened to your wrists? Why are they so bulky? Did you break them? And what’s that on your neck?”

Could the ground open up and swallow you up already? So many questions.

Your eyes lifted to Ayumu’s brown ones as you stumbled inside, gesturing to him to give you a moment; your lungs weren’t done wheezing for air.

It was well past two in the morning, or so the convenience store’s digital clock you’d passed displayed. The city was very much alive, though with the kind of activity that’d make someone walk a little bit faster—jog, in your case. To cut the trip short from Bakugou’s house to your best friend’s, your brilliant idea had been to venture through obscure side streets and alleyways, heart brave, mind prepared for a fight. Until you came across a group of shady-looking people and were hit with a wave of fatigue.

The lack of sleep from the last couple of weeks was finally doing a number on you. You had ended up sprinting past them like your worst nightmare chased you, despite your shaky legs, and didn’t stop until you reached Ayumu’s place.

“Bakugou happened,” you replied, massaging your numb thighs to life, trying to catch your breath.

“Who?” He sounded confused, as if he knew ten Bakugous, not one. “Bakugou as in…that Bakugou?”

“Yeah. Bakugou as in Bakugou Katsuki. As in Dynamight. As in whatever you want to call him.” You removed your shoes and dragged your feet to the living room, where you plopped down on your back on the couch, exhaling a sigh. Safety felt nice, like a warm blanket, and your body welcomed it, relaxing.

Ayumu sat on the floor by your head, brows furrowed, and gently pressed his fingertips on your neck. “No, seriously, what happened? Did he do this? Are you okay?”

A smile wobbled on your lips. “I’m okay.” You reached for his head, patting the mess of copper hair on his head. “It was my fault.”

“Explain?”

“I might’ve screwed up?”

“What did you do?”

Clearing your throat, you jutted your chin like your stupid actions were something to be proud of. “Curiosity got the best of me, so I broke into his house.”

Ayumu’s heart jerked back, eyes nearly bulging out of his skull. “Y-you did what?!” He slapped a hand over his cheek. “Are you serious? Oh, God. You’re aware you basically confirmed to him who you are, right? Right?”

“Listen to the whole story before you freak out. It’s not that bad. But before that,” you clumsily tugged on your sleeves, revealing the red feathery cuffs, “help me take these off? I was too busy running to bother.”

Awkward silence passed between you as Ayumu squinted his eyes at the handcuffs, then at your neck. A few more quiet beats, and your best friend broke into a round of cackles. He poked at the soft feathers.

“I get it now. Your break-in had a happy ending. Who initiated—”

“It’s not like that! I know how it looks, but it’s really not like that.” Your cheeks grew hot. “Please, just get them off.”

Fiddling with the metal buckle, Ayumu sent you a smug look. “You know, even if you did get it on with him, as your best friend, I won’t judge, but—” He smacked your leg with the removed cuff. “I’d prefer you don’t go around sleeping with the man hunting you down. There are other options out there.”

Other options you had probably exhausted over the years. Not many tall, hot, muscular blonds out there fit the mold well enough to trick your brain into seeing what wasn’t. And finding one with red eyes, too, was like diving straight into a haystack to search for a needle.

But Ayumu didn’t need to know about your escapades. About the moments your heart bled green and made you do dumb things.

“For the last time, I didn’t and I won’t. He’s married.”

“Ah, so if he weren’t married…”

You threw your head back on a groan, irritation nagging your nerves. “Remind me again why we’re friends?”

“Because I’m the best partner in crime you can have, why else?” he replied with one boastful grin before his face turned serious. “Need some ice for that?”

He was. He really was the best partner you could ask for. Without him, you wouldn’t have been able to trudge forward on this path you’d been forced on. Ayumu shared the burden of gathering information, covered your tracks, and took care of everything technical.

Putting the pieces together, finding the patterns, and scheming were your expertise.

“Later. Sit.” You sat up and patted the spot beside you. “Don’t say a word until I’m done, okay?”

You told him everything, in great detail — the altercation with Bakugou, the moment with his daughter. As word after word left your mouth, the color drained from his cheeks, leaving him ghost-pale by the time you finished. His warm brown eyes, wide with horror, dulled too.

He slapped his cheeks with both hands and puffed out a breath. “Sweetheart…it is that bad. Where do I start? Gloves, maybe. Did you wear some?”

“I didn’t touch anything with my fingertips, except his carpet, but I doubt he noticed that.” Your fingers curled over your knees at the memory. You’d been so close to hurting Bakugou and traumatizing Yua with the sight of her father stiff on the ground. “Thing is, he can’t prove anything. You heard me when I said his security system was off, right?”

“It’s indirect confirmation, everything he needed to hunt you down to the end of the world. Your carelessness handed him a golden opportunity,” he said, and your lips pressed together, understanding his point, but still not regretting a thing. “Should I tell you what he’ll do now? Find ways to stay close to you and wait for your slip-up. Why? Because he knows exactly who you are, meanwhile, we have no clue how he managed that.”

Sighing, you slumped against the couch and crossed your arms. “After tomorrow, I’ll have to be careful I never cross paths with him again.”

Now would be a good time for the ground to crack open and for you to fall through. Guilt vibrated your heartstrings with the reminder of the cat-and-mouse you’d been playing with Bakugou, for longer than necessary, behind Ayumu’s back.

You couldn’t tell him because he would’ve never agreed to the reason, and maybe, because something in you liked the idea of keeping this dangerous secret a secret. Strangely, it thrilled you.

“That’s now how it’s gonna go, and you know it.” Ayumu pushed to his feet and motioned for you to follow him to the kitchen. “He’s not the guy you call to sweet-talk a villain, or a vigilante, but the guy you send to trap, catch, collect. His reputation isn’t the way it is for no reason.”

He wasn’t wrong. Over the years, Bakugou gradually shifted from a general spectrum of commissions to a more specialized one—rescues. Not the disaster kind, but the ‘save people from the depths of hell’ one. During one of his rare interviews, he said it let him kick ass while saving, and that suited him and his quirk much better. The interviewer followed up with a stupid statement about how that sounded like he enjoyed violence.

Bakugou’s response was a cocked brow and a loud scoff.

You remembered scoffing alongside him at your TV screen. Damn vultures always, always brought up, directly or more subtly, his brash attitude, repeatedly glossing over that Dynamight got things done. As far as you were aware, he had never failed a commission. Yet.

In a way, your line of work and his weren’t all that different. Unlike him, you didn’t follow the law, revealing your discoveries as they were. Raw. Ugly. Gruesome. The tragedies of your past had taught you one valuable lesson: closure could come from the crude truth. And the public seemed starved for it, whether for morbid reasons or otherwise. The authorities, not so much.

Power existed in words, terrifyingly so when every claim proved true. Without exception.

If Truth Exposer said it, then it must be true.

You hopped on the kitchen counter and leaned back on your hands, nails drumming against the dark marble. “Knowing doesn’t equal proof,” you told Ayumu. “If anyone needs to be careful, it’s him.”

“You’d never hurt him,” Ayumu was quick to remind you as he opened the cabinet overhead. “He’s lucky your heart is in the right place. Even luckier, it’s got a soft spot for him. Can’t say the same for whoever is trying to mess with him.” He cast you a knowing look. “You think someone messed with his security system for some reason, and that can’t be good.”

It couldn’t be good, especially when Bakugou himself didn’t remember ever turning it off, even though the logs contradicted him. The shutdown happened one hour before your arrival. Your insistence on why it was off brought that to light.

“I’m not sure what I think, but something isn’t right.”

Ayumu took out two mugs and placed them on the counter, then braced his weight against the surface, attention locked on you. “What did it feel like?”

A good question. You took a moment to reflect on the experience.

Everything seemed so convenient—the security being down, the gate being ajar, the front door being unlocked—inviting you in like you were a guest, not an intruder. Almost as if an external force eliminated the obstacles prior to your arrival, cleared the path for you.

You dug deeper into your memories and found the one thing you overlooked in your haste to cross out the presence of blood.

Tobacco.

The air held a faint hint of tobacco.

A chilling shiver spiraled down your spine as you anchored your gaze to Ayumu’s, swallowing against the realization clogging your throat. “Unless Bakugou smokes, someone else was in the house before me.”

Ayumu narrowed his eyes. “What makes you sure they weren’t still there?”

“It has yet to fail me, but my instinct. I sensed no danger, only a weird vibe.”

His response was what you expected. “We really shouldn’t be considering it,” he said, emphasizing his reluctance with your name. “It’s dangerous…for you.”

Without a doubt, it was. Bakugou crashing into your life was bad enough. You returning the favor by breaking into his was even worse. The two of them tangling spelled disaster. Ruin. Catastrophe of the highest level. Your hands gripped the counter’s edge as you tried convincing yourself to step back.

None of your business. None of your business. None of your—

The hell? I ain’t rememberin’ shit about turnin’ this off.

Your eyes screwed shut as you willed away the echo of his stupefied tone, but his dumbfounded expression replaced it. The treacherous heart in your chest sprang to life, unfurling to make you feel exactly why you couldn’t regret your actions, why you didn’t fear the danger, why you had already decided.

“I want to know, Yu.” You opened your eyes, dragging them over your strained knuckles. “I want to find out why he doesn’t remember. Stress, or what?”

“Say we do, and it’s a person. Will you go after their why?”

“Yeah.”

“So, we’re doing this.”

You heard the resignation in the cadence of his words. Ayumu wasn’t happy with it, but he knew that once your heart set itself on something, backing out was no longer an option. Full speed ahead. Straight into the arms of the unknown. Strung up by risk and threat.

“I’m sorry, but I have to do this.” You met his eyes. “I can’t stay away.”

“You mean, you don’t wanna stay away.”

Ayumu turned away and busied himself with making tea, marking the beginning of his silence as he slipped into his thoughts, leaving you to watch his back with the slightest tint of remorse.

Had it been five years already since you bumped into him, quite literally, on a December morning?

The snow had been thick, a blanket over the whole city, the wind arctic and biting at your cheeks, making your eyes water as it had permeated the many layers you wore.

You knew you should’ve slowed down, instead of racing down the slippery street, but you couldn’t afford to be late for your job interview. One of the renowned TV stations wanted you—a chance like that was once in a lifetime for someone fresh out of college and starting. Stressing over the internships and putting your best into them paid off.

No matter what, you had to seize this chance, even if it meant breaking a leg.

Your dreams and hopes took a nose dive when you skidded around the corner and collided with someone, their paper cup flying out of their hand and splashing hot liquid all over you. Curses sharpened your tongue, and you bit down on it to refrain from loosening one with the pained hiss slipping from your lips. It hurt like a bitch. One inhale told you the culprit preferred vanilla cappuccino.

“Crap! I’m so sorry. Are you alright?” a masculine voice asked, tinged with a charming smoothness despite the pitch of panic. “I wasn’t prepared for a sprinting bear.”

“Excuse me? What did you just call me?” you snapped, wiping foam off your chin, as you cut the man before you a glare that could easily melt the snow.

However, some of your indignation melted instead as you took his appearance in. Against the white backdrop, his styled coppery hair stood out, accentuating the mellow brown of his eyes. He was handsome, the kind that was pleasant to look at in real life, and on screen, too. But it was in his smile that allure resided.

“Oh, now that I look at you…” He trailed off, inspecting you from head to toe. “I thought you had a mutant-type quirk, but no. It’s just about three too many layers of clothes.”

“You could use an extra one yourself,” you retorted without hesitating, mentally apologizing to your mother. She told you to be on your best behavior today. You pointed to his bare neck, thin trench coat, dress shoes dusted with snow. How this man wasn’t frozen solid was a mystery.

Misty puffs of air escaped his mouth as he laughed. “I take freezing over smelling like cappuccino any day.”

“Hey! Whose fault is that?”

His hands rose in surrender, and you noticed the crumpled paper he held in one of them. The logo at the top made your breath hitch. It was the same TV station you were heading to. Beneath the logo, though, I beg you, let me pass the interview! was written, bolded, and circled over and over in red ink.

Amusement played on your lips.

“You’re going the wrong way.” When he blinked owlishly, you added, “I have an interview with them too.”

“Really? But the GPS shows—” He twisted his wrist, squinting at the smartwatch. “Huh? Why is this pointing in this direction? Am I reading it wrong?”

You moved closer, deciding right then and there that he wasn’t just strange, but also a bit of a moron. “Follow me, if you want. But keep up. You already wasted my precious minutes.”

“I’m so sorry!” He repeated, bowing repeatedly as his steps fell in sync with your own. “Thank you. You just might’ve saved my life, Miss…”

Without looking at him, you had thrust your hand forward and uttered your name. He had taken it, shaking it with such enthusiasm that it nearly toppled you in the snow, introducing himself as Sakai Ayumu.

Sometimes, you wondered if he knew what awaited him in the future, whether he would’ve still accepted it.

“Ayumu?” you called out softly to him. When he looked over his shoulder, you asked. “Did you ever regret becoming friends with me?”

He didn’t hesitate. “Never. Why are you asking me that?”

You shrugged. “Curious.”

“Sweetheart,” he sighed, stepping in front of you, eyes soft with affection. He took your hand and pulled you off the counter into his arms. “You’re the best thing that’s happened to me. That’s why I worry. I’m sorry if I sounded harsh, but this situation doesn’t sit right with me.”

Leaning into him, you returned the hug. “I know. It doesn’t sit right with me, either. But I landed in that situation, and if something or someone threatens his safety, I… I can’t turn a blind eye to it.”

“Baku—No. Dynamight won’t hesitate to take your freedom away if given the chance. He’s a good hero, but he won’t be one for you. He can only be your downfall.”

Downfall. That sounded about right.

Dynamight versus Truth Exposer. One winner. One loser.

“I’ll just have to escape him.” You shuffled back a step, staring at your best friend with the determination you didn’t feel much of. “After tomorrow, I’ll make sure to disappear off his radar. We don’t need his involvement to find out anything.”

“And how do you plan on doing that?”

By sacrificing yet another piece of your real identity. “Yu, I don’t keep a collection of wigs, makeup, and clothes for nothing.”

[herotome]

Devlog #177

Hi-ho, Wudge here.

I'm gonna try to be rather more transparent than usual in this devlog because aiyaiyai... not gonna lie y'all, I've been feeling a bit disheartened. Not from any one thing! There's no bad guy boogeyman bringing me down! It's just like... woof, game development is a lot.

Some time ago, my country enacted some new policies that forced Paypal to make a lot of changes. I had to (or thought I had to??) get an actual business license and jump through a lot of hoops to make sure I'd still be able to receive and withdraw money from my Paypal account.

For the most part, it all worked out. I'm able to receive money from Ko-Fi and from taking commissions, and I'm able to send money to purchase Herotome's art assets (a new CG and backgrounds are coming along fantastically!)... but ever since the changes, itch.io has consistently had issues with my Paypal account.

I don't know why it's only them. I'm still trying to figure it out. I have a pending ticket with them right now to determine why my most recent itch.io payout has been in review for 65 days.

For a while I tried to switch itch's payouts to Payoneer, but Payoneer charges a yearly fee of $30.00 unless you receive $2,000/year on their platform. I don't have enough itch income to justify the cost.

So I've been trying to switch itch back to paypal and it's been... difficult. It shouldn't be so difficult. It feels shameful that people are trying to support me through itch's site, and their money either never reaches me or goes straight into payoneer's yearly fee.

But if I make a post on itch saying "Hey, itch isn't working well with me on the financial side, you can support me on Ko-Fi instead!"... then I have to draw and post more Ko-Fi expressions, and I'm already so behind on those.

You may be thinking "Well, forget about itch! You can put Herotome on steam instead!" but putting a game on steam also involves jumping through a lot of hoops - to the point where there's services that offer to do it for you (so you'll have to pay the steam fee and for the service).

... So I guess that's a big part of my stress and disheartening feelings right now lol, I have boogeymen after all and they are itch and paypal. But uh, I'm also struggling with feelings of the game feeling like a neverending Sisyphian task, no matter how much I write or how much progress I make, it's never enough...

You guys would probably enjoy playing what I'm working on right now though, right? I have to try and hold onto that thought. I have a few fun scenes mostly done. I don't have expressions coded for any of them...... but writing-wise, I think they're pretty good. Maybe I can hire someone to code in preliminary expressions. It'd be a lot of work for me to onboard, give them context and access to assets, but it could be worth it. I'll think it over

Uhhh. Okay, things I actually did last week -

I rewrote a scene to give Warden more agency; the player now gets a brief 1x1 scene to talk with him BEFORE the free time LI-selection section, and I think y'all will like it.

I also drew a new expression for nurse Jordan

This is how I feel about my payout drama with itch. Hahahaha. Ahh...

Hopefully my ticket gets resolved soon and everything works out smoothly from now on, so I can concentrate more on the actual game.

Stay safe and keep warm,

Wudge.

[hephslacker]

Ena: The details you might have missed in the Trailer

I'm unsure if anyone has pointed this things out before, so this is just a fun little post I made!

This is mostly me talking about some interesting details I have noticed in the trailer and my analysis of them.

> I'm pretty sure that at this point most have heard of the Hands Theory, as well as with the Theory that Meanie, between the two sides, is the more genuine one. That being one of the reasons as to why she usually uses her right side for interacting with things that are more of a personal interest to her.

Following that tho, have you noticed that in the trailer Ena's "Meanie" side is the one who's pulling the trigger?

And sure, it could be argued that her Red side doesn't really have any means of pressing the firing the gun, but it still seems interesting. That is not to mention that in ENA, be it the series or the game, nothing has really been the way it is "just because".

Notably, throughout the game Meanie is the one who's speaking when it comes to any military related stuff. She's the one who's reacting to the accusations (or even most personal things, she's the one to give a more "personal" and "honest" opinion). She's also the one who's speaking when Ena gets to the Bathroom, and most of the hatred to the things around her or her self-deprecation is also voiced by Meanie. Humanoid Ena also seems to posses more of right side colouring, and it might not be just due to that colour looking more "natural".

Salesman is also more likely to try and talk things through (negotiate), while Meanie is the one who's ready to get things done, even if it means getting physical.

> Another interesting detail is that in the trailer we can actually see the right side having an 'index finger'. I doubt it was a mistake on the animators' part.

> Everyone knows that the world of ENA possesses many references - or outright includes - technology, codes, programmes etc. Have you noticed the fact that this location, and the creature inhabiting it, consists out of the keyboard buttons/keyboards?

Another appearance of the technology can be seen here behind Ena, and it seems to strongly resemble some sort of a camera.

> And finally, I find it interesting that, right after we are shown Green Ena, we get this phrase:

"Let's put that dead meat in its place!"

Before the frame switches to Ena and the Unknown Entity, who points the gun on her.

So we are basically shown Ena in a dead-like-state, before someone (probably Froggy) says "put that DEAD meat [...]", and that scene also follows up by Ena being held at a gun point. So is Ena the "dead meat"?

And what's more, you know who was the only other character called that? The Boss

> Multiple people have already pointed it out, but the Unknown Entity looks a lot like Froggy.

If you look at this frame, you'd notice that that looks a lot like the position Ena herself has been in at the End of Chapter 1.

More about Froggy Theory you can read in this post by @simple228

> The Entity also seems to have the same “vines” or “branches” growing out of him as Ena did in the Purge Event

> I've noticed that in this scene Ena seems to have the same orange glow on her lips? I wonder if it's got anything to do with the constant references to hunger and eating in the world of DBBQ? Her eyes also seem to be a brighter purple, which could either simply be to make the picture more enthralling, or it could mean that she's under some kind of an influence.

Interestingly, throughout the game we have only 2 characters that I can remember that reference any kind of cutlery. That being Spatulady and this Unknown Entity (a parasite?).

These details paint an interesting picture when you combine them, no?

> Flowers symbolism!

I think I have covered everything I had to say about the trailer so far! What are your thoughts?

[noperopesaredope]

Do the Star Wars Clones Age at 2x Speed? Yes, and Here’s the Math

I recently decided to look up the canonical developmental ages of the clones while working on an AU concept, and while most sources said they age at twice the speed of humans, I saw a few others debating this notion. So I decided to do some research based on the time when each of the events happened and the realistic developmental age the clones could be during these periods when we see them.

Has someone probably already done this? Yes. Do I care? No. I’m autistic and can do what I want. Also, I spent a weird amount of time on this and want to share it to confirm once and for all.

So, the Kaminoans began creating the clone troopers about 10 years before the Clone Wars began. This means that by the start of the war, the oldest clones would be developmentally about 20, which makes a certain amount of sense. We also see the relative age clones are deployed, what with the Domino Squad, and they both look and act like people in their early 20s.

The war lasts for about three years, meaning the oldest clones were developmentally around 26 or so when the war ended, something that makes a certain degree of sense based on how the older clones act. They do seem a bit older than 26, acting and looking more like they are entering their 30s, but that could be due to the experiences of war drastically aging them in terms of maturity.

Rebels takes place 14 years after the war ends, but we only see the clones again in Season 2, 16 years after the war. If the clones do develop at twice the speed of humans, then the clones would have aged 32 years. Adding that by how old they were when the war ended, they would be developmentally 58.

The reason the clones appear to be older than this is likely due to their white hair. However, white/gray hair usually starts to appear during your mid-thirties, and many go full gray around 50. The clones would be developmentally almost 60, which is when plenty of people are fully gray. So it wouldn’t actually be all that unrealistic for them to be 58, and becomes more obvious when you actually take a good look at them and take into consideration their health and fitness levels.

While this isn’t actually any proof, I would also like to quickly mention how old the clones would be for the rest of the overall movie series. A New Hope takes place 19 years after the end of the Clone Wars, so the clones would have developed 38 years. Adding that by 26, it would have been 64 years for the clones. So the oldest clones would likely be developmentally 64 by the start of A New Hope. A New Hope takes place over the course of either a week or 3, which won’t affect my calculations that much.

According to a couple sources, The Empire Strikes Back takes place 3 years after A New Hope, so 22 years after the Clone Wars ended. The clones would have aged by 44 years, so they would be developmentally 70. The Empire Strikes Back likely takes place over the course of about a few months (mainly due to the Yoda training), so again, it still doesn’t affect my calculations that much.

Return of the Jedi takes place roughly a year after The Empire Strikes Back, and over the course of a week or so. The clones would have aged 2 years, so they would be developmentally 72 by the end of the 2nd trilogy. This means that a clone could have lived through both the Clone Wars and the reign of the Empire. They could have seen the Empire’s rise and its fall, depending on whether or not they died of old age. And chronologically speaking, they would only be 37.

Sadly (or perhaps luckily), they would not live to see the rise of the First Order, as that rose to power 30 years after the fall of the Empire, which would be 60 years for the clones. And that would make them developmentally 133, which is not likely.

But it’s still fascinating to me how the lifespan of a clone trooper works in the Star Wars universe. I’m currently writing up the outline of an AU about clone troopers, and I was thinking about this and how it affects them and their lives. IDK, just wanted to get all this math out of my system after doing Star Wars math for a couple of hours (for the AU).