#anyways i got a loose bob haircut

[whatthequizquack]

Inspiration (klance soundcloud au) Ch. 1:

Formally: The Tailor

FULL FIC HERE:

"I don't know, Hunk. 'The Tailor' doesn't really work for me anymore."

Lance whirled around to face Hunk in his desk chair, and crossed his legs.

"I was thinking 'The Sharpshooter' instead. Got a nice ring to it, right?"

He laid back in his chair in satisfaction, while Hunk just nodded, continuing his work.

Lance was sitting back at his desk, scrolling through his phone, and visibly procrastinating on the school project he had up on his laptop screen. The desk was at the foot of his bed in their dorm room, where Hunk’s setup was mirrored on the other side of the room. With their beds up against the wall and desks at the end of their beds it was a bit cramped, but what dorm room isn't? A beat up guitar case and a bunch of other musical equipment were leaning up against the wall closest to the door, in a delicate way, almost as if that were their most precious belongings, as they were the only organized things in that room. A small mini-fridge was in between their beds with a cheap coffee machine sitting on top, along with a loose extension cord. It seemed like they used the top of the fridge as a nightstand of some sort, at least Lance did, anyway. He had tan skin and wavy hair, in much need of a haircut but it suited him well. He was wearing a hoodie and pajama pants. Hunk wasn’t much different with wardrobe, but had his mid-length hair up in a bun and big headphones on his head. He enjoyed working on music, and had already finished his homework to be able to. They enjoyed engaging in parallel play when they weren’t chatting it up or making music together.

The two boys have been creating music for over a year on SoundCloud, and got tons of positive feedback. This was Lance's last album being 'The Tailor', and decided to go with a different name. They've been a dynamic musical duo since they met at Garrison University 2 years ago, auditioning for every talent show and taking any gig they got.

"Alright, I'm done with the base beat. Wanna take a listen?" Hunk said lifting his eyes off the computer screen, and onto Lance's sitting figure, who was scrolling through his phone.

"Blast it, Hunk." Hunk nodded slightly as he played the beat, to which Lance was bobbing his head to while closing his eyes. After four measures of listening, Lance started rap freestyling, and like always, was recording it on his phone. He always takes a feel of the music, and listens to the beats and what vibe it conveys. He went with whatever felt right, and it usually worked out beautifully. He had a way with words, they just seemed to float out of him. Most wouldn't expect it coming from Lance, but given his skill of smooth-talking, it isn't much of a shock.

After freestyling a bit, Lance mentioned to stop the beat.

"Do you think we'll need Nyma? I think it's one of those songs that need a lil cute singy part." Lance asked.

Hunk gave Lance a knowing look.

"Lance, she played you. We don't need some dusty whore because of her voice. I don't care if you guys are on good terms."

Lance nodded. "Alright, we'll have to find another voice to feature. Let's start tomorrow? It's getting late."

Hunk agreed and saved the progress on the track, and they both headed to their respective beds to scroll on their phones til they fell asleep.

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

WEEKS EARLIER, AT KALTENECKER RECORDS

"Keith, are you sure about this?" Katie said nervously into the recording booth microphone.

Keith just nodded with his oversized studio headphones, and the beat played.

The studio they were using was Kaltenecker Studios, one of the big two in the industry. Keith was very fortunate to be picked up and taken in with the help of his brother—Takashi, one of the best R&B singers of this generation—before he went into the military. Yes, Keith was unfortunately a nepo kid, although through adoption, and it's been visibly weighing on him lately. Keith had short black hair, modeled after his brother, with his signature undercut, although he grew out more of his hair on the top than he did. He was wearing all-black sweatpants and a hoodie, with white air forces. His pale complexion contrasted his hair, clothing, and the walls behind him. The studio was lavish, lined all around with velvet black walls and plaques, boasting the studio's accomplishments from their chosen artists. A majority of the plaques boasted the famed singer Allura, who broke numerous records with her insane vocal talent. The equipment was all in gold and silver to match the luxurious aesthetic. Keith stood in the studio recording while Katie and another producer sat at the soundboard. Katie was a shorter woman, wearing a pantsuit with a tidy short ginger bob. She looked up to Edna Mode, after all. Her large circular glasses rested on her freckled covered nose, as she paid attention to the vocals and settings on the soundboard.

Keith wasn't known to make the most meaningful music, he made more of the club music or trendy poppin bottles and getting hoes kinda music. It was fun and great and all, but he randomly got convicted to make more than just that. He had the skill and the platform, and now wanted to put it to use.

"I gave up my all, When I felt lost not one of y'all called, When I took off, everybody else starved, I don't really understand what y'all on, What y'all want, I can't live, Can't be free, Can't be here. Gave my sweat, gave my tears, Gave up all the best of my years, Had to give everything, I ain't gain anything, Just pain and more sadness, Just brush strokes, blank stares, no details and no canvas. I ain't livin' for your love, Case dismissed I don't need another judge, I ain't got every thing off my chest, But I got one more thing to confess."

After a successful recording day, Keith walked out of the booth. Katie ran up to him with a concerned look on her face.

"You do realize this can change your audience and rep, right?"

"As long as I write music about things that actually matter, I'll be okay. I made it this far.

Keith shrugged and looked at Katie with a frustrated and conflicted look in his eye.

"Even if my career is over, I'll go down doing what I think is much more meaningful, and I think that's more important."

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

Lance woke up to his alarm, and slammed the snooze. He wasn't exactly a morning person, and it drove Hunk insane to have to hear his 32 alarms each morning while Lance slept through each and every single one of them. After the 15th alarm went off and was immediately snoozed by Lance, Hunk slowly got up, shook Lance, and threw on an old hoodie.

"Lance, wake up. I'm not about to let you freeload on my notes again. Not in the mood. Up."

Lance groans and covers his face with his blanket, just for Hunk to rip it off, and give him a tired glare. Lance returned the glare with an angry pout, and stared at the ceiling for a couple minutes, trying to boot up his brain. After Lance finally got up, he made some coffee from the cheap coffee machine in their dorm, and headed down the hallway to their morning classes. ----- After they finished their first class, they had a 3 hour window until their next class. The duo decided to go out for more coffee, so they hopped in the car. While on the road, a song just finished and the radio host started talking.

"We have some very interesting news about Cheif Keith this morning!"

Lance scoffed and rolled his eyes. "Ugh, not in the mood to hear about banging hoes this morning, it's still too early to get turnt up." Lance said, rubbing his eyes, still really exhausted. The morning lecture on economics didn't help.

Hunk gave Lance a shocked expression. "Never thought I'd hear that from you ever."

"Oh c'mon, Chief is mid compared to Pitbull and them. His stuff is not worth hearing this early, but Pitbull's is. It's raunchy."

Hunk looked confused but shrugged, as he couldn't argue with that logic.

"Chief Keith has released a single, and it's got a different spin on his usual vibe. Up next, New Leaf, featuring Rolo!"

Lance and Hunk turned at each other.

"Woah, Rolo?" Hunk said with raised eyebrows.

"That's that R&B singer that had that scandal a couple of years back, yeah? What's he doing in a song with Chief Keith?" Said Lance, as he turned up the volume.

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

After a brief listen to the new single, Lance and Hunk were pleasantly surprised. This definitely wasn't his usual type of music.

"That was 'New Leaf, ft. Rolo'! The Chief really seems to be switching it up with his style! Up next--"

Lance turned off the radio, and they drove in silence. Both because of their sheer college-and-living-in-dorms exhaustion and pleasant shock. What could cause such a big change in his music?

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

"His name is 'The Tailor' or something on Soundcloud. He's the reason why I decided to drop the act and start making meaningful music." Keith said as he sipped his coffee.

"A SoundCloud rapper--" said Katie in a scolding tone "--is the reason you changed your content?"

Keith just nodded as he sipped the last drops in his cup. He could tell that Katie wasn't impressed, and scrambled to grab his phone for proof. "Here, want to hear one of his tracks?" He said, pushing his phone in her direction with Soundcloud open.

Katie just stood there with arms crossed, with an annoyed look on her face. She lowered her arms and exhales audibly. "I guess, yeah, sure" " she said while pinching the bridge of her nose.

Keith turned on his most popular track, "Getaway".

Keith pressed play, and watched the comments left at each second of the song pop onto the screen. There was a lot of support for this guy, and it was surprisingly not as cringey as Katie expected, especially after expecting the worst cringe "I'm so sad" kind of music to play from his phone. A couple minutes passed, the last chorus played, and Keith looked up at Katie with expectation as he put his phone close to his chest.

"Wow." Katie was pleasantly surprised with this guy's track, and exhaled when she understood what was going on. "You're right, Keith. He does have good music. But are you sure you want to go through with a content change? I mean, you got a lot going for you right now, is it worth it?"

"Definitely. Can we get him here at Kaltenecker Records ASAP? Like can you make that happen?"

Katie gave him a fed up look, got up, began to walk off, and waved her hand behind her dismissively.

"You're the best!" Keith yelled as she walked away.

Keith exhaled and looked back down, looking at the album cover for the Tailor on his phone. He could barely make out the guy's face on the cover, as it was more of a silhouette of a dude with a grassy field behind him. "I'll need all the help I could get from this guy."

___________________________

hey yall, it's the author. I'm currently revising old chapters and gonna continue with new ones soon. thanks!

[purplenickel]

Last night

‘Where was I last night?’ I thought, flabbergasted, looking at the small stack of three phone numbers with names I had just pulled from my pocket. Some had hearts and another, makeup kisses smeared on cocktail napkins. I sat back on my bed, still wearing the clothes from last night’s bar crawl. Let’s think. Me and Marty started off the evening at Joe’s Pool Hall, playing snooker for cheap laughs and cheaper beer. Then, maybe we went to Molly’s? I couldn’t remember exactly. But as the town’s assumedly only openly butch lesbian, who would have thought I’d pull numbers from girls in this town? Maybe one of these girls would be open to dating. I had to find out who they all were first.

I picked up my phone and breathed out a relieved sigh. Charged. At least I had done that much last night. 

I looked over the numbers, carefully weighing my odds. Helpfully, each girl had written a name to go with the number. In total, we had Jackie, Marleen, and CJ. 

I decided to call Jackie first. She seemed excited that I called so I set up a date. We were going to get ice cream and coffee that afternoon. I got a shower and dressed in my usual go to outfit for meeting friends: a funky patterned button up and some jeans that weren’t too worn.

She showed up in a loose spaghetti strap shirt and a pair of denim shorts with a pixie style haircut. She was fairly cute with symmetrical features and bright blue eyes. Jackie smiled and pulled me up to order our coffees and ice cream. I got a vanilla latte and a mango sorbet while she ordered a flat white and a bowl of chocolate gelato.

We talked for an hour, going through two servings of the cold treat  and a coffee and a half before we agreed it probably wasn’t going to work out. But she said she’d like to come to my softball matches when they started up again.

The next day, I called Marleen. She had a strong Louisiana accent and agreed to get lunch. I met her in front of the Greek place. Not my favorite restaurant but the gyros were decent. Marleen was a plus size woman with skin as dark as strong espresso and a gap tooth smile. She was younger than I thought she’d be and revealed we had an almost eight year difference, which was shocking and slightly unnerving to me. We gave each other an awkward hug and I held the door open for her. Our date started well enough but she pulled out her phone and started watching TikToks while we were talking, which was a little rude. I didn’t think I was that boring. When I asked her about it, she stammered and said she was nervous and the videos were distracting her from her feelings. I could understand that but it still felt rude and we didn’t really have a lot in common. We agreed to split amicably.

Finally, I pulled up the last number: CJ. Based on the initials and handwriting, I couldn’t tell what kind of person I’d be meeting, but I called anyway. CJ had a low voice like a late night talk show radio host. Made me feel cozy and ready to reveal all my secrets, a voice I could listen to for hours. She told me she used both she/her pronouns and they/them which I thought was cool. I had never met a nonbinary person offline so I hoped I didn’t mess things up. I decided to try rotating pronouns in my head. They said they would plan the date, a change of pace for me since every girl I had dated before wanted me as the masculine party to set everything up. They called me back the next date and asked me to meet her in town. She would take us for a drive and dinner. I said ok and began planning an outfit. 

CJ picked me up in a mud splattered Jeep Wrangler and looked different than I would’ve guessed. They had a haircut that was shaved on one side and cut into a shoulder length bob on the other side. She had an ear full of piercings on the buzzcut side and a stud in their nose. Caramel skin revealed strong thighs in denim cutoffs and she wore a SPCA volunteer t-shirt from 2014. I smiled at her and she smiled back. 

“Where to, Driver?”

“I thought we’d go up on the ridge and have a picnic while it’s still nice. Sound ok?”

I hesitated for a second and smiled widely. “Sounds good.”

We talked while she drove, the entire trip taking maybe half an hour. It was on the brink of summer in the early part of June where the sun doesn't set til after eight so we had plenty of daylight left. They pulled over to an area on top of the mountain that had two wooden picnic tables for travelers to stop and rest. She smiled at me and winked, before climbing out of the Jeep and pulling a cooler and a sheet out of the trunk. We set everything up: containers of Mediterranean pasta salad, fresh baked rolls and herb butter, a plastic tupperware full of berries and two large mason jars full of mint tea.

I was shocked at how everything had come together and how much I liked being treated well, like a girl. Sometimes dating women, they expected it to be like dating a man and that worked well some of the time but left something to be desired if it happened all the time. I smiled and tilted my jar towards hers in a toast to a picnic well planned. 

We ate and talked and somehow I never noticed the sky start to change into orange and pink until she exclaimed that the sunset behind me was to die for. I turned to see and she grabbed my hand. I felt a shiver run down my body and smiled quietly to myself. Maybe this time I’d found a keeper.

[edwardslostalchemy]

So I got a haircut!!! And I really like it, I think it's pretty. I got it short because I was very tired of my long hair already and i wanted a change. And I feel good about it. The hairstylist said it looks pretty. My mom said it looks pretty. I think it looks pretty. And that's what matters to me. The one thing that did bother me was that my dad said my face looks chubbier with this new hair cut. And I mean. I know I'm overweight. Ive been trying to lose weight and like. I have a lot of body image issues because my weight tends to fluctuate. But I mean. He didn't have to tell me that. Like. I know I'm chubby. And I mean. Like yeah my face is kinda round. But he could have said anything else besides that. Like thanks, dad. Thanks for reminding me of my weight. And I will look cute with my chubby face and my new haircut and I will be happy with it. He didn't say it to hurt me. But he is aware those comments make me feel very self-conscious, especially because I'm trying to lose weight. Like. Sometimes you have to lie to me. Tell me I look thin so I believe you. Or no, just. Tell me I look pretty so I believe you. It feels nice to get a complement. Like. That wasn't really nice of him. But it's fine, I'll keep doing my best. I know I look cute anyway. 😔

[superhero--imagines]

A/N: this is another piece I wrote for the bat boy zine (and personally my favorite) we still have leftover copies on our Etsy if you’re interested

“-said, there’s only three ways to get good at golf, take lessons, practice constantly, or start cheating.” The table roars in laughter, and Damian bites his cheek once again to keep from grimacing.

I hate everyone here.

His eyes glance from the large sphere of ice bobbing in the pool of whisky, to the faces around him. The first one his gaze settles on is Portia, sunkissed skin bright and vibrant and that blonde mane of hair she’s so proud of pulled into a bun resting on the nape of her neck. A senator’s daughter. Damian thought, maybe that sort of social standing, that mantle, may come with it’s own price. After all, he knew just how painful the gaze of the public eye could be. But it became glaringly obvious that Portia Baldwin had never done anything remotely hard in her entire life. The delicate skin under her eyes and across her palm didn’t remain unmarred through expensive creams and meticulous care. No, they remained without flaw because the most difficult thing Portia had ever done was come up with that awful golf joke.

She’s fighting a smile as the boy next to her, Andrew ‘just call me Drew’ Augustus the third has apparently whispered something offensive enough that she can’t laugh openly at the table. Next to him is Bradley Cooper, no relation to the actor, but instead to the industrialist that’s responsible for undertaking most of the metro renovations here on the East coast.

He watches Bradley’s sparkly white teeth as he looks at the waitstaff with a rather wolfish grin. No doubt the most vile and repulsive thoughts filling his mind. And next to him, Angelica St. James, as in the St. James of the string of hospitals her family manages across the country. She keeps to herself mosty, flaming red hair always held loosely around her shoulders, mouth always pulled into a firm line. It’s somehow worse that she’s quiet, that she sees things and hears things, but never says anything. He wouldn’t be surprised if she were keeping a mental tally of all the obscene things she saw, to use against her friends when they take their parents' positions.

The collective net worth sitting at this small circular table in the back of D.C’s most noteworthy restaurant is likely more than the entire city. Damian’s disgusted to admit that he’s part of it too. At least from the outside looking in.

Bruce Wayne’s one and only biological son, the heir to the Wayne empire, at least that’s how it looks. He almost snorts at the thought. He really doesn’t have any aptitude for technology, with business sense coming in at a close second in tees of incompetence. As much as it pains him to admit it, Tim is the most likely to succeed their father, though Jason could probably give him a run for his money if he ever bothered to get serious.

But outward appearances aside, Damian still thinks it’s telling that he’s the darkest person at this table. He wouldn’t consider himself all that dark, passing as white in the colder months. It’s only in the summer, when the sun hung in the sky for a solid 14 hours, from six in the morning to eight at night, that his skin glowed brilliant golden brown.

But when he looks down, silently comparing his arm to Angelica’s, the pale milky white, littered with freckles, he knows he’s not passing for anything at this table.

Not that he would want to anyway.

No, he’s glad he doesn’t look anything like them. That while the shirt on his body costs more than their waiters’ weekly salary, it’s littered with flecks of paint. That while his hands are clean, they’re littered with calluses from years of vigilante work. That even though he got this expensive haircut, at your insistence because it’s always good to put your best foot forward, it reeks of the dye and acrylics he’s used to repaint the racist mural in the capitol building.

No, he’s not like any of the ‘art’ interns here, because unlike them he’s the only one that actually paints.

He didn’t know, when he signed up and breezed through the application process with little to no scrutiny, that this internship was really more or less a vacation to keep bored, insanely rich teenagers entertained for the summer.

It’s his first year participating, he only worked up the nerve to submit his application when you encouraged him. He feels his mouth twitch, recalling your eyes when you pushed the application towards him--

‘I know you think it’s a long shot, but don’t you at least want to try, Dami?’

Of course, how could either have you known that the ‘intensive artistic regimen’ was just a blank spot in the city that you were free to change as you saw fit, or that the ‘immersive environment’ meant that you would get a comfy suite at a famous tower, so you could stumble back home at four in the morning after staying out all night in the city. Or that the ‘selective’ process was really more about pedigree than talent.

No, neither of you could have known that while there was a mural that you got to paint over in the city, which seemed like an amazing opportunity, no one really had to paint anything. In fact, it was almost as if the organizers expected interns to leave the murals as they were.

That far too often Damian heard terrible things in that suite, from the whispers of the staff to the muffled noises from the other side of the wall. That the ‘selective’ process wasn’t all that selective as these four had been recipients of the ‘internship’ since their freshman year of high school, despite not having the slightest talent when it came to the arts.

For them it was just another summer in D.C, staying out too late, light jogs through the monuments in the day, and gourmet meals at night. And if they were to get into any trouble, any sticky unforeseen incident, well-- their parents could always clean it up with their money that never seemed to run out.

Damian hates to admit it, but he would have forgiven it all-- Portia’s increasingly vapid mind, Andrew’s gossip, Bradley’s sadistic tendencies, and Angelica’s complacency-- if any of them actually bothered to make anything. If Portia’s hand’s still held flecks of pink paint from a morning of painting bouquets, if Andrew was careful with his hands not because ‘these are the hands of a future scion’ but because if he hurt his hands he wouldn’t be able to draw, if Bradley has charcoal lined under his fingernails instead of blood from picking fights he knew he would win, if Angelica kept her hair up from habit, because otherwise it would get into clay.

But they didn’t.

And so Damian found himself hating them all. For their privilege, for their ignorance, for their beauty and complacency, for their vast amounts of wealth that created opportunities they didn’t deserve.

And most of all, Damian hated himself because it felt like he was one of them too.

Just a swing away from retreating into his wealth and privilege. A single decision away from letting his brain rot, because why worry when you should enjoy yourself? From being careful with his body, because this was the body of an heir. From picking fights, because why not? What would it harm him, he knew he wouldn’t lose. From being complacent in a system that favored him.

Why shouldn’t he? No one deserves a comfortable life more than him, after everything he’s been through. After everything he’s still going through. And just as that warm, hazy feeling comes, finally giving up, he hears his name.

“Damian’s actually painting something though.” He feels their eyes swing to him, and his gaze lifts up from the cup of amber liquid in front of him. He meets Andrew’s brown eyes, he’s smiling but it doesn’t reach his eyes.

For a long second no one at the table says anything. Silently questioning if they heard right. Portia’s the first to break the silence.

“Like actually painting? Don’t you have to get it approved? I asked if we could put up some Britney lyrics once and it got rejected.” Portia huffs, and Damian has to stop himself from rolling his eyes. Of course she did, not that Britney Spears lyrics wouldn’t be a step up from most of the racist slander painted on these murals.

They talk amongst themselves for a second, regaling rejected applications that they submitted as a joke, something to do on a particularly boring day when it was too hot to go outside. For a second, only a moment, Damian can see the appeal. The fun it must have been to sit around coming up with the most absurd requests just to see if they might get accepted. But then Bradley says--

“Well what did you submit that got approved?”

Damian feels his mouth twitch. He’s sure they think it’s a miracle he got anything approved at all. Probably wondering what strings he had to pull, never once thinking that he might actually have some talent.

“It was sort of a trick,” he admits and for the first time he can feel every member's gaze on him, weighing each word carefully. He knows for the first time all summer, he has their full and undivided attention.

He won’t lie, he’d pondered writing something profane over the canvas out of anger for his situation. But he knew it wouldn’t go over well, despite her complacency, Angelica had done a small sculpture her first year at the internship. It wasn’t anything monumental, a small bird that she posed next to each year so they could post the picture on their website. And though Damian may still be a bit rough at socializing, nothing compared to his parents or Grayson, he did manage to understand that the only reason Angelica had anything to show at all was because a bird was the only thing the organizer would let her make.

“I wanted to do my family’s shield,” she had confided in him with a slight huff. “But apparently that was too ‘politically charged’.”

It didn’t take a genius to figure out that though this internship was only for the wealthy and privileged, the founders of the Gale Hawthorne Art Internship didn’t want anyone to think that. Something as indulgent as a family shield wouldn’t be allowed, even if it was rather in character. No, he was going to act with a bit more tack. So when he submitted his proposal, no one batted an eye.

“I told them I wanted to paint a self portrait,” and under other circumstances they might have refused. They would have said it was too indulgent. But, as luck had it, having a brown boy’s face in a flattering light, was a much better look than the derogatory depiction underneath it. So it was approved, along with all the colors he said he would require.

But he didn’t paint a self portrait.

“Well what did you paint then?” Angelica asks, she does her best to look bored, but her curious eyes give her away.

And for the first time tonight, Damian finds his mouth stretching into a grin.

There’s only been one thing worth painting.

Only one thing that kept him sane, from losing himself to the hedonistic environment he’s become submerged in. Because when things seemed hopeless, when the people around him became a reflection of what he would inevitably become, it was only your voice that reached out to him, as if calling him back from whatever world he drifted off to, tethering him firmly to the ground.

“The light of my life,” he says simply, like it’s nothing. Like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. He doesn’t pay a single thought to the gaping faces around him. They didn’t think Damian had anyone special like you, let alone that he could smile like that when he talks about you, or that he could smile at all really.

But how could he not, when he thinks about the creamy colors he mixed to paint the flesh of your face, the galaxies he made in your eyes, the shadows from your eyelashes, and the universes in your hair. He bathed you in pink camellias, dotted your nose with stars, and made you into his act of rebellion. Because loving you was nothing short of a rebellion, an act to keep true to himself instead of becoming what the world saw him to be.

“There’s no way Hawthrone lets you keep it up,” Bradley says before taking a thick swig of his drink. Damian only smiles wider at that point.

“No, probably not.” It would be easy enough to scratch by without punishment, Damian’s an artist, and artist’s can be fickle. He would just claim that halfway through he was turned by a rather strong bout of inspiration. They wouldn’t say anything. What could they say to Bruce Wayne’s fickle youngest child?

No, they wouldn’t reprimand him for it. In fact they might even throw in a compliment or two about his technique, but come next year they would cover it up. Unless, of course, it happened to get a lot of media attention.

It sure would be a shame if, say, a certain college student with a rather strong aptitude for technology, algorithms, and hacking happened to make his painting a viral piece. It would, hypothetically, pain Damian a great deal to have to even ask this of the student, especially if the aforementioned student made him say his request twice with a ‘pretty please’ and a comment about who the best robin was. He’d stomach it though, complying to the request through gritted teeth because-- because it would be worth it.

It would be worth people knowing you were here and alive, for someone to gaze at his painting a century from now and look at your beauty in awe that something so magnificent existed.

Damian watches the eyes of these terrible people, knowing he’ll have to see them again next summer, to protect his mural and any others he chooses to paint. To borrow some of their privilege and strength so he can use them as a stepping stool to create a world he can be proud of.

But for now, he’ll settle for this small, final word.

“I don’t think they will though.”

[vvideonasties]

clear-cut

"Good morning," Jon says.

"Um," Martin replies.

Jon then realises that him holding a pair of scissors so close to his eyes not long after ranting about gouging them out would be rather concerning at first glance. 

word count: 2k

pairing: jonmartin

warnings: discussion of canon related trauma, thoughts about body autonomy

While rifling through the kitchen drawers, Jon is unsurprised by the plethora of blades Daisy owns. There’s every kind of knife you could fathom and, thankfully, a few pairs of scissors. Grabbing what appears to be the sharpest pair (though they all look pretty damn sharp), he heads to the bathroom. He clutches the white of the porcelain sink and stares into the mirror impassively. 

He used to actually quite like his long hair. He’d play with it while he was working, twirling the thick locks around his fingers and untangling knots absentmindedly. When he’d get frustrated he’d pull it out of its tie and tug at it. It was a strange way to ground himself. 

Now, though. It’s been used too much for other people’s gain, has been in too many people’s hands for it to truly belong to him. The gravity it provided began to dissipate when Daisy attacked him - she’d grabbed a chunk of it and used it to yank back his head to expose the vulnerable expanse of his neck. As he’d stood there under the mercy of her blade, shaking and pleading, the stinging in his scalp lingered the entire time. It only got worse from there - the awful attempt at tenderness displayed by the Stranger as Nikola brushed aside a few strands to gain access to more flesh, to paste moisturiser onto it with her stiff fingers. The dirt he couldn’t quite scrub out of it after he left the Buried, even when he sat in the tub for hours on end. Even when the water began to run clear, he could still feel the clumps weighing him down, making his head loll to the side with it.

After all that, it wasn’t much to him. He’d wash it, dry it, tie it up. Try not to think of it. 

Jon stares down at the gleaming scissors in the sink determinedly. Cutting it off won’t solve much, if anything at all, but it would make him feel a little more comfortable. It’s one of the only things he can control about himself at the moment. If he doesn’t like the way it looks, then fine. It’ll grow back. 

His hand flexes and clenches into a fist. Tighten, relax, tighten, relax. 

He reaches for the scissors and holds a piece of hair in front of his face, the blades open, hungry, ready to receive. 

Then there comes a short, polite cough. He turns to see Martin standing just outside the bathroom, eyes a little wider than normal. 

"Good morning," Jon says.

"Um," Martin replies.

Jon then realises that him holding a pair of scissors so close to his eyes not long after ranting about gouging them out would be rather concerning at first glance. 

“I’m cutting my hair,” he clarifies, and Martin seems to relax at that. 

“Okay.” A pause. “Why?”

He puts down the scissors and shrugs, suddenly feeling self-conscious. 

“Just felt like it,” he says, which is kind of true. “Not particularly attached to it anymore.”

Martin hums, taking him at his word. He walks over on socked feet, close enough that Jon can feel the heat radiating from him. There’s a brief moment where his hands pass over the scissors.

“I could help?”

Jon turns to face him completely, brow furrowed. “Excuse me?”

“Oh, it’s just that I have experience? Kind of? I cut my own, and I used to cut my mum’s as well...” Martin’s mouth twists downwards at that, and Jon just frowns harder. “I won’t give you my mum’s style, I promise!” He jokes weakly. It falls flat, and the whole atmosphere feels stilted. 

“Okay. Why not.”

“...Are you sure? I don’t want to interrupt your whole-”

“It’s fine. I could use some help reaching the back anyway.” As much as he just wants to lop all of it off, he doesn’t want it to look messy. 

Martin seems to brighten, probably at the relief of having something to focus on, and he walks off to grab a chair from the small dining table as Jon hovers awkwardly. He positions it in the living room, close to the small TV they’ve been using sporadically. They’ve been steadily working their way through the small cabinet full of DVDs underneath it. However, Jon isn’t exactly sure how long they’re going to be staying, so they might have to...ration them. The week they’ve been here hasn’t exactly been the most vibrant when it comes to entertainment. Maybe one day they’ll relent and open up the dusty box of Monopoly. That could very well be a major test of their relationship, though. 

At least, Jon thinks this is a relationship. They haven’t talked about it all that much. All that mattered in the beginning was escaping the Lonely, leaving London, then getting settled here. They’re fumbling around blindly in the dark, and all Jon knows is he wants to hold onto Martin as tightly as possible. 

That little train of thought is interrupted by the small clink of Martin taking the scissors off of the sink and grabbing a towel from the rack. He gestures to the chair, inviting Jon to sit, and when he does so he feels the towel being gently wrapped around his shoulders. 

There’s the brief sensation of Jon’s hair being pulled at, only slightly, and he sucks in a sharp breath.

“Okay?” Martin whispers. He understands without knowing, somehow, and Jon is glad that he can’t see the way his face is taut with apprehension, tinged with pain. 

“Okay,” he whispers back, trying to emulate Martin’s tone. 

“Can I use your tie?” His voice is still soft, and Jon should feel patronised, but he mostly feels soothed. “Just so it’s easier to cut through.”

Jon wordlessly removes the tie from his wrist and hands it over. He tries to hide the little shiver that passes over him when their fingers brush. Martin begins to hum a tune as he gathers the hair up into one handful (not like they did, he would never, it’s Martin, always so good to him), then creates a loose ponytail that falls to his shoulders. 

“Fine so far?” Jon nods tentatively. “Alright then.” 

There’s the distinct sound of the blades opening, and in one fluid motion Jon feels the weight he’d been carrying leave him. 

“There.” Martin comes into view, holding the thick, dark ponytail aloft, smiling crookedly. 

“Oh,” he croaks. “That’s...a lot.” His hand comes up to brush his the side of his head, then travels down and grasps at thin air where hair was a second ago. The cut seems to stop at his jaw, the small strands remaining ghosting over his skin. 

“It is. Can I keep going?”

Jon, hand still close to his head, makes a noise of assent. Martin takes a second to throw away what’s been cut then returns. He sinks his hands into Jon's scalp, massaging the tension out of it, and Jon makes an unbidden noise of satisfaction that causes his motions to still.

"God, sorry, did I hurt-"

"No! No, it's okay. It felt nice." It felt really nice. 

Martin clicks his tongue and continues for a while longer, fingers digging into Jon’s scalp over and over in a wonderful, rhythmic motion until Jon is practically boneless and falling asleep in the chair. He wonders if there’s a not-weird way to ask for this again outside of a hair cutting context. 

“So how short are we going here? You kind of have a bob right now,” Martin laughs. 

Jon hadn’t really thought about that. He just wanted it off, away, binned and out of his face. He shrugs. “I don’t know, short? Whatever you think will suit me.”

“Any hairstyle would suit you,” Martin points out, like it’s nothing. Jon smiles. “But I’ll do my best.” 

A few moments of Martin muttering to himself and circling around the chair is followed by the coolness of the dual blades against the curve of Jon’s ear, the shhk of them pressing together giving him goosebumps. He clearly has done this many times before, given the confident way he navigates the scissors. Jon certainly couldn’t have done this alone, at least not without making a fool out of himself. Martin brushes some hair away from the nape of his neck. His hands are very warm. 

“Y’know, I don’t think I’ve ever seen you with short hair.”

Jon turns to him, puzzled. “Really?”

The thing with Jon is, when he cares about someone a lot, he tends to insert them in all of his memories, assuming that they’ve always been around (he also has the memory of a goldfish, but he’s sure that’s a whole other thing). Martin has become such an integral part of his life, standing neatly by his side like it’s nothing. Like he was meant to be there and always has. 

“It has been quite a few years now, I suppose. Last I remember it was this short I was still in research.” When he goes to touch his head again he notes that he can feel for his ears without having to move a mountain of hair aside.

“Better late than never, I guess! I’m gonna move to the front now.”

Martin has to position himself at an awkward angle to use the scissors properly, his back practically curved into a C shape. His gaze is focused and intense, his lower lip caught between his teeth. Hair falls on Jon’s face as he snips, making him wrinkle his nose and grimace.

“Sorry. You can wash it off soon.”

Jon nods minutely. Then he sneezes. Martin just smiles, his eyes crinkling at the corners, then continues. 

He remembers why he rarely went to get a professional haircut now. That strange intimacy that comes with someone being so close to you - a stranger - it always disturbed him. The idle chatter that made him grit his teeth, how they’d act like they knew him. Then he didn’t have the time or energy to cut it himself after...everything. 

Now he’s looking at Martin, though. It’s odd, yes. Intimate? Definitely. He doesn’t know whether to close his eyes or keep them open. But he’s always found it very hard to turn his gaze away from Martin regardless.

His eyes are a lovely shade of deep blue, and he has far too many scars alongside the smattering of freckles on his face. He looks tired. Very much so. There’s crows feet at the corners of his eyes and lines on his forehead. He notes absently that he actually has a thick beard, too. Of course he noticed it beforehand - he’s felt it scratching the back of his neck when he wakes in the morning with Martin’s arms around him - but it’s worth pointing out. It makes him look much older, especially since the grey in it seems to be overtaking the red. 

Martin stands up straight and runs his hands through Jon’s hair a few times before standing back, head tilted to the side. 

“I think we’re done. It’s not amazing, but.”

Jon is already shrugging off the towel and heading to the bathroom mirror, feeling weirdly nervous. 

He certainly looks different. Unfortunately, though he searched high and low for them, Daisy doesn’t own any clippers. Martin did the best he could with what he had - he’s kept it a bit longer towards the front, some strands grazing his forehead, but the rest is cropped closely to his scalp. Jon tentatively touches it and leans forward. He tries to grasp a chunk of it, see if it’s long enough to pull. He fails. 

“It’s perfect.”

“Yeah?”

“Yes,” Jon says firmly. “It’s just what I needed.” He walks back over to Martin and wraps his arms around him instinctively, sighing with contentment when he responds in kind. 

“Thank you,” he mumbles into Martin’s t-shirt. 

“Of course.” Martin is stroking the back of his neck gently. “You look very handsome.”

Jon’s face burns at the compliment, and he chooses to hide it further rather than reply. They stand there for a while, hair scattered around the floor like autumn leaves, and it feels like a new beginning. 

[corvidshipping]

modern au red/milo dump while i try to get myself together to answer asks nd work on ATJ:

(tw for alcohol mentions near the end, also this is an EXTREMELY long post, its so long that even after i split it into categorized sections each section could be its own post)

CLOTHING

milo absolutely has no sense of fashion. i feel like this is basically canon - for the styles at the time, he dresses fairly basic, mostly focused on looking put together for his job (definitely dresses aimed more towards how he would like to be treated by his peers, despite his actual position - then again our best example outside of the expedition is when he's about to deliver what he considers the most important presentation of his life, so who knows, maybe he usually dresses like a slob). aside from that his main concern seems like practicality and comfort. his wardrobe is dominated by earth tones - beiges and greens set with white and greys. all of that taken into account, i can see him dressing like this in a more modern era:

basically- a lot of cardigans, usually collared shirts or comfortable turtlenecks (since he does still occupy a research position at the smithsonian, even if only in title), big ol' coats, khakis and chinos and slightly stiff dress pants complete with ironed creases. i can see him wearing similar clothes outside work, just more comfortable - jeans and knitted shirts, henleys, more turtlenecks, and comfy cardigans over short sleeved shirts. i dont really see him wearing a lot of prints, i think he'd veer more towards solid clothes in lighter colors, but maybe he has a few. hes definitely the kind of guy to think of wearing the single graphic tee he owns as "bold and wild".

im very married to the idea of him wearing converse though. i cant explain it. milo in converse keeps me going in this world

hes kind of broke so i think maybe he got the converse secondhand maybe? or a gift of some kind. aside from the converse i can see him wearing a lot of oxfords and maybe wingtips

i want to see him in a hawaiian shirt so bad. i am losing it at this thought. he buttons it all the way up to his neck like someones awkward dad. milo wears a hawaiian shirt to "let loose". he wears it with like, khakis. or knee length jorts AHHHHDJHDSGJHDSJGh

a tie??? does he wear his hawaiian shirt with a tie???? does he think it makes it look cooler?????????? i am sobbing

red is the COMPLETE opposite. in the canon 1914 setting, red is already very rebellious for an AFAB person of their era- theyre openly a suffragette, they frequently refuse to wear skirts even in public and dress in mens clothes even before they were openly nonbinary, despite not being accepted into the male-dominated research fields and colleges they continue to educate themself with or without help, they purposely aim for an "unfeminine" silhouette when they dress, refuse to wear corsets, etc. (spoiler alert- there's a clear reason they get on so well with audrey in ATJ)

theyre also easily mistaken by people that didnt know them prior to their transition for being just a very small/young cis man- even though they canonically have a very soft "traditionally feminine" face

so basically, in any era theyre set into, red is always gonna aim to be ahead of the curve- both in their personal beliefs and practices and in their fashion. theyre also very androgynous in their clothes, although they tend to aim a bit more masculine (thats partially due to the era though, and having been forced into skirts exclusively for their entire life- i think in a modern setting where its more acceptable for AFABs to dress and act in a less hyperfeminine way, theyd be more okay with a fluidity in their gender presentation).

all that taken into account, i can see them dressing like this:

lots of baggy clothes, especially baggy jackets and shirts. they like loose fitting high waisted pants like JNCO jeans, cargo pants, etc but they arent averse to pencil legs. they rarely ever wear skinny jeans or drainpipes though. messy hair is a lifestyle for them- their haircut is definitely home-done

you know how in BICSTLY they used to have really long hair before they cut it? in a modern au i can see them impulsively doing the cut at like 3am and waking milo up at his door cause they screwed it up and he ends up having to help fix it (even though hes literally no better at cutting hair than them. worse even)

definitely have an undercut bob- bob on top, shaven on the bottom layer. they might end up growing their hair into a mullet at some point if they get bored. probably dyes their hair all the time out of boredom and then regrets it later and has to use dye remover.

lots of ripped tights and fishnets, leggings with big loose crop tops, big hoodies, safety pin jewelry and homemade jewelry. maybe some sticknpokes.

all that said, they still know how to dress in a professional situation. since its a modern au theres really nothing holding them back from the education and career they canonically want but cant get in the 1910s, so i imagine they would work at the smithsonian as well, maybe their father helped them get the job? potentially in that case they might be his assistant- after all, he trusts their opinion on artifacts more than anyone else's.

at work you can still very much see the punk/skater/grunge/goth style but its more understated- turtlenecks, high waisted and looser dress pants, lots of black, slightly unbuttoned collared shirts with a loose overcoat and no tie

since i elaborated on milos shoe taste i may as well elaborate on red's: they definitely wear converse as well, probably newer than milo's since their father is fairly wealthy and they can afford it. they also have a doc martens collection. they have a pair of demonias but they never wear them and milo is really the only person to even know they own them, let alone see them in them. they really dont like to wear heels much, but they own a few just to play around with. they have a bad habit of wearing any laced shoes untied, but they never trip over the laces. they also use lace code- their most-worn Docs have purple laces on the right foot and yellow on the left. some of their Docs have (reclaimed) pink laces.

has an extensive pin collection including feminism pins, anti-racism pins, punk-related pins, skater-related pins, and pop culture pins (80s music, modern music, old movies, etc)

MUSIC TASTE

milo's into a lot of older music- stuff from the 50s is his favorite. really into jazz and ballroom style stuff. his favorite band is queen, i think- he likes the old-fashioned sound, the jazz-chamber-ballroom influences, the diversity of their lyrics, and the complexity between the guitar riffs, the basslines, and freddie's vocal runs as well as the vocal harmonies.

sometimes he hums good old fashioned lover boy to red and they two-step in the living room in their pajamas :pleading:

also very into rush. yes, he is a rush guy :pensive:.

also listens to a surprising amount of lo-fi? he really likes stuff that remixes older music with hip hop and lofi elements, like earl grey. nearly exclusively into instrumental stuff but also very into louie zong. he listens to it while he works a lot.

knows a lotttt of foreign artists, especially niche ones. fuckin LOVES casiopea

red's spotify is a goddamn mess. everything from 2000s emo, to classic 70s punk, to post-punk and new wave, to 90s pop, to rap. they cant be easily classified at all

their favorite bands are oingo boingo, prince, queen (they listen to a lot of their harder-rock music, but milo knows theyre into the ballads too. theyll never tell anyone else though), doja cat, lil nas, fall out boy, and billie eilish.

red recites the intro monologue to lets go crazy very seriously to make milo laugh, sometimes. they get very into it with their facial expressions. sometimes it devolves into a full air guitar/keyboard/drum and wild dancing session. milo does not know how to participate in this but he loves watching them have fun with it. sometimes they pull him off the couch to make him dance with them, though

they are a huge sucker for dark pop, vaporwave, retrowave, EDM, hip hop, emo, punk... etc etc. anything that combines any two or more of those genres in an original or interesting way gets their attention right away

there's a lot of sharing between the two of them- even though their music tastes are so different, they like a lot of the others taste, and theyre always up to listen to whatever their partner is playing.

red is a huge softie, and milo has found them more than once listening to or humming something he was playing for them the other day because it reminded them of him

speaking of which- in the 1914 canon, red can play piano. i think that carries over to a modern au, where they could play piano and by extension keyboard. i like to think they experiment with a lot of instruments but i doubt they ever really mastered any others. maybe theyre okay at drums or bass?

they learned to play and sing teo torriatte for milo, as a surprise. when they first performed it for them, they had everything set up for when he got home from work- the lights were dimmed, they had candles lit around the keyboard, they draped stuff in cloth to make it look pretty, they scattered flower petals around. when milo walked in and saw it all, he almost proposed then and there- the only thing that stopped him was that he would kick himself for the rest of his life if he did that without a ring.

HOBBIES/ACTIVITIES

milo is still an avid chess player in this, but i like to think hes in some kind of groupchat or text or discord server for it. he doesnt necessarily consider any of the others in the chat close friends, but he does know them all by name

he tries to get red into chess but they never really get it

he tells them all about the stuff that goes down in the games and they just. do not understand. but they love listening to him get excited about it anyway

"red you're not gonna BELIEVE this, eddie played an italian game on star today! i thought for sure she would see through it since everyone knows it but she slipped and he beat her in like, 13 moves! i wouldnt have believed it if i hadnt been there!"

"yes sweetie please tell me more" (barely disguised pained expression)

red is a skater and a regular at the skate park by the smithsonian

most regulars there know them by name, they can spot a newbie a mile away

they have a sticker of a broken tv with a skull inside of it on the underside of their board, its become recognized as a symbol of them unofficially

since theyre so regular and have been going there a lot longer than most of the other skaters that frequent the place, a lot of what they say is kind of just accepted as the rules

they have a bad habit of lecturing new kids who show up without knee/elbow pads or helmets at the very least. all the other skaters enforce it too. kids dont end up showing up without protective gear very often after their first visit

they brought a first aid kid and left it there and everyone has kept it stocked pretty well without them having to have much input. its kind of just a communal first aid kit

they once drew the broken tv symbol on the inside of a half-pipe and everyone started calling it red's ramp after that

they also started calling the bowl at the center of the park the Soup Bowl and now thats just accepted as the name. some of the newer kids genuinely thought that it was called that by the park and were shocked when they found out it was just a random nickname red gave it one day

theyve brought milo a few times but hes extremely awkward on his feet and could never really get his balance on a skateboard, and quite frankly red is afraid of what might happen if he tried even a low ramp, so he usually just sits at the rim of the bowl while red skates around

everyone knew he was their boyfriend before they even met him. a few of the regulars called him by name right away. one of them was certain red had brought him before.

but no

they just talk so fuckin much about him that its like they already know him

aside from skateboarding, red is pretty good on rollerskates/blades

they tried to take milo to a roller rink once but it was a disaster and they ended up going home, changing into pajamas, ordering chinese food, and marathoning movies till they fell asleep on the couch together. so not a total loss

theyre both very into movies. red is deep into horror and milo likes indie/art movies and just Cannot handle horror at all, but they both agree on old movies, from the 80s and 90s to like the 30s.

red has shown milo some of the classic horror movies and the niche old ones (from like the 40s) since theyre not difficult to stomach

every so often when red brings up wanting to see a horror movie milo is like "aw babe we can watch that tonight i promise it wont be bad" and he genuinely thinks he can handle it this time

he cant

he never can

it is always a lie

red ends up holding him every time and talking him to sleep, but it thankfully never causes like a major panic attack or anything like that

they love going to museums together, of all kinds. they love art museums. they also go to aquariums and aviaries

sometimes they like to go to other history museums and criticise the veracity or accuracy of exhibits/translations, all in good fun of course. theyre never actually being mean about it

SIDENOTES/UNCATEGORIZED

they both used to work at starbucks, when they were younger and before they worked at the smithsonian. they worked at separate stores 2 blocks from each other.

milo cant stand soda or carbonated drinks, red can and will chug a java monster in order to survive a long workday if they must. milo is constantly concerned for their health and wellbeing

they r both lightweights when it comes to drinking. they can split a six pack and both be falling-over drunk by the end of the night.

given the changes in beauty standards people DEFINITELY think milo is more attractive than they would in 1914. cmon. hes a lil twinky nerd. you think people wont eat that up?

he never really catches onto the flirting much though

did u think i would forget ki/da and the others? youd be wrong.

i simultaneously like the idea of something similar to the movie happening, but also just like... ki/da just being a regular person living on the surface. in either case they r all friends still

in the case of ki/da just being a regular person on the surface- i like the idea of atl/antis just being A Place in this au, maybe its a bit of a closed off country though? like, not many foreigners live there and to get there you basically need to be there as a diplomat or a scholar

maybe ki/da visits DC as a diplomat? she is a princess, after all

red meets audrey online cause they both yell at the same misogynistic asshole on twitter

they exchange discord names in the replies of the tweet and tell the guy not to interrupt them while theyre talking in his replies

i like to think red and milo are selected to go on an academic visit to atl/antis (to learn about the culture, with permission of the king), and audrey ends up as the mechanic on the ship during the visit and theyre like (spiderman pointing meme) at each other

red and audrey have so many inside jokes that they basically speak a different language. milo gets some of the terms from context and pop culture (they use "so very" in real life- as in "wow, that shirt is so very.") but he is hopeless to learn all of it

one of their inside jokes is any variation of "milo hot girl summer" and they REFUSE to explain it to him no matter how much he begs

milo wears that iconique tank top on the ship and they say it literally any time he bends over, picks anything up, reaches for anything, moves, BREATHES. he is bewildered and at this point concerned

(in truth, the joke came from red taking a really blurry picture of him in a short sleeve shirt where he looked pretty cute and captioned it "milo's having a hot girl summer rn" and they just could not stop repeating it once audrey met him IRL)

they have a minecraft world. i do like to believe that every so often vinny finds a way in- theyre never sure how- and griefs the shit out of them by blowing up EVERY. monument.

this post is getting long bc im enraptured by the idea of an atl/antis modern au so im cutting it off here but expect WAY MORE later

[zmediaoutlet]

Hey I'm super intrigued by your halmanverse stuff (just finished reading your most recent mpreg fic and also timelapse and also the omegaverse explanation post) but I'm still kinda confused, maybe because I'm in general already overthinking gender like 95% of the time. I have a lot of questions but mainly I was wondering what specific differences you imagine between halman Dean and male Dean? Mostly physical/presentation-wise, but also in terms of personality/emotion/emotional expression/etc?

oh wow, I’m glad you’re interested! (and even went back to that ancient post! bro!) I related to the overthinking part--I’m not that interested in gender qua gender but I am super interested in trying to figure out how a three-sexed civilization might actually work, and what gender expression results from there, etc etc. It’s a conundrum! My friend can attest to the hours I’ve spent moaning and flailing over how tf fashion would even work, much less everything else. But--it’s easier to think about if we start from a few basic premises:

1. I don’t want to write it as a dystopia; 2. I want it to feel semi-familiar as a setting; 3. I want Dean still to feel as much like himself as possible; 4. I want things to feel as naturalistic and realistic as possible.

All of which are kind of connected. I didn’t want to write it as a sex-crazed ultramating fuck-ciety, so heats get calmed down and ‘omegas’ (halmen) aren’t wee sex dolls who pump out seventy puppies per litter. (What do they even do with all those babies in omegaverse fics? Eat them??) The fact that I’m still using “he” pronouns means that halmen are still mostly masculine-presenting, but there are tells that mean that everyone can recognize a halman vs a man vs a woman (unless, of course, there’s some passing activity going on--much like in our own culture, where you can pretty much get a sense at a glance how someone is operating, and it’s exceptional if someone says, ‘actually, my gender identity is [x].’)

Still, halmen are, for lack of a better word, baby carriers. So, while they’re stronger/bigger/taller than women for the most part, they’re also given a slightly feminized role just by virtue of how this culture treats baby carriers. That translates into job choice, fashion, expected behavior. To delineate, halman!Dean:

Basic physical stuff: - he’s about 5′10, which is a little taller than average for a halman (much as real!Dean is a little taller than average for a man) - slightly rounder features, to go along with enticing mates to treat you well -- still very recognizable as Dean (esp with his lips and eyes already being Like That), but a very slightly softer jaw, probably. - high testosterone gives him good muscle structure and broad shoulders; high estrogen gives a soft subcutaneous layer of fat (which, ahem, Jensen already has) and less body hair; wider more feminine hips; flat chest (until pregnancy). So, the silhouette is a little different--sort of an hourglass, sort of an upside down triangle. - downstairs, you’re getting a very large clitoris (small penis-sized -- think of hyenas), which is also where the ureter is; no testicles, obviously; anus/birth canal hybrid, because that’s just fun tbh -- probably translates into that area being cleaner than usual, but let’s be honest, babies get poop on them half the time anyway, so. - heats are twice-yearly, ish (I think I said 25 weeks in one fic?) -- no crazy compulsion, no one’s gonna die if they don’t get fucked, but an actual body temp increase and definite horniness, and this is pretty much the only time all year that halmen can get pregnant. The hormones they’re putting out are also what triggers men to knot, so. It’s a special time. :)

Fashion: - Hair could be really anything (much like women can get away with most anything), but a pretty classic hairstyle would be something akin to Sam’s prettier bob haircuts. Dean keeps it above his shoulders, but not long enough that it could have a ponytail, probably. Side part, tuck behind the ears, done. - Makeup is minimal--halmen wear just as much as women if they feel like it, and in professional settings some effort is expected. Dean tends to stick to just eyeliner, but playing FBI might include a small amount of lip color. - Clothes -- THIS KILLED ME, but I came up with some options. Again, like 21st century women, they can kinda get away with anything, but they don’t mess with cleavage-baring (since they don’t have any, until they have a kid) and instead go with bare backs and shoulders to be sexy. (Why? Nice muscley backs, that’s why.) A very traditional outfit would be a tunic-length top (to cover the minimal bump from the big clit) paired with slim pants or tights. Short skirts over tights is also a really common look. Half the time, Dean’s going to be wearing a loose plaid shirt, a tank that dips just low enough to look halman-y, tight ass-hugging jeans, and boots.

Cultural stuff: - Sexuality: Dean vastly prefers men, because he’s pretty conformist when it comes right down to it. He probably experimented with a halman or a woman in his early twenties, but let’s face it, he likes dick. - Halmen could always get physical “men’s jobs” -- farming, factory work, mechanic, etc -- but the intellectual “men’s jobs” -- doctor, lawyer, head chef -- weren’t as common. They would’ve had a similarly hard time to women, breaking into those categories. So, while Dean can fake being an FBI agent just fine, sexist people will probably defer to Sam as the ‘senior’ agent. - Hustling pool: still likely, but Dean’s going to change up his style a little. He can probably take any of these trucker men in a fight, but it’s easier to flirt his way through it, and with that ass--yeah, he can get away with it. - Hooking: definitely possible too, but his client base wouldn’t be weird closeted dudes like real!Dean, it’d be people who’d expect to treat him more like a female sex worker might be treated. More dangerous, in its way, but at least he almost certainly wouldn’t get knocked up.

Personality/emotional expression: So, this is the big one. A large part of it is that, as a more female-typed caregiver, John’s expectations for how his Dean should act aren’t as subversive as in canon. Halman!Dean cooking/cleaning/taking care of his little brother--that’s what daughters are expected to do, after all, and Dean isn’t that far off from a daughter in this treatment. But that also means that the weird ways that, in canon, Dean is a little... overly macho, how he acts too butch, etc, those don’t really come into it. As a halman, he’s completely fitting into the role society/culture expect of him, and he doesn’t need to pretend otherwise. His issues, then, would be less of canon!Dean’s insistence on being a Cool Steve McQueen Dude, and more in the ‘there are certain cultural markers I’m missing by being a transient hunter, and I regret them.’ This gets touched on in ‘timelapse’ when he reflects about how he’s never been on a date with a nice boy before Mark-from-Blockbuster -- and I think we get a sense of wistfulness, wishing that maybe nice boys would ask him out more than the other guys like to finger him under the bleachers -- and again in the recent fffr fill, where of course he wanted to have kids, but knew that was never an option. He wants to hold babies, man. He just wants to really, really badly.

Related to that--in just his day-to-day, especially with Sam, he can afford to be... a little softer. Obviously he still gives his little brother a hard time, because that’s his job, but he also probably kept giving Sam good-night kisses until he was like 8--they probably argued a little less, because Dean didn’t feel the need to be a hardass just to emulate their dad--John was probably a little more soft with him, but Dean’s obedience would also be completely expected. I bet that there wasn’t ever one of those moments per canon where John would “send Dean away” for arguing too much, because I bet Dean didn’t argue that much.

The nurture of it all is so much of what shapes Dean--and he’s still loyal to a fault, of course, and still cracks jokes, and still loves his brother more than anything. But it’s the little softened edges that interest me--the places that canon!Dean fights against, that halman!Dean can just accept and be. Distinct from a Deanna, though, even if the changes are incremental. It’s just these little tweaks.

That... got really long, haha. Still, I hope it was helpful. Also, as a bonus:

I mean, the hair’s too long, but honestly, it... doesn’t take much imagination, haha.

[shedreamsofstars]

i’m gonna need those scissors

i'm trying to finish off some half-completed pieces in my drafts so behold, whatever this is. it was originally supposed to my entry for last years sonamy week prompt: gender bender, but clearly i never got it done in time (shocker, lol). i hope you enjoy <3

... xxx ...

Sonic brushed her quills out of her face with an air of exasperation. Chaos, those things were getting long. She couldn’t even remember when she’d last gotten them cut. Perhaps it was that time she’d gotten so impatient she’d hacked them off herself only to be met with the horrified looks of her friends as she reappeared with choppy, uneven quills.

She’d never received a reception quite like that ever since, she thought with a smile, jolting to a stop as she reached into her quills for a spare hair tie. She blew an annoyed raspberry as her hands came up empty, finding only the spare chaos emerald she kept on hand for emergencies.

It must have fallen out on one of her countless runs across the globe she decided, lifting an unruly bang from her face and scrutinising it in the sunlight.

Perhaps cutting her quills herself wasn’t such a terrible idea. She’d already practiced once after all; how much worse could she possibly do a second time? And anyway, anything was better than having it crowding her vision all the time.

The girl blew the overgrown bang out of her face and took her bearings.

Ames didn’t live too far. He would definitely have some scissors lying around somewhere or other she concluded, spinning on her heel as she headed towards the outskirts of town. She dragged her feet to a stop as she spotted his house in the distance.

From her vantage point, she could see a pop of pink floating around the garden and she smiled instinctively. It was just like Ames to make the most of the gorgeous sunshine by tending to the flower garden, his pride and joy.

She would never admit it to him, but his garden with all its lush foliage and vast array of plants was one of her favourite places in the world – and Sonic had seen a lot of the world.

“Hey bud,” she called as she neared, pushing open the gate hard enough that the momentum meant it swung shut behind her. The move had taken her a long while to perfect, much to Ames’ annoyance. “How goes it?”

Ames’ pink head popped up from behind some nearby shrubbery with a wide grin. “Sonic!” he called happily, rushing over and pulling her into a tight hug.

“Come on Ames, let a girl breathe,” she groaned through his bone crushing hug.

He released her with a bright smile. “What brings you my way?” he asked happily, his green eyes sparkling like emeralds in the sunlight.

The boy had let his hair grow out past his shoulders and the usually loose quills were tied back in a loose ponytail as he worked, a style she found suited him much more than it ever had her.

“Well, actually,” Sonic drawled, pulling out her infamous grin. Ames’ face dropped instantly, and he took a cautious step away from her.

“Oh no,” he muttered. “I don’t have a good feeling about this.”

“I’m gonna need those scissors,” Sonic said plainly, pointing to the garden shears in the boy’s hands. Ames pulled them close to his chest with a frown, shaking his head.

“Yeah … that’s not happening.”

“Oh, come on. I’m sick of all this … inconvenience!” she said groaned, tugging her quills out to demonstrate. “Everything I do ends up with me getting a mouthful of my own quills. And believe me when I say, my shampoo does not taste as good as it smells.”

Ames pouted his lips, clutching tightly to the shears in his hands as if he feared Sonic might attempt to grab them from him – and if she was being honest, she had considered the thought – but then he said something that surprised even her.

“Let me cut it for you.”

Sonic bit her lip as she considered the offer. She doubted Ames had ever cut any hair that wasn’t his own, but there was no way he could be as bad as she was. And if that was what it took to achieve shorter quills, then sure, why not let him cut it.

“Alright,” she agreed, and a wide grin spread across her friend’s face.

Minutes later Sonic found herself standing in the bathroom as Ames whipped out a folding chair from seemingly nowhere. “Here, sit down,” he said, angling the chair so it faced away from the mirror.

“Where did you get that from?” Sonic asked as she took a seat, craning her head back to try and catch a glimpse of herself in the mirror. It was no use. With Ames stood behind her, she couldn’t see a thing, which she supposed had been his intent in the first place.

“I’m prepared for anything,” Ames said and Sonic frowned, unsure what to make of the statement as she sat back, waiting for the whole ordeal to be over with.

The first snip echoed in her ear’s moments later, followed by another and another. Ames parted her quills this way and that, the scissors flashing as he cut away at small sections at a time. Sonic was surprised at how easy he was making this look. At one point, she was sure she’d caught him smelling her hair and had to bite her lip to hide her smile.

When it came time to cut the bangs at the front of her head, she was already tapping her foot impatiently on the tiles below. “Will you cut that out,” Ames said, kneeling beside her as he lifted the hair at her forehead. “You’re making me nervous.”

“Sorry,” she grumbled back, forcing her feet to still. Her eyes drifted towards Ames, and she was surprised to see the intense look in his eyes as he snipped away at her quills. She’d never really noticed how handsome he was before, but up close, it was undeniable.

Ames had the cheekbones of a god. Sonic was almost tempted to reach out and touch them, and if not for the unfamiliar way her cheeks were blazing at the thought, she actually might have.

“Are you done yet?” she snapped irritably, trying to distract herself from the way he was suddenly making her feel. He shook his head, pausing as he caught sight of her face before moving on with a little frown.

After several long minutes, or maybe longer - Sonic had gotten bored and given up keeping track of the time – Ames stepped back with a proud look in his eyes.

“Ta-dah!”

Without waiting for any other instruction, Sonic jumped to her feet and stepped up to the mirror. Her mouth fell open in shock as she caught sight of the hedgehog who stared back at her.

She leaned in closer in disbelief, reaching up to touch her much shorter quills. They still framed her face in a shock of cerulean blue and still had the wild quality she loved, but they were also … pretty.

That was the only way she could describe the cut Ames had given her and she saw him watching her in the mirror, wondering where on earth he had learned to cut so well. “It … it’s incredible,” she said softly, turning toward the real Ames whose gaze turned shy at her attention.

“I’m glad,” he said, already beginning to clear away the mess of quills that had fallen to the bathroom floor. Sonic stepped closer, reaching out a hand towards him before changing her mind and grabbing the chair instead.

Ames didn’t seem to have noticed and she was glad, not quite sure why she had wanted to touch him in the first place. That same burning sensation flooded her cheeks again and she frowned as she packed up the chair.

“Thanks again Ames,” Sonic said as the pair found themselves out in the garden again a little while later. She reached for the ends, bobbing them dramatically. “I really do love it.”

“It was nothing,” Ames said humbly. “Will you be on your way now?”

His face remained as bright and smiling as before, but Sonic noticed the slight note of sadness in his tone and knew she didn’t want to leave just yet.

“Actually, I was hoping I could stick around for a while. Maybe I could cut some shrubs to repay you,” she said with a smirk.

“Please don’t,” Ames responded, looking horrified at the prospect of her being anywhere near his precious plants with anything sharper than a cushion.

“Or I could just stick around and keep you company,” she amended, watching as his face softened. He picked up his scissors and she followed after him as he headed towards the roses at the far side of the garden.

“Hey, Ames,” she called out as she traipsed behind him. “Will you cut my hair for me next time too?”

He didn’t stop walking, but he did turn to look at her over his shoulder with a small smile. “I’d like that.”

“Me too,” she said quietly, a small smile of her own greeting his. Sonic wasn’t sure what the strange fluttering sensation in her stomach was, but she found it wasn’t entirely unpleasant.

She was very much looking forward to her next haircut.

[heli0s-writes]

Cut

Pairings: Reader x Bucky Barnes Summary: You impulsively make a change. Bucky appreciates it.

Bag of Tricks One-Shots

There was always something about women’s hair that caught Bucky’s attention. 

Perhaps it was the latent memories of his sisters and ma doing their hair every night and fixing it each morning in perfect coiffed rings- something about the smell of hairspray and the curling iron, hot and sizzling, barely burnt into the ether.

Women these days probably didn’t spend as much time on their hair, Bucky thought— but well, maybe they did. The Widow changed her look every few years and The Witch spent quite a while on perfecting those waves. Regardless, he always appreciated when a gal walked by with shiny, long, locks, bouncing against her back.

He often regarded his own hair in the mirror, taking note of its length. He wondered if he should cut it again like in those old pictures, but something about the shortness made him feel insecure and too open. He liked to be covered up now—as a reminder of who he’s become.

The only time he really thought about cutting it for good was when you’d snatch it by the handfuls during a fight. It started off as a mouthy little spat where you threatened to rip out his hair for looking better than yours, then slowly transformed into actual pulling, then a few weeks later you were bold enough to use it against him.

You’d gotten him pretty good, all five fingers deep, and brought him down by slamming him against the wall. The face bruise was nothing compared to the tender welts on his scalp for the next two days.

He didn’t let himself stoop to your level, but it started becoming a signature move for you, and you were ballsy enough to try two hands. Of course, it left the rest of your body wide open and he easily kneed you the hell out of the way.

Bucky always appreciated eagerness, but sometimes you could be such a... pain.

You had pretty gorgeous hair, yourself, Bucky admitted. It was impressive: long, thick, and he couldn’t remember if he’d ever seen you fiddle with it after a shower other than wringing the hell out of it with a rough linen towel. You’d brush it loosely with your fingers and then leave it there. Somehow it dried every time into a beautiful pile of wavy locks that was envied by many female agents. You were smart enough to pull it into a tight bun before a fight, but since there was so much of it, it generally flopped out of the band anyway.

Lately it’s grown so long that it was touching your lower back and getting caught in the damndest places, like car windows and doors and the constantly shifting plates in Bucky’s metal hand. You had gotten so upset when he snagged a few strands during a routine grapple in the spaces of his knuckles; you’d stormed off the mat and slammed the door on the way out. The mental chart in Bucky’s head where he kept tally of how often you baffled him earned another strike.

Half an hour later as the last shot emptied in his pistol, he pulled his earmuffs off to find you leaning against the door, choking as he briefly wondered if he’s hallucinating. Your signature unruly mane had been completely buzzed off and left with a close crop of even dark stubble all around your crown. He couldn’t pinch it between his smallest fingers if he tried.

“Holy shit.”

“Yeah. I know. I got tiny little bits all over me. Let’s go wrestle. I’m so gonna kick your ass.”

“Holy shit.”

You pulled a face somewhere between disgusted and amused. 

“My buzz cut getting you randy or what, dude? Jesus.”

You turned away with a suspicious eye before walking back towards the gym. Bucky easily caught up, lost in thought about how quickly a simple haircut could change not only an appearance, but someone else’s notions.

For example, he first thought about how much he missed the very specific way your hair shimmered under the fluorescent lights of the hallway— a dull shimmer, but it still did. Or how the curve in your waves would flick against your shoulders when you’d brush them out of the way. Or how lately, the tips of your hair would sway along your lower back, threatening to brush up against your bottom.

Your long hair had given you such a strange feminine grace, making all of your movements fluid and enthralling-- beautiful and strong the way ballerinas are.

But suddenly, none of that existed. 

Bucky watched as you marched through the compound, surprised to see, for the first time, that your gait matched his own. People were swerving to the sides of the halls as you walked past, either balking at your lack of locks or your vicious stomping.

When he squared up in the training room, fists raised, he couldn’t help but notice that you had exceptionally thick eyelashes and such sleek and shapely brows. Even the tip of your nose and cheekbones seemed more prominent, and hell, you sported a smattering of barely-there freckles across the side of your left cheek. Bucky thought they looked like the scattering of constellations in a night sky.

He didn’t even see you coming until your weight was already thrown over his chest and he was knocked back onto the mat with you sitting on top of him, knees to the side of his face, right hand on his neck.

“You didn’t even try that time, man. Usually you catch me at least halfway.” You gave him a perturbed look, followed by a strange realization, “I’m riding your collarbones, Barnes.”

Bucky shifted beneath you, mouth hanging open ever so slightly as he crunched forward, the movement of his abs threatening to pitch you over until you felt his wide metal hand splayed out on your spine. The flesh hand palmed the side of your head, brushing over until it rested on the back of your skull, heel of it on your neck. You were surprised when his fingers continued to massage and were even more shocked when the rubbing motion started to feel so good that you leaned into his hand every which way.

He couldn’t help but touch your scalp, the bristles of short hair scrubbing against his palm. It felt so silly, but there was something so deeply liberating to see and feel your mane gone. He saw you in a completely different light- more feral and real.

It had previously shrouded you in his mind under a notion of femininity— one he attached to his sisters, to all women with long hair. It didn’t mean that you were weak, or lesser than him, it was just... something. And seeing you without it was something else.

It stirred him even more so that you had forgone any semblance of style- maybe a fringe, or a bob, a short pixie would have looked nice. Instead, you just... took it all away. 

A slow strike was being carved on his baffled list once more.

Bucky pulled all the way up, sliding your body down his chest to straddle his waist with your legs.

“Uh,” you intelligently posited, glancing awkwardly at the intimate position, “What is going on?”

“Why’d you shave it all off?”

“What? Dude my buzzcut is making you randy.” You struggled against his grasp on your back, trying to free your legs until he placed his warm hand on your thigh, quieting your movements.

“I’m just wonderin’.” His voice was so soft you had to lean closer to hear it.

“I dunno,” you shrugged, “Tired of it. Bored of it. Might as well. Kept getting stuck everywhere. It’s just fuckin’ hair. And honestly, it feels great. Badass.” You swatted a few stray bits that had lingered on your shoulder, turning side-to-side. Bucky watched in awe of your striking portfolio- the gentle slope of your nose, your prominent cupid’s bow, the sharp angle of your jawline from your chin... he always thought your hair was a necessary addition to your essence, but without it, you were breathtaking.

“You are obviously a fan.” You laughed sarcastically.

He could only stutter, “Y-yeah, I am.”

You reeled back in response of his admission. Bucky’s eyes kept roaming over your face and it was honestly freaking you out. He looked like he was going to kiss you.

“Christ, Barnes, what in all of hell is--”

His lips descended on yours, the air around you shifting as Bucky sucked in deep breaths, parting and then coming back for seconds, both hands tight on your neck and even harder on your upper thigh. You pulled away, eyes absurdly wide, trying to understand the situation, “Bucky?”

He stopped, cheeks flushing bashfully as if you’d caught him red-handed elbow-deep in the communal Stark Tower cookie jar. “...’m sorry...”

You shook your head, licking your lips over the remnants of his touch, trying to catch your breath.

“You’re a great kisser, Barnes, but honestly, I really want to wrestle. I think the lack of hair is going to make me fucking slippery. Hella aerodynamic, you know?”

He laughed and cuffed you on the back of the head, spine tingling as your hair sandpapered against the inside of his wrist, “You’re on.”

As he watched you rise, your hand swiftly running up the back of your own neck, curious to feel what he felt, Bucky added a new mark to a new list of things you did to him. He mused over the subject matter- hesitant about lingering on it for too long.

You were still a pain, after all.

[atelierpleiades]

AND..........MY CAT EARS PROCESS. because every catboy deserves expressive ears.

so i made a mockup for the hair base to get an idea of how big i wanted things to be (the original idea was a bob but then vixi got a haircut so it became short hair), then a wire frame (kind of). then i made the ears + the tail out of apoxie sculpt, carved it once it cured, then made the hairstyle changes as necessary. 

the top of the head got drilled with a dremel for ear holes, then i carved out a general circular hole shape that would loosely fit the spare nendoroid ball joints i got. then i shoved in some more apoxie sculpt with the ball joints so that it would mold to that shape (same as i did with the ear bases, all following this tutorial: link). there was a bit of trial and error because the joints would be loose for some reason, but turns out that’s because there wasn’t enough support from the part underneath the joint where the peg would fit in. once that happened things snapped in just fine!

anyways after a ton of sanding and priming and more sanding and more priming and then more sanding, the custom hair set is complete! tbh i might need to add more to cover the ear area but that’s about it. 

now the only thing left for vixi is dying the body/plates, making and ordering the decals, then spray painting and sealing the head!!!!!!!!! terrifying!!!!! 

[bald-tales]

Rogue Gain by Titan

Casey Wyatt had it all. Youth, popularity and looks. At 22 he had everything going for him – except for one thing; he was a miser! As cheap as they come…..but that was all about to change….thanks to his miserly streak.  Casey loved the fact that people always looked twice at him. Standing at 6ft 2 inches his muscular frame stood out. So did his handsome, squared jawed face – framed beautifully by pure, blonde hair which just hit his shoulders. Now along with his cheap approach to life, Casey was extremely homophobic. He couldn’t understand why guy’s dug other guy’s though he understood why anyone would want to have some of his arse! Just don’t try it. He was that vain.  Now Casey was passing a Barbershop he hadn’t noticed before called ‘Cut Price Barbers’. He had been meaning to get his hair trimmed, but resented paying so much at the ritzy salon he would normally use. ‘How hard could it be to trim the ends,’ thought Casey to himself. He opened the shop door and immediately was transported back in time to a shop he use to visit as a kid. There was no one waiting or in the chair, just some old balding guy in a barbers tunic.  “Good Day young man. Step right up to my chair, no waiting today.” Said the Barber brightly.  “How much for just a trim?” asked Casey, a little hesitantly.  “With your hair, I’d have to charge $10.” Replied the Barber.  “I only want the ends cut. $10 is a bit steep isn’t it? Casey responded.” What do you normally charge for a trim?  “6 dollars son,” answered the Barber now starting to get annoyed at this young upstart.  “Then $6 it is,” Casey said stepping up into the chair.  “Well, right you are. It’s been a bit quiet today,” the barber gave in.  “Uncle! Phone for you – say’s it’s urgent!” came a deep, man’s voice from a doorway at the back of the shop.  “Excuse me for a moment young man, I wont be long.” Said the barber as he went to take the call.  ‘Well he better not take too long, ‘said Casey to himself. He started to fidget under the cape while he waited. He could feel the outline of his 10 inch cock through the fabric of his shorts. Yes! Casey was indeed blessed.  “What was taking the old guy so bloody long!” Casey said, half out loud. I haven’t got all day. He looked at his watch a few times then back at himself in the mirror in front.  “Sorry son! Family emergency,” the barber muttered as he came back into the shop. “I’ll have to get my nephew, Brian to attend to you.” He was already putting on his coat and heading for the door.  “What sort of business are you running here, Pops? I haven’t got all day!” Casey started to say with a rising anger in his voice, “ This nephew of yours better hurry up!”  The Barber was gone, the door slamming behind him.  “Hey! How long am I going to have to wait around here.” Casey started up again.  “Sorry there Sir.!” Came a deep voice behind him.  Casey looked up and saw a younger, bigger version of the Barber that had left the shop coming towards him wearing a white barbers tunic. He probably was only a few years older than Casey, but he was much bigger, power lifter bigger, with a trimmed, blonde goatee and the same male pattern baldness as his uncle, except for the close cropped horseshoe of hair around the sides was a dark blonde.  “Now I’m only paying 6 bucks, alright dude?” Casey said looking at the big barber who he guessed by the way he was looking at Casey, was probably a leather fag.  “My uncle already told me you refused to pay the 10 dollars, so a 6 dollar haircut it is! By the way my name is Adrian.” The barber offered his hand, but Casey refused to take it.  Even a fag name, Casey thought to himself. “Look, I don’t have much time for small talk, Aa-drian.” Casey replied, exaggerating the name. “Just a great haircut will be fine. And nothing with clippers.” Casey added looking at the barbers close clipped head.  “Sure! One of my best coming up.” Adrian smiled. Picking up some scissiors he began to snip at the ends of the long luscious man hair.  What Casey didn’t know was that Adrian had the ability to read minds. He’d known just what was on the young guy’s mind.  As the haircut progressed, Casey took a longer look at his Barber. How lucky he was to have no history of baldness in his family, and if he did, he’d just go ahead and shave it all off. Why leave an old mans ring of hair around the sides.  “You sure do have great hair!” Adrian said at last, running a hand through the long locks. You must look after it. I couldn’t be bothered personally, that’s why I got rid of all mine.” Adrian said, pretending to run a set of imaginary clippers over the head.  “Yeah, but you were loosing yours anyway.” Casey almost spat.  “No, unlike my uncle, I’ve always had a full head of hair. I’ve just always liked the look of mpb.”  “What’s mpb?”  “Male pattern baldness.”  “What?” Casey asked. “You asked for that cut?”  “Sure did. In fact, it made a few of my customers want the same thing.”  “That’s weird. I’d never do that myself.” Casey went on to say to himself,’ but then again you fags are into all sorts of weird shit’!  “Weird shit, eh?” mumbled Adrian.  “Yeah, dude.” Then Casey stopped suddenly, “What did you say?”  “Oh, I was just looking at the top of your scalp, it seems to have signs of thinning. I thought it weird because the rest of your hair seems so thick.”  “What?” Casey almost fell out of the chair. “No way! There’s no bald dudes in my family.” But Casey still had a worried look on his face.  “It’s not always genetics, or it can skip a couple of generations, but it’s definitely thinning, here take a look.” Adrian held a hand mirror over the top of Casey’s head.  Casey looked closely, leaning forward towards the mirror in front. He started to run a hand through the hair. He couldn’t see anything – well there was nothing to see, but once you plant something like this on a vain guys mind! Well, it was working.  “Shit Adrian! How can this be. I’m too young to go bald – I’ll look like a freak!”  Casey didn’t even worry about his comments being spoken out loud.  “Hey, man! Calm down. I’ve got just the thing to help. I think we’ve got it in time.”  Adrian had left the shop to let Casey stew. He returned after a few minutes with a bottle marked ‘Rogaine – hair restorer’.  “Have you seen this before?” Adrian asked showing the worried Casey the bottle.  “Yeah! But I thought it didn’t work. If it did why don’t you use it.” Casey started to laugh.  “It only works on growing hair.” Adrian ignored the remark.  “How much are you going to charge me for that! I bet it’s expensive!” Casey sneered, knowing this stuff cost heaps.  “For you I can let you have it for free, that way you may come back to me so I can keep an eye on your progress.” Adrian smiled.  “That’s generous man.”  “Well, I’d like to build up my customer base, as I’m new here.” Adrian added.  “How do I use it?” a more relaxed Casey asked?  “Just rub a small amount on the crown area, twice a day.”  “That’s all?”  “Yes sir!” Adrian kept this peculiar, almost sinister look on his face.  “Sounds easy. Sold!” Casey added.  “Let me finish up your haircut and I’ll put some in your hair now.”  Adrian finished off the haircut and it seemed that the spoilt Casey was satisfied.  “Yeah! Not bad for a Barber. Now are you going to use some of that Rogaine like you said?” asked Casey, moving his head around so he could catch a look at all sides of his new haircut.  “Sure thing, sir!” and Adrian begun to pour a few drops through the hair on top of Casey’s head. “Now make sure you don’t apply too much…..a little goes a long way.”  Adrian knew that the kids vanity would have him adding way too much.  Casey paid his 6 dollars and of course didn’t leave any tip. He was pleased this barber discovered his hair loss in time.  As Casey left with barely a thank you, Adrian knew he’d be back.  Part Two  Adrian was spot on – Casey was back, looking for a free bottle of Rogaine. Adrian’s uncle, Bob Kennedy had had to hand the reigns of running the store over to Adrian. His long-time companion, Terry, had been very ill in hospital. Bob had been meaning to retire soon but now his only concern was the speedy recovery of Terry.  Yes! Adrian’s uncle was also gay. He and Terry had practically raised Adrian after his parents had thrown him out of home. It was Bob that encouraged Adrian’s interest in haircutting. So when Casey first came to the shop four weeks ago, ranting about cheap haircuts and not giving a crap about Uncle Bob’s predicament, Adrian knew the punk had to be taught some manners.  As the bell on the front door rung, Adrian looked up from his paper, “Oh hello! Casey, isn’t it?”  “Yeah – was wondering if I could get a haircut?” said Casey as he came up to the chair where Adrian was sitting.  “Sure thing. How’d you go with the Rogaine I gave you; notice any results?”  “Well I can’t say I have, that’s why I wanted you to have a look – being a professional and all!” Casey nervously added.  “Well, take a seat and I’ll take a look.” Smiled Adrian.  As Casey climbed onto the chair he thought it seemed different to last time – larger or more chrome showing.  Adrian started to peel through the top hair and indeed it still looked as thick as ever. Because Casey wasn’t loosing his hair, that was an idea Adrian feed the vain youth.  “It does take sometime to work, you may have to keep the applications up for some time.” Added Adrian. He next took a comb that was a thinning comb – one with a blade within the prongs. He lightly and carefully combed the hair and of course a few strands of hair started to appear in the comb.  “Oh no!” said Adrian convincingly, “It’s worse than I thought!” he bent forward to show Casey the hair stranded in the comb.  “What the fuck?” Why isn’t that Rogaine treatment working?” exclaimed a shocked Casey.  “It won’t always work on everyone,” said Adrian, “and I thought we got it early enough for you.”  “What can you do about it? There must be something?” Casey stammered with tears welling up in his eyes.  “It may take years to progress to male pattern baldness, besides it quite often makes a guy more mature looking.” Added Adrian .  “No fucking way man! I’m too young to have an old guys bald head, the chicks are always commenting about my long locks.” Again, the tactless Casey forgot the hairstyle Adrian wore.  “Well – there is something, it’s experimental, but it’s proving 99 percent reliable in initial tests. Although it is pretty expensive.”  “How expensive?” Casey asked.  “200 dollars a bottle!” replied Adrian.  “What? I can never afford that, surely you can do something better than that!”  “Well I could let you have a sample that a pharmaceutical company let a friend of mine have.” Of course all this was a lie, but Adrian loved stringing along this guy. “Of course, I never needed it, in the end.” Adrian smiled as he ran a hand over the head.  Casey ignored the statement still annoyed he had to put so much trust in this fag.  “Please, man! Help me out, will you?” asked Casey, thinking if he was nice this guy would give him whatever he wanted.  “Okay – but you mustn’t tell anyone about this. As I said, it’s experimental and not on the market yet.”  “Sure! No problem,” cooed Casey.  Adrian went out the back of the shop and came back with a small bottle. Adrian had been working on this formulae especially for Casey’s return. This particular ‘medicine’ did nothing for the hair, but it stimulated appetite and increased sexual libido via added testosterone and steroids.  Offering the bottle to Casey, he began to explain it’s dose, “Now you have to take 2 tablespoons of this mornings and nights.”  “You mean I drink this ?” questioned Casey.  “You sure do – it goes into the bloodstream, builds up the testosterone in the body – which of course grows hair!” replied Adrian.  “Okay! What have I got to loose.” And with that Casey got up to leave the shop, and as he went, turned to ask, “Now this stuff is safe?”  “Sure is!” replied Adrian, and as he went to add something, Casey was gone, the door slamming behind him.  Adrian was going to add – ‘ not to exceed the doses he advised’.  Within a week, Casey had used the contents of the bottle up completely. He returned to Adrian’s Barbershop which he noticed had had a name change to, ‘Hair Designs by Adrian’. He was hoping he could influence the barber to give him some more of his special hair growth formulae. As he went into the shop, Casey was shocked to see the shop seemed changed- pictures on the wall showed various ‘extreme’ haircuts, some much like Adrian’s. The lights seemed brighter, the waiting chairs replaced by couches and the window now furnished with dark timber shutters. Adrian had a customer in the chair and they seemed to be having friendly banter, “probably another gay!” Casey said to himself, the neighborhood was full of them!  “Hi there Casey – back so soon? I’ll be right with you, take a seat!” Adrian said as Casey entered the shop.  Casey sat down in the couch noting how comfortable it was. He picked up one of the magazines on the table in front of him and pretended to look at it. He watched while Adrian finished up the customer ahead of him. The guy was around 40 and seemed to be carrying a lot of extra weight. Adrian must have cut a lot of hair off as the floor around the chair was littered with clumps of dark hair.  Just as Casey thought the customer was finished with, Adrian went to a machine on the counter and pumped what looked to be warm lather onto his hands. He then proceeded to rub this around the guys sides and back. Producing a straight razor he then began slowly clearing the white foamy solution creating a scratching sound as it removed the stubble. Casey couldn’t believe it. He’d never seen this type of haircut before – it was like the style he’d seen marines wearing; short on top with only a horseshoe of hair – with shaved sides. Casey noticed how smooth the skin was looking after the razor ran over it.  Adrian also put some lather on top of the head. Surely he wasn’t shaving him bald!  Sure enough, Adrian proceeded to run the sharp blade over the top of the fat geezers head. After a few minutes the only hair remaining on the guys head was the front and a narrow upright fringe extending along the top of the head, finishing before the crown.  Casey was amazed at the cut. It was strange but for some reason he found it interesting – kind of masculine. He’d never worn his hair much shorter than it was now, however, he wondered if he’d ever be able to pull off that sort of cut. Not that extreme of course, the guy was obviously into whatever Adrian was into – he put on a black leather jacket as he left. It was only then that he noticed Adrian was wearing a pair of tight, black leather pants, the white barbers tunic only covering the top belt loops. Casey had to admit this guy had a great body – but then he knew homos liked to hang out at the gym – their were way too many at his!  “Okay Casey – your turn!” Adrian called out brushing the hair off the chair.  As Casey got up he was suddenly aware his cock was at full mast. He tried to hide it as he climbed into the chair, but Adrian suddenly said; “Don’t worry about that man, happens to a lot of guy’s after watching one of my shaving sessions.”  Casey’s face was bright red. He couldn’t believe he was getting off on a haircut, but he didn’t realize that the extra testosterone and growth steroids in his system were responsible for his increased sexual desires. In fact the last few days he had be wanking off just about every waking moment…..but he hadn’t thought about it for too long.  “So what brings you back in so soon?” Adrian spoke as he fastened a cape around Casey.  “Oh, I’m not here for a haircut. I actually came here for some more of that experimental stuff – I think it’s really working!” replied Casey nervously as he saw Adrian staring at his crotch.  “You can’t be out of it already, that should have lasted you for weeks!” Adrian said sounding a little alarmed.  “Listen man, this stuff really works, I need some more of those samples.” Casey sounded almost apologetic.  “Truth is, I don’t have any more. I can get you the retail quantity but I’ll have to charge you for that.”  “Maybe I don’t need anymore,” Casey tried to sound hopeful.  “You can’t stop once you’ve started, otherwise the reverse happens – you start to loose your hair quicker and the body hair grows in as the head hair falls out.” Adrian tried to explain.  “Okay!” Casey returned, “order some in, I’ll find the money somewhere.”  “If you say so. Now what are you going to do with all this hair.”  “Ah! I wasn’t here for a cut”, Casey stammered noticing Adrian had started running a comb through his long hair.  “Well you’ve got enough here for a day of haircuts. Certainly more than the guy before you.”  “What sort of haircut was that…I mean was he in the military?” Casey asked trying not to sound too interested.  “No – he actually runs a bar near here. He’s a friend of mine.” Adrian smiled, taking a pair of scissors.  “It was pretty radical, especially with that shaved bit on top.” Casey answered.  “Oh that! That’s called a landing strip.”  “Too short for my liking,” said Casey.  “Maybe, but you should consider taking some of this length off, it only makes your hair look thinner on top.” Adrian lied.  “I…I don’t know. I’ve had long hair for so long now.” Casey said moving his head from side to side so he could see it in the mirror.  “Tell you what,” Adrian began, “let me try a few hairstyles on you and take photographs for my shop, that way I can take your hair shorter in stages and you can see which you like as well as it not being quite a shock when done in stages." I don’t know.” Answered Casey.  “Let’s say it would be full payment for a bottle of that formula your after.” Adrian smiled knowing that would do the trick.  Casey couldn’t believe his luck, free haircuts and saving himself 200 bucks on the hair restorer. “Sure! That sounds fair,” Casey sounded more positive, “but I tell you when to stop.”  “Of course Casey – the customer is always right.” Adrian said. “No time like the present.” And with that Adrian snipped off a big chunk of hair. Casey’s eyes widened when he saw the hair fall to the floor.  Adrian knew this could be the start of a beautiful relationship. ( or should that be - friendship!).  Part Three  Casey’s mouth was still wide open as Adrian took his fourth cut with the scissors – removing all the length that Casey had. His thick, blonde hair no longer fell onto his broad shoulders.  “Now doesn’t that feel better already? Cooler for a start!” asked Adrian.  Casey couldn’t answer at first. He was shocked. He was about to tell Adrian to stop, when Adrian added, “how about a beer? It’s certainly warm enough for one.” And without waiting for a reply, Adrian went out to the back of the shop.  Casey kept turning his head left and right. Why was he letting this man take so much hair off. He had to admit, he thought he still looked good, maybe even more masculine. And he could feel the coolness at the back of his neck. Maybe he should let this barber give him a shorter hairstyle.  No! He loved his hair too much. He knew the girls were attracted to his blonde locks.  “There you go sport! A nice frosty beer.” Adrian handed Casey a pitcher sized glass of frothy beer. “Drink up.” Adrian said as he took a large gulp of beer.  Casey was thirsty and as he took a long sip he barely noticed the slight bitter taste.  Adrian went to pick up a large set of clippers, Casey hadn’t noticed, he was too busy enjoying the beer – in fact, he had nearly finished it.  “Hey! What gives?” suddenly yelled Casey as he felt the cold, vibrations of the clipper teeth on the back of his neck.  “I’m just tidying up the back a little, nothing to be worried about son.” Replied Adrian sounding very cheery.  Suddenly Casey was aware of his cock growing increasingly hard. “Shit!” he thought to himself, “what caused that?” As the clippers went up the back of his head, he felt more and more turned on. He hoped Adrian hadn’t noticed.  ”Looks like someone’s enjoying themselves.” Adrian said, looking at the growing tent in the cape over Casey.  “Don’t freak out about it man, a lot of guys get turned on by the clippers. Look, I’ll close up the shop, if it worries you. Then you can feel free to have a good wank.”  Casey was ready to tell this fag off when he suddenly thought, ‘why not enjoy myself, the barber wasn’t going to object now was he. In fact he was encouraging it.  After locking up, Adrian whipped off the cape exposing Casey’s huge cock. He’d already unzipped his jeans, and was tugging on his meat for all he was worth.  Adrian was impressed, Casey’s cock had to be a good 10inches.  “Enjoy that while you can?” Adrian said, switching the clippers back on.  “What?” asked Casey feeling very relaxed.  “Oh, I just mean, while I have no customers.”  “Ahhh! Yeah man. That feels great.” Casey cooed, forgetting he didn’t want any clippers used .  He didn’t notice Adrian stop and change attachments. He seemed to be going over the same areas he’d just shaved. Casey couldn’t care now. He was about to spew cum all down the front of the chair.  Adrian smiled as he worked the clippers over and around the ears. It seemed the beer was working. Soon this boy would be sound asleep in his chair.  Adrian knew his boy would be out for awhile – he’d given him a powerful stimulant.  Taking a small needle attached to a machine he began to apply it to some individual hair shafts on Casey’s crown. It was an electrolysis needle – the same he had used on himself to create his present male-pattern baldness. As he removed each long hair he noticed the small white root-ball on the end of each hair. He worked quickly, soon- Casey’s crown looked like it was thinning, but you had to look closely. As Adrian intended to leave most of the length on top, Casey would never notice at first. He sprayed the scalp with a special gel, which would mask the stinging on his crown.  Adrian finished up the haircut, applying lather to the sides and neck, cleaning up the stubble around the edges.  “Come on buddy, wake up?” Adrian started to shake his ‘patient’.  “Wh… Where… Oh!”  “Must have been the beer!” grinned Adrian as he dusted the fallen hair off Casey’s shoulders.  “Yeah! Sorry about that.” Casey then looked down at himself. His cock was still exposed.  He quickly went to tuck it back in his jeans, feeling embarrassed.  “Thanks for the show too!” Adrian laughed, slapping him on the shoulder.  Casey felt very odd. How had he got so turned on, and why had he jerked off in front of this guy? Suddenly he caught sight of himself in the mirror. He had to admit it was hot!  The top of his head still was thick with hair, giving a slight flattop look with the short sides. Adrian produced a mirror to show the back. It started as bristles before gradually increasing in thickness. Adrian rubbed a pomade through the locks. It kept the hair in place.  “What do you think?”asked Adrian.  As he ran his hand up the shaved back of his head. he couldn’t help think this was to short for him, but as he felt the blonde stubble at his neck then felt smooth skin where Adrian had shaved, he couldn’t help but think he looked cool.  Part Four (Conclusion)  Casey rushed in the door of Adrian’s Barbershop, all out of breath. “Adrian! Quick you’ve got to help me.”  It was only three days since Casey had his new haircut, Adrian had been expecting him.  “I’ve got to get some more of that ‘hair growth formula’, right away.”  “Sure Casey, I’ve got a few bottles in- just arrived this morning. Why so excited?” Adrian tried to sound surprised.  “Look at the top of my head, man!” shouted Casey. “I can see scalp!”  Adrian noticed Casey didn’t have any gel or wax in his hair so the top was looking thinner, and hanging down the shaved sides.  “Get up on the chair and I’ll have a look.” Responded a cheerful Adrian.  As Casey climbed into the chair he was too excited to notice Adrian putting the cape around him.  “I seem to be even thinner on top man! How come it’s so noticeable all of a sudden?”  asked Casey, with his voice starting to take on an angry sound.  “Well. It must have been because of the formula. Once you stopped using it the scalp began to go back to it’s hair loss.” Said Adrian, noticing the slight swelling of a potential belly under Casey’s sports shirt.  “Okay man! You’ve got to give me all you’ve got!” spat Casey, believing every word the barber said.  Adrian had already started to comb the kid’s thick hair, pretending to study the scalp. “We may have caught it in time”, smiled Adrian, “but I think we should fix it up a little, so it wont be so noticeable.”  “What have you got in mind?” asked Casey, a little nervously.  “Maybe a little more off the top so your hair appears thicker, not too much!”  “I don’t want to go too short you know,” stated Casey but the thought of hearing those clippers against his skin started to gnaw at him. Indeed the steroids and growth hormones he’d been fed were working, what he didn’t know was the formula he’d been taking had increased his sexual appetite. That’s why he’d been working his cock over so frequently.  “We wont use the clippers son, just the scissors,” replied Adrian. He could see the disappointed look on the kid’s face. “But maybe you’d like me to try the clippers again?”  “If you think it’s best,” said Casey trying to sound disinterested. He didn’t want this fag finding out how horny he was getting. Suddenly the sound of heavy duty clippers filled the air, giving no time for Casey to change his mind. Taking his comb, he drew the thick, blonde locks upwards, shearing off the top 2 inches. Casey knew he was loosing a lot of hair – he could see it falling onto his shoulders. Cleverly, Adrian had made sure Casey was turned away from the mirror in front of him. He noticed the commotion happening under the cape and realized Casey was getting off on this whole haircutting.  “Not too much man, I don’t want to end up bald!” Casey suddenly spoke up, not caring the barber could see him stroking his cock. ‘Shit!’ he suddenly thought to himself, ‘why not let this guy suck him off when his finished, It’s not like anyone will know.’  So Casey stopped stroking and thought he’d have some pleasure courtesy of this barber.  It wasn’t long before Adrian had finished, putting down his clippers, he went to turn Casey towards the mirror. “What do you think?”  “It’s kinda short, the shortest it’s ever been.” Said Casey moving his head from side to side. It did give him a definite edginess. Adrian had taken the hair down to a few inches so that it would stand up nice and spiky when wax was applied.  “Yeah, but you can hardly notice the thinning now.” Added Adrian.  Adrian started to rub some wax through the hair, making it stand up. He had to agree, his hair looked a lot thicker now.  Adrian went to remove the cape from around Casey, and found himself looking at Casey’s huge rod, now unencumbered by his jeans.  “Would you like a little help with that?” grinned the barber.  “If you insist”, returned Casey hardly believing he was letting this guy suck him off.  Adrian hungrily sucked on Casey’s 10inch cock, savoring every inch of it – it had been a long time since he’d had any cock himself, orally or anally.  Casey couldn’t believe how horny he was feeling – he spewed his cum in no time, Adrian swallowing every last drop.  Feeling slightly embarrassed, Casey asked for the formula. “I have to go, you’ve got that stuff for me?”  “Sure thing!” Adrian went to get the bottles of the special hair lotion.  Casey was getting use to his new shorter hairstyle. It had been a couple of weeks since his visit to the barber – who had kindly given him this hair formula – free of charge. Well he did get a suck of my dick out of it, Casey had conceitedly thought to himself. He’d been using it twice a day, swallowing two tablespoons each time as Adrian had instructed him. He had noticed he was putting on some extra flab but for some reason he didn’t seem too concerned. He just put it down to not going to the gym lately, for some reason he couldn’t get motivated. He kept telling himself he’d get back into it real soon. He consoled himself with masturbating every moment he got. Again he wondered about the increased sex drive but then shrugged it off. His appetite had also increased, four-fold, but again he put this down to his lethargy and concern about his hair loss.  It wasn’t until he noticed the hair on his chest he started to get concerned. It was definitely thicker and darker than he remembered. Was it a side-effect of the formula?  He decided he’d better call in on Adrian.  The next day, Casey was once again in the barbers chair. “Look at all this hair, Adrian! This can’t be normal” protested Casey as he unbuttoned his shirt to expose his chest.  Adrian noticed the decreased muscle in Adrian specs, but hardly noticeable due to the thick wiry hair growing all over them.  “Well the formula is still in it’s experimental stages – I was told that an increase in all hair growth not just head – was possible.” Said Adrian, trying to appear concerned.  “I could get rid of it for you if you like, so it wont grow back.”  “What do you mean? Shaving my body hair off?”  “I could get rid of it permanently if you like.” Adrian started to sound a little sinister.  “Shit man! I’m not into the freaky shit like you.” Casey shot back.  “Well you could get a lot hairier, I’m just not sure.”  “I like the hair. Makes me look older.” Casey said stroking the hair on his chest.  “No problem. Now let’s take a look at your crown. Hmm! Looks like we’ve stopped the loss, I’ll just put some of this ‘hair thickener’ on it. It attaches itself to the hair shaft and plumps it up”. Adrian took a mysterious unlabelled jar from a high shelf on the cupboard.  “I used this myself when I started to go bald.”  Indeed, Adrian had used it himself, but remember – he wanted to go thin on top. Of course Casey had forgotten about all that.  “Can I have some of that stuff?” Casey cheekily asked.  “Sure thing – but use it sparingly!” Adrian knew Casey would use way too much.  ONE WEEK LATER  Casey still hadn’t been near the gym. In fact he didn’t think about it much. For some reason, he thought he was looking better with a little extra weight. However, he was alarmed at how his body hair was increasing. Although it made him look very virile, it seemed to be spreading all over his body. It was also black hair! His body hair had always been blonde. Now it was black – on his legs, arms chest and pubes. He just kept telling himself it was worth it if it meant his head hair would grow. The following morning he went to have his shower and shave, finally putting the ‘hair thickener’ through the hair on top. As he ran his brush through it, he was alarmed to see a lot of blonde hair in the brush. Taking a hand mirror, he looked at the crown area. Sure enough, white scalp was showing through.  “How is this possible? You said I had nothing to worry about, that this ‘wonder formula’ would help grow my hair!” ranted Casey as he sat, once again, in Adrian’s barber chair.  He’d rushed over as soon as he saw the growing bald spot on his head – even though it was barely noticeable.  “Well it is growing hair for you, just not on your head.” Responded Adrian as he pretended to look at Casey’s crown.  “Oh yeah! You’re a real comedian. What are you going to do about this? Your responsible! You gave me that experimental shit!” Casey spat back.  “Calm down Casey, I’m not sure it was the formula. It could have been the combination of using the thickener. Remember, the hair wasn’t falling out while you were taking the formula. I think if anything, you need to increase the dose.”  “What?” Casey’s mouth opened wide.  Adrian tried to sound convincing, “start taking the stuff four times a day, that should help stop whatever caused the reaction with the hair thickener. Look, I was just about to have a coffee ��� how about I make that two?”  “Ah, yeah! I did rush out the door this morning – thanks.” Replied Casey, starting to calm down, “ so you really think I’ll get the right results with increasing the dose?”  Adrian was already out back getting the coffee - yelling back, “ Oh yes Casey, I can guarantee it.”  When he returned with the coffees he was careful to give Casey the right cup.  Before finishing the coffee, Casey was out like a light.  Adrian went to work immediately. He went to take Casey’s wallet out of his pocket, finding his driver’s license, he copied down the address. Next he placed a set of headphones over his ears connected to a CD player. Switching it on he started the disc, which would play subliminal messages suggestions that Casey’s real sexual appetite could only be satisfied by the same sex. He was more interested in man sex than female!  After one hour, Adrian brought Casey back round with the aid of some smelling salts.  Obviously, the recording had worked as Casey was sporting a full erection.  Before Casey could say anything, Adrian was quick to say something first; “You should try and get more sleep you know – all this hair loss worry is obviously causing sleepless nights!”  “Wh? Oh! Casey started to say.  “Looks like something else is wide awake,” Adrian added, pointing to Casey’s huge rod.  Although he felt groggy, he couldn’t believe how horny he felt – going straight for the zip and letting his dripping cock out of its cage. Starting to stroke it he seemed to be oblivious to Adrian.  “Why don’t I take care of that for you,” Adrian smiled and before Casey could answer, had taken the cock fully in his mouth – sucking deep – up and down.  Casey moaned, closing his eyes and then taking Adrian’s head in his hands and guiding it up and down increasing the rhythm. Why was he getting so turned on? Then he remembered none of his girlfriends had serviced him like this before. Gay guys sure know what turns guys on – why had he been so reluctant to try this he thought to himself? Suddenly, he felt the top of Adrian’s head – feeling the smoothness of the scalp. It made him even hornier, noting the difference between the horseshoe of buzzed hair, then bare skin. He started to rub his hands all over Adrian’s scalp. Adrian realized the drugs he had been feeding the kid were working better than he ever thought possible.  THE FOLLOWING WEEK  As it neared 7.30 pm Adrian arrived at Casey’s apartment. When Casey answered the door, Adrian realized the kid had listened to him and increased his daily dose of the ‘special hair growth formula’. He had a very advanced five o’clock shadow, contrasting with his blonde hair. He seemed bulkier too – as he was wearing a loose t-shirt and track pants. Suddenly, Casey was looking at a big guy dressed in leathers. He had a balaclava over his face, but Casey felt there was something familiar about the figure before him. Before he could react, he felt something spray him in the face. That was the last he remembered.  Adrian took the slumped figure to his bedroom. Then, laying him on his bed he produced a set of headphones and a portable CD player. Pressing play, Casey wanted to enforce the subliminal messages he had given Casey the previous week. He then went to work – getting his electrolysis needle from out of his duffle bag. Turning it on he started on the crown area, removing the growing hair strand by strand. He worked on an area only about 3 inch in diameter – no need to overdo it yet. Once finished, he was amazed at the whiteness of Casey’s newly created bald patch. He sprayed an analgesic on the area that would mask the soreness of the needle. Next he took some special bonding glue and set about fixing some of the hair strands back on the bald patch. The procedure took about 2 hours, but soon most of the bald patch was hidden by hair – newly glued into place. Adrian left the remaining hairs he hadn’t used, on Casey’s pillow. Turning the CD off which had been continually playing, Adrian went to bring his captive round. As the boys eyes opened his gaze fell upon a shiny object moving in front of his eyes, a familiar voice could be heard but he couldn’t place it.  “Casey! Look at the crystal, how shiny and bright it is. It’s making you feel so relaxed, your eyes feel heavy, you need to close them………..”  Adrian continued to fully hypnotize Casey. This was something he’d picked up on one of his journeys to the orient. A mystic had picked up on Adrian’s ‘special abilities’ like his mind-reading and suggested he expand on these. Hypnosis was one of the things he learnt through the mysterious Chinese man he met.  “You are going to come to Adrian’s Barbershop, tomorrow. You will trust his advice and let him cut your hair, the way he sees fit. When he says ‘Your body hair has gotten way too long,’ you will reply ‘I know but what can I do about it?’ He will reply,’ I can get rid of that nasty old hair.’ As soon as you hear these words you will be under his control, unable to move but feeling totally relaxed, totally trusting of the barber. He is your master from that moment on – do you understand, Casey?”  “Yes,” came a sheepish response.  “When you hear the words, ‘there, doesn’t that look better slave!’ you will be totally yourself again, unaware the barber has been controlling your mind. But you will want to do as your master instructs, no matter how much you disagree. Now I want you to stop shaving as well – you hate having to shave, you only enjoy it when the barber shaves you, it makes you very horny, you can’t get enough of the blade going over your skin, clearing all the white, creamy lather.  Do you understand my instructions?” Adrian added softly, but directly.  “Yes.”  Adrian was now ready to bring the kid around. “You will awake feeling very relaxed unable to remember what happened tonight, you will gradually feel sleepy again and will sleep until morning. As I count to 3 your eyes will start to open, you will feel fine but still very tired. Adrian packed up his things and went to the door. “1…starting to wake now.” He closed the door slowly behind him, “2…you are nearly awake, unaware of my presence. 3…your eyes are fully opened now.” Adrian softly closed the bedroom door behind him.  Casey’s eyes met the ceiling. He remembered some funny dream he’d been having but realized he was still very tired. Rolling over to his side he went back to sleep, unaware as Adrian left the apartment.  Casey awoke in the morning feeling very refreshed, but soon cried out as he saw the blonde hair strands on his pillow. He ran to the bathroom to look in the mirror – and to his horror, his bald patch seemed more noticeable than ever.  When he arrived at Adrian’s shop he was relieved to find there were no customers waiting. Even though he was angry with Adrian and his ‘magic tonic’ for some reason he seemed to trust him, “What am I going to do? It really looks like I’m going to go bald, at this rate.” Casey moaned as he sat in the chair, once again.  Fixing the cape around him, Adrian added, “Maybe you should let me take it a little shorter on top? The thinning will be less obvious.”  Even though he wasn’t sure about loosing anymore of his hair, he felt he should agree. It wasn’t long before the clippers were fired up and working their way up the back of Casey’s hair. Adrian noticed the immediate effect it had on the kids cock. “Feel free to enjoy yourself Casey.” He added, no reducing the sides to stubble.  “Do you want me to keep using the clippers some more?”  “Yeah – please!” Casey said dreamily, unable to understand why he was getting off on this haircut.  Adrian changed guards and went back over the areas he’d shaved. “Here, let me get rid of this.” And with that he whipped off the cape, exposing Casey’s oversized genitals. Adrian realized that the growth steroids and added testosterone were giving this boy a great set of cock and balls. ‘Amazing’, he thought to himself. Turning the clippers off, he took a pair of scissors and started to trim the hair on the top.  “Have you finished with the clippers already?” Casey suddenly asked, letting go of his penis.  “Sure have, unless you want to go shorter?” Adrian grinned continuing on with the cutting.  Casey realized he had practically no hair left on the sides – no he didn’t want to go this short , but the barber was trying to help his hair loss. Besides, he was missing the clipper action.  Of course, while Adrian had been using the scissors and comb, the hair he’d glued back onto the scalp the previous night was coming out. More and more scalp was showing. He didn’t show this to Casey. Finally, he finished the trimming of the top hairs and produced a mirror.  “Man! That’s worse Adrian. I can’t believe how much scalp is showing!”  Adrian put down the mirror, “It must have been the thickness of your hair, it hid the extent of the male pattern baldness. Well, I have got an idea, but it’s pretty radical, it means some shaving with the blade. It’s a style they call high’n’tight – very popular in the military.”  Casey’s eyes widened, as he remembered the customer Adrian had been working on the previous week. As he had watched that guy get his high’n’tight cut he had become very turned on. In fact, he now noticed his cock dripping precum. “That short!” he said after a moment.  “Well, with that sort of cut, no one can tell whether your loosing your hair or not. It is a very masculine cut and certainly wont make you look as old as someone loosing their hair. And if you don’t like it you can always grow it back.” Said Adrian starting up the lather machine without waiting.  “I don’t know, man. I’ve never worn my hair that short.” Casey said getting more aroused by the moment.  “Trust me, Casey.”  “Oh! Sure Adrian.” He replied not knowing why he felt so guided by this man.  “You wont be sorry.” And with that, Casey suddenly heard a high pitched sound of edging trimmers.  Bringing them up over the thinning crown, Casey was amazed to see them removing the remaining hair on his crown. Adrian brought them up over the top finishing a few inches from the front hairline, creating a very large ‘landing strip’ on top. He left a classic horseshoe of hair finishing just near the crown, only standing an inch high.  When Adrian went to smooth the warm lather over the sides and landing strip, Casey was having trouble preventing himself from coming. He knew he had to wait for the ‘straight razor, that was the part he was looking forward to.  Slowly the blade glided over the short stubble, leaving smooth white skin in it’s wake.  When the blade started on the top of his scalp, Casey couldn’t stop himself from cumming. He shot his load straight onto the top of the counter. Emptying himself fully, he said, “sorry about that, but I couldn’t help myself. That was a amazing.”  “I thought you might like that!” replied Adrian.  Finishing up, Casey couldn’t get over the ‘new, look. He had to admit it looked hot! And even though he was practically bald – he didn’t look like he had male pattern baldness anymore. He rubbed his hand over the newly shaved skin. “Yeah! Maybe I could get use to this .The skin’s pretty white though.”  “Oh! I have just the thing.” Exclaimed Adrian, opening a drawer and producing a small tube. “It’s a Tanning accelerator, works real quick.” He began to rub some of the cream over the newly exposed scalp.  “Now, you’ll probably need to come back soon if you decide you want to stick with this cut.”  Casey started to wipe himself up with a damp towel that Adrian had offered, “Yeah! I think this style is growing on me.”  TWO WEEKS LATER  Casey had liked his new haircut, he noticed the extra look from a lot of the guys he passed. But he missed his thick blonde locks, so he had decided to let his hair grow again. The only problem was as the hair grew back in on the top, he could see his ‘bald patch’ again. He was now wearing a very thick, full beard. He liked the hair on his face, although he was surprised how quickly he had grown it. And hadn’t it been blonde?  No matter, he liked the look – now what to do about his hair? He felt Adrian would be able to tell him.  “Wow! That beards coming along well. I hardly recognize you Casey.” Said Adrian, looking up from his paper as Casey walked into the barbershop.  “Wish the hair on my head would match,” replied a slightly dejected Casey.  “So, how did you like the ‘high’n’tight? Ready to go there again?” Adrian said cheerfully, offering him the barbers chair.  “I liked it for a change, but I think it’s too high maintenance. I think something a little more conservative would be more me.” Casey replied. Do you have any suggestions?”  “Well, I could trim your beard for you, firstly and then maybe look at letting you keep a little more hair on your head.”  “Yeah! Just nothing too radical, okay?” said Casey starting to feel more at ease.  “Sure son.” Adrian assured him. Then he pointed at the top of Casey’s open neck  shirt. “Your body hair has gotten way too long.”  Casey felt this a strange statement but felt compelled to say, “I know but what can I do about it?”  Adrian replied in stronger tone, “I can get rid of that nasty old hair.”  Casey’s eyes glazed over, softly he replied “Yes master!”  Adrian knew he had Casey in his complete control.  It had been a few hours but Adrian had enjoyed every moment, working on his ‘new slave’. “There! Doesn’t that look better slave?” He said surveying the naked boy before him. Though now, Casey didn’t look much like a boy.  Casey started to blink, then trying to focus, he saw what appeared to be Adrian in front.  As he focused, his mind started to race. What had happened? Shit! That was him in front. Where was his clothing, he looked so fat, how had he let himself get this way. Hang on, he was suddenly aware he was missing all the thick dark body hair he’d gotten use too. The smooth skin magnified how huge his belly had become. As Casey looked towards his face, he hardly recognized himself. His beard had been reduced to a well trimmed goatee, still thick but now jet black. It seemed darker because his face seemed to be more tanned than he remembered, older! His eyebrows were thicker then he remembered but well trimmed. His hair was the same jet black, but the horseshoe of hair had been buzzed down matching the hair that had re-grown on the sides.  “What in the hell have you down!” he almost screamed as he found his mouth.  “Shut up slave, your ready for phase two. I want you to be fully awake for this part.”  Adrian said as he got a leather strap and fastened it around Casey’s smooth chest.  Casey tried to struggle but realized his arms and legs were already restrained.  Suddenly an unfamiliar sound was heard, a buzzing. Before he could say anything a huge rubber gag of some type was shoved into his protesting mouth.  “This is more permanent than the cream I used on your body, but I think your ready for the haircut I feel best suited to your hair loss. A real full on case of male pattern baldness. Known as a number 7 on the Norwood Scale. We’re going to look like twins when I’ve finished with making you bald.”  Tears started to form in Casey’s eyes as he felt the needle on the top of his head. “This will teach you to be so full of your self son. The fact is, your not going bald at all. I’ve created all that has happened to you. Since you gave me such a hard time about my baldness, I think it’s only fitting you get to experience real male pattern baldness. And as an added bonus, your looking even older than my 30 years. I think we can edge you up a few more years, and maybe increase that jolly belly.”  Casey wished he’d never come into this barbershop, but it was all too late. Even though this barber was changing him he had a strong desire to be with him, trust him. But as the needle killed off more of his hair he felt at odds with himself. This wasn’t what he wanted, or was it. Slowly the electrolysis needle was removing the front hairline, but at the same time he was shocked to see his now hairless cock, fully erect.  “Good to see your starting to enjoy this slave! Wait till you feel the smoothness of having no hair on top, and never having to worry about shaving because I know you don’t like shaving. Although I know you enjoy me shaving you with the straight razor so I’ve got that great beard to keep in order.” Adrian laughed as he widened the area of hair removal. Casey looked at the new him in the mirror. He could feel the needle at the back of his head, creating a large dip in baldness. What would he tell his friends?  He didn’t know it then but he wouldn’t be seeing his friends again.  “Hmm! This is a great look for you slave, I think we might let the sides grow and get you looking like a real geezer. But I think you need some piercings when I’ve finished here, so you’ll really look like my twin brother.” Adrian’s laugh was starting to sound sinister. Casey couldn’t believe his ears. He wasn’t up to anymore needles.  Still the electrolysis needle kept buzzing, removing the hair, root and all, and Casey could feel every prick of the needle.

[johnsspacesuittight]

A lil unfinished SAF fic

Hi Spies Are Forever fandom, here’s a little Curt x Owen fic I never really finished, but I kind of like it so I thought I may as well share what I have

__________

Agents Carvour and Mega

Banquet for the American Republican Party

Manhattan, New York 1954

Curt glared at Cynthia annoyed as her assistant came by with his suit hanging it on the door inside his hotel room. "Why do I even have to be here? I have more important things to do than spend my evening dancing and parading around here." He said pulling back a few strands of dark hair with his free hand. The other was hand-cuffed to the heater on the wall beside him.

"MI6 will be there tonight Mega, and they will expect my best agent to be there. Especially since they are bringing that bastard Owen Carvour." Cynthia said hinting for her assistant, Susan, to take the suit over to Curt. "Besides, there is a lot of important people there tonight, you never know when you might need a good agent. So behave, will you Mega?" She commanded rather than asked giving him a glare.

Rolling his eyes Curt gestured to the handcuffs that tied him up and with an annoyed groan Cynthia ordered Susan to take it off him. Rubbing his wrist with an annoyed expression Curt accepted the suit Susan was handing him. "Now if you'll leave me alone to get dressed." Curt suggested beginning to shove the two out of his hotel room.

"If you dare even think of climbing out the window Curt I swear-" Cynthia didn't even get to finish her sentence before he had slammed the door in her face and locked it behind them. Knowing he was well alone Curt pulled the t-shirt he was wearing over his head and easily exchanged it for the white dress shirt belonging to the suit Cynthia had got him.

The banquet was starting in an hour and Cynthia had just managed to drag him down there threatening to fire him if he didn't come. When he had then still refused to join her for the banquet she had locked him to the heater to stop him from escaping and taken his own gun, to which Curt had finally given in. Figuring it wasn't worth loosing his life over a boring banquet, although he might just die of boredom from it anyway.

Parties like that really wasn't Curt's favourite thing in the world. He was way too impatient to manage just wandering around and talking to people that you actually hated but had to pretend that you liked because it could cause a civil war or even a world war if you didn't. Curt preferred dangerous situations that gave him an adrenaline rush, which was why he was an agent for the government in the first place.

Only about fifteen minutes later Curt was all dressed up in the suit which consisted of a black bow tie, a white jacket and his usual black shoes that Barb had given him three months back. Curt had only worked for the American secret service for two years, but had quickly become their best agent, a grand scale professional who could compete for the title of the world's greatest spy. One of the only few standing in the way of that was MI6's Owen Carvour. Whom Curt had yet not met, he had only heard the rumours.

With his hair as styled as the rest of him and another quick glance in the mirror Curt decided he looked good enough and opened the door to walk out and down to the ground floor where the ballroom was, and the banquet was to be held. If it hadn't been for his quick reflexes Curt would have walked straight into the tiny frame just about to knock on his door. Curt stopped in his tracks.

"Barb!" He said surprised at seeing the younger woman all dressed up like this. She was wearing a long ball gown in blue, and her usually terrible blonde haircut was pulled back into a slightly less terrible hairstyle. "You look nice." He complimented, even surprised himself that those words came out his mouth while talking to her.

Her cheeks flushed a deep red and Curt cursed on the inside knowing complimenting her wasn't going to help. "Curt, I -we were looking for you." She stuttered slightly, smiling shyly. "You look nice too." She then added, realising she hadn't given a response to his compliment.

"Thanks Barb, you ready to head down?" He then asked and she nodded, doing her best to keep up with him as he begun walking down the hall. She was quite a small woman and it wasn't weird that she had trouble keeping up with him. They reached the end of the hall in a minute and took the elevator down to the ground floor from there.

Entering the ground floor of the building was a mess. People were everywhere, most of them more important than Curt would ever be. Leaders of governments, agencies and parties, people that could in fact end up creating a world war if they got of on the wrong foot. Both Curt and Barb discovered Cynthia at the same time, and with a much lesser tempo then a few minutes before, they headed over to her.

"Ah Agent Mega, Agent Lavernor, welcome. Barbara I want you to meet someone, this is Aron Marco who works for NASA." And as Barb was thrust into an excited conversation with the man with glasses Curt headed away from the scene. He gazed around, trying to find the bar but before he had the chance a voice behind him spoke. "Looking for the bar as well?" The voice carried a strong British accent and an obvious charm to it, and as Curt turned around, coming face to face with the man who had spoken he understood why. With dark slicked back hair and a face that seemed to carry a constant side smirk the man was just of Curt's taste. Dark mysterious eyes that he could already tell held much history. He was taller than Curt and carrying his dark grey suit with great elegance.

The man's smile widened just a little as their gaze's met, maybe almost in recognition. "Ahh, amusing that I was to just bump into someone like you." He said, then offering Curt his hand. "I am Owen Carvour, also known as your greatest competition Mr. Mega." He smirked charmingly as Curt took his hand and shook it. The two paused for a moment their gazes reading into each other, and Curt almost forgot that his hand was still gripping into the others. In a swift movement he let the other's hand fall and turned his gaze somewhere else, pretending to still be looking for the bar.

Not really meaning to Curt discovered the bar and met eyes with Owen for a second nodding to the bar behind him. Owen smirked turning around to see it for himself then he looked back at Curt and offered him his hand again. For a moment Curt hesitated fearing that someone in the room might notice, but upon seeing that everyone there seemed quite busy with their own things he laid his own hand into the others.

Owen led him across the room to the bar, with their hands well hidden between them. Owen sat down at the bar first, catching the attention of the bartender. Their hands had already then let go of each other. "Two vodka martinis for me and the gentleman." Owen ordered as Curt elegantly slid into the barstool beside him.

The bartender nodded and went to work, paying no attention to the two anymore. "So you're Owen Carvour huh?" Curt questioned looking him up and down. "I expected someone greater looking I must admit." He added and Owen turned his head just a bit with an amused and just as charming as before smirk.

"What am I not good enough for you?" He questioned raising his eyebrows expectantly. Curt really expected the great Owen Carvour to be even more professional looking, this man wasn't bad looking, he just didn't look like as much of "the world's greatest spy" as Curt would've thought. Although Curt wasn't exactly sure what he had expected.

"Oh I didn't say that, in fact you are just my type." Curt smirked bobbing his head just slightly closer to Owen who's smirk was just as evident. Just a second later both had a drink before them and had their attention turned away from one another. Curt had picked up his glass and was spinning it slightly in his hand, the ice and glass hitting with each other in clinking noises. Owen had picked his up and seemed to be examining it for a moment before he turned to Curt, his glass still raised.

"I propose a toast." He said, turning Curt's head as well so that their eyes met once again. Curt frowned slightly at this idea, not knowing exactly what they were supposed to toast for. This wasn't much of a special celebration exactly, for the two of them to meet. "To what?" Curt questioned scrunching his eyebrows slightly together.

"To the world's greatest spies." Owen smirked and Curt let out a laugh, lifting his glass up to Owen's and letting them clink together. "To the world's greatest spies." He repeated and then both took a nice big sip of their vodka. Curt looked at Owen as he sat down his drink and ran a hand through his slick dark hair pulling it back. He was about to speak up again, but he didn't have the chance because they were abruptly interrupted.

"Agent Mega, you've met Agent Carvour." Cynthia's voice rung behind them and Owen spun around swiftly practically leaping off his chair to greet her as a real gentleman. He took her hand and leant in close kissing her softly on the cheek.

"Cynthia," He said and Curt noticed how his accent made her name sound almost delicate which wasn't something he was used to thinking about her. "Always a pleasure." He smirked and to Curt's surprise Cynthia looked actually flushed at this greeting. Which he had in fact never seen before either. Maybe Owen was in fact as charming to women as he appeared to Curt.

That was when Curt noticed the man that had arrived with her. He recognised him immediately from the organisation's files. He was the leader of MI6 and therefore also Owen's boss. "Yes, it's been quite the pleasure in fact." Curt responded to Cynthia's previous comment and couldn't help but notice the widening smirk on Owen's face as he said this.

"Well, boys," Cynthia began pausing to straighten her dress. "Andrew here and I have been discussing recent happenings and come to discover you two are working on the same leads. And as this is international business we thought it would be a good idea for the two of you to work together on the next mission." She explained and Curt could feel Owen's eyes on him and already knew him well enough to know the smirk on his face.

"That sounds like a marvellous idea Cynthia, I'm sure Curt and I will quite enjoy working together." Owen said, Curt finally looking at him again instead at Cynthia. "Or what do you think chap?" Owen then added, hitting Curt swiftly but not too hard on the chest. Curt nodded in agreement which seemed to make Cynthia quite happy. She exchanged a glance with Andrew before nodding.

"Well good, now if I may borrow Curt for a minutes there are a few people I need to introduce my best agent to." Cynthia then said taking a hold of Curt and pulling him away from both the leader of the MI6 and it's best agent. She pulled him along to some important world leaders that he didn't pay attention to, not because he was bored but because he was too busy staring at Owen from across the room. The other seemed to be playing it cooler than he was, chatting to a few people and dancing with beautiful women in long gowns. Only when he did his eyes stayed with Curt every time they had the chance. The small glances and smiles Owen sent him from across the room as he too chatted and danced around were driving him mad.

Curt had always known he wasn't exactly like everyone else, that women weren't so much his area as everyone seemed to think. He respected women and liked their company but that was all. Men on the other hand, that was a little more complicated. Now Curt knew it was wrong and every piece of society told him no, but Owen wasn't the first he'd met that he had taken interest in or who had taken interest in him. Yet Owen for sure was the most intriguing out of those he had met. First of all he was a spy, he recognised Curt's lifestyle and the way he lived. If anything Curt felt it was perfect because they were both spies and now they were even working together. If fate wasn't trying to cook something up between them Curt didn't know what was happening.

"Curt." Barb snapped a finger in front of his face, catching his attention again. He had switched Cynthia out with her about an hour ago and had been dancing and chatting with her for a while just because he had nothing else to do, and because Owen seemed so busy with his own things. "What were you thinking about?" Barb questioned and Curt just shrugged.

"Just a mission Cynthia was talking about earlier. I'll be working with Agent Carvour from MI6." Curt made sure his way of addressing Owen made it seem as though he thought of the other agent purely professionally, because there wasn't supposed to be any other way for him to think about Owen.

"Oh yes, Owen." Barb commented acknowledging that she knew of him, maybe even personally. Though Curt took noticed that she didn't speak of him like others seemed to do. Even when Cynthia had been calling him a bastard earlier it had been with admiration, Barb spoke of him as if he didn't matter to her at all. No admiration in her voice, her eyes didn't light up she didn't seem to be interested, at all even though she sounded as though she knew him, which Curt found interesting.

He was about to say something more when he looked over to the spot Owen had previously been in and not seeing him there. Almost in distress Curt glanced hastily around although trying to make it seem as though he was just looking casually around. When he didn't see Owen anywhere else in the room he went over all the possibilities for where he could have gone and settled for the most likely to be the toilet. "Excuse me for a moment Barb." He said quickly as he begun moving through the crowd trying to not interfere with anything.

When he arrived at the toilets he paused for a moment outside realising he really didn't have any good reason to be in there. He could just wait outside to see if Owen was in there, but then decided he would go in. Just in case it was empty in there other than Owen and he could do what he had wanted to for an hour and a half.

Just as he came through the door of the men's bathroom, hands grabbed his shirt collar and pushed him towards an open stall. Before he even had the chance to process what was happening Owen's lips were on his only moments before they entered the stall which he quickly shut behind them, still kissing Owen. "You're as smart as I thought." He said breaking apart from Curt for a moment and smirking slightly at him with those shining dark brown eyes. Then Owen was kissing him again and Curt let his arms join too placing them around Owen's neck pulling him even closer to himself.

Curt had been with men before, though never for more than a night never for more than a short amount of time. He had never got to know them or developed real feelings for them but Owen was already so different, for Curt knew he already had feelings for him. He had only known Owen for a few hours, and he didn't know much about him, but Curt could already tell Owen understood him in a way no one else could.

"We should get out of here." Curt breathed letting go of Owen for a second to look him in the eyes and speak to him. The other's eyes sparked with curiosity at this comment and stopped for a second to push back his dark hair, which Curt found way too attractive.

"Are you sure?" Owen questioned keeping his voice low incase someone was in the bathroom or was about to enter it. "Do you want to do this?" He said putting his arms around Curt's neck and running them down the back of his head and through his hair.

"I want you." Curt whispered kissing Owen again tenderly. The other smirked, before nodding and backing out from the stall letting it close behind him. Then Curt heard him going over to the sink, washing his hands as if he had just been to the toilet and then his steps across the floor leaving. Then Curt did the same. Exited the bathroom stall and then the bathroom.

He met Owen right outside, waiting by the door beside the bathroom, one that led out into an empty lobby. Owen's smirk was apparent, and Curt was itching to kiss him again right then and there, but knew the better of it. Owen nodded at him professionally, and opened the door, holding it open for him. Curt walked outside, and Owen followed suit, letting the door slide shut behind them. The moment it closed Curt kissed Owen again, having already checked to see that no one was around. He could feel Owen's constant smirk still on his lips as he kissed him back, pushing him up against a wall behind them.

Owen then pushed back a little. "My room," pecking him in between sentences. "Or yours." He smirked, his arm up against Curt's throat as if they were in a fight, and not in the middle of making out with one another.

"Mine is just a few floors up." Curt grinned pushing away his now quite messy dark hair. Owen grinned too and nodded, taking his hand and pulling him towards the elevator. The room was still empty, and the moment Curt had pushed the button for the floor they were going to he begun kissing Owen again. Not roughly and hungrily anymore, just body against body close, lips softly touching in between. When the elevator opened the two stood a feet apart, with arms crossed, but the floor was just as empty as the rest.

Curt took the lead, heading for his room, and Owen followed closely, Curt could almost feel his breath on the back of his neck, but it wasn't an unpleasant thing. When they finally reached his room, Curt put the key in the hole and swung the door open, pulling Owen in after him by his collar. Owen closed the door, and locked it, before pushing Curt up against it while freeing himself from his jacket at the same time. Then he begun tugging at Curt's jacket, but Curt had other plans, pushing instead Owen, while still kissing him, towards the large bed.

....discontinued

[kwanisms]

Personal Trainer - lhs

⤑ genre: smut/ personal trainer!au ⤑ pairing: Hoseok x Reader ⤑ warning: face fucking, slight?? degradation, some overstim, sir kink ⤑ summary: when your best friend begs you to go to the gym with her, you’re convinced she’s trying to set you up with her personal trainer and after seeing him, you might just be okay with that. ⤑ word count: 7.6k

a/n: i can’t believe it’s been so long since i posted this piece! i decided to revamp my blog and my openings got a huge makeover. all oneshots and drabbles now have title cards! anyway, thank you all for the attention you’ve shown this piece and in light of recent events, i’m reblogging this to celebrate the good news about our Wonho! ~K

It was a well known fact you detested the gym. You hated the wandering eyes of the overly buff wannabe bodybuilders who clearly didn’t need to be there but instead were hoping to pick up women with their overcompensation. You hated the judging stares you received when you stopped running as if everyone else deemed it too soon for you to quit. Of course, you could be entirely wrong and they probably weren’t thinking about you at all. 

Still, you disliked the dirty looks girls gave you when you walked a little too close to their boyfriends as if you were going to snatch them and run; no one wants your poodle, honey, you thought as a girl with her long blonde hair pulled into a tight ponytail stood protectively in front of her boyfriend with his poofy and curly locks, sending a menacing glare your way. So it came as no shock that you refused to accompany your best friend, Emily, to the private gym at the country club her family belonged to.

You found yourself at one of the loudest and most popular clubs Friday night listening to her pleas as you tried to enjoy yourself and let loose after a taxing work week.“Please!! I could really use the encouragement and you could use the workout,” she said, giving you a once over. “Wow, thanks Emily, that wasn’t contumelious or anything,” you say, rolling your eyes. 

“Oh come on, (Y/N). You would be so much hotter than you are now if you had a killer body!” she said stirring her drink before raising it to her lips.”And stop using obscure words like some vocabulary hipster. I’m not best friends with a dictionary. Well,” she paused before her eyes turned back to you, a smirk present on her face. “Unless you count as one.” You smacked her arm, bursting into giggles as the music with loud pulsing bass swirled around you.

Emily had always been a very outspoken, very honest, and extremely blunt. It was never her intentions to hurt someone’s feelings, but more times than naught that was the result. You had been friends since you could walk. You knew each other better than anyone. You downed the rest of your drink and stood to make your way over to the bar and order another, Emily’s words still fresh in your mind. Returning to.your table, drink in hand, the words that next came out of your best friend’s mouth made it all too clear why she wanted you at the gym.

“Please just come with me! The new personal trainer is really hot!” Ahhh, there it was. You smirked as she revealed her true intentions to you. “You just want me to be your wingman, don’t you?!” you feigned shock, lacing your voice with mock betrayal. “Actually, he’s more your type than mine,” Emily said, playing with a stand of her hair absentmindedly. This piqued your interest and you sighed. It couldn’t hurt to go and have a look, right? “Fiiiiine,” you say, drawing out the vowel and your best friend smiled half in glee, half in triumph and you almost regretted your submission. 

Almost.

The next day, dressed in some simple black leggings, your sports bra, an oversized long sleeve shirt, and your sneakers, you were in Emily’s car and ready to get this over with. The night before, still fresh in your mind, you mentally prepared yourself to deal with Emily’s whining about how hungover she was when she had all of 3 drinks. She pulled into a parking spot near the entrance and the two of you got out. 

You looked up at the natural stone façade of the massive complex, slinging your gym bag over your shoulder. The grounds were huge, a massive golf course spanning the sprawling hills outside. The drive up to the building was a long path hidden behind a huge line of trees, as if this place was hidden inside some dense forest when really, it was just inside a huge, heavily wooded city park. The cars parked in the perfectly painted spaces were all models you would never be able to afford with your measly salary as a bank manager.

Ferrari, Lamborghini, and BMWs. Think of any fancy car and they were all there. You had an intrusive thought of a middle aged woman driving her BMW to the grocery store to buy milk and tried to keep a giggle inside. You walked through the massive double doors with wrought iron and glass framed by thick, heavy black wood. Inside was just was grand as the outside with vaulted ceilings, polished marble floors, and dark wood paneling on the walls. The place screamed high class and reeked of old money. 

A massive crystal chandelier hung in the waiting area that was much larger than your one bedroom apartment. The marble on the floors was mirrored in the huge receptionist counter and a small, a girl in her late teens sat behind it. The patrons inside a small cafe area sat around small round glass top bistro style tables sipping on their caramel machiafrappuchinos or whatever the latest coffee trend was and you swore they looked at you with disdain when you passed by, as if you were some dirty thing hellbent on mucking up their precious club. Emily approached the reception desk to sign in and smiled at the teen behind the counter.

“I’ve brought a guest today,” she said sweetly. The receptionist sighed as if Emily was demanding she perform like a monkey for her, pulled out a clipboard with a sign in sheet for guests and jabbed it out at you. Taking the clipboard, you signed in quickly, handed it back, and then proceeded to follow Emily through the massive club to the gym. Inside it was moderately sized, filled with various workout equipment. 

On one end was a wall of mirrors with racks of free weights standing in front of them. To one side behind the treadmills were floor to ceiling windows that gave a view of the vast golf course you had seen from the parking lot. Several patrons were enjoying a day of golf on this mild autumn day. On the wall opposite the windows were several doors leading into smaller rooms, each door with a little plaque next to it giving insight as to what was inside.

There were only 4 people in the gym; a middle aged woman, a young man, Emily, and yourself. The woman sported a very blunt, black bob haircut that barely reached past her chin, strands of grey littered her pin straight locks. She moved at a steady pace on one of the ellipticals, her eyes trained on the television screen in front of her, old reruns of Grey’s Anatomy or some other soap opera playing. The only man in the room sat by one of the doors into a private room, his eyes glued to his phone. He had probably the most incredible body you’d had ever seen. 

He was ripped. Arms, chest, thighs, calves, you name it, he had it. He wore black knee length basketball shorts over grey compression pants, a black compression shirt, and a black baseball cap. On the floor next to him was a grey duffle bag, a black semi transparent water bottle resting on top. Suddenly, you felt very self conscious of your body and tried to unsuccessfully hide behind your own gym bag.

Emily shook her head, her long black hair swaying and she marched up to the man. He looked up and your heart nearly stopped. He was so handsome. His eyes shone brightly and his face broke into the sweetest smile. He pocketed his phone as he stood up.

“Hi, Emily, right?” he asked extending his arm, offering one if his large hands. She smiled and nodded, shaking his hand. “This is my friend, (Y/N), she’ll be joining us today.” You stepped forward shyly as the man held his hand out and offered you a warm smile. You were painfully aware of how your heart was hammering in your chest, wondering if anyone else could hear it, because damn, it was loud in your ears. When you took his hand and shook it, there was no other way to describe it; your body ignited, as if you were the latest victim of spontaneous human combustion. 

His eyes locked with your own and suddenly you found it nearly impossible to form any coherent sentences. The intensity of his stare sent blood rushing to places you didn’t exactly want it to. Damn it, you were screwed. Instead you nodded politely and returned his smile. He dropped your hand, and your body whined at the loss of contact.

“A pleasure to meet you ladies, my name is Hoseok.” You made a mental note of how his name sounded. “The pleasure is ours, Hoseok,” Emily smiled, and when Hoseok leaned over to pick up his bag, she looked at you and mouthed the words “oh my god!” You gave her a stern look, mouthing back “stop it!” and dropped it when Hoseok stood straight again. 

He led the two of you into the private room he sat by, shutting the door behind you, making sure to hang the occupied sign in place. Inside the room was larger than you had anticipated. The floor was the same as outside in the main gym, that soft spongy material, there were medium blue mats hanging on the wall to the left of the door as you entered and they vaguely reminded you of the mats that hung in the gym in elementary school.  

In the far left corner of the room, next to a large mirror that took up the entire wall across from the door, was a simple door that you suspected was a closet holding various workout equipment. Hoseok dropped his bag in the corner, facing away from you but you could see his face in the reflection of the mirror. He removed his hat and his blonde hair fell, bangs falling into his eyes. You hadn’t noticed you had been staring until Emily cleared her throat. 

“(Y/N), you can put your bag over here,’ she said and you tie your gaze away from Hoseok’s reflection but you could have sworn his eyes met yours briefly before you turned away and set your bag next to Emily’s, bending to grab your own water bottle. Emily knelt down, pretending to busy herself with something in her bag. “Don’t get caught staring,” she whispered so low you almost didn’t hear her.

Clearing your throat with a grunt, you stood straight and turned around to find Hoseok had already turned to face you. His eyes were trained on you, the ends of his mouth curled up as if he was trying to fight a smile. Emily followed you to the center of the room as she pulled all her hair up into a bun on top of her head. Hoseok tore his gaze away and moved to open the closet, retrieving three yoga mats. You glared at Emily and she smiled sheepishly at you. Yoga had not been part of the agreement. 

You had virtually no balance whatsoever and now you were expected to contort your body while maintaining your balance in front of this incredibly handsome stranger. No way. Not happening. Hoseok motioned for the two of you to join him and gestured at the mats. “Have a seat.” You followed Emily, who sat without hesitation. She grinned broadly as Hoseok sat on the mat in front of you and led you through a series of light stretches, warming you up before the workout began.

Hoseok had you remove your shoes and socks and stand on the mats, showing you the first yoga pose. It was relatively simple enough. You had to stand still. You could do that. “Press your toes into the mat and bring your shoulders back further,” Hoseok said softly behind you, his hands resting gently on your shoulders and he lightly pulled signaling you to stand up straight. You complied, your skin burning under his touch and you were certain he could tell. If the smile on his face wasn’t a dead giveaway, then the way one of his hands lingered on your shoulder after he had already corrected your posture definitely should have given him away. 

The next pose had you standing, feet wide apart, arms open, and you had to admit you felt like a real idiot. Hoseok attended to Emily, correcting her feet before focusing his attention on you. He complimented your feet being in the right position but he gently grasped your hips to move them in the right position and you couldn’t hide the involuntary gasp that left your mouth when his large hands touched you. 

He either didn’t notice, or he didn’t choose to notice but instead remained professional as he continued to correct your position. When he pulled away and circled around you to make sure you were doing the pose right he stopped in front of you and you dared not look up at him. This man was driving you crazy.

Hoseok moved into the next pose that had you sitting on the floor, legs together in front of you, and you had to bend your body in half. Emily, being the flexible former cheerleader, had no problems. You however had great difficulty. You were not on the cheerleading squad in high school, instead opting to focus more on your studies. Hoseok knelt behind you, “may I?” he asked and you nodded, trying to hide the blush that crept across your face. 

His hands were gentle as he slowly pushed you into position, stopping every so often to make sure it wasn’t too much. One hand on between your shoulder blades, the other at the small of your back. “If it’s too much, let me know. I don’t want to overwork you,” he said softly, his voice caring and sweet, mimicking the gentleness of his hands. You winced, feeling a burn in your hamstrings you’ve never felt before.

“Are you alright?” he asked, leaning in closer, his breath fanning the back of your neck. You could smell his cologne. A light airy scent that on it’s own wouldn’t affect you but mixed with another heavier scent, possibly arousal, you felt dizzy. You nodded quickly hoping it would end soon. Hoseok smiled and patted your back. “Alright, you can sit up now,” he said, his hands falling from your back as he stood and returned to the front of the room. He put his shoes and socks back on, signaling the yoga session was over. 

You and Emily also replaced your footwear before standing and allowing Hoseok to roll up the yoga mats, returning them to the small closet. You took the reprieve to down some water before moving on to the next part. The next part was cardio. You left the small room and back out into the now empty gym. He motioned for you to join him at two of the treadmills. 

He set the workout for you and let you get into position. You pulled your earbuds up into your ears, pressing play on your phone before starting off at a mild walking pace. After a couple moments, the walking pace sped up into a light run. You tried to focus on anything that wasn’t Hoseok’s face, ultimately focusing your eyes on one of the television screens.

You could see Hoseok watching you and Emily carefully out of the corner of your eye. His gaze lingered on you longer than you thought was necessary but eventually he tore his gaze away. He checked his watch as your pace slowed to a brisk walking pace and you tried to catch your breath. You continued, following the preset workout, keeping your eyes ahead but glancing slyly at Hoseok. 

Finally the treadmill slowed to a stop and you worked to catch your breath, taking huge gulps of water in between breaths. Emily gave you a big cheeky grin as Hoseok led you the rack with the free weights. “See? This isn’t so bad,” she said as she picked up her water and downed a few gulps.

Maybe she was fine, but your body was screaming. You were so incredibly turned on by this man who had been touching you, albeit innocently, all morning. You felt as if your body would explode if you didn’t find release soon. Hoseok grabbed two sets of hand weights that were on the smaller side and showed you both the next part. You tried your best to mimic him, wanting to avoid as much skin contact his correcting would bring. 

You did well up until the start of your third repetition. “You need to stand up straight, (Y/N),” Hoseok said chuckling and pressing his hand to the small of your back, his touch sending shivers down your spine. You visibly shuddered and immediately felt mortified. Hoseok said nothing, clearly choosing to ignore it because there was no way he didn’t notice. You finished your workout with the weights and moved on to squats.

Hoseok handed Emily a medium sized kettlebell and she set off, needing no correction. When your turn came, Hoseok showed you how to stand and gave you advice on how to keep your balance while squatting. “Keep your back straight, lower with your legs and lift with your heels. Keep your heels planted. Try not to lift them,” he said with a kind smile and handed you the kettlebell. 

While you did your squats, Emily went to refill your and her water bottles. You lowered yourself down, feeling Hoseok’s gaze burning into the side of your face. “No, you’re going to hurt yourself if you keep doing that,” he said and moved behind you. He corrected your position and gently lowered you, his hands guiding your body and you struggled to breathe evenly, letting out shaky breaths. Hoseok noticed because he ended your set early and let Emily finish hers when she returned. Your face set ablaze from embarrassment, Hoseok led the two of you back to the private room.

The next exercise required regular mats that he pulled from the wall and set down. Hoseok picked up two medicine balls and handed them to you and Emily. He sat between the two of you, demonstrating a movement called a Russian twist with your medicine ball. You watched in awe, your eyes trailing up his arms, across his chest, and down his stomach to his thighs as he twist back and forth, showing you exactly what to do. 

He handed your ball back and immediately Emily started, mirroring his demonstration perfectly. You tried to get into the right position but found you could not keep your balance for more than a few seconds. Futilely, you keep trying, eager to show you could do it, but ultimately failing with a loud sigh. Hoseok knelt down next to you and reached out. 

With one hand on the middle of your back, he encouraged you to try again and you did, his hand supporting your back and allowing you to execute a couple twists. You could see Emily’s smirk out of the corner of your eye but you tried your best to ignore her and the obvious heat emanating from his hand and spreading throughout your body, a flush forming on your face. You hoped Hoseok would think the pink tinge to your cheeks was from your exertion and not the fact that he was touching you. After a few more reps, the Russian twist part was done. Emily stood closely as Hoseok returned the mat to the wall, Velcro to Velcro.

“I think he’s noticed how badly you want him,” she whispered so softly only you could hear yet you still shot her a warning glare. “You want him too, I know you do,” she added and pulled away, smiling brightly as if nothing happened the moment Hoseok turned toward the pair of you. There was a knock on the door and Hoseok called out a “yes?” 

The receptionist opened the door, an apologetic look on her face. “I’m sorry to interrupt, but your car is being towed, miss,” she said looking at Emily who immediately yelled out a “what?!” “I tried to stop them but something about unpaid tickets and parking in a handicapped spot.” Emily cursed softly as she rushed out of the room, grabbing her bag and let the door shut behind her, not even sparing you a second glance.

Suddenly you were aware of how small the room was, Hoseok standing behind you. You slowly turned to him to find his eyes were already trained on you. “So, uh, do we just wait for her?” you ask softly, not sure if she was going to return. Hoseok said nothing, eyes glued on your face, his expression unreadable. You glanced around nervously, fidgeting with the hem of your shirt. 

You swayed awkwardly, trying to form a sentence. “Should I just go?” you asked and again were met with silence. You took that as a sign and moved to pack up your belongings. As you bent over, a soft voice called out “don’t,” and you turned to look at Hoseok. He was leaning against the mirror, arms crossed over his chest. “Don’t what?” you asked, your voice small. “Don’t bend over like that,” he said, his voice deeper than before. 

His tone was commanding, his eyes dark as his stare bore through you. When you didn’t speak, he pushed off the wall, making his way slowly towards you. “If you bend over like that again, I won’t be able to stop myself.” His gaze was almost predatory as he stalked forward, the intensity of it, sent heat rushing to your core.

“What?” you asked, your voice barely above a whisper. Hoseok’s lips twitched as a smirk appeared. “You think I didn’t notice? How often your eyes wandered? How your body reacted every time I touched you? How your breath caught in your throat? I’m not blind, sweetheart, and you’re not very subtle.” The amused hint to his voice caught your attention and immediately, heat spreading across your face. He slowly backed you into the wall, reaching out to rest his hands on each side of your head and leaning into you. You didn’t dare look up to meet his eyes.

“I can tell you want me,” his voice was a deadly whisper and still you refuse to meet his gaze, afraid of what might happen if you did. “Look at me at me,” he commanded and you found yourself submit to him, obedient to his words. The moment your eyes met his, your lips parted as a soft whimper left your throat. The look on his face had you melting immediately. The darkness in his eyes hooded with what you could only assume was lust sent shivers down your spine, your core tightening with want, no… with need. 

Hoseok searched your gaze, no doubt looking for any sign of discomfort before he spoke. “If you want me to stop,” his hand left the wall and gently, caressed the side of your neck as he made his way down your side, stopping at your hip. “Tell me and I will.” You sighed as his fingers slipped under the hem of your shirt, rubbing light circles against the skin of your side.

You didn’t want him to stop so you shook your head and said in a whisper, “don’t stop.” Expecting him to crash his lips to yours, you braced for impact but it never came, instead his lips pressed softly against your cheek, slowly making their way toward your lips in light, chaste kisses before he paused, lips centimeters from yours. He was giving you one last chance to change your mind. 

Any inhibitions you might have had before were now long gone with his skin against yours. You wasted no time, uncertain if Emily would return, and closed the distance, placing a quick peck. You were merely testing, not sure of how to progress. Hoseok’s hand moved to the back of your neck and pulled you back into him, deepening the kiss. Your hands resting on his sides, you moved your lips against his. It was a slow sensual kiss. The hand that wasn’t on your neck, was roaming, examining your body. He pressed his body into yours, pushing you against the wall before he rolled his hips into yours and you gasped.

He took that opportunity to slip his tongue past your parted lips and explore. Your hands moved over him with as much enthusiasm as he showed and you settled for resting them on his broad shoulders. Hoseok’s hand snaked down to your thigh and lifted, wrapping it around his hip as he pushed against you again, eliciting a moan from you. 

He smiled into the kiss and rocked his hips against yours again, enjoying the sounds of your moans, knowing it was all because of him. It fueled his ego and his lips left yours to pass over your cheek until he reached your neck and started to nip at the sensitive skin just below your ear. A quiet whimper escaped you as Hoseok soothed over the irritated skin with his tongue before he sucked which would leave a purplish bruise the next day. His hand that wasn’t holding your hip braced against the wall as he continued you grind into you and tease your neck. You moved your hips to match his rhythm and moaned loudly at the sensation, leaning your head back.

Hoseok bit harshly where your shoulder and neck met and you whined. “You have to be quiet, sweetheart. Unless you want everyone to know what a needy slut you are,” he hissed in your ear. Your core tightened at his words, walls clenching around nothing. He pulled away, inspecting your face to see if he hadn’t crossed a line but you encouraged him to continue. He let your leg drop before grabbing you by the wrist and leading you out of the private room, leaving all your stuff behind. 

He dragged you through the empty gym to the locker room. Your body burned with anticipation as Hoseok pulled you into one of the showers and shut the curtain before pouncing on you, meeting your lips hungrily. He pulled the hem of your shirt up above your breasts before pulling away and tearing the offending top off, discarding it somewhere on the floor of the shower before latching his lips to yours again. He cupped your cheeks with his hands and backed you against the cool tile.

Your fingers locked in his hair, willing him closer though the was no more empty space between you. Hoseok’s hand moved over your chest, lightly grasping your breast, causing you to groan and lean into his touch. He squeezed and caught your lower lip between his teeth. You suppressed a moan and tugged on his locks, a soft groan rising up from his throat. He pulled back and removed his own shirt, adding it to the ever growing pile of clothes. 

You released your grip on his hair and allowed your hands to wander, smoothing over his muscles, your eyes following every curve. Hoseok slipped his hand under your sports bra and your gasped at the feeling of his warm palm against your sensitive nipple. He rocked more forcefully against your hips, his erection digging into your pelvis.

“This needs to come off,” he said in a deep husky tone that dripped with lust and conveyed his desire for you. He pulled at the waistband of your leggings. “May I?” he asked and you nodded slowly, watching as he tucked his thumbs under the elastic and slid your leggings down to your ankles. His eyes traveled slowly up your body, stopping momentarily at your black lace panties, before continuing up to lock your eyes in an intense heated gaze. As he watched your chest rising and falling due to your labored breaths, Hoseok stood again before learning into you, pressing a kiss to your lips, positioning his thigh between your legs, and pushed up against your sex.

A soft cry skipped past your lips at the contact and you shivered. Hoseok smirked, resting his hands on your hip and pushed you down on him, guiding your hips to rock against his muscular thigh. You gasped, closing your eyes and losing yourself to the feeling. Hoseok chuckled above you and you snapped your eyes open. “Look at you,” he said, his voice laced with amusement. 

“Getting yourself off on my thigh. Are you that desperate?” he asked, cocking his head to the side. His hands left your hips and reached up to push your bra up, exposing your breasts. You flushed red and looked away from his gaze. His chuckled reverberated off the tile and he pulled his thigh away.

“Which would you rather have, sweetheart; my thigh or my cock?” his eyes had a mischievous glint in his eyes. Your eyes flitted down toward the prominent bulge in his shorts. You reached a hand between you, palm resting against his erection. “You mean this cock?” you purred. Hoseok’s eyes fluttered shut as his lips parted, a soft moan fell from his open mouth. 

You relished in your power over him temporarily before he gripped your wrist tightly and his eyes snapped open, finding yours instantly. “When I’m done with you, you’ll be begging for it,” he hissed, taking both of your hands above your head and pinning them in one of his own hands before letting his free one slide down your body, stopping to punch one of your nipples between his thumb and forefinger. You whined and pushed your hips against his. Hoseok grinned and dipped his head to take the other sensitive bud in his mouth, toying it with his tongue while his hand on your breast kneaded it.

You lean your head back into the wall, letting out another moan, and winced when Hoseok bit down on your chest. “Shut up, or else everyone will hear what a whiny whore you are.” You pressed your thighs together at his words and Hoseok resumed his ministrations. He pulled back, capturing your lips in another hearted kiss, tongues dancing together. His hand left your chest and continued down your body until he cupped your heat. 

You held in a gasp as his fingers moved, pressing against your soaked panties, rolling in agonizingly slow waves. You whimpered, muffled by his lips, at his touch. “You’re soaked right through your pretty lace panties. Do you want me that badly, babygirl?” You rolled your hips against his hand, desperate for some friction. “Use your words,” Hoseok mused. “Yes. I want you,” you breathed. 

“Tsk, that won’t do. ‘Yes, I want you, sir.’ Say it again and say it right, sweetheart,” Hoseok corrected you. You moaned when his fingers pressed harder into your wet folds, still not giving you pressure where you wanted it the most. “Y-yes, I want you, sir,” you pleaded. Hoseok gave in and delved his hand into your panties, sliding a finger along your wetness.

His skin made contact with your clit and started rubbing slow circles against it. Your breathing came out shallow, your chest working overtime. Hoseok smiled against your skin, pressing his lips to the crook of your neck as he continued to tease you. “Please,” you gasped, trying to wriggle your wrists free. “Let me touch you, sir.” Hoseok contemplated giving in but decided against it. 

“You get to touch when you prove that you can be a good girl,” he smirked, letting his finger flitted over your entrance cause you to shudder. “Should I give you what you want? I don’t know if you deserve it.” You tried to rock your hips against his hand but he pulled back. “If you can’t even stay still, how can I trust you to keep your hands to yourself.”

You whined, pleading with your eyes. “I’m sorry, sir. I promise I’ll be good,” you mewled. Hoseok bit his lip, the corners curling up. “You promise? If you don’t follow through, if you break your promise, I’ll have no choice but to punish you, sweetheart,” he growled and your body shook with want. “I know, sir.” Hoseok’s hand was back in your panties, finger pressed to your clit again. You moaned, arching your back. He slipped a finger inside your wet pussy and slowly pumped the digit in and out of you, eyes on your face, watching your reaction. He added another finger, picking up the pace as he fucked you with his fingers, palm rubbing against your clit.

Your moans grew in volume, bouncing off the tile walls. Hoseok pulled his hand away before your orgasm could come to fruition and wrapped his fingers around your throat, gently, carefully cutting off your air supply. “Since you can’t keep quiet, I guess I’m going to have to fill that pretty mouth of yours.” A dark blush swept over your face at his words and he released his grip on your throat. “On your knees, now,” he commanded. You were surprised by how quickly you complied, sliding down the wall until your knees met the cold unforgiving floor. Hoseok rid himself of his shorts and compression pants, leaving him in only his boxer briefs. Your eyes trailed up and down his body, taking in every curve of his muscles.

“See something you like, sweetheart?” he asked bemused. You gulped as he returned to you, taking your chin in his hand and brushed his thumb over your swollen bottom lip. “Open your mouth,” he barked and you obeyed him, your core tightening as you watched him palm himself over his boxers. 

“You look so pretty on your knees in front of me, mouth open like the cockslut you are.” You refrained from moaning like you wanted to, certain he might not give you what you wanted. You watched Hoseok stroked himself over his underwear, watching your every move like a hawk. “Arms behind your back,” he said and again, you obeyed instantly. It was arousing how much control his words had.

You watched in awe as Hoseok slowly removed his underwear and his hard cock sprang free. You tried to hold back a low moan but with your mouth open, it met no resistance. Hoseok glanced up at you with a lopsided grin before he let his boxers drop to his ankles and stepping out of them. He stood before you, holding himself at the base of his member, tip leaking with pre-cum and you tried to hold back from flinging yourself at him. 

You wait for instruction which came swiftly. “Tongue out,” he said in a low voice. You surrendered to him and stuck your tongue out, his cock dangerously close to your mouth now. You inhaled deeply and slowly, Hoseok set the head of his dick on your tongue before moving slowly inside your mouth.

You moved to brace yourself against his thighs but he hissed “you don’t get to touch yet. Hands behind your back, sweetheart.” You clasped your hands together behind your back as Hoseok moved deeper into your mouth. He groaned at the sensation of your wet mouth around his throbbing member and pushed inside further still. 

You felt the tip of his cock nearing the back of your throat and tried to keep your breathing steady. He stilled inside you, letting you adjust to the intrusion, his hand brushing a few strands of your hair out of your face before gripping your locks. He slowly pulled out and gently thrust into your mouth, his cock barely hitting the back of your throat.

You fought against your gag reflex as he continued to thrust into your mouth. You tried to keep your jaw as relaxed as possible, timing your breaths. Hoseok thrust deeper into your mouth, now fully hitting the back of your throat, his hand in your hair holding you in place, another hand placed against the wall, bracing himself. Another hit to the back of your throat and you gagged again. 

The lewd sounds of his cock hitting the back of your throat repeatedly filled the locker room before he shoved in and stilled, his cock buried in your throat. You swallowed around them, the sensation sending shivers up Hoseok’s back, his head thrown back as he let out a loud moan.

You tried to hold out as long as you could, your breath slowly running out. Hoseok pulled back and you gasped trying to catch your breath, saliva running down your chin before Hoseok pressed the head of his cock to your lips. “You aren’t done,” he growled and thrust back in once you opened your mouth. 

Your tongue brushed against the vein that along the underside of his dick and he moaned again, ramming back into your mouth before pushing your head until you settled at the base of his cock, effectively cutting off your air supply again. You swallowed and Hoseok grunted, staying completely still. “Almost,” he said. Your lungs cried for air and as you tried pulling back to breathe, an impossible feat because of the strong grip he had on your hair, Hoseok let out a loud drawn out moan mixed with a slew of curses as he came, his hot release shooting down your throat.

Hoseok pulled out once he had finished, panting heavily while you coughed as air met your lungs again. You fell forward, hands moving to brace yourself against the cold floor. “Holy shit, that was amazing,” Hoseok said breathlessly. He knelt down next to you and wiped your drool of your chin before he pulled you up and moved you to the small seat inside the shower. 

Sitting you down on the edge, he pulled your panties off, discarding them and knelt between your thighs. “What are you doing?” you asked looking down at him. “Rewarding you,” he said with a mischievous grin before leaning forward and pressing light kisses to your knees. His lips trailed along the inside of your thigh, stopping to bite and suck purplish bruises in the sensitive flesh. Your hands moved to run your fingers through his hair and he pulled back.

“No touching, not yet,” he said and resumed his teasing before moving to the other thigh and repeating the same actions. You moaned when his lips ghosted over your wet sex and he smiled before pressing a kiss to your abdomen just under your belly button. “Please don’t tease me, sir,” you whimpered, not forgetting to call him by his preferred title. “I promise I’ll be good.” 

Hoseok chuckled lowly before throwing your left thigh over his shoulder and giving you a soft kitten lick. You tasted even better than you smelled and he leaned in for one more little lick before spreading your lips and focusing his attention at the small bundle of nerves. He wrapped his lips around it, the tip of his tongue flicking against it lightly and you let out a high pitched moan placing your hands palms flat on the seat on other side of you and leaned back against the tile. Hoseok alternated between licking and sucking on your clit while his free hand roamed, traveling up to your breast and cupped it, his fingers kneading into it. You whimpered while he continued, eating you out as if it was his last meal.

It wasn’t long before you felt the familiar coil inside your groin telling you that your orgasm was building. As if Hoseok knew by some miracle, his hand left your breast and moved down to ease two fingers inside of you, pumping at a steady rhythm. He pulled back, grinning up at you, your juices glistened on his chin. “You taste so good, sweetheart,” he said, his voice husky and you felt your core tighten at his praise. 

He returned to your clit, flattening his tongue as he licked harshly against it. He softly nibbled and you cried out. He added a third digit, moving faster as he repeatedly rammed them into you. Your hips bucked to meet his hand and another moan tore from your throat, which was now hoarse from his cock being so far down it before.

Hoseok used his shoulders to nudge your legs, silently asking you to spread them further and you did, allowing more access. “You should see how you look, babygirl. Legs spread wide for me. You’re such a good slut,” he said lips barely leaving your dripping heat. You could only moan in response. “God I can’t wait to be inside your tight pussy. You won’t remember your name when I’m done with you.” As you neared your high, you whined out a series of moans and sirs before you threw your head back and whimpered “I’m gonna cum.” 

Hoseok looked up at you, a smile present on his face again. “I don’t think so, sweetheart,” and he was gone. You groaned, angry at him for denying you your release before he was pulling you up, only to sit down and guide you to straddle him, your wet, quivering core above the head of his erect cock. His hands pushed your hips down as he slowly slid inside you until he bottomed out. You sat still for a moment, adjusting to his size, the stretch of him more than you had anticipated.

When the pain ebbed away, you rolled your hips against his and he let out a strained moan and grasped your ass in his hands, his fingers digging into the soft flesh as you slowly lifted off him and slid back down. “Fuck, baby, you’re so tight.” Hoseok said, his eyes screwing shut as you rode him. Your hands settled on his shoulders, bracing yourself as you continued to bounce on his dick. 

You felt one of his hands leave your ass only to deliver a sharp slap against your ass cheek and you gasped, the skin stinging where he had smacked you. He gently ran his hand over the spot, soothing it. He found it increasingly harder and harder to keep up the sir facade as you continued to ride him and take his cock so well. 

His eyes fell from your face, the pink tinge of your cheeks and your bottom lip pulled between your teeth as you concentrated, down to your breasts that bounced each time you fell back down on his length, and finally further down where we watched himself disappear inside you. His jaw opened in a silent moan and he couldn’t help but chuckle when you leaned forward, hiding your face in the crook of his neck. “I can’t,” you whispered and Hoseok didn’t need telling twice.

He gripped your hips on either side and held you in place while he thrusted up into you, the sound of skin slapping against skin echoed off the walls. Moan after moan fell from your mouth as his dick rubbed against a sensitive spot inside. Hoseok continued thrusting as deep as he could. One of your hands locked in his hair, the other rested against his thigh and you leaned back slightly while he rocked up into your tight pussy. Your eyes locked and he could see that you were close. This time, he wasn’t going to stop because he couldn’t hold back anymore.

His pace quickened as he chased his own high, but not before he snaked a hand between you and pressed his thumb into your clit, rubbing to the pace of his thrusts trying to time your climaxes. You threw your head back and moaned out “oh god, Hoseok,” just as he let a groan fall from his lips. 

“God you feel so good,” he grunted and moved the hand on your hip yo hook around your waist and pulled you closer, his face buried in the crook of your neck this time as he thrust harder and harder into you. He was close, but judging from the tightening of your pussy, your walls clenching around him, squeezing his cock so nicely, you were close to coming undone, too.

A few more thrusts up into you along with the circles he rubbed into your clit had you crying out “I’m gonna cum!” Hoseok smiled into your neck and whispered “come for me, sweetheart. Come on my cock.” His words were the final pushed you needed and you cried out, walls clenching him as your orgasm hit you. White blinded your vision, an intense heat spread throughout your body as Hoseok continued to thrust, helping you ride out your high before chasing his own and his hips slammed up into yours.

It wasn’t long after that he moaned, more of a whine, as he released his load inside you and continued thrusting until he slowly came to a stop, you still on his lap, face still hidden in your neck. You softly stroked his hair while you struggled to catch your breath. 

“That was incredible,” he finally managed to say, pulling back and looking up at you. You blushed slightly and cupped his face in your hands before pressing a gentle kiss to hips lips, one he returned eagerly. “So, you wanna get cleaned up and get some coffee after? I know this really good cafe.” he asked as you gently placed kisses all over his face. “It’s not the cafe here, right?” you asked in between kisses. Hoseok smiled up, his hands on the small of your back as you arched, pressing your chest into his. “No, it’s not. The coffee here sucks.”

a/n: Whew!! I finally did it! I finally posted this. It was something I had in my mind since those most recent photos of Wonho at the gym came out and I just…. hello, sir. I’m a huge hoe for Wonho and my love for him will probably never die since he’ll never let me just L I V E. LET ME LIVE WONHO. I hope you all enjoyed this! I had so much fun writing it. Let me know what you think! Feedback is always welcome! ~K♡

[sheepsandcattle]

Chapter 6

Sometimes Curly wishes the world would just slow down around him.

It’s been a year and a half since he moved away and he feels like he’s been far far away from home forever but like he’s been in his new home for no time at all. He measures time by his highs and his come-downs and (occasionally, when he opens his curtains or leaves his room in the daytime) the way the world looks outside.

It’s not intentional, and he checks back in when he remembers to, but it’s just a nasty habit he’s formed -- one of many nasty habits.

He doesn’t know how he’s still paying his bills but he is (just about) and he doesn’t know how he keeps managing to pull himself together before he sees his mum again but he does. Just about. He doesn’t really even know how he’s awake or even alive honestly, because he only seems to eat when he’s high and only sleeps when he’s facedown on the carpet or on someone’s lawn or in his own sick that one time (two times).

Some days he wakes up missing money he doesn’t remember spending, and others he wakes up and finds notes he doesn’t remember making. He goes to parties and is rarely sure that he leaves the same house he’d entered, or if he’s lost time again - stepped into a house, got wasted, closed his eyes, signed out, then signed back in again in a whole other location. Hours and sometimes days slip away from him.

The days get so bloody blurry and he only has a few fond memories (and some not so fond) to show for the last couple of months. He just feels a bit like he’s paralysed, trying his best to come to grips with what’s happening around him before it races right past, all blurred lights and high pitches.

Then it’s March. March is a new beginning.

“I know you.”

That solar eclipse comes to mind, the one he saw from Cornwall in ’99. The man reminds him of freckles, laugh lines and off-coloured roots. That kind of expression that, in the way it rests, could be a smile or a scowl simultaneously.

He can’t see any of that from his spot on the kitchen floor though, sat with Jules under the table, but he sees the back of the distressed denim jacket drowning the man’s short frame -- sees the words ‘HOAX’ printed on the back, and it brings him back to a party that is otherwise quite forgettable.

The man can’t hear him, not from down here, but something in his gut swears that his acknowledgment will pull some invisible tether in the stranger’s chest and have his body turning, his eyes meeting Curly’s across the room, dragging him over like some kind of Donnie Darko space-time continuum shit.

That doesn’t happen.

What happens is Curly winces when a needle slides beneath his skin, as another boy presses his mouth to Freckles’ ear, smiling about whatever it is he’s whispering.

A swarm of leather, denim and tattoo-clad arms engulf Freckles and his boy then. Soon there’s not an inch of Freckles left in Curly’s view, now blocked by chanting and cheering men. He’s sure he hears a litter of "happy birthday!”s as he waits restlessly for them to slowly break away, allowing the man to come up for air, grin and all.

He sees Jeff ruffle Freckle’s hair before he’s shoved away playfully, further than Freckles looks like he has the strength to push, met shortly after with the blond’s middle finger.

“‘Kay Curls, you’re good,” Jules says with a nudge.

He’s warm all over; that good kind of ache that comes right before a shiver. He hums as he falls back onto the ground, thick, tight curls not quite cushioning his fall as effectively as he’d expected. He blames the Christmas haircut, not even close to grown out yet.

He knows it isn’t the time or place to be doing this.

He listens to Jules talk for a while, to him and to other people whose voices Curls doesn’t recognise. Time flies as he stares up at the underside of the kitchen table, breathing steady as Jules make deals beside him between conversations. It’s not until around an hour later, when his high is finally easing that he stops drawing shapes with his fingers on the wood above his head and crawls out from beneath the table.

Jules has disappeared. The kitchen is busy, the noise suddenly apparent now that he’s emerged from his hiding spot.

He loves all of the songs at this party and whispers the lyrics to himself as he bobs about the house, weaving through the crowds contently. Nobody really talks to him tonight because anyone that would usually buy from him has already brought from Jules. He’s not really sticking to any one place for long enough for anybody to spark up a conversation anyway.

He watches his mucky white trainers shuffle between boots and shoes, careful not to step or trip over anyone as he keeps himself busy exploring. He gets locked onto an ornament of a hippopotamus in the lounge for a while, before he drags himself away, forces himself to move on. Curls promises himself that he’ll be allowed to inspect the intricate details of the wooden carving later on, when he’s not seeing doubles and blurs.

Jules is probably elsewhere by now and Curly is bored and alone, stood in the corner of the kitchen with scissors in-hand. He’s busy watching a pair of black Dr Martens shuffling about a few feet away.

The scissors prod his belly as he snips at the front of the shirt he forgot he was trimming - remembers thinking about it but doesn’t remember starting. “Woops,” he whispers.

He only blinks and then black boots are right beside his trainers and suddenly there’s a hand covering his own.

“Hey- Hey!” Fingers wrap around Curly’s, tattooed knuckles stilling him as a voice asks, “what’re you doing, champ?”

He looks up and Freckles -oh, it’s Freckles- is frowning, even when Curly explains, “crop tops are back in. Just cuttin’ it.”

Freckles jacket’s gone now. He’s wearing a plain white shirt but it’s ripped on the shoulder and near the bottom and he’s got tattoos peeking out from the sleeves but they’re nothing like Curly’s; they’re large, flowing pieces that interlink as opposed to his own sticker-book skin.

Freckles huffs with a nod, humouring him and snapping him out of his daze in the process as he pries the scissors from his hands.

He suggests, “alright, well how about I do it for you, hm?”

Curly grins. “Well, how about that?”

Freckles chuckles a little, at him rather than with him, but it looks so nice on his face, like he’s been saving it for a special occasion.

Freckles says, “I’ve seen you drink more than you’ve breathed tonight, and weren’t you smoking with Dean before you set up shop under the table?” Oh yeah, he forgot about all that. He wants to defy the man’s judgement, say that skin popping is really nothing, and that they shared the hit under the table so he’s at no risk really, but Freckles has more to say. “You’re definitely not in the right state to be tailoring your own shirts, Curly.”

“I’m Curly.” He watches Freckles cut nice, straight lines through the grey fabric of his shirt. “I mean— How did you know that?”

“Jeff told me about your X? I saw you at—“

“I remember. You were there and then you weren’t.”

Freckles looks like he’s trying to de-riddle this. “Glad to know one of us was there,” he says, but Curly forgets to react because he doesn’t get it. “… Cool. So, yeah. And Dean was just telling me how you’re a pro at blackjack. Says I absolutely should not agree to play against you.”

He laughs and Freckles stops trimming the shirt until Curly’s belly is still again. When he continues, the man mumbles, “I’m Jordan, anyway.”

“Jordan,” he echoes and hopes he doesn’t sound as wasted as he is.

Curly’s always been bad with names, either too quick to forget or too unsure to dare call anyone by their name for a long while. He’s not sure he’ll forget Jordan’s though, because everybody seems to know who he is, patting his shoulder as they pass and telling him happy— “Oh,” Curly pipes up again. “Your birthday.”

“Yeah, it’s tomorrow. Twenty-two,” Jordan supplies with a nod, and he’s opening the drawer now and putting the scissors back. “Looks good. A little wonky at the sides, but it kinda adds character.”

“I’m shit at cutting. M’left handed,” Curly explains, waving his hand as if it proves the fact.

The man nods again, pulling loose thread from the new raw edge of Curly’s shirt. “Take it the new hair cut wasn’t your own doing, then,” he says as he steps back, assessing the man’s hair. He’s just reaching out to touch. “I like—“

“Jordan!” A man that Curly doesn’t know throws his entire body weight onto the blond, sending him stumbling half-way across the room as he says “man, you look ancient.”

“Hey, fuck you,” Jordan grumbles as they half hug, half wrestle across the room.

Curly manages to push himself up onto the counter, leaning back against the cupboard behind his head as he watches them muck about, knocking beer and kicking stools. He’s left feeling smug as he scratches his head because Freckles was absolutely about to say he likes his barnet.

“You wouldn’t believe he’s twenty-two, would you?” A soft voice steals his attention, and he turns his head to his side where a young man rolls blue-grey eyes before he smiles up at him. “Such a kid.”

He recognises him from earlier, whispering something to Jordan that made them both smile. He wonders what it was. He wonders if Jordan felt the man’s lip ring when it was pressed to his ear.

“He’s funny,” he replies simply, not sure what the stranger is looking for. He doesn’t really know much more about Jordan than that, and he’s pretty sure the guy’s not actually tried to be funny yet.

This new pretty boy with golden hair has warm skin that glows under the bulb hanging from the ceiling of the kitchen. His face is all soft angles and smooth skin and Curly wonders how the fuck someone his age (presuming this bloke is around his own age) manages that, because his own skin is covered in small scars from old nicks and break-outs and fuck knows what else.

“Funny,” Goldie repeats as he flicks his hair out of his face - it falls in glossy waves, just brushing over his ears. He looks a bit like one of those fit modern-day vampires, Curls thinks, except instead of drinking blood, he probably drinks eight pints of mineral water and eats his five-a-day. “Is he?”

He squeezes his eyes shut ‘cause maybe he’s just seeing this guy through beer goggles, but nah. He’s pure beautiful. Pretty is a good word for it... Pretty bloody annoying. Especially when Curly’s sat in a DIY’d crop top with eyeliner smudged over his cheek and rum soaking into his jeans.

Curls forgets again to respond but the man laughs anyway and Curly wishes it was a nasty sort of laugh, just so he had a valid reason to dislike him - a reason that wasn’t jealousy.

“Anyway, this is my cue.”

He watches Jordan’s boy cross the room to pull the man from his friend, and Jordan ends the scuffle with a fond shove and a “see you later,” as he’s lead towards the door by Goldie. He manages to call out, “see you around, Curly,” as he’s lead out of the room.

It’s a shame really that Curly didn’t get to speak to Jordan until so late on in the night because that happens to be around the time things start to get hazy for him. If he did bump into him again, he can’t recall.

In the taxi home (because that’s all he can really attest for, memory wise, after Jordan slipped away) Jeff’s saying something to Dean along the lines off “shame Curly thinks he’s too good to come out with us properly,” and says Jordan’s name somewhere in the blur of words that follow.

Curly says “he’s my mate, he is,” turning in his own seat at the front to face his friends. He hugs the headrest as he smiles dopily into the back on the car.

Dean says “you only met him tonight, Curls.”

Jokes on him, Curly thinks, because they met before tonight, and that’s got to count for something.

He sleeps on their couch again that night, because they can’t be arsed with doing the maths for the split taxi fare. That and Curly thinks he might have dropped the key to the flat down the kitchen sink at the party.

[eleanorkeye]

honey days - excerpt

Chapter One

I want to live in a castle. A hundred and five rooms, each a different color, because sometimes I like emerald green, sometimes I like powdery pink, and sometimes, my favorite color in the whole world is jetty, midnight, inkwell black. I will craft my own stained glass and let the foyer bathe me in rainbows at sunrise. Hopefully, that front room will look east, and then I can choose which hue to run with for the rest of the day. If it faces west, however, I can deal, something of reflection. I know that I want a greenhouse for the winter and a garden for the summer. In the springtime, my hundred year old trees will flower, and in the autumn, of which there must be ample autumn wherever my castle is built or remodeled, those same trees and all of the others in the little forest that is my surrounding land, must go red and gold. I hope to have apple trees, but if someone from the town down the hill, where I get along with every single person, wants to place a crate of them on my old, or made to look, steps each October, that is fine. My lack of height doesn’t lend well to taking fruit from trees. Actually, I would love to climb my trees. Is it too late to have an orchard in the backyard, too? I don’t need too much in the way of a kitchen— I haven’t been very hungry lately— but I feel strongly about hallways. They should be bright. Rugs are important, for my castle will have wooden floors. I’m drawn to red rugs, though I don’t know really why. In any case, each room should have a rug, because I want to run all through the estate, and I feel like the echo of my shoes will wear on me. The shiny black shoes with the winged tips and the spiked-bottom shoes with brown plaid aren’t meant for running on hardwood, anyway. I have grand visions of a different outfit that belongs to each room, but I think that I only want five pairs of shoes. Unkind-weather boots, dark, some kind of imitation leather because cows are for hugs and milk, but only when they agree, since I can’t eat meat anymore. I’ll have my shiny wing-tipped black shoes, the spiky-bottomed plaid shoes, some flat canvas lace-ups for sportier looks, and- “What are you thinking about, Hudson?” Margarite always asks me what I am thinking about just before she leaves me to try and fall asleep. Apparently, I think of the funniest things around this time. When she asks, she combs her fingers through my cinnamon colored half curls to get the knots out and judge how much has fallen out since last night. I think that it’s her fingernails that get me thinking. Then again, just about any woman could comb her fingernails through my hair and I would be spaced out for hours. “Shoes.” She gives a questioning sound. “Shoes?” I just nod, my eyes to the window. The moon should be full one of these nights, and with how much trouble I have had getting to sleep at a reasonable hour recently, it’s an incentive. I could stare at the sky forever. Once the town goes to sleep, once the lights have all went out, the stars take their place. In other times that I have laid in this bed, I have gotten up and stood at the window, but I don’t think I will do that tonight. Maybe I’ll be able to see which sign is in the sky from here. I’m not sure, though. Five stars shine in the sky beyond Roseville Towneship Medical Centre, room three two zero four. I only ever count five, and there is no way in which I could tell you why. “What about shoes, Hudson?” I shake my head. “I’ve moved on.” Maybe I won’t have trouble sleeping anymore by the time I move to my castle. I don’t really have the money for it right now. I’m just a little tailor, but I’m good enough at it to save up. It’s not easy for me to go back to work now. Usually, I still work while I’m here since anyone can bring me my sewing box and projects, but this time is different. I don’t want to think about it. I want to think of my castle, because even though I am stuck here for now, in this yellowish-white room with squares on the pleated and round-hemmed curtains, sun-powered lights in the ceiling that are so unkind, and the scratchiest blankets in the world, someday, I will live in a castle. I just hope that someday is relatively soon. Now, to spend so much time in rooms with no art on the walls, single beds, higher than they should be, with overbleached white sheets, and these little lamps with sun-bulbs that affix to the tall headboard, switches on the walls and little sketching monitors or tall poles adorned with clear bags, there is no soul to be found. I have been so drained of anything. It’s harder to breathe. It’s harder to speak. It is so much harder to sleep. Even if, on the little table beside the window, there is a radio, there isn’t any life here. Maybe that’s the point. I was doing so well until recently. For months, I never even thought of anything being out of place. I worked in my parents’ laundromat, setting my sewing machine up at the counter. When anyone came in for their drycleaning, they spoke to me before my mother. It was always something along the lines of looking better. I’d like to think that I always look decent, being very much my mother’s son and all, but I am biased towards the bruisier, rheumy aesthetics. They’re all I’ve ever really known, I guess. I’ve never woken up feeling rested. Not a day goes by without an ache or standing too quickly. Too many times in life, I have jumped to my feet, only to fall over like a logged tree. There must be some pretty short trees out there for this simile to work. Anyway, daily inconveniences aside, I had been doing so well. I saw my friends often and put my paychecks towards new albums or scented candles or throw pillows. I made my bed every morning after waking up on time after falling asleep quickly. Three meals a day, colorful ones without ingredients that made things worse, coordinated outfits that fit right, and I even got a good haircut at a point. None of my friends pointed out that I should find different sweater sizes. They didn’t call my haircut, “uh… interesting…” and not one person asked if I’d slept alright the night before. I was smiley, talkative, and present. I was fuzzy and warm and just about to turn twenty-four. I was betting castle savings that I’d never have Margarite’s good fingernails through my hair again, or that it would be falling out again. But I guess I bet a bit too much. I was out with a girl named Melody, laughing over conspiracy theories and craft brews at the after-hour library. I liked Melody a lot. We met at the record shop. My favorite lead from my favorite band left last March. I knew that a solo album had been released, as well as a business as usual album from the two members left, but I hadn’t the heart to invest in either of them until then. I have a favorite member, but it was still heartbreaking to have to choose a side. The record shop had both albums on a table. The single from the solo record had gone to number one, the other number two, and the feud was so dramatic that I couldn’t escape it. It tore me apart. Truly. I’d gotten so bad, and to not have my favorite band behind me, to have my favorite band falling apart so dramatically right in front of me, threw me into episodes of nothing mattering more often than I’d like to admit. The nurses gave me news when they found out from the gossip columns in the paper, but only good news. I couldn’t handle any more bad news. Anyway, Melody saw me weighing my options at the table. “They’re both good,” she said from the counter. I turned quickly, wondering when the owner, an older and worse for wear gentleman who has a warrant out for anything on the baroque spectrum and does not condone my checkerboard mustard yellow and navy blue slacks— which look amazing, mind you— had been replaced with a goddess of heavy eye makeup, loose-bobbed curls the color of coffee, and, fatefully, a navy blue overall shift dress atop a mustard yellow turtleneck. I was in love. I pushed back my tears as quickly as I could. I stammered the only thing that mattered to me. “Which is more baroque?” She smiled through caramel lipstick. “Solo album.” So I bought the solo album, we exchanged names and free evenings, and then on Saturday, chose a table in the new non-fiction section. I talk politics like a madman, and luckily, Melody and I agree on universal healthcare and social progress, so we got wheat-buzzed and laughed at the right wing. Roseville is a small, cobblestone town situated barely inside cotton and tobacco country, and maybe it was the will of the conservatives at the bar, or maybe I got too optimistic in my newfound alcohol tolerance, but either way, I made it halfway back to my parents’ house at the end of White Street before waking up on the sidewalk at the hands of burly paramedics, my date replaced with a canvas-covered trauma-trolley, and my lifelong cycle of, “actually, it can get worse this time” repeating itself. I didn’t ask what happened. I know how it goes by now. I didn’t wonder what madness my body would assault me with this time. I’ve learned better than to try and predict it. I didn’t bother asking how long I’d be spending in room three two zero four of Roseville Towneship Medical Complex. They always underestimate. I took my new side effect of excruciating pain down my legs, six hands’ worth of needle drips per carpal set, and bad news after bad news after bad news, and decided to think of other things. Like living in a castle, for example. “We’ll get you reunited with your shoes soon,” Margarite presently tries. I respond with a roll of violently hazel eyes and a breath not too strong to beckon the breather again. “Once you’re a little more vibrant.” “That’s offensive, Margarite.” “Last time, you called it clever.” “Last time, I couldn’t remember my name.” “Which reminds me,” she takes my board of paperwork from the foot of the bed. “What’s your name again?” I’ve done this six times today— name, age, month and day of birth, sun sign, height, and, get ready for this one, street address. Exciting stuff. I love feeling like I’m locked out of my life. “Hudson James Walker, twenty-four, August twenty-second, Leo, if my birth time is to be believed, five-seven in shoes, and,” I catch my breath. “Three-thirteen White Street.” She returns the board. “At least you don’t have to worry about any of that,” as she reaches the door, the lights are cut off. “Goodnight, Hudson.” “Don’t count on it, Margarite.” The begged question at this point is along the lines of, “What is wrong with me?” Short answer: Everything. No, honestly, it is my tendency to collapse at complete random and violently convulse until something is knocked off-kilter, out of place, or into dormancy. It comes in clusters. I’ll go a few months completely fine, usually immediately after Roseville Medical glues me back together, and then it will strike with the most random thing at the most random time. My most recent hiatus was the shortest at three months, but it was the best. I got summer, and I do appreciate that, because I got my birthday, too. The lake outside town was so nice on the solstice. I couldn’t go in past my waist because I still had patches taped to my chest from having lightning pressed against the lifespots, but I did take my shirt off despite the bolt scars up my shoulders. I think that people were more obligated to stare by the month’s worth of hair in the time I couldn’t shave, but I understand that. I’m small… for the most part… and have a very gentle face— long eyelashes, low hairline, the whole nine— so, really, there is no excuse for me to have as much hair on my chest, arms, and legs as I do. Some lake-goers, I think, were waiting for me to speak, and when my s’s and high-ish tenor delivered in spades— ‘sspadess’— the mystery got that much deeper. I enunciate a lot, and very little of it, if any, comes across as masculine, so I get it. It’s all confused. Overall, summer was great, though. I enjoyed it alongside my health, toothy smile, and best friend. Autumn is my favorite season by far, though. October the only month I live for, so losing this year is a bit of a— sigh— bummer, but I’ll live. Wait. The time before last was the most dramatic. I think that they shocked me six times. The hair doesn’t grow there anymore. I kept the patches on for six months. I’m not sure the scars will ever go away. So, yes, I’ve died before, here, and, yes, it keeps me awake at night. I still get sore around my ribs sometimes. It was my memory last time, and they said that they fixed it, and I’m inclined to believe them what with the fact that I remember it, but I don’t recall exactly how. I don’t want to know. If I know, then I know what to worry about. This time, it flipped a switch that turned my legs to radio static. It hurts at the best of times. I have learned to cope with the base hurt, the stationary static, but they won’t send me home because, unless I stay completely still above the waist, it is absolutely unbearable. It is safe to say that I am mildly dramatic, but I have an incredible pain tolerance. If I say something hurts at a ten, I don’t. If something hurts at a ten, I am collapsed to the floor, unconscious. I can’t be touched below the hip flexors without coughing up whatever I’ve eaten in the past five days, and I think that’s why they aren’t offering food anymore. A shower, during which I never stood, was so intense that it stopped them pushing liquids, too, and I’ve never been so thirsty, but drinking then involves getting up twenty minutes later, so I’ve taken to dealing with it. No one is allowed to give me anything, and I don’t really want to sneak over to the sink. I am just going to be thirsty forever, feeling no relief from painkillers, breaking down into tears when I remember how much I love toast. It’s bad this time. It was bad last time. It was bad the two times before that. Before those times, however, it was little more than finding a safe place to lie down once every few months and, at worst, waking up with bruises. I got warnings before anything happened, a little shake in my hands. The episodes were short, no more than five minutes. No switches were ever flipped, the day just went on as normal. It wasn’t fun, but it wasn’t bad. I worked regularly. I saw my friends often. I lived with my girlfriend. She found me the first bad time. We rented a one-bedroom apartment on North Main Street, tucked away between the historical district and the park. It was an industrial thing, an old mill, I think. The ceilings were high, the windows were tall, and all of the furniture was either dark wood or upholstered mustard yellow. I did not decorate the apartment. Maximalism and I don’t do well together. I asked only for my turntable and a third of a bed. Her name was Emily Monday, and I’m pretty sure that it still is. She had blonde hair, and I’m pretty sure that she still does. We dated for three years. I don’t really want to talk more about any aspects that aren’t medical, but I loved her. I loved her so terribly. I got along with her about as well as I get along with maximalism, but I really did love her. It was around three in the morning when she found me on the vinyl tiled kitchen floor, affront the laminate ‘wood’ cabinets, or so the people involved have told me. She knew as much as I did about it. Less than five minutes, don’t try to stop it, I’ll deal with the aftermath when I wake up, “don’t worry about it, babe. You wouldn’t even know it happened if I hadn’t told you.” Except, I got no warning. I don’t even remember going into the kitchen. I remember falling asleep combing my fingers through the longest, straightest, softest blonde hair, and then I woke up in July. The incident happened in the second week of June. I don’t really know what tipped her to call paramedics, and I haven’t gotten around to asking her about it, so we’ll never know. I take a bit of joy imagining two burly men dragging me down the three flights of stairs, no lift, that I was cursed to climb a few times a day. I’m not heavy, but they must have been on their toes, never knowing when I would flail and hit them. It’s what the ideally built man deserves, to be scared of me for once. Then again, everyone who knows is absolutely terrified of me. I shiver or cough or stare into one spot trying to add two double digit numbers together for too long and everyone has a panic attack. I don’t work register anymore. I couldn’t find words for a while after that first bad time, but Emily could, and that was that. We ran into each other at the lake over the summer. Her new boyfriend is taller than I am. He has broader shoulders and a deeper voice, doesn’t overdo ‘s’s or anything. We went to school together, all three of us. He’s a nice guy, I guess. I never really knew him. He dragged her up to me, saying that we should talk, catch up. I politely lied that I had to go, but there we three were, half-naked on a man-made beach. I don’t remember what we said, but I remember my best friend, Lionel Lee, ending it by making the sound of thunder by cupping his hands over his mouth and dragging me away to collect my clothes. Lionel is a great friend. I wonder why he hasn’t called in the week since I’ve been here. I wonder what color I’ll paint my bedroom in the castle.

There comes a point. I’ll start with that. There comes a point, and to elaborate, there comes a point in situations such as mine at which all avenues have been exhausted, and a decision must be made. I’ve known medications before, three of them. Two of the three didn’t work, but the one that did was so terribly unkind that it pushed me over a terribly unkind edge, and it was never an avenue again until yesterday afternoon. Yesterday? Yesterday— it’s tomorrow now, quarter past three. I was confronted by a doctor alone, in stark contrast to the usual confrontation involving my mother. I know this doctor well, but I can’t ever remember his name. I guess that is to be expected in a situation such as mine. He said that we all know what works in controlling these spells, and that I should strongly consider considering it again. This is not my worst outcome, but if a usual pattern is to be followed, it will get worse over the next few days, and then disappear for a while, only to come back that much scarier. I can always rely on being brought back with how irrationally eager my soul is to stay in this body, but it has been implied that I should avoid it in the first place. I agree, but I cannot subject myself to what I was subjected to on that chemical compound the last time. I told him that. In response, and in complete honesty, he told me that I have about a hundred days left to live, should I choose to live alone. Alone, referring to free of chemical intervention, I can move in with as many women as I’d like. Of course, a hundred days is a rough estimate. It could be fewer or it could be more, but he said that one hundred days was a good estimate for me. He then said that I should rethink my decision. I refused to rethink my decision.

[sittingoverheredreaming]

On the Night of the Ball

My entry for the prompt party, Harumichi Cinderella! Mine is a modern take, about 2600 words. Enjoy!

The phone rang just as Haruka had settled into the couch for the night. She untangled from the blanket and dove for the old landline, the long braid of her hair smacking into her back. The answering machine was in her mother’s room, and it was best not to disturb her.

“Hello?”

“So you know how I bet you fifty bucks I’d get you to go to the Halloween dance?”

“Mina, the dance is in an hour—“

“And I’ll call off the deal if you come over right now.”

Haruka sighed. “So I can either stay in pajamas and get fifty bucks, or drag myself out and get nothing?”

Mina clucked into the phone. “You can either stay in, have me come make a scene and pay me fifty bucks you don’t have when I get you to the dance, or you can come over here and not have to worry.” There was a pause, Haruka knew she was twirling her hair with her free hand. “How about this, if you come over, I’ll still pay up if you don’t go. And I’ve got the movie butter popcorn you like.”

“Fine, Mina. But I’m not changing my clothes.”

“Didn’t ask you to, buddy.”

Haruka slipped on her shoes without leaving a note. Her mother would assume she was at Mina’s, if she even noticed. And unless Haruka did something wrong, she didn’t notice.

They lived mercifully close, Mina just a few blocks away in a marginally nicer house. Her mother would be out, and father home, but it amounted to them being alone anyway. Haruka tucked the loose strands of her hair back as she got to the door. It was never easy to know what to expect with Mina. This could end with Mina literally dragging her to the dance, or it could be a wild plan that mysteriously ended in the school gymnasium, and whoops, look at that Haruka, you’re at the dance. Haruka gripped the door knob and resigned herself to losing the bet in a night of misery.

Mina stood in the foyer, dressed in a long robe she must have found at a thrift store. “Dahling, you made it,” she said in her best old-movie actress voice, leaning against the wall with a hand on her head. “I was beginning to worry.”

“What’s the plan, Mina?”

“Don’t look so resigned!” She smiled, big and devious. “I’m going to give you the night of your life.”

“Yeah, yeah.” Haruka shoved her shoulder as they filed down the hall to Mina’s bedroom. “You say that every night.”

“And compared to how you’d be without my stunning influence, it’s true.” Mina hopped onto her bed, smushing several stuffed animals. “But tonight is different. I’ve been saving up tips from the salon to pull this off.”

A new dread settled in Haruka’s stomach. “Mina, you shouldn’t waste your money—“

“You say now, having been willing to rob me dry in a bet.” Her eyes flashed, she knew she had Haruka. “I’ve still got my wages in the move-out fund, don’t you worry. But tonight’s not about what we need, it’s about what I want. And I want you to have a good time.”

“Then why can’t we stay in and watch movies?” Haruka did not do dances—not the dresses, not the shoes, not the hair, and certainly not the dancing, not where everyone could see her.

“Because we do that all the time. Tonight should be different.” Mina cracked her knuckles. “See my plan through, and then you can decide, okay? If you don’t like it, we’ll stay in and I’ll see what I can return to the store tomorrow.”

“Fine.”

Mina jumped up and grabbed Haruka’s wrist. “We’ll start with your hair.”

“Hey, wait, no. Off-limits. You promised when you started at the salon—“

“That I’d never use you as a guinea pig for styling.” Mina yanked her into the bathroom. “I’m not styling your hair, Haruka, I’m cutting it.”

“What?”

“I’m cutting your hair.” She pulled out a clipper set. “That’s always been part of the problem, hasn’t it?”

“I…” Haruka pulled on the end of her braid. “My mom…”

“Tell her it’s for a costume, and if she kicks you out anyway, you’ll stay here.” Mina softened and put her hands on Haruka’s shoulders. “Halloween is about being whatever and whoever you want to be. I, for one, want to be a slutty, slutty vampire, forever young and beautiful. You want to be something else. You can try it, for tonight, and if it’s not right you say it was all play and let your hair grow and no one will bat an eye.”

Haruka looked in the mirror. She wanted it. Always had. Her mother had caught her as a child, cutting her hair with the kitchen scissors to look like a boy’s. She had not been allowed anything more than a trim ever since. “Do you think it would look okay? You don’t think I’d look too…” She meant to say boyish, but couldn’t. Part of her wanted that, too. Not to be a boy,  but to look and exist in that space she’d rarely seen occupied, of being a different sort of woman.

“This might not be the right thing to say, buddy, but I think you might look kind of…” Mina stretched back, forcing nonchalance, “well, kind of handsome.”

Haruka bit her tongue. She leaned closer to the mirror, covered the start of her braid with her hands, a poor approximation of how it might look. “I wanna do it.”

“Okay.” Mina pulled out scissors and held them to the base of the braid. “Ready?”

Haruka took a deep breath. “Ready.”

The scissors snipped, hacking through, once, twice, three times, and – thump! The braid fell to the tile like a dead animal. The bob of Haruka’s remaining hair fanned around her face. Her head felt light, the smallest motion made easier and bigger without the weight of the braid. Mina trimmed it shorter, then switched to the clippers.

“This might tickle some.”

Just the sound as she turned it on sent shivers up Haruka’s back. It vibrated the air with a magic she’d lusted after through barber shop windows. Mina ran it up her head from her neck, and Haruka had to fight to keep still. She couldn’t mess up her chance to look how she dreamed.

Slowly more hair fell to the floor in feathery clumps, until Mina turned off the clippers and dusted Haruka off. Haruka tried not to cry—the mirror now showed a woman standing tall even in her giant hoodie, hair just long enough to be fluffy on top but shaped on the sides. “Mina…” she swallowed hard. “Thank you.”

“Don’t thank me yet, buddy. We’re only half done.”

Haruka had no more words of protest or question. Mina led the way back to her room and threw open her closet.

Haruka’s breath caught as she pulled out a suit.

“I can’t promise it will fit great, men’s sizing isn’t the same. But, you know, I tried and it should be close.” She rummaged through her drawers and pulled out a brilliant navy tie and a matching masquerade mask.

“This is too much, I can’t accept…”

“If this is a money thing, Haruka, don’t worry. I’ve been planning this long enough that I had time to get good deals.” She opened the suit jacket to reveal a big red stain on the lining. “Somehow, this has been in Goodwill for a long time, even though they insist it’s only ketchup.”

Haruka laughed in spite of her awe. “I ever tell you you’re too good to me?”

“I think the words you’re looking for are ‘Thank you Mina, you’re the best and I’ll never doubt your judgement again.’”

“Thank you, Mina.”

Minako rolled her eyes. “Now, I’m going to change into my vampire dress, and give you a moment. We’ll have to leave in a few.” She grabbed her costume and vacated to the bathroom.

Haruka ran her hands along the suit sleeves. She’d worn men’s clothes before, flying under the wire with hoodies and tee-shirts that weren’t great but kept her from wanting to crawl out of her skin. This was something else entirely. She rubbed at the base of her neck, where her braid had been replaced with fuzz. She’d enter the dance a different person from the one who’d left school that day. Even if it was only for tonight, she’d be the woman she’d always dreamed of.

Slowly, she pulled off her sweatpants, then her hoodie. She slid on the pants, happy to find them only slightly too short. She stole a pair of black socks from Mina’s drawer to hide it. The shirt, on the other hand, was long, but tucked in it made no difference. Haruka pulled on the jacket slowly, suddenly worried it would make it all farcical, she’d be the ordinary gangly girl, dressing up like someone she wasn’t. But it settled onto her shoulders, tight but not too restrictive, and she turned to Mina’s full-length mirror with bated breath.

It didn’t fit perfectly. But it wasn’t glaring, and she looked… real. Or she felt real. She couldn’t think of how to say it. She fumbled with the tie until Mina came back in.

“Damn, buddy, you clean up nice.”

Haruka chuckled, then choked into tears. “Will you help me? I don’t know—“

Mina took the tie and stood behind her. “Now, you be sure to tell everyone I’m very good with my hands.” She smoothed Haruka’s collar and centered the knot. “The ladies are gonna eat their hearts out.”

“Do you think…” She hadn’t allowed herself to think too much about anyone who might be at the dance, committed as she had been to not going. But there was the girl, from homeroom, who’d sometimes caught her eye, and…

“Drag your gay ass back to earth now, buddy, you can either dream or make it happen. If we don’t leave, we’ll be much more than fashionably late.” She pulled the mask on Haruka’s head and they set out together into the night.

The gym was pulsing and packed when they arrived. The only lights came in flashing colors and through the door to the hall. Haruka pulled at the ends of her jacket.

Mina rubbed her back. “Don’t worry buddy, you’re gonna be great.”

“Nice suit, bro!” A footballer called as he passed.

Haruka swallowed. “They don’t recognize me.”

“Drastic haircuts and masks will do that. You okay?”

“Yeah I just… I feel different, too.”

Mina smiled. “Be who you wanna be, Haruka.” She paused. “Split up or stay together?”

Haruka scanned the crowd, looking for the green hair of homeroom girl. “Can we… Can I try being on my own?”

“Spread your gay little wings, buddy. You can find me if you need me.”

 -----

Michiru wondered sometimes why she attended dances. Homecoming and prom she understood—they were appearances, she would be crowned Queen and have her picture in the papers, and her family would have one more thing to brag to their friends about. But the mid-year frivolities… She sighed and nodded as Rei chewed out a boy for asking her to dance. Why Rei came was perhaps a bigger mystery-- though she faced a different side of the same pressures as Michiru, she was less apt to playing along. She knew Senator Hino oft wished he’d had a son, so that his child might court the Kaioh prodigy rather than compete with her. That Rei would have better luck as she was was lost on him.

Michiru supposed the night would go as it always did—accept a dance from her homecoming king, and then a few from those who might be her match for prom. Perhaps it all came down to training, the sweaty gym was the young version of a high society gala, the attendees not yet skilled in hiding their crude underbellies.

But then someone caught her eye. At first it seemed a boy in a sharp costume, going for a formal masquerade rather than any of the silliness others sported. But then she noticed the slight curve of chest and hip, the uncertainty in movement, the charming line of the chin.

It was a girl, and a girl the way the partners of Michiru’s dreams were girls. Their eyes met through her mask. There was something familiar, though Michiru had never met anyone like her before. She rose from her seat on the bleachers, not bothering to let Rei know where she as going. She needed to know the stranger. She needed to meet this woman.

As if on cue, the dj announced the first slow song of the night.

“Um, hi,” the other girl said as Michiru drew close.

Michiru could feel her nervousness. There was something endlessly charming about it. “Hello.”

“Would you, well, would you like to dance with me?”

“I would.”

The butch’s hand was sweaty as she took Michiru’s, her fingers shaking slightly. Michiru guided her other hand to her waist. As their eyes met again, close enough to feel each other’s breath, Michiru felt a familiarity she hadn’t expected.

“We’ve met, haven’t we?”

“Sort of.” She flushed red under her mask.

Michiru thought of the tomboy in homeroom, blushing whenever the teacher called on her, playing with her long hair like she wanted to disappear. Michiru had thought of her, looked at her, more than she cared to admit. They’d sort of met, hadn’t they? Having never spoken, but seeing each other every morning�� Michiru ran her hand along the edge of the girl’s hair, wondering how recently it had been cut. “I don’t want to be wrong about who you are.”

“Don’t guess.” Her eyes widened, like hearing the wrong name might break her. “I think… Monday, if you want to find me, you’ll be able to. And if you don’t, it’s okay.”

I’ll want to find you. But Michiru said nothing and sank into the girl for the rest of the song. She could feel their heartbeats mix in their fingertips, the other girl’s pounding hard even as she got more confident in her movements.

“Tell me something that isn’t your name,” Michiru said finally as the music faded into another DJ announcement.

“Um. My favorite color is blue, which I know isn’t original, but it’s nice.” Michiru nodded for her to keep going. “And… I like flowers, but not how people perceive liking flowers. Besides right now, running is about the only time I really feel good.” She blushed again, and swallowed hard. “And maybe this goes without saying, but in case it doesn’t, I’m… I like girls. And I am a girl.”

Michiru stepped into what little space remained between them. “I have one more question.”

The girl swallowed again. “Okay.”

“Can I kiss you?”

Her eyes went wide, but she nodded. Michiru stood on tip toe and, gently as she could, placed her lips on hers. For a moment, the whole world was still, narrowed down to the two of them.

Michiru rose a hand to the girl’s face as she pulled away. “I want to know who you are.”

“I think you’ll be disappointed.”

“I don’t.” Though she wondered—if it wasn’t the girl she’d been watching, would she be? “Whoever you are, I want to see you again.”

“Well. If that’s true, you’ll see me at school. And if-- if you still want to… you can ask me then.” She took Michiru’s hand and kissed her knuckles. “I think I should leave. This… I want to keep this night beautiful.”

Before Michiru could protest, she was gone, taken from Michiru’s sight in the crowd of bodies.

She closed her eyes, committing every second to memory. Come Monday, she’d find the girl.