#like genuinely just odd rambles that I can’t even track the line of thinking anymore 😂

[gureishi]

I really love your writing! Could I request #2 for Saeyoung? Perhaps a hurt/comfort :)

Ohhhh, thank you so much!! That makes me really happy to hear ♡

And here is the fic! I think a lot about making Saeyoung go to sleep and honestly don’t know how I’ve never written this scenario before. Darling sleepy overworked boy.

two: fall into your arms again

SaeyoungXReader, T, words: 1764

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・

You’re dreaming of driving when he calls you—it’s a recurring nightmare of yours, where you’re at the wheel and suddenly you realize the car has no brakes. The ringtone makes its way into your dream, and you’re panicking, you’re panicking—where is the phone, why can’t you stop the car?

You wake abruptly, eyes flying open in the way they sometimes do after a nightmare. The phone is still ringing. You scramble for it and find it tangled in the sheets.

You squint at the screen: it’s after three in the morning.

“H-hello?” You yawn as you answer, your head falling back against the pillow.

“Ohh…did I wake you up? I guess I lost track of time,” he laughs, but it sounds forced. You push yourself up a little in bed.

“Saeyoung, are you okay? Did something happen?” There’s a sinking feeling in your stomach. Things have just finally started to go well.

“No, no!” He’s too loud, too enthusiastic. “We’re okay! Saeran is asleep.”

“Saeyoung, it’s almost four in the morning.”

He yelps. “Really? I didn’t even notice! I’m sorry, babe. Ignore me and go back to sleep. Please.”

You sigh, sitting all the way up, propping the pillows behind your head. “Will you tell me what’s bothering you?”

“God Seven is bothered by nothing! God Seven was just doing some work and wanted to hear his kitty cat’s cute voice! Ha-hah!”

“Saeyoung…”

“Activate kitty communication mode! Meow! Meow? Meeooow!”

He’s too adorable—his distraction tactics are too good. Once upon a time, you would’ve given it to it, would’ve let him ramble nonsensically until he wore himself out. You know better now.

“Saeyoung, when was the last time you slept?”

You hear him counting to himself. “Twelve, thirteen, fourteen…twenty-six, twenty-seven…” Oh no. “Forty-four hours ago!” he sings triumphantly.

“Saeyoung!”

“Whaaat?”

“Forty-four hours ago was when I last spent the night. You haven’t slept since then?”

“Nooope. But it’s okaaaay! God Seven can work for much longer without sleeping because it’s what he was programmed to do!” He draws out his syllables, speaking in a sing-song.

“Hey. Stop. Listen to me.” You know he hears the frustration in your voice because he shuts up right away. “You do not work for the agency anymore. Even Saeran is sleeping right now, like a normal person. You do not need to work through the night anymore.”

“But I do,” he says. His voice sounds a little more subdued now. “The agency may be done, but there’s still so much cleanup work to do. There’s so many loose ends. If I’m resting, they’re tracking Saeran, tracking Vanderwood, tracking you… I can’t—”

“No,” you say. “Uh-uh.” You’re already slipping out of bed, groping around in the dark for some sweatpants. “I know there’s still work to do and I know you’re worried about keeping us safe. And you can do that work. After you’ve slept for eight hours.”

He laughs and it sounds almost like a sob. “I’ve just found him,” he says, so quietly you can barely hear him. “I’ve just got him back. If anything happens to him…”

“I know,” you say. “I know, babe. But none of that matters if you work yourself to death in the process.”

You’ve got pants, you’ve got shoes. You grab a jacket and the keys to the rental car Saeyoung insisted on paying for so you wouldn’t be reliant on him while he was holed up in his bunker with Saeran.

“Hah,” he says. “It would take a lot more than a few hours of work to kill me.”

You’re outside, the cool air bracing you, waking you the rest of the way up.

“I’d like you one hundred percent alive instead of just barely hanging on,” you tell him.

You throw open the car door with perhaps slightly too much force.

He hesitates. “What was…are you outside?”

“Yes. I’m coming over.”

“You—g-gah, what?!” He sounds frantic. You hear a crash—almost as if he’s sweeping something (realistically, a pile of junk food) off his desk.

“I’m coming over right now and putting you to bed. If you don’t want me to stay, I won’t, but you are going to sleep one way or another,” you say. You start the car and you know he hears it through the phone—you’re not playing around.

“I’m perfectly capable of—” he whines.

“Thirty minutes. Love you,” you say, and hang up before he can respond.

。。。。。。。。。。。。。。。。。。。。。。。。

You get there in no time because the roads are empty. He’s cleverly disabled the car’s built-in GPS so that the rental company can never access any of the data, never pinpoint his address (not that his bunker actually has an address). It doesn’t matter: you know the way by heart.

You give the password that will let you into the garage, park, and peer into the retinal scanner by the door—he’s added this feature for you, only for you. The door welcomes you by name and swings open with a soft click.

The bunker feels bigger and emptier at night; it’s completely dark except for the tiny ray of light coming from his office door, which is cracked open just a hair. You sigh. You’d had hope—just a little—that knowing you were coming would guilt him into just going to bed already. But he is stubborn.

You pad across the huge living room and knock gently on his door. He knows you’re here, of course—he’s probably been watching you on the cameras ever since you pulled into the driveway. But just in case—he’s not someone you want to ever catch off guard.

“Hi,” he says softly—his voice sounds far away. You push open the door.

“Oh, Saeyoung…”

His office is never exactly tidy, but this is a disaster zone.

There are chip bags and other assorted wrappers strewn over the desk and on the floor around it. Several creepy, half-built robots lay at odd angles on the couch and floor, as if he’s been fiddling with them as he works and then tossing them aside��one blinks eerily at you with its single eye. There are clothes thrown over the couch and the backs of his various desk chairs, as though he’s been managing to periodically change outfits without ever setting foot in his bedroom.

And there he is, your precious, anxious, manic boy, sitting in his chair with his knees pulled up to his chest, hunched over his desk, fingers still moving over the keys even as he turns to look at you.

“You didn’t have to come,” he says, his voice hoarse.

“That’s a crappy greeting for your favorite person in the world who just drove here in the middle of the night,” you say, but you’re not not really angry at him—how could you be, when he’s in this state? You cross the room, stepping over the piles of junk. Up close, he looks terrible—there are dark circles under his eyes and he has that pale, hollow look he gets when he goes too long without seeing the sun.

“I’m sorry,” he mutters. “Bright, wonderful people like you should be asleep at this time of night.”

“Everyone should be asleep at this time of night,” you tell him. You brush the messy, tangled hair off his forehead and kiss him on the cheek. He closes his eyes for a moment, humming contentedly; then he reaches for you, tilting his head up for a proper kiss. 

“Nuh-uh,” you say, and he deflates, pouting. “Find a stopping point—the first possible stopping point. Then you are going to bed.”

“Orrrrr…” he murmurs, nuzzling his head against your waist. One hand trails up your leg, leaving goosebumps in its wake.

“Saeyoung.”

“Fiiiine.” He reluctantly spins his chair around, types another line. “You go get in the bed,” he says, eyes on the screen. “I’ll be there soon.”

“Nope.” You cross your arms and sit on the couch, moving aside half of a robot dragon. “I don’t trust you.”

He makes a sound somewhere between a hiss and a groan and starts typing more quickly. Good. If he’s motivated to finish faster because you’re now losing sleep, then so be it. At least he’s stopping.

The sound of his typing soothes you. You fiddle with the little dragon—it will be very cute, once he builds the other side of its head. His typing slows. He hits a few more keys. You recognize the sounds of him finishing up—god knows how much collective time you’ve spent listening to him work.

“Okay,” he says at last, and you look up to see him getting out of his chair, a little clumsily.

“Yes?”

“Yes.”

You skip to him and grab his hand. “Bedtime,” you say seriously, tugging him behind you: through the door, down the hall. He laughs, and it’s the most genuine he’s sounded all night. You throw open the door to his room and take a running leap onto the bed. He’s still laughing, watching you from the doorway with warm eyes.

“Come,” you say, wriggling yourself into the blankets, holding out your arms to him. Obediently, he shuts the door and comes to you, falling headfirst onto the messy pile of pillows and blankets and you. He groans quietly, his shoulder muscles finally relaxing. You pull him toward you and he settles his head onto your chest.

“S’feels nice,” he slurs, snuggling into you. You see how hard the exhaustion is hitting him now that he’s closed his eyes; you make a snug nest of blankets around him, tucking them up to his neck.

“I’ve got you,” you whisper. “You can rest now.”

“Mmmmmm but…” His words are hard to make out, his voice already thick with sleep. “But there are soooo many other things we could be doing…in this bed…”

He tries to lift an arm, vaguely brushing his fingertips over your neck. You giggle.

“Shhhh, love. Maybe in the morning,” you tell him. You kiss the top of his head, nuzzling your nose into his messy, sweet-smelling hair. He doesn’t respond. “Babe?”

His head is heavy on your chest. You feel his breath on your neck, slow and steady. You smile to yourself—he’s already asleep.

So you wrap your arms tightly around him and close your eyes, head propped on top of his. You are a mess of blankets and limbs and heartbeats and you feel impossibly, indescribably safe. “Goodnight, Saeyoung,” you whisper.

[cosmicbash]

peminem? Say less.

You know how Em nd Pete have talked on the phone before? What if that became like a regular thing? Em starts calling after every show, regardless of whether he's mentioned or not and he tells Pete how funny and cool he is and at first Pete just listens and awkwardly takes the compliments, but after a while he starts participating and they start Really talking..

They talk about the show, of course, but also about how fucked up fame is, and about music and just about shit. After a while they both have a weird "aha..." Moment where they realize they're friends (I'm friends with Eminem?!) (I'm friends with someone who is also friends with mgk smdh) but also like as this is going on both of them start to develop crushes on each other. But they haven't really met in person, just talked on the phone and maybe some facetimes, so neither of them says anything until one of them absolutely cannot keep it in and one thing leads to another and that thing leads to phone sex bc cozy said horny asks.

From phone sex comes the inevitable need to meet up in person and when they do it's super weird bc what do you say to someone who's made you come in your pants and bare your soul all on the phone besides "... hey😳" ? But it's eventually cool bc they genuinely get along well, like each other and have chemistry and blue balls. Then they hook up and live happily ever after bc bruh this is not a prompt anymore it's just me rambling 😬

I need, or someone else needs to write a fucking 10 chapter slowburn of ALL of that. Damn 😭😭

It's so cute, and ahhh the idea of those two shy dorks starting off with phone sex before even meeting up to hang?? Please. Take all of my money. I can totally see Pete making some off hand remark one night while they talk about his jerking off habits, fully intending to follow it up with some self depreciating joke. But then Em responds too quick and chuckles while admitting he's in a pretty similar boat and- the idea, no- the mental image of Em jerking off that appears in Pete's braid just short circuits him a little. And it somehow becomes this, thing, he can't stop thinking about, even after they get the call back on track and inevitably end it.

Until his next jerk off session he finds himself biting down of his knuckles, more focused on some dozen odd wonderings on how Em likes to get himself off instead of the porn he has playing on his laptop. Like, would this be the kind Em would watch? Does the guy even watch porn? Would he just jerk it? Maybe use a flesh light? Or...a toy?

And the next thing Pete knows, he's got his head flung back against the pillows and his hips fucking up into his fist over some daydream Em in his head that's twitching and gasping while he grinds back and forth on a dildo.

Of course Em finds out about it too. Sorta. Not on accident either, Pete just can't keep it to himself the next time they talk, from the moment he saw Em's name on the caller screen his cheeks have been burning. Guilt and shame eating away at him until he can't hold it in any longer, and Em's mild rant about studio cleanliness is getting interrupted by a very loud, and very sudden.

"Fuuuuuckk--i- I totally jerked off to you the other night!"

And Pete's finding himself with a dead sounding line for the first time in months. Em silent as a mouse until he fumbles out several fast "I'm so fucking sorry"s.

Pete's fully expecting the guy to hang up on him too. Just, cut the call short and never talk to him again, but instead he gets a very quiet, but also very amused sounding "Really? Like, just my pictures?"

It's a better response than Pete could ever ask for, and totally what leads to them having actual phone sex because Em definitely presses and prods for more detail. Humming and encouraging Pete the whole way through his stuttered recap. Commenting here and there when Pete starts to mumble out the little questions he'd pondered over during.

Yes he watches porn, no not always, of course he has a pocket pussy, he considers them one of modern marvels of all time, and much to Pete's poor underwears bad luck, while he doesn't have some weird suction cupped dildo on his shower wall, he does own more than a couple different plugs and other toys to stimulate his prostate with.

The conversation shifting over to him pressing Pete to share all of his dirty little habits only makes sense to end in a demonstration.

And by that, I mean Pete facetiming his fist slicking up and down over his dick to Em until they both get off over the phone.

It's the perfect outcome.

Fuck I really want some peminem 😩

[k7l4d4]

Midnight Striga: Fairy Tail/Owl House Cross Fic Episode 5 Part 4

Hello, and once again, to another exciting addition to Midnight Striga!! Everybody clap your hands!!!

Boscha gazed across the assorted Covens, already utterly bored with it all. It was official, she just couldn’t see herself in this sort of system; doubts or not, Grudgby was looking to be her future. She sighed, not fully sure that was the future she even wanted any more. Her conversation with Amity… it burned inside, seeing that loathing in her eyes; Boscha was well aware she deserved it after all the shit she’d pulled over the years, with what happened with Skara merely being the tipping point for it all. So lost in her thoughts, Boscha didn’t even realize as she crashed into another student.

“Oof! Oh my goodness, I am so sorry Miss… oh, it’s you.” A familiar voice softly stated. Peering up, Boscha was surprised to see Willow, the chief target of her cruelty over the years, staring down at her. Face flushing, Boscha quickly got to her feet. Willow took a deep breath, prepared for the worst. “What do you want, Boscha?” She stated, closing her eyes, almost physically bracing herself for whatever was going to come. “I-If you’re going to mess with me, just know that I will defend myself.” She said as firmly as she could muster, despite the slight hitch in her voice. Her hands clenched into light fists. She could take anything Boscha could dish out, and then some.

“I’m sorry.” Willow’s eyes snapped open. Did she hear that right? Turning her gaze to the girl who had, for years, gone out of her way to belittle and demean her, leaning forward in a bow, eyes screwed shut. “I know it’s not much but, I really am sorry.”

Boscha bit her lip, wondering just how Willow would react. To be honest, she hadn’t been planning on apologizing. She was fine being hated, avoided, in a way it was what she deserved. If every single person she had ever wronged never saw her again and forgot about her, she would be able to die happy, knowing she wasn’t holding them back anymore. But when she saw that look on Willow’s face… that look of bitter acceptance at the thought that Boscha was going to hurt her, either physically or emotionally, she just had to speak up.

“Sorry.” Willow said flatly, almost tasting the words. “You. Are sorry.” It was almost laughable to Willow, what was happening. That this girl, who had done nothing but make her life a misery whenever they crossed paths, even if she never sought Willow out, was apologizing to her. The ground rumbled underneath her feet, not that either of the two noticed, small cracks forming in the tiles, hints of green poking through, only to pull back. “I don’t forgive you, Boscha. I can’t.” She said flatly.

Boscha nodded, it was about what she’d been expecting. Her eyes flew open at Willow’s next words. “However, I will accept your apology, if you really mean it.” Willow gave Boscha a tentative look, something dangerously close to hope in her eyes. “Do you mean it?” Boscha gave a small, hesitant nod, Willow’s eyes brightening in response. A sincere apology, from Boscha of all people. Willow took a deep breath, sighing. “I’m not sure if I’ll ever forgive you for what you’ve put me through over the years, but for now, I can accept your apology at least. But I think it’d be best if we stayed away from each other.”

Boscha stilled for a moment, before nodding. “Yeah, it makes sense. You’re not the only one who's told me that.”

“Hey! Hey!!” A figure ran up to the two, panting with excitement. Cloaked under a heavy layer of fabric, they frantically waved their hands. “Did you guys hear!? The Owl Lady and Coven Head Lilith are having a Witch’s Duel!! You gotta see this!” And with that said, the figure ran off to more people, rambling about the impending fight.

The two exchanged bemused glances. Boscha cocked her head. “Are you gonna go see it?”

Willow shook her head. “No. As much fun as it would probably be, I’m meeting up with my friends soon. You?”

Boscha shrugged. “Eh, might as well. I’ve got nothing better to do.”

And with that, the two parted ways, blissfully ignorant of the shadowy figures stalking them to their respective destinations.

Gus glanced around, frantically trying to figure out where his friends were. Oh, he just knew he shouldn’t have taken that break to discuss human trivia with Eileen at her stand!! Feeling his nerves build up, Gus was overjoyed when he saw Willow walking his way. “Willow!” He cried, rushing her for a hug.

“Oof!” Willow huffed, all but wincing from the impact. Looking down at her longtime friend, Willow chuckled. “Hey Gus! You can let go if you want.” She teased, giving a small grin at the way he flushed and chuckled nervously before letting go. Sighing lightly, she quickly gave herself a brush down to straighten her clothes.

“Heh, sorry about that. I got a little worried when I lost track of where I was.” Gus said, sheepishly rubbing his head. He noticed an odd look to Willow, like she had something on her mind she didn’t want to think about, a lot like the look she sometimes got around Amity. “Hey, did something happen?” He asked. Willow was his first and best friend, and while he could be oblivious sometimes, he tried to notice how his friends were feeling as much as he could, even if he didn’t succeed.

“No, yes, *sigh* I don’t know.” Willow glumly admitted. “I’m just a little confused right now.”

“What happened?” Gus asked as the two got moving, scanning the area for any sign of Luz.

“I had a run-in with Boscha, and it was weird.” Willow bluntly stated.

Alarms started sounding in Gus’s head. Boscha was always the cause of something in his mind. “Oh no, what did she do?” He fretfully asked. He may not be much help in a fight, but he’d still stand up for his friend if need be.

“She… apologized. Sincerely.” Willow’s wide eyes reflected the dumbfounded confusion on Gus’s face, a confusion that she herself felt.

Gus paused, processing her words. “Okay, I get why you’re confused. That is seriously out of character for Boscha.” He crossed his arms. “Do you think it was a trick?”

“That’s the thing; I don’t.” Willow replied. “She genuinely seemed to mean it. I just don’t understand why.”

“Well, nothing we can do about it now.” Gus sighed. Suddenly, his eyes sharpened; he had spotted Luz! “Hey look, it’s Luz!” He exclaimed, tugging on Willow’s sleeve, vigorously pointing.

“Yeah, it is!” Willow happily replied, but then, her eyes narrowed, focusing on the figure next to her. “Is that… Amity?” Needless to say, she was shocked. She had thought Luz and Amity were on bad terms, and was certainly not expecting Amity to be striding towards her like she was on a mission.

“Huh, you’re right.” Gus casually stated. He looked at Willow. “Well, it looks like you’ll be able to give her that apology, right?”

“Yeah.” Willow said tentatively, her stomach churning. She did feel bad about what had happened when Luz helped her, but she couldn’t deny her inner turmoil at seeing her new friend, and her old friend being so… chummy.

“Hey guys.” Luz casually stated, strolling up to them, Amity right beside her. “Have you guys been enjoying the Covention?”

“It’s been pretty good so far,” Gus said, trying to act casual. It hadn’t even been a minute, and things were already tense. “So, it looks like you ran into Amity, eh?” They looked to the girl in question, who suddenly seemed far more self-conscious.

“Indeed.” Amity stated, fighting the embarrassed blush that came from the sudden attention. While she could handle crowds with ease, a close group composed of those who had every reason to take issue with her was another matter altogether. She turned to Willow. “Hello, Willow.”

“Amity.” Willow said, as cordially and as evenly as she could. “It’s… good to see you again.”

“To you as well.” Amity stated placidly, keeping her face blank. “I would like to offer you my apologies for my conduct immediately prior to your transfer to the Plant Track.”

“Oh!” Willow exclaimed, eyes widening slightly. And here she was all ready…

“However, it is contingent on you giving me an apology in kind.” Amity said firmly, eyes focused intently on the Witchling before her.

Willow gave a sigh, a mix of exasperation and relief; that was more in line with what she’d been expecting, and was pretty reasonable all around. “Yeah, I figured. I honestly wanted to apologize anyway.” She admitted. “Amity, I really am sorry for what happened. I was feeling overwhelmed, and what you said hurt me, but that was no excuse for me to lose control like that. I’m also sorry you got in trouble over it all.” She said morosely. Whatever issues she had with Amity, whatever lay between them, she never wanted to see the girl hurt, and she certainly didn’t want to hurt her personally.

Amity’s eyes widened slightly at the sincere emotion in Willow’s apology. While Luz had informed her that the other girl wanted to apologize, she hadn’t realized how deeply what had happened had affected Willow. She bit her lip. “I must also apologize.” She said, lowering her head. “I may have had reason to be suspicious, but I shouldn’t have lost control of my temper, or accused you so publicly and in front of a teacher. More than that, I should’ve tried to get your side of the story, and understand what was happening first. I was cruel, and I was reckless, and I hope you can forgive me for that.” She bowed, clutching her dress, before straightening.

The tension increased slightly, both Luz and Gus wondering how Willow would respond. Amity certainly seemed sincere, but it all came down to how Willow reacted. Luckily, whatever fears they might’ve had were quickly disproven, as Willow gave a soft giggle, showing a sunny smile, the only dimmer being the sad look in her eyes. “Yeah, I think I can do that. So, we just let it rest now?”

“Indeed.” Amity responded, giving a professional, if noticeably relieved, smile of her own. Seeing that things between her and Willow were resolved and at something resembling peace, for the moment at least, Amity turned to Luz. “So, do you mind answering my questions while we peruse the Covention?”

Luz gave a short laugh. “Sure Blight, that’s alright with me.” She replied with a smirk.

“Ah, that’s so sweet.” A new voice hissed, sending chills down the group’s collective spines. “But I don’t think you kiddies will be going anywhere. Especially not you, Blinder.” Shock, and fear, surged through Luz at that name. A name she’d hoped to NEVER hear again. As the group turned outwards, they saw something unsettling. A ring of black-cloaked figures had circled them, with one figure, over six feet tall and at least four feet wide, towering over them.

“Well, Amity.” Luz said glibly, her words not entirely hiding her fear. “It looks like you’ll be getting a demonstration of one of your answers pretty soon.”

King cheerfully whistled to himself, enjoying all the swag he had managed to get from the suckers attending this thing. All he had to do was pretend to be interested for a few moments and boom! Free stuff! He had already gotten a tote, a sweet hat, a tee-shirt, some knick-knacks, and a cupcake!! Speaking of which… He gleefully chomped down on the last of his tasty treat.

Humming along, he naturally wasn’t looking where he was going. And why should he? He was the King of Demons, looking was for peasants!! Or, at least, that’s what he would tell Luz when she asked why he had a boo-boo from falling, and definitely not tell her that he had forgotten.

“Oof!!” He said, slamming into the ground. He turned a scowling gaze upwards, the minor menace undercut by the tears building in his gaze. His eyes widened as he saw who had tripped him, however accidentally. “You! The interloper!!”

Boscha flicked her gaze downward, her brows pinching in annoyance. With a click of her tongue, she huddled up closer to the side of the stand she was positioned against, watching the group ahead of them. “What do you want, you little menace?”

“How dare you trip the King of Demons!” He cried, staring forlornly at his scattered swag. “Do you know how much fake interest I had to show to get all this!?”

“Don’t know, don’t care.” Boscha muttered, trying her hardest not to be seen. “I’m kind of busy, and I really don’t have time to spend listening to your whining.” She bit out, eyes riveted on the Hexsiders ahead of her.

King cocked an eyebrow, arms crossed in doubt. “Busy? Looks to me like you’re just hiding from those girls up ahead.” He pointed at the girls in question, all clustered around one girl in particular; a young Witchling with white, almost silvery hair, buzzed down the sides and the main portion bound in a ponytail. A happy, grin sprawled across her face, sporting a cute blue scarf, decorated with silver music notes.

“I’m just- waiting for them to move on, that’s all.” Boscha muttered, an embarrassed blush forming. “I really don’t want them to know I’m here.”

“Weh? Why not?” King asked, feeling puzzled.

Boscha sighed, really wanting to get this conversation done with. She jerked a finger at the group. “You see that girl in the center, the one with the scarf?” She asked.

“Yeah.”

“That’s Skara.” Boscha stated. “She’s my- She was my best friend.” Her face fell, somber.

“Really?” King asked. He gave the girl a closer look. “She seems too cool to be friends with you.” He stated matter of factly.

“Why you little-” She started, before forcing herself to take a calming breath. “Whatever. The point is, she and I, and the rest of them really, aren’t on good terms at the moment, so I’m trying to stay away from them. That’s it.”

“Whatever.” King shrugged, before spotting something. He gave Boscha’s sleeve a tug. “Uh, don’t look now, but it looks like your ‘ex-friends’ are getting into trouble.” He stated, pointing at the group. Sure enough, a cloaked figure had approached the group, and was trying to start up a conversation. As the girls pulled back from them, the figure leaned in closer, the sounds getting louder. Skara tried to insert herself between the figure and her friends, only for her arm to be grabbed.

King sent Boscha an alarmed look as she stood by. “Aren’t you gonna do something!?” He demanded incredulously.

Boscha bit her lip, the sound of accusations, screams filling her ears. “They’ll be fine.” She said, trying to shrug it off. “The guards will notice and take care of it. They don’t need the help of… someone like me.” She murmured. True to her words, the commotion had attracted the attention of a guard, who was angrily gesturing towards the figure, who had since dropped Skara. Boscha turned an uneasy glance towards King. “You see? They’re fine.” She reassured, mostly to herself.

King gave her a disappointed look, before glancing back. His eyes widened. “Uh… interloper? Boscha? I don’t think the guard will be much help!” He exclaimed, pointing back.

“What are you talking abboOOOOUUUTTTT!??” She asked, pitch rising at the sight before her. The cloaked figure, standing tall while the guard frantically struggled in their grip, lifted into the air. As the figure turned back to the girls, they casually snapped the guard’s neck, dropping them like a sack of trash. That’s when the screaming started.

The crowd roared, their collective blood-lust surging at the sight before them. Eda Clawthorne, the infamous Owl Lady of the Bonesburough, squaring off against Lilith Clawthorne, the Head of the Emperor’s Coven. It was going to be a battle for the ages. Hieronymus Bump, Hexside’s Principal, had been called to announce the battle, a member of the Emperor’s Coven presiding below to officiate.

“Welcome, one and all!” Bump’s voice boomed. “Today, not only do we experience the wonders of the Covention, but we also have received the privilege of witnessing one of the greatest battles to grace the Isles in Decades!!” The crowd screamed in enthusiasm. “Today, The Owl Lady has come before us, challenging the head of the Emperor’s Coven herself, to a Witch’s Duel! Who shall win? Who shall lose? Well, that’s what we are here to witness!”

Bump gestured to the left, Lilith elegantly strolling forward. “Lilith Clawthorne! Head of the Emperor’s Coven, and enforcer of his will!” He gestured to the right, Eda resolutely striding forth, an usually serious look on her face. “Edalyn Clawthorne! Bonesburough’s very own Wild Witch!” As the two entered their positions, Bump raised his hands. “Now… let the battle begin!”

Without a word, the two shot forward. Eda rapidly twirled her staff, each revolution conjuring a spell circle, columns of fire blasting forth. Eyes widening, Lilith quickly dodged those closest, summoning a barrier to block the rest. Turning, she held in a gasp as Eda suddenly flew into her field of vision, staff raised to club her. Quick as a blink, Lilith whipped her own staff forward, a crack echoing as they crossed. The two sisters glared at each other, years of bitterness filling their gazes.

With a smirk and a shout, Eda summoned a burst of energy at the point their staffs connected, launching them both back, with Eda nimbly falling to her feet. Spinning rapidly, Eda formed a colossal spell circle across the ground, a massive replicant of Hooty rising from the earth, before it charged at Lilith. She gasped, only for the beast to swallow her. Gritting her teeth in outrage, Lilith unleashed a burst of power, blasting her way free. Turning her gaze back to her sister, Lilith unleashed a barrage of bolts, sixteen in total, towards Eda. Without a care, Eda snapped her fingers, the massive construct that Lilith had demolished reforming into a swarm of owl-shaped bullets, intercepting Lilith’s attack.

Eda lunged into the air, a massive ball of magic building above her head, the sheer size drawing gasps of fright and awe from the crowd. With a smirk, Eda launched it down, grinning at the sight of Lilith forming another defensive barrier, this one encompassing her body entirely. Eda’s attack struck, and the barrier held… for a moment. With a crash of force, the barrier yielded to the stronger spell, shock rippling through the crowd. Lilith leapt for cover, barely clearing the radius of the blast.

With a furious cry, Lilith lunged towards Eda, summoning a colossal mass of lightning, launching it as a spear of pure force. Without even blinking, Eda conjured a wave of wind and grit, intercepting the spell and driving the lightning into the ground. In a flash, Eda closed the distance between her and her sister, driving the butt of her staff into Lilith’s gut. Lilith gave a choked cry, the air forced from her lungs, her stomach screaming in pain from the blow. She flew back, crashing into the wall. Rapidly pulling herself to her feet, Lilith stared down her sister, forming a barrier around her once more, only to let it ripple outward as a physical wave. Raising an eyebrow, Eda calmly reared her staff back, smashing through the weaponized barrier with ease.

Desperation surging through her, Lilith made to attack… and Eda slammed the other Witch back into the wall. Eda’s staff was pressed tight against Lilith’s throat, obstructing her air, and pinning Lilith’s staff arm. Lilith’s free hand was pinned by Eda’s raised leg, leaving Eda free to cast a spell at any time if it looked like her sister would slip free of the pin.

Eda turned her cool gaze towards her sister. “Yield. Now.” She ordered, lightly pressing on her staff for emphasis.

“I-I c-c-can’t!! I H-have to-” Lilith choked out, struggling against Eda’s hold on her. She had to get free, she couldn’t lose!! Not here, not now, hot after making that vow!! She had to find a way out of this, something, anything-!!

“Lilith.” Eda growled out, her patience spent. “Either you yield, or I keep you here until you lose consciousness from lack of air. Your choice.” Eda was done with this game. She was done humoring Lilith’s obsession with ‘proving herself superior.’ This was the end of it. One way, or another.

“I!” Lilith cried, before stopping. There was no way out of this. No trick or surprise that would give her the win. This was impossible. Impossible!! Eda was still cursed, still weakened, she had been growing weaker for years!! ...And she had still crushed Lilith like it was nothing. Tears pooled in Lilith’s eyes. “I yield.” She said. Eda nodded in satisfaction, allowing her sister to drop to the ground, gasping for air. The crowd had fallen silent. That fight, if you could call it one properly, was so clearly in Eda’s favor, that Eda releasing her opponent only really had one explanation.

“A-A-And the winner! Is Eda the Owl Lady!” The poor Coven Guard selected to oversee this beatdown announced as clearly as he could. The stunned crowd gave an exclamation of praise for the fight, still trying to process what they had seen. It was well known that Eda claimed to be the most powerful Witch on the Isles. It looked like today, that claim could be declared fact, barring Belos that is.

*Whirrr…. Schlik!*

The guard suddenly froze up, a choking rattle echoing from their throat. The crowd, Eda, Lilith, and Bump all watched in horror as the poor Guard slowly pulled loose the curved, angle shaped blade sticking out of their throat, as they collapsed into a boneless heap.

“Well, well, well! That was certainly entertaining.” A cold, icy voice sounded from the shadows. Giving a slow, mocking clap, a figure waltzed out into the main area of the arena, a surge of followers draped in black storming along with them. “I must say, we had intended to intervene in this so-called duel, but you just had to end it so quickly. You didn’t even spare the time to torture the wretched thing!” The man, dropping his cloak to the floor, proclaimed. Eda gasped at what she saw. A long, chiseled face, eyes the color of deep-winter ice, inky black hair framing his face. And rounded ears. The human man gave an ugly smirk, sadistic delight dancing across his face. “Ah well, that just means I get to have more fun tormenting you backwater fools some more!”

Turning to the crowd, the man raised his hand, an icy chill gathered over his palm. Flexing his fist, a bolt of ice shaped into a pointed cone shot into the crowd, a young Witchling, no older than 10, slumping forward, blood pooling from their chest. The man spoke, voice booming through the arena. “People of the Boiling Isles!! We…” He gestured to his compatriots, who had all discarded their cloaks, revealing that, yes, each and every one was human. “Are the Black Dog Squadron of the soon to be masters of this land, Oroboros!! And this is your death knell!” Turning to his followers, he boldly declared. “My Comrades!! Our time is at hand! Let not even a single Witch or Demon leave this Center alive!!” His followers roared, even as the crowd finally started screaming.

[akjensen-writes]

holdin’ out for a hero

short story - wlw [Whitney/Taylor]

TW - suicide idealization (brief)

“That’ll be 13.95.” 

Taylor says it automatically, feeling more like a robot than a person. She waits patiently as the customer across the counter inserts their card into the reader. It buzzes several times before the card is removed. She glances at her watch as discreetly as possible. Her red cashier’s vest reads ‘I dig Mr. Pig’ and if that isn’t bad enough, she’s got another three hours left until the end of her shift. An end that can’t come soon enough, for so many more reasons than sheer boredom.

Thursday nights at the Piggly Wiggly, aka the Pig -- pronounced “the Peeg” from the heavy accents of the locals -- are never very busy. They carry the same droning, languid feeling that Taylor can hear coming from her own voice, and she spends more time staring at the clock and contemplating her own existence than actually doing anything.

She’s been here for four years, which is approximately three and a half too many, with no escape plan in sight. The pay is dismal, but it’s a job, and in a small southern town, that’s really all she can ask for. But she’s trapped, and every day the walls seem to close in on her a little more. If this is the best she can do, then she isn’t sure what the point is anymore. 

Chris, the cashier in the next lane, methodically swipes product across his counter with mind-numbing precision. Cereal, beep. Bananas, beep. Eggs, beep. All in a steady, even rhythm. Boring, beep. Useless, beep. Taylor taps her fingers on the counter. The same ‘80’s mix of songs rotates over and over again on the dated speakers. She wonders how many times she’s listened to it all the way through at this point. A thousand, maybe. She knows she can recite every track, sing every lyric, and that in and of itself is nothing to be proud of. 

Bonnie Tyler’s rasping voice cuts into the silence. I’m holdin’ out for a hero ‘til the end of the night. 

“Aren’t we all, Bonnie?” Taylor mutters to herself. “Aren’t we all?”

Tonight is the night, she thinks, as she plasters a smile on her face and hands the change over to her customer. Her lane is once again empty. The fluorescent lights buzz above her as she stares into space. Tonight is her last shift, for good. Tonight is her last anything. She’s going nowhere, and doesn’t even have the energy to care about it anymore. It’s not like it would matter. She could disappear off the face of the Earth and she doubts anyone would so much as blink.

It isn’t sadness, really. It’s just nothing. Deep, dark, nothing.

“Hey Taylor, I’m headin’ out.” Derek, the weekday manager talks as he’s coming around the corner. He always does that. He starts his sentences while he’s at odd places in the store, appearing just as his thought trails off. His beady little eyes dart around nervously as he glances at her register. It’s a silent reminder to thoroughly count the money before she turns over the key. He’s nice enough, Taylor thinks, even if all he does is sit in the back room and watch reruns of old ‘90’s cartoons. Nice enough is all it takes in this town, apparently. But a small pang of sadness hits her in the chest as she thinks about the fact that she’s never going to see him again. 

“Have a great night,” Taylor says, nodding at him, trying to commit his squirrely features to memory. He has a small chin and scruffs of facial hair that he only keeps to look older than he really is. These are the two distinguishing features that stand out as somewhat noteworthy. In that moment, she feels sorry for him. “Thanks for everything, Derek.” 

She feels weirdly nostalgic, nudged on by the anticipation of tonight being the end of everything. Derek has done exactly nothing for her, except leave her alone, which she supposes is something to be thankful for. He narrows his eyes in suspicion as he looks her over. 

“Uh, sure,” he replies, frowning. “Just don’t forget to lock up, okay?”

It’s such a trivial request, but it fits, somehow. Don’t forget to lock up. Don’t make a mess. Just get it over with quickly and be done, will you? We don’t have any time for this. 

Taylor almost smiles. 

The sound of a throat clearing breaks the moment. She turns her attention back to her line. JenandJudy are standing there, wearing identical flannel shirts, staring at her with sweet, expectant smiles.

“How’s it goin’?” they ask, together in perfect unison. Taylor nods at them and starts scanning their items. A case of beer, and a bottle of whiskey. They’re probably going to the woods for a bonfire. 

They all went to high school together, and at one point, Taylor assumes Jen and Judy were separate entities. But for as long as she can remember they’ve been together, their names a one word anomaly. JenandJudy. They’re the kind of lesbians that have now merged identities so ferociously, there’s no telling where one ends and the other begins. It’s borderline creepy, the way they almost look like twins at this point, but no one ever comments on it out loud. Taylor assumes that’s just what happens when you fall in love, but something about it seems a little...much.

Not that she would know.  

“You should come to the clearing,” Jen suggests, with Judy nodding emphatically. “We’re headin’ there in a few.”

“Yeah, maybe,” Taylor verbally agrees, while mentally declining. The clearing is a dump, almost literally, where everyone in town gathers as an excuse to do something other than sit at home. Taylor hasn’t been there since she was 15. JenandJudy smile, satisfied at doing the bare minimum in extending the invitation. 

Judy’s arm stays protectively around Jen’s waist. She watches her with starry-eyed fascination as her girlfriend pays. ‘Look at this incredible specimen!’ her eyes seem to exclaim, like it’s the singular most fantastic thing she’s ever witnessed. ‘She pays for groceries better than anyone I’ve ever seen! Can you believe it?’

Taylor snorts to herself. She isn’t mad, or even put off by it. It must be nice to have someone who thinks you’re fascinating, even when there’s nothing remotely amazing going on. The jealousy is warm and cozy, like a blanket she can pull snugly around her shoulders in her hour of need.

“See you later!” they announce, gathering their alcohol and heading for the door. Taylor waves a final goodbye.

“How do you tell them apart?” a voice teases from somewhere behind her. She turns, and instantly she’s met with bright hazel eyes that seem so sharp, they could probably dissect her right where she’s standing. Taylor swallows several times, unsuccessful in her attempts to get her mouth working properly. She smiles weakly, shrugging. “I’m just kidding,” the blonde stranger says, running her fingers through her hair. Taylor catches the way her slightly tanned cheeks flush, and a warmth runs through her chest. 

“It’s a good question,” Taylor says, glancing back out the door where JenandJudy have just left. “At this point, I don’t think I can.”

“Fair enough,” she giggles, and Taylor’s heart, inexplicably, flutters. 

Sexy customers are not really a thing at The Pig, and when it happens, it’s almost like spotting a unicorn. In all the years Taylor has been working here, it’s only happened half a time, and that’s because the woman in question was wearing so much makeup that Taylor couldn’t make an accurate assessment. 

She’s suddenly acutely aware of her horrifying vest, and the fact that her brown hair is disgusting, all matted and greasy against her scalp. Of course this would happen tonight, of all nights. The final night. Why couldn’t she have made an effort, just this once? Maybe she should have planned better. But she knows no amount of planning would ever prepare her to lock eyes with someone as stunning as the girl in front of her now.

She adjusts her dark framed glasses and tries to focus on doing her job without saying anything horrifying.

There are only two items to scan: a sympathy card and flowers. Taylor glances up at the stranger and notices her wringing her fingers together, looking around the store with a sort of forlorn expression. She clears her throat. 

“These are really pretty,” Taylor offers, gesturing at the flowers as she scans the other item. She doesn’t know why she comments. She usually makes it a rule not to get involved in other people’s purchases. It’s none of her business. Whenever she goes shopping, she’s so conscious of what’s going through the clerk’s mind that she almost can’t stand it. But this feels different. Magnetic, somehow, like she’s drawn to this girl, like not saying something is a worse transgression. Besides, she started it. The conversation feels like it has to go somewhere. 

“You think?” the girl replies, taking them with a skeptical smile. It’s a lavender themed wildflower bouquet. Classy, in Taylor’s not-so-expert opinion. “I wasn’t sure.”

“They’re great,” Taylor assures her.

“They’re for my friend,” the girl explains. “Her cousin died, and I wanted to stop by and do something nice for her, you know? But I’m the worst at these things. I never know what to freakin’ say.”

“Sometimes just showing up is enough,” Taylor says, and she means it with everything she has. She wishes more people would understand that. Just being there means everything.

“That’s a good point,” she replies, looking thoughtful. “It’s always nice to know that people care. I wish we didn’t always wait for funerals to show that to each other, you know?”

“Yeah, I know what you mean.”

“It’s too late, and then what?” the girl asks, almost exasperated. “It’s not fair. People should just be nicer to each other.”

“They should,” Taylor agrees, her heart pounding as they make eye contact. The girl smiles, a dazzling, dreamy smile, and Taylor’s insides melt. “She’s lucky to have you.”

The girl takes her change and shrugs. As she gathers her items, she pauses and nods at Taylor again. “Thanks for listening to me ramble,” she says. “Genuinely. I haven’t come to this grocery store before, but I just moved from across town. I think this is going to be my new regular spot. I’m sure I’ll see you around soon.”

“I’ll keep an eye out,” Taylor promises. 

Her eyes follow the girl to the exit. She watches her carry her items carefully, her other hand fishing in her jeans pocket for her keys. Taylor stares long after she’s gone and decides that maybe, just maybe, she can hold on for a little longer.

----

The charming stranger returns a week later, on an unassuming Tuesday evening to do a routine stock of groceries. Taylor is working, holding on to the hope of being able to see her again. If that makes her pathetic, then she’s already mostly made peace with that. She sees the stunning blonde sashay in around 7pm, wearing the exact same outfit as she wore when Taylor met her: a red zip up sweatshirt, white tshirt, and jeans that seem to be tailor made for her. Taylor’s mouth is instantly dry, her insides pulsing like the walls of a night club. The girl glances at her phone with a focused expression, before placing it in her pocket. 

Taylor wonders idly if she normally shops on off hours like this, but she supposes she’ll figure it out sooner or later. That’s the thing about always working at a place so integral to people’s lives: the routines become part of her. She knows Mr. Jensen, the math teacher, always shops on Wednesday mornings because he has two free periods and hates crowds. He stocks up on Folger’s coffee like they’re going out of business, and he has a particular affinity for Corn Flakes cereal. 

Taylor can tell you about most of her regulars. She knows their preferences, their routines, their schedules. She even knows their moods. An extra bottle of wine for the dark haired lady who works downtown? A rough week. Lactaid milk for the balding guy that lives in her apartment complex? His mom is coming to town. 

All this without saying much more than “paper or plastic?” and “did you find what you were looking for?”

“Hey!” a now familiar voice announces. Taylor turns, and once again is taken by mystery girl’s marvelous hazel eyes. She’s smiling like they’re in on a tremendous secret, even though there’s nothing coincidental about running into her here. 

“You’re back,” Taylor greets, trying to keep her voice steady, like she hasn’t been counting down the minutes until she could see this girl again. She absolutely has, but no reason for her to know that. “Did you find what you were looking for?”

“Yup,” the girl says, piling her items on the conveyor belt. “Most importantly--” she reaches into her cart and picks up a bottle of wine. A red blend from Napa. That tracks. Pretty girls from out of town drink smooth red wines. Everyone knows that. 

She slides over her ID and Taylor scans it quickly. Not too quickly to notice her name, though. It’s like a slight-of-hand card trick, the way she does it without moving her eyes. The result of years of on the job training. She can’t say the Pig didn’t give her at least one weirdly applicable skill.

The blonde’s picture beams back at her. Whose DMV photo comes out this gorgeous? Taylor bites her lip as her gaze flickers to the flawless face in front of her. Nice to meet you, Whitney Matthews, of Cherry Grove Court. According to her license, she’s 24 as of April 4th, making her two years older than Taylor. She slides the ID back and rings up the rest of her items. The haul is mostly produce, almond milk, eggs. She’s clearly a responsible eater, one of those people who seem to be into wellness. She probably does yoga. Taylor sneaks a glance at Whitney’s legs. 

Definitely yoga.

There’s a few frozen pizzas and a surprising appearance from a large bag of skittles. Taylor grins as she rings them up. 

“I love skittles,” Whitney says with a teasing smile. “Don’t judge me.”

“Who doesn’t love skittles?”

“Thank you,” Whitney nods, approving. She grabs her bags and puts them back in her cart. “Same time next week?” She chuckles when she says it and Taylor’s cheeks flush, as if this is a standing date the two of them now have. 

With a nod she replies, “I’ll be here.”

Whitney gives her a little wave, and Taylor wonders if she’s like this with everyone. Is she a serial conversationalist, making flirtatious small talk with every clerk in town? Or is this something a little more significant?

She knows what she wants the answer to be.

---

From then on, every Tuesday, like clockwork, Whitney comes into the Pig and does her usual shopping trip. She always seems to wear her signature red hoodie and jeans, like she’s got her own version of a grocery uniform-- only hers isn’t mortifying and ugly. Quite the opposite, if Taylor has anything to say about it. It’s casual and sexy which is a combination only Whitney can pull off with such ease. She usually has her hair up in a ponytail, but sometimes she comes in with wavy, sunkissed locks, and Taylor can’t seem to shake the desperate need to run her fingers through it.

Today is a skittles day, which means Whitney’s in a good mood. These are the weeks Taylor loves the most. This is when Whitney gives her teasing smiles that stay on her face a little longer than usual, and offers tidbits about her day. She’s a nurse in the orthopedic wing at the hospital, she says, and this week she got to scrub in on a really complicated sounding surgery. A knee reconstruction, or something. It’s so impressive that Taylor almost forgets she’s supposed to be scanning groceries, lost in the idea of Whitney out there doing good, saving lives. She feels inadequate in comparison, but can’t seem to dwell on it while Whitney is here looking at her like she’s the only person in the world she wants to talk to. 

Sometimes, on weeks like this, she’ll share her weekend plans, or talk about something she’s planning to cook. She likes to go hiking, which isn’t a surprise. She also loves Italian food. Taylor listens and catalogues everything in a mental Whitney spreadsheet that she keeps in her brain, in case she ever has a reason to need it.

She hopes one day, she will. 

Some weeks, though, Whitney only buys the staples, and her smile is a little slower, her eyes a little muted. She’s more tired, or stressed, or something that Taylor can’t detangle, and those are the weeks Taylor wishes didn’t have to exist. On those days, it’s almost like the little light in Whitney flickers, too exhausted to be kept on at the normal brightness she exudes. She quietly greets Taylor, and thanks her when the transaction is done. She puts her bags in her cart and slowly shuffles out of the store, leaving Taylor alone with nothing but Bonnie Tyler crooning in the background. 

Turn around, bright eyes.

“Shut up, Bonnie,” Taylor mutters, disappointed.

---

Taylor tries to avoid working Saturdays because the Pig turns into an overrun madhouse of exhausted mothers, screaming children, and bleary eyed white collar workers who can’t sneak away from the office any other time to do their shopping. The lines are nonstop. The shelves are in a perpetual state of near-depletion. Everywhere she looks, it’s a disaster, the store ground zero of a perfectly executed attack.

But the extra cash is necessary if Taylor is going to go back to school. She decides to get serious about it on a random night when her shift ends. Whitney had been in, elated from a successful day caring for a patient with a broken leg, and something in Taylor just clicked. Maybe this isn’t everything her life has in store for her. Maybe the Pig isn’t her last stop.

Nursing probably isn’t a good fit, she’s squeamish around needles and doesn’t think she can handle that much potential death. It’s ironic, considering her state of mind a while ago, but the two ideas remain disconnected. She considers teaching, or journalism, or maybe even accounting. She’s always been good with numbers. The options are suddenly endless.

She’s giddy at the prospect, and it seems to overflow into her work. She’s chatting with customers for no reason today -- asking more than the obligatory questions, and even going so far as to compliment a lady’s hair cut. Everything feels brighter, somehow. 

The morning goes by in a blur of produce codes and aisle clean ups, but the pace is strangely satisfying. It’s already 2pm by the time she checks her watch, which is astonishing. Her face hurts from smiling at so many people, but that’s a nice problem to have. She turns her attention to the next customer and her heart catches in her throat.

“Twice in one week, lucky me,” Whitney says cheerfully, smiling a hundred watt smile as she places the divider on the belt to separate her items from the person behind her. “How ya doin?”

“Great,” Taylor squeaks, her voice cracking horribly. She clears her throat and studies Whitney’s stuff. A birthday cake and some wine. Taylor’s stomach drops. She glances at her watch. April 4th. “How--how are you?”

It’s Whitney’s birthday, but she doesn’t want to bring it up. She doesn’t want to explain why she knows it, why April 4th is ingrained in her memory. It isn’t for any creepy reasons, honest. She just finds Whitney fascinating on every level. And a little sexy. It’s not a crime to be invested.

Whitney shrugs. “Oh, you know, doing okay,” she says, and it isn’t very convincing. She looks suddenly defeated, and Taylor wants so badly to help. 

“Got any plans tonight?” she asks, hoping it might coax something out of her. She wants Whitney to be doing something extraordinary, to have a day that celebrates her, the way she deserves. But her demeanor stays reserved. 

“Dinner with my parents, and my sister,” she says softly. “Nothin’ crazy.”

“And cake, of course.”

“And cake,” Whitney agrees. “Of course.”

The receipt is printed, and Taylor finally cracks. She wants to ask about her family, about her sister. Is she older or younger? Is she anything like Whitney or completely the opposite? Does she get along with her family?

“Is it your birthday?” is all she asks instead, the only question she already knows the answer to. She blinks at Whitney carefully.

Whitney’s cheeks flush as she nods. “The cake gave it away, huh?”

“Maybe a little,” Taylor replies.

“Pretty sad, I know, buying my own cake,” Whitney shrugs. “It kind of snuck up on me this year.”

“No, it’s not sad,” Taylor says, trying her best to reassure her. She carefully places the cake in a bag and gently ties the top. Their hands touch as Whitney takes it, and a jolt goes through Taylor’s core. She swallows heavily, trying to gain her composure.“This way at least you know you’re getting one you like, right?”

“Very true,” Whitney finally smiles. “Something about bakery frosting, I swear. I don’t even care what kind of cake it is, but this frosting is addicting. My mom is probably baking something, so she’s going to be so pissed.” She laughs at that, and Taylor joins her, for the simple fact that Whitney seems to finally be cheerful. 

“I hope you have a really great birthday,” Taylor says, handing her the receipt. 

“Thanks,” Whitney takes it, her nose scrunching as she smiles. “I’m glad I saw you.”

Whitney exits, and Taylor’s eyes follow her for a few seconds. She wonders, briefly, if Whitney is happy.

---

Conversations have never come easy to Taylor. People are fascinating, but only from a distance. She likes to observe, to formulate an idea of a person curated from the tidbits they choose to share. She’s always been told she’s a great listener. Mostly, it’s because she doesn’t have a choice. She doesn’t want to say something stupid or awkward and disrupt the connection she has with someone. Instead, she nods along, perfectly content to absorb whatever people feel like sharing.

Whitney doesn’t seem to mind Taylor’s silence. She’s warm and genuine, always patiently nudging the conversation ahead and navigating when Taylor prefers to coast. Granted, they don’t sit down and have long heart to hearts, but their connection is purposeful. They speak with intent; Whitney always seems to focus on Taylor and only Taylor when they speak. She isn’t on her phone or reading over her shoulder or flipping through a magazine. She even goes as far as pausing on unloading her groceries in order to finish her thought, or wait for Taylor’s response. She’s probably the worst to stand behind in line, because she never seems to be in a rush. She simply exists in the moment, thoughtful and patient and kind, allowing herself to simply be.

Their routine continues week in and week out. Whitney comes into the store, seeks out Taylor’s line, and pauses to catch up. They’re cautiously toeing the line from acquaintances to almost-friendship, a gray area that Taylor knows is going to eventually require a leap. But just seeing Whitney’s face light up when she holds up two bags of potato chips one Tuesday night in late May is enough for Taylor to be grateful. 

She’ll take Whitney in any form she can get, even if it’s just as the adorable customer with the dazzling eyes who gets overly excited about a potato chip sale.

“Buy 2 get 2, I’m so freaking pumped!” Whitney exclaims, placing them down on the belt and grinning in triumph. She doesn’t usually buy chips, so Taylor’s eyebrow raises in question. 

“What?”

“You don’t usually buy them,” Taylor shrugs, scanning the package. Lays BBQ and Wavy. Interesting.

“My friend is having a barbecue and I’m on snack duty,” Whitney says, surveying the rest of her items with a frown. She places her hands on her hips. “What am I missing?”

Taylor follows her eyes and takes note of the contents: several kinds of dips, and what looks like one of each type of chip flavor the store carries. She shakes her head and grins. “Did you leave any on the shelves?”

“Very funny,” Whitney rolls her eyes.

“Sweet tea?”

“Yeah?”

“I don’t see it,” Taylor frowns, searching again. 

“What?” Whitney tilts her head thoughtfully to the side before her eyes widen. “Oh! Sweet tea. Sweet tea! I thought you said sweetie.”

Whitney’s cheeks flush, and the muscles in Taylor’s stomach clench at the unexpected endearment. She’s warm and tingly all over, and might actually pass out, now that she’s processing the whole exchange. Whitney reacted so naturally, like tossing out ‘sweetie’ is just something they casually do.

Taylor chuckles, shaking her head. “They basically sound the same, yeah,” she agrees, and Whitney holds her hand loosely over her mouth. 

“I’m an idiot,” she says. “No, I don’t have sweet tea. Should I?”

“Sort of a requirement around these parts.”

“Dang, the more you know.” Whitney glances at the drink aisle and back to Taylor. 

“No worries, I’ll go get it for you,” Taylor says, already turning toward the aisle. She slips past several customers and heads for the back of the store. She could navigate with her eyes closed, but she still picks up the pace so she doesn’t keep Whitney waiting. She grabs the biggest one she can find and heads back to her register. 

“You’re a lifesaver,” Whitney gushes, and Taylor feels her cheeks burn. That’s her, the friendly neighborhood sweet tea proctor. 

“It’s not quite the real deal, but it’s damn good,” Taylor says as she rings everything up. 

“The real deal huh? You’ll have to tell me how to do that,” Whitney says. She places her card in the reader and grins. “I’m obviously not from here originally.”

She has a smooth accent, but not one Taylor can easily place. Her voice isn’t nasally like a northerner, but she talks faster than most of the people around here. It’s actually been driving Taylor crazy for weeks.

“Where are you from?”

Whitney gives her a teasing smile, her full lips twisting as she grins. “Guess.”

Taylor thinks about it more. Their eyes meet and her heart flips, the way it always does when Whitney’s around. She squints and sighs. “California?”

“Nope,” she replies, her smile radiant. She’s positively giddy at the idea of this game. “Guess you won’t find out.”

Taylor holds out her receipt. Whitney reaches for it, and Taylor pulls it back at the last minute. “How about now?”

Whitney’s mouth hangs open playfully as her eyes widen. “Taylor!”

She almost drops the receipt. It’s the first time Whitney says her name, and it sounds incredible coming from her lips. She has never been more thankful for her ugly name tag than right at this moment. She wants to ask her to repeat it, to find some way for her to say it over and over and over. Taylor. Her name is suddenly majestic.

Whitney grabs the receipt, catching Taylor in her tailspin. She flashes it in victory. “Don’t worry,” she says, leaning forward slightly. “I’ll tell you sometime.”

“I’ll look forward to it,” Taylor says as Whitney gathers her bags. “Bye Whitney.”

“Later, Taylor,” she replies with a sweet smile, and Taylor’s entire body vibrates with something magical.

---

The summer is a whirlwind of activity. Besides the holiday rush, this is the only other time where Taylor notices a deluge of milestones. Graduations, weddings, christenings, all seem to be taking place in June, July and August. She recognizes Mrs. Johanssen from the library, coming in for a graduation cake. It’s for her son, she beams, he’s graduating from college, can you believe it? Taylor smiles and rings it up, sending her on her way with congratulations.

Mr. Hood, the hulking owner of Smash Fitness, comes in one morning for a dozen pink roses and a pink balloon. It’s for a christening, he says, blushing. His muscled hand is surprisingly gentle as he cradles the stems of the flowers. His arms practically burst through the sleeves of his suit. His baby girl, he gushes. Did she want to see pictures? Taylor obliges, and smiles, and wishes him the best. His eyes are misty as he thanks her and heads out on his way.

It’s a strange phenomenon to be present for the significant events in people’s lives without really knowing them. But Taylor shares something with each and every person, experiencing pieces of their joy as if she’s actually present for their celebrations. It’s one thing about this job that she’s grateful for. There’s an unexpected connection now, and that makes it mean something. 

Whitney comes into the store more often, celebrating her own set of milestones. Taylor watches day in and day out as she buys graduation cards, and birthday cakes for family members, and a wedding card for another cousin. The wedding is going to be in Napa, she tells Taylor, starry-eyed. Isn’t that cool?

Taylor smiles, thinking of Whitney in a beautiful bridesmaid’s dress. Not the kind that awful brides make their friends wear so they look frumpy in comparison. But the real classic kind, a deep blue or a maroon, maybe, that would fit her like a glove and make her tan skin look incredible. She nods along with Whitney’s excitement, hoping for pictures, even though she knows that’s far fetched.

Taylor gives her the receipt and her bag and wishes her a great trip. She feels the way Whitney keeps her eyes on her as she starts to ring up the next customer in line. 

“Can I text you?” Whitney asks softly, so softly that Taylor almost thinks she’s imagining things.

She turns to face her, and sees Whitney’s hopeful smile as she holds out her phone. “If you want,” she says. “I thought I could send you pictures from the wedding.”

“Yeah,” Taylor says. She has to shake her head to make sure this is really happening, but then she nods, taking Whitney’s phone. She puts in her number and hands it back. “I’d love that.”

“Great,” Whitney says, staring at her phone briefly before nodding, satisfied. “I’ll do that then.”

For the first time in months, Taylor catches the music on the speakers. 

Somewhere just beyond my reach, there’s someone reaching back for me.

---

The following Tuesday, or Whitney day as Taylor secretly refers to it, is awful, because Whitney is out of town. She wakes up in a sour mood, despite the fact that they text now, which is a significant step in a fantastic direction. It just isn’t the same, knowing she won’t see her face in person, or get to listen to her talk about her day with a wry smile, or get teased for still not being able to guess where she’s from.

The day is long, but at least Whitney is diligent with her messages. That’s one thing Taylor was happy to discover with this whole development. Whitney doesn’t just text -- she writes. She sends her silly messages, almost a stream of consciousness that Taylor can actually picture her saying in person. It makes getting through her shift infuriating, for the simple fact that she can’t focus enough to reply. Even though that’s absolutely all she wants to do.

She asks for Taylor’s opinion on Wonder Bread, and what there is to wonder about, but then she answers her own question since she’s clearly sitting here wondering about it. She asks about Taylor’s work schedule. She tells her about the California weather. She sends a picture of a palm tree. She apologizes for sending so many messages. 

Taylor quickly sneaks a look at her phone and tells her it’s okay. She likes them. 

Finally, she sends a picture of her in her dress. Taylor’s face blazes. Whitney’s hair is done up in an elegant updo, a few pieces curled perfectly to fall along her cheek. The dress is magnificent -- a coral color that makes Whitney’s eyes pop. She’s got a sly teasing smile, like she wants to appear unsure that looks amazing, but knows she looks beyond.

“Dammit,” Taylor mumbles to herself, closing her eyes and trying to keep steady. It’s all she can do to stay rooted to the spot instead of hopping on a flight to who knows where California and trying to find her. 

“You have beautiful eyes,” she replies, which doesn’t convey what she wants to say at all. In a fit of embarrassment, she pockets her phone. 

The week is painfully slow, but somehow, they make it to next Tuesday. Taylor is on her “lunch” break, a 4pm slot that is closer to dinner, but no one cares enough to be technical about it. She’s sitting at one of the tables by the deli, which she does on occasion when the store is slow. The employee break room is dark and depressing, with a TV that only plays 3 channels, 1 of which is Fox News on repeat. She’d rather face awkward conversations and customer questions than Tomi Lahren, thank you very much.

She feels someone standing near her and she glances up, practically choking on her sandwich when she realizes it’s Whitney. She’s radiant, smiling like she’s got a trick up her sleeve and Taylor is so overjoyed she almost stands up to hug her. She isn’t much of a touchy feely person, but Whitney has her head spinning in so many directions, she might just make an exception.

“Hey!” Whitney exclaims, claiming a chair for her own and plopping down. “Can I sit here?”

“You already are,” Taylor says, chuckling. Whitney rolls her eyes. 

“Smart ass,” she says. 

“You’re here early,” Taylor says, checking her watch.

“I didn’t go to work today,” Whitney says, shrugging. “I took an extra day off. Jet lag is a bitch.”

Taylor nods as if she understands, but she’s never been out of the state. She takes a sip of her soda to try to steady her nerves.

Whitney taps on the table nervously. She’s fidgety, and gorgeous, and Taylor wants to just reach across the table and hold her hand. She doesn’t. She knows it would be weird, or something. It’s confusing. She’s pretty sure Whitney feels the crazy connection between them, but it’s also something she’s going to have to act on. Taylor doesn’t want to make anything uncomfortable.  

“I’m not really good at this, and I know I should have done this a long time ago so I’m just going to ask--” Whitney starts, her eyes darting from the table to Taylor and back down again. “Um--”

“Yes.”

“You don’t even know what I’m going to ask yet!”

“I feel like I know you,” Taylor replies, shrugging. She doesn’t care what Whitney is going to ask. She already knows her answer is always going to be yes. 

Whitney pauses. “Yeah,” she agrees, an airy chuckle escaping her lips. “I feel like I know you, too.”

“So what were you going to ask?” Taylor’s stomach is in knots, but the good kind that comes from anticipation and excitement.

“Oh right,” Whitney bites her lip, like she’s trying to keep the words contained before blurting them out in an incoherent jumble. “Would you want to go out sometime?” Another breath. “With me, I mean?”

As if Taylor would want to go out with anyone else. 

“It’s still a yes,” Taylor says softly. Whitney meets her eyes and a look of relief passes over her face.

“Yeah?” Whitney scrunches her nose and grins. “When’s your next day off?”

“Tomorrow I finish at 3,” Taylor says. “I’m free the whole night.”

“Tomorrow it is,” Whitney slaps the table with a snappy grin and stands up. “Now, if you’ll excuse me. I have a ton of shopping to do.”

Taylor nods her goodbye and takes another sip of her drink. 

Forever’s gonna start tonight, Bonnie Tyler exclaims. For once, Taylor thinks she might be right.

---

The most disorienting experience is shopping at another grocery store. Their layout feels twisted and wrong, the lights a weird, new-age dimness that makes her forget what time it is. Taylor peruses the aisles slowly, going over her list with precision. 

She doesn’t like to shop at the Pig too often since she knows everyone there. It just turns into an hour of unnecessary conversations then two hours of jumping in to actually work, even if she’s off. Tonight she’s on a schedule. She only has a few hours before her night class at the community college. She’s almost finished with her first year, which is crazy. Accounting, which is smooth and satisfying, the numbers crisp and clean and honest. 

But she’s also taking creative writing, too. She has too many stories to keep in her head. 

The frozen aisle is up next. She places three frozen pizzas in the cart, grinning to herself. They taste like cardboard, but she isn’t going to complain. She stocks up on almond milk and eggs, and gets all the fresh produce. Her phone buzzes in her pocket. It’s Whitney, reminding her about dinner tomorrow, as if Taylor could ever forget. Tomorrow is Whitney’s birthday, and she’s been planning a weekend trip for them for months. She’s going to surprise her and take her to Florida where, it turns out, Whitney is from. It only took several agonizing months to pry that information out of her, but Taylor finally landed on a quality guess. 

She thumbs through several cards, none of them saying exactly what she feels, but she ultimately settles on one with two puppies. Can’t ever go wrong with puppies. She tosses in a bag of skittles and heads for the check out.

The clerk is a quiet girl who smiles at her briefly before scanning her items. Taylor fixes her shirt, a nervous habit when she doesn’t know whether to make conversation or not. She absentmindedly fiddles with the buttons, wondering if this shirt is hers or Whitney’s. It doesn’t really matter.

“Did you find what you were looking for?” the girl asks, her bored eyes still focused ahead of her, trained on the screen. 

“Yeah,” Taylor says, confidently. “Yeah, I did.”

[itshigh-boop]

Let’s change subjects to happier topics like what are your headcannons of McSombra? It can be about anything

Yes. Let’s. ;___; Thank you for the ask!Well thanks to ribbons-halos latest AU which I’m currently loving the heck out of, I’ve thought about them a lot! I’d never considered Sombra as a witch, tbh, at least not the typical spoopy Halloween type. Though after your ask, I was thinking about it for a bit (while stuck on a delayed train for like an hour) and about Mcsombra in general. It’s not headcanons but kinda like a story outline??? sorry if it’s long…just rambling here b/c I really like the idea I imagined Monster Hunter McCree afflicted with the curse of the werewolf and desperately traveling the world in search for a cure. He goes through so much pain and agony with each transformation. He wakes up the morning after each one in deep dread and confusion, wondering if this time will be the time he’s slaughtered innocents in his mindless, bloodthirsty nocturnal rampage. His travels eventually lead him to Mexico, where a few locals point him out toward the tropical forests where an isolated witch lives. They don’t seem afraid when they speak of her but are respectfully distant. He finds her, a woman dressed strangely in elaborate patterns. She seems all too focused on her work but tells him to stop in his tracks just the same, without looking up from her task. She invites him near the doorway of her small home, not allowing him to walk in any further. McCree’s confused by her odd customs but knows better than to question the authenticity of ‘superstition’. He doesn’t know why, but he feels compelled to tell her everything. Out of all the helps he’s sought, this woman seems so detached and concerned with her own work that honesty seems to be best route. As he regales his story, he watches her inspect the bowl of perfect-looking apples that sit near the doorway with an arched brow, only entering when she finally deems him genuine company. She tells him that his curse is from another land and perhaps the cure would be best sought from those same lands. He says he’s tried but each witch he’s encountered seemed too eager to help, as if they wanted something in return, despite claiming they could completely cure him. The gnarled, dark forests where he received his curse don’t feel as open and ancient as the bright, humid woods the witch lives. She tells him all corners of the earth are ancient, but some have been more tainted than others. I imagine that she agrees to help him, only because she feels the turmoil inside of the man and knows he has no ill intention for her. She spends time teaching him about nagual and that the beast within is finely attuned to his spirit, but his anxiety and fear cause the darker aspects to overcome him, thus the painful transformations into a monster. McCree spends the next few months with the witch, who insists on being called ‘Sombra’, and learns many new things. Herbs that will help with the pain, remedies that help soothe him when he has night terrors of the day he was cursed and the haunting visions he gets of mauling innocent people. She sends him out into the woods for his monthly transformations, telling him that there will be pain, but it is something he must endure - for now, she says, it is vital that he run, even if he’s unaware of where he’s going.He doesn’t see why he should at first, but she sends him out into the forest to walk alone, days at a time, just to think. He questions her sanity and the usefulness of her ‘help’ until he notes the intrusive, violent thoughts slowly ebb into calm. At one point, he spots a lone wolf, standing on top of a rock formation. The sight and even mention of the animal used to be enough to send him into panic attacks. He thinks it still does, almost feeling the prickling of one beginning until he remembers everything Sombra’s taught him. The two stare at one another before it runs off, leaving McCree with an odd sense of peace. When he returns, he finds Sombra standing at the edge of the woods with a small grin, arms folded over. “It seems you’ve learned something.” He’s always found her a bit cheeky but he can’t help but notice that it’s just another thing that he finds himself attracted to about her. He feels more like himself than he has in ages, happy that he can now properly appreciate the beauty of her iris colored eyes, the shadowy darkness of her hair, and the rich brown of her skin. But more so, he’s grown to appreciate her company, her quirks, and dry humor. In turn, in their time together, Sombra’s respect for him has grown, seeing as he’s a foreign man who despite a few confused glances here and there, has accepted her help without stabbing her in the back afterward. He’s far more honest than most people’s she encountered. Sombra lets him know that the curse is something incurable and she’s been secretly relieved that he never accepted the help of those who promised him as such, as in their relief, would have probably left scars even more incurable than the beast that burdens him. He will still be a monster but the locals will see him as the monster that simply is rather than the one they need fear. When he tells her that it doesn’t feel as much of a burden anymore, she smiles.“Be free, McCree.” His coming transformation isn’t so scary.  They are still not by his choice but he does not fight it. He lets the process happen and walks the forests, unaware of the barn owl that flies above the tree line in his shadow, watching over him as he wanders in his beast form, this time part of the world rather than stumbling through it. In the morning, she finds him and hands him a red serape to cover himself. As they head back to her home, she tells him that he’s free to leave at any time. Even though his transformations will still occur, being at peace with the wolf within will keep the darker effects at bay, so long as he heeds her teachings. He agrees, knowing he can’t stay forever and it’s about time he gets back to his regular life. He chuckles aloud and when she asks him what he’s laughing about, he tells her that in his time spent as lone wolf (ironically), he’s never appreciated the company of others. He feels saddened at the thought of leaving but confesses that he holds their friendship dearly.Perhaps it is only friendship and nothing more but there is an understanding of his sentiments in Sombra’s eyes when he says this. The day he finally leaves, he seems hesitant but they part with an embrace. “You’ll always have a home here, Jesse.” Shedding the cumbersome, intricate, and dark attire he once donned, he now leaves with a flap of his serape and tip of his wide brimmed hat. He knows he’ll return someday, and the goodbye suddenly isn’t so unbearable. At nights, he can now walk with the moon, instead of running from it, and in the day, she’s with him, in the long shadows that step in time with his strides.

[artificialqueens]

nostalgia in reverse: part one (thorcid) - featherpluckn

AN: This is a fic I’ve been marinating on and planning for a while now. I’ve always wanted to write a story inspired by the Stevie Nicks song, “Love Is”. If you’re interested in seeing where this fic is going, listen to this song. I apologize in advance.

I decided to do something a little AU with Thorgy still as a drag queen and Acid as a photographer. Bob makes a cameo in this first chapter but out of drag so I used his boy name.

Summary: Reverse Nostalgia - The odd feeling you get when you realize you are in a moment of time you will later feel nostalgic for…

Spring

Jamin didn’t mean to turn into the kind of person who needs to run a few miles every day to feel complete. It started as way to get off of the couch. A way to lose those pesky ten pounds age and slowing metabolism have made particularly stubborn.

The more he ran though, the more he craved the early morning solitude. Especially, since spring had finally graced Brooklyn with its presence. The early morning air is still brisk but the shining sun warms his face and it is such a freeing feeling.  

Jamin’s street is lined with trees blooming in shades of pink and white. His neighbor’s window boxes have exploded in purple and yellow. The cafes he runs past have sprouted umbrella topped tables outside that are fussed over by tired looking servers setting up for a rush of people looking for caffeine and carbs.

He’s loathe to admit the changing weather puts him in a good mood. The new season makes him wish he could bring along his camera and shoot mid-stride. He wants to try to capture this feeling to look at when the gray, slushy cold days of winter return.

This time of day means there isn’t much traffic crawling through the streets. He can retreat into a world where all he has to worry about is the dual burning in his lungs and legs, and the pulsing electronic beats in his ears. Out here on the street is where he meditates, and he lives for it.

*

Jamin is in special need of his respite early one Tuesday morning. It seemed like he had been editing the same set of five photographs all night. They just wouldn’t come together, and he finally decided to stop fiddling with them before he threw his computer through the window.

He was too jacked on Red Bulls to go to sleep and even though the sun had not quite risen and it was almost two hours earlier than his usual run, he slipped on his sneakers and headed out.

Jamin is mumbling along to the song in his earbuds when he hits his stride. He knows there is an uneven bit of cement coming up so he looks down to check how close he is to it. It only takes a split second, but when he looks back up it’s too late to stop himself from running into the person coming the other way.

The impact knocks them both back on their asses. Jamin keeps the back of his head from smacking into the pavement, but his elbows are what stop his fall and, fuck, that’s going to hurt later.

Before he can even peel himself off the pavement, the stranger is crawling towards him. The person is wearing a short colorful sequined dress, acid-washed ripped jacket, a battered pair of Toms, and their dreads are tied up on top of their head with a faded floral scarf.

The contour is fading but the heavy eyeliner, overdrawn lips, and painted freckles give away the drag queen probably coming home from a gig.

“Oh my god! Are you okay? I’m soooo sorry I ran into you. Even though, you were technically the one running. I’m never even on my phone usually. Ugh! Do you need first aid? I’ve taken the course but I’m technically not certified anymore but how much can it change really? I mean…just don’t let them die, you know what I mean?”

As their rambling comes to an end with a giggle, Jamin slowly pulls himself up to a sitting position.

“Are you hurt?”

“Ummm, I’m okay. I think my elbows are just scraped up. You really should watch whe-”

He is stopped mid-sentence by the sound of a bag being unceremoniously tipped out onto the sidewalk. What is apparently the person’s glasses land on top of the pile.

“Maybe I should have been wearing these. I would have seen you coming.”

The queen cackles and Jamin can’t stop himself from letting out an amused snort.

“I’m Shane, by the way.”

“Jamin.”

Shane starts rifling through the detritus in front of him but looks up suddenly and smiles.

“Ohhhh! I love your name! Sorry I ran into you, Jamin.”

Before Jamin has time to process the cute eye-crinkling smile Shane sends his way, the other man bends back over the open bag in front of him. He sifts through a patterned pair of pants, rhinestone covered pumps, two pieces of the same huge curly wig and finally unearths a pack of baby wipes.

“Woo! I knew they were in here somewhere.”

“You have a baby in that bag too?”

The queen giggles. “Nooooooo. They aren’t just for babies’ butts. They get out everything. Plus, it’s the only thing I have to clean up those elbows. We don’t want you getting tetanus or salmonella or whatever the fuck is on this sidewalk.”

Shane sits crossed legged right there in the middle of the damn pavement and takes Jamin’s arm gently in his hands.

Shane grimaces and bites his lip. “I’m not sure if this is going to sting or not. I’ve never used these to clean out a cut.”

“I can take it.”

“I bet you can.” Shane winks and sets to cleaning up the scrape on Jamin’s arm.

The intake of breath definitely comes from the cold wipe hitting his raw skin and not the flirty comment.

Shane sets to his task with the utmost concentration. His pink tongue pokes out a little while he tries to remove all the dirt from around the wounds. He leans back admiring his work when he’s done and then blows across the skinned area. Jamin starts a little at the unexpected sensation and Shane stops immediately.

“I’m sorry. Was that not okay? My mom used to do it all of the time. It always made me feel better but I’m not sure it has any legitimate medical purpose.”

“No. I mean, yeah it’s fine.”

Their eyes meet. Jamin isn’t sure what to think of the person in front of him. The situation is surprisingly intimate for two people who randomly ran into each other on the street. But he can’t say it’s bothering him. It really is fine and it is so not like him to be this accommodating to a complete fucking stranger.

“Good.”

Shane grins and digs through what is left in his bag pulling out a handful of loose Band-Aids.

“I think these might match your sneakers.”

Shane unwraps the bandages and Jamin can see they are bright neon pink and orange. He tries his best to cover the majority of the scrapes and sits back to admire his work.

“Looking good. Let me clean the other side and I’ll get out of your hair.”

Jamin makes a noise of agreement but while Shane once again starts to clean around his wounds all he can think of is how much he kind of wants to know more about a drag queen who carries an apartment worth of stuff around on his shoulder.

The feeling blindsides him. It has been a long time since he’s had the desire to get to know someone outside of a one-night stand, and even longer since anything remotely resembling a relationship. But there is something charming and magnetic about Shane, even in crusty half drag at sunrise. All he can think of as he looks down at the man’s long legs covered in ripped fishnets is what they look like under there. What does he do when he’s not entertaining drunk people in a bar for tips?  

Shane had just finished placing two more Band-Aids over the final scrapes when Jamin clears his throat.

“So, look…um…I don’t do this very often but is there any way I can have your number?”

The other man looks up slowly, mouth slightly open and eyes wide.

“A-Are you ser…What?….Of course. Sure!”

“Really?”

“Yes! I almost killed you. I probably look like an extra from The Walking Dead at this point in my night and you still ask for my number? And you’re a motherfucking cutie?” Shane scoffs loudly. “How can I say no?”

Jamin wraps his earbuds around his phone and hands it to Shane before he can change his mind. He punches in his number quickly and hands it back.

“Thorgy?”

Shane gestures around his face before answering. “Drag name. I figured you would be less likely to forget me that way.”

Jamin shakes his head and holds up his bandaged elbows. “I think you took care of that already.”

Shane starts digging through the pile of stuff on the cement and what’s left in his bag presumably looking for his phone. After a string of curses, he ends up handing Jamin an eyebrow pencil and what looks like a Subway receipt to write down his number.  

The two say their good-byes and Jamin takes off for his apartment once more, trying to make sense of the inexplicably strong feelings he has for a practical stranger.

**

When Shane gave Jamin his number, he didn’t think he would actually contact him.

It took two days for Jamin to text him, but he did.

Shane saved Jamin’s number in his contacts as Sidewalk Booty with no less than ten peach emojis because he may not have seen him coming, but he definitely saw him leaving.

The two decided to go out the following Friday after texting back and forth about the state of Jamin’s elbows for far too long but all he can think about throughout the exchange is how much he doesn’t know about the other man. He agreed to go out with someone he met on the street.

It isn’t a booty call and it isn’t a one night stand.

There will be eye contact and conversation and a whole night of putting himself out there. He breaks out in a sweat just thinking about it, but Jamin seemed genuinely nice with such a cute smile and beautiful eyes.

So, instead of blowing him off or pretending like he has plans he forgot about, he tells him to pick the place and text him the details.

Shane is proud of himself for exactly three minutes before he begins to freak the fuck out.

He recognizes the feeling and needs to find a way to center himself before his train of thought throws him completely off track.

He needs to find his happy place.

He needs to call Chris.

*

An hour later the two friends are in Shane’s favorite thrift shop. It has everything anyone could ever want all packed onto circular racks and hanging from hooks on every available surface. There are plenty of decisions to make so he doesn’t have to focus on the real life date he has in a few days.

The two shoot the shit about gigs for twenty minutes but the whole time Shane can feel Chris’ eyes on him. He knows his voice sounded shaky and high-pitched when he called him. He was stupid to think his best friend wouldn’t pick up on it.

They get through three racks of clothes before Chris finally gets it out of him, like Shane knew he would.  

“Okay, bitch. Spill. What has you all worked up?”

When Shane finishes going through the whole ordeal with Jamin, from the run-in to the walk-off to the impending date, Chris slowly puts the dress he was holding up to his body back on the rack, sighs heavily, and rubs his temples.

“So. Let me get this straight. You plow this guy down at the asscrack of dawn in a dress with Thorgy still all over your face, kiss his boos-boos, and he asks for your number?”

“I didn’t kiss his boos-boos.” Shane mumbles under his breath.

“Irrelevant. My point is, we’re all out here Tindring and Grindring and cruising hard for trade at the bar, and the bitch who can’t even figure out how to screenshot runs into someone on the goddamn street. Un-fucking-believable!”

“What exactly is Gr-”

“Who, if you are to be believed, is a gorgeous set of cheekbones with an immaculate ass?”

“Yes. That is all true but I don’t even know his last name or where he works or if he’s a serial killer who’s going to chain me up to his radiator and make me live off of Mountain Dew and Fruit Loops!”

“Oh my god! I told you to stop watching that true crime channel.” Chris makes his way around the rack of clothes shaking his head. He takes Shane by the shoulders and looks him dead in the eyes. “I love you, Shane. You are one of my best, good friends but you have to stop being afraid of things you haven’t planned down to the last detail. Sometimes life happens in the chaos. Let life happen to you.”

He’s right. Chris is right.

Being cautious is one thing, but letting it keep him from something that could possibly bring a little bit of joy into his life is ludicrous.

Shane takes a deep breath and pulls in Chris for a tight hug. “Thank you for talking louder than the voices in my head.”

“Well, don’t say I never did anything for you. Oh, but do me a favor please? At the very least, get yourself laid for Christ’s sake. What’s it been, two years?”

Shane jerks away with an offended gasp. “I hooked up with that guy two months ago, thank you very much.”

“Someone paying you $300 after a gig to spank them in a hotel room is barely a hook up.”

“There was a candle. It counts.”

**

It was embarrassing how much time Jamin had spent picking out a restaurant. He asked Shane his preferences and his response was less than helpful.

I will literally eat anything. I mean it. Chocolate-covered grasshoppers are delicious.

So, that really didn’t narrow down the choices.

In the end, he decided on a little place his sister had taken him for brunch a few weeks ago. It was a few blocks down from his apartment and he had walked passed it probably a hundred times without realizing what was inside. The restaurant’s exterior was nondescript but the unique setup inside made up for it. There were floor-to-ceiling books on one side surrounding the bar. Dark hardwood floors and reclaimed wood tables made the whole atmosphere cozy. The back seating area was a sunroom with white-washed walls and natural light flooding in through huge windows. There was also a garden patio complete with ivy-covered brick, and quaint little two-top tables perfect for when the weather would become even nicer in the coming months.

Something tells him Shane will appreciate the eclectic nature of the place.

*

Jamin had been nervous all day. He showered and shaved and changed his clothes three times but it was still too early to leave. He didn’t want to seem too eager, but they are meeting at the restaurant so he can always get a drink or two in before Shane gets there. Maybe it will help his nerves.

He is finishing up his second Jameson when Shane walks in precisely five minutes early.

The only thing the same about him is the dreads half tied back on his head. Shane is all boy this time, broad-shouldered and lean wearing a black and white patterned tee underneath a blazer with the sleeves rolled up to the elbows and fitted gray slacks. With his face bare of makeup, Jamin can see he has a jawline to die for and he can make out pretty blue eyes behind his round glasses.

Jamin is so distracted by taking in Shane completely out of drag he doesn’t even notice he’s been staring until Shane raises an eyebrow.

The other man has the biggest shit-eating grin on his face when he says, “Hey! Nice to see you again!”

Jamin laughs at himself a little before responding. “It’s nice to you again too. Sorry. You just look so different from the last time I saw you.”

“Good different?”

“Yes. Yeah, really good different.”

Shane nods and before he looks down at his feet, Jamin can make out his genuine smile and the blush spreading across his cheeks.

“Can I hug you?”

Jamin hears himself say it but doesn’t think it’s really him. Because when’s the last time he asked anyone for a hug?

Honestly, probably never.

He knows he’s smiling with all his teeth too which probably looks a little odd to an innocent bystander but Shane just looks so shy and bashful and sweet at the compliment.

Shane brings his eyes back up and smiles even wider, opening his arms and coming forward.

Jamin is a few inches shorter than Shane so his chin fits right in the crook of his neck. He should be self conscious about the fact Shane can probably feel the sweat on his temple that popped up when he walked in, but he’s too preoccupied by the man’s racing pulse against his cheek.

It’s nice, and it has been a long time since Jamin has had anything nice in his life.

A few seconds after it starts, however, someone clears their throat behind them. Jamin turns to find the hostess trying to hide a smile.

“Sir, your table is ready.”

Jamin lets Shane go and follows the hostess. He gestures with his head for Shane to follow behind them. “C’mon, then.”

He feels Shane put his hand low on his back while they wind their way through the dining area towards their table in the sunroom, and he knows he’s grinning like an idiot again.

The weight of his hand is grounding. It makes him realize this is real. It isn’t some faceless person he’s fantasizing about while he’s trying to fall asleep at night. No matter what happens, he knows if he plays his cards right he could at least make a very good friend out of this.

**

Shane isn’t sure what his expectations had been for this date. Sure, he was hoping he’d have a nice meal with a nice man but even for someone usually so upbeat Shane can’t stop smiling.

As he sits down and opens the menu, he looks over at Jamin doing the same. The man looks absolutely delicious. His faux hawk is styled just so and he’s biting his lip around a piercing that Shane finds himself desperately wanting to know what it feels like to kiss.

It’s hard for Shane to see in himself what others see, but the way Jamin looked at him when he walked in set him on fire.

Even when he’s told himself he is absolutely not hooking up with this guy tonight. Absolutely, under no circumstances, will he give in and bend Jamin over this table right here in front of God and everybody on a Friday night.

He already feels a connection to him and he wants to see where that can go, damnit. Sex can complicate things for Shane. It makes him want to cling onto a person, and he confuses sexual attraction for something deeper.  If what he’s feeling is actually more than lust, everything will fall into place.

Then, and only then, they can fuck like bunnies. He nods his head at himself proud of his decision.

“What?”

“Huh?”

“You were just nodding your head. Did you find something you wanted to eat?”

Shane cackles abruptly because Jamin has no idea what he really wants to eat is him. Jamin starts chuckling too but still has a questioning look on his face.

“Just, um, I was thinking about how nice you look.”

Jamin looks genuinely surprised before he gestures down to himself. “I guess I found a way to make the Dad bod work.” He pulls a silly, wannabe sexy face that makes Shane laugh again.

“Dad bod? Please! I’ve never thought about any dad the way that sweater over those biceps is making me think about you.”

Shane is saved from saying too much more by the server coming over to go over the wine list and specials.

Once the two have ordered they make small talk over a couple of glasses of Shiraz. Shane learns Jamin’s last name, that he is a photographer, and that he cannot stand mayonnaise.

And Shane tells him how he got his drag name, that he plays the violin, and that he is obsessed with mustard.

The conversation flows easily. Even when Shane goes off on a tangent about this absolutely fabulous pair of suede booties he found thrifting the other day and what outfits he could wear them with for his next performance, Jamin looks so interested.

Around the time their meals arrive, the topic shifts. Shane is just taking a bite of his lamb chop when he hears Jamin sigh. He hopes he’s not boring him.

“You don’t like what you ordered? Do you want to switch?”

“No. That was a happy sigh.” He reaches over and grips Shane’s hand. “I just feel like this is going really well and I’m glad.”

“It is. There’s nothing worse than a bad first date.”

“Had a lot of them?”

“Well, no. Not particularly, but I’ve had a couple of doozies.”

Jamin lets go of Shane’s hand and swirls the red wine around in his glass before he asks, “Care to share?”

“No. I mean, yes I’ll share.” Shane giggles a little. “Maybe some joy can come out of my misery.”

Jamin sits back in his chair,  and makes a gesture with his hand for him to get on with it.

“Okay. So, there was this beautiful man that came to a few of my shows that  I enjoyed admiring from across the bar. One of those situations where I know I don’t stand a chance but, fuck! It doesn’t hurt to look, you know what I mean?”

“Nope. No clue because you are delightful.”

“And you are blinded by candlelight and a bottle of Shiraz. Anyway, so it turns out we have a friend of a friend of a mutual friend who ends up introducing us and we decide to go out. On paper he was great. He had a job, personal trainer, and he was coming to pick me up in the car he owned. Everything was setting up to be amazing. Well, he gets there and the first thing he tells me is I have to ride in the backseat because the front one is broken. It was a two door. So, me and all of my five feet of legs have to scrunch up in the backseat.”

He sees Jamin trying to not to spit out the food he just ate and he succeeds, barely.

“Yeah. We get to the restaurant and he eats off my plate. Not like asks if he can eat off of my plate or if he can have some. Just in the middle of a conversation starts eating my chicken parmesan.”

Jamin looks suitably offended on his behalf. “Is this guy for real?”

“It gets better. I was ready to bolt after that but he convinced me to go to a party at a friend’s house that was right up the block. I caved because I’m way too nice sometimes. We get there, he has two shots of Bicardi, and he is gone. The ass is slurring his words and hanging all over me. Ugh! Even people I didn’t know looked like they felt sorry for me.”

“I feel sorry for you, and this was how long ago?”

“A few years ago. Oh, but there’s more. He looks at me with this drunken, serious face and asks if we can go out on the porch to talk and cuddle. Cuddle. At that point, I was already formulating my escape so I figured outside was closer to freedom.”

Jamin laughs so loud the two tables beside of them turned to stare. “Oh my God! This is priceless.”

“So, we go outside and before we can even sit down I pretend like my phone is going off. I told him my dog was sick and got a ride out of there as quick as I could. I don’t even have a dog.”

By that point Shane can’t help it. He is laughing along with Jamin who is wiping tears from his eyes. “That takes so much pressure off of me. Holy shit! I promise not to eat your food.”

“What about you? Do you have a worst first date story? It can’t be as bad as mine.”

“I think the worst part about my dating history is that it’s probably been five years since I’ve even been on a first date.”

“Seriously? I don’t mean anything by that, other than you just seem so, I don’t know, dateable?”

Jamin waves off Shane’s worries, laughing softly. “I get what you mean and yes, at least five years. I was in a relationship with a guy for about four years. We ended up moving in together. I found out a week after arranging our furniture that he had been cheating on me for at least the last six months, and we broke up spectacularly. That was a year ago, and this is the first real date I’ve been on since.”

Shane knows he’s staring. He knows his jaw dropped but he just can’t believe it. He puts down his fork and  looks at Jamin who is trying to make himself smaller. He seems like he’s in another world, sipping his wine and looking at something past Shane’s shoulder.

“Hey” Shane says softly.

Jamin tilts his head slightly and grins crookedly at Shane. “I’m sorry for bringing down the mood.”

“Don’t apologize. I’m sorry you had to go through that.”

“Thank you.”

“And if it makes you feel any better. My bad first date guy texted me the next week and asked for his money back for the date since he ‘wasted his time’. I texted him ‘fuck off’ and haven’t heard from him since.”

Shane never thought he would be so glad to see someone laughing at something so mortifying.

**

Shane is like no one Jamin has ever met before. He laughs easily and often. There is a sparkle in his eyes that makes it hard to stop staring. He hopes he at least made it look like he wasn’t thinking about kissing the freckles he can see under Shane’s collar because he really didn’t want to be that guy quite yet.

They pick out a dessert to eat together and at least he can say it was shared with explicit permission.

“Are you sure? I don’t want to be some scary footnote at the end of another date a few years from now.”

Shane snorted a laugh. “I promise not to stab you with my fork if you help me eat dessert.”

The two men leave the restaurant and walk without any real destination. Jamin kind of doesn’t want the night to end and he hopes Shane feels the same way. He’s trying to work up the courage to ask if he wants to do something else when Shane grabs onto his forearm to stop him.

“Okay. Here’s the deal. I’m going to get an Uber…”

“Did it go that bad?”

“What? Oh my God! No!”

Jamin laughs and shakes his head, running his hand down Shane’s arm. “I’m kidding.”

“Oh. Okay. Well, I was just going to say that I’m going to call for a ride because I don’t trust myself around you. Um, I’m really attracted to you….”

“I’m failing to see the problem.”

Shane scrunches his face up and turns to look down the street before he speaks again. “I don’t want to fuck this up and sometimes, well a lot of the time, I jump into bed with someone before I give it a chance to become something more. I don’t want to do that with you.”

Jamin relaxes a little when he realizes what the real issue is. “Okay.”

“Okay?”

“Yes. It’s more than okay. I don’t want you to ever feel uncomfortable with me and if you want to go home I’m not going to stop you.”

He sees Shane’s face break out into a smile as he pulls out his phone. It takes a few minutes for him to find a driver but Jamin doesn’t mind. He hasn’t let go of Shane’s arm yet so he’s taking advantage of the gesture.  Plus, he’s really kind of adorable to watch when he’s trying to work technology. With an air of triumph, Shane finishes and he turns the screen around for Jamin to see.

“Alright. We’ve got 10 minutes. Do you want to make out a little?”  

Jamin doesn’t even answer. He just pulls him in by the grip he still has on his arm. Their lips meet and Jamin’s heart jumps into his throat.

It’s hard for him to describe how he feels in that moment. He just knows he’s not sure how he’s ever going to not do this again. He feels Shane hum a little against his lips before he pulls back.

Shane looks pretty content but he also looks like he’s trying really hard to figure something out. Jamin reaches up and touches his cheek. “Stop thinking so hard. Just kiss me again.”

The taller man grabs him by the back of the neck, bringing them together. He opens his mouth against Jamin’s using his tongue and their kiss turns hotter. Jamin moans and moves his grip to Shane’s hip to pull him closer.

He feels Shane lick his lip ring and nip at the flesh beside of it before he starts running his tongue along the roof of Jamin’s mouth. Jamin growls a little and moves him backwards towards the brick wall a couple of steps behind them. He puts his leg between Shane’s and tears his lips away to start sucking kisses along the bottom of his jaw. Shane whines a little and runs his hands through Jamin’s hair.

“That’s not fair.” Shane sucks in a breath when Jamin nibbles at the skin right under his ear, and presses his hips forward.

Jamin groans a little at the sensation. “Now who’s not playing fair.”

Shane chuckles mischievously, and Jamin kisses him hard again grinding his hips back into Shane’s, turning the chuckle into a whimper.

He anchors himself to Shane’s mouth with his hands in his dreads and angles his head to deepen the kiss. Shane runs his hands up Jamin’s shirt, ghosting across the planes of his back and Jamin takes the opportunity to grab a handful of ass. It seems like they are that way forever, running their hands over each other’s bodies, exploring, but in reality it’s only a few minutes.

Because with his hands in a very strategic location, he can feel Shane’s phone buzz in his pocket with a notification which he knows means his car will be here in a few minutes.

Jamin tries to pull away but Shane guides him back in, kissing him softly once more and then another time before he leans down a little to put his forehead on his.  

They are both breathing heavily trying to calm down a little. Jamin feels a little bit better knowing he isn’t the only so affected by their activities.

Jamin starts a little when Shane throws his head back, cracking up. He can’t help but laugh too because that laughter is really fucking contagious.

“I’m trying not to take offense to the fact you are laughing so loudly after kissing me.”

Shane calms down a little and grabs around Jamin’s shoulders swaying a little back and forth. “No, definitely not. It’s just… I was so worried to go on a date with someone I didn’t really know because they might be some crazy, psycho killer but, honestly, I don’t think I would even care if you tried to off me at this point.”

“Oh, really? Good to know.” And it’s Jamin’s turn to cackle then. Shane breaks away batting Jamin on the shoulder.

Shane’s car pulls up at that moment and Jamin grabs the bottom of his shirt, bringing him in closer for one last kiss. When he finally gets enough, he looks back up through his lashes at the grinning, beautiful man in front of him.

“So, I’ll see you again?”

Shane giggles and shakes his head incredulously.

“Just try getting rid of me.”