#they have interesting conversations and interactions

[the-cosmic-cauldron]

Astrology Observation: The Nuances of The Sun, Moon, and Rising

Disclaimer: At this point, if I receive any negative feedback, criticism, or unnecessary nitpicking of what I post, I will not be responding. As I’ve mentioned before, I create general posts for fun, creativity, self-discovery, and to inspire others. If my posts don’t resonate with you, that’s completely okay. I understand I won’t reach everyone. I am grateful, thankful, and appreciative of those who connect with my content, and I will continue creating posts, hoping that one day they may resonate with you as well.

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Today, I want to discuss the potential tension that can arise in your sun, moon, and rising sign combinations. Personally, I believe that the sun, moon, and rising are the most important placements in a natal chart because they define who you are at your core in everyday life. However, I also recognize that other placements can influence or shift the expression of your sun, moon, and rising. So, let’s dive into how these tensions may arise based on different placements.

Sun Sign and House Placement

Let’s start with the sun. If you have a Cancer sun in the fourth house, you’ll likely feel very connected to Cancerian traits—like a deep sense of home, family, and emotional security—because the fourth house corresponds with the Cancer archetype. In this case, the energy of your sun feels aligned with the house it’s placed in. However, if you have a Cancer sun in the third house, you may not feel as closely connected to typical Cancer traits. The third house, associated with communication, intellectual pursuits, and education, is more aligned with the energy of Mercury or Gemini. This may make you feel more scattered or detached from your emotions, and you might rationalize your feelings more than the typical Cancer sun would.

Moon Sign and House Placement

Now, consider the moon. Let’s say you have a Moon in Aquarius. Aquarius moons are often described as emotionally detached and more intellectual in their approach to feelings. But if your Aquarius moon is placed in the fourth house, which governs home and family, this placement could still bring a level of emotional sensitivity, even if you tend to intellectualize your emotions. On the other hand, an Aquarius moon in the first house may express its detachment more outwardly, as it’s tied to your outward personality and how you project yourself to the world.

Rising Sign and Its Interactions

The rising sign also plays a key role in shaping your personality. For example, if you have a Sagittarius rising but a Cancer sun, you may come off as adventurous and open-minded, but deep down, you may have a strong desire for stability, comfort, and security. These two energies—Sagittarius’ freedom and Cancer’s need for emotional security—can create an interesting dynamic in how you present yourself to the world.

Examples of Tension Between Sun, Moon, and Rising

To understand the nuances better, consider someone with an Aries sun in the sixth house. Aries is often thought of as fiery and bold, but in the sixth house, this energy is channeled into daily routines, work, and health. So, while you might still have the core Aries personality, the expression of that energy is more focused on service, health, and practicality.

Conversely, an Aries sun in the ninth house will likely express their fiery nature through a passionate approach to beliefs, travel, or philosophy. This person might argue strongly to defend their ideas and challenge others’ viewpoints.

Another example: someone with a Cancer sun in the 12th house, like my mother, may have a more Piscean energy—sensitive, introspective, and prone to escapism. However, a Cancer sun in the 10th house, which focuses on career and public image, will likely be more outwardly concerned with status and reputation, which is a very different expression of Cancer energy.

Similarly, a Scorpio sun in the eighth house is going to feel more private, reserved, and introspective, while a Scorpio sun in the fifth house may be more expressive, playful, and willing to share their emotions with others.

How Rising and Sun Sign Can Change the Game

Let’s look at someone with a Capricorn rising and a Gemini sun. Capricorn is often perceived as structured and serious, while Gemini is social and intellectual. If the Capricorn rising is paired with a more social or intellectual sun, the outward presentation of Capricorn might soften. Instead of being overly reserved or serious, you might come across as more approachable or open to new ideas.

For example, I know someone with a Capricorn rising, Gemini sun, and Leo moon, which creates a dynamic personality—one that’s more open-minded, adventurous, and expressive than a typical Capricorn rising might be perceived.

Impact of Placements on Personality

The house placements really make a difference in how the energy of a sign is expressed. A Cancer rising with a Cancer sun, for example, will likely resonate strongly with Cancerian traits because both placements are in harmony. But if you have a Cancer sun and a Pisces moon, that water energy might resonate more deeply with you, especially if the placements are in water houses like the fourth, eighth, or twelfth.

On the other hand, if you have an Aries sun, Cancer moon, and Scorpio rising, you may resonate more with water placements because of the strong emotional influence of Cancer and Scorpio, especially if those placements are in the fourth or eighth house. This could balance or counter the fiery nature of your Aries sun, depending on the house placements.

Healthy and Unhealthy Expressions of Placements

It’s also important to consider how healthy or unhealthy expressions of certain placements can influence how you resonate with them. For example, a healthy Sagittarius rising might be open-minded, adventurous, and curious. But an unhealthy Sagittarius rising might be impulsive or overly blunt, which can alter how others perceive you. If this energy interacts with a fiery Aries sun, it could increase your tendency toward impulsivity.

Likewise, Capricorn in the 10th house is often associated with a strong work ethic, discipline, and focus on career success. But if this Capricorn energy is in the fifth house, it might make you less focused on work and more inclined toward creative or recreational pursuits.

Final Thoughts

Ultimately, astrology is complex, and the interplay between your sun, moon, rising, and their respective houses can deeply influence how you experience and express these placements. The more you explore and understand your chart, the more you can see how these nuances shape your personality. Everyone’s chart is unique, and learning to navigate its complexity can lead to a greater understanding of yourself.

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P.S. If you’re interested in a brief explanation of how your signs and house placements correlate to form an interconnected personality, feel free to share your placements in the replies, and I’ll respond as soon as I can.

[kingofthewilderwest]

We need to start questioning the conflation of "maturity" with "increased stakes."

It's not to say higher stakes is always a bad choice. The first half of the How to Train Your Dragon book series has an endearingly whimsical, child-like feel. Hiccup's issues in the first half of book one are an obnoxious, cat-sized Toothless pooping in his helmet. The movie adaptation might have made the book and its counterpart distant cousins, but it was a thoughtful move to alter concepts to the appropriately theatrical: books and movies aren't the same medium. Hiccup riding alone on Toothless, exchanging fire blasts with a mountain-sized dragon, and losing his leg came off as well-done storytelling.

Hiccup staring at a prosthetic never happened in the book. He didn't lose his leg in his encounter with the Green Death. It was, as the creative powers behind the movie said, a result of the increased stakes. They didn't do this just to be more dramatic; they did it because it seemed that, based on how their narrative was going, this made sense. And this was a soft, quiet, shocking, breath-taking scene that instilled how good the movie handled its stakes. It gave us a reflective reaction to consequences that audiences might not have expected. This movie understood timing, pauses, quietness, narrative arc, poignance, reflection, emotion, love, and heart.

We know about the conflation of live action as "more mature" than animation. But a medium doesn't change maturity levels. We all know that's bogus, and many analyses have been given on that. Disney live actions add extraneous gunk, down to Gaston having a past relationship with war (so I've heard, from the people who actually watched the movie), and Disney giving us the sad scoop on why Belle's mom isn't around. Furthermore, lots of times, when I see the conversion of animation to live action, I notice creators feel a need to "raise the stakes" -- in line with the erroneous view of "giving maturity."

But "higher stakes" often means inserting action in place of mindful interaction. I feel today's Hollywood movies, in their treatment of "action," don't let movies pause and breathe anymore - ergo, they don't let us think. Isn't it more juvenile to actively avoid thought in favor of "hey look I made the building go boom"? There may be less "stakes" in introspection and mindful dialogue, but that's what gives it its maturity. That's how we went from Iron Man 1, with its grounded treatment of war and abuse, to the mindless high spectacle MCU is today.

Snappy one-liners or moments that clap at contemporary issues don't substitute for maturity. What can make a story mature is characters grappling with issues in a natural narrative through-line. A snappy one-liner is its own form of speedy spectacle.

We know about the conflation of "gore and sex" with "mature audiences." I believe they're right that graphic sex and gore is designed for adults. But that doesn't make it mature, and that doesn't make it the only way to target a medium for adults.

"Realisticness" isn't maturity. Per above regarding animation: realistic visuals are nothing. And if you think that putting more Debbie Downer material into your adaptation makes it more adult, you have to ask yourself why the themes that spoke to people's souls got muddled in its midst. We weren't mature enough to interact with the most subtle, nuanced, and impacting voice of the story. But hey! Look! There's more corpses, I guess!

It's not the visuals, it's not the events. It's not the "things." It's not the basic insertion of the external. Get past the superficial, get past the top layer of presentation. It's the mind. It's the ability to think. It's the ability to be still. It's the ability to be interested and attentive when something is slow or quotidian, because we can understand why that is important for narrative growth or arcs or themes or commentary on the human condition. It's the ability to know when and when not to include something. It's the ability to make resonant impact. It's the ability to be deep with your emotions or your themes. It's the ability to take what you have and grow it in a way by which we can derive something deeper.

Maturity is critical thought and well-conducted, appropriate responses to content of any kind.

As DeBlois tells Empire, the move to live-action brings a different emphasis to How To Train Your Dragon; a new heft, both physically and emotionally. “It’s so dialed-up in terms of stakes — having a fully credible, photo-real dragon stomping around trying to kill him,” the director says.

And maybe that DeBlois quote is taken out of context. Maybe there's more going on than that one sentence conveys. Maybe Empire is making their own erroneous assumptions. But "so dialed-up in terms of stakes," isn't, on its own, a good appeal. The animated movie already dialed things up - and knew when to include or not include something. A live-action that imitates the visuals of the animated movie exactly, as if no independent thought has been done to its unique adaptation, to the pros and cons of the medium, to what a independently-presented story needs and doesn't need... It has to make you wonder: how many conflations of "maturity" are going on?

How long are we going to keep making our own conflations?

[tgmsunmontue]

Get your motor runnin' - 6/6

Bradley, a bit of a (very talented) grease monkey and Jake, who has been sent to see him because he's apparently the best mechanic Maverick knows.

A longer fleshed out fic at the request of @poetryandpickles based on their idea in this post.

ONE TWO THREE FOUR FIVE

PART SIX

                He has no idea what he’s going to say to Bradshaw when he gets there, assuming Bradshaw is even home and not somewhere else. Fortunately he has a two-hour drive to fucking think about what he’s going to say. Apologize obviously. Why though? Because he cares what some guy he’s met twice thinks about him? Or because he cares about what Maverick thinks of him? Or Admiral Simpson? Or because Admiral Simpson sort of ordered-slash-suggested he do so?

                Fuck.

                He guesses he needs to start at the beginning and maybe apologize for just… leaving in the middle of the night. That was sort of a dick move. And then he accused him of being a cheater. Bradshaw’s look of confusion makes a lot more sense now, but there is no way that Jake is getting out of this without looking like a douche bag and an idiot all rolled into one package. He just has to hope that Bradshaw still likes the package…

                Oh.

                Oh shit.

                The realization that he was disappointed when he thought Bradshaw was married hits him. His anger had overridden it in the moment, it’s only now that he’s thinking about it that he has time to unpick it. He wasn’t ever actively planning on seeing Bradshaw again, and now he’s driving to see him and hopefully hold a conversation with him. Assuming he doesn’t deck Jake. Admiral Simpson had implied he had a temper and he’s also Maverick’s… kid? It’s a lot to process.

                Coupled with the fact that he’s maybe not just leaving Bradshaw as a one-night stand. That the fact that he was disappointed means he’s maybe interested in something more. Which sucks, because he doubts Bradshaw will be interested, not with Jake sneaking out after their night together, and then his behavior this morning… It’s why he doesn’t usually try and pursue anything. Easier and he doesn’t get rejected.

                Or worse.

                Hurt.

…            …            …

                Sometimes his ear for engines is more of a curse than a blessing; he can tell what’s in the sky, and he can recognize car engines from a block away, sometimes further if it’s a distinctive engine or very noisy. So he has a little forewarning that Jake’s car is pulling into his lot. He’s only been home a quarter of an hour, so Jake must have left immediately after him and he wonders what he wants. His annoyance has faded during the drive, leaving behind a healthy dose of confusion.

                Only one way to find out he supposes and he pushes himself to his feet and heads out to the yard, closing the door behind him. Sure enough Jake is there, getting out of his shitty car which Bradley wouldn’t buy for spare parts. He’s still one of the most attractive men Bradley’s ever seen this close. He hadn’t expected to see him again, not with how he snuck out; but he at least knew there might be a slim chance of them crossing paths one day in the future with them having Maverick in common. Clearly from the surprise on Jake’s face earlier he hadn’t made the same connection, or even known about it.

                “Jake.”

                “Hi.”

                “What do you want?” Bradley asks, because there’s no point in dragging it out or playing at niceties given their earlier interaction. Jake is leaning on his car, arms braced on the roof, and he’s wearing exactly the same thing Bradley saw him in earlier. Casual jeans and a button-down, not as dressed-down as he had been the first time Bradley saw him, but obviously Mav still earns the button-down shirt level of dressiness.

                “I want to apologize.”

                Bradley blinks, frowns and then crosses his arms and presses his lips together, because yeah, he thinks he deserves an apology but he’d like to know why Jake thinks he needs to apologize; there’s only one thing he can think of and he has to admit he’s curious as to what the hell Jake was thinking to accuse him of cheating. Part of him wants to be petty and say he doesn’t want to hear it, but a much bigger part is curious.

                “Yeah. Okay. Let’s hear it.”

                “Uh. I’m sorry.”

                “Wow. Eloquent.”

                “Fuck off. I’m going to come out of this looking like the biggest idiot. Bare with me…”

                Oh. Well then. That sounds a lot more promising. He puts his aviators on, then shoves his hands in his pockets, steps forward toward the car so it’s between them. He doesn’t lean on it though, he has standards.

                “I’m listening.”

                Jake looks pained, scrubs at his face, squints at the sun and then turns to him.

                “I thought you and Maverick were married.”

…            …            …           

                The look on Bradshaw’s face shifts so rapidly between shock and confusion through disgust to incredulity Jake struggles to keep up, wonders what he’s thinking.

                “Yeah. You’re an idiot.”

                Jake shrugs and pulls a face, because he really does feel like as ass right now.

                “I still haven’t heard an apology.”

                “Shit. Sorry. I mean… I’m sorry I accused you of cheating on Maverick,” Jake starts, has to stop the little hysterical curl of laughter he’s holding onto firmly in his gut. “I assumed wrongly, and I’m sorry. Honestly. I’d say it won’t happen again, but, uh…” he trails off, not sure what to say next.

                “You make a habit of being an idiot huh?”

                “Not usually, but I’m two for two. Got to apologize for the first time too. Sorry I snuck out in the middle of the night like that.”

                Bradshaw shakes his head, shoulders shrugging and Jake tries not to remember how they felt under his hands.

                “No apology needed for that. We didn’t make any promises. I’ll admit to being a little disappointed about there not being a round three but…” he shrugs again and his lips are twitching with what Jake really hopes is amusement.

                “Disappointed huh?”

                “Maybe.”

                “Well, I was disappointed when I thought you were married.”

                Fuck. He hadn’t meant to say that. Both Bradshaw’s eyebrows are up now, eyes wide, but his lips aren’t twitching, they’re spread in a teasing grin and Jake totally expects to get the piss taken out of him.

                “Married. Which you thought for maybe ten minutes. How would that make you disappointed?”

                Jake licks his lips, doesn’t miss the fact that Bradshaw’s eyes follow the movement.

                “Maybe I wanted it to be me you were married to.”

                “Marriage huh? Wow. That’s moving fast.”

                “Fuck off. I fly fighter jets. I live fast.”

                “Yeah, and if I want to take things slow?”

                “I’ll go whatever speed you want me too,” Jake says, and he hopes the fact that he’s actually serious bleeds through this teasing flirty banter.

                “Hmm. And Mav being my father figure isn’t a deal breaker?”

                “Definitely not,” Jake scoffs. “Is me being an idiot a deal breaker?”

                “Lucky for you I kind of find it hot…”

                “What about the fact that I’m deployed months at a time?”

                “Oh, I’m sure you’ll make it up to me when you’re on leave…”

                “Be a pleasure to try… Let me take you to lunch?”

                “Yeah. But not in your car.”

EPILOGUE

                “You like that princess?” Bradley asks, mouth close to Jake’s ear as he rolls his hips, his cock sliding in and out of Jake’s ass, his body, slick with sweat, pressed into the mattress by Bradley’s body above him, holding him and Jake can’t form words, just moans and trusts that Bradley will take care of him. He always does, taking particularly special care when Jake first gets back from being deployed; like Bradley needs hours to reacquaint himself with Jake’s body. Jake is definitely not complaining.

                They hadn’t exactly moved slowly, but neither are they married. Jake had let Bradley sell his car and buy him a new one while he was deployed last, and when Bradley had slid out of the bright blue Bronco and walked toward him Jake’s mouth had gone dry, remembering the first time seeing his legs underneath a vehicle of some sort, but that they’d just seemed endless. He still can’t believe he gets to call Bradley Bradshaw his, even if the name is something that will make him side-eye his parents even if they are in graves.

                “Jake baby… you with me sweetheart?”

                “Yeah. Yeah,” Jake manages to gasp out. “I’m with you.”

[0ujidere]

The way Anya & Curly's entire characters are dependent on viewer interpretation is crazy to me but also oh so very good. I will start with Anya okay be ready. The way others draw her interaction with any members of the crew varies so heavily and its based off of how others project onto her. Killing Jimmy with the Axe or the Gun, Anya and Curly killing Jimbo, Keeping the baby, Aborting that baby (dattebayo), Forgiving Curly, Blaming Curly, Killing Curly. All of these are interpretations that we can't really confirm or deny because we Don't know how she would act in any of these situations. We don't know who she is outside of the little tidbits of interaction with the crew and how those can be interpreted and how much those vary. I think its really interesting to see how some Anyas take revenge through their own means and others try to find the road to forgiveness. Both are very valid, but we never learn how she really feels about Curly post-crash, whether they even try to have a conversation or if she follows Jimmy's ideal of projecting herself onto the captain, whichever way that means. His pov has made her character so easy to twist to the way the viewer finds more cathartic and I think it is both a disservice to her from Him as a victim, and insanely good writing from the devs to leave an open ended story with a character who can be formed to fit whatever feels best. I'll make another ramble at some point about her precrash relationship with curly because i think it also holds alot BUT that is a whole nother essay. Curly, very obviously, has no way to communicate other than to fight back with what little he has. We see his fatal flaw & mistake, the semi immediate aftermath, but from then on, he is completely at the mercy of Jimmy/The viewer. We do not see him interact with the crew postcrash, except the three times Jimmy gives him his medication. If he didn't need painkillers every day, he might as well just have been a figment of Jimmy's imagination haunting him, the way Swansea+Daisuke avoid talking about Curly. Though he is still very much a person, he is made out (by jimbo) to be (possibly) a complete mockery of who he used to be, strangled and forced into an idol and a scapegoat and a friend and a coward and a god. Whatever he is needed as at any given moment. An obstacle or a damsel or an upstanding captain or a traitor crushing the crew (Jimmy alone) into the dirt. Any of these could be true or false, all at the same time or otherwise. His actions precrash are all we have to understand him, and the way he fights Jimmy against his medication and is beaten for it, and the way he creaks out a laugh once the gun is revealed, after all this time, right under both of their noses. He spends time with Anya and jokes with her. He helps Jimmy with his psyche eval and reveals his fears regarding being captain. The crew get let go and he goes against the company and tells them anyways, only holding out for a week. He doesn't understand Anya's situation when they watch the 'stars'. He makes some horrible word choice and false promises once he does. He continues to make some more horrible word choices and then action followed by a fatal, single thought. And once the regret hits it is too late. And whether or not he could ever be forgiven or more responsible than ever isn't a question given to Anya, but rather, the viewer. Anya and Curly hurt. They are written both as human and an ultimatum. Who Anya is as a person and where she stands on Curly are both vague. Curly's lack of action and level of responsibility are devastating, but whether or not he deserves punishment or empathy are the viewer's decision.

[freenos]

Ok maybe I do have more thoughts on the Medea interactions and how they reflect on Melinoe:

I’ve noticed that the discussion around Melinoe’s morality tends to focus on her proximity to the Olympians but I think there’s also something to be said about the moral grey area that witches fall under. She didn’t grow up in the House of Hades or Olympus, she grew up in the Crossroads and her perspective is influenced by the guidance of witches. And while Circe and Hecate are a little coy about their misdeeds, Medea stands out as the one who really owns the darker aspects of her craft and talks about the suffering she inflicts with pride. In contrast, Melinoe is…not pure but very invested in the idea of doing the right thing and being in the right. So there’s this contrast between them, Melinoe clings to moral justification for her task while Medea isn’t held back by moral dilemmas.

And I think part of that is because Medea pursues her craft to satisfy her own vengeful desires while Melinoe hasn’t gotten to fully explore her identity as a witch yet: They both use their craft in vengeful ways but Melinoe always has this degree of separation from the root conflict. (Nemesis gets at this idea quite a lot actually.) The titans are retaliating for things her family did long before she was born, yet Melinoe is tasked with cleaning up the mess. And when she does take time to herself, she often feels guilty about it. In contrast, Medea gets the satisfaction of personal revenge and is content to use her curses on anyone who gets on her bad side.

It’s that intent that differentiates Medea from Melinoe, I think. No matter how impressive her feats, Melinoe is ultimately a weapon wielded by someone else and lacks pure intent of her own so she often hints at feeling…morally conflicted when talking to Medea. While Medea draws her power from the “blackest of intent” , it seems like Melinoe is forcing a tough exterior, filling a role that doesn’t always come naturally to her. And she wants to know how Medea manages to pull it off so seamlessly. Medea’s “with practice!” line is funny but also, if Melinoe is going to eventually become the goddess of nightmares, maybe she will get there with practice…

I have a suspicion that her arc won’t be about “becoming the nicest person and making everyone proud” but instead, channeling her craft to achieve her own goals without seeking the approval of a higher authority or abiding by someone else's vision of the future. Not perfectly restoring the Age of Gods or the Golden Age of mortals but instead bringing about a different future. She may end up letting her compassion guide her but Prometheus doesn't call her an agent of good or evil, he calls her an agent of change. And it seems like witches in this game are portrayed as catalysts for transformation.

As her understanding of the world grows and shifts, I think it’s interesting that Medea is one of the people Melinoe looks up to and confides in. She asks Medea these very earnest questions about mortals and gods and Medea grants her a joyfully bleak perspective every time:

Medea also has this consistent tendency to disregard mortal suffering, to compare them to livestock and talk about them in terms of how poison-susceptible they are. I get the sense that Melinoe's perception of mortal weakness is influenced by these kinds of conversations:

Melinoe's understanding of the world is shaped by an interesting range of perspectives and is somewhat...shaky and incomplete for now. I think she isn't quite sure how to reconcile her more compassionate impulses and the responsibility that she's dedicated her life to:

Although she adheres to a very black-and-white set of beliefs for the sake of completing her task, there's also hints of uncertainty in her conversations, especially with Medea, a more experienced and self-assured witch. I think Melinoe's character development has the potential to go in a lot of interesting directions!

[miss-conner3]

Hello miss, I hope you are doing well.

In one comic in the Andoasacultleader-Au you show that when he revived Lambert he warned them to stay away from their malewif- I mean, Narinder, and you said that they follow their advice, so my question is:

In that Au wasnt any kind of romance between those two? Or at least some kind of interaction that made them to have a little of curiosity about the other? Or at least least a brief talk?

Sorry to bother you with this question, but the relationship that lamb and cat have in your normal Au is so sweet that I cant even Image there is a universe when they arent something.

Thank u for ur amazing art, I cant wait to see how this story evolves.

(Hey, why does Tumblr does not let me make this answer as anonymous?, I prefer to be in the shadows, just as Batman (-_-) )

Oh, I don't mind (owo)

Actually, I'm sad to say that, in the Main AU, I still haven't shown what the relationship between Narinder and my Lamb is really like. Since, apart from how I've been drawing them, they are quite complicated.

One thing I'll have to address at some point.

But back to your question, well... ¿What would become of this story if everyone did what they were told? (ouo)

Though to the little lamb's credit, he did think long and hard before he even began to consider looking in the direction of the three-eyed cat.

Because after all, just as impulsive as he is, he trusts his older brother a lot and has never needed a reason to doubt his words or his motives.

Only that, perhaps the situation in which he decided to disobey ended up giving him a little surprise.

You decide if the little one interrupted one interesting “conversation” or two (ouo)

¡Thanks for asking!

[aleki-lives-here]

Today I'm experiencing an emotion about the first helpme.file, precisely the first conversation between Murderbot and Amena.

Murderbot hadn't been talking. Murderbot is surprised that it hadn't been talking. It's so used to pretending "to be a robot" that it doesn't even notice that it settles right back into the role with anyone it doesn't already know/trust/have to interact with. Except children. It talks with children. Does it find them easier to communicate with? Less threatening? Are they more understanding and the lack of assumptions makes it more comfortable, together with a shared interest?

I don't fully agree with how it was described as "shy", but the way it avoids interactions with people (instinctually, habitually, without ever realizing, as a result of years and years of practice where being seen as more than a robot likely meant trouble) makes me feel so many things.

[nerdygaymormon]

Book Club conversation

I'm part of a small book club that gets together once per quarter. It's mostly LDS men, and the one requirement is these need to be manly books. Trust me, I rolled my eyes at the idea "manly" books.

We've met 4 times, the first book was about an athletic team, one was about World War II, and one was a story of pirates. The book we discussed yesterday was "Them: Why We Hate Each Other--and How to Heal" by Ben Sasse.

It was generally good, it had some interesting ideas. Basically it's a former senator writing about the breakdown of community in the United States, the reasons for it, and working to come back together.

At the end of the night, some of the participants told me I gave them a different viewpoint to consider.

The first was about social media, which Ben Sasse generally pans as making us feel like we're connected but actually these are very shallow interactions. Plus, social media generally isn't good for mental health as we compare ourselves to others who are posting about the best parts of their life, and it also gives us metrics like number of followers, likes, comments, and so on, that we can use to determine how popular we are compared to others. We should log out of social media and instead spend time with the small pool of people around us in order to build deeper relationships

I commented that social media was an important source of connection for me as a single individual during the COVID lockdown and for the 9 months I was homebound by a health issue. While there are studies showing there are negative mental-health effects for teenagers, studies also show the reverse for LGBTQ teens. For them, social media is a way to find other queer people who understand their experience and helps them build hope in their future, they don't feel so isolated. Plus, I have several good friends who I met via social media, they're all LGBTQ+, which underlines the point about the benefit of social media for queer people.

The second viewpoint was about politics and elections. Given we were discussing a book by a former Republican senator, and the presidential race ended just over a week ago, politics and elections came up. One man said that during his life he has rarely voted. He served in the military and knew he would continue serving no matter who won the White House. America is mostly the same no matter who wins.

I replied that I experience politics and elections differently from him and the others in the room. While they feel secure in their "certain unalienable rights" as the Constitution calls them, LGBTQ people are regular discussed and voted on and it is very uncomfortable. The "rights" that they enjoy are still fairly new for me. It was only four years ago that it became illegal to fire someone simply for finding out they're gay or trans. It's been less than 10 years since my friends could get married. Elections can feel scary because the results carry consequences for LGBTQ people.

Being present, sharing our thoughts and feelings, sharing our stories, that is how hearts and minds get changed.

[valyrfia]

re: rpf and fandom discourse. i have a very controversial and sorta unpopular opinion on it so just bear with me. fandom has historically been a safe space for queer people to gather and express queerness through fics and other content which is why i think people who are queer want to guard it so viciously. on the other hand a majority of the time ive noticed it’s always non-queer people who feel comfy taking it out of non-fandom spaces where it will inevitably face ridicule and people will not know how to deal with it/people don’t moderate themselves talking about it. im rambling a little but, just an observation ive noticed.

I mean it’s an interesting one anon. On the one hand you could be right that us queer people are a lot more used to code switching and having different facets of ourselves that we switch on and off amongst different groups of people, whereas people who are cishet have never really developed that skill when it comes to talking about romance/sex/sexuality and therefore it doesn’t really occur to them that openly shipping two people of the same gender (which is a lot of fandom) will garner a different reaction to a het ship. We also, as you said, have a lot more to lose if fandom content is ever attacked en masse because a majority of queer content is STILL this community effort that largely originates from fandom whereas straight people will just read a romance book.

I think it’s an interesting take on interaction with fandom content as a whole! I wouldn’t say it’s a strict rule but it IS interesting to add this whole context of queerness into the conversation around fandom and fandom etiquette!

[silkendress]

Bitten Bullet

Previous Chapter First Chapter Next Chapter

-ˋˏ�� Chapter 3: Missing You

-ˋˏ➛ Call of Duty

-ˋˏ➛ Suggestive

-ˋˏ➛ Simon "Ghost" Riley/Reader

-ˋˏ➛ Strangers to Lovers, Civilian Reader, Slow Build

-ˋˏ➛ 11k Words

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Simon nudges that line between acquaintances and friends ever closer.

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Read on AO3

Simon nudges that line between acquaintances and friends ever closer.

Ever since he took you out on his bike it was like a bridge had been drawn, a light turned green.

It starts with calling you. It’s random and sporadic, only once every other day, but he calls. He calls and he prompts you to tell him about your day. You do. He listens.

You think he figures out from trial and error the days and hours you work, because when he does call it’s almost consistently when you are about to leave work or at home.

You take what you’re given like you always have. You cherish your occasional phone calls, you even begin to look forward to them. Simon doesn’t get deterred if you can’t talk for long or at all, he still sounds the same when you eventually do get the chance to return his call. Unbothered and persistent.

You haven’t spent time with him in person since the bike ride, but he makes up for it by taking a genuine interest in your day-to-day. You can’t remember the last time anyone aside from your mother did.

“Have you been up to anything lately?” Speaking of your mother, she checked in as always with her daily calls—or texts—sometimes you called her, sometimes she called you; she was the one person you spoke to consistently.

And soon enough Simon would be a part of that category.

And speaking of Simon… “Uh, well…”

You’re not sure if the bike ride with Simon was something you should tell your mother or not. Not because you thought she would judge you but because you truly weren’t sure how to explain you found yourself becoming well acquainted with a six foot-something man from the military that you also just so happened to meet at a bar one time.

There was also another, deeper worry, one you couldn’t quite place but was eating away at you now that you thought about it. You didn’t want your mother to become happy for you over something that didn’t exist.

It helped to expect nothing and hope for very little, it kept your heart safe. Even if that safety could sometimes be agonizing.

“I had a nice breakfast at a place I haven’t tried before.” Is what you settle on.

“I have to go grocery shopping.” You open the cabinet to get tea, and breathe out in relief when you see there’s one tea bag left in the box.

Simon doesn’t say anything for a moment. Your conversations were like that. Simon never stuttered or tripped over his words like you did; he would wait, mull them over, then talk. And that was assuming he had anything he wanted to say at all.

He never pressured you to talk either. You still got worked up from time to time and convinced yourself you needed to fill the silence lest you were labeled as ‘abnormal’at best, a reflex you developed from multiple failed social interactions and ridicule. You thought that the more you familiarized yourself with Simon the less this feeling would crop up, but oddly enough it’s been the reverse thus far.

It wasn’t that Simon made you feel uneasy, it was rather that he had this strange penchant of making your heart lurch and stomach swoop. A penchant he was completely oblivious to. You went great lengths to ensure it remained that way.

“Did you ever get that bloody cereal?” This was a part of Simon that you were still getting acquainted with, yet cherished all the same.

He definitely had his own sense of humor. Dry wit and deadpan sarcasm. You find yourself suppressing laughter, you are certain Simon can still hear the grin in your voice.

“No,” you carefully pour the steaming water into your mug. “But I hope I will when I go to the store.” You place the tea bag in.

“I hope it’s on a lower shelf.” You say in the same cadence as your previous sentence. You hear Simon quietly huff through his nose on the other end, it’s as close as you’ve been able to get to a chuckle out of him so far.

“Could just reach it for you.” And your heart lurches and your stomach swoops.

It’s that. When he says things like that.

He’s just making conversation, he’s just talking and you’re just being you. Overly-emotional, sentimental, tender hearted you.

You have to physically brush it off with a shrug of your shoulders.

“Yes. You could reach a lot of things.” You agree.

You want to stop thinking about how Simon dwarfs you, so you keep talking. “Hopefully the store has it. I could give you a review of the cereal and everything.”

“I’ll be lookin’ forward to it.” He replies dryly. “Had it the last time you were there, should still have it.” He almost sounds conversational, it’s a bit of a rarity.

“I’ll be going to a different store to get groceries.” The convenience store was closer, but it didn’t have all the necessities you needed. It would be a long walk to and from the actual grocery store, but you’ve done it before.

Simon’s quiet for a while. You walk over to a different cabinet and retrieve some sugar.

“Where?” He eventually asks.

You tell him.

“And you walk there?” He sounds incredulous.

“Yes.”

There’s a pause, then you hear him exhale heavily. “Fuckin’ hell.” He mutters quietly under his breath, too quiet for it to be intended for you to hear. You discern the words only barely.

You expect him to chastise you, or maybe admonish you for your lack of license—and car.

He does neither.

“When are you going?” It’s a question but it’s said so flatly that it sounds like a statement.

Your answer glides off your tongue easily and without thought. “Tomorrow morning.” You pour some sugar into your tea.

You reach out your hand to open a drawer, retrieving a small spoon to stir the granules into your drink.

“I can drive you there.”

Your spoon comes to a screeching halt on the bottom of your mug.

You sputter. “Oh, you don’t have to—“ Your anxiety flares, you didn’t want him to feel like he had to, you didn’t want him to pity you, you didn’t want to push him away—

“Don’t want me to?” It’s sharp and clear-cut, sharp in a way that comes from the need to know in no uncertain terms if he’s crossed a line. He’s demanding clarification.

You breathe in, then out.

“You can.”

“I will, then.”

You fuss over your appearance more than usual the next day.

You haven’t seen Simon in person since he let you sit on the back of his bike.

You’re not sure why it matters to you so much that you can feel your heart pounding in the very pit of your stomach, but it does. Maybe it was because you were half-expecting him to drift away, not flow back to you. You were just waiting for that inevitable day when he stopped calling.

Perhaps it wasn’t as inevitable as you initially thought.

Either way, your nerves were alight and you were pacing around incessantly while you tried to settle down. ‘It’s just groceries, there’s no need to get worked up over it.’

But that was the problem; you weren’t getting worked up over groceries, you were getting worked up over the idea of being in close proximity to Simon again.

Of course, sitting in the passenger’s seat in his car wasn’t nearly as close as you were on his bike, but that didn’t matter. What mattered is that you’d be sitting with him in the car to and from the store and this time you could easily talk to one another while doing so. What mattered is that you haven’t seen him since you’ve been on the back of his bike.

What mattered is that you couldn’t ignore that despite talking over the phone with him every other day, you missed him.

It left a lump in your throat and a pang in your heart. All dangerous territory for someone like you. It was becoming increasingly troublesome to corral your thoughts and feelings, to keep them all in check; no thanks to Simon.

Of course, just when you were beginning to reach a bitter acquiescence to the idea of dying alone and childless, he had to drift into your life like a phantom.

Perhaps it was precisely the effortless nature of his presence that made you—

You still refused to use the word. It was stubborn, maybe childish, but you weren’t going to say the word. You feel the uncomfortable itch of heat on your cheeks, embarrassment bubbling up in your chest.

You couldn’t help but bury your face in your hands in shame. ‘I’m making a big deal out of nothing.’

You make yourself take a deep breath, then another.

A ping from your phone frees you from your thoughts for a moment. On wobbly legs you retrieve it from where it was charging on the nightstand next to your bed.

It is from Simon.

‘On my way.’

You’re hovering by your front door, peeking out one of the nearby windows to see when Simon arrives.

Your nerves haven’t settled one bit, your twitching hands remind you.

Every time a car drives by your breath hitches in anticipation for the one that will turn in to park. Eventually, one does exactly that. After a moment you receive a notification on your phone.

‘Here.’

You breathe in and out, then do so again. You were determined to behave normally.

You step out your house and fumble with your keys to lock the door behind you. You couldn’t shake the feeling that Simon’s eyes were already on you. It made warmth creep up your spine.

When you turn around to walk over to his car you make an active effort to keep your gaze slanted so as to not lock eyes with him. The distance between your front door and where he parked wasn’t far at all, but it felt like miles.

You’re still thinking of what to say when Simon gets out of the car as you approach.

“Thank you again for this.” You blurt out.

“Anytime.” He murmurs.

Not ‘don’t mention it’ or ‘no problem’ but anytime.

Your heart clenches almost painfully.

You’re staring at your feet as you skittishly pad over to the passengers side of the car. You don’t realize Simon is right behind you until his hand darts out to open the door for you.

The suddenness makes you jump but you recover quickly. You nod at him all while avoiding eye contact, hastily murmuring a small ‘thank you’ before hopping into his car.

It is then you recall Simon got out of the car in the first place—he was going to open the door for you. Your mind was in such disarray you hardly realized it, let alone put two and two together. Your heartbeat is a dull ache in your chest.

The door closes with a soft thud. You’re given a very short moment to yourself in the vehicle while Simon walks around to the driver’s side.

You exhale heavily, clicking your seatbelt into place and running your hands across your face with a shaky exhale.

‘I’m getting in my own head again.’ You run your hand over your mouth, resting your chin in the heel of your thumb, your digits curled around your mouth pensively. Your other hand was resting on your knee, tapping fingers nervously on your leg.

Despite the rationality your mind offered you still were nervous.

You just were never good with talking with people, especially not men, and now here you were about to be driven to the grocery store by one. It was remarkable how effortlessly Simon eased his way into the periphery of your life. And if you were being presumptuous—and a little reckless—you got the inkling he wanted to slot himself even further into your day-to-day. Assuming you were interpreting his consistent calls correctly.

Part of your turmoil was compounded by the small insistence that a man such as Simon didn’t seem the type to make friends just for the sake of it, especially not friends like you. You always tuned that thought out namely because of the conclusion that followed, you didn’t have a good history with getting your hopes up.

You couldn’t get a good read on Simon either. There was no reality in which you were asking him—there was always a possibility that you were wrong.

You could just enjoy the time spent with him. It didn’t have to be anything more than that—

but you wanted it to be—

He would take you there, you’d get what you needed, he would take you home. Simple as that.

Just as you reached that resolution you hear the driver’s side door open. You straighten yourself up and fold your hands neatly in your lap. The car itself shifts just a little, almost imperceptibly, as your towering travel companion takes a seat. He shuts his door and starts the car without any preamble.

His movements are no-nonsense and efficient, there was an ease to his shoulders though. Then with one hand on the steering he places his hand over the back of your seat to pull the car out.

You don’t know why, but your face is ablaze.

Before you know it you’re on the road, your home getting smaller and smaller in the rear view mirror.

It’s only been about a few minutes, nothing has been said yet.

You think you can hear rock music playing almost inaudibly on the speakers—you’re not certain of its exact genre, just that there are guitars, drums and raw vocals.

Normally you wouldn’t mind it, especially not with Simon, but for you feel like you need to fill in the quiet—it’s something to do with how it’s been a little while since you’ve seen him face-to-face.

You had already thanked him twice now. So you end up saying; “Have you been up to anything lately?”

“The same.” Simon gruffly responds.

You gathered bits and pieces of Simon's daily routine from talking to him over the phone. Fragments of his day-to-day. It was never anything specific, you had to be rather observant and piece it together yourself.

You gathered he had a rather strict personal schedule. And he preferred to be solitary more often than not.

Except with you, it seemed.

You were resigned to let the conversation end there until Simon spoke again.

“Have you got a list?” He sounds indifferent, but you knew it was uncommon for Simon to make idle small talk—he was the type to simply sit in silence after a conversation had reached its natural conclusion.

It takes you a blink to fully understand him. A grocery list. “Oh! Yes, I do. I won’t take long.”

There's a beat of silence.

You spare a glance over to him. His eyes are firmly on the road, one of his hands on the steering wheel. 

‘He has such large hands.’ You remember how said hand wrapped so effortlessly around your wrist, readjusting your hand to lay over his abdomen, the width of his shoulders filling up your view on the back of his bike—

You shake your head slightly as if to physically fling the thoughts out your head, looking away.

"I'm not in a rush." Came his gruff response.

You’re not sure what to say in response to that. You find a soft smile on your lips and warmth blooming in your chest regardless.

The silence that comes over in the car isn’t an unwelcome one this time. Another song begins to quietly start up on the speakers.

You’re looking out the window watching the scenery go by. At a red light Simon spares you a glance out the corner of his eye. He spends the rest of the drive with his eyes on the road.

You unbuckle your seatbelt as soon as Simon turns the engine off. The large building of the grocery store now right in front of you.

“I won’t take long.” You assure him once again.

Simon drifts his eyes over to you. You’ve just tugged the strap of the seat belt off your shoulder.

You momentarily pause in your action when you hear Simon’s car door open, then see him get out the car entirely.

Your brain still hadn’t caught up all the way by the time he comes around and opens the passenger door for you.

“Thank you.” It comes out as a quiet whisper under your breath. Your eyes are pointedly avoiding his gaze lest your heart beats out of your chest. You expect him to move when you get out the car. He doesn’t.

By consequence of him remaining still you brush against him. Once you’re out the car he shuts the door closed behind you. You feel his eyes burning into you.

“I won’t take long.” You find yourself repeating, it drifts off into a mumble and you begin to scamper off in the direction of the store.

You hear the telltale thud of Simon’s boots amble behind you.

Your neck twitches, you resist the urge to shoot a glance over your shoulder. You weren’t expecting him to come in the store with you.

On the chance you were being presumptuous, you slow to a stop and spare him a look over your shoulder. You almost sputter, flustered, when you see his obsidian eyes are already staring at you intently.

“Did you need something?” Your voice almost cracks, you mentally kick yourself for it.

Simon stares at you. His expression impassive but his irises intense. You watch his jaw shift almost imperceptibly under the black cloth of his mask, his eyes narrow, thinking.

“No.” He replies, the word sounding incomplete.

“Ah,” it looks like your presumption was correct. Your mind is a whirlwind of emotions. “Let’s go, then.” You somehow manage to say.

Before you turn back around to continue onward you catch Simon’s posture easing, the tension previously in his shoulders only becoming noticeable once he relaxed.

His heavy footfalls come up next to you. Arms brush over one another incidentally as you walk together. The chilly breeze does little to cool down your face.

You stand somewhat aimlessly as Simon grabs a cart.

People come in and out the store, the sounds of footsteps, chatter, rustling of groceries and whatever else all become a mosaic of noise in the background of your mind.

Some people spare glances at Simon as they go, more of a reflex due to seeing black cloth where most expect a mouth and nose. Simon is utterly unbothered by it.

Simon tugs the cart along with one hand, only stopping briefly to let a woman and her small child walk past.

“Thanks.” You mumble sheepishly, perhaps for the umpteenth time today.

Simon gives a single hum in lieu of a verbal answer.

He falls into step next to you, his eyes sharp and his presence close. You didn’t get the feeling crowds were his preferred setting, but you also didn’t get the impression that Simon was a man easily rattled.

Either way, you appreciated this favor he was doing for you. ‘How many favors would that be, now?’ You pondered.

As that thought crossed your mind, so too did the urge to repay him somehow.

Your attention is drawn out of your thoughts when Simon speaks. “What’re we gettin’ first?” He grumbles, he made an effort to keep his tone neutral, but the slightest hint of exasperation laced his voice.

He mentioned earlier that he was in no rush, but you could deduce that he would rather not be here longer than necessary. ‘The least I can do is be quick about this.’

“The produce.” You reply, now determined to get this errand done with.

You were nearly done with your shopping. Your list got whittled down bit by bit, and now you were in yet another aisle with Simon lingering somewhere nearby out of your immediate view.

The aisle faintly smelled of coffee, it almost made your head hurt—it certainly agitated your nose. Your eyes were scanning the wide array of instant coffee and powdered tea blends, determined to find the specific brand of green tea you liked.

“Coffee drinker?” Simon piped up behind you, a hint of genuine curiosity in his rough voice.

“Oh, I like tea more. Coffee makes me jittery.” You answer offhandedly, finally finding the brand you wanted—your joy was swiftly dashed when you couldn’t immediately see the plain green tea flavor from said brand, however.

You began your search again. ‘Surely they have it plain…’

“A woman after my own heart.” He replies flatly.

Your entire body goes as still as a statue, your train of thought derailed entirely. It takes about two pulses of your frantic heart for you to spin your head around to look at him.

He’s busying himself checking the options available. His back was to you, a small box of lavender-infused tea leaves in his large hand, his eyes narrowed with scrutiny. Completely unaware of how he was fraying your thoughts. Unintentional in the ruffling of your feathers.

You look away and take a breath. ‘I need to get out of my own head.’

It is at that moment your eyes land on the box you were so determined in searching for. You grab a box of decaffeinated green tea and toss it in the cart.

Simon places the box he was holding back into the shelf, following you out the aisle. You get a few more steps ahead until he calls your name, his voice only just loud enough to catch your attention.

You look over to him curiously. “Oh! You found it!” You cheerfully exclaim. It was a welcome distraction from your incessant thoughts following his offhanded remark; in his large hand was the now infamous cereal.

You couldn’t wait to eat it—and subsequently tell Simon how it tasted.

The cart rattles somewhat as he drops the box inside. Then he sidesteps around you to walk by your side again. You don’t move, he doesn’t step further away to account for that. The sleeve of his jacket gliding over your back is no surprise—you expected it. Hoped for it, if you were being honest. 

Your face felt hot when for a fraction of a second you could feel his large, relaxed bicep against the layers of material.

Your eyes darted up to him. He looked as impassive as ever, perhaps a little more relaxed since you very first stepped into the store, but still hyperaware of his surroundings.

You suppose that’s why every brush of contact sent a whirlwind of butterflies in your stomach, for someone as conscious of the environment around him he made a habit of incidentally brushing past you. Incidental being the keyword, like Simon subconsciously included you into his bubble of personal space and therefore didn’t feel the need to give you as wide of a berth.

You wondered if he sought your touch the same way you were beginning to yearn for his. Your face grew ever hotter with that question in your mind.

You conclude maybe, because neither of you ever jerked away.

As you make your way to the final aisle you can’t shake the growing feeling of disenchantment; soon the day would be over, and who knows when next you would see Simon in person again. The fear of overstepping some bound that was clear for all to see but invisible to the likes of you was strong enough to prevent you from asking Simon outright to spend time with you. You just answered his calls and spoke with him that way, all while daydreaming for more.

Despite the moments you got flustered, you enjoyed this—it felt silly to admit to yourself but it was true. The simple mundanity of just existing with another person, with Simon, was something you enjoyed. Terribly so. Terribly.

Your thoughts become preoccupied with finding the last item when you sharply turn into the next, and final, aisle.

Fortunately your eyes catch what you’re looking for almost immediately. Unfortunately it was on the top shelf. You huff through your nostrils, exasperated. You leave the cart momentarily as you approach the shelf.

You stand on the very tips of your toes, it’s a song and dance you’ve done before—sometimes you get lucky, sometimes you don’t. Your fingers brush over the box of brownie mix you were hoping to get, but every attempt to grasp it only pushes it further back. It was looking like it wasn’t going to be a lucky day for you.

It’s fortunate then, that another hand grabs it.

You sputter and flinch, just barely catching yourself before you smacked yourself against the shelf in surprise. By the time you steady yourself and turn around you see Simon dropping the box into the shopping cart.

You don’t know how someone so big could be so quiet.

You feel your face flash with heat. You of course had the passing thought to ask him, but you didn’t want to impose on him more than you already felt you were. Even though Simon showed no signs of doing this for you bothering him.

He tugs the cart along with one hand, moving out the aisle as he calls to you. “That’s it?”

You swallow thickly. ���Yes. That’s it.”

‘I’m going to miss him.’ You realize defeatedly as you both go to the checkout together, the day nearing its end faster than you wanted. Again.

The line on most of the checkouts were too long for Simon’s liking, it seemed. He sharply drifts to the far less congested self-checkout.

You find yourself fighting a snicker at it; seeing small glimpses of Simon that weren’tblunt indifference was always a joy.

Simon wordlessly began helping you with scanning the items and placing them in bags, he was rather efficient at it. Before you know it the last item is scanned and put away.

You fumble for your wallet to pull out your credit card and turn to pay for it.

Simon is already at the screen and tapping something on it with his large thumb.

You hastily ramble. “Oh, goodness, Simon you really don’t—“

“I want to.” It isn’t harsh but it is swift and final. He isn’t going to argue with you about this.

You stare at your feet as the transaction completes, your hands clammy and your chest feeling as though it could burst.

“C’mon.” Simon mumbles to you, walking past you to take some of the bags in his hands. He then nudges you with a gentle tap of his forearm to get the rest of the bags. You sputter and pick them up, you realize belatedly that he took the heavier bags, leaving you with the lightest ones.

He waits patiently while you fumble with your fingers to get them all. Once you do he doesn’t give you the chance to thank him before he comes back around to softly bump you forwards again to urge you to walk with him.

You have to walk faster than normal to match his longer strides, you don’t have the mental capacity at this very moment to dwell on the casual contact nor how he, unprompted, paid for your groceries.

The air was cold enough to almost make you shiver, even through the layers of your clothing, but it was welcome; it gave you a sensation to focus on instead of the flutters in your stomach.

He opens the trunk of his car for you without preamble. You’re careful with placing the bags in. Simon puts his down inside as well. You and Simon’s limbs hover over one another as you both go about it, he looms over next to you.

With the final bag put away you both stand, with Simon closing the trunk with an audible thud.

“I really appreciate all of this, you know. Really.” You don’t think the words through, but it was the truth. A wary vulnerability etched in your voice.

“And…Talking to me on the phone too, I—“ ‘Rein it in a little.’ “Thank you.” You stare at your feet, your hands fixed in a nervous fiddle.

Simon doesn’t say anything. He shifts his weight on his feet once, a silence begging to be filled grows between you. You take the small risk and look up at him.

The light hits him just right, and there in the depths of his blackened iris you see gold and warmth, amber glinting where the sun shines on one side of his face.

It makes a honeyed crescent, his pupil stark and deep against the syrupy flecks. His pale lashes flash like sparks in the sunshine. His lids are low and his brows are smoothed out, the muscles in his face as relaxed as they could be.

He shifts his weight once more, and just like that his other eye falls back into shadow.

“You don’t have to thank me for that, sweetheart.”

You're cognizant of your heartbeat. You try desperately to not dwell on how the low register of his voice curl so delightfully over that honeyed word, how there still was a masculine gruffness to his voice even when he made it soft. A frisson goes up your spine.

“That all for errands?” He then says, fluidly shifting the subject. You can't determine if he would mind if there was more or not, if he would spend the whole day with you if you wanted.

You don’t find out. “That's all.”

The car ride back was strangely tranquil.

You had thought with your emotions running amok that you would have been a jittery mess, especially with how you could pick apart a few moments in the day where you failed your initial goal of ‘behave normally,’ yet you found yourself oddly at peace.

Simon looked relaxed too—when you last spared a glance at him. Every now and then you’d see his eyes flick over to you in your peripheral.

Your head is leaning against the passenger window, your eyes staring at the road ahead through the windshield but not quite observing anything.

It was peaceful.

“What song is this?” The question sort of comes out, there isn’t any ulterior motive or deeper thought behind it. You realized at some point you liked the song playing so quietly on the speakers, that was all.

“Hometown.” Simon replies without skipping a beat, sure in his answer.

“I like it.” So much so that you’re looking it up on your phone to save it for later, you then ask Simon the artist which he supplies with the same level of confidence.

A moment passes before Simon speaks again. “Didn’t think you’d like this sort of music.” He sounds intrigued, a thought spoken aloud, a branch for you to keep the conversation going.

You then ask him softly, “What did you think I would like?”

You would be lying if you said you weren’t curious if Simon thought of you nearly as often as you did him, if he wondered about you too.

Simon hums, the sound low and thoughtful. “Not this.” He eventually responds. Your lips quirk up in a smile.

You were about to prod him to tell you more, but you don’t have to. “Somethin’ more gentle.”

A beat, then muttered under his breath; “Somethin’ like you.”

Your heart lurches and your stomach swoops, monarch butterflies have migrated into the pit of your stomach—it’s pandemonium.

You swallow, and it’s difficult to with the lump in your throat, you chew the inside of your cheek to give that oversentimental heart of yours time to settle down. ‘Stop getting worked up. Stop getting worked up—‘

“I like those songs too.” It’s the best you can think of for a response, so it’s what you go with.

“Yeah?” Simon shifts his dark irises over to you, lingering for half a second too long before focusing his attention back on the road.

All you can manage is a soft ‘mhm’ and a nod of your head.

“Like a bit of everything, then?”

“Yes, you could say that.” You agree.

You mull over whether or not to continue on briefly before speaking again. “I thought you’d like this sort of sound.” You gesture noncommittally towards the speakers with your pointer finger.

Simon seems amused by this, you can almost hear the smirk in his voice. “What gave it away?”

You bite back a smile. “Oh, you know.” You mumble sheepishly, waving your hand.

You expect him to say something teasing in that dry tone of his, that’s how these sorts of conversations play out over the phone. The car slows to a temporary stop as you come up to a red light.

“What else have you thought about me?”

Your tongue weighs just as much as mercury if not more in your mouth.

You can’t even look at him in surprise, because you can see in the corner of your eye that he’s already looking at you and maintaining eye contact while you were flustered was a recipe for disaster.

You never had Simon say or ask you such a thing before. You had a decent enough idea of Simon to know that he was not the sort of man to place too much stock in what errant thoughts others had of him, so this threw you for a bit of a loop.

He sounded as though he couldn’t care less about the answer yet the intensity in his eyes told a different story. He was observing you, eyes honed in to any reaction or lack thereof.

“I’ve thought about when I’d see you in person again.” You blurt out.

His eyes shift back to the road when the light turns green. The car starts moving once more.

“Missed me, did you?”

Your mouth opens and closes, by the third time you realize you’re gaping like a fish and keep your mouth clamped shut. You run through your typical reassurances that you were making a fuss out of nothing to calm your heart.

In the time it takes you to think of what to say, Simon’s eyes dart over to you, in a blink his gaze is forward again.

You weren’t sure what you saw in that momentary look, either way, you found your voice was lost at the moment.

You also weren’t sure as to what to even say to that. It was possible he was joking—it had happened before, mortifyingly enough, where you mistook one of his dry and witty remarks for sincerity. In the event he wasn’t joking—

You still don’t know what to say or do.

You throw in the metaphorical towel. A huff of air escapes your throat, a sound that could pass for laugh, but there’s no genuine humor in it; this was as much of a response as you could manage. You rest your head against the window once more, the glass cool was welcoming against the rising temperature of your skin.

The only thing you could think of was to simply let the conversation simmer out. It wouldn’t be anything new for you and him, sometimes your conversations just did that.

Seconds tick by. Simon doesn’t press it, he doesn’t say anything at all. You’re grateful for it.

And gone as it came, your body cools down to a normal temperature.  The quiet serenity from before envelops the car.

Your eyes shift over to spare one last look at Simon, a myriad of thoughts in your head.

‘I did miss you.’ Was one of them.

Simon is a gentleman in his own right. He opens the car door for you again once he parks the car in front of your home, he helps you carry the bags inside—taking the heaviest ones like before.

It is when you’re fumbling with your keys to unlock your door that you realize Simon has never been inside your home before. You didn’t think he’d help you put the groceries in, let alone pick you up to drive you to get said groceries or pay for them—

So you weren’t sure if the inside looked presentable. You kept everything clean, of course, but you couldn’t shake the incessant paranoia that you could have cleaned more.

You weren’t expecting anyone to come inside.

And yet, here Simon was, looming behind you while you finally twisted the key and opened the door.

You shuffled inside awkwardly, Simon right behind you on your heels. You take off your shoes at the door and Simon observes this before silently following suit.

Hearing the door shut makes your head whirl around. Simon stands in the short hallway,  his stature was so wide that it made the hall appear narrower.

“Where do I put these?” He asks gruffly.

You blink, then sheepishly smile up at him. “The kitchen, over here.”

He trails behind you as you lead him. He places the bags next to where you put down the ones you were holding.

Then you hear the bags rustle. Your eyes go increasingly wide as Simon pulls out vegetables, one in each hand. Presumably to help you put the groceries away.

You open your mouth to insist he didn’t have to, but close it when it dawns upon you that this was an opportunity to remain in one another’s presence for longer.

You didn’t want him to leave just yet.

“Those go in the fridge, in the bottom shelf.” You say softly.

He gets to work immediately.

Simon made your kitchen feel smaller.

It’s strange, being so skittish around him that you go out of your way to avoid accidentally brushing him when you had already clung onto him while on the back of his bike, when you already brushed against one another in the store. Your mind convinced you that these were different circumstances, however.

You try not to think about how simply domestic this all feels.

Putting things away is much faster with someone else to help you, which came as no surprise. It wasn’t long before the last item was put away.

You hover in your kitchen awkwardly. Simon’s presence made you feel like a stranger in your own home.

“Thank you.” You mumble, staring at your feet. You can feel Simon’s eyes on you. He merely grunts in response.

Your eyes flick up to him, then dart off away from him. Your arms hang limply at your sides.

“Do you want any brownies?” You sputter out suddenly. His eyes go half-lidded, it almost makes him look soft. Soft felt like a word that was contradictory to everything you knew and assumed about Simon thus far, but that was what that look made him become—even if it was only on a minuscule level.

You feel your stomach swoop.

“As thanks.” You hastily tack on when Simon doesn’t immediately answer.

“You already thanked me.” He murmurs slowly, the careful tone in his voice makes you hesitantly look up at him. He’s still looking down at you past blond lashes.

Whatever was there in his eyes is there no longer the next time he blinks. “Won’t say no to dessert, though.”

The brownies are put in the oven. A timer is set on your phone.

Simon had gotten himself comfortable in one of the dining room chairs. You can’t help but think he looks endearingly out of place in your home. You never had many, if any, visitors.

Now that you thought of it, the only people that visited you so far was your immediate family.

And now Simon.

When you look up from your phone you find that he was already observing you. He had made a move to help you with the brownies, but you insisted you had it covered. Besides, he paid for your groceries—you thought this was the least you could do.

And goodness, did you have to insist. He wasn’t a man that would back down easily once his mind was set on something. It wasn’t until you stuttered out that you just wanted to gift him something for once that his mind was finally changed.

Admitting such a thing was embarrassing for you, but it worked. The only downside was that you once again felt like a fish out of water.

Simon leans back a bit in his chair, his eyes never leaving you. Heat creeps up your neck.

He had taken off his jacket earlier—took off his gloves and stuffed them into the pocket—it was draped over the back of the chair he was in. He was wearing a plain, short-sleeved black shirt. It exposed even more of his sturdy arms, and also the tattoos he had.

“You have a lot of tattoos.” It’s an observation impulsively said aloud.

He blinks slowly, his eyes shifting down to his inked arm, then back to you. “Just the ones here.”

You softly hum in reply. You can’t help but stare at the swirling ink, you think it’s flames. The designs of whatever else is on his skin is too clustered together for you to make out at this distance.

“You can take a closer look.” It’s said so casually that you think you misheard him for a moment.

All you know is that you were in the kitchen, and now you were seated next to him in the dining room. You track the motion of his thick arm outstretching to lay on the table, you notice the corded muscle flexing under his skin, the pale wisps of hair decorating his arms—just as blond as the hairs on his head, the veins in his arms.

And his hands. He had such large hands.

His fingernails are blunt, short enough that you barely saw any white on the tips. There’s some old nicks there, so faded that it looked more like a blemishes now. You could tell just by looking that his palms were calloused.

You lean forward a bit in your seat now that you’ve been given permission to closely examine the art etched onto his skin. You notice Simon’s eyes are tracking you in your peripheral.

You start at his wrist and work your way up.

The one there is the first tattoo of his you ever saw; the jawless skull with the crown. What is directly above it is more difficult for you to make out, the art is all bunched together and interwoven with black ink.

After squinting and tracing the lines carefully with your eyes, you make out the shape of a tank, looming over it is a helicopter. Behind that is larger piece of a solider holding a sniper rifle.

You think you see what looks to be the edge of another rifle—the silhouette of one in pure black—on the side of his forearm, but with the way his arm is laying on the table you can’t see the whole of it.

Further up his arm the images become more clearer, they aren’t as cramped together, but they still are rather close.

There’s another skull—he must really like the motif—and to the upper left of it is an anthropomorphized cartoon missile with its teeth bared. The backdrop of flames are increasingly comprehensible the further you go up his arm.

The final tattoo you can see is—

“Wait, what is that?” Your normally soft voice is raised somewhat in surprise, it makes Simon look at you curiously.

You point at the upper edge of his bicep, not at his shoulder but close. The artwork flows over the curvature there, so it’s somewhat warped, but not by much.

“Is that a knight holding an axe?” It was. One surrounded by flames and with skeletal hands—it was just a bust, only the shoulders up.

His eyes crinkle, you try to imagine what his smile looks like. You bet it’s teasing.

“Like that one, do you?” He rumbles, you could hear the grin in his voice. He had a sort of nonchalant confidence about him, completely at ease with himself.

You suppress the urge to shiver. You sputter a bit. “Well, I like them all.” You reply amicably. His eyes feel like they’re burrowing into you.

“Do you have one you really like?” You ask him in one quick exhale, your hand coming up to rest your chin in your palm to give yourself something to do. You feel the heat on your face from your fingertips.

Simon settles back in his seat a bit, he’s somewhere else while he thinks. He’s staring almost blankly ahead.

Then he tilts his arm, showing the inside of his elbow.

“This one.” He taps at it with two fingers.

It’s a pair of dog tags, barbed wire is looped through them where you think a chain should be.

He removes his arm from the table before you get the chance to read the text on them—the ink much too faded and blurry to be able to discern the letters with a quick glance. The hope of one day being able to know the story behind each tattoo is an unbidden one.

The quiet that comes over the two of you is familiar at this point, pleasant.

You spare a quick glance at your phone. Time is moving slower than you expected.

“Do you want any tea?”

There’s a good-natured scoff on his lips when he answers. “Always.”

You are scrunched up in on yourself on the far end of the couch.

Tea soon became ‘do you want to watch anything while we wait for the brownies?’

And thusly you found yourselves doing exactly that.

It wasn’t like your couch was comically small, just that you didn’t want to intrude on Simon’s personal space by mistake—personal space which encompassed a wider area than most. He took up a good portion of the couch, the furniture dipping a little under his weight when he sat down.

Sure, you held onto him like your life depended on it on the back of his bike, but that was different. He gave you the green light to do so and it was an appropriate response given the circumstances.

Simon’s legs were spread, but only just enough to be comfortable. You could sit up, but then your leg would be against his the entire movie.

When you asked Simon if he had any preference for what to watch he simply shrugged, so you picked. The brownies would probably be done before it concluded, but that was fine; this was just so you could have a sort of social buffer.

The title flashes on the screen and you see Simon’s eyes squint.

“Have you watched this before?”

“No.” He replies, deadpan.

The two of you quiet back down as the movie begins in earnest.

Simon is just as relaxed as he was at the restaurant. He’s leaned back lazily, his long and wide legs stretched out in front of him, there’s a mug of tea in his hand.

Every now and then he lifts his mask up from under his chin to take a sip, you catch glimpses of his jaw, a sight that you’ve seen before but still were intrigued over. You find yourself wondering what his entire face looked like. His nose, his cheekbones, if he had freckles or scars you couldn’t see.

‘I need to get it together.’ Your face scalds with embarrassment, bringing your mug up to your lips to take a small sip.

The most reaction you got out of Simon during the movie was quiet huffs and the occasional roll of his eyes when appropriate. You didn’t mind; it was a movie neither of you have seen before so you didn’t begrudge him for his silence during it.

It wasn’t a bad movie at all. At least, from what you could tell before you had to pause it to take the brownies out the oven lest they burn.

Shortly after you placed the pan out on the counter to cool you heard the soft shifting of the couch as Simon rose from it. He rolled his shoulder and tilted his neck to stretch out the muscles there. You made yourself look away.

“They’ll need to cool a little.” You mumble.

You hear Simon’s footsteps come closer into the kitchen. His head slants slightly to get a look at the desert, then his eyes drift to you.

After a beat, he slinks out the kitchen to return to his seat at the dining table. Simon was willing to wait.

Silence with him was easy. Talking to him was easy, too.

When you weren’t getting in your own head, that is.

You had asked him how he thought of your place, he made a show of flicking his eyes around the space at that moment, but you got the feeling he already observed your living space as soon as he stepped through the door.

“It suits you.” He eventually says with a slight shrug.

You give him a smile from over your shoulder before getting two small plates to place the brownies on. They had cooled down enough to not immediately burn the tongue once bitten into, which meant it was time to eat them.

You nearly jump out of your skin when you notice Simon standing next to you in your peripheral.

It was remarkable how quickly and how quietly a man as large as him could move. All the reasons you came up with for how he learned to move so stealthily all involved the military and the macabre, so you let it go.

He took one of the plates from you and waited while you cut him a piece, you couldn’t fight the small smile on your lips while doing so. Simon, objectively, was still an imposing man; something about him waiting so patiently with one of your delicate plates with pastel floral detail wrapped around the edges held in his calloused paw of a hand was endearing.

You gently place the piece you cut for him onto the plate, you may have subconsciously given him a larger slice than usual. Simon doesn’t seem to mind either way.

“Thanks,” he murmurs before ambling back off to the dining table. You nod to him, giving a soft ‘uh-huh’ in response before turning to give yourself a slice.

When you turn back around to go take a seat at the table yourself you nearly gasp aloud.

Simon’s mask was crumpled and discarded on the table beside his plate.

It takes your brain longer than usual to recognize it all. You didn’t even stop to think that Simon would have to remove the thing to eat.

Perhaps some part of you didn’t expect it to be so…Simple. Unceremonious wasn’t quite the right word—just being able to see his entire face unobstructed was an occasion in of itself. But it was uncomplicated. His mask was on and now it was off.

His eyes are, of course, the same. Darker than the earth, more ink than cocoa, framed by pale lashes and eyebrows. His lids are lowered, disinterested, yet the whites of his sclera are stark and aware.

He wears the gaze of a man woken from the dead, it wouldn't have looked handsome on anyone else but him.

But in context of his whole face, his eyes look different—different in a sense that they aren’t just isolated features anymore, but a part of an entire, storied picture. You recall the crinkle in his eye when he smiles. You wonder what his smile looks like.

You’ve wondered what he looked like many times by now, all different variations; now you realized some were close to the mark, some not. None resembled how he truly looked.

He looked like himself; perhaps he inherited more facial features from paternal or maternal line—you wouldn’t know. It didn’t matter. He looked like Simon.

Light stubble decorated a strong jaw. You see the entirety of the scar there now, it nearly grazes the edge of his earlobe. It had healed long, long ago; but you could tell just by looking at it that it hurt when he got it. His the bridge of his nose didn’t look completely straight, there was a slight tilt that suggested it was once broken.

You could also see the whole of scar on his lip, how it trailed up and further into his nostril. On the same side the scar was located his vermilion border was ever so slightly higher than the other.

“Cleft lip.” He says, simple and devoid of any strong feelings—positive or negative. He brings the baked good up to his mouth to take a bite out of it.

He wasn’t looking at you, his eyes were far off and away, yet he still noticed you enough in his peripheral to tell you were staring.

“Ah,” there’s no point in pretending you weren’t looking at his scars. “I was wondering what that was.” You sheepishly admit. Corrective surgery, you fill in the blanks yourself.

“Well, now you know.” He says with no small amount of exaggerated dry sarcasm. For a mortifying breath you think you’ve offended him somehow, but then the corner of his mouth twitches up in a phantom smirk.

You’ve seen his mouth before, but you’ve never seen him full-on smile yet; the twitch of his lip reminds you.

Your face feels warmer. You force yourself to stop looking at his lips.

You are quick to cross the room and seat yourself down across from him. Once seated you take a bite out of your desert far more hastily than necessary just to give your hands something to do other than fidget.

It was embarrassing to admit to yourself, but you struggled to not pay attention to him in your peripheral; to his jaw and how the tip of his tongue would occasionally dart past his lips to lick a stray crumb.

He was handsome. Perhaps not in the standard magazine cover sense, but there was a sort of ruggedness to him that plenty could find appealing. You were also a member of said plenty. Scars, broken nose and all.

It was unbidden; the hairs that rose on the back of your neck, the warmth pooling in your stomach—all just from seeing his face.

You considered mentally reprimanding yourself as you have countless times before throughout your life, but decide to give yourself a bit of a break and just enjoy what you could of his presence—which was no easy task since it was almost second nature by now, but you managed.

You opt to eat in silence. The brownie mix from stores practically never tasted bad, so it felt pointless to ask him even just for conversation.

You try your very best to commit his face to memory, cherishing it.

You half expect Simon to put his mask back on as soon as he's done with his brownie. He doesn't.

He gets up and balls the cloth up in his big hand and shoves it in his pocket.

Simon brings his thumb to his mouth, getting a bit of chocolate that had melted there. “Can I have another?” He asks, his accent thick.

It was new to see him talk, how his mouth curled around vowels, how his jaw shifted along with what was spoken. You clear your throat and keep your gaze away from the sight determinedly.

“Have as many as you like.” You answer with a self-conscious smile, simply pleased to have Simon stay for longer, no matter how arbitrary the reasoning.

You’re about to get up to get a second brownie yourself until Simon grabs your plate in his free hand. “I’ll get it.” He rumbles before going into the kitchen, not giving you a chance to respond.

Once he gets you both another slice you fully expect Simon to return to the dining table.

Instead he keeps going into the living room. He only gives you a firm nod in the direction of the couch to motion you to follow him.

You get up from your seat, the chair screeching against the floor with the suddenness of your movement and skittishly follow him.

He had already returned to his spot on the couch, your plate was on the coffee table waiting for you.

His spot. To think that he's only been here for a short while and you were already labeling that part of the sofa as his. You gingerly sit down in your self-designated corner, and take your plate in your fidgety hands.

In the corner of your eye Simon glances at you expectantly. You waste no time in resuming the movie.

Simon gets a bit more talkative this time around. Little snide remarks here and there, deadpan quips that never failed to make you smile or laugh.

You see his lips twitch on occasion, a huff of breath that you knew was a scoff, but no full smiles just yet from him. While you did want to see his smile and hear his laugh, you didn’t mind. You got a feeling that was just how he was. He was human, he’d do one of those two things eventually.

He would shift every now and then, a roll of his shoulder or a flexing of his fingers. Little movements that would indicate his presence. Eventually he put his arm over the back of the couch, relaxing. It would be too easy to sit up and have his arm—You felt pinpricks of heat lick at your cheeks.

You keep your attention on the TV from then on.

One movie turned into two, then three. You were still only a couple minutes into the third when you noticed the sky growing ever so slightly peach. You swallow thickly, as much as you wanted him to stay all day, you didn’t want to keep Simon, nor did you want to risk the potential of coming off as overbearing.

You pause the movie, causing Simon to lazily shift his eyes over to you.

“It’s getting late, I’m sorry for keeping you—“

“Want me to go?”

‘No.’ You clamp your mouth shut, your tongue pokes the inside of your cheek.

Your expression must have said it all, because Simon continues.

The gruffness of his voice contrasts with the reassurance in his words. “Trust me, if I didn’t want to be here, I wouldn’t.”

He sounded as soft as he could be with a voice like his.

You suddenly speak. “Would you like to stay for dinner?”

You’re taking small bites out of your everything bagel, your eyes are staring at your plate, directionless.

Simon did, in fact, want to stay for dinner. Except he insisted you didn’t have to make anything for him—the brownies were enough. You insisted that he should still eat something. So now he was sitting with you at the dining table yet again; this time with a plate of eggs.

You had eggs too, but yours had cherry tomatoes diced in them—Simon just wanted his plain—and a bagel.

Simon gave you a somewhat amused look from the fact you were eating breakfast for dinner—a look that made your face burn—but otherwise said nothing aside from thanking you.

At this point Simon was done eating his, and soon you would be done with yours.

A glass of juice is in the middle of the table, right by your plate the other is situated next to it. Neither of you have drank out of them yet, so he can pick whichever one he wants.

He leans forward in his seat, his large hand reaching out languidly—

And his thumb, calloused and rough as you thought they would be, gentler than you ever could have imagined, presses against the corner of your mouth.

Everything stops. The only thing moving is your heart, sending a tender ache throughout your chest and into your throat with every pulse.

His thumb swipes across a single time, it doesn’t linger—you wish it did—it pulls away, gone as it came. The only evidence of its presence being the heat on your face and the flutters in your belly. On it is a sesame seed, he presses it down and away on his napkin.

He says nothing. You say nothing. It’s almost dizzying.

You want to say something, you want to tell him that it was okay for him to do such a thing—in hopes that he would do so again, that you would share meals together again, that this feeling behind your ribs wouldn’t be the first and only time.

Your head is still tilted down when you flick your eyes up at him. He is looking at you intensely, gauging your reaction.

You want to speak but all that you manage is a small, misshapen smile.

He leans back in his chair, at ease.

You continue to eat in a soft, gentle silence.

He still hasn’t put his mask back on yet.

As the sun dipped lower Simon told you that after this last movie he’d be going home. It was when he said that you realized he had spent practically the entire day with you.

He slotted into your day like he was always meant to be there.

You barely are able to comprehend the finer details of the movie at this point, your mind replaying the events of today like a vinyl.

There was a shift in the air after he touched you. Not a bad change, but it was a change. You couldn’t put your finger on it. Simon was as unreadable as ever, so you couldn’t discern if it was just you or not.

Some kind of electricity just barely contained.

You and Simon were far more talkative during this movie due to the fact it’d be the final one for the day. Yet no matter how many words were passed between the two of you that electricity never fully dissipated.

Before you knew it the movie had reached its end. Simon’s cue to leave.

You felt a dimness come over your mood, but you weren’t as disappointed this time considering you had spent most of the day with him.

Simon, unexpectedly, utters your name.

You look over to him, brows raised in curiosity.

He holds your gaze, his expression placid. It was strange seeing it on him now that his face was exposed, so familiar yet unfamiliar.

His lips thin out, you only notice it due to the crease in the corner of his mouth deepening as a consequence. It’s subtle, but it was there. Simon has never been one to wear his heart on his sleeve, but you truly can’t tell what he’s thinking about in this moment.

You’re not sure how, but he made brown eyes piercing.

Then his eyes flutter in a blink, and his gaze drifts off and away from you.

“Today was nice.” You can’t shake the feeling that wasn’t what he initially was going to say.

“It was.” You agree. The feeling is still nagging at you.

Simon gets up, the couch shifts from the absence of his weight. You linger where you are for a moment longer.

He exhales from his nose, long and heavy. His shoulders set straight in a tenseness you couldn’t place. His jaw shifts.

He looks down and over to you. Simon already towered over you—and most people—while standing, being curled up on the couch as you were only exaggerated that gap. You swallow thickly, waiting. You’re not sure for what, if anything.

The connection gets severed when Simon looks away walks past the couch to go to the dining room to retrieve his jacket, his footsteps heavy.

You get up and off the couch slowly, your arms wrapping around yourself in a subconscious self-soothing gesture. Your heart was pounding and anticipation had sunk its claws into you.

Simon’s back is to you when you walk in to the dining room. He’s in the middle of putting his other arm into the sleeve.

You stare at his broad back while he zips the jacket up, the sound of it so loud in the silence.

“Thanks for spending the day with me.” Your voice is almost a whisper, anything more felt too harsh.

This makes him turn around. He nods in acknowledgment, then stills afterwards. Inky eyes consider you. His breathing measured.

There’s a long pause before he actually speaks. “I’m just a call away, you know.”

Your heart is racing, yet there’s no good reason for it to. “So am I,” you try to keep your voice even, giving him a barely-there smile. “I just didn’t want to bother you—“

“You never do.”

You feel your skin prickle with pleasant goosebumps. There’s something in the way he said it. You blink rapidly. You set your sights a little off to the side of him, not trusting yourself to look him in the eye right now. The energy is frenetic despite the slowness and quietness of the conversation itself.

The two of you stand listlessly in the dining room for a moment longer before Simon marches out towards the direction of the front door, though not before beckoning you to follow with a nod of his head.

You trail behind him.

He’s quick about putting his boots back on. Tying them without fumbling even once. Utilitarian, efficient. Your eyes go downwards then upwards when he rises to his full height after securing the boots in place.

He still hasn’t put his mask back on yet.

He says your name. You expect him to say his goodbyes but instead he shifts his weight on his feet. You can almost see the thoughts cycling through his head, but you’re not privy to any of them. His jaw clicks, a decision made.

He takes a step forward. It’s tentative. Tentative in an aware sense, not from lack of confidence.

The anticipation that was gnawing at you makes itself known once more. Your tongue and mind are not cooperating enough to make a sentence, and even if they were, you wouldn’t want to break whatever spell you found yourself caught in by speaking.

The following steps are more sure, less slow but still languid. He stops right in front of you, well within what would be your personal space, stopping just short of your torsos touching.

You thought that your mind was pandemonium in the car ride back home; that was nothing compared to what you were feeling now, standing so close to him.

Simon murmurs your name again, barely above a whisper.

“Can I?” The word is forced out past his lips, like the very question itself was foreign on his tongue, stilted. His voice was so forcibly even that it barely sounded like a question at all.

You nod before you even know what you’re agreeing to. All you knew was that he was close and you wanted him to remain close.

You only realize the amount of tension in his shoulders once they relax. In your peripheral you see his arm shift, coming around you—

It isn't quite a hug.

He sort of cradles the back of your head, his touch wary and slow. The deliberate carefulness of it gave you more than enough clearance and time for you to back away. You don’t, you don’t think you ever would want to. His wide palm rests there.

Simon is soft when he pulls you to him, so cautious that it is you that leans forward and fills in the gap.

Your head nestles against his chest. A key fitting in a lock.

And just like that, the anticipation eases and fades away. Your heart is still pounding but it is more of a steady drumbeat. You are awash with relief, more than anything.

You feel more than hear Simon exhale heavily; like one would after finally dropping something heavy.

You feel small, coveted. Simon is all encompassing, you feel sheltered in the vastness of him. Something far older than you in the fabric of your subconscious shudders, pleased.

Your arms, which are more flimsy and shaky than they ever have been, reach up to clutch your equally trembling hands into his jacket. You hold on, squeezing. Then squeezing tighter.

His paw smooths down to the back of your neck, he rubs a slow circle on the atlas of your spine, each pass sending quakes in the pit of your fluttering stomach.

His head dips low, then lower.

His lips brush across your hairline when he murmurs. Not a kiss, but similar enough to be an approximation of one.

“I want to see you tomorrow.”

“I do too.”

Your voice is so quiet that you are anxious that he didn’t hear you.

He pulls back away, his hand shifting from cradling your neck to just barely cupping your cheek, his thumb by your ear. His eyes are half-lidded again.

“Good.” He heard you. You feel a rush of relief.

Hands fall away from one another, neither of you step away just yet.

Simon reaches in the pocket of his jeans to retrieve his mask to put it back in its rightful place, he’s done it countless of times and you can tell by the ease and efficiency of the movements.

He gives the bottom of the fabric a one last tug to settle it over the bridge of his nose.

“Tomorrow.” He ascertains.

“Tomorrow.” You affirm.

He stands there for another moment, almost contemplative, almost stalling, then he nods.

He turns and is out the door, a cool breeze snakes its way in as he does so, making you wrap your arms around yourself.

The door closes slowly with a resounding click. You’re still standing there in the hall, and if you allowed yourself to you would still feel the intoxicating goosebumps on your neck from where Simon held you close.

Eventually you pad away from the front door.

You don’t think friends held each other like that.

You turn off the TV, you turn off all the lights on the way to your bedroom, you turn on your night light and redress into pajamas.

You peek out of your window, the one by your bed, your fingers delicately slide between the blinds and slowly pull them apart. Where Simon’s car was parked is now empty.

His absence is now a presence in of itself.

┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈

Thank you so much for all of the continued support on this story, it makes me so happy to see people enjoy what I’ve written, you have no idea!!

I’m trying not to rush certain things with this story and letting things unfold at a pace that feels natural to me. I had to save a few scenes and ideas I had in mind for a later chapter because it felt awkward to try to shove it all in this one. ;;__;; (The slow build tag really applies here…)

The song that was playing in the car is Hometown by Cleopatrick if you were curious!

I didn’t make up Simon having an axe-wielding skeleton knight tattoo by the way, it’s actually one of his tattoos in the game! (As are all the other tattoos that were mentioned!)

Thank you so much for any and all likes or reblogs! Thank you for reading and I hope you enjoyed!

[ohno-the-sun]

All of your au Suns +Cannon are shoved in a room together, who’s running out crying first

Hehehhehehehe

Little do u know you’ve activated my trap card

[waitineedaname]

for all that bingqiu and moshang are wrapped up in each other's business, I find it funny that shen qingqiu and mobei-jun have NO relationship. cumplane have their whole cosmically entwined nonsense, bingqiu and moshang are just differently flavored cumplane, and sqh and binghe have some kind of dynamic in the "author and his protagonist" sense, but sqq and mbj never once speak to each other. I just skimmed mobei-jun's appearances in the main three volumes and I think the only thing sqq says to him is "a demon?" when he first appears and mobei-jun just fucking ignores him. they exist in the same scene several times, but never interact. they've both got their attachments to binghe and weird obsession with sqh, but they have absolutely no relationship to each other. I think if you put just the two of them in a room together, they would sit there in silence until sqq contemplates whether killing himself would end the awkwardness

[sysig]

So much experimenting to be done, where to even start (Patreon)

[uncanny-tranny]

Something I notice is the idea with transmasculinity and transmalehood is almost this idea that we had beauty that transition has vanquished, and I honestly never related to this pretransition.

Beauty was never afforded to me as somebody who was obviously neurodivergent and traumatized and weird. I was never seen as beautiful pretransition, and I knew that. Conversations about how desirable we "used to be" never rang true for me personally because I wasn't even given the opportunity to be "beautiful." I was never going to be included in that even if I were not trans, you know? Since transition, I know I'm desirable now, even if it is not in a conventional way. It's interesting how my masculine features are now embraced because people can actually register my maleness, when before, they would never.

Desirability is often used as a tool and a weapon on trans people. The idea of not being "desirable" is a punishment. It's just weird when you're the trans person who was never desired in the first place, and you know it.

[bitchapalooza]

I relate to Sanji too much because it really does seem like he’s adopted the mentality that physical and mental abuse is a form of significant affection but only directed towards himself, like he sees it’s wrong and unjust when other people are being abused, but when he’s the victim he feels this conflicted sense of I deserve it and Wow they love me so much! It’s heartbreaking just to think about tbh

[dykedvonte]

why do you hate Joshua Graham or Honest Hearts so much?

This DLC and character represents a bigger issue with fandom spaces I have but particularly fallout fandom in general.

Fallout tends to tackle a lot of topics controversial and not. The first two games it’s heavy cause they are the most satirical and direct with how anti-war, nationalism and etc… they are. 3 loses this as it’s very clear once you play or learn about all the games that Todd and a bunch of guys at Bethesda just liked the 50s post apocalyptic aesthetic and refuse to actually critique the ideals of the time period like the earlier titles.

New Vegas is the game that really gets back into it a degree it almost seems like it’s taking too much on. There are things done exceedingly well while other things are done horribly wrong . I’ve made posts about it before and plan to make a big series of posts (it’s a lot of writing) but my biggest gripe is with Honest Hearts and all the gross and white savior esque depictions it has of indigenous peoples. The entirety if FNV does not do the injustices faced by indigenous people correctly on any count. My two biggest complaints are with the Khans and the tribes in Zion but I’ll talk about the former on a different post.

Both characters of Daniel and Joshua are the most accurate depiction of white saviors I’ve seen and I hate how the DLC tries to justify and defend them. The DLC treats Joshua like this man who has repented for his past actions when he is just retracing his steps after his cruelty bit him in the ass. He was one of the worst parts of the Legion and it is all but explicitly stated that if you don’t force him to be non-violent he will turn the tribes of Zion into the legion 2.0. The Dead Horses and the Sorrows are horribly infantilized by both Daniel and Joshua who both use them for self serving purposes guised by religious duty. The White Legs are the horrible stereotype of violent and savage indigenous and I personally think a lot of their interlinking with Ulysses, his hair and Ulysses character in general are distasteful and very telling of how BIPOC or POC where involved.

But outside of the game it’s the weird obsession people have with these characters ideologies and trying to make them seem more interesting/philosophical than they are. Tumblr is an echo chamber and many fans of Fallout are not the people on this site. Many people are not educated in the issues these characters convey and how poorly they do or used these characters as a poor introduction for their takes. Contrary to what a lot of people believe in, fallout has a prediomeny white cis male fanbase. More importantly a large portion of the fanbase is white.

You can joke how FNV made you trans or see the numbers on post/fics or diverse headcanons but these are kiddy numbers compared to the millions that consume the franchise and aren’t in those more aware spaces or don’t engage in the spaces the same way someone like me does/has to. Their views shape a lot more than people realize and it’s exhausting to be in a space where people don’t correct the more subtle yet toxic aspects of it but also adopt them into some weird quirky view point on the characters or issues. Some people don’t realize and some people don’t care.

My main issue is just the idolizing of these sort of thing in this fandom space and people try to acts like a game like fallout whose tagline is “War never changes” and has never had a game not revolve around political or militaristic factions issues isn’t that deep or doesn’t relate to real issues. I think it’s mainly caused by how over powered you can become and how you can strong arm your way past these learning moments as majority of people who play this game do play it as a power fantasy where they can do so as they please (which of course, go ahead it’s fun) but never take in parallels or lessons in the story as if it was just another first person shooter.

Also like another personal gripe is Cazadores spawn like hell whenever I’m there and I have not found a mod that works to mod them out so I have to play Indigenous Racism the DLC while getting jumped by giant wasps WHILE helping Mormons. Like I cannot catch a break.