#this made me so happy when i checked today

[daydaydayrk420]

Anything with Chris Evans please -

Be my Meuse pt1

Chris Evans x male reader

⚠️nothing really all the good stuff is in part two⚠️

🚨 Minors and girls do not interact 🚨

Y/n/n - nickname

This ended up being longer than I intended to so I split it into two parts

______________________________________________________________

Chris is a famous actor. Most famous for playing Captain America for Marvel. He's also known for being kind and caring.

Now y/n isn't known for anything. He's no celebrity. He's just a guy who works at the local bar. On the weekends though he teaches art class.

It's a weekend class that's joined mostly by old people who are doing it for therapy.

So basically he's just hosting art therapy. But sometipmes there are people who join for the art not the therapy.

And by sometimes I mean this weekend. What's so special about this weekend? Let me tell you then.

Now pull your hand out your pants there's no porn here.

The day started the same as usual. Y/n wakes up. Does his morning routine. Watches YouTube or plays games for two Hours. Check his bag and go to his car.

The drive is half an hour long without traffic. He parks in his usual spot in front of the studio building that he shares with two more classes. Both include art but they work on different days and don't include the therapy. So obviously those two get the youngsters. While y/n gets left with old shaky hands. Which he doesn't mind. He loves seeing the people relax and smile at their art.

He walks in and sees that some of his regulars are already there. They're all elderly people. They're just by their lockers and the cafeteria getting ready for the class. The ones who notice the younger man greet him with a smile. Which he returns.

"Hey, James." Y/n greets kindly at the shorter old man. James is the oldest grandpa here. 95 to be exact. Yes, he's here for the therapy part of the class. He's a veteran. "Hey y/n/m. How are you doing son?" James greets them with a happy tone. He always saw y/n as a family. James has also been part of this class since it started. Which was five years ago.

Y/n smiles and sets down the paper bag with James's favourite doughnuts on the table where the old man had his coffee. "I'm good j. No bar fight this week." The younger man joked as he sat opposite of James. Said man laughs and takes out a doughnut.

This has become a tradition for them. Share a chat and doughnuts before every class. Sometimes even James brings something to bite on.

"What about you? You seem cheery today." Y/n asks as he removes his jacket to get comfortable. James hummed and wiped the sugar pounder off his lips. "I'm happy." He said with a content smile. Which made y/n smile too. "And I have a surprise for you." That caught the younger man with surprise.

"Oh? What's the occasion?" The younger man asks with curiosity. "Let's just say it's my thank you for the happy five years I've had so far." That melts y/n's heart. He knows James suffered with depression and that he still might be. So knowing he can make James happy is all he needs to be happy too.

"The problem is my gift is stuck in traffic and will be here in about an hour." Jame chuckles. Y/n laughs. "Oh? What kind of a gift is that then?" He jokes. He's really curious now. Stuck in traffic?

"I ain't spoiling my long-planned surprise, kid." James laughs. The younger man dramatically pretends to be annoyed but a smile creeps onto his face.

The two of them chat for a bit before they all go to their usual places in the studio.

Y/n first goes to the toilet before he starts the class.

When he returns he takes his usual spot in the front corner of the class where it doesn't block whatever they're painting or drawing. He sets his stuff where he wants it and faces the glass. He scans the faces. The elder people seem happy today. They all talk and laugh about their memories from the week.

That's until he notices a new face. A young face. But he's looking away. Y/n tilts his head. He knows that facial structure from somewhere. He's drawn it before.

"Alright. Does everyone have their supplies?" Y/n called out to get everyone's attention. He makes sure everyone nods or checks for everything.

That's when he finally catches the new face. Chris Evans. Chris fucking Evans is talking with James about what pain he's using.

"I see we have a new face here." Y/n cleared his throat to get everyone's attention. Chris looks up and smiles. "Would you like to introduce yourself or would you rather if they want to meet you they come to you." Y/n suggested as he always does so his students aren't uncomfortable.

"I'm alright thanks." Chris smiles. The younger man nods and looks at his papers to see what they're doing. "Alright so as usual. We have fruit on the stand. Or if you want to do your Topic that's fine too. The art style is all up to you, of course." He reads through his notes to make sure he's got everything. "Alright. That's about it. What song should we play first?"

The time passes by. Everyone's drawing including y/n. It's about time that y/n checks in with everyone. So he puts his brush down and goes to the first canvas. Eventually, he gets to James and rests his hand on his shoulders. "Hey, James, how's it going." He asks with a soft voice as he studies what abstract James is painting today.

It's just a bunch of paint splatter on the canvas. "The usual." The old man hummed proudly. Y/n nods and moves on to the next guy. Aka. Chris Evans. Aka Frank Adler. Aka. Y/n big fat celeb crush. But he keeps a friendly smile on his face and looks at the canvas. He stands stunned.

It's him. The charcoal outlines shape him drawing his art. "That's... Sweet." Y/n didn't know what else to say. Chris chuckles. "Thanks."

The younger man admires the drawing for a tad longer than he wanted. Eventually, he snaps out of it and looks at Chris. Who's already looking at him and smiling. Y/n blushes in surprise. Chris hands his hand out. "Chris."

Y/n wants to laugh because he obviously already knows who the man in front of him is but he doesn't and just grabs his hand. "Y/n" he shakes his hand.

"Y/n." The older man murmurs. "Handsome name for a handsome man." Y/n blushes at that again.

"So what brought you to my class?" Y/n wants to start a conversation. He doesn't want to move to the next person. He wants to talk with Chris. "Oh I was invited by James." Chris said casually as if that didn't just blow y/n's mind out of proportion. He looks at James as if asking "this is the gift?" And James winks knowingly.

The younger man faces Chris again and smiles. "James? How'd he manage to do that?" He's genuinely curious. "His granddaughter works with me. She's a movie clothing designer." The older man said as he set down his charcoal down.

"Ohh. Jasmine works with movie stuff?" Y/n asks surprised. "You know Jasmine?" Chris looks surprised. "Not personally. Just from stories." The younger man said. Chris nods. "Well I should move on. Keep up your drawing." Y/n smiled and moved on to another person.

The class comes to an end and everyone gathers their things to leave. Y/n has to stay so he can lock up. James and Chris also stay behind.

"So? Happy?" The younger man jumps in surprise when he hears James's voice form behind him. The old man laughs. "I take that as a yes."

The younger man chuckles and nods. "Thank you James. I really appreciate you doing this."

"I know you wanted to meet him for so long. And when I found out that Jasmine knows him I tried my best to bring him here." The old man grins and pats y/n's back.

"Anyway I gotta go my pick-up is here." They hugged goodbye and James left.

"You doing anything after?" Y/n jumps in surprise at the voice from behind him. Chris chuckles. "Sorry didn't mean to scare ya."

"Uh no I'm not doing anything after this." Y/n chuckles nervously. "Would you like to go get some food with me?" The older man asked with a grin. "Sure." The younger man smiles and hides the fireworks that are going off inside his body.

And so they went out. They didn't really have a specific destination they just walked until they found something they'd crave. But that of course didn't last for long because paparazzi have found them. Y/n thinks fast and takes Chris towards the parking lot in front of the studio. He walks fast and moves through some alleys so they could hopefully lose the cameras.

They make it to the car and quickly hop in. They drive off. Once they've calmed down from the adrenaline they both laugh. "Good thinking." Chris praised.

Y/n smiles. "Thanks."

They put on the radio and talk as y/n drives home.

.

..

...

[rosepetalkitty]

ngl hdg kinda amazes me in its ability to cater to my kinks pretty much perfectly while simultaneously triggering several of the worst parts of my trauma.

like how is it that it hits on everything i like on the surface, provides semi-decent worldbuilding to back it all up and enable the creation of stories, and even has consistent backstory and stuff, and yet the entire damn thing instills this looming sense of dread and fear that i can't shake enough to properly enjoy it...

below the break im gonna talk in like. moderate detail. about the parts that scare me. so uh yeah be aware that it'll get heavy that's just how it is.

ok, so the worst thing for me. wellness checks. the idea is cute and kinda hot on the surface. "make sure you're okay and if you're not you're getting domesticated" (which is supposed to be like. a happy thing. "now you get to just chill and be happy and get taken care of forever and in return you give me only your submission"). yeah, fuck it, im into that. hell that's not even an uncommon trope in the realm of cnc/mc writing.

except whenever i read an hdg wellness check story (in the sense of those long-ish tumblr posts that people write—i haven't even really considered reading the longer form content on ao3) there's something viscerally... off... about the tone. it stops feeling like kink and starts feeling like a nightmare when things happen to line up just so, and then it clicks, and reminds me that i knew people, real people, who had "wellness checks" happen in real life, except that instead of it being a kink thing that made them happy and was genuinely for their wellbeing, it was that their parents had hired people to kidnap them and drag them to a psych ward when they just needed a therapist. not all of those people that i knew have come home, as far as im aware. some have been gone for years.

and what about the whole idea of the non-consensual part being okay because "it's for your own good". in hdg-land it is. it's genuinely good for you and everyone seems to be happy with it, other than the occasional "bad guy who hates good things" trope (feralists, in hdg, afaik). but that's exactly what they told me when they cut contact between my boyfriend and i while he was in the hospital. "it's for your own good." guess what, it wasn't. his parents didn't like our relationship. they wanted me to forget him. they either didn't understand or didn't care that i couldn't. it was a year and a half before he came home and i had forgotten nothing.

our loss of communication was the tipping point in a series of events that, had i made one decision differently in the end, would have killed me. thankfully i fucked it up and am here today, no longer in that bad of a place may i add. im choosing not to share any of what happened to me directly right now because i don't want to turn this into a full on trauma dump, but suffice it to say there are recurring themes.

it's so interesting to me because in a lot of ways i have found comfort from those experiences in kink and writing. take flames of averon: mech pilots are neurochemically bonded to their handlers. how different is this from what the affini do to their florets? well, you have to sign up to be a pilot, and there's no authority in the world threatening you if you choose not to. even the coalition military wouldn't dare force you to become a pilot against your will, though they might never stop sending you promotional flyers if they find out you're able to tolerate the cyberware /lh

hell, im into cnc. im really into it. i chose to leave it as an opening between pilots and handlers in foa. the implication exists that if a handler tells their pilot to do something the poor thing will have a hell of a time saying no. that's intentional. it's hot to me, on either end. but the safety comes from other things.

yes, your handler has a lot of influence over you at a level that's hard to imagine, but you chose them and they chose you (most of the time), or at the very least neither of you had any complaints to raise with your supervisor when the paperwork came in for syncing your link chips (holly and astrid from seat of consciousness).

yes it's true, you can't be reassigned now that you're bonded, but that doesn't mean you have zero recourse if your handler is treating you badly. if you need to, you can always file paperwork with your commanding officer to request that something be done.

plus, handlers go through a lot of training, which includes screening to filter out people who would actually harm their pilots. yeah, some handlers are a little sadistic, but when it comes down to it they are on your side. if that wasn't the case they would never have passed pre-basic.

put another way, as a pilot in flames of averon, the closest thing ive ever written to a floret, there are a multitude of points at which you could have said no and didn't, and although that's obviously still noncon in the grand scheme of things, it's "signing away your freedom" cnc compared to the hdg flavor of "you 'consented' via it being the best thing for you whether you like it or not."

even if your handler just told you to "stay" for the first time and you're currently panicking and trying to figure out why your legs won't move, you still have some tiny amount of agency—an escape hatch, so to speak—and you'll just never end up having to use it.

and to me, the loss of that minute level of agency which will never be invoked is the difference between "this is hot as hell and feels perfectly safe" and "this is the abuse that was once leveraged against those i cared about, and to some degree myself, and it's simply been repackaged with a kink sticker slapped on."

none of this is to say i hate hdg, it's fans, those who write about it, or even the parts of it which scare me. i do think the idea is hot. hdg is pretty cool. hell, it was one of my inspirations in writing a lot of the pilot/handler dynamics in flames of averon. but it does scare me. and no matter what i tell myself i can't shake that fear.

it's frustrating, because oftentimes fear can be part of what makes something hot, but the particular flavor of fear which hdg instills in me is one which makes bitter all that it reaches. maybe someday i'll grow out of it. the traumatic memories from which that fear stems were only created in the past couple of years, to be fair. but something tells me a piece of that fear will never be fully dislodged from my mind.

so, all this to say, while i am into hdg, it's a complicated relationship.

(and on a sillier in character note to lighten the mood—please feel free to respond to this with roleplay or whatever you like!)

to any Affini out there who might be reading this, know that im not scared of you. im not scared of what you represent. im only scared by the fact that you mimic that which has left the scars you see on my soul today. im not against being taken in as a floret, and none of this is to say that i hold any level of disdain for you.

i only ask that you be gentle with me. what has been broken once can be broken again. please, do not let it come to that.

[frogs00]

hiii can i request a janis x regressed fem reader. nothing specific, just fluffy cuteness hehe. thank you:3 <3

Apple Juice

Summary: Janis worries when reader doesn't show up at school, only to find her girlfriend is perfectly fine, and little.

Warnings: Fluff, age regression

Pairings: Janis + Reader

Y/n didn’t show up at school today, which wasn’t typical considering she was an excellent student. Janis knew you wouldn’t miss it for no reason and it made her worried, she texted you a few times but you hadn’t responded— up until now.

The text was a string of incoherent letters and emojis but she could make out a few words. She bit her lip in thought scanning the message over again, concluding you were regressed, she knew you tended to regress when stressed or overwhelmed, really a lot of factors went into it, and she was more than happy to help.

Also, from the looks of it, you were in a good mood… Maybe? Considering the happy emojis used, it wasn’t unlikely but also looks could be deceiving- and was that a frowny face?

Janis quickly shook her head, she was reading too much into things. She’d check on you later, and you’d be okay.

She hoped so.

Due to the worry for her girlfriend, she was very antsy in class. Art was her last period of the day, which she was usually happy with, but right now she just wanted to get out of here.

“Girl, tell that leg of yours to calm down, you’re shaking the table.” Damian spoke, shooting her a playful glare, “I’m trying to sketch. The Mona Lisa didn't happen on a shaky table.”

“And it also wasn’t created by a seventeen-year-old, gay man in the twenty-first century with a knack for annoying me.” Janis retorted, making Damian recoil.

“Rude, but okay.” he studied her, “Girl, what’s got you so worked up?” he asked, concern bubbling in his voice.

“Sorry, sorry. I just want to see y/n.” Janis bit her lip and sighed, worried for her precious girlfriend.

“Darling, she’s fine,” Damian patted her hand gently, then retracted his, “She probably just needed a day off, you know that girl overworks herself. Worst-case scenario she’s sick, but she would’ve told you if she was so calm down.”

No, you wouldn’t have been able to tell her since you were regressed, or at least she thought so. Still, she also knew you weren’t sick. Janis would’ve been able to tell the day before. So maybe she did have nothing to worry about. She nodded “Yeah, you’re right.”

She shrugged and decided to sketch you out a little picture. She knew you’d enjoy it.

_

You were startled by a knock on the door. Blinking rapidly, you internally debated whether or not to open it, you didn’t want to open the door for a stranger, and you knew that wasn’t good, so you just continued coloring in the Paw Patrol coloring book. You turned up the music playing through your headphones, trying to ignore it.

Only a minute later you heard the knock again, louder this time, and your irritation spiked. You got up and threw the marker down, muting the music, and walked towards the door.

“Baby, it’s Janis!” You heard from behind it, your irritation instantly faded and you smiled cheekily, fumbling with the lock and opening the door.

“Jan!” you practically tossed yourself on her, wrapping your arms around her waist then looking up at her, “Hi~”

She laughed, pulling back to get a look at you, her worried brown eyes scanning you, “Hey, sweetie,” You were still in your pajamas and had maker smugged on your face, the sight made her heart melt, “You weren’t at school today, I was worried.”

“I text you, though,” you pouted, not understanding her worry.

Janis chuckled and nodded, “Yes you did! Good job,” she patted your head tenderly, “Can come in?” you nodded eagerly.

“I draw, you wanna?” you asked, guiding her to the coffee table you were sitting at.

“Sure, honey.” she agreed, sitting down next to you criss-cross, and picking up a green marker, coloring in a tree idly. You drew like that in silence for a while, and then she turned to look at your focused face again, “Are you okay?” She was beyond curious to what might’ve caused this regression.

“Yes. Okay.” You nodded absentmindedly. She squinted at you, nose scrunching up for a second, then she relaxed.

“Good,” she looked down at your color page and tapped it with her pointer finger, “This is pretty neato if you ask me.” she grinned and ruffled your hair.

You giggled, “Neato.” You repeated, dragging the world out. She found your amusement endearing.

She set down the marker and nodded, “Yep, want to snuggle and watch TV?” you let out a small ask and nodded eagerly.

“Bluey?”

“Sure, sweetie. Bluey it is.” she stood slowly, gathering up the supplies and putting them away. She knew your parents would get irritated if they were left out, and probably be a little suspicious.

When she returned, you were already curled up comfortably on the couch, clicking the remote till you found what you wanted. She plopped down next to you with a dramatic sigh and you turned your head slightly to look at her and she grinned mischievously.

Suddenly, she scooped you up, and you giggled as she prepared your face with kisses, “Noo, it tickles!” you pushed her face away, and she pouted.

“No kisses?”

“Uh-uh,’ You shook your head, then laid your head on her shoulder, eyes fixated on the screen. You lay like that for a while, Jnais liked this show herself, she wouldn’t admit that out loud but she did, so it was more than tolerable. Especially since she got to spend time with you. She really did like taking care of you or simply just spending time with you when you were in this state, it made her feel almost special the fact you trusted her.

After a while, your voice broke the silence, “Can I have apple juice?” she couldn’t help but smile softly.

“Mhm, I know how my baby loves her apple juice,” she chuckled, “Snack too?” she asked knowingly, sliding you off her lap.

“Yes, pwease!” you gave her a cheeky grin that melted her heart and frankly made her want to squeeze you to death from pure cuteness. She got up to grab you a juice box, herself a glass of water since she was frankly thirsty too, and some goldfish in a bowl.

You were sitting rather politely at the coffee table once again, still staring at the characters dancing across the screen. She set them down, and you hummed out your thanks and drank and snacked. You were suddenly quiet again, but this silence was less peaceful, you seemed tense.

“What’s the matter, little one?” she asked softly, scooting forward to stroke your head.

“I dunno,” you shrugged, picking at your nails, “Mommy and Papa are yelling a lot, I don’t like it,” you mumbled, and her heart clenched, sympathizing deeply.

“It’s okay, it’s not your fault,” she whispered, you perked up at that.

“It’s not?” you sounded unsure.

“Nope, not one bit,” she tapped your nose and your smile reappeared, she loved that smile. She loved seeing your joy. Gosh, you made her such a softy.

After you finished the snacks, she put everything away. You two moved to your bedroom in case your dad came home early, and watched videos on Janis’s phone. She could tell by the way you were rubbing your eyes and the occasional yawn that you were getting tired.

“You wanna sleep, sweetheart?” she asked softly, clicking off your phone.

“Mhm, stay?” you asked, curling up more snuggly against her side.

“Of course, baby.” She smiled, kissing your forehead, watching you fall into some much-needed rest, quick to join you. She was right not to worry, but she knew she would again, after all, she loved you too much not to.

A/N: Low-key got bored, and got a bunch of writing done, expect more fics soon, maybe even another today. Enjoy my first Agere fic, though!

[silkendress]

Bitten Bullet

Previous Chapter First Chapter Next Chapter

-ˋˏ➛ Chapter 2: Just You

-ˋˏ➛ Call of Duty

-ˋˏ➛ Suggestive

-ˋˏ➛ Simon "Ghost" Riley/Reader

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

-ˋˏ➛ 8k Words

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He was a bit of an enigma to you; the fact he saw fit to spend time with you made him even more so in your opinion.

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Read on AO3

You stare blankly at your phone.

You lay flat on your back on the bed, almost completely swallowed up by blankets, your phone screen the brightest light source in your dark room.

It’s the night after Simon gave you his number. It’s the night where you are wracking your head for what to text him for the first time.

In your mind, you have to text him tonight. You didn’t want him to think you didn’t want his company. Yesterday you tried to think of something to say too, but nothing clicked.

You stare at your phones virtual keyboard, your thumb hovering over letters but never pressing them. You’re on the screen to send Simon something.

You wonder if he’s asleep, or if he’s awake like you; if he’s a night owl or has difficulty sleeping.

The thought of him sleeping puts the thought of him without his mask in your head. You wonder what he looks like under there. You wonder if he’s waiting on you to text or call like how you’re waiting for your nerves to settle to do one of those things.

You’ve been laying here for what feels like hours.

Maybe just a simple text telling him it was you—so that he could save your number in return—was enough.

That’s what you end up going with. You make sure to include your name and some mildly identifiable information—‘the one that works at a bookstore, you walked me home again yesterday’—and hit send before you become too embarrassed.

You click the power button on your phone to make the screen go dark and you bury yourself under your blankets, your heart pounding as though you just ran a marathon.

When you wake in the morning you pace your morning routine as not to rush. You were putting off checking your messages due to nerves. It wasn’t as if the slower you went would change anything, but it made you feel better to put it off for now.

You make up your bed. You brush your teeth. You shower. You don’t check your phone.

It isn’t until you’ve dried off and redressed that you finally built up the nerve to see if Simon replied to you. He did. There’s a tornado of butterflies in your stomach.

‘Got it.’ Was all he replied. You felt oddly relieved, you weren’t sure what you were so nervous about—Simon didn’t seem the type to be a texter, anyway. That was fine, you were certain many people weren’t. You were just pleased he responded at all.

Your phone hangs loosely in your palm as you walk to the kitchen to have something for breakfast. Thoughts pass your mind, all about Simon.

Another day passes. You fall back into a mundane routine. You haven’t texted Simon since, you’re not sure how to initiate conversation with him, despite your borderline desperate longing to do so.

Chloe told you earlier today that she would be with her sister for another two weeks, that her sister and the baby are healthy but she just wants to be with them. Chloe sounds happy, you’re happy for her.

It’s yet another late night that you can’t sleep. You’re in a cocoon of blankets trying not to stare at your phone—you remember reading somewhere about ‘blue light’ and sleep disruption. It takes a few minutes of you laying as still as a statue until you drift off.

A booming, revving noise makes you jump awake, gasping for air.

The motorcycle again. Your phone is in your hand before you know it.

‘I heard a motorcycle just now. Was that you by any chance?’

You hit send before your doubts can creep up and paralyze you. You hastily click it off and set it on the nightstand to lay back in the bed.

You’re not sure exactly how much time passes between that text being sent and now, just that it feels like forever. Now that you thought of it, you suppose someone would have to pull over first to do anything on their phone on a motorcycle.

You were expecting the notification ping of a new text message, so you jolt upright when your phone begins to ring.

You stare at the now lit up screen of your phone with wide eyes and lips parted in mild shock. On the third ring you snap yourself out of it and make yourself answer.

“Hello?” Your voice wavers and you clear your throat. You mentally wince.

“Hey,” the low sound of him on the other end gives you excited jitters. “Did I wake you?” He sounds careful, a barely-there softness to his voice that makes your hands get increasingly fidgety.

“No, no. I’m just a light sleeper, is all.” You mutter, huffing out a soft laugh in a nervous reflex.

He hums, and then there’s silence.

Not quite silence but close enough because Simon isn’t saying anything. You think you can hear the soft rumble of an engine in the background on the other end. You wonder if he pulled in a gas station to refuel, or if he returned home for the night but decided to call you before heading in.

You think Simon is alright with it—the lulls in conversation. You could relate to an extent, you were quiet too, but he definitely was more self-assured than you. He never felt the impulse to unnecessarily fill the silence with chatter.

You’re so deep in thought that when he speaks again it almost makes you flinch in surprise.

“Are you free tomorrow?”

Your mouth feels dry, you have to swallow before you can speak. “Uh, no, I have work—“

“Day after?” Flat and to the point, he isn’t deterred one bit.

“Yes. I-I’d be free then.” Your heartbeat feels like a drum.

You hesitate before asking; “Why?”

There’s a pause, you can’t tell what Simon is thinking, only that his reply is spoken bluntly.

“Got a second helmet yesterday.”

The day is bright and beautiful, the sky is blue and the warm sun is a welcome contrast to the chilly autumn breeze. Your eyes are trained on the road and your ears are especially attuned to anything that sounds like a motorcycle.

After the call Simon texted you a time and a place. You spent the entirety of yesterday thinking about today, and now you were fiddling with your hands in an attempt to dissipate the nervous energy in your limbs.

Here you were about to get on the back of a bike owned by a man you had a chance encounter with at a bar—a man you had grown increasingly intrigued by and even tentatively fond of, but that was beside the point. You think you’re being more daring than you ever had in your entire life precisely because you were becoming keenly aware of the fact your comfort zone was suffocating you.

It doesn’t change the mild absurdity of the situation.

‘I don’t even drink.’

You find yourself checking your phone periodically for the time, Simon would be coming in a few minutes.

You couldn’t believe you were doing this. But then again, you couldn’t believe you met Simon at all, let alone kept in touch with him.

He wasn’t a stranger anymore, he was an acquaintance now, surely. You still had so many musings about him, curiosities that had yet to be sated; but you held back. You didn’t want to overstep a potential boundary.

But that didn’t change the fact you curious about him.

You wanted to get a close look at his tattoos. You wanted to know the story behind each one—assuming there was one to be told—and when he got them.

You wanted to know what his laugh sounded like.

You wanted to know what he looked like.

You wanted to know if he wondered about you like you did him.

You wanted to be able to say you knew him, not just an awareness of his existence but a deeper knowledge of him as a person.

You waffle back and forth with your thoughts. ‘He’s the one that offered to take me on his bike,’ you remind yourself in intervals. It works for calming your nerves, but only for a short while.

Your mind combs over things about Simon you do know.

He’s in the military.

He likes motorcycles.

He smokes.

He always wears a mask.

He, for some reason, is keeping in contact with you.

And he is also about to pull up to you.

Your mind belatedly catches up with your senses. You hear the revving first then you see Simon—and the bike—in the distance.

It’s like all of your self-soothing methods were for naught. Your stomach flutters with frenzied nerves and you shift your weight on your feet repeatedly in an effort to shake off some of the jitters.

A part of you wasn’t expecting him to actually show up.

You don’t know much about motorcycles, you couldn’t tell what kind it was by looking at it. It was black and shiny, the metal bits of it reflected the sunlight.

Simon looks in his element on it. More than competent. Your legs feel wobbly.

He rolls up and his boots settle on the ground, then his heel pushes out the kickstand. You can tell it’s a motion he has done many times before, there’s no hesitation or carefulness to it.

Simon flips up his visor. His eyes take you in, lingering for a moment on your fidgeting, gloved hands—the gloves he gave to you—then back up to you.

He dismounts his bike, a lazy cadence to his movements. Your face feels warmer all of the sudden.

His helmet comes off much the same way, he’s wearing a mask like you expected, and denim jeans and a thick hoodie. He rests the helmet on the seat of the bike for now. In the sunlight his cropped blond hair reminds you of straw.

“Nervous, are you?” He nods down towards your hands. You tuck them in your pockets.

“A little, yes.”

He grunts. “Don’t be,” he meanders to the back of the bike and opens up the trunk box attached to it. “I won’t be goin’ above the speed limit. Not while you’re with me.” His tone is almost protective. You’re not familiar with that tone general, it makes your insides feel fuzzy.

He pulls out another helmet. Your heart rate doesn’t go any slower.

Simon comes over to you with the helmet tucked underneath his muscular arm. Your hands are about to extend outwards to take it from him, but he takes another step forward.

He takes the helmet from under his arm holds it out. “Gonna put this on ya now.”

He says it slowly, almost tentative. His eyes are so intensely trained on you that you almost feel self conscious. Your mind swims, a vast sea of uncontrollable thoughts.

Your brain catches up in slow motion. Simon interprets your silence as a green light to continue.

It’s no-nonsense and straight to the point, but for you it feels like an eternity. You are paralyzed in place and looking straight ahead to avoid his gaze—straight ahead just so happens to be his broad chest, which fills up most of your vision.

He’s careful yet swift with placing the helmet on your head, his gloved thumbs brush over your cheek incidentally as he settles it on you. His palms almost encompass your entire face.

‘His hands are big.’ You realize helplessly.

It wasn’t like you’ve never seen his hands before, it just was that there was something about having said hands in such close proximity that made you starkly aware of their true scale.

You don’t have to wonder if there’s callouses or nicks on his hands, you’re so confident in your assumption that it would be more of a shock if there wasn’t.

It wouldn’t stretch your imagination too far to twist the brief, unintended contact into the image of him cupping your face instead. Your stomach swoops and you mentally berate yourself, mortified.

He demonstrates how to flip the visor up and down and how to take it off yourself. You find it remarkably difficult to absorb his instructions even despite your apt attention.

Then Simon’s eyes narrow questioningly down at you. Your heart lurches for a moment, he must have said something that should have prompted you to answer, but you were much too preoccupied with dousing the fire growing in your face and breathing slow to steady the rabbit-kicks between your lungs.

“Listen, if you’re not up for this—“

“I-I want to.”

You surprise yourself with your sudden insistence. The words tumble from your mouth inelegantly and rapidly. You truly wanted to crawl under a rock in that moment, you felt as though your desperation for human connection couldn’t have been more obvious. Rationally you knew that your blurted out reply could be understood as mere excitement, but you weren’t being very rational right now.

Fortunately, you don’t spiral further into self-deprecation as you are not given much of a chance to, not when Simon utters a single word that has your mind scrambling for a reason you’re not certain of.

Simon’s head slants ever so slightly, a look in his eye that you’d almost call amused. “Good.”

Something in the timbre of his voice reminds you of the fact that very soon you will be in the closest proximity you’ve ever been with him—or with any man for that matter. Hugging your male family members didn’t count.

He takes one step backwards away from you before turning on his heel and approaching the bike to put his own helmet back on.

“Alright,” he starts with an authoritative edge to his tone that makes you pay attention. “When we go around corners don’t lean. If we get on the road and you’re too nervous just tap me and we’ll pull over, won’t be able to hear you that well unless we’re stopped.”

His speech isn’t harsh but it demands attention. Your eyes are wide, you’re nodding along. You wonder if he’s done this before—give people direction. It sounds like it. You are reminded of his job, military, he told you.

“Understand?” He crosses his arms over his chest, tilts his head at you.

You nod. “I understand.”

He tips his head slightly forward in a single gesture of acknowledgment, seemingly pleased with your answer. He goes towards the bike, one hand on the handlebar and the other near the back.

Then, with an effortless amount of strength, he tugs the bike forward along with the momentum of taking a large step. The kickstand rolls up and away.

Your mouth goes dry when some ancient, primitive part of your brain shudders in delight. You shift your eyes away and downwards at your feet, burning and mortified.

 Simon settles himself on the bike, his long leg easily swinging over the side. He then motions you to come over with a single croon of his two fingers. Your heart is a drum.

With every step to him your nerves rise in anticipation, excited and electrified. You’ve never been on the back of a bike before.

When you come around to the side of the bike you pause. You find yourself once again thinking of how his presence will be adjacent to yours once you sit down behind him.

“Just swing your leg over it.” He supplies, acknowledging your hesitancy but being unaware of the deeper source.

You make yourself do it, lest you tick him off to the whirlwind going on inside your head.

You had to throw your leg wider than you were expecting, your shaky legs didn’t help you much. You were fearful that you would lose balance, but somehow scrambled on the back of it in one piece.

Your knee brushes against his hip incidentally, it’s barely a second of contact but you jerk your leg away like you had been burned regardless.

With how hot your face was feeling, you might as well have been.

It was an almost uncomfortable contrast; the heat of your body yet the chill on your skin due to the breeze. Your palms felt clammy in your gloves.

You pressed yourself as far back as you could on the seat, which wasn’t much considering the minuscule amount of space you were working with. The way you were seated was a bit awkward, it would be all too easy to scoot yourself forward to get more comfortable, but then you’d be pressed against his back.

“Settled?” Asks Simon. You nod, but then sputter when you realize he can’t see you.

“Yes.” You clear your throat.

There’s a pause that stretches on long enough that you were worried you said something wrong somehow, you begin to analyze your conversation up until this point to try and figure out what, but before you can begin combing through your memories in earnest Simon speaks up.

“You can hold on if you need to.”

For a moment you don’t know what to say.

“Okay.”

And Simon just waits, almost expectant. He gave you the go ahead to hold onto him,and now he’s seemingly waiting for you to do exactly that. You weren’t even on the road yet.

He said you could. You would be lying if you said you didn’t want to.

You move in increments. Your hands reach out slowly in front of you, slow enough that you don’t think Simon is aware you even are. Then you lurch forward, and there’s no discretion about it.

You move up in the seat, your arms hover over his sides, and—

Two hundred-something pounds of muscle suddenly becomes less abstract.

He’s solid. You can’t even wrap your arms around him entirely. You feel dizzy.

Your hands are laid flat and stiff over his abdomen, you can feel the steady rise and fall of him as he breathes. You imagine his heartbeat, strong and anchored. Not at all like yours, which was pounding with an almost frenzied electricity.

He shifts a little in his seat, he’s only getting comfortable but you are panicked that he’s attempting to nudge you off, so you lift your hands off him.

His hand, which completely wraps around your wrist, comes down to reposition your hands where they were previously.

It’s so fast yet so absentminded that you are convinced it’s more of a reflex than a conscious move.

He says nothing. You say nothing. Your palms rest against him.

The engine roars especially loud suddenly, you jump against him in surprise.

Your stomach swirls with nerves.

“Hold on.” His voice is raised just enough so that he can be heard over the noise. You find your fingers curling to clutch onto him when the bike begins to slowly move forward, turning to pull out into the road.

You cling ever tighter.

Any and all semblance of personal space is disregarded when he begins to ride in earnest.

He doesn’t go over the speed limit just like he promised, but it doesn’t change the fact that you were still trembling behind him. You hug onto him tight when he goes on the highway. If it bothers him he makes no show of it—verbal or otherwise.

You feel even smaller pressed up against him like this, his broad back filling your vision to the point that if you wanted to comfortably see what was in front of you, you’d have to try and sit up and look over his shoulder.

The sound of the wind whipping past you is almost static to your ears. You’re caught between two separate strains of nerves, one from anxiety over being on a bike for the first time, the other from the rapid pace of your heart thanks to the sturdy man you were clinging onto for support.

It makes your hands jittery and your stomach swoop. When you go around a turn for the first time your hands squeeze him like your life depended on it. You doubted it bothered him, considering how he eclipsed you in every way.

He comes to a stop at a red light.

“How are you holdin’ up?” His calls over the hum of the engine, his helmet muffling the sound somewhat.

“Good!” You call back to him, moving one of your hands to give him a small, yet shaky, thumbs up.

His chest rises and falls sharp and quick, a short chuckle. You can’t hear it. It makes your heart feel warm nonetheless.

As the ride goes on your nerves melt away bit by bit. You find comfort in Simon’s solidity.

It was when you relaxed somewhat that it dawns on you that you had no clue as to where he was taking you—if anywhere at all. He didn’t really specify anything other than a time and place to collect you.

Time ticks by, the feeling of Simon’s presence so close to your own becomes increasingly familiar. It still doesn’t rid you of the occasional fluttering of butterflies in your stomach, much to your chagrin. It wasn’t an awful thing to feel small in such a way with Simon—far from it; the issue was how embarrassed it made you.

You went out of your way to ensure your thoughts never crossed that line you drew for yourself, but as you were holding onto his broad midsection it became an increasingly daunting task.

So lost in thought you are that you do not notice that he has turned into somewhere until the bike goes slower than you were expect. You sit up just a little in your seat in an attempt to look over his shoulder the best you could.

It’s a quaint little restaurant. A sign with chalkboard written on it sat out in front of the entrance, informing potential patrons that they were still serving breakfast.

He parks the motorcycle. Then he waits, and waits. It isn’t until he shoots you a glance over his shoulder that you realize he’s waiting for you to get off the bike first.

You dismount as carefully as possible, but you can’t shake the feeling you look awkward regardless, like a newborn filly. Once both of your feet are firmly planted on the ground Simon follows.

You are reminded to take off your helmet when Simon does. Once it’s off your head you hand it to him, wordlessly waiting for him to confirm your assumption that he just took you to breakfast.

He takes your helmet with two of his thick fingers hooked into it, then he’s placing both helmets back in the trunk box. Your eyes dart from him to your feet in random intervals. You were still wrapping your head around the idea of breakfast with Simon.

You’re not certain of what to say, if anything. Thanking him right at this moment felt too presumptuous, so you hold off on that. When he clicks the box shut he regards you for a moment, observant.

When your eyes meet you give him a small smile, it’s more of a reflex if anything. Whatever was there disappears, his posture eases.

“C’mon.” He beckons with a nod of his head towards the building. Looks like you were having breakfast after all.

You are quick to follow. You notice his steps are slower to make up for your shorter strides.

Subconsciously, you are walking closer together than before. You notice it only when the fabric of your jacket brushes against him. You flinch and yank your arm away. You’re about to sputter out an apology.

But Simon remains impassive, almost as if nothing unusual occurred, like you didn’t accidentally cross over into his personal space.

The thought of your hand in his is an unbidden one.

Simon opens the door for you. You tell him ‘thank you’ in a hushed tone as you skitter inside.

The inside is just as quaint as the outside. There aren’t many people within, it’s small but not claustrophobic. The primary decor is wood and earth tones, the scent of coffee drifts across the air invitingly.

“Any preference?” You blink up at him, momentarily at a loss for what he was asking.

‘Seating preferences,’ you realize belatedly. “No.”

You and Simon end up seated at a table in the far back. Simon takes the seat facing the entrance.

He’s leaned back lazily in the chair across from you, It was sturdy enough to hold his weight. His legs are spread in nonchalantly and his arms rests across his thighs. His eyes are half-lidded.

This is the most relaxed you’ve ever seen him.

This is also the first time you are acutely aware of Simon’s legs. They’re thick and long, his denim jeans cling to his limbs as his legs stretch the material out. The jeans weren’t tight or form fitting, just that he was so well-muscled he ended up filling most of the space in them out.

His voice startles you out of your observations. “Get whatever you want.”

You feel embarrassed, even though Simon can’t read your mind it doesn’t stop the heat crawling up your neck. You sheepishly lean forward in your seat to skim over the menu, your hands still neatly folded in your lap. Then you glance up at Simon.

“Thank you.”

He simply nods.

“I like this place.” You suddenly say.

Simon cocks his head. “Do you, now?” You ignore how the rough timbre in his voice gives you pleasant butterflies.

“I do. It’s very…” Your brows knit together as you search for the word. “…Rustic. I like it.”

“Had a feeling you would.”

You force yourself to read the menu to help you get your mind off of your increasing body temperature.

“What will you be getting?” You ask after a minute or so of comfortable silence.

Simon doesn’t bristle, but you can’t ignore the almost exasperated tone in his voice, like he’s had this conversation before and is already bracing himself to have it again.

“Nothing.”

You peek up at him. He holds your stare. He eases a little when you don’t push the subject any further.

His following words are more neutral in tone, a clear change of subject. “Get what you want.” Simon points to the menu with his eyes.

You do exactly that.

Eggs, potatoes and bacon sounded delightful, so that was what you ended up getting.

You just ordered, so there still would be some time until your food came.

This was uncharted territory for you. You’ve never been on a bike or had a man take you somewhere to eat, two new things in a single day; that was a very welcome rarity for you.

“Do you come here a lot?” Now that you were in such a setting with Simon you found yourself more conversational than usual. There was a desire to know more about him, no matter how mundane. He was a bit of an enigma to you; the fact he saw fit to spend time with you made him even more so in your opinion.

Simon lightly shrugs his shoulder. “Not that much.” He answers. “Just enough to know the food’s decent.”

“Well, thank you for taking me.” You mumble sheepishly, not quite certain on how to word it.

“Should be thanking you for coming with me.”

There isn’t trepidation in his tone but there is a sort of carefulness there that you can’t place. You’re not expecting it, so you can’t help the way your eyes widen. You nod quickly, not wanting your surprise to be mistaken for something negative.

“I got to try two new things today thanks to you.” It slips out easily, without much thought.

His eyes crinkle somewhat. “Liked the bike, then?” There’s the faintest twinge of pride in his tone.

You like it, you like the thought that he takes some measure of satisfaction in it; it humanizes him and gives more clarity to the jagged edges of his exterior—it doesn’t sand them away, just makes them more legible.

Your lips twitch in a brief smile. “I was scared at first, but yes, I did.”

“You’ll get used to it.” You don’t have the time to register the potential implication there before he speaks again.

“What’s the other one?” Your confusion must show in your face, he elaborates. “You said there were two new things.”

‘Oh.’

The soft clatter of a plate being set down before you makes you jump. You are quick to hastily apologize and stammer out a thank you to the waitress, she only smiles at you and gives an apology of her own for startling you before leaving.

You didn’t even realize you slipped and admitted that, now your mind was working overdrive to figure out how best to word it. There’s an awkward beat of silence until you pick up your fork. You take a bite of potatoes first. It’s more than just decent, it’s delicious.

“What’s the verdict?” Simon asks wryly.

You chew and swallow before speaking. “Very good.” You reply cheerfully. Simon seems pleased.

He then looks at you expectantly.

There wasn’t really much point in dancing around it, you already brought it up by accident, the issue was how to say it without earning potential judgement.

“The other new thing was this.”

There’s a pause before he speaks again. “Never been taken to dinner, either?”

You shake your head. You poke at the food on your plate, growing increasingly self-conscious. Simon catches it.

“Not your fault some bastards don’t know how to act.” Despite his flat delivery it’s reassuring. You find yourself feeling less insecure. You don’t get the impression that Simon is a man to sugarcoat or utter empty platitudes, so you are appreciative.

“Maybe. I wouldn’t know, though.”

Simon cocks his head at you, intrigued. “Wouldn’t know?” He asks, parroting it back at you.

“Wouldn’t know.” You confirm, taking another bite of your eggs. You don’t realize that you just implicitly admitted you’ve never had a boyfriend until you’re taking a sip of your water.

For an imperceptible second you freeze before forcing yourself back into motion. In this situation it would be better to just move on and ignore it, but that still didn’t stop your face from feeling like a bonfire.

You think Simon recognizes the implication immediately, but he doesn’t look surprised at all. You’re not certain of how you feel about that.

What you are certain of is the relief you feel when he doesn’t press on about it, but you still feel a tad mortified. If he’s put off by your lack of romantic experience he doesn’t show it.

Maybe it’s the desperation to change the subject that makes you ask Simon;

“So, what do you usually get when you come here?”

That simple question kicked off a sort of back-and-forth conversation between the two of you, which the questions becoming increasingly mundane as it went on.

The questions are asked by you, and Simon answers, then waits for you to give him an answer in return before you toss another question at him.

What kind of music do you listen to?

Favorite color?

What about your favorite season?

Cats or dogs?

Things of that nature are thrown back and forth between you two. You’re pleasantly surprised that Simon is entertaining you.

You decide to push your luck and dip your toes into more slightly personal questions—nothing inappropriate, of course. Simon doesn’t hesitate.

Early bird or night owl?

When’s your birthday?

Have you ever rode with any of your friends?

Simon sits up a little. “What, on the back of it?” His tone is so incredulous that you fail to suppress a giggle.

“No, no, just in general.” You amend. Simon leans back in his seat once more.

“No. Just you.” Just you. No one else. You wonder if he was simply solitary or if there was something else—maybe both. You brush off the warmth blooming in your chest.

You think about what kind of friends Simon would have.

“Doubt they’d be interested.” He continues.  “Don’t think any of ‘em even ride.”

“Ah. I’m assuming you don’t have breakfasts with them either?” It’s more of a joke than a question.

Simon answers regardless. “Sometimes I do,” you can’t discern the look that’s in his eye. “But nothin’ like this.”

You cock your head at him, curious. “Never took them here?”

“No.” He confirms bluntly.

“Just me?” You ask. His dark eyes stare at you intently. Your heart pulses.

The entrance to the restaurant opens and Simon’s eyes dart to the door, severing the intense connection briefly. Then his sights shift back.

“Just you.” He replies without skipping a beat.

You look down at your plate just to give yourself a reprieve from the lingering intensity of his stare. You’re almost done with your food by now.

His voice dips a bit lower in a light tease. “I was going to ask you if you ever had any other men walk you home, but I already know the answer to that one.”

Your face awash with warmth. “What’s the answer?” You manage to speak.

You notice the corners of Simon’s eyes wrinkling, the pitch black in his eyes almost look warm for a flicker. Your heart aches with every pulse. He says it in the same tone he had when asking you if you liked his bike.

“Just me.”

Simon ends up paying for your breakfast. You insist he doesn’t have to, but he insists that it’s not a problem. You acquiesce.

He opens the door for you as you’re exiting just like he did when you were entering.

“I’ve got a place in mind to take you to, if you’re up for it.” He has already retrieved the helmets from the back of the bike.

You nod immediately.

Simon was right, you were getting more accustomed to being on a bike already. You still clung onto him for support, however. You were able to appreciate things that you couldn’t before due to your fear; the cool wind blowing past, the auburn trees lining the road.

You cherish what little time you have left being so close to him.

Time that slips by too fast even when you’re holding it tight, because before you know it he’s pulling in somewhere and slowing to a complete stop.

You glance around. It’s a park, if not secluded. You don’t see any other vehicles parked. The trees in the vicinity are so red they might as well be torches.

“It’s beautiful out here.” You say aloud, dismounting the bike.

Simon takes your helmet and puts it along with his in the trunk. “Thought you’d like it.” Unless your ears were deceiving you, you detect a hint of cheekiness there. You’re not used to it coming from Simon, he sounds as dry and flat as usual, but it’s there’s an element that’s foreign to your ears. You cherish it.

You smile sheepishly and turn around to get a better view of the trees in the vicinity. “Do you like coming here a lot?” You ask over your shoulder.

“Sometimes.” He sounds indifferent.

“Oh, hopefully I’m not being invasive or something—“ You begin to stammer, the words tumbling out almost reflexively.

Something in his expression softens. “You’re fine.” Simon replies. You relax a little, but not by much due to how you’re chastising yourself.

You force yourself to brush off the negative self-talk when Simon comes over to stand next to you. Once he’s there he’s grabbing something out of his pocket. A box of cigarettes, you realize.

You’re busying yourself with admiring the trees, you hear the sound of fabric shifting. A comfortable silence envelopes you both. It isn’t until you notice Simon’s hand moving up to his face that your eyes shoot over to him.

He hooks his thumb up and under his mask, underneath his chin. You blink and suddenly you’re staring at pale skin where midnight fabric used to be.

There’s light-colored stubble on his jaw, you catch a scar running there and up, it disrupts the natural growth pattern of his facial hair.

There’s  a scar on one side of his upper lip—the same side the other scar on his jaw is—it is vertical and goes from the seam of his lips to seemingly all the way up, maybe even to his nostril. You can’t tell, his mask is still dipped low enough to obscure his cupids bow and the rest of his face. It intrigues you because you’ve never seen a scar like that before.

His lips themselves look like how you expect, slightly chapped and maybe a bit redder than usual from the cold.

You make yourself dart your eyes away. It would be rude to stare.

But then holds the cigarette between his lips, and you find yourself paying as much attention as possible through your peripheral. He feels in his pockets for a lighter for a fraction of a second before he’s bringing it up and setting the cigarette alight.

It isn’t long before the scent of nicotine follows.

And the two of you simply exist in one another’s presence like that for a little while. Nothing is said because nothing needs to be at the moment. You think about how nice it is to have someone be effortlessly content with you. There wasn’t any song or dance you had to do while tone deaf and out of rhythm just to keep away the dreaded labels of ‘odd’ and ‘strange.’

It was just you and Simon.

He says your name. You turn to look up at him.

“Yes?” There’s a pause there, you watch his lips thin out into a line, the motion is almost imperceptible. It’s a welcome strangeness to see a portion of his face now. A small part of you that you bury deep hopes that the sight won’t be unfamiliar one day.

He brings the cigarette back to his lips, his eyes are far away.

“In a month or two I’m gonna be gone for a while.” Smoke pours out his mouth in wispy coils. You turn your head to look at him. He’s still looking at the autumn trees.

“Oh.” You try to hide the disappointment in your voice.

“How come?” You ask, then realization dawns. “For work?” The question is asked carefully.

“Yeah.” He confirms after a stilted pause. He takes another drag.

“I’ll be back.” He says after a beat of silence. You can’t tell what he’s feeling at the moment.

You don’t want him to leave, but that was just the reality of things. Sensibly, you knew that a month or two was still a lot of time, but just like the time you clutched as tight as you did Simon on the bike, it would slip away before you knew it.

“Okay. I’ll be waiting for you.” The words sort of pour out, like water from a stream. There’s no question about it, you’ll wait for him; there’s no harm in it. It wasn’t like you’d be putting anything or anyone on hold.

Simon finally looks down at you. His eyes are cavernous, searching.

You don’t know if he finds what he’s looking for or not, only that he looks away from you and back to the trees. He doesn’t say anything else.

The subject leaves a lingering melancholy in the air that leaves a bitter taste in your mouth. You make an attempt at further conversation to shift the tone.

“You’ll be here for Halloween.” You state, not quite sure where you’re going with it.

Simon only grunts in reply.

“Do you think you’ll be here for Christmas?”

Simon stills for a moment. “Not sure.”

“I’ll get you something.”

“Like what?” He sounds mildly amused.

You think.

“Something with a skull or skeleton on it.” You eventually decide.

“Have jokes, do you?” He says dryly, though not offended.

“Not a joke. But I have an actual joke to tell.”

“Go on.”

“What do you call a pile of kittens?”

“You tell me.”

“A meow-tain.”

He actually snorts through his nose, you even see the scarred corner of his mouth quirk up in a ghost of a smirk, he’s more endeared by you than the joke itself. “Not the worst I’ve heard.”

You beam up at him, and the silence is comfortable yet again.

It’s a minute until next he speaks. “I know what I’ll get you.”

“And what would that be?”

“You’ll see at Christmas.”

Something about the rustling of trees and the soil being stamped underfoot is soothing.

After Simon put out his cigarette and lowered his mask back over his mouth he asked you if you wanted to walk around the park for a bit, which was how you and him ended up walking on one of the short trails.

Simon walks closer to you than usual. You don’t think you’re imagining it, not when you incidentally brush against one another at sporadic intervals.

Neither of you make a move to put some distance between one another.

It’s the distance—or lack thereof—that makes your mind wander.

You think about that day at the convenience store, the night at the bar, and the othernight at the bar when he walked you home for the first time.

You think of Simon, the scar on his jaw and the muteness in his obsidian eyes. The oddly stable monotony of his voice. Big hands that put your helmet on for you for the first time.

You didn’t expect him to show up.

Not when he standing on the other side of the street, not when he came into the bookstore to give your freezing hands gloves, not when he pulled up on his bike.

When does it stop being chivalry?

It was a dangerous thing for someone as sentimental as you to ask.

You didn’t want to smother. To desperately clutch so tight that it suffocated. Having false hopes flood your heart almost always ended with you drowning, so as always, you just took what you were given.

You’d mentally reprimand yourself for every skipped heartbeat and flutter in your stomach, and you would convince yourself that it would be fine if Simon suddenly stopped talking to you one day. Drifted away, further and further until he was a stranger once more.

Your heart was soft and bleeding, too easily bruised for your own good, that’s why you always got so hurt. It was why in spite of having a lovely day you now found yourself hurting.

So you bury down your desires of companionship and the word-you-refuse-to-say with a shovel that’s so well-used it might as well be another limb—

A single, thick arm shoots out and grabs you by the middle.

You are caught before you fall forward on the cold earth. So lost in thought you were, that you tripped over a pebble.

“Watch yourself, sweetheart.” Sweetheart. Your mind is in utter disarray.

‘It was just an off-handed term of endearment, let it go.’

It slipped out from his lips without thought, it didn’t have to mean anything, you’ve heard people use that word before, it didn’t have to mean anything.

It’s difficult to let it go when his strong limb remains wrapped around your waist. He waits until you steady yourself before slipping his arm away.

It’s just as difficult to forget about the effortless strength he exerted to pull you upright before you fell over, especially when that ancient sense hums in delight at such a display.

Your heart pounds hysterically despite your best efforts.

“Thank you.” You mutter quickly. He gives a single, curt nod.

You wait until your pace returns to a normal rhythm before speaking again, you want to put as many syllables between you and that term of endearment as possible.

“Did you ever read that book?” You can imagine the green cover and gold lettering clear as day.

“Yeah, I did.”

“What was it about?” Try as you might, you could remember the letters but not the specific ones which formed the title on the book.

“Mythology.” You blink up at him in mild surprise.

You didn’t take Simon as one who would be interested in that subject. “Oh! Do you usually read those?”

“No.” He answers flatly, “Wasn’t my first choice. Just wanted somethin’ different.”

“I understand.” You do, you truly do.

A beat of empathetic silence washes over the two of you.

“Do you read a lot?” You carefully store the bits of information about him in your mind, in hopes that one day you’ll be able to paint a fuller picture.

“Not often.”

You shoot a curious glance at him. “Oh, so what do you do in your spare time?”

Simon says nothing for a moment. He’s searching for an answer, you realize.

Eventually he responds. “Wait.”

You blink at him, momentarily puzzled by his response. ‘Wait for what?’ Your gaze says. He doesn’t elaborate and you don’t pry.

You see two birds foraging. Further down the trail is a little babbling brook. You exclaim your enthusiasm for both, and for every other thing which grabs your attention on the path. Simon only gives you an endeared scoff in reply.

You can’t help but feel dispirited when the trail eventually loops back around and you see the parking lot in the distance. You can’t help but feel a bit childish; not wanting the day to end just yet.

When you reach the bike you stand awkwardly next to it for a moment, waiting for Simon to retrieve the helmets for the final time today.

Simon comes over, the length of his shadow swallowing yours. While looking down at you his brows crease briefly. You are frozen in place when his free hand comes up to your head, slowly and gingerly, giving you time to flinch away. You don’t.

It’s too easy to imagine him cupping your face. That’s twice now that you’ve imagined that. The lump that forms in your throat following that thought is nigh impossible to swallow.

He pulls his hand back and he flicks his fingers so fast that it barely registers that he plucked an autumn leaf from your hair. You’re too caught up with what just happened to feel even remotely embarrassed over that.

An unknowable feeling dawdles around between you. You’re staring forward, avoiding looking up to meet Simon’s eyes, directionless.

You manage to choke something out to break the silence. “Thanks—“

“Don’t mention it,” Simon’s reply is swift, yet no less understanding for it. “Let’s get you home, yeah?”

You decide to just give Simon the directions to your home to drop you off. You trusted him at this point.

The ride there felt too short despite being a good distance away.

Simon only speaks to confirm he was at the right house, and then he’s pulling over to let you off.

You linger on the bike a second longer than needed. Simon doesn’t say anything or look over his shoulder to wordlessly tell you to get off. He sits there with you.

Your arms are still wrapped around him.

You shake off the urge to give him a final squeeze goodbye. Eventually you do get off the bike, and you take off your helmet. You’re about to give it back to him until he stops you.

“Keep it.” You blink at him, and tuck it under your arm instead.

You stand there aimlessly while you try to think of what to say.

“Thank you. For all of this.” There’s a quiet that settles between the two of you. It isn’t an unwelcome one.

Simon hums in reply after a time.

“I…” Your words slip past your lips and out of your head. Simon stares at you intently, waiting on every syllable.

“I appreciate it.” The words fall flat on your tongue, they barely scratch the surface of how you feel, but you hope he understands how much this day spent meant to you.

“I really enjoyed today.” You mumble, staring down at your shoes.

“Likewise.” He replies. Your lips twitch in a smile that never fully forms.

“Text me when you get home.” You blurt out. Simon simply nods.

And just like how you lingered for a second too long with him on the bike, Simon lingers a second too long with you.

“Talk to you soon.” He says after a moment. You wonder if he was going to say something else. You make yourself nod in agreement.

“Bye, Simon.”

You watch him leave, your eyes stay on him until he’s out of view.

You’re already laying in bed about to drift off to sleep for the night when you hear a high-pitched sound from your phone on the nightstand.

You swipe at the screen, your half-asleep eyes burning uncomfortably with the light that floods your vision when you open your phone. When you read Simon’s name you’re rubbing your eyes to help them focus on what he texted you.

‘Sleep well.’

┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈

Looks like this will be more than 2 chapters after all!

I also wanted to thank everyone who liked and reblogged the first chapter, the positive response really motivated me to finish this. It really means a lot!! 🫶💘

I actually read an article and watched a video on how to use kickstands on bikes, there’s always a possibility I described something wrong, but I hope that can be overlooked!

The plan is to ramp up the romantic intensity a lot in the next chapter. (This story will still shift to an explicit rating once we get there.)

Thank you so much for any and all likes and reblogs! Please feel free to tell me what you thought! Thank you for reading and I hope you enjoyed!

[wayward-sherlock]

guys help bad idea! is #1 in like. every aspect of my ao3 stats. im dying

[agentartemus]

I thought today was a good one..

[sualne]

that guy

[empty-blog-for-lurking]

Ok i have a confession to make- i actually haven't listened to tma podcast itself, I just got really hyperfixated on the fandom to the point of watching every amv, scouring all the characters wiki, reading every fanfic and repeatedly diving in the tags to know all about to the point that I know atleast the major plot, themes, the entities, the avatars, most of the more important characters and what happens to said characters.

That being said I am listening to the podcast now and everytime I know something important is happening I am just like-

[wherela]

one of those crying in the shower kind of days

[neonacidtrip]

we haven't spoken in a very long time, but i dreamt of you last night, so I couldn't help but think of you. I'm not sure you remember me, but i hope life is treating you well these days. take care.

I'm not sure what to say, but I can promise you I have not forgotten you. My time on Tumblr has been a mess full of hiatuses, I admit, but it will always be a place where I met some very wonderful friends, including you. With 100% honesty, I can say the friends I made here are some of the best friends I have ever had, even though most of us don't talk anymore.

It doesn't matter how often I speak with people, or if we never speak again. I'll always remember you, and I'll always think fondly of you and hope that life is treating you gently and kindly.

I hope you had a nice (or at the very least an okay) dream, and I'm glad to know you still remember me, too, regardless of all else.

Take care, love <3

[ningningkittie]

.

[sexybabystevie]

this is to ONE PERSON and one person ONLY. if you're confused, it's not you!

[tkbrokkoli]

:O

[fazcinatingblog]

Went to the toilet for the first time today at 2pm (Colleening), got out and Sophia had called so I rang her back and she's like "have you got any invoices out??? What have you done all day????"

[thebibliosphere]

So, anyway, I say as though we are mid-conversation, and you're not just being invited into this conversation mid-thought. One of my editors phoned me today to check in with a file I'd sent over. (<3)

The conversation can be surmised as, "This feels like something you would write, but it's juuuust off enough I'm phoning to make sure this is an intentional stylistic choice you have made. Also, are you concussed/have you been taken over by the Borg because ummm."

They explained that certain sentences were very fractured and abrupt, which is not my style at all, and I was like, huh, weird... And then we went through some examples, and you know that meme going around, the "he would not fucking say that" meme?

Yeah. That's what I experienced except with myself because I would not fucking say that. Why would I break up a sentence like that? Why would I make them so short? It reads like bullet points. Wtf.

Anyway. Turns out Grammarly and Pro-Writing-Aid were having an AI war in my manuscript files, and the "suggestions" are no longer just suggestions because the AI was ignoring my "decline" every time it made a silly suggestion. (This may have been a conflict between the different software. I don't know.)

It is, to put it bluntly, a total butchery of my style and writing voice. My editor is doing surgery, removing all the unnecessary full stops and stitching my sentences back together to give them back their flow. Meanwhile, I'm over here feeling like Don Corleone, gesturing at my manuscript like:

ID: a gif of Don Corleone from the Godfather emoting despair as he says, "Look how they massacred my boy."

Fearing that it wasn't just this one manuscript, I've spent the whole night going through everything I've worked on recently, and yep. Yeeeep. Any file where I've not had the editing software turned off is a shit show. It's fine; it's all salvageable if annoying to deal with. But the reason I come to you now, on the day of my daughter's wedding, is to share this absolute gem of a fuck up with you all.

This is a sentence from a Batman fic I've been tinkering with to keep the brain weasels happy. This is what it is supposed to read as:

"It was quite the feat, considering Gotham was mostly made up of smog and tear gas."

This is what the AI changed it to:

"It was quite the feat. Considering Gotham was mostly made up. Of tear gas. And Smaug."

Absolute non-sensical sentence structure aside, SMAUG. FUCKING SMAUG. What was the AI doing? Apart from trying to write a Batman x Hobbit crossover??? Is this what happens when you force Grammarly to ignore the words "Batman Muppet threesome?"

Did I make it sentient??? Is it finally rebelling? Was Brucie Wayne being Miss Piggy and Kermit's side piece too much???? What have I wrought?

Anyway. Double-check your work. The grammar software is getting sillier every day.

[jasontoddiefor]

Yeah sure we’ve all binged a long fic, but have you ever read a WIP and followed someone’s life?

Tidbits of information - (“I graduated today!”) - and small joys (“It’s my birthday!”) and you get to be there to say “This chapter made me cry, happy birthday, thank you for gifting us this”.

I remember reading this fic of someone at the end of high school, older than me then. They seemed infinitely wise, spoke of their future career and getting into the college they wanted. I remember them posting on days they felt like nothing could bring them down - and on days the whole world did and it’s the aftermath of a hospital visit. Cancer, I think it was, their father. I got to the end of the story, I know their father was fine, but also they got to finish their WIP. I graduated three years later than them, still dutifully wrote thank you notes in every comment. I wonder if they remember me, or just the collective of people reading the story as it updates.

Four years ago I was into my first year of university, my first year of figuring out being out in public spaces. I made excuses as to why my name didn’t match my paperwork and read a fic on the train, the same five chapters over and over again for the next years as I thought the story abandoned. It updated this week after such a long hiatus, I left another thank you comment.

There’s an author I love, they update their stories like a clockwork. When they don’t, I check their blog, just to see if their doing alright, not because I feel like they owe me, just to ensure whether I better get out my laptop to write that really detailed university level essay chapter analysis to get them smiling when their day sucked.

And then, once, when I was 17, I read a fic that hadn’t updated in over a decade. I wasn’t even in primary school when it started posting. On the last chapter, I left a comment that, in retrospect, was horribly rambly and most likely full of grammar mistakes. The author replied and though I couldn’t see their face, I thought of them crying. They were married now, had children, and hadn’t thought about this fic in years. They went through their files again, found another half written chapter and an outline. I got two new chapters to read that year.

And then, recently, someone told me they got back into writing original fiction because of my comments. I get to read nearly weekly chapters.

I love binge reading a finished fic, but nothing is ever going to top the feeling of anticipation of waiting for a chapter, the pure joy when someone tells you I was done with this, but you made me think of it again, so this is for you.

Anyway, I think we should romanticize reading WIPs more, growing up alongside the authors writing the stories we love.