#wire-spinning rack

[marvolus]

In today’s competitive retail landscape, businesses are constantly seeking innovative ways to enhance sales and bolster their brand presence. One such strategy that is gaining traction is the utilization of wire-spinning racks. Wire-spinning racks have become a staple in retail environments, offering a versatile and effective solution for displaying products. By exploring the ways shared in this infographic in which a wire-spinning rack drives sales and elevates brand visibility, retailers can select a storage fixture that fosters immersive shopping encounters and optimizes profitability with confidence. To know more, read this infographic: https://marvolus.com/wire-spinning-racks-boost-sales-and-brand-presence/.

[emmafrostdefender]

crush | logan howlett x female reader

hi everyone! i wrote this for fun. it'll probably turn into a series of small chapters while i write my more hefty logan fic. i hope you guys enjoy!

warnings: reader's kinda horny i guess, sexy man, based on crush by ethel cain, 1.5k words (i wrote this in like an hour)

You’d seen him around town. 

At the laundromat with the blinking fluorescent lights. At the dingy bar around the corner from the laundromat. At the gas station, filling up the tank of his red truck.

You never thought to say hi, never to engage with him in any way. 

He created such a stir when he first arrived. No one moved to your town unless something was truly wrong with them. Most of the men had leering gazes and dangerous intentions, but not him. Never him. You were in his vicinity frequently, but never once did he attempt what many others had. All failures, of course.

You lived contently in your grandmother’s old home, moving there after her cancer took a turn for the worst a few months ago. When she passed away quickly after that, she left the house to you and you decided to keep it. It still smelled like cigarettes, the stench burned into the walls and carpet, but the smell reminded you of childhood trips to Kansas. Those trips were scorched to the back of your eyelids, forever being replayed. Everything was the same as when you were a child; the small Mexican restaurant, the old movie theater, the arcade that closed seven years ago.

 Now, you sat behind the counter at the small antique shop you spent most of your days in. It was quaint, filled to the brim with every kind of knick-knack you could think of. There were crates filled with records and CDs, most scratched or completely unplayable. There were pieces of furniture, dusty mirrors, moth-eaten upholstery, chipped paint jobs, and broken hinges. The bookshelves that lined the walls of the store were stacked with books. You’d taken a few home in the past, knowing that they wouldn’t be missed.

And the clothes. There were racks on racks of vintage clothes. Most were out of fashion (even for the time they were made) or damaged. Still, you liked to play dress-up every so often. 

The job was boring and mundane, but it paid the bills. The family who owned the store didn’t seem to have time to keep up with the place, so you managed the inner-workings of it.

Today, you watched cars go by, wondering when would be the best time to cut your losses and close for the day. Some days you managed to get more than a few browsers, but today was not one of those days. You had one person come in around lunch, but they looked for about five minutes before heading out.

Your mind wandered as you watched people walk by the storefront.

You thought of him. The man you saw everywhere. The man who never spoke to you, not even to say, “Excuse me.”

The man that just walked through the front door.

Eyes widening, you sat up straighter and calmed your heartbeat that suddenly thundered in your ears. “Welcome in! Everything with a blue tag is sixty percent off today,” you said with a bright smile.

He simply looked over at you and then continued his perusal. 

You deflated. Harsh.

As he walked around the store, you felt like a live-wire. Every creak of the floorboards sent your heart spinning in your chest. You hadn’t felt like this about a man since you still called men boys. Being in your late twenties, that meant a very long time.

You grabbed a box of donations from the back room and moved to the floor to start stocking items on the shelves. You rationalized your decision to suddenly start restocking items after having a full day to do so by telling yourself that if you looked busy, he might feel inclined to buy something. You could nearly feel your nose growing by the second at that thought.

Moving through the rows of shelves and assorted items was second nature to you at this point, knowing where everything went in this mess of a store. You conveniently moved to the side of a shelf that viewed his aisle through gaps in the many items strung about. As you placed a silver mirror on the shelf, your gaze moved to watch his face on the other side of the rack. He was stunning.

You hadn’t had much time to analyze him; it was only small glances here and there in the time he’d been around. Now, you took your time. He was looking at an old book, bound in red fabric. It looked as if it had seen the bottom of a sewer. Luckily, he seemed to be making a careful inspection of the text, giving you enough time to look him over.

He was beautiful in a rugged kind of way. He looked like he worked with his hands; they were large and rough, with calluses around the fingers. His knuckles were prominent with sharp edges. You wondered what he did for a living. Did he move here to get away from city life? Was he a runaway circus performer? You internally smacked yourself in the head for the stupid thought. 

He’d probably make the circus look sexy, though.

He had a large figure hidden by a flannel and white t-shirt. His attire pointed to him being a worker of the land. A farmer, maybe. That would check out with the truck you'd seen him driving around in. Always covered in mud with logs of wood piled high in the back. 

His hair was a rich brown and you wanted to dig your fingers into it. You wanted to feel his beard against your skin.

What the hell is wrong with me?

You don’t have sex for so long that your brain goes fuzzy at the idea of a stranger’s beard scratching your neck. God. Get a grip.

You straighten your back and continue restocking things. Play it cool.

Soon, you fell into the rhythm of it, nearly forgetting the other person in the room. You moved to the bookshelves, loading more books onto the already strained wood. People really needed to stop donating things to you and start actually buying things. You’d be out of business by next summer. 

As soon as you realized you needed to go back to the stock room to grab another box, you heard a grunt behind you. You nearly jumped out of your skin. You dropped the box you were holding and faced the man. Your mystery man.

He was so close, you could smell him. He smelled like smoke and sweat. You felt yourself salivate.

You looked him in the eyes for the first time. “Do you need help?” You asked quietly, scared that he’d run off if you spoke too loud, like a wounded animal. 

“How much for this?” He asked, keeping your gaze. His voice was smooth.

You looked down to his hands, which were holding the book he had been examining earlier. “It doesn’t have a price tag?”

He shook his head. 

Now you felt like you were being held under a microscope. The way his eyes ran over your face made you go red; you hadn’t felt this flustered because of a man in a long time. 

“Okay, I can check at the front,” you said, keeping your quiet tone.

He just grunted again and followed as you led him to the register. You had a book of all the prices for things so that you could properly mark them. If you didn’t have the vague feeling that you were going to explode at any moment, you’d know off the top of your head the price of that tiny book. It was about the size of his hand, making you bite the inside of your cheek. 

You opened the book and searched for the page with book prices. When you found the page, you ran your finger down the list.

Small = $1.99

When you looked up at him, you jumped a little. He was looking at you with such intensity, you’d thought he was going to have an aneurysm. It made your cheeks flush again, but you cleared your throat and said, “It’s $1.99. With tax, it’ll be $2.30.”

He nodded, putting the book down on the counter as he reached for his wallet. You read the book title: Frankenstein. “I love Mary Shelley,” you said as you reached for a brown paper bag. 

He looked at you, his expression not revealing anything.

For some reason, you decided to keep talking. “It’s such a perfect analysis of ‘how far is too far’ in science and experimentation. I loved reading it in high school, I think you’ll really enjoy it,” you said, not particularly needing a response. 

He placed the exact change due on the counter and looked you in the eyes as he said, “Thank you.”

Your heart fluttered. “You’re welcome…” You trailed off, hoping to God that he’d tell you his name.

He thought about it for a moment. “It’s Logan.”

You smiled. “I’m glad you stopped by, Logan.” You introduced yourself. It would be nice to have another person to say ‘hi’ to on the street. And you imagined he was thinking the same thing.

His face didn’t jump into a smile, but it didn’t look as harsh as it did when he first walked in. 

And so began your crush on the stoic man who moved to town.

[a-strawberry-mouse]

Someone broke my laundry hanger. He said him breaking it was the hanger's fault for being fragile. I kicked him out of my home and got to work.

You poor thing. You've dried so many loads of laundry. You do such a good job. You've done nothing wrong.

I have a two sets of wire pliers and could not find a single one. I borrowed this one and it was... Fine. It was able to cut and bend wire.

I hate to, just add details, this part. But I have no pictures. See, a spinning part meeting a drill(that spins) meant that this was a genuinely very annoying experience.

I could not take pictures, so I put my phone away. I will add gifs where I would've put pictures. Here the seal demonstrates how the inner turning part acted during drilling.

I eventually was able to drill a hole nearish to the middle of the rack's broken part.

I lined up the drilled section from the rack part to the hook part and drilled a hole in the hook. This was much easier because the hook did not move. It behaved.

I then made a length of steel wire, it's a few mm thick and very uncomfortable to bend by hand.

Using skills I've gained from previous fixes, wire ornament making, post hitching, and tamandama making, behold:

A before and after video showing how well I kept that swivel function. It turns the same as it did before!

Zero loss of function!

Sometimes I impress myself and this is one of those fixes.

I'm pleased as punch

[tinlune]

Sachertorte and Love

The day was pleasantly warm, the sun just the right amount of bright. The yeasty smell of bread filled the small kitchen, almost expanding to fill the space while the oven timer steadily ticked.

Push and pull, push and pull, the smooth repetitive motion of kneading the dough was oddly soothing. When you were done kneading the dough, you laid it to rest in a metal bowl, covering it with a cloth, finishing just as the oven timer went off. Grabbing the pair of oven mitts hanging on a hook, you eased the cake pan out, feeling the caress of the oven’s heat as you went. The cake pan was placed on a wire rack to cool while you set a timer on your phone for 10 minutes, sitting down at the kitchen table.

Alexis will be home soon. Your husband was a hard worker, always trying his very best and what better a day to celebrate that than his birthday?

10 minutes later, the cake was done cooling and you unmolded it, gently easing it out of the pan with your fingers. Cutting the cake into eight equal slices and plating one, you grabbed some apricot jam and dark chocolate glaze from the fridge, putting the jam inside of a cavity you cut in the cake and adding some chocolate drizzle on top, finishing with a birthday candle.

A gentle rapping on the door alerted you to your husband, with you hurrying to open the door and surprise him.

“Happy birthday Alexis”

“Thank you darling” And he kisses your forehead as usual.

And you cover his eyes with your hands, leading your very confused and tired husband to the kitchen.

“You’ve been baking again? It smells wonderful in here, what did you make?”

“Sachertorte! Hope you like it.” And you take your hands off his eyes, anticipating his reaction.

“You truly know how to make a man feel loved don’t you?” And he lets out a deep breath and a giddy smile. “Thank you, thank you, thank you, you’re the best!” Wrapping you in a tight hug, he spins you around in the kitchen for a few seconds, filled with an all consuming joy.

As he blows out his candle, he can’t help but wonder what magic brought you two together to give him this happy life.

[the-hole-in-terzos-shoe]

Intro to Romantic Literature: Prologue

Professor!Terzo x TA!Reader (pretty gen for this part, but the main fic describes fem parts)

CW: implied smut, MDNI, 18+ only please, romantic tension, professor Terzo is a tease ✨

Word Count: 1.2k

I have been working on a Professor Terzo fic for MONTHS now, literally months. I'm getting close to the end, and this prologue popped in my head at 5 o'clock this morning, so I had to scribble it down. Plus, I think it'll make a cute little teaser 🥰 enjoy!

Intro to Romantic Literature: here!

Every day feels like a big day as you barrel towards the end of your degree. The pressure of arranging your final portfolio of works, defending final arguments, typing papers... it's all really starting to get to you.

𝘐𝘵'𝘭𝘭 𝘢𝘭𝘭 𝘣𝘦 𝘰𝘷𝘦𝘳 𝘴𝘰𝘰𝘯, the bittersweet thought crosses your mind. You'd finally be done with all this stress and move onto the ease of a consistent career, but you'd also be leaving behind the best job you've ever known. Leaving 𝘩𝘪𝘮 behind.

In fact, you're so lost in your thoughts, collecting and organizing papers and files so efficiently--you could do it in your sleep at this point--that you don't notice him staring at you, the pained expression on your professor's face that would tell you it eats him up to see you like this: so stressed you're ready to snap.

He reads you like the many leaves and pages studied in his romantic literature class, like a poem written just for him. You recite your feelings to him daily without knowing it; it's in the way you walk, the way you hold yourself, the way you tilt your head when you rest the tip of your pen on your bottom lip, lost in thought on the class discussion at hand.

Sauntering into his office, you drop your shoulders as you flop into his soft leather chair, taking a deep breath before sorting papers accordingly: lesson plans in the bottom right desk drawer, books on the bookshelf, papers to be graded in the third slot of the black wire rack, anything needing immediate attention left squarely on his desk in plain sight.

"Grazie, stellina," his voice snaps you back to reality, immediately causing your cheeks to flush at the nickname. 'Little star' is what it means. It makes you feel like a teacher's pet, which would've bothered you if it had been anyone else; however, it makes you feel special to earn attention from him. "La mia brava ragazza, you always do such a good job for me." He leans in the doorway, running a hand through his graying locks.

"Thank you, Professor Emeritus," it comes just above a whisper, and you look down at the desk briefly before standing to make your exit.

"Ah, ah, ah, not so fast," he murmurs, catching your waist as you try to pass him in the little room. Spinning you around, he pins the back of your thighs to the desk before leaving some space between you... Just enough space to be respectful, but a clear indication that you're not getting out of this so easily.

You're so caught up in the intoxicating scent of his expensive cologne that you hardly hear him when he asks how you've been. "Hm?" you reply, playing naïve.

"Tesoro, please, I can't have my favorite student looking as distracted as you've been lately," he starts, but you interrupt him.

"I'm not your student, I'm your teaching assistant," you remind him with a light hearted smile.

"You are still learning things, no?" he cocks one thick black eyebrow in that way that always makes your heart skip a beat, his intense white eye putting you in checkmate.

"I suppose so," you whisper, looking down at his ridiculously shiny loafers.

His fingers under your chin direct your stare back up, "What has you so distant, eh? Would you like to talk about it, cara? Confess your sins... So to speak." He winks at you, earning a small huff of a laugh from you.

"What are you, the Pope?" you joke.

His eyebrows quirk in an unreadable way, but he stays silent, urging an answer from you.

"I've just been really stressed with school," you finally concede, letting out a breath you'd been holding.

"Have I put too much on you?" he worries about the workload he's given you cutting into your schedule.

"No!" you look up at him almost desperately, "No, I enjoy this position so much. It's everything else. The final papers, getting good grades, trying to graduate." You choke on the last few words; it was something you'd been emotional about the last few weeks, plus your professor had your guard down.

"Don't cry, tesoro," he commands softly, but it's already too late as tears flood your waterline. Without a second thought, he cups your face in his hands, wiping away anything that threatens to spill across your cheeks. Wrapping a protective arm around your waist, he pulls you flush to his chest before fishing a handkerchief from his pocket, because of course he has one, and dabbing softly under your eyes before offering the piece of silk to you.

"Thank you," you stutter, clutching the cloth in your hand. Hesitantly, you glance up at him before laying your head on his chest, folding your arms under his in a hug.

His hand on your waist falls to caress the small of your back while the other cradles your head, while you regulate your breathing. You can't say for certain, but you think you feel a whisper of a kiss placed on the crown of your head. Holding each other like that for however long, you don't know, but when his fingertips gently start to massage your scalp, you let out an involuntary moan.

Your cheeks blush pink again, meeting a much more heated look in his mismatched eyes. As his warm hands move to grasp at your hips and waist, suddenly all of your worries melt away, as the only thing you can think about is him hoisting you up on the perfectly organized little desk and having his way with you, your panties tossed aside in his office chair, and you laid back and arched up into him while he works every tension from your needy body.

Your fantasy fades away when Professor Emeritus's hand cups your chin again, fingers pressing into your jawbone in a dominant way to lift your face to his. Your gaze wanders to his plump lips... how many times you've thought of having them on you.

His thumb gently strokes your cheek as he leans impossibly closer, and one of your hands smoothes over his firm chest.

But before he makes a move that he can't come back from, he presses the pad of his thumb firmly against your supple lips, stopping himself from crossing the line, even though he so badly wants to... wants you.

He gives you a solemn nod before putting some distance between your bodies, "I hope you're feeling a little better, after our, uh... chat, stellina."

"Uh huh..." is all you manage to breathe out before straightening up. "Yes, sir."

Offering a reassuring squeeze to your shoulder, he carefully presses a kiss to your cheek before sending you on your way.

Tonight, you'll tell yourself that you misread the situation, that he was only trying to be a kind and caring professor, but somewhere deep down inside you, under lock and key, you know that isn't true. Especially because you felt something hard graze against your hip as you squeezed past him and out into the hallway, but you put that thought far behind you as you head back to your dorm.

[flamingspud]

here’s my work for the last day of @mcyt-aspec-week !! I hope you guys enjoy :3

Touch-Starved - Gardening + Cake

When Skizz had invited Zedaph over to bake a cake, he hadn't thought it was going to be anything more than a fun break from his own work.

However, Zed's priorities might've… shifted, when he hadn't been paying attention and almost added two hundred grams of baking powder rather than caster sugar.

"Woah! Zeddledop, careful!" 

Before Zedaph could react, Skizz had grabbed his hands to stop him from tilting the bag into the bowl of dry ingredients.

"Oh, thanks."

He smiled sheepishly at Skizz, who simply grinned back at him. "You have to be more careful man."

"Oh, I will."

Skizz then let go of his hands to go back to his own job, and surprisingly enough Zed had missed their presence. 

As a result, Zedaph may or may not have started to sabotage the cake on purpose. He would grab too many eggs at once, try adding the flour too quickly and even grabbed orange juice instead of milk one time.

Each time Skizz would come to the rescue, gently guiding Zed's hands away from the bowl. 

"Wow, you've really got your head in the clouds today, huh?" Skizz commented after that last one.

"Well, you know me," was Zedaph's reply.

The cake then went into the oven, and all that was left to do was wait for it to turn golden brown.

Zedaph watched the oven timer like a hawk, and as soon as it went off he opened the oven to grab the cake. 

Skizz quickly grabbed Zedaph before his bare hands could come into contact with the metal cake tin. "Hey! Are you trying to hurt yourself?" He demanded.

Zed shook his head. 

Skizz quickly grabbed a tea towel and placed the cake on a wire rack to cool. Once that was dealt with he turned back to his friend.

"Hey, are you ok?"

"What?"

"You're just so out of it, I mean, mixing up milk and orange juice is one thing but trying to grab a burning hot cake is another. What I'm trying to say is that I'm a little worried, dude."

Zedaph blinked, unsure of what to say to that. He supposed he had been a little reckless, but he hadn't actually put himself in danger- right?

"Erm…" he scratched the back of his neck. He didn't want Skizz to worry, so he supposed he should just get out with it.

"I kind of- liked when your hands were on mine?"

Skizz took a moment to process this. "You were doing things wrong, because you wanted me to hold your hands?" He said slowly.

Zed felt his cheeks heat up. "Yeah."

Skizz shook his head in disbelief. "Dude, if you wanted to hold my hands you could've just asked, you didn't need to try ruining our cake."

"I guess I didn't think of that…"

Skizz laughed fondly. "Here-" he grabbed Zed by the hands- "see how easy that was?"

"I suppose it's a little better than cake crimes," Zedaph admitted, a smile creeping onto his face.

"I think you mean a lot better," Skizz corrected, before suddenly spinning Zedaph around the kitchen.

"Woah!"

"Isn't this fun?!"

"It sure is!!"

The two then danced around the kitchen, the cake forgotten as they stumbled and stepped on each others' toes, laughing as they did so.

[tiantianxue]

First Summer's Strawberries

AO3 Link Fandom: Blue Lock Character: Chigiri Hyoma Word Count: 1031

- ♡ -

The strawberries you grew—using coffee grounds from his mom's morning coffee—were surprisingly big considering it was your first attempt. But you were the type of student to do your homework sooner and play later, so Chigiri wasn't that surprised to see that your strawberries grew well.

A neat row of repurposed milk cartons lined the balcony rails, sitting on top of wire racks from somewhere—also, probably, repurposed—and bright red strawberries spilled out of the cartons with some laying on the rack, waiting to be picked. You grew quite a few plants. Not nearly enough to use all the coffee grounds you collected from his mother since she brewed coffee daily, but there were plenty of strawberries for both of you to enjoy since they started ripening.

It would have been easier to buy strawberries from any store. Or buy them already in sweets to be eaten like daifuku or a fruit sandwich.

“Hmmm… I could have, but I think it's more fun to do it myself!” You grinned at him when you answered his question after a week of collecting coffee grounds and showing him your small balcony garden.

Chigiri was glad you did, because he might not have met you if you hadn't knocked to ask for coffee grounds.

You were right next door; it wasn’t difficult for him to visit and sit on your balcony for a bit even while he was going through his physical therapy. Coffee grounds were light, easy to carry even if they were still wet. You would pour it out of the bag to dry in your room. It always smelled like coffee because of that and the scent wafted onto the balcony where he liked to sit as you diligently scribbled away whatever assignment you had decided to finish early, or whatever topic had captured your interest. The summer sun was usually warm—sometimes unbearably hot and he would sit in your room instead—and there was usually a nice breeze on your balcony.

He hadn't known strawberries were tiny white flowers first, then red fruit. He didn't know anything about strawberries except what they looked and tasted like until you started growing them on a balcony near him.

“Will you grow them again next summer?” He asked, watching you pick tiny seeds from the strawberries you were going to eat.

You blinked at his question, red strawberry juice clinging to your bottom lip, before smiling. “Will you bring me coffee grounds again?”

“Obviously.” Chigiri huffed a laugh at your question.

“Then yeah, I'll grow them again. How many should I grow? As many as possible to feed you?” You gestured with your hand to the pile of stems he had. Easily twice your pile. He felt his cheeks get warmer despite the fan spinning nearby. You were just slow as you got the seeds before eating.

“Let's see if you can then.”

But he didn't want to wait until next summer to do this again—sitting on your balcony and spending time with you. Red juices staining both fingertips and lips. The scent of strawberries and coffee hanging in the air.

It didn't have to be strawberries.

“Oh, there's only one left.” You pushed the bowl closer to him. “Since you like them so much.”

There were still a few strawberries that hadn't turned red yet on the balcony so it wasn't the last one. Just the last one for the day.

Chigiri ate most of your harvest, but here you were letting him have another like he contributed beyond bringing coffee grounds over.

Quickly, he judged the distance between you and him across the small table and he pushed himself onto his knees and leaned over to press a kiss to your lips.

He grinned at the surprise on your face when he pulled back.

“Let's grow more stuff together.”

It was easy to grab the toothpick you were using while you processed his kiss and start picking off the seeds from the strawberry. He worked quietly as he waited for your response.

The fan kept whirring, providing a nice breeze in the room. Chigiri could hear the sound of insects buzzing outside. His fingertips were already red from the strawberries he ate, but now there was juice running down his hand as he picked at the seeds. He didn't know how much juice strawberries let out on their own nor did he realize how many seeds a strawberry had before.

Another thing he learned about the fruit thanks to you growing them. Chigiri didn't know anything about growing them except coffee grounds were great for the soil, but that was just the first thing you taught him about strawberries.

He licked his bottom lip. Strawberries. The taste on your lips too. If his sister found out, she would tell him how romantic and cute it was that his first kiss tasted of strawberries.

“I only picked strawberries because your hair color reminded me of them.”

Chigiri choked on the almost seedless strawberry in his mouth. You laughed as he coughed and tried to swallow the chunk in his mouth.

“I didn't know how else to talk to you since we go to different schools.”

You moved in next door right before the new school year started and he barely saw you until that day you knocked to ask for coffee grounds. He barely noticed you honestly, but that meant you had noticed him for a few weeks at least before summer started. A lot of planning went into growing something from what he saw, especially with how easy you made it look.

“... that's cute.” There wasn't anything else he could say to that. He could feel his face heating up. Knowing that you had your eyes on him for so long.

“I just wanted a friend close by, but I think I like you too.” You were right in front of him. He could smell strawberries again from how close your face was, just a centimeter or two from his. You looked unfairly calm with how close you were and how fast his heart was racing. “Your face is so red for someone who kissed first.”

[hauntedjpegcollection]

short term

wc: 5962 au: band au ch: xavier, benji

They had kissed two weeks ago and not once since then.

And to be fair, things were busy. Weren’t they? Summer tour transition to fall lineup wasn’t something Xavier was prepared for. He wasn’t part of the process; he was paid to stand there and look menacing in between power naps on a tour bus that usually smelled of bodies. Not necessarily unwashed bodies, but also not necessarily fresh. Instead of being involved, Xavier watches the moving parts of the tour—the roadies and the techs and assistants, all of them frantic in their preparations.

Lark’s routine fall cold makes an appearance, leaving the singer sleeping in the passenger seat up front, swaddled in more than a few blankets. Sniffling pathetically as Matilda sits on the arm rest with bottles of water mixed with electrolyte packets. They break up and get back together in the span of a week usually, but when he’s pale and tired and in pain, Matilda seems less inclined to leave his side than usual.

Benji too.

He hovers. He just doesn’t make it as obvious.

Xavier watches the drummer interrupt the couple, sliding his way onto the dashboard of the big tour bus, right next to one of those old fashion pin-up women that dance as traffic moves. Xavier can’t hear them, down the aisle, helping some poor girl pull off bags of wires and equipment from overhead racks—but he can see perfectly fine. Well, he can see Benji, anyway. He can’t see Lark, knees up in the passenger seat, or Matilda as she squeezes next to him. Just her slim shoulder around the back of the passenger seat.

But he can see Benji and that feels like the most important part. He leans with hands behind him, resting on palms (that Xavier personally now knows are roughly calloused and broad). His inky curls fall messily down onto his shoulders, one single clip trying to reign in tresses of it. Jeans stretch a little too tight across his thighs, booted feet kicking here and there as he talks Lark down from whatever precipice of misery he’s sat on, sick as he is. He looks impossibly relaxed, tired eyes fond. Even the way his chest moves, as he breathes makes Xavier feel so warm its painful like a burn.

“Oh no,” the girl in front of him squeaks, as a bag crashes down on top of his head and sends Xavier sprawling.

“Ow.”

The tour bus spins when he stands, rubbing hands over the back of his skull. He gestures placatingly at the girl, standing there fretting over him with anxious pats to his arm. He tries smiling, wincing with an eye closed, his face and throat flushed furiously with embarrassment. When he looks back down the aisle, Xavier isn’t surprised that Benji is staring at him.

All the air feels suctioned out of that small space, the distance suddenly minute and barely there. They could be touching, that’s how close that stare feels. Xavier can only look back at the barest curve of Benji’s lips into a small, humored smile. His dark, heavy brows pinch, in what might be genuine concern.

In return, Xavier gives him a cheery double thumbs up. Makes the drummer snort and shake his head.

Alright? Benji mouths, lifting his brows incredulously, pointing.

Xavier ruffles his hair with pale palms, adopting a pout. Kiss? He asks silently. He taps a finger to the back of his head, where it truly does hurt the worst. Benji’s eyes lid heavy and darken at the mere suggestion, sending a dancing nerve of electricity up Xavier’s spine. It’s all too easy for him to feel greedy and jealous and frustrated; he wants them to find an empty, dark parking lot again. The taste of Benji’s mouth is seared into his memories, but a memory isn’t enough. He wants them to be alone and they haven’t had a single second of that.

More than anything, even more than desperately wanting to be kissed again, Xavier wants to know what Benji is thinking. If he’s thinking about it at all. If he’s spending nights in the swaying hammocks on the tour bus, eyes closed and imagining the kiss over and over the way Xavier is. He wants to talk to him, even if it isn’t about that. He’d take a conversation about the fucking weather if it could just be them.

Lark’s bleach blond curls pop up in front of Benji, severing their connection. The singer slowly turns to look down the aisle, sleepy eyes barely open.

He sneezes, viciously.

“You okay, dude?” Lark calls out to him, blinking blearily. His nose is a violent shade of red.

“Are you?” Xavier replies, hefting the bag of wires over his shoulder. He reminds himself to call his mom, who panics every single time Lark even sniffles too hard. She’d find a way to get a care package of every single one of his favorites (and vapor rub) to the very next city post office they land in. Xavier can practically hear her chanting. Vitamins, Lark, vitamins!

“Careful with that,” Matilda comments about the bag slung over Xavier’s shoulder, sliding off of Lark’s lap and standing. The motion completely obscures Benji. Matilda folds her long, slim arms across her chest. “Nomi will skin you with her teeth if anything in there is broken.”

“Like an apple,” Lark adds, pantomiming biting into fruit. “Bet you’d be into it, huh?” He punctuates that with a low whistle, raised eyebrows. Then a dramatic cough. Matilda’s arm unwinds, just for one of her hands to gently card through his wavy, beach perfect hair.

“So into it,” she chimes, tongue pinched between her teeth, pretty hazel eyes narrowed playfully. Xavier is all too aware of the hot flush across his cheeks, down his throat. He doesn’t have a quick enough comeback for them, shifting awkwardly as the tech moves past him and hops off the tour bus.

“Alright, leave ‘im be, yeah?” Benji’s voice cuts through, gravely and edged a little firm.

Xavier’s heart does a quick stutter, tumbling around his ribcage like it’s never been connected before. He steps closer, wedges himself into the forward compartment. It feels even smaller with him there. Not enough room for his too big body. He makes shy glances to Benji, but tries desperately to look relaxed as he leans against the broad truck dashboard. The duffle on his shoulder is unfortunately getting heavier by the second.

“The arguin’ is gonna start back up now that they can’t bully you,” Benji says, lolling his head to the side. He’s still sprawled up on the dashboard, insolent looking and bored. He grins crookedly and that grin shoots something warm directly into Xavier’s belly. His mouth dries as he nods, though he isn’t sure what he’s agreeing with.

“Who’s arguing? I’m not arguing. Are you arguing, Lark?”

The collection of blankets that have become Lark slowly deflates in a sigh. He melts further into them, huffing quietly and then coughing loudly.

“There’s no arguing with you.”

“Glad you agree.”

“What are they arguing about?” Xavier asks. He pushes his shoulder against Benji, smiling down at him. He gets a few blinks in response, which is…cute. Almost too cute.

“Gaslighting is illegal,” Matilda quips icily as she steps toward the tour bus door. She looks regal even in leggings and an oversized Ratspit hoodie, her hair thrown into something artfully messy. Xavier remembers how smitten Lark had been since the first day she’d auditioned, his phone exploding with text after text of candid photos where Matilda really did look stunning in every single one.

“No one’s gaslighting you!” Lark yells, his voice a harsh rasp.

“That is literally gaslighting.” She punctuates the sentence with a slam of the door as she exits. A silence rings between all three of them. Matilda’s after image is imprinted on the tour bus, her bright fiery hair and her pale, perfect face.

“What’s gaslighting?” Xavier asks, confused brows pinched in.

“She’s mad at me because I told her to go out tonight.” Lark groans, shifting in the blankets, hands scruffing through his hair, making it stand in every direction. Dark shadows hollow the underneaths of his eyes, but Xavier can’t tell what it’s from exactly. The cold was bad. But touring was something he was quickly discovering wasn’t exactly relaxing. “It’s Halloween, I’m not asking her to be stuck on the fucking tour bus with me just because I feel like shit.”

Benji snorts and slides off the bus dashboard, his movements all too similar to a predator cat slinking away.

“Have you thought maybe she’d enjoy being here with you more than out there without you?” Lark’s cheeks flush with color, but he doesn’t answer, squeezing his eyes shut in a pinched and angry way. Benji makes another huffing laugh of a sound. When it’s obvious that Lark is ignoring him, he makes to leave.

As he passes, his fingertips trail over Xavier’s hip ever so gently, searing a trail of fire across his belly. Xavier has to clamp his teeth to stop a squeak of a noise escaping.

Then the tour bus slams for the second time and Xavier is alone with Lark.

“Bossy asshole,” Lark grumbles. “Both of them.”

“Well, guess you have a type, huh?”

Lark opens one furious eye and rolls away from Xavier to face the truck window.

—

“It’s fine, Xavier.”

Nomi stands with an arm across her stomach, an elbow in her palm and fingertips to her chin. She looks down at the duffle bag filled with cords, wires, and electronics that Xavier could never put a name to. Her light brown eyes flicker over it and then to him, crinkling with amusement, as his skin warms under her humored glare. He palms the back of his neck shyly, scuffing a boot across the parking lot asphalt.

“Matilda said you’d be mad.”

“She’s projecting, love.”

Xavier pretends to glance around in terror as though the keyboardist might be near, which prompts Nomi into dainty giggles. It’s a world conquering feeling to get those out of her. As a catch-all technician, Nomi was sometimes the most stressed of them all (aside the musicians). She bends to begin digging through the equipment, strands of her navy hair falling to frame her pale heart shaped face. She mumbles here and there to herself before sighing, leaning back on her haunches.

“So, you’re coming?” She asks.

“What?” Xavier blinks.

A moment passes. Then, Nomi stands swiftly, toeing the duffle bag closer to the roadie van. She looks at him, as though she’s confused on why he’s confused—but she does this. Nomi had been interesting to get to know the first few months of tour. She spoke like everyone was already aware of what she was thinking, and that it was odd no one had figured out telepathy yet. It was endearing, but made conversations bouncy.

“There’s this big haunted festival type thing that everyone is going to. Famous, like. ‘Round here, anyway. Wherever here is.”

“Oh.”

Xavier nods along, palming the back of his neck, staring at the concrete. There wasn’t much around them besides corn fields, cow pastures and the high occupancy vehicle parking lot, which was empty except for them. A few more hours of driving would get them to their rest stop, but they’d paused here for…more resting before more resting. There were long stretches of boredom on tour followed by intense stretches of frantic business.

A bubble of uncertainty in his chest expands between ribs.

“Benji would be happy if you did,” Nomi comments casually, not looking directly at him.

“He would?” The bubble bursts and fills him with something carbonated, tingling. Head to toe, his body reacts and begs the question; could he find time to be with Benji alone? Nomi blinks her giant, light brown eyes as if sending a telepathic signal saying; yes, yes you could be alone with Benji, and it is painfully obvious how bad you want that. He doesn’t even have time to feel embarrassed, because he’s lightheaded with the idea of it.

Unexpectedly, arms slide around him from behind, pale except for the black tattoos that darken them. Xavier huffs out a noise when they squeeze suddenly tight around his tors and Benny’s high-pitched laughter tickles the back of his neck.

“Of course he’s f-fucking going. You’d leave me by m-myself with these weirdos?”

“Who are you calling weird?”

“Aw, I didn’t m-mean you, Nomi.”

“Well. Now I’m offended you didn’t.”

One of Benny’s arms stays slung around his waist as Nomi and Benny dissolve into a conversation Xavier doesn’t participate in. His breathing is off kilter, a different pattern than it should be. The arm around him is warm and grounding. Solid. Safe. Xavier’s fingers lace in front of his chest, twisting around themselves. As he looks away from Benny and Nomi flirting, he sees a figure darting around the tour bus. As if they were listening to the conversation, wondering what Xavier’s answer might be.

“Yeah, I’m going.” It sounds so resolute that Benny turns to look at him, brows knitted. Maybe he thought Xavier would put up more of a fight. “How scary can it be?”

“Oh.” He feels a hand patting him condescendingly on the side. “You poor f-fucking thing.”

—

This is awful. This is so fucking awful.

A child screams past him, running and dissolving to high pitched giggles as a parent catches them. They’re swung up onto a hip, peppered in kisses and the man chasing with a big cartoonish clown mask also bursts into laughter. Like there’s anything funny about all of that—there isn’t. Xavier shudders, hands shoved into his pockets, turning away. Fucking clowns.

The rest of the fair isn’t much better. A circular event, with food vendors on the outside (the only good part) and amusement in the middle, it seems like it might be the singularly most important thing that happens to the local town. Everyone is out in full, in costumes whether they’re part of it or not. If only it was Christmas. He’d really prefer a Christmas festival.

Instead, it’s dusk, bleeding fully into night and the lights decorating the fair are on theme; reds and oranges and pops of neon greens. It’s not cold, not to Xavier anyway, but people are bundled, carrying steaming paper cups of hot chocolate. Scare actors wander the fair, ready to make people scream and drop them, as if they are nearly ten dollars for one cup. He was going to treat himself to exactly one and probably two corn dogs—and maybe a funnel cake. That was it.

Xavier has to admit there is one good thing about the night. Not just the food, anyway.

“How do they all piss in these outfits, yeah?” Benji asks cheekily, leaning in close to Xavier as he points to a scarecrow—or rather a man in farmer overalls stuffed with hay. His makeup is disgustingly good, with bits of bloodied straw sticking from his face in patches. Whatever small town this festival was connected to was very proud of those special effects. A rusty, broken down bus of dead high school football players had made him so nauseas, he’d had to turn the other way while they passed by it.

There’s no telling if Benji is humoring him in a good natured way or thinks Xavier is so pathetic he might actually faint if he gets too close to the chainsaw actors. He’s okay with either option really, because Benji hasn’t left his side since they got to the fair. They aren’t touching. He wishes they were holding hands; he imagines even, day dreaming between avoiding making eye contact with scare actors, of their hands interlocked.

“Catheter,” Benny answers before he gets a chance, leaning around Xavier, staring down at Benji with wide, serious eyes. They’re pale enough to pass for some of the actors contacts. “Committed to th-the bit hard.”

“Heh,” Benji’s laugh comes out like a little breath, chin touching his own shoulder as he looks up and over at Xavier. The effect this look has on Xavier’s ability to breathe is downright devastating, so he looks away quickly.

“We’re going on s-some rides,” Benny says, hitching a thumb over his shoulder toward a rotating death trap that looks like it was made in the eighties and forgotten about. Every whirl of it creaks worse than the last, but the people packed inside laugh themselves stupid. Nomi’s eyes throw sparkles as she stares. Benny had shrugged off his hoodie and given it to her, which was swallowing her up so that she was just a pale heart shaped face and oversized glasses.

“We’re goin’ in the haunted house,” Benji replies.

“We are?” Xavier is only slightly embarrassed by how high pitched his voice comes out. Benji doesn’t reach for his hand—but his arm moves, just enough so that their elbows are touching. Brushing. The hint of an invitation. Xavier stares down at him, into those sleepy, beautiful eyes. “Oh. Right, no, yeah, we are.”

“Hah!” Benny’s laugh is more of a shout than anything else. “Hah!” It continues, like a hyena, and echoes the entire walk they make toward that haunted house.

—

“Don’t have to, y’know.”

“No, I want to.”

“Nah, mate, you so clearly don’t.”

Benji’s laugh is welcome; like a shot of whiskey in coffee, something that strikes the bloodstream with a vicious ability to wake you up. It tingles in his veins, makes him jittery. Xavier’s breath comes out like a wisp in contrast, his pond green eyes dropping to the half frozen dirt beneath them. The toe of his sneaker keeps scuffing a spot until its well worn to actual moist earth.

The haunted house looms, a small line queuing in front of it—the two of them included. He can hear wailing inside, overlaid crackly Youtube videos of doors creaking and steps in a hallway, ambient spookiness. People’s laughter as they funnel out the back, groups clumped together clinging to each other.

Xavier pops a thumbnail into his mouth, eying the entrance.

“Not an act, is it?” Benji’s elbow bumps his again. He has his hands shoved lazily into the pockets of his leather jacket, eyes keen and narrowed. He’s smiling that impish little grin that makes Xavier dizzy.

“Dude, please,” Xavier laughs, brushing a hand back through his hair, making it fluffy as a chicken. “Like, I get it. Boot camp was probably scarier than this—I’m just—I’m jumpy, okay?” Thinking about it makes his heart speed up; would he have an attack in the haunted house? Would some flashing light remind him of something far more sinister? Would he embarrass himself? Who would Lark call, his sister? Mother? Father?

Xavier’s hands drop to his sides, shoulders squaring up bravely. It was just a haunted house in the middle of Kansa-Idah-Ohio or wherever. He can’t entirely blame the haunted house for the way his heart racketeers inside his ribcage. His nerves strike hard and constant, like a heartbeat. Until Benji’s palm slowly drifts across his own, fingers beginning to lace between his own.

Xavier, to his credit, does not immediately look down like a blushing teenager.

Instead, he squeezes Benji’s hand, grinning ear to ear.

—

Within only a minute of stepping into the ramshackle house—clearly just shacks strung together that are easily assembled and taken down for this festival—Xavier screams. A woman with hair too long, covered in fish hooks threaded through bare skin, laughs her head off as he flattens himself to a wall, hand to his chest.

“Holy shit,” he whispers, his other hand still firmly held by a drummers warm callused palm. “What the fuck?”

“Seen worse,” Benji comments, tugging them along a darkened corridor lit up with flashing lights. Cobwebs and dirty cloth hang from the ceiling, broken glass from destroyed paintings on the ground. Benji’s boot crunch and Xavier’s sneakers scuff. Xavier follows, sweat pooling down his sides, along his lower back.

“How are you not—bwah!” Xavier screams again, throwing himself around Benji as a chainsaw slides through an barely open door, revving loudly. A man cackles wickedly, jabbing the chainless chainsaw. The effect is ruined slightly by someone standing behind him, smoking a cigarette and checking their phone. Xavier’s heart still thunders as his arms tighten around Benji’s shoulders.

“You not do Halloween as a kid?” Benji asks.

“I dunno if you uh, know this about me,” Xavier mumbles as he finally unravels himself. His hand is quickly caught up again, brown fingers folding alongside pale freckled ones. Xavier flushes so warm the sweating continues at his hairline. He clears his throat, takes baby steps after Benji, who begins down the linear haunted pathway. “I’m like—well, my parents are—severely Catholic.”

“No way,” Benji replies, with wide shocked eyes, a hand to his mouth.

“Hey, fuck you, c’mon.”

“Nah, mate, s’real obvious. You wear that necklace. Comes out your shirt sometimes when you’re bent over.”

“Oh, I suppose you’re watching me bend ov—fuck!”

Xavier’s voice pitches high and distraught as an animatronic werewolf launches from the wall at him; it’s fake recorded growl is entirely too realistic. It’s raised, plastic clawed hands nearly brush his face, making him recoil, duck and slide around Benji. He makes a pathetic whimpering sound, entirely unintentional, that feels very loud despite the music and atmospheric soundtrack.

Defeated, he puts his forehead to the back of Benji’s shoulder.

“Anyway, we didn’t do a lot of Halloween as kids. We dressed up as PG-13 characters and went trunk or treating at the local church.”

“Ah.” They don’t move for a second, caught beside the fake werewolf as it slowly retracts into place. Xavier’s hands curl around Benji’s biceps from behind. His heart keeps going, racing and racing and racing. He can smell Benji’s hair, this close. The worn leather of his jacket. If he moved—if he just put his nose to the back of Benji’s neck, he’d smell his skin instead.

“Gonna stay like that?” Benji asks.

“Oops.” Xavier unfolds to his full height, hands slipping off Benji’s arms—until one is caught again. His heart hurts then, the way it pounds. He can feel electricity inside his veins, zapping along nerve endings. Benji in the haunted house looks so beautiful, the flashing strobe lights, the fog machine working smoke up to their knees. Xavier’s mouth goes dry and he smiles again, one of his canines snagging on his lower lip.

Benji leans up. Xavier, shivery with excitement, leans down.

The werewolf deploys again, growling and Xavier screams and leaps himself nearly into Benji’s arms.

—

They exit. Xavier, dramatically, shoving his way through the doubled doors at the end and finding himself into cool, night air. Benji, strolling behind, laughing lowly. The wind bathes his skin briefly in a tingling sensation, his sweat slick neck rising with goosebumps. He almost wants for a heavier jacket, but only briefly. His skin flushes warm once again the second Benji’s smiling up at him.

“Oh my God, finally,” Xavier exclaims, feeling giddy as he throws his arms into the air. He tilts his head back, the sky above him a blanket of whirling grey clouds and night time stars. All of the daylight had retreated during just that short walk through the house. The moon is but a small sliver, barely on her way to newness. Xavier’s heart beats so hard in his throat, he can feel it pulse with residual terror. The doll room had been very fucked up.

“You survived,” Benji comments, his voice a close purr. Xavier jumps, yelping a sound so embarrassing his pale face goes as red as his hair. Benji eyes him, gaze bouncing up and down, assessing with his crooked, smug grin. “Thought you were done for in that last room. Not a fan of hospitals, yeah?”

“Dude.” Xavier breathes out, closing his eyes, putting hands to his chest. His entire body feels altogether too light, like a ship whose anchor has been cut. The giddiness tingles all the way to his fingertips. “My heart is still racing. Man, feel, I swear.”

He doesn’t think about it. Xavier just acts. His long fingers loop around Benji’s wrist; in that moment there is no thought put into it. How every touch so far—besides his frantic, terrified manhandling—has been initiated from Benji. His bubble; how the drummer puts himself around every one else, how careful he is to not touch others, give himself space. Xavier doesn’t think of anything.

Instead, he tucks Benji’s palm to his sternum. Through the thin cotton fabric of his shirt, he can nearly feel Benji’s calluses. His heart pulses, a wild, erratic drum, just below the bone. Benji’s hand is so solid. So warm. So big. His fingers curl just slightly, bunching Xavier’s thin cotton shirt. His heart beat gallops, faster than it had for even a second back in the haunted house.

Xavier blinks at Benji, wide eyed.

Benji stares up at him.

Another yelp—embarrassing and loud just like before—follows as Xavier is yanked around the side of the building.

—

Straw pokes uncomfortably at his skin, the barest sliver exposed on the lowest part of his back, between shirt and the edge of his jeans. Xavier refuses to complain, even as it scratches little red lines that will be there hours from now. Stack upon stack of haybale conceal them from the rest of the festival and also provide a rather convenient spot for Benji to shove Xavier down. He sits eagerly, happily staring up at Benji, hands falling back onto the haybale to support himself. Xavier kicks his long legs out, thighs parting easily as Benji comes to stand between them.

He's warm to the very tips of his ears, all the way down to his toes. His breathing is hitchy and excited. Overly so, probably. Xavier wants to slow himself down, find a way to be less puppyish in his enthusiasm. But he can’t. It takes him over, presenting a little tremble to his shoulders, as if he’s held back on a leash when all he wants is to launch himself forward.

Benji doesn’t seem to mind.

Standing there, his eyes liquid dark, a ring of gold behind his inky curls from a floodlight around the haunted house. Jesus, he looks beautiful. But all Xavier can get out is, “Wow, you are so hot.”

“Oh, yeah?” Benji pauses, a hand raised, about to touch Xavier’s chin. He feels anticipation rising along his skin, the desire to be touched so strong it makes him nearly whine. Xavier clamps his teeth shut, eyes widening innocently.

“I mean—you’re—well, you arelike, the hottest person I’ve ever met, Benji. Swear. I uh, wait, I can say this better—” His rambling is cut off by a hand sliding under his jaw, cupping it. He wets his lips with a quick touch of his tongue, nodding into the touch. “Or we could kiss. We should kiss. If you want to. I thought we might, in the haunted house, but—”

“You want a kiss, Xavier?” The question is murmured, their faces so close that Benji’s breath warms his lips. He swallows a thick feeling in his throat, legs automatically closing tighter around Benji, yanking them together. The other man grunts at the sudden feeling, but the noise is quickly swallowed by the press of Xavier’s mouth. Their lips meet, not exactly soft, but not hard.

Somehow, it’s the best closed mouth kiss of Xavier’s life.

Then Benji opens his mouth, and it’s the actual best kiss of his life.

Their heads tilt, tongues rolling together, hands gripping into one another. Xavier’s hands bury themselves into the backs of Benji’s thighs, clutching him tighter. Benji’s dig into Xavier’s hair, the auburn locks messy and tangled already. They kiss hungrily, messily. They pant between quick breaks, Xavier recapturing the kiss eagerly, hands moving upward. Sneakily, he cups Benji’s ass, groaning with their mouths together as he gets handfuls.

Benji’s husky laugh interrupts the kiss, but only for a brief moment before Xavier dives upward for another. It trails off to something smaller before his head hangs backward, as if cut from a string. Unhinged. He smiles dizzily, eyes closed, enjoying the lingering taste of Benji’s mouth. Everything feels syrupy and slow and perfect.

Fingertips brush over his jawline, over his lips, his cheekbones, the long bridge of his nose. Xavier hums, content in a way that blooms from a place deep in his chest. There’s nothing, in that moment, except Benji and the straw poking uncomfortably at his skin. His needy hands come loose, his arms folding around Benji’s thighs instead, embracing him.

“Alright kisser,” Benji comments, his voice only slightly strained breathless. Xavier smiles, eyes still closed.

“Rate me on a scale of one through ten.”

“Solid seven.”

“How do I get to eight?”

He feels lips brush his own again and Xavier wants to melt. Dissolve. Pretend that the laughter and screaming excitement behind them isn’t there; that no one is there at all. The tour bus lingers in the back of his mind; the commitments. The security shirt that he’s foregone for the night. Getting back to Lark; the hours of traveling they’ll make tomorrow. The lines upon lines of fans standing in near rapture like excitement.

“Do you like touring in the summer or fall better?” Xavier asks, the question coming out only slightly muffled by the tongue that’s swept his own. Benji withdraws, blinking. A curl has fallen into his face, across his defined, curving nose. Xavier lifts a hand and pushes it back, tucks it behind an ear.

“Why?”

“I wasn’t here for the summer one.”

“S’alright.”

“Yeah, but,” Xavier laughs, his arms folding once more around Benji, comfortable. “Do you have a preference?”

A long and somewhat uncomfortable moment swells between them. Benji’s hands linger on Xavier’s shoulders. One of them captures the lapel of his jacket, thumbing the corduroy material over and over. Once, Xavier might have taken that slightly hooded eyed stare to be angry or dissatisfied, tired, or bored. Now, it feels obvious that Benji is anxious.

“It’s just a question,” Xavier promises, squeezing his arms, head cocking curiously.

“Yeah? Know that. Just—don’t have much time, do we? Nomi’ll come looking. Can’t imagine Benson won’t want your attention sooner rather than later. Have a corn dog eating competition, something dull. So,” Benji’s nervous hand flits to Xavier’s face, as though trying to imitate that sensual touch from earlier. It’s slightly off kilter. Xavier leans into it anyway, brows bunching in confusion.

Benji huffs a laugh, eyes wandering.

“Don’t you wanna take advantage of it? We could kiss longer. Was only kiddin’ when I said you were just alright.”

It’s Xavier’s turn to be silent—or almost. His breathing is still louder than it should be, and the kissing wasn’t even an athletic pursuit, just stolen oxygen. He licks his lips a few times, trying to gather a thought in the molasses slow part of his brain that is still kicking its foot with pleasure. Benji’s hand lingers on his jaw, holding it.

“Yeah, no, trust me. I am very about kissing. As much as we can.” Xavier’s arms unwind, hands flattening over Benji’s thighs. He rubs softly, his smile broadening. “But we also have had like no time alone, either. Not even to just hang out. Talk. You’re right, yunno. Nomi’s definitely going to come looking for you. I can’t afford a corn dog competition but Benny is like—wicked needy at times, sure.”

Xavier’s hands still and curl harder. Holding. Squeezing them closer once more. He puts his chin to Benji’s stomach, head back, smiling. “So, I think we should kiss and you can tell me what season you like touring in.”

Someone screams inside the haunted house beside them, petering off with high pitched laughter. Xavier watches Benji’s eyes, the amber lighting of the festival making them shiny. Gorgeous. That’s what he should have said earlier; you have the most beautiful eyes I have ever seen.

Again, Xavier yelps, high pitched and caught off guard, as Benji shoves him back harder onto the hay and crawls over top of him.

“Spring.” And then he’s kissed hard.

—

“Lark.”

“Uhhhnnngh.”

“Right. Lark.”

“Nnhhmmmhm.”

“You’re droolin’ on Matilda.”

It takes a moment for Lark to realize he’s waking up, his eyes crusty and exhausted. A dream clings to him, but no part of it actually remains. Only that he knows he was dreaming, and it was something pleasant. Warm and inviting and not at all his fatigued reality. His limbs hurt, but that can maybe be attributed to the figure that sleeps, tucked into his lap. Matilda snores softly in his ear, her head tucked against his shoulder and chest. Her long limbs are folded haphazardly, one of her feet cocked up against the window.

He'd fallen asleep in the passenger seat of the tour bus. No one had moved him. He shifts and Matilda doesn’t wake up—sick as he is, as he knows he is, Lark tries not disturb her.

“Feelin’ better?”

“I wish I was dead,” Lark replies, looking over at Benji, as he leans against the dashboard. It’s so dark, that he only knows it is Benji not just by the accented voice, but by the shape of him. Lark would know Benji anywhere, could probably pick him out by bootsteps alone. Though he’s sick, with Matilda in his lap, and Benji right there, he doesn’t feel so bad.

“How did you meet Xavier?”

The question catches him off guard. Lark shakes his head, sniffling hard, barely taking in any air. He groans and coughs and gestures for the water bottle he’d left on the ground. Once given to him, he swallows mouthfuls before answering.

“I lived with him and his family before I came to Liverpool. That was uh, right after my parents kicked me out. I stayed for a year and then you offered me up a spot.”

Wind rocks against the tour bus, scratching softly at the windows. Matilda shifts in his arms, her snoring turning into soft breathing. He pets his hand up and down her back a few times, enjoying the way she snuggles in her sleep, as though seeking him out.

“He’s interesting.”

“I know he’s a lot,” Lark sighs, tossing the water bottle into the driver’s seat, arms folding around Matilda’s thin frame. “But he’s a good guy, I swear. Can you just try to get along with him? Make his life easier? It might be a short term thing, anyway. You know he’s—a lot of shit has happened to him and he just needs a break.”

Benji doesn’t answer. Lark’s eyes blink, bleary, adjusting to the darkness.

“How short term?”

“What?”

The shadow of Benji’s silhouette shoves off the dashboard. Lark narrows tired eyes, peering in the night at his friend.

“Do you have…hay on you?”

“Fuck off,” Benji snaps, waving a hand. “No. M’running to the gas station with Xavier, gettin��� extra cold medicine alright. Probably some sour candy for that one when she wakes up—she’ll be a nightmare with a headache from how she’s sleeping.”

“Fuck, I know,” Lark sighs, but doesn’t even remotely attempt to move her. “Thanks, Benj.”

“Yeah. Well. Anything for you.”

Lark hums in response, head falling back against the cold window. It’s soothing to his warm skin. He can hear a whispered conversation behind him, but doesn’t pick much out. Just:

Short term?

A pause.

Nah. I sort of want to see the tour in spring.

[open-hangar]

Prison Force Chagger Ep. 4

From the desk of Dr. Ishikawa

CODENAME: CHAGGER FORCE

Size: 80m, 1.1k tons

Power Output: ~1.3GW/minute per reactor, recommended active reactors: 3

Pilots: 1 per active reactor, non-negotiable. Each reactor requires constant monitoring to prevent overloading leading to overheating and necessary excess chargon venting, which must be avoided at all costs!

Weaponry and abilities: Flight, reactive armor, martial strength far outweighing standard Lanzer strength. Able to use appropriate-size weaponry, if necessary [Note: if you’re a coward.]

CODENAME: CHAGGER WASP

Size: 30m long, 10m wide

Power Output: 10kW/minute

Pilots: 1

Weaponry and abilities: No weaponry, flight, reactive armor. To be used exclusively for chargon injection and pilot transfer into Chagger Force, followed by automatic retrieval. Incredibly dangerous to be used for anything else, due to most of the weight being dedicated to containing the highly volatile chargon.

Wolfgang wasn’t kidding about the smell. It’s a strong, but not unpleasant, combination of dust, lotion, and WD-40. The entire room is filled with massive computer racks, all lit up and spinning to accomplish some unclear purpose as light comes in from the massive windows stretching along each wall. I quietly attempt to make myself known to whoever may be dwelling between the machinery. A dense, gravelly sound comes from the side of the room facing the setting sun.

“Yes, here.”

I walk down the rows, trying to find the source of the voice, and just find more and more tubes stretching from ceiling to floor, until I reach the window and see what the tubes are attached to. A man, or at least something that looks like a man, is shriveled and decrepit, sitting in what can only be described as a throne made of machinery looking out the window. I’ve never seen a living person who looked this old. I attempt to greet this person and introduce myself, but…

“I don’t care. I’m Dr. Ishikawa, and that’s my baby out there.”

I look out the window, and my jaw hits the floor. My god… that can’t be a Lanzer… can it?

“Lanzer?! Pah! You insult me,” the gravel sounds flow out from next to me. “Lanzers are toys for children. They are afraid to use chargon to its full potential. Watch.”

The machine outside must have risen from the ground in a similar fashion to the jet, as I certainly never saw it there before. It was absolutely gigantic, over twice the size of any Lanzer I’ve ever seen. It was burnt orange yellow, and had metal wires stretching from her wrists and into the ground.

A voice suddenly comes out from somewhere in the room, and it belongs to Wolfgang. “Chagger Wasp W coming in. How are you guys?”

Another voice, this one from Philippe. “We’re already here, and so are the Tyflo.”

“Roger. Chagger W, injecting!”

Wolfgang flies directly at the crouching robot in front of him, and seems to have no intention of slowing down. Two small doors open up on the machine’s back, and the wasp machine suddenly stops on a dime and jams its head into the upper hole, and jams its “stinger” into the lower one. Liquid chargon sprays out the spaces in the imperfect docking as the wasp machine injects its fuel. Once the abdomen appears to be empty, it pops off and flies away without its head.

“3 reactors activated, ready to launch! Chagger Force is ready to go!”

I step back in shock as two giant wings flip out of its back, and dust erupts in a circle around the machine as the ground rumbles. Ishikawa raises his thin hand to the window, and whispers to himself, “My baby…”

The robot wrenches itself up, struggling against the wires holding it to the ground. The wings then split open, revealing liquid chargon webbing stretching between the wings and crackling like electricity. I can feel the air crackle with energy even from here. I don’t know if… whatever this thing is has muscles, but if it does, it’s clearly straining them with all it has, its arms shaking and twisting as it pulls for freedom. Is it… is it supposed to be doing this?

“Just watch…”

Suddenly, the metal wires holding it down pop and rip, the concrete holding it in crumbling and cracking. And a painful echo, it breaks free, its arms flexing as it rises to its full power. Words filled with strength and righteous anger fill my brain, almost making me cower in fear.

“Chagger Force is Free!!!”

Almost on queue, another horrible monster appears, some manner of naked mole rat creature standing almost as tall as Chagger Force erupts from the ground behind the wall surrounding the complex. It almost effortlessly steps over it and erupts a hideous, slimy scream from behind its massive foreteeth. What the absolute hell is THAT?!

“The tyflopontika. Horrible creatures, disgusting. Must be killed before they kill us,” Ishikawa attempts to explain, even though it’s all bouncing off the top of my skull and I stare at whatever is happening. Chagger Force erupts with an unbelievable explosion of speed at the monster, colliding with it and giving it a very clean German suplex. You’d think a fleshy beast with that much weight would collapse into a meaty mess, but instead it bounces into a skid, back on its feet immediately. Almost like a flash, the horrible monster leaps forward and clamps its massive incisors around Chagger Force’s torso.

“Crap! Newblood, if you can hear this, launch our blade! Quickly!”

I snap out of my stupor, and look around confused. What?

“The button with the picture of the axe on it!”

I quickly leap into action and begin looking around for some button with an axe on it. Where? Where’s the buttons? Wolfgang’s voice helpfully points me in the right direction.

“Row 3, about halfway down. Can’t miss it.”

Thanks, Wolfgang. I run my way down there, and slam my fist onto the button. After running back to the window, I arrive just in time to see another door open up, and a massive axe springs up just in grabbing distance of Chagger Force. With one smooth motion, the gigantic machine grabs the hilt, and swings the blade straight through the nude beast’s neck. With a disgusting spray of red, green, and purple blood, the monster’s body separates from its head and collapses to the ground, followed by its jaw going slack and its head separating from Chagger Force’s torso. And then with a strong force of conviction, the robot’s foot goes clear through the monster’s skull, splattering ichor in every direction. I struggle to hold in the contents of my stomach as I witness this display, and Dr. Ishikawa side-eyes me.

“Wimp.”

If that’s what’s waiting for me outside of these walls, then I’ll probably be safer in here.

Art by @menacing-marshmallow

[trivialbob]

Few people load a dishwasher as well as I do.

I get it full (so efficient!), but not so much that plates crowd each other and fight for that that cleansing water. Cups and glasses never overturn and end the cycle full of water and a little crud in the bottom. My coffee mugs with an ever-so-sleight concave bottom get angled into the wire rack so they don't retain even a few drops of water when the job is done.

Last night Sheila made Butter Chicken. It's my favorite dish that she cooks. The recipe requires two Instant Pot pots. One is for rice, the other for the chicken and sauce.

I'm getting hungry for some Butter Chicken just writing this.

When she was done I went in to clean up. It was like the Bat Signal appeared. Except instead of a winged mammal on the clouds it's just a boring block of stainless steel. Doesn't matter, I know I'm needed.

Items in the narrow top rack for utensils got lined up like a tray of medical instruments waiting for a life-saving operation. Contrary to popular belief, it is possible to efficiently load the dishwasher AND have it look neat and organized.

The middle rack was neat and orderly, like soldiers in a parade. I do tend to keep similar items next to each other because I like that look (but I'm not OCD).

Then there was the bottom rack and those two Instant Pot pots. I could not get the second one to fit in a way that it wouldn't interfere with the spinning arm above.

Sheila watched quietly as I struggled. I wanted to send her out of the kitchen so I could concentrate. Finally she said, "Try this." She moved one thing, twisted something else, and tapped that second pot gently. It dropped into place nicely.

That was humbling. I still got to have some Butter Chicken.

[marvolus]

8 Ways Businesses Can Benefit with Wire Spinning Racks

One popular type of retail display is the wire spinning rack, constructed using wire materials. They are typically used to exhibit and organize various items and allow for easy browsing, as they can rotate, making it convenient for customers to view and select products. To know more, read this infographic: https://marvolus.com/8-ways-businesses-can-benefit-with-wire-spinning-racks/

[jade-of-mourning]

i just really want to see mako & bolin dragging korra around her first night market after a game. every tacky vendor of metal-wire walls and flappy colorful canvas is an entire new world to her, draped in cheaply-made clothes chasing the latest fashions and carefully-wrought jewelry made by the hands of their sellers, trinkets and magnets adorning spinning racks. there are so many voices and smells overlapping, not a unified din like the arena tends to become, and bolin is bargaining the price of a hat for her that she didn't ask for and mako is shoving paper bags of greasy foods into her hands. bolin drops the hat on her head and when she steps off into a dark space between buildings where motorcycles are haphazardly parked, trying to find air again, he returns wielding sticks of tanghulu and sweet potato balls. mako slips after them and asks if she wants a drink, and she says sure, anything you think is good; you're the expert here, and he flashes her a rare smile before weaving back into the crowd with the ease of someone used to navigating faceless armies. bolin stole her bag of fishcakes on sticks and is eating them noisily to remind her of the company she has, and she tries the sweet potato balls fried just for her, soft and chewy and sugar on her tongue. korra doesn't know these snacks — she's a child of the south, nurtured by ice and storming whiteout, bannock in fish stews of carefully stored spices, wooden sweetness on her tongue in akutaq of cloudberry — but she thinks she'd like to learn to know them.

it's an odd drink that mako brings back for her by the haphazardly-parked motorcycles, drowned in jelly more than liquid, and korra savors every cool swallow sliding down her throat and the sweetness filling her heart. the brothers are pouring copious amounts of hot sauce packets into a plastic tray of noodle and offer her the splintered chopsticks, and she takes them in calloused hands and it burns the spaces between her teeth like fire against the celestial lights. what sort of insane would you need to be to enjoy this? she demands indignantly and mako just shrugs and shovels a large portion into his mouth. bolin scowls and adds more hot sauce, taking his own dig at the increasingly reddening dish, and it goes on back and forth like that until korra can't hold back her laugh. it fills the city horizon, the night market, and korra thinks beneath the glowing red signs screaming their wares that this is where people must come alive.

and she would like to feel so suddenly alone, to let her isolation swallow her up whole as a child to jelly drinks; but she doesn't, not in the company of mako and bolin sharing with her the city they lost and gained everything from — from the city that can now be hers.

[sedehaven]

Skate

push off, feel the smoothness of satin-polished wood, waxed and scented of murphy's oil soap, like church pews, clean

sound thumping from speakers hidden above in a tangle of wires, light racks and disco balls, the sturdy cinder block half-wall

tiled in frenetic, ceramic neons, friend to beginners who (cling) hold hands with the wall until bravery or fool-headed glee

shoves them from their low eyrie to fly or fall, i soar past the fledglings, buffeted up on twelve inch b sides, electric

extended cuts throbbing from speakers through floors, to eight spinning wheels as i find the beat, twirl and skate

[hazelandmadder]

Reminiscence Turn-over

...

You coldcall the numbers of the names whose significance is reminiscent. Seance kit with satellites transistors wires loneliness a voice 

To kill. Drive out one with another.  My spirit, my words for theirs.

Nod along like you agree, but you’re tired and you mean to say Yes. Make yourself at home. You can fix this skull into something cozy. Home and church and couch.

Yes please. Oh god I'm sorry

Now--

But as long as I can agree you know it’s all for nothing

And I never spoke I never called I almost dialed

(You might have smiled)

And you rack your brain for the places and the days for the names

And you ask yourself why do I remember what I cannot,

And you see your name in your contacts,

Your face drenched in greys on your screen

And you wonder when you'll ever go to bed

And you wonder when you’ll curl out of the blanket spinning out of your sheets

And you no longer yourself untying into a stranger 

Who sees out of your eyes–

Restless and restored and ill

From being only myself.

...

Signing off and signing out.

[tafferling]

Aphelion: A Touch Of Ruin

Like Science-fantasy? Soul-harnessing magic+tech? Cyberpunk (sorta)? Slow burns simmering away in the middle of a zombie apocalypse? Then this free-to-read web serial might just be for you.

In which we meet Collin Hop. And our first Aesten.

>> Read on Ao3 | Follow it on Campfire | Tumblr Tag <<

Chapter Five: Collin Hop

“Crimp?” Collin propelled his stool forward, his sneakers kicking off the bare concrete floor, and had his eyes everywhere except where the small, rattling wheels of the stool took him. The story of his still young life, if you’d be so inclined to ask: propel forward, disregard the destination, and never forget to be distracted by anything and everyone. “Buddy, I’ve got a customer coming in thirty minutes,” he said, only for his trip to come to an abrupt stop when the bed got in the way. The impact would have sent Collin flying, but with a bit of Woah and Yikes and Heck (and a graceless spin), he managed to stay on. A positive. Otherwise the pillows might have called for him and gotten him to nap through his afternoon appointment. “That’s like, now.” He scanned to the left in of Crimp, where all he found were his clothing racks, his desk, and zero einling toes. To the right of his bed wasn’t looking any better. Bookshelves. More shelves. Perpetually unpacked boxes (carefully concealed by a few colourful throws), and his CastleNet TV screen hanging in the corner. Used to be the cables hanging off that had been all over the place. Now, thanks to one invisi-Crimp, they were neatly arranged. “And you know, I don’t think he’d appreciate a feathered noodle jumping out at him while I’m— you know. Unbending his noodle.” A quiet chirp. Collin twisted around. Where’d that come from? “Yeah. You heard me right. Someone’s got an artificial schlong with a crick in it. You should have listened to the screaming when he rang me up. It was tragic.” Blowing hair from his forehead, Collin shoved off from the bed, far back as the single kick would take him until he ran out of momentum. His eyes cut up. They skated along the tall ceiling that’d once been full of funky nightclub lights and finally caught movement where there shouldn’t be any: up in the mass of anchor cables flowing down along the chair’s wire arm. A tail. Its feathered tip puffed up like one of those bottle cleaning brushes from under uncle Hop’s bar counter, though those weren’t near as pretty as Crimp’s plume of orange and green. “Heck. Get down here.”

>> Read on Ao3 | Follow it on Campfire | Tumblr Tag <<

[realityhelixcreates]

Beta, Theta, and Me: Iron Dust

Chapters: 12/?

Fandom: Thor (Movies), Avengers (Movies) Marvel Cinematic Universe

Rating: PG

Warnings: Swearing, Homelessness,

Relationships: Loki x Reader (But not right now)

Characters: Tony Stark, Loki(Marvel)

Additional Tags:  A/B/O, Sorta, More Of An Exploration Of Life And Self Expression Within An A/B/O Framework, Loki Does What He Wants, But Loki Does Not Actually Do What He Wants, Antagonistic Bosses, Loki Has A Throne Now, But It’s Not What He Wanted

Summary: A discussion of the red planet.

Coincidence was a hell of a thing. It could pass as luck, blessings, or curses. It could make a person believe in fate, for all the horror that concept held. In your case, it kept leading back to Mars.

Walking past a magazine rack on the way to the closest bodega, confronted by the big rusty orb on the cover of a science magazine. Speculation on Twitter about some billionaire stunt rocket plan. Getting back on to youtube after a year gone, and the algorithm not knowing what to do with you, and so dropping a whole video about the planet on the front page.

So you watched a bald British man with glasses and a beard speak at length about the legendary red planet, and you wondered. Just how plausible was it? Loki moved more freely now. It was clear that he no longer needed you in the bath, and he hadn't asked you back for a while. It was just as well. He had been sharing access to his body under false pretenses, and if he no longer felt comfortable with that, it was better for him to withdraw, rather than pretending that there was something there that wasn't. Being a maid, helping Loki out while he healed, were things you could do. Any more than that though...you'd just never been capable, no matter how much you tried. It was better not to hope anymore, even if you sort of missed the intimacy of scrubbing his scarred back. It was better not to be put in that position anymore, if it was only going to breed disappointment. It was always going to happen. Loki was always going to get better, and need you less. That was the goal, after all. And you would move on, get another job, get on with your life. But you couldn't help but wonder. About what else might be possible. About Mars. Something inside humankind led you toward exploration. You wanted to know. Dinner was grilled cheese sandwiches, with tomato soup and roasted potatoes. Loki didn't need help eating anymore, but still preferred that you share a table with him. That was fine; you needed companionship just as much as Thor has said Loki did. “So...” you said over a plate of cookies. “Tell me about Mars. How can you possibly make it work? I saw a video today that says its core has stopped moving. The center has cooled off. There's no magnetic field. The whole planet is irradiated. What can you do with that?” A cautiously pleased expression smoothed Loki's features. “Well, it is a case of finishing what your star system started, right? We surveyed each of the planets on our way into the system-and my, this star is crowded, isn't it? There is great potential all around, and Mars is no different. You are correct that the core is no longer spinning enough to produce a strong magnetic field. But the core is not solid. The planet is not solidified; it does have a liquid core, and at least part of the mantle is still liquid as well. There is seismic activity. There is weather. There is water. We can work with all these things

You know our technology is different than yours, yes? I'm not certain I can explain it so that you can understand.” He held a hand up at your scowl. “Not for any lack of intelligence on your part. Do you think you could explain to an alien exactly how your electricity works? How your coal becomes lighting, and how you harness that lightning into wires, and how it knows how to make a light bulb glow, or a refrigerator cool, or a clock to tell time? I can no more tell you how we tamed light, but we did. It is an even more pure form of energy than your electricity, and produces no waste. It can be concentrated into an even greater force than your neglected nuclear energy, though...I feel there is some overlap. With a large enough focusing device, we can burrow deep into the planet and heat the core back to melting point.” “Bullshit.” You interrupted. “There's no way. It's way, way too big.” “From a human point of view, perhaps. We are used to planning on the scales of centuries, of planets and moons. This may be unthinkable to you. To us, merely challenging. And if we can build something on the scale of our original Bifrost, we could actually do it quite quickly.” “Well...What about the rest of it? The atmosphere? The soil? It's all...” what was the word they had used? “Regolith. Not real soil, just tiny rocks. And radioactive.” “Oh, we know how to clean and regulate things like that. Atmosphere as well, and water too. Here, you have seen the late, great Asgard in your magazines, have you not. Or online?” “That flat earth-looking thing? It wasn't really like that though was it? Planets are round. There's no other way for them to be.” Loki leaned back. “There is where you misunderstand. Asgard was a realm. That does not mean the same thing as planet. Asgard was as much a built thing as this tower, put together with resources from around its star system. We are very well versed in this kind of thing. Atmosphere can be tricky, but that is where the light comes in. You see, we've figured out how to arrange photons in such a way that they become a semi-solid-enough to hold an atmosphere in. It was one of the reasons Asgard was called the Shining Realm.

And before you ask, no, we are absolutely not going to share this technology with Earth. Not yet. You people cannot even free yourselves from fossil fuels, and your first notion upon splitting the atom was to destroy cities. You'll blow up the entire galactic arm. No, you must wait.”

Well. You couldn't really protest that. He was absolutely right. Humankind would trip all over themselves with tech like that, like homicidal children.

“So we will start with little bubbles around our habitations. Build mostly underground. To begin with, anyway. We will gather the tholins your star system has in such abundance, and add them to the regolith within these bubbles. We will also filter every single scrap of organic material, leftovers, waste, shed skin cells, hair, fingernail clippings, all of it, and add that in as well. That is what makes soil, after all. Dead things. There are many types of extremophile bacteria and fungus on this world. I'm sure they will thrive in our dirt pits. We might even be able to transport garbage from this planet, and use it in ways you are unable. You already dump your waste on other countries, after all, it's not as if anyone here really wants it.”

“What about humans?” you asked. “On Mars.”

“What about you, you mean? Well, there would of course be 'special habitat' just for you.”

“You mean, like I was in a zoo?”

“All your needs met. Plenty of enrichment for your enclosure.” He chuckled. “Admired by all who saw you.”

“We used to keep other humans in zoos you know.” you said glumly.

He laughed aloud. “Disgusting!”

“Agreed. Is that what you have planned for me?”

“Not at all. I was merely teasing. No, you would still attend to me as I saw fit, and that means you would inhabit the very best hole in the ground. Metal walls and furnishings, plenty of light, mineral pigments. Mars is rich in its own resources, much like Earth. They were clearly very alike once. We will be able to create water features indoors to control humidity.”

“That sounds kinda wasteful.”

“Not so wasteful as the blood erupting from your nose from the extreme dryness. No, do you not remember what I just said about recycling everything? That includes the very air we breathe, and the water within it. I do not mean to make it sound as if this will be anything other than a grueling, challenging endeavor for as long or longer than you might be alive. Whether the pros outweigh the cons will be up to you.”

You leaned back in your chair.

“So...cons. Let's see.” you began ticking off on your fingers. “Very restricted movement. Like, there's no way I could just pop out for a nice stroll. I won't see the sky, or sunlight much at all. It'll be really cold all the time. Food and water will be restricted. There'll be basically no commodities. And it'll still be really dangerous on top of all that. Kinda sounds like it'll suck, actually.”

“There is certainly all of that.” Loki admitted. “What pros can we come up with then? For one thing, you will not die in the endless parade of natural disasters brought on by climate change. You will be on the cutting edge of a new frontier. I hear humans like that. To be the first of your kind to set foot on that world. How long have you all stared at that little pink dot in the sky and dreamed? Wondered? Does it not quicken the blood to know it is within reach?”

You couldn't really deny that. Though you knew it was a dry, dead place of endless cold and red dust, it was still...

And if it really could be transformed...you might live long enough to see that begin. To see the first flower on Mars.

“Also, you would no longer be under the jurisdiction of any Earth authority. So there is that.”

“Nah, just a fucking monarchy. As if that's any better.”

Loki spun his hand in a circle, a gesture he'd had to pick up instead of shrugging.

“I can name a few ways in which it would be better for you, specifically. For one thing, no Asgardian ever goes unhoused. It would be a blemish upon our entire society! No, for every body, a bed, for every hand, work of some kind. We do not leave our own behind like that. The sickness of your society will not be able to reach far enough to catch you. And as a part of my entourage, no one would dare trouble you.”

“I don't know if I want that.” you said. “I mean, being safe just because I'm associated with you. My value as a person can't only be tied to you.”

“You think it is?”

“The way you're describing it. That others would treat me well just because of who you are.”

“Ah. Personal worth. Naturally. Well, Asgard is not a utopian society either, even as I have described it. However, the differences I've laid out still stand. We are older, more advanced in many ways. We are also a different species, with a different evolutionary path. Many of the things you fear simply are not a thought for us.”

“How do you mean? The things I fear?”

“You hate this mockery of meritocracy your world has been built on, do you not? That the Alphas of your species run everything, dominate everything, and it isn't because they've been trained to. It isn't because they've earned it. No, it is merely because they are Alphas, and nothing more. Most don't even know how to lead. They view control and domination, and endless battle between themselves as 'protection'. They aren't taught anything, they're just expected to be able to do it by nature. No one asks if that's what they want. No one asks if someone else might be better. They are poisoned by the very power structures they fight to keep in place.

We don't do that. Our Alphas pack-bond. We form a network of support and protection. Rivalries exist, and the power structure is hierarchical, true. But this self destructive competitiveness, where your Alphas can barely stand to be in the same room with one another seems barbaric from our perspective.”

You wanted to argue, but 'barbaric' seemed a tame description in the face of human history. You didn't have all that much trust for Loki's description of his own people's merits. It sounded just too much like 'Our glorious culture vs. their savagery' type talk.

Then again, they were evolutionary different. And could it really hurt that much to try something new?

Maybe. If things got out of hand here, you could just walk out. There was no walking out of fucking Mars. That was a real commitment. But the thought of reaching the red planet before anyone else, before any billionaire, any Avenger, even NASA...it was so tempting. To track down the rovers, dust them off and wave at the cameras. To make everyone know you meant something. It was so, so tempting.

But what would it really prove?

That you were important? A pioneer? An explorer? You weren't.

You'd just be riding the coattails of someone greater, who let you tag along.

You were only here by coincidence. You'd just gotten yourself out of the gutter. It wasn't the time to be getting stars in your eyes.

Loki seemed to catch on to your inner conflict. He reached for another cookie.

“You do not have to make any swift decisions, you know.” he said. “The work will be years in the planning. We aren't leaving soon. You will have time to examine all your thoughts on the matter.”

“Good, because I definitely have some.”

“Care to talk them out?”

You shook your head.

“Not yet. Let me try to get my mind organized first. I might figure some things out on my own.”

Loki leaned back in his chair.

“Take your time. You have plenty.”

Which weirdly made you feel like he might be lying.