#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/.

[alt-vera]

— fine tune ⁀➷

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joel miller get’s a call for help from someone unexpected. he check’s out more than her broken down car.

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♡ | joel miller | 2.7k | ❛ fine tune - miranda lambert ❜

warnings: dbf!joel miller. pre-outbreak. drinking and driving. underage drinking (americans). dry humping. oral (m! and f! receiving). throat fucking. fingering. truck/outdoor sex. unprotected piv. established age gap. mdni.

❝ you flipped a switch, hot wired my gears, yeah you put me in line, and now i’m running right ❞

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TWO IN THE MORNING WAS NOT THE IDEAL TIME FOR YOUR CAR TO BREAK DOWN.

　Pulled over on the side of a dirt road, slight hint of booze still coursing through your veins from the party you had just left, you knew you couldn’t call your dad. He’d kill you for even stepping close to your car after drinking, kill you for being out so late, kill you for waking him up in the middle of the night.

　You felt like you were out of options as you pressed your spinning head against the coolness of your steering wheel. Crickets chirped happily in the farm field beside you, unaware of the inner turmoil you were currently going through.

　You were definitely feeling worse than when you left the house party. You knew it was wrong to drink and drive, but it was summertime in the middle of a heatwave, and you were a dumb college kid. Your friend ditched you for a hookup and you had no other way home than your car, or else you’d be stuck sleeping on some random dude’s couch and would either get the wrong kind of attention from someone, or be puked on in the middle of the night.

　So, you took your chances.

　You couldn’t even call a tow truck, because they’d probably get the cops involved if they saw the state you were in. The longer you sat racking your brain, the more the booze soaked in. You were fucked.

　Then, it hit you. There was one person you could call that didn’t have parental dictation over you, and couldn’t give you proper shit for your bad decisions because he’d driven home after a six pack multiple times.

　Your fingers nervously picked at the seams on the leather steering wheel as the line rang. On the third ring, a groggy voice greeted you.

　“Joel?” You slurred. You ignored the taken aback way he said your name as he answered. “Joel, my car broke down. I can’t call my dad—Can you please come give me a jump?”

　Joel sighed on the other end of the line. Usually he’d be woken up by Tommy asking for a bail out of jail, but he never thought that when he’d be answering the phone this late it’d be you calling. In fact, he didn’t even think you had his number saved.

　“Where are you?” He asked gruffly after a beat of silence. You gave him the name of the random country road you were on, and with that he hung up.

　Joel was there within minutes.

　He sped the whole way there, praying no cops were out prowling and looking for someone to bring in to make their night a little bit more interesting.

　He pulled up a few feet behind your car, your figure popping out of the driver door to come meet him. The headlights of his truck shut off as he jumped out, white tee sticking to his biceps in the humid summer air.

　“Joel!” You cried, pace quickening. Your hands latched onto his forearms as he held you upright. “My car died—I think it’s the battery, or the engine, or something—“

　You reeked like alcohol. “Have you been drinking?” He asked.

　You avoided his gaze, eyes wild. “I…”

　You gulped, eyes slowly moving to meet his. “That’s… That’s why i couldn’t call my dad.”

　Your name came out as a sigh between his lips. You shifted more weight into him, “Please, Joel—Can you help me?”

　The neediness in your voice made his thoughts wander, but he mentally reprimanded himself, attempting to focus on the task at hand. He kept a hand on your arm as the two of you walked to your beat up car, opening the hood. Your eyes never left Joel’s face as he examined the contents of your vehicle.

　“Well, we’ll try jumping it,” He said, eyes shifting to you. “If that doesn’t work…”

　He didn’t finish his sentence. You really didn’t want to call a tow truck. College was already eating up your money.

　You trailed behind him as he walked to the bed of his truck, opening the tailgate and reaching for the jumper cables strewn lazily in the very back. Just as he reached for them he paused, instead turning to look at you.

　“You can’t be doing dangerous shit like this,” He said sternly, gaze hard with seriousness.

　Figuring that you were gonna be there for a hot minute, you jumped onto the tailgate, sitting down to rest your body. “Why? You do it all the time.”

　 “I bet you’ve even got a few drinks in your system right now,” You teased.

　“That’s different,” He sighed, hand coming to rub his face in annoyance. “I’m twice your weight and almost twice your age. My four shots is different from your four shots.”

　“Not really,” You shrugged. You leant closer to him, face coming dangerously close to his. “How many fingers am i holding up?”

　His eyes only left yours for a moment to glance at your hand.

　“Two.”

　You playfully rolled your eyes, drunken grin coming to dance along your lips as you pulled away ever-so-slightly. “Whatever, Miller. Just ‘cuz you have good eyes doesn’t mean you’re not half as buzzed as i am. I can still smell the whiskey on your breath; no age, or weight, can change that. And we both know how whiskey clouds your mind.”

　There was one time a few months ago where you had went swimming with Joel at a party your parents were having. He’d been a few whiskeys in, and you’d caught him staring at the way your chest sat perkily in your skimpy bikini top for a bit too long. He’d hopped out of the pool shortly afterwards, tugging at his swim shorts to presumably hide something going on down there. You hadn’t let him live it down since.

　Tired of your teasing, he inched his face closer to yours. His breath was hot against your cheek. “So, what?” He questioned, head cocking slightly and brow raising. “You wanna find out what happens when we’re both a few whiskey’s too deep?”

　You couldn’t hide your grin. “Aren’t you supposed to be jumping my car?”

　“Aren’t you supposed to be helping?” He retaliated.

　Next thing you knew, his lips were on yours.

　“How would your daddy feel about this?” Joel groaned between kisses, moving himself between your spread legs to be closer to you.

　“Who says he needs to know?” You pulled away, wrapping your hands in the white fabric of his tee. “You weren’t going to tell him you came out here tonight to help me, were you?”

　When Joel dodged your gaze and pressed his lips together into a line, your jaw dropped. You let go of his shirt, exclaiming, “Oh my god, you totally were!”

　“Joel Miller, i thought i could trust you! But, no, I guess—“ Your rambling was cut off by Joel’s large hand grabbing the nape of your neck.

　“Just shut up and kiss me.”

　You easily complied, melting into the kiss as his tongue slipped into your mouth. He slipped his hands in the back pockets of your cutoffs, grabbing your ass and pulling you closer until you were flush against him, tits pressing against his chest and cunt pressed against the bulge in his jeans.

　You groaned at the contact, rubbing yourself against him. You felt him smile into the kiss. “Isn’t someone an eager beaver.”

　“Never again say that when we’re making out. Ever.”

　“Again?” He questioned, his brow cocked. “Who says i’ll ever let you kiss me again?”

　“Let me kiss you?” You snorted, “More like let you kiss me. You’re the man in his late-thirties making out with a 20 year old.”

　He rolled his eyes. “Are you this feisty in bed?”

　Your grin turned devilish. “Only one way for you to find out.”

　You grinded against him again, and he let out a raspy groan, hands coming to rest on your hips as he rolled you against him repeatedly, coaxing you to an orgasm without even taking your pants off.

　“Didn’t know you were so talented, Miller,” You mumbled as you caught your breath, and Joel rolled his eyes, sliding your shorts down your shaking legs.

　“You don’t ever shut up, do you?”

　“There’s only two ways to shut me up,” Your teeth shone under the light of the moon as you grinned, “It’s up to you to figure ‘em out.”

　“I can think of one way,” Joel muttered as his fingers rubbed your clit through your panties, chucking them off soon enough and pulling you closer to him on the tailgate, knees lowering onto the coarse dirt of the road. His tongue poked and probed experimentally, finding your clit to kiss and suck on it, his actions being rewarded by gracefully moans leaving your swollen lips.

　“So sweet,” He cooed, and you felt your face flush.

　“God, Joel,” You called out as his fingers moved to enter inside of you while his muscle continued to lap at your clit, “Please, don’t stop—“

　Your pleads were cut off by your walls clenching around Joel’s digits as you came, struggling to stop your hips from bucking up against his face. He let you ride out your high, using him.

　“Well, you found one out,” You sighed, and you heard Joel chuckle.

　“I think i know the other,” He replied as he rose to kiss you. You could taste yourself on his tongue, a sweet tang mixed with whatever whiskey was still in his system.

　“You should’ve been a detective instead of a contractor, Miller,” You joked, sliding over to pat the worn plastic of the truck box beside you, “Now hop up, old man. I think it’s time you had a bit of fun.”

　He complied, hoisting himself up onto the tailgate beside you and sliding further into the roomy box. He let you lay him down, fingers dancing along his jeans as you nimbly unbuttoned them, pulling them down. You raised his shirt, signalling for him to take it off. Once he did so, you ran your tongue in a hasty line from his navel down his v-line to where the band of his boxers laid, a thin happy trail guiding your way.

　You heard him breathe out a shaky breath at your teases, and to toy with him more you pulled down his boxers painfully slow, taking your time to unsheathe him before taking his cock into your palm, pumping him as precum leaked from his tip and into your hand. You raised your palm to your face, tongue licking up the salty mess as your eyes met his own, blown wide with surprise and erratic lust.

　“Oh, darlin’,” He choked out, and you smiled, leaning down to press a soft kiss to the tip before your tongue moved down the vein on the side of his shaft, caressing him as you took him into your mouth.

　He hit the gummy side of your cheek and a deep sigh left him, the warmth melting his calloused attitude as you guided him down your throat, swallowing him as much as you could.

　“Baby, you’re doing so well,” He prided, fingers caressing your cheek as a suppressed cough vibrated through your throat. “Can i fuck that pretty throat of yours?”

　He felt you nod around him, and his hips began thrusting quickly, his dick hitting the back of your throat as he throat fucked you. When he felt himself getting close he pulled out, a trail of spit being left in his wake.

　You whined, causing Joel to laugh, running a hand through your hair. “Need to save myself to fuck you, darlin’. Wanna feel that pretty cunt‘a yours grippin’ me.”

　Your lips upturned at his praises, losing your shirt and turning so that you were on your hands and knees as Joel raised himself to meet your position, pumping his dick and dragging himself through your wetness before inching himself inside.

　You groaned, sinking yourself down so that you could meet his hips as he bottom out inside of you. A hiss left his lips, “You’re so tight, baby. Swallowin’ me whole.”

　You didn’t give him time to adjust to your warmth, wiggling your hips so that he’d get the hint. You heard a hearty chuckle rumble through his chest as he began thrusting inside of you, hand gripping your hips as you sank yourself down to meet his movements.

　Groans tumbled from both your lips as the summer air breezed through your bodies. His arm wrapped around your torso, pulling you up so that your back was against his chest. One arm stayed like that, fingers coming to twist as your pert nipples while the other trailed down to rub at your clit. The simultaneous actions guided you through another orgasm, hips stuttering and word’s incoherently leaving your lips.

　“Atta girl,” Joel praised, hips moving faster and more sloppy as he felt himself reaching his own peak. “So good for me, fuckin’ me so well.”

　You could have sworn there’d be bruises of his fingertips as his hand pulled away from your waist, his iron grip receding and making you cold from the loss of contact.

　You sighed, attempting to compose yourself after being fucked dumb. Your chest heaved with every breath, heart racing. You stole a glance at Joel, who tossed his tee at you as he began to pull his jeans up his legs. You graciously took it, suddenly realizing how exposed you were.

　Joel noticed your silence, the teasing air that usually surrounded you was replaced by a sullen aura, and he frowned. He pulled you into his bare chest, arms wrapping around you protectively.

　“You did so well, baby,” He cooed, pressing a kiss to your scalp.

　“Thanks,” You replied, small smile tugging at your lips as you looked up at him. “You weren’t too bad yourself, considering how long it’s probably been since you’ve gotten laid.”

　There it was. Joel secretly loved how you would pal around with him, even if he was the butt of your jokes.

　“It hasn’t been that long,” He replied with an eye roll, “Besides, you can’t deny that that was probably the best sex you’ve ever had.”

　You sighed, but the smile never left your lips. “Yeah, it was a much needed fine tune. Now that you’ve got me runnin’ right, do you think you could work on my car?”

　In all honesty, Joel had forgotten the whole reason he’d come out here in the first place. He nodded, slightly embarrassed, and walked briskly to the door of your car. The engine revved to life as soon as he turned the key, and he gave you a pointed look as you stood beside him.

　“You’ve gotta kiddin’ me,” You muttered. “I swear, my car just hates me.”

　“Yeah, well, it’s gonna hate you even more because you’re comin’ home with me. I’m not letting you get behind the wheel.”

　“Fine,” You breathed out, complying easily as you locked your car and hopped into the shotgun of Joel’s truck. “But you’re making me food when we get back to your place.”

　“Alright, alright,” He chuckled, hands tapping the wheel as he began to drive, “You’ve worked up quite the appetite, huh?”

　“Shut up,” You giggled, shoving his bare shoulder lightly. “Don’t think you’re all that just cuz you got into my pants.”

　“I didn’t even need to get into your pants, remember?” He retaliated, voice raising to mock yours. “I didn’t know you were so talented, Miller.”

　“I do not sound like that!” You squealed with a laugh. “We’ll see how well you do next time.”

　“You thinkin’ you need another jump soon?” He questioned with a knowing quirk of his brow.

　You gazed out the window, smile painting your lips. “Yup. Thinkin’ my car’s gonna need it’s engine looked at, and i hear your garage is open all hours of the night.”

[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

[chrissdollie]

eclipse part two˚｡⋆୨♡୧⋆ ˚｡⋆

♡ series playlist

♡ summary: you moved from the sizzling hot arizona to the depressive rainy washington in a small town called forks. it was terribly boring.. until you meet a gorgeous townie and fall in love. but what do you do when your childhood friend interferes with your feelings? ♡ warnings/notes: a matt sturniolo and chris sturniolo love triangle series, cursing, lowercase intended, use of "yn" ♡ wc: 3.3k

♡ masterlist

“hi lil!” you coo, bending down to pick up the kitten. she purrs softly at your touch before curling up into your embrace. you cradle her while walking into the living room where charlie’s watching sports on the couch. hearing your footsteps, he turns around with a smile. “hey kiddo, how was school?” you scratch lilith’s head, thinking of how to answer. you could lie, saying that it was great and you were already comfortable. or you could tell the truth and say, “weird. everybody here is weird. either too chatty or plain mean!” but you disregard both options, deciding to dodge the question. “why didn’t you tell chris i came?” you ask with a small smile forming. charlie shrugs, “my bad. guess i just forgot.” but there’s something else that wasn’t said. you don’t question it though; instead spinning around and walking through the kitchen with lilith resting on an open palm. 

the cold, beautiful boy abruptly popped into your head. thumping up the stairs while petting your cat, you start thinking up an apology for him. you creak open your bedroom door, shutting it behind you quietly. lilith meows as you plop down onto the floor, not wanting to lay on your bed in dirty clothes. “i don’t even know how to apologize. i mean, what am i supposed to say??” you mumble out loud, looking into your fur baby’s dark eyes. “i can’t just randomly be like, ‘oh hey. sorry that i was staring at your captivating blue eyes for five minutes like a creep-- i’m not a creep, swear it!’” you lift up lilith as you speak in a silly deep voice, giggling at yourself afterwards while she stares back at you awkwardly. 

you remember charlie has a small keyboard in the hallway, sitting collecting dust. you exhale, plopping your kitty down onto the floor while you stand up and walk out your door, her trailing close behind you. you look down at the keys, gently tracing your fingers along them. lily stands on her hind legs, her front claws pressing against your calf curiously. you grin, picking her up sweetly and resting her on the keyboard’s rack where old sheets of music lay. leaning down, you push the wire into the plug, bringing the instrument to life. you play a few notes, lily shockingly staying still to listen. you softly hum along then stop suddenly. you’d started a small song back home on your grandmother’s piano but never finished it. it almost looked like lilith sighed when you stopped. 

the following day, you’re walking to your first period with a confident mindset. you’re somewhat dreading today, but also excited to attempt to make amends with your lab partner. during lunch, you make your way to jessica and her crowd like yesterday, quickly scanning the room as you sit down. no sign of matt. you look all around the room again. his three siblings were at their table, but he wasn’t with them. so much for making amends. he wasn’t in biology either, and a small part of you hopes you're not the reason he’s absent-- that’d just make you feel ten times worse. always looking for an excuse to go shopping, you decide that to ‘cheer yourself up’, you’ll look around a nearby thrift store after school. feeling a vibration from your purse, you pull out your phone to see a series of messages from your mother.  hi baby, how has everything been? why haven’t you texted me yet? is it raining? tell me everything. hello? yn are you there? you want to roll your eyes and chuckle at her impatience. you quickly type back, keeping your phone low so you don’t get it taken away. hi mom. everything’s good ! i didn’t text you because i didn’t really know what to say lol. of course it’s raining, it’s always raining :( “yn?” you look up to see jessica and her friends staring at you with a confused look. one of them scoots closer to you and looks down at your screen. “oooh, who you texting?” she smirks, annoyingly smacking on her gum. you lock your phone quickly, putting it back inside your bag. “oh, speaking of texting, you should give me your number! we’re all heading to the beach in like two weeks, and you should totally join us.” jess explains, moving her hands around as she speaks. you bite the inside of your cheek. what would you do at the beach? it wouldn't be sunny, that’s for sure. and how far is it anyhow?? there’s definitely no beaches in forks. well, maybe that’ll mean some vitamin d. you don’t ask these questions though. you instead exchange numbers with jessica hurriedly before getting to your next class. 

when you get home, you get a whiff of the delicious smell of steak. you shut the door and make your way to the kitchen. "i didn't know you could cook!" you tease your dad, remembering how there were always sandwiches sitting on the table for dinner when you were little. lily stands on her legs against charlie's ankle like a dog. you grin at your baby before walking over to kiss your dad's cheek in greeting. he chuckles at the joke, "well, a little while before ya came, i decided to teach myself. you're big now, won't eat peanut butter and jelly sandwiches every few hours."

once the steak was finished, you and charlie sat down at the small round table near a big window, eating silently as rain poured outside. it's a comfortable silence, you're glad he doesn't seem to mind the quietness either. usually your mother would be chatting it up by now, forcing answers out of you about boys (not that you ever liked any of them anyway, but you pretended you did to satisfy her). charlie coughs before resting his fork and knife down. "so how'd ya like school? you make any friends?" there it goes.

you nod, "school's good. easy. i have a few classes with this girl, jessica. she's very bubbly."

he hums a "good" and goes back to eating, deciding that's enough conversation for now. hesitantly, you start up again. "do you happen to know the sturniolo family?" he looks up chewing a mouthful of food. "the doctor's family? yeah, he's a great guy. we go fishin' sometimes." you bite your lip tentatively, wanting more. you play with the food on your plate mindlessly, thinking about how to bring up matthew-- or if you even wanted to. charlie scoots his chair back noisily, standing up with his plate in one hand and his other outstretched to yours. you shake your head politely, "i'm almost finished." he nods, walking to the sink to clean the dishes.

maybe you should forget about the weird situation, focusing on making friends instead. besides, the visit to the beach is in two weeks and you have no idea what you're gonna wear! finishing up dinner, you wash your plate before heading up the stairs, lilith trailing close behind. you drop your purse onto your desk, pulling out your phone as you do so. opening jessica's contact, you send a text asking for more details about the outing. not any more than five minutes later, she sends a response. hey! i totally understand, i'd wanna know where i was going too. and plus you dont even really know us yet. well the whole trip was nate's idea. you remember him right? the boy who's friends with chris? anywayssss, he's driving everyone to la push where he lives. he says the beach there is pretty decent! so bring your bathing suit you send her a thank you before shutting your phone. sitting at the desk, you wonder when chris'll visit. maybe sometime over the weekend. you really hope he does, you remember having so much fun with him as kids. reentering your password, you scroll through your contact list to make sure you don't have his information-- you don't.

before you knew it, the entire week had passed. it was like a blur, repetitive and dull. and you hadn't seen matthew again. over the weekend, you went thrifting like you'd planned. you didn't find much except for a cozy white cashmere sweater and a tiny pack of unopened hello kitty bracelets. you bought both obviously. you also went to the local library. that was disappointing. every bookshelf was so poorly stocked, you didn't even bother to get a card. you'll have to plan a visit to seattle or olympia because you will never be going back to that library.

on monday, a lot of people greeted you unexpectedly. you didn't get embarrassing stares when you walked in the hallway with girly fur boots and earmuffs, topped off with cute little gloves. it was snowing today and everybody was enjoying it far too much. when you were walking to class with nate, he stared at the tiny flakes like they were magic. the cold wind brushed at your red cheeks harshly. you love the snow, you never had any back home. a while ago, you bought all of the clothing you're wearing now just because it was cheap and adorable! your mother said it was a waste of money since you'd never have the chance to wear them, and they'd all end up being sold in a garage sale. you make a mental note to take a picture after school and send it to her.

nate finally breaks his romantic trance to face you. he laughs lightly at your annoyed expression while the wind blows in your face. you giggle with him before pouting. "shuddup." he scans you up and down, a small grin still apparent. "cute outfit by the way. very barbie doll." he compliments with a small hint of teasing. you smile brightly. "why thank you." as you two continue to walk, you notice a group of students throwing wet snow at each other. you move away while scrunching up your nose. nate chuckles and runs off to join them.

later at lunch, you stand on line with jessica and mike who were absolutely drenched in snow. you swipe some off jessica's coat while she picks out her food. you turn to the side for a moment-- just a moment when you see something unordinary out of the corner of your eye. well, someone. matt sturniolo in the flesh. "hellooo? yn, what do you want?" jessica snaps her fingers in your face, breaking your locked stare. you look back at the lunch lady, shaking your head. "um.. actually i'm not hungry." you mutter, leaving your tray and interlocking your arm with jessica's back to the table.

her eyebrows pinch in confusion, turning back at a similar looking nate. "yn, you need to eat lunch." you ignore her, sitting down at your usual seat. you take in a breath to calm yourself. gosh, why're you so anxious? you have nothing to worry about! you didn't do anything wrong... drowning out jessica's complaints and questions, you hide your face from the table, using the person sitting in front of you as a shield. you feel a little silly though. why should you be hiding? you bite the inside of your cheek shyly before moving your head up slightly to catch a glimpse of the group.

matt and madison were laughing with wet snow dripping from their hair. you catch yourself smiling at matt’s joyful face, quickly switching back to a neutral frown when you realize. but aside from the happiness and laughter, he looks different. his skin is less chalky-- maybe flushed from the freezing snow. the dark circles under his eyes are less noticeable too. you ponder while staring like you did the first day you saw them, except this time you’re only looking at matthew.

“yn!! what are you looking at?” jessica asks, turning her head to follow the direction of your eyes. at that exact moment, matt picks up his head to make direct eye contact with you. he doesn’t look harsh or unfriendly, but curious. he stares at you like a piero piccioni song or some sort of divine poetry. you look down shamefully, heat rising to your cheeks. jessica giggles, “matt’s looking at youuu..” she pokes your shoulder. you keep your eyes on the table. “does he look angry?” you whisper, though you meant to speak louder. she raises an eyebrow at this. “no.. why would he?” 

feeling queasy, you fiddle with the pretty rings on your fingers. “i don’t think he likes me very much.” you mutter girlishly, brushing some hair in your face to block your view of him even more. she chuckles irritatingly. “you say that like a 19th-century girl. besides, i think he does, the creep won’t stop staring.” she looks back at him with a stank face, waiting for his gawking to stop. you’re not able to see, but he doesn’t bother to meet jessica’s eyes. he looks at you with some sort of admiration.. it’s odd. it irks the girl, not that she’d admit it. 

you watch jess and her friends eat, buzzing about who slept with who. you ignore the conversation as well as the fluttery butterflies in your stomach at the thought of sitting next to matt again. you hope he stays this way, approachable and gentle looking. you like him better wearing a cheesy smile than a mean snarl. when the time comes, you get to the classroom before him (surprisingly), dusting little flakes off your skirt before they melt. you readjust your earmuffs before you hear the chair next to you creak. you don’t turn to look at him, already feeling apprehensive and shy. “hi,” said a quiet, soft voice. you swallow, looking up at him with doe eyes. he has a gentle, friendly smile on his dazzling face, something you didn’t expect. “i’m matthew sturniolo, i didn’t introduce myself last week. you’re yn swan, right?” you flick your pencil between two fingers while he speaks in a musical tone. you nod meekly, smiling back kindly. 

a box filled with slides is placed in front of you two. your teacher walks down the aisle, leaving boxes on desks while explaining the lab. “the slides in your boxes are out of order. you and your partner will take turns separating the slides of onion root tip cells into the phases of mitosis they represent and label them accordingly. any questions?” you look at the boy next to you, he doesn’t look bothered at all. maybe he’s done this before too. your teacher gave the go, and students begin to decipher the phases. matt lightly taps the pads of his fingers against the table. “ladies first.” he grins so beautifully that you don’t respond. yknow, like an idiot. you grab the first slide, snapping it into place under the microscope before adjusting it to the 40X objective. “prophase,” you state confidently, pulling away from the tool. 

matt raises an eyebrow. he points towards the microscope. “you mind if i look?” you let out an airy “nuh uh” and push it towards him. he looks in, almost immediately agreeing. he switches out the first slide for the second. “anaphase.” he murmurs, writing it down below the first slide. you reach your hand out, locking eyes with him. matt smirks knowingly, sliding it back in front of you. you can’t help but allow the corners of your lips to turn up softly, you’re a naturally smiley person. he watches you examine the slide before taking it out. you both finish the assignment before anyone else. huffing, you grow bored after a minute of being finished. you swivel your head to matt. you notice another subtle difference in his face. his eyes are a different color. “did you get contacts?” you blurt out randomly, clearly not thinking before you did. his eyebrows pinch slightly in confusion. he shakes his head dismissively. 

there’s no way he’s not lying. you vividly remember his dark black eyes glaring at you a week ago. today’s a strange gold. but who has gold eyes? is that even a thing? his hands clench into fists again and you decide not to speak about it again. gosh, what’s his deal? minutes later, your teacher declares that time is up and walks around the room to check everyone’s work. he gives you an matt an A+ of course, you'd never expect anything less. it begins to rain, the water sloshing up the magical snow. “it’s too bad about the snow.” matt talks again, his eyes watching out the water-painted window. his hands are more relaxed, yet still tense. like he’s unsure about you. he moves his glance to you, waiting for a response. you shrug awkwardly, nervousness filling up inside. 

“you don’t like the snow.” he says, but it wasn’t a question. almost as if he were saying it out loud to himself. you sigh through your nose. “i don’t mind the snow. it’s pretty. i just don’t like the wet.” you counter. he smiles, “forks must be a difficult place to live then.” you shrug again. why's he being so nice all of a sudden? 

“may i?” his hand reaches out towards you, his head slightly lowered as his eyes flicker between yours and your hand resting on the tabletop. he wants to see your hand? your lips part, placing your hand into his. the skin is cold and soft causing a small gasp to come out. “sorry.” he whispers with a small chuckle before lifting your hand in his to admire your nails. you wait for him to call the sanrio charms childish or something prude. “i like them,” he says with a sweet smile, letting go of your hand. you don’t answer for a few seconds, taking him in. it’s crazy how just a week ago, he acted as if you were the worst person he’d ever seen. “you’re strange,” you grin sheepishly, the corners of your lips turning up more when he lets out a quiet giggle. a moment passes, and he decides he’d like to keep talking to you. “why’re you here if you don’t like the rain?” 

you have a bad habit of overtalking, though that habit has died down quite a lot since you moved to forks. well it seems like it’s starting up again. “my mom got remarried anddd the new husband plays minor league basketball, so he travels around a lot.. but she missed him a bunch since she wanted to stay with me at home. so i decided to send myself here with my dad, charlie. that way she could be happy with him.” 

he watches you talk with a fascinated expression, but he’s probably just being nice. you finish your explanation with a small look of glumness afterward. damn. you said too much again, and to someone may or may not give a shit. it’s hard to tell with him. he opened his mouth to speak at the same time as the bell rang. he gets up, swings his backpack over his shoulder, and runs out the door like last week. you suck your teeth before collecting your belongings and standing up to walk to P.E with nate. unlike a lot of people here, nate’s a very chill person. he doesn’t open his mouth with every step you take and is an okay person to talk to. 

you told him all about your trouble with any sort of physical activity (to which he chuckled playfully) and luckily, he was on your team today in volleyball. he guarded you the entire time like a loyal dog and won the practice. the class had ended a few minutes ago, and you were now walking out of the locker room into the drizzle. you see your lab partner leaning against his white volvo as you head to your truck. he clenches his fists tightly before noticing you, and sending a small smile your way. 

you make sure to text jessica later that day.  is matt bipolar?

you get a buzz back almost right away. uhh no. why would you think that? no reason

♡ tags ♡

@leah-loves-lilies @imtalkinnonsense @star-sturn @junnniiieee07 @mattsneezing @freshloveee @freshsturns @emma4eva @r6diosturns @matthasmywholeheart @donthugmeimhot @blahbel668 @chrissturnsss @joanofarcily @mattscoquette @slutsturn @imsosillygoofylol @joanofarcily @slutsturn @imsosillygoofylol @sturnioloremarker @ashley9282828 @jnkvivi @sturncakez @lanasturn @riasturns @st7rnioioss @mattsfavbigtitties @strnlxlqve @whosthislyssbitch

[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.”

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