nonnie i fear you are opening a can of mean!matt brainworms..
bunny brain below the cut 😳
he's working on a high-profile case and shit is hitting the fan at the firm, late nights and all
you're there, ever the sweet, patient, and supportive gf
but it's been three weeks without any physical contact, and with no end in sight
what starts out as mild frustration turns into you purposely pushing his buttons, knocking shit off the table, and stomping around the apartment
one day, he's standing over you, hands on his waist. "you wanna try that again?"
of course you do, half wanting to see that side of him, but it's to your near instant regret
immediately he turns around, takes off his jacket, rolls up his sleeves, and slips on black latex gloves
in an instant, he's standing over you, squatting down wordlessly
you think maybe he's going to pick you up, or kiss you and tell you it'll be over soon
but instead his hand comes around to wrap around your hair and tug you across the room to where his desk is. you land on your ass
you try to get u, but he insists you stay on all fours, standing over you to ensure you comply
he sits and orders you to strip you down to your underwear, and after some failed bargaining you do
he extends a leg and pulls you over his leg to straddle to his boot
you start riding him, uncertain at first, but eventually start to work up a rhythm
you look up eventually, and realize he isn't even paying attention to you, his attention back to the case at hand, but his firm hold on you remains, reminding you you're not off the hook
maybe when you get tired, he tugs at it to remind you of your place. maybe he prods your cunt with his boot or withdraws it every so often just to toy with you, laughing at you
eventually you're so strung up, so desperate to cum, but the friction is just shy of what you need so you ask if you can remove your underwear—beg, even, through tears—but when he keeps saying no, you settle for all kinds of positions and speeds over his boot, clinging to his leg pitiably with a cheek on his leg
it's so pitiable all you hear is the shuffling of your own body, the pants of your own breath, and the sound of him laughing at you
at some point while edging you, he says something, a hint of a smile in his voice.
you hum in confusion, looking up at him.
his attention still directed onto his work, but beneath his glasses, his brows are now raised in expectation. “twenty-nine.” then, “twenty-eight.”
your mind frets. “daddy, wait—”
“twenty-seven.”
you search his face, but it betrays no emotion. so you grab his leg, and double down on grinding your underwear into the ridge of his boot.
you’re too busy concentrating on his smooth, textured voice that before you know it, it’s saying, “ten. nine.”
you squeeze your eyes shut. focus. focus.
“eight.” you can get there. “seven.”
your legs tense, shaking as a familiar warmth builds up low in your belly.
“four—three—two—”
all you need is—
“—one.”
immediately, his leg is gone, and your cunt clenches over nothingness. he leans back with a feigned sigh—and slaps you across the face.
you yelp, cheek stinging, and yet you lift a hand to reach down to your cunt, but he nudges it out of the way. “ah-ah. that’d be cheating, pup.”
“again.”
you work yourself on his boot toward that precipice again, but he’s counting a little faster this time. “nineteen, eighteen, seventeen, fifteen…”
you struggle, once again reaching but falling short of jumping off that precipice.
he lifts his hand and you wince, preparing for impact, but it comes gently under your chin to grab your face, rubbing over it softly. “what’s the matter, pup? you don’t cum now, and maybe i’ll never let you cum again.”
at that point he slaps you again—hard—the impact resonating like pins and needles on your warming cheek.
he clicks his tongue. “again.”
you lean back this time, supporting yourself with your hands, moving frenetically against the hard lining at the front of boot. you know you can do it this time, you just need to focus. but you're also worried, and before you know it, you're out of time. again.
you whine, a tear falling over your cheek. you turn away, but he pulls you by the hair to reveal your stinging cheek, laying yet another hard slap across it. he laughs.
it happens over, and over, and over. each round progressively cruel. eventually, he tugs you upward, lays you stomach-down over his lap and spanks your ass raw.
finally, he takes pity on you, lets you cum on his thigh with your arms around his neck and biting into his shoulder as he pets you over your hair, cooing at you. “you can do it, pup. i know you can. no, daddy won’t take it away this time, i think you’ve learned your lesson. now cum for me, sweetheart.” <3
"when you're about to cum, you're going to beg me to stop like a good boy, aren't you?" they ask when I'm so stupid with lust I can't detect the danger, "yes, yes, yes," I chant obediently, in time with their thrusts, their light touches on my throbbing cock making my stomach clench, "oh fuck, it feels so good," I whimper, legs starting to tremble. "beg me to stop." They remind me, as they caress the tip of my cock in the way that makes my eyes roll back, "please stop," I start to beg with increasing urgency, "please stop, please fuck! Please! Please stop!" they pull their hands away from my cock and still their hips, "good boy," they grin as they grip my hips to hold me steady. I whimper desperately, pathetically, my dick pulsing with need, "thank you." I mumble, breathing shakily. Their finger slowly circles the head of my cock, "you're welcome, I'll tell you when you can start begging me to cum," they bend to kiss me and I groan into their mouth as they sink deeper into my sloppy cunt, "for now, you'll just have to hope I stop when you beg me to." I whine as they begin to undulate their hips against me again, pinned underneath them, their pubes brushing against my needy, sensitive cock, I grasp their arm and know I'll be begging them to stop again very soon.
description: a fic very loosely! based on im not okay by my chemical romance in which, reader often seeks out their best friend brian's help regarding their failing relationship with their boyfriend, but never seems to listen. and brian gets frustrated that reader won't break up with their boyfriend for more reasons than just them not being treated right.
content: lots of angsty teen stuff. vague reference to leaked intimate photos. best friends to "enemies" (using that word loosely) to lovers, angst, cheating, comfort, first kiss, fluff!!! (happy ending)
word count: 3285
"I just don't understand why you have such an interest in us breaking up!" You snapped, staring at your best friend's expressionless face as he sits on the edge of your bed. Suddenly, that changed, his eyebrows furrowed, and he grimaced, shaking his head.
"Why?" He retorted with equal force to you, throwing up his arms in disbeleif, "Because he fucking treats you like shit!"
"Not like shit, Brian. You're being overdramatic." You cross your arms over your chest defensively.
"Like SHIT y/n, I'm not having this argument with you again." He runs a hand through his greasy black hair, the strands lifting up from their spot thrown over his forehead as they fall through his fingers. "You know y/n, you claim to have all these fucking problems, but you don't, everything wrong in your life would just be solved if you broke up with him, and I keep telling you this, and you never fucking listen, I have no advice left to give you, I'm sick of hearing about this, I'm worn out." He rants.
"Brian!" You scold in a weak, faint voice, tears welling up in your eyes. "Well, who's the one treating me like shit now?" You huff.
"Don't start with that," He gestures his pointer finger at you, shaking it up and down. "You told me you wanted my honest opinion, I'm being honest, it's not my fault you don't want to hear it."
"Well you tell me he treats me like shit but never tell me why all you say is to break up with him. I feel stuck, like I have no other options."
"Don't tell you why?- Because you do that for me. Every. Single. TIme you bitch to me." Brian sighs, frustration deep within his heavy breaths. "Come on y/n, don't be stupid, everyone's seen those pictures he took of you."
Your throat goes dry and you swallow viciously while sucking in a hard breath through your nose. Your face contorts with discontent, and your jaw clenches. For a moment you're suddenly transported back to the most humiliating weeks of your life. You can still feel the stares of your judgemental classmates burning into your body, with knowing eyes, aware of parts of you that they shouldn't have been. You can hear their whispers and giggles swarm around your head.
"That was fucking low, Brian." A tear rolls down your face which you quickly wipe away using the entire back of your hand. You shake your head, knitting your brows, "It was an accident-" You choke.
"You and I both know that's not true." Brain mutters.
"Why are you being so cruel." Your voice begins to crack as you can feel a sob coming on. Brian's reaction isn't exactly what you expected, most times you ranted about your boyfriend Brian was usually there to give you a hug, and to comfort you. Sure, he'd usually tell you to break up with your boyfriend, (in less friendly terms than that), but still, he'd at least always offer some sort of positivity.
Brian takes a deep inhale, "Because," then he exhales, "You wear me out."
"Do I?" You sneer, unsure of whether to be more sad or angry.
"Look, I don't mean to like make you upset, or let you down, or whatever," He speaks rapidly, shaking his head and screwing his eyes shut tight. "But I think it's better off you if you just hear the truth."
"But Brian," You sigh, "I can tell you're not telling the whole truth."
"That's on you." He crosses his arms, "I'm not arguing anymore, I have my own shit to worry about, I can't keep dealing with your problems. Try taking a good hard look at yourself sometime, and maybe you'll actually understand where I'm coming from."
You don't respond, only staring at Brian through misty eyes. As your breath falters, trying your best to hold back a full-on sob, you try took look for some semblance of warmth from Brian, just an ounce of comfort. Despite how upsetting Brian's words were, you knew that just the smallest amount of consolation would make you feel better, even if he just gave you a loose hug, that always worked, that always made you feel better, why couldn't he just do that?
"I gotta go," he huffs, "See you around."
You can't bear to look at him as he gets off his spot on your bed. You continue to say silent, your arms crossed around your chest, looking down at your legs. You can hear the sound of his footsteps walking out of the room, and the door closing on his way out, the shutting sound signaling you were now alone was an immediate trigger for the tears to come falling down your cheeks.
That's just it. You were alone.
The one person in your life that you could count on to make you feel better in times of need just walked right out the door without an ounce of hesitation. What were you to do now? Cry to your boyfriend about it? That would go over well. 'Hey babe, I really need someone right now, my best friend just stormed out of my room because he got frustrated about me always complaining about you.'
You sighed, throwing your head back on your pillow, your tears now running sideways down your face. The worst part is, you knew Brian was right. You had to break up with your boyfriend, and that would solve all of your problems. The two of you weren't in love, you weren't even sure that you had ever been. But with no boyfriend, how could you possibly deny your actual feelings for-
"Y/N! DINNER!" You heard your mother scream from the kitchen, cutting your thoughts off completely. Shit, you quickly wipe away the tears from your eyes, not in the mood to be questioned on why you were crying over dinner. You take a few deep breaths in and out, preparing yourself to act at least somewhat normal before heading out to eat dinner.
You walked into the kitchen and your mom greeted you with a confused look on her face,
"I thought Brian was staying for dinner."
-
It had been a few days since your argument with Brian, and you hadn't talked to him since. Truth be told, you weren't doing well, not at all. The last few days had been full of nothing but tension and tears for you. Every time he'd pass you by in the hallway you were ignored, he wouldn't even spare you a glance. He'd usually avert his eyes and turn to talking to Amber, or one of his other friends.
It hurt Like, really fucking hurt.
You couldn't stand the feeling it gave you every time he passed you by, the way your heart dropped, and your stomach flipped. You couldn't count the times you felt yourself nearly throw up in the last couple of days alone.
Not having Brian around was far worse than any heartbreak you ever experienced. It had only been a couple of days, and it wasn't like he loathed you or anything, but you'd almost felt like a part of you was missing without him around. It felt stupid to say, he was just some greasy teenager, but you never really realized how complete he made you feel.
Your boyfriend, on the other hand, seemed happier than ever. Glad you finally ditched that "loser" Brian. He'd never really enjoyed having Brian around, and you usually had to fight to try to let him hang out with you whenever your boyfriend was around.
You sighed, placing your head in your hand as your arm rested on your desk. Your last period teacher was ranting and raving about something, you couldn't have been less interested. You picked up your heavy head and raised your arm way up.
"Yes y/n?" The teacher shot a look your way.
"Can I go to the bathroom?" You ask, desperate to get out of class.
"I'm in the middle of a lecture-"
"Okay, but I have to go to the bathroom."
"Fine. Go." She responded reluctantly before getting back onto her tangent.
You're relieved the teacher did not put up much of a fight, and begin to slip out of the classroom, into the dismal halls of the school building. You had no real destination, you didn't actually have to use the bathroom, only the desire to roam around aimlessly to try and clear your head. The poorly-lit, decaying classrooms filled with far too many people you didn't like tended to get pretty stuffy really quickly.
You tried to think of nothing else other than the sound of your footsteps as your beat-up old vans hit the dirty tile floor with every step you took. You let the quiet thudding sound sort of put you into a trance until you heard a voice around the corner.
"Oh forget them," You heard an all-too-familiar voice say, "They'll never know." It was your boyfriend. You stopped dead in your tracks, not really wanting to be seen by him and have any sort of interaction, but you were also very intrigued as to what he was talking about. You inched closer against the wall he was on the other side of, just around the bend. You were meer feet away but he had know knowledge of your presence.
"Are you sure?" You heard another voice say, a girl this time, you recognized the voice as a friend of your boyfriend's that had hung out with the two of you from time to time.
"Positive, they'll probably be home crying tonight or something, too emotional to even realize or even care where I am."
You felt your muscles stiffen at the sound of his words, certainly, he wasn't talking about you, was he?
"Don't be a dick." The girl giggled.
"I'm not baby, it's just the truth, they're such a downer. I need some fun in my life."
Baby? You listened onwards, feeling your blood begin to- not boil, but simmer. You were nearly certain he was talking about you, and why was he calling her baby?
In a surprising move of bravery you peered around the corner, hoping to god the two of them didn't see you. As you peeked just your head down the hall you could see them standing a decent distance away, the girl with her back pressed against a locker, and your boyfriend hovering over her.
Some fucking nerve he had. Doing this in public? Not even having the decency to break up before going after someone else?
You couldn't even find it in you to be sad right now, you bit down on the inside of your cheeks, surpressing a cackle of utter disbelief at what you were witnessing.
"Okay," The girl smirked before catching her bottom lip in her teeth, "I'll see you at 8 then?"
"On the dot." Your boyfriend smirked back.
"See you then."
Your boyfriend leaned down from his spot standing over her, pressing a kiss onto the girl's cheek. If only he knew you were here to see this right now.
You quickly swung your head back from around the corner and began heading back the way you came, hoping that neither of them would also walk this way and run into you.
Your legs trembled under you as you walked, and you feared that they might give out any second now. Your breath shook and you could barely get a decent-sized breath in or out.
God, if you'd just listened to Brian and broken up with your boyfriend when he first told you to none of this would have ever happened, and you'd still have your best friend.
You walked right past your classroom, unable to functionally act like a human, right now there would have been no way that you could sit down for the remainder of class and not freak out. You swallowed hard, trying your best to repel a sob, or maybe a laugh, perhaps even somewhat of both. You had no clue how to react, what even was the proper emotion to witnessing your boyfriend cheating on you? Probably being sad. But you didn't feel sad, no, not in the miserable cry yourself to sleep sort of way. Not in the keep your head down low not talking to anyone sort of way. Instead, you felt like you had to jump out of your own skin. Nothing in your body felt right, everything was uncomfortable. You couldn't stay still, your jaw, your breath your hands, they all shook.
There was a bubbling in your throat, not of the painful lump that precedes a cry, but a burning, one that could only be soothed by screaming at the top of your lungs, a sensation that could only be quelled by a presentation of your flaming anger.
You postulated that perhaps you'd probably be sad later, once you experienced the comedown of all this disbelief and anger. And you dreaded that too, you didn't know which emotion you'd prefer, both seemed positively unbearable.
On your aimless journey down the hall, you passed a clock hung up on a depressingly beige wall, glancing up at it with nearly teary eyes you realized there were only five minutes left in the day. A slight relief. You blinked away the forming tears in your eyes and began your shaky journey back to the classroom to get your things.
"Thank you for deciding to come back." Said your teacher, giving you a disappointed glare as you walked in the room.
"There was a line." You grumbled, heading back to your seat at the back of the room.
Defeatedly, you threw yourself back into your seat and anxiously watched the clock. Time had never seemed to move so slow as it did now, each passing second hand teasing you, bringing you closer and closer to the end of the day. Even with the minute amount of time left that burning uncomfortableness inside of you made you want to just get up and run out right there.
Then finally, the shrill ringing of the dismissal bell. It's ear-shattering high pitched tone was absolute music to your ears right now as you nearly ran out the classroom door, and pushing passed the hoards of people in the hallway.
You'd never felt so claustrophobic in your life, the dozens of students lining the hall suffocated you as they prevented you from the sweet release of being out of the school building. You pushed, and pushed, and pushed, being an absolute nuisance to everyone you came in contact with, but right now you really did not care. Then finally- you stepped outside.
The contact with the fresh air was not the cathartic release you were hoping it to be. Rather, you stepped outside and realized you no longer had anything further to look forward to, nothing else that you thought perhaps could free you of this feeling. You ran a hand through your hair, tugging on the strands a little out of pure stress. Your eyes roamed the courtyard of the school, looking out on the sea of students leaving for the weekend.
Then- you spotted him, Brian, walking alone to his car. Fuck it. You needed to do something. Talk to someone. You began walking in that direction, your legs picking up at an unreasonably fast walking pace.
You made your way to Brian's old, beatup car, he hadn;t noticed your presence right outside his passenger window. You peaked in the dirty window, you could see him in the drivers seat, head down with various CD cases strewn upon his lap, his shaggy hair falling in his face.
You tapped on the window, feeling the sun-warmed glass under your knuckle. Slightly startled Brian looked up, his face turning to one of confusion, or maybe it was disgust as his eyes locked with yours. You were having none of it. You knocked again.
"Open the fucking door Brian." You barked through the glass. Shaking his head in perhaps confusion, he leaned over the console and pulled up the lock on the door. Before Brian could even sit back down completely you were tugging on the door handle, and flinging yourself into the passenger seat of Brian's car.
"What the hell, man?" He asks as you get in.
"Save it, Brian." You snap.
"What did I do?" He asks, throwing his arms up defensively. You turn over to the side and glare at him, "Point taken." He sighs sitting back in the driver's seat. "Whatever," He shakes his head, "What are you doing here?"
"I've sat in your car a million fucking times why are you questioning me now?" You're vaguely aware of your harshness towards Brian, but part of you feels like he maybe deserves it... just a little.
"God, rough day?" He asks unsympathetically,
"I'm okay." You look him dead in the eyes. Brian turns to look at you,
"This is okay to you? Aggressively throwing yourself into my car and snapping at me after not talking for four days?"
"I said I'm okay Brian." You insist, not really keen on telling him the whole cheating situation, nowhere near being in the mood for his 'I told you so's'
"Don't fucking tell me it's him again."
You sit up a little from where you're sat in the passenger seat, inching closer to Brian's face,
"Listen to me," You raise your eyebrows, trying to emphasize your words, "I'm telling you the truth, trust me, Brian, I'm okay- I mean it."
Brian sits up in his seat as well, bringing himself closer to you. His face is so close to yours, you're looking him deep in the eyes, trying your absolute hardest not to start crying to him.
"Look man, I know I said I'm sick of hearing your problems but you don't have to lie to m-" Suddenly he's cut off when you lean forward, pressing your lips to his. What the fuck am I doing? Why the fuck did I just do that? You thought. You pulled away quickly, that sick feeling entering your stomach again after realizing what you did. You could feel yourself on the verge of throwing up. Your eyes darted around the car quickly as Brian stared at you in disbelief, you felt compelled to run out of the car, to leave here, and never ever show your face in Cody ever again.
"Oh my god Brian I'm so sorry I don't know what I was thinki-" Suddenly you were the one being cut off this time, Brian's lips pushing against your own. A sense of relief washed over you with this kiss, his hand comes up and holds your cheek. Brian's kissing is sloppy and inexperienced, and you can't help but to notice the faint smell of french fries on his hoodie sleeve, but you don't mind at all.
It's a little overwhelming, actually, the way he's holding your face close to his, the way your lips work together, literally everything else that's been going on the last few days. You feel a tear roll down your cheek, and Brian must have felt it brush up against one of his fingers because he pulls away, your face still cupped in his hand.
"Are you sure you're okay?" He asks again.
"Im not," You sniffle, shaking your head, "I'm not okay." Tears falling down both of your cheeks now. Brian raises his other hand to your face, wiping the stray droplets away with his thumbs
"Do you want to talk abou-"
"Please just kiss me again." You beg desperately.
"Of course." He nods eagerly.
a/n: finally a non eddie fic!! i've been on SUCH an mcr kick recently so i obviously had to write for my fav emo boy :,) ... sorry if this fic is a little uhh... teen angsty... but look at brian... that man is the EPITOME of teen angst. hope everyone enjoyed :)
My name is Cameron. I’m twenty years old and I’m trying to ra… Cameron Cuadra needs your support for Help Cameron and their Cat leave a Toxi
I didn’t think I would ever get to a point to doing this, but here I am.
I know everyone who follows me knows me for posting fanfiction and reblogging fanfiction from X Y Z fandoms, but right now this isn’t about this. This is about something a lot more serious.
I hate asking for help. I hate feeling weak and desperate. But right now, I really need help.
My current living situation hasn’t been the best in the last couple of years. My relationship with my parents has been… rocky. Bad. I feel constantly depressed and anxious whenever I’m here, and my only solace has been my boyfriend and his family, who lofe over 500 miles away.
I feel like I’m in a constant fight with my family and myself, to not lose hope that I can get out. But right now, I’m jobless. I have a medical condition that makes it hard for me to work physically demanding jobs, and they’re the only ones who will accept me.
So I’m coming to you, Tumblr, in hopes that at least one person can help. I’ve made an emergency GoFundMe to try and get myself and my elderly cat out. I don’t have enough money to leave, and no job will accept me, as I’ve stated.
If anyone can help, or if anyone is willing to pay me for work including talents of writing, drawing (both traditional and electronic), photography, amateur acting and video editing, et cetera., please reach out or help donate to the provide like.
But more than anything, sharing this will help. I don’t intend to make my blog all about this, but all I request is that you don’t scroll past and look on.
My name is Cameron. I’m twenty years old and I’m trying to ra… Cameron Cuadra needs your support for Help Cameron and their Cat leave a Toxi
also i know what i want. i know the risks. everything has risk. i am already living! why am i living half a life because of what YOU fear? stop talking down to transsexuals
word count: 5,457 (my longest fic to date!)
pairing: frank castle x transmasc!reader
summary: when you're being harassed by the town drunk, frank (pete) comes to your defense. you reward him with a drink on the house and ask him on a date. <3
tags: no use of y/n, inspired by season 2 episode 1 of the punisher, small town romance, strangers to lovers (?), reader is a bartender, frank introduces himself as pete, beth & reader are friends, angst, hurt, comfort, fluff, reader tries to flirt, reader asks frank out on a date, frank is compared to a pitbull puppy, multiple songs referenced throughout the fic.
warnings: use of homophobic & transphobic slurs, brief gender dysphoria, two mentions of reader's shitty transphobic ex-boyfriend.
author's note: first off, anyone of any gender is welcome to read this fic! however, i want to emphasize that this is intended for my fellow ftm and transmasculine readers because we deserve representation in fan-written content, too! secondly, i know absolutely nothing about bartending, so this is my best guess.
You’re in the middle of another late-night shift at the bar. It’s far from desolate but hasn’t quite reached the rowdy part of the evening. For now, there’s a pleasant number of people flowing in and out of the door, and a few clusters lingering in the middle of the open floorplan where a local band plays a slow, easygoing song. The calm atmosphere allows your mind to slip into autopilot, taking a mental step back while your hands do all the work - cracking open bottles of beer, scooping ice into glasses, pouring shots, and wiping the sticky bartop clean of any accidental spills. Your regular customers tuck tips into your palm when you go to collect their empty glasses; it’s typically only a few dollars, but it adds up throughout your shift. Occasionally, a tourist or a trucker will pass through for a drink. What they may lack in tips, they make up for with storytelling. Regardless, you address every customer with a polite smile and the greeting you’ve recited countless times: “Welcome in! What can I get for you tonight?”
You can barely recall what you had been doing before your shift hours prior. You were probably sulking over your ex-boyfriend, curled up on the couch in a pair of sweatpants and an oversized hoodie, messy and unwashed. Just overall miserable. That’s another thing you enjoy about your job - it gives you a reason to get up, shower, make yourself look decent, and go out into the world. Moreso, you enjoy the routine of your work. You take pride in remembering what day and time a customer usually comes in, where they sit at the bar, and what they order. It’s like clockwork, and the movement of your hands making drinks tells the time. When you’re in the zone, the hours of your shift go by so quickly that you question if you’ve even worked a full eight hours. Luckily, tonight is one of those nights.
In a blur of refilling drinks and humming along to the songs the band is singing, you barely notice another customer saunter up to the far side of the bar. He’s a character you certainly haven’t seen before. He’s easily six feet tall with dark hair trimmed into a crew cut, and a nose that looks like it’s been broken several times. Being a bartender, you’ve certainly seen your fair share of tough guys who walk in just to start a drunken fight, so your instincts immediately wave a big red flag around in your mind. Your coworker who’s in charge of that section of the counter, a sweet but headstrong woman named Beth, approaches the man and takes his order. You watch her swiftly grab a beer, crack the top off, and place it in front of him with a polite smile before moving on to help the next customer. Beth isn’t much of a conversationalist, even though her keen blue eyes and tweed-colored hair draw in plenty of flirtatious patrons. Sometimes you’re jealous of her good looks. Not because men flirt with her, but because it brings in bigger tips. Meanwhile, most of the conservative-leaning customers stare at the little pronoun pin you stick to your shirt before every shift like you’ve just spit on their mother’s grave.
“I’m going on break,” Beth announces just as you’re collecting a few empty glasses off the countertop. “Can you watch my section?”
You nod absentmindedly, knowing she’s most likely going to step out to make a phone call and check on her nine-year-old son, Rex. You should be able to handle refilling drinks and making small talk on your own for about twenty minutes. Beth slips out from behind the bar and exits through the side door labelled “employees only” in white paint that’s been peeling for years. The current flow of customers has slowed down as most people are too occupied socializing and listening to the frontman of the live band croon into the microphone about being a survivor.
For a while, you occupy yourself with chatting up a few regulars and collecting more empty glasses. You even earn a couple of bucks in tips. You pause to look down and tuck the bills into the front pocket of your half-apron when a gravelly but patient voice addresses you.
“One more when you have the chance. Thank you.”
You glance up to see the rugged man from before putting his empty beer bottle on the counter. Your gaze flits over the label before grabbing another one from the small fridge below the bar, cracking it open for him, and swapping it for the empty bottle. You aren’t as quick as Beth, but the man seems satisfied because he produces a crumpled five-dollar bill from his jacket pocket and places it on the bartop, adding, “That’s for you.”
“Do you want me to start a tab for you?” You ask before accepting the tip, following your training first and foremost before jumping too eagerly at the sight of money.
The man smiles, his dark eyes crinkling in the corners, and takes a sip of his beer before musing, “Nah, I’m taking it slow tonight. One beer at a time.”
“Got it.” You give a single nod. You’re glad most of the customers know how to pace themselves rather than getting black-out drunk. Not that it happens very often, considering you live in a small suburban town where half of the population are elderly folks just looking for a decent drink and good music, or middle-aged parents like Beth just trying to get by on minimum wage and gratuity.
You use a rag to wipe away the ring of condensation left behind by the man’s first beer, then pocket the cash he left for you. You can’t help but notice the barely-there smile on his lips as he looks out into the small crowd of lively people talking and laughing under the sound of the live band’s performance. He doesn’t seem to be sizing them up, per se, just observing their interactions. It’s plain he isn’t much of a talker, but you do your due diligence and try to start up a conversation regardless. “I’ve never seen you around here before.”
He tilts his head toward you and braces his elbow on the bartop, his faint smile growing wider. “You know your regulars, huh?”
“Small county, smaller town.” You shrug one shoulder. “I’d wager I know pretty much everyone.”
The man just chuckles and takes a sip of his drink. He clearly isn’t going to give you any answers without being prompted first.
“Trucker?” You guess, which only earns you a shake of his head. You huff, feigning annoyance, and a smile creeps onto your lips as you go down the list of possibilities. “Biker? Undercover cop?”
“Something like that.” He swirls his beer around in the bottle like he’s considering how to reply without being too specific. Interesting.
“Oh, no, I’ve got it.” You pause for dramatic effect. “A killer on the run, hiding away in this dingy, out-of-the-way town to evade the FBI.”
For a moment, a part of you worries if your jab had been a little too on the nose. But he laughs, low and hearty. It’s a sort of laugh that you can’t help but echo. His hand comes up to rub along the stubble on his jaw like he’s trying to wipe the amusement off his face, but he relents. “No, uh… I’m just passing through.”
“A self-proclaimed traveler, then.”
Once again, he smirks in a way that accentuates the charming crinkles around his eyes and the smile lines on his cheeks. He downs the rest of his beer, then sets the empty bottle on the bartop before asking, “Got a restroom in here?”
That’s just further proof that he’s not from around here. Any regular could probably walk to the bathroom with their eyes closed. You jerk your chin toward the far corner of the establishment where the open floor sections off into a hallway. “Second door on the right.”
“Thanks.” He stands from the barstool with a polite smile that curls the corners of his lips. You watch him turn and approach the crowd of people standing around, talking and drinking. Despite his height and broad shoulders, he angles his body to weave around people, like he’s trying to appear modest despite his obviously sturdy build. Or like he’s trying not to disturb anyone from having a good time. You catch yourself staring a little too hard, assessing his black denim jacket and dark blue jeans until he disappears around the corner toward the restroom.
You busy yourself with cleaning up after him by tossing the empty beer bottle in the obligatory recycle bin and wiping the counter clean to welcome the next customer. Or maybe the man would come back for another drink. He seems like good company, so you hope for the latter.
In the corner of your eye, you notice another man stumble up to the bar. His movements are slow through the haze of his obvious drunkenness as he pats his hand on the bar a few times, obviously trying to get your attention. You recognize him - a guy named Johnny who’s been drinking here quite frequently. The word on the street is that he’s been having some troubles with his wife at home. You feel bad for the guy because there have been a few instances where he’s been kicked out of the bar for getting too rowdy.
“I’ll be right with you,” you acknowledge him in the middle of collecting another empty cup and putting away a tip. There’s no way you’re going to serve this guy another drink. If you’re lucky, you could coax him into drinking a few glasses of water to sober up.
“Hey,” Johnny slurs loudly. “You ignorin’ me?”
You force yourself to take a deep breath. It’s not like you haven’t dealt with drunk customers before, but that doesn’t make these types of interactions any easier. You straighten yourself up and try to keep your tone gentle yet assertive as you address him, “Sorry, but I can’t serve you any more drinks tonight.”
While Johnny groans and laments the loss of more alcohol, you see your guy from before returning to his spot at the bar just a few feet away. He glances over at you, his dark eyebrows raised slightly in question, but you just give him a polite smile. There’s no reason to signify there’s a problem if you can handle this quickly and quietly.
“I could get you a water,” you offer Johnny, hoping to find some sort of common ground.
“I don’t want that shit,” he snaps and now slams his fist down on the bartop. Your mouth opens to apologize and reiterate the fact that you cannot, in good conscience, serve him more liquor. But he interrupts you, spitting as his large hand shoots out to grab your arm, “Just pour me a drink, you damn tranny.”
You freeze in place. Suddenly, your feet feel glued to the floor and your wrist itches where his skin meets yours. You’ve been mocked, harassed, and called slurs before, especially in your tiny, mostly-conservative town. Still, no one has ever put their hands on you so brazenly. Your lungs burn with the effort of holding your breath, knowing if you so much as exhale, a long string of unsavory swear words will follow. In your peripheral vision you see the bar’s notorious bouncer, Ringo, slowly begin to stand from his seat a few yards away and prepare to toss Johnny out for the fifth time this week. You try to relax your rigid shoulders and remain calm, unbothered, and remind yourself that this is just some drunk asshole trying to intimidate you. It’s best to resolve the situation as delicately as possible so a fight doesn’t break out.
You attempt to wriggle out of his grasp but his hand only tightens around your arm, enough that you feel your wrist pop. Teeth grit, you speak as slow as you would talking to a toddler, “You’re gonna have to let go of my arm now, Johnny.”
“Hey, hey.” A rough voice cuts through your barrage of thoughts and you whip your head around to see none other than your guy from before. His dark jacket has been discarded and folded over the back of a nearby barstool. He’s standing with his back to you, elbows braced casually on the bartop behind him. When he turns his head to look at Johnny, his eyebrows are furrowed, jaw set, mouth is a flat, disapproving line. The drunkard pulls on your arm and your stranger immediately raps his knuckles against the bartop. “Guy’s tryna work. How’s he gonna pour drinks when you’re holding onto his arm like that? Let go.”
He defends you so effortlessly that it gives you pause just long enough for Johnny to release your wrist, albeit reluctantly. You step away and turn to face the back wall. It’s just a bit of privacy for you to collect your frazzled nerves from fraying. You focus on the different types of liquor bottles on the shelf as you force your lungs to accept deep breaths, wiping your sweaty palms on your apron, trying to ease the way your pulse pounds in your throat.
“You alright?”
You swallow one more breath before turning around to face the man who defended you, grabbing a clean glass, and beginning to make a random drink. The practiced motions soothe your nerves. Thankfully, there’s hardly a wobble in your voice when you reply, “Yeah, he’s just a drunk.”
“I ain’t drunk, faggot,” Johnny mumbles.
Great. He couldn’t get a rise out of you by insulting your gender, so now he’s stooping lower to insult your sexuality. You nearly roll your eyes but think better of it, knowing it could get you knocked upside the head by this asshole.
“That’s classy,” your guy remarks with a slight nod to Johnny that you can tell is seeped in sarcasm.
“I’m sorry, did you say somethin’?”
Fuck, this isn’t looking good.
Your guy is quiet for a moment, nodding slowly before murmuring, “Yeah.”
“You jus’ made my night.” Johnny saunters up to him and pokes him in the shoulder - hard. “Shitbird.”
You wet your lips and sigh to yourself as you watch their interaction. As much as you appreciate this stranger standing up for you, you seriously don’t want a brawl to break out just because of a few ill words.
Johnny keeps jabbing his finger into your stranger’s arm until he snaps, grabbing Johnny’s hand, squeezing, and twisting his wrist until you hear bones pop.
“You like that? Hmm?” Your rugged savior grunts then shoves Johnny away. His upper lip twitches in irritation as Johnny hisses in pain and stumbles back. “Get out of here.”
Johnny cradles his injured arm to his chest for only a few seconds before grabbing someone’s empty beer bottle and slamming it on the edge of the bartop. The glass shatters and you jolt, eyes zeroing in on the jagged edges of what remains of the bottleneck.
“What are you doing? Don’t do that.” The stranger defending you sounds more disappointed in Johnny than afraid that he might get stabbed. Johnny throws a punch, which your stranger effortlessly dodges by taking a step backward.
Luckily, that’s the moment Ringo steps in and flings Johnny face-first onto the bartop. He pins Johnny’s arms behind his back before barking at him and your stranger. “You got two choices: you can walk out, or I will carry your ass out like him.”
“Ringo!” You raise your voice over the chattering voices of overlookers. “He’s good, man. He was helping me out. Just get rid of Johnny.”
You trail off and Ringo shoots the stranger a glare intense enough to level a building, a clear statement not to fuck around and find out. Then Ringo hauls Johnny onto his feet and drags him to the door, muttering curses.
You sigh with relief now that the threat has been taken care of. Meanwhile, your stranger pulls up a barstool and takes a seat. His expression is wary, like he wants to say something to you but he’s not too sure where to start.
“Don’t worry. Been dealing with dicks like that for years.” It doesn’t sound too reassuring now that you say it out loud, but at least he’ll know this isn’t your first rodeo with a transphobe.
“You shouldn’t have to,” he says, firm and resolute, leaving no room for debate of any kind.
“Yeah, well…” You sigh for the nth time tonight and don’t provide follow-up. It goes without saying that the world doesn’t always work the way you want it to. Only then do you realize that your face is scrunched. You feel it in your forehead, between your eyebrows, in the tense set of your jaw. You swallow the lump in your throat and try to smooth out your features the best you can, but probably fail miserably.
“Think I could trouble you for another beer?” he asks, changing the subject.
“Yeah.” You lean down, grab one from the fridge below the counter, and crack it open for him. Still, the situation is weighing on your mind. Your mouth gets the better of you and you blurt, “I didn’t need saving.”
You don’t mean to be rude. Not really. In reality, you just feel embarrassed that another man thought it was necessary to protect you. Dysphoria gnaws on your heart like an insatiable little imp. It’s moments like this that remind you what sets you apart from “real” men. Hell, you could fight with teeth, nails, and fists, and you still wouldn’t be able to hold your own against someone like Johnny. Not the way Ringo or this guy could. It makes you feel sick to your stomach.
“Maybe I just don’t like assholes,” your stranger offers with a half-grin.
That makes you huff out a laugh. He reaches into his pocket and, assuming he’s going to pull out his wallet to pay for his drink, you say, “It’s alright. This one is on me.”
“No, no, no. It’s okay, you don’t have to do that,” he argues for the sake of nicety.
“It’s on me,” you insist and match his smile.
He tilts his head and gives in. “Thank you.”
Silence hangs between you and, for a moment, there’s nothing to do other than appreciate the fact that you’re safe. That, and you savor this stranger’s no-nonsense attitude. A part of you can’t believe that he’s sitting in front of you now, casually sipping on a cold beer as if he didn’t almost snap Johnny’s wrist in half only minutes ago.
“So,” You break the silence and brace your palm on the edge of the counter. You’re doing your best to make casual small talk despite everything that just went down. “What name can I call you when I tell my coworkers the story of what happened tonight?”
“Gonna gossip about me?” He counters but it’s all mock offense. You can tell by the way his lips curl at his own joke.
“Just a little.” You play along with a shrug of your shoulder. “Not every day a handsome guy just walks in here and saves the day.”
“I dunno.” He pretends to contemplate, tilting his head like a quizzical puppy, fingers drumming along his beer bottle. “Your guy Ringo is pretty good-looking.”
You laugh and your chest instantly feels free of the weight of tonight’s events. You even have to pause to catch your breath before pressing again, “So, do you have a name? Speak now or forever hold your peace. But then I’ll just call you ‘guy on the run from the FBI’ forever.”
“Uh.” He hangs his head and it takes a second for you to realize that he’s trying to hide a grin. Once he picks his head up again, he still keeps his eyes low, like he’s bashful. “Pete.”
“Pete,” you echo. Then you stick out your hand and give him your name.
He gives your hand a firm shake and repeats your name back to you. For the first time in a long time, it sounds right. Coupled with his warm, rough palm pressed against yours, you determine you’ve found an ally.
“Nice to meet you, Pete,” you state and his hand eases away from yours. You give him one last grateful look before leaving him to sip his beer in peace while you return to your mundane bartending tasks.
Eventually, the night dies down. The live band packed up and left, taking most of the customers with them. The bar is practically empty now but not much quieter, seeing as Beth took it upon herself to put a record on the vinyl player in the corner once she returned from her break. A song by The Doors – Roadhouse Blues, if your memory serves you right – fills the empty space. Every note lingers as you begin your cleaning duties, seeing as the bar will close within the hour. You and Beth are side-by-side at the sink behind the bar. She’s elbow-deep in soapy water, scrubbing glasses clean, rinsing them off, then handing them to you to be dried.
“Who’s that?” she asks and jerks her head back toward where Pete still sits at the counter, carefully nursing his last beer.
“Pete,” you say simply. “He’s cool. Tips well. Saved me from getting my arm broken by some drunk asshole.”
“Johnny?”
“Yeah. He definitely had one too many tonight.”
“Like usual.”
Your laugh comes out as a snort and you shake your head at Beth’s jab.
“Anyway, he said a few choice words about me that Pete overheard and, well…” You trail off as Beth passes you a low-ball glass, which you dry with a rag then conclude, “Let’s just say he earned himself a free drink.”
Beth takes a moment to look over her shoulder at Pete before returning her gaze to the cups she’s washing. “He’s cute.”
“Yeah,” you agree under your breath. “Like a pitbull.”
Beth smiles and leans over to nudge your shoulder with hers. “Ask him out.”
She says it so easily, conversationally, like she’s suggesting a picnic in the park. Like the implication of you, a transgender man, asking out a guy like Pete would be a good idea and couldn’t possibly end in catastrophe. Your mouth suddenly feels a little too dry for your liking.
“No way.” You try to keep your voice as low as possible. “Look at him. He probably, most-definitely, almost-100 percent likes women.”
Beth shrugs casually. “You’ll never know ‘til you ask.”
“Right, because that always goes well.” Your voice is seeped in sarcasm as you recall your previous failed relationship which primarily ended because of your gender identity. “Let’s not forget about the last guy I dated.”
“Your fault for assuming a guy named Dale was gonna be supportive.”
“Like Pete is any better!” You whisper-yell.
“He defended you,” she reminds you gently. “And Pete isn’t an old man’s name.”
You huff at her stubbornness. “Alright, fine. But if it goes south-”
“We have a shotgun under the bar.”
“And you owe me a whiskey sour.”
You narrowly dodge Beth trying to fling a small handful of soap suds at you, which lands on the rubber mat beneath your feet with an unceremonious splat. You snatch a clean rag as well as the spray bottle of disinfectant from beneath the bar, then busy yourself with cleaning. You start on the far side of the countertop and routine distracts you once more - spray, wipe, spray, wipe.
By the time you’re merely a foot away from where Pete sits, you realize you hadn’t even tried to think up a good conversation starter. Then he looks up at you. Not expectant, just looking. Like you’re something – someone – to be looked at. Only then do you realize truly how deep his brown eyes are, like the dark chocolate the diner up the street melts into their hot cocoa.
Fuck.
Not wanting to seem like you’re looming over him – even though you couldn’t even if you tried – you lean over and brace your folded arms on the countertop. You hope it looks casual and not awkward, or like you’re mentally shitting bricks.
“What brings you into town?” It’s the only question you think to croak through the nervous block in your throat. Quickly, you try to add something witty. “Definitely not sightseeing.”
He scrunches his nose on one side but the look in his eye is bright, almost comically playful considering the bulk of his biceps and the lean cut of his tanned forearms propped on the table. “Yeah, it’s pretty desolate out here, huh?”
“Not unless you consider city hall an attraction.”
He laughs then, which only encourages you to keep talking.
“I mean, it could be entertaining if you sit in on some meetings. Last week, two neighbors spent an hour arguing over where a fence should go to split the property evenly.”
“You go to those things?” Pete grins like it’s the best thing he’s heard all week, his cheeks a little rosey from the three beers he’s had tonight.
“Only when I get bored of watching Ancient Aliens on my couch.”
From the sink, Beth declares, “One last call for alcohol!”
It’s like a countdown to when you could miss your chance to ask Pete out on a date. Or get his number, at least.
“Closing time,” you reiterate to Pete, then smile to yourself as the lyrics to one of your favorite songs pops into your mind. “‘You don’t have to go home-’”
“-but you can’t stay here,’” he finishes for you, lips curling, then tips his head back as he downs the last sip of beer from the bottle.
Damn. Ruggedly attractive, good morals, and he knows the words to a Semisonic song. He’s basically your dream man in the flesh.
“‘I know who I want to take me home,’” Beth says in a sing-songy tone just loud enough to be heard as she takes the cleaning rag and spray bottle from your hands, then gives a none too subtle nudge to your shoulder. Warmth rushes to your cheeks and Pete lets out a laugh that sounds more like a cough. Before you can shoot her a glare, she’s moving to the opposite end of the bar to finish your chore.
“Sorry,” you mumble, voice breathy with exasperation. “Don’t mind her.”
“ ‘s alright,” Pete murmurs. His head is lowered just slightly, as if this hardwearing man is actually hesitant to meet your eyes after Beth’s suggestive choice of quoted lyrics. You watch him use his dull thumbnail to pick at the corner of the label on his empty beer bottle like a nervous fidget.
“Can I get you anything else?” You ask and he just shakes his head, making you scoff in mock disbelief. “Come on. You waltz in here, defend my honor, and settle on just three drinks?”
“Guess I do.”
“You’ve got the ‘man of mystery’ thing down, I’ll give you that.”
He chuckles with another amused shake of his head then stands from the barstool. You feel your opportunity slipping away.
“Are you leaving tomorrow?” You pipe up over the country tune now singing from the vinyl player.
“Bright and early,” he confirms as gathers his black denim jacket off the back of his chair, pulls it on, and adjusts the collar. You catch the shine of metal around his neck, a thin beaded chain that disappears underneath his dark gray shirt so you can’t see if there’s anything hanging from it.
“Too bad.” You chew on your bottom lip. For a moment you allow your eyes to linger on Pete’s hands as he politely tucks the barstool under the counter as far as it can go. Despite the way he fought for you earlier, it otherwise seems as if he tries his best not to be in the way of others, even if as something as small as making sure his chair is pushed in.
Then he rumbles, “It’s been a pleasure,” and your last remainder of hesitation snaps.
Fuck it.
“Are you sure you don’t want to grab another drink-”
He chuckles breathlessly. “Believe me, I’m good-”
“-with me?”
The silence that follows your question is loud, but not more than the beat of your heart in your chest. Sure, a few tipsy guys who swore they understood you’re a man have tried to shoot their shot with you. But when you went out with them you figured out they ultimately only viewed you as a woman, even with your chest flattened and voice deepened by testosterone. This is the first time it’s been the other way around, though. Never in your many years of working at this bar have you ever asked a customer out on a date. With the way Pete is staring at you, his eyebrows lifted in a gentle question and his lips tucked in, you contemplate melting into the floor and becoming one with the remnants of spilled alcohol collected on the rubber mat beneath your feet.
Assuming the worst, you bow your head and lift your hand like you can dismiss the idea out of the air. “Forget it-”
“I’d like that,” he interrupts. Your head snaps up and he gives you a single nod so elusive you think you’re dreaming. His mouth is a soft line now, and his dark eyes flick to the floor before meeting yours again, shy. Oh, he’s serious. Your lips part to reply but you come up with nothing, simply dumbfounded that you actually agreed. He didn’t laugh or sneer. He accepted your offer of his own volition.
“I could stay in town for ‘nother day or two,” Pete adds and tucks his hands into his pockets with a sheepish little shrug. “Take you to dinner tomorrow night.”
If he could read your mind, he’d see blue skies and rainbows and flying pigs.
“Sure, that’s-” You laugh breathlessly as you stumble over the few words your brain can muster. “That’d be good. Great.”
“Yeah?” He gives you that half-smile that makes his eyes crinkle in the corners. “Seven o’ clock work for you?”
“Yeah,” you repeat like it’s the only term in your vocabulary. A truly giddy feeling takes over as you reach into the front pocket of your half-apron to produce a cheap ballpoint pen and a white napkin. You waste no time scribbling down your name, followed by a string of digits below it, then hand it to Pete.
“My number,” you explain. “In case you want to, uh-”
Goddamn it, you sound like you have a collapsed lung with the way you can barely catch your breath in between words.
“I’ll call you,” he assures, gesturing toward you with the napkin. Then he folds it up like it’s something precious and hides it away in his pocket.
“Right.” Suddenly unsure what to do with your nervous hands now that there’s no drinks to make in order to distract yourself, you opt for clasping them together, fingers interlocked. “It was nice meeting you, Pete.”
“You, too.” He takes a few steps backward, boots making the wooden floor creak, and lifts his arm to wave goodbye with his hand still tucked into his jacket pocket. “Have a good night.”
“Yeah,” you repeat for the nth time tonight. Your eyes are glued to his back as he weaves between abandoned tables and walks out the front door, the little bell ringing upon his exit. Even though it’s well past dark outside, you swear when you look through the window the yellow streetlamps in the parking lot illuminate his boyish grin.
Your quiet admiration is cut short by Beth’s smug voice calling out from where she stands by the record player, “I told you so!”
“Shut up!” you retort but you’re beaming.
The song playing skids to a stop as Beth lifts the pin. She swaps the vinyl out for a different album and, much to your mixed delight and embarrassment, the opening guitar notes of Closing Time begin to fill the space.
“Alright, loverboy, get to cleaning,” Beth chides as she walks over and tosses you a spare rag out of her half-apron. “I wanna get home before sunrise.”
For the remainder of the night, you’re elated. You organize clean glasses, sweep the floor, and turn all the chairs upside down onto the tabletops without uttering a single complaint. This time, you’re the one singing along to the music: “‘Every new beginning comes from some other beginning’s end.’”
author's note: once again, thank you to my lovely friends @cringefail-losergirl and @f0wlpl4y for beta-reading this fic!
likes, comments, and reposts are always appreciated! thank you so much for reading! -love, immie ❀
fuck you hostile architecture fuck you requiring proof of someone’s address fuck you removing benches fuck you street sweeps fuck you pay-to-unlock bathrooms fuck you anti-encampment laws fuck you parking meters fuck you homeless shelters/hostels that make you pay, that have a cap on the amount of personal belongings you can have, that have rampant unaddressed abuse fuck you anti-homeless laws fuck you police fuck you fuck everything that criminalises being homeless
being so staunchly anti generative ai while everyone around you is "i used chatgpt" and "i asked grok" and google search is useless and every company is implementing ai and every single celeb is taking ai money and partnering with ai is like... it's so jarring. why can't you see the harm like i can? why are you so lazy? why are we making society this stupid? can we please stop? it's killing people does that not matter to you?
Inspired by the metallica concert I just went to bc im pretty sure it changed my life
Simon with a partner who really only listens to rock music. Heavy metal, alternative, glam rock, nu-metal, punk - their playlist was comprised of the longest mashup of rock sub-genres in the world.
Simon who absolutely goes to rock concerts with you, always grabbing the best seats and going in the pit with you, massive frame and skull baklava scaring off anyone who even tries to push you.
Simon who gets you to the barricade or lifts you up on his shoulders so you can see your favorite stars up close.
Simon who watches you scream the lyrics and dance around as he holds the merch and waters in his hand. (He absolutely does the dad pose - arms crossed, bobbing his head to the music and mouthing the lyrics).
Simon who holds the phone and films clips of your favorite songs to watch later, so you canive in the moment and enjoy the music. (He doesn't mind)
Simon who, after the concert is over, takes you to your favorite late night convenience store or restaurant, treating you and him to your post concert meal.
Simon who helps you take off your outfit and gets you into bed quickly after as he finishes unloading the car.
romaincrisis
pixelskylines
titsay
dailybridgerton
kianamaiart
prguitarman
areudirty
