Heartstone Guardian - Douxie Casperan x Fem!OC (complete)
Penny’s parents always warned her not to wander too far in the woods behind their house, but her desire for adventure typically outweighed any guilt she felt for putting a hole in her backyard’s fence.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Or, Penelope Lake has to face the truth about her town, and herself, after her brother finds a magical amulet at the bottom of a canal
fandom: tales of arcadia
relevant tags: #penny lake #my fic #toa #tales of arcadia
fic announcement!
character inspo moodboard
Be the Leaf - Kakashi Hatake x Fem!OC (wip)
Suzuha once believed she would have everything she could have ever needed in The Eastern Air Temple. But The Third Shinobi War was proving to be a tragedy of truly epic proportions, taking much more than any of them could have possibly expected.
And no nation was safe from the onslaught.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Or, Suzuha is forced to experience the immense burden that comes with being the last of her people…and adopts a few kids along the way.
fandom: naruto
relevant tags: n/a
Bad Dream, Baby - (Mainly) Malleus Draconia x Fem!OC (wip)
The first thing Yume realized when she opened her eyes was that, wherever she was, was dark as hell.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Or, if a dream truly is a wish your heart makes, then Yume’s convinced that this must be an actual nightmare.
fandom: twisted wonderland
relevant tags: n/a
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
cultivated stacks
Fanfic's That Altered My Brain Chemistry (In No Particular Order)
occasionally updated and reblogged multifandom masterlist list of my personal ao3 favorites
Warnings/tags: slow burn continues! john logan in his underwear (all you do is win win win). tucker is my favorite and i'm not hiding it at all. ND reader, forgetting to eat, struggling to recognize social cues. reader feels shame around attraction/crushes. mommy issues cont. canon mentions of addiction.
i don't do taglists but you can follow @sanguinelibrary for all fic updates
the divider
You: Hi
You: Can I drop your wings off around 4 o'clock?
Logan: hi yeah definitely :) don’t worry about knocking just come in I’m home till 6
You check the text one last time as you walk down the road where the Hawks house sits. It's a little past four because you couldn't find pants that didn't make your skin crawl, until you found a pair of yoga pants buried in a drawer.
You haven’t been here in weeks, and even then, you didn’t go past the yard line. Hannah had gone in and out, having left her notebook in Garrett’s room earlier that day. You hadn’t known Logan lived there, not that it would’ve mattered. He wasn’t on your radar, and you sincerely doubt you were on his.
The door is unlocked, so you go right in, like Logan told you to. You close the door behind you, wings in hand, leaving your bookbag by the door. Then you wait.
The house is quiet. You pull out your phone and text I’m here to Logan, but there’s no reply even after a few minutes. You peer around the stairs. Where is everyone?
“Hey.”
You snap to attention as Dean comes around the corner. He slows down to a stop, raising his eyebrows at you.
“What’s up?” he asks.
Fuck. You never know how to answer this question. Usually, people don’t actually want to know about your life. They’re just being polite.
“Nothing,” you say, your voice going up at the end. “And yourself?”
He snorts. “I mean, why are you just standing by the door?”
“Oh. I’m waiting for Logan. I came to drop off his wings.”
Dean nods, squinting at you. “Uh-huh… so go to him? He’s in the back lifting, but he should be done soon. You’re not, like, exiled to this one spot.”
“Heh, right.” You swallow. “Okay. Thanks.”
He gives you a thumbs-up and one last lingering, strange look, before going upstairs. You drop your smile, already feeling wrung out. Going to people’s houses makes you feel like you’ve run a marathon. So many rules.
It’s just you again. You go towards the backyard, but you take your time, looking at the pictures on their fridge and the video games in the cabinet under the TV. You snoop through some of the shelves, fascinated to learn about what they eat. Conclusion? Many protein powder containers. You didn’t know it came in that many flavors. You wonder which one Logan eats. Chocolate? Confetti cake? Peanut butter?
There’s a photo of the guys at what looks like the beach. Your eyes linger on Logan even though all four of them are shirtless. He’s wearing light blue board shorts that are crisp against his golden skin, and he has his arms around Garrett and Tucker. He’s smiling at the camera. You kind of want to take a picture of the photo and make that his contact in your phone, but that is probably not the best choice, morally and mentally, so you instead stare at it for a long time and commit it to memory. Then you go outside.
Logan is lifting weights. Logan is shirtless, in real time. Logan's back muscles are like the dimpled marble you find in museums, so skin-like, it makes you wonder if the sculptors entombed a person they loved and called it creation. With every rep, his muscles flex, from his shoulders to his stomach. His skin is a little bronzed, and you can imagine how tan he gets in the summer, his body sun-hot even after night falls.
He has a maroon bandana on, presumably to keep the hair out of his face. You lean against the door, winded like you're lifting weights alongside him. His skin looks soft. You'd like to find out for sure.
There's a shiny path between his neck and shoulder that looks like it'd sink beneath your teeth. And his thighs and calves are both sturdy. He's a good skater, so it makes sense. But it's different to see his legs bare, evidently thickened with muscle, working to support Logan as he lifts weights. You took a biology class. You know that Logan's bulging calf muscle is called the gastrocnemius. Below is his Achilles tendon. You wonder if his are sore—if you pressed, would he groan?
Or maybe his quadriceps are the sorest from all the skating. They're thick with muscle too. Yours are soft with fat. Maybe Logan would like to press down on yours.
No, bad. Wrong. You shouldn't think like that. What an offense it'd be, you wanting Logan like that. A dark, hurt part of you imagines him laughing to his friends about the girl in his psychology class believing she has the right to like a person like him. It's happened before; the way people—boys—can turn on you in an instant when they realize that you have the gall to crush on them like normal girls do, turns your bones to ice. You won't make that mistake with Logan.
“Hey dude, if you're going out later, can you get—” Tucker stops short at the sight of you, his hand on the doorknob as he pokes his head outside. He smiles. “Oh, hey. What're you…”
Logan has set down his weights, and he's staring right at you. He waves. Your eyes widen.
“W-wings,” is all you can say. Shit. You shimmy past Tucker, and hover near the kitchen island. You're tempted to make a break for it, wringing your hands as you watch Tucker ask his question, then return inside.
“Were you waiting on Logan? He's finishing up his last rep.”
“Right.” You shrug like you weren't creeping on John Logan two minutes ago, and sit at the island. “Thanks.”
“Sure thing. I'm just cooking, but hang out if you want. Actually! Do you mind taste-testing something?”
“Does it have mushrooms?”
“No,” Tucker says, spooning something from a bowl. “It's pico de gallo. I'm making tacos. I just wanna know if the acid and salt are balanced.”
He offers you a spoonful of the pico. You eat it, focused on the salt and acid. It's so nice when people give instructions for what they want feedback on. When someone asks you if something is good or bad, you have no idea how to answer. According to what? you want to ask.
“It's very good,” you say. “None of the flavors are overwhelming.”
Tucker holds his hand up, and it takes you a second to realize he wants a high five. Slowly, you tap his hand.
“Teamwork makes the dream work,” he says. “You should stay for dinner.”
You’d consider it if you thought it would just be Tucker and Logan. But you don’t think you can handle all four of them together just yet. Not alone, anyway.
“Thank you for the offer,” you say, reciting the words your old therapist taught you to reject someone without hurting their feelings. “But I can’t today. Maybe another time.”
“Yeah, definitely. I haven't made pico since high school, so I’ll be making it again soon.”
“Did you cook a lot with your mom?”
Tucker beams. “Yeah, I did. I still do when I go home to visit. Mostly, I'm trying to do my mama justice when I recreate what she taught me. Do you cook much?”
“Sometimes. But often I'm so worn out, I have no energy to try new recipes. I like to cook and bake but one hundred other things usually require my energy instead. I haven't been grocery shopping in nearly two weeks.”
Which has been tough, considering the food at the cafeteria isn't always the best, and you pay per meal since you'd told your mother you would mostly cook in your dorm, which has a kitchen unit. But for the past week, you've sustained on two cafeteria meals and whatever looks reasonably edible in the vending machines. There was also Thursday, where you stumbled upon a breakfast event for women entrepreneurs, which you are not. But they had cheese danishes. You love danish.
“I hear you. I'll get excited to try a new recipe and then I can't decide and I just make something I've made before,” says Tucker.
You nod. “Yes. Except I can't even do that at times. But something that's helped me is a food chart.”
“What's that?”
“It's a chart on my fridge with little pictures of foods I like and eat regularly. It's split into three categories for breakfast, lunch, and dinner. So breakfast has toast, cereal, bacon, waffles, and so on. Lunch has sandwiches, burgers, ramen… anyway, it helps to have a visual presentation of what I can eat. Then I pick something and make it. Usually. Sometimes I eat shredded cheese out of the bag and call it a day.”
Or you don’t go grocery shopping for weeks and you have nothing on your chart to eat anyway.
“That's a good idea. Wait, maybe I can make one to maintain a balanced plate. Protein, carbs, fiber, fat. Those could be categories.”
You nod. “You can organize it however you want. I can send you the template I used.”
“Sick. I'll give you my number,” Tucker says, walking around the kitchen island.
You unlock your phone and he types his number in, then takes a selfie where he's pursing his lips and puts that as his contact picture. You laugh, startled.
The door behind you opens. Logan walks in, no longer shirtless. He stops short upon seeing you two.
“What’s happening here?” he asks, drying his neck with a towel.
“Tucker is putting his number into my phone,” you say. You turn to Tucker. “Maybe you can send me the recipe for the pico de gallo?”
You doubt you'll be making it soon, but it's nice to have another friend, which seems to be what Tucker is becoming. And based on the video you watched, talking about cooking is a good way for you to make him your friend. You are on fire so far. Two new friends in a month!
“Totally,” he says, patting your hand.
“Logan said you're a master chef,” you say, glancing at Logan, expecting him to chime in. But he's just staring at your hand, where Tucker touched you. You don't know him well enough to parse through his expressions, but it doesn't look like happiness.
“Aw, thanks, man.” Tucker pats Logan's chest, which snaps him out of his staring. He smiles.
“Yeah, well, it's true. Alright, I'm gonna shower, then I gotta stop by the garage.”
“I left your wings over there,” you say, pointing to the couch. Maybe Logan didn't notice you watching him earlier. That bodes well for you, if true. The last thing you need is to prove to him how weird you truly are.
“Thanks,” Logan says. “They're always here if you wanna use ‘em again. Never know when you'll be in a pinch for a costume.”
You just nod, still unused to Logan's easy generosity. He goes upstairs.
“Hey, since he's going to the garage, why don't you go with him? It's on the same highway as Market Basket,” Tucker says. He's just finished tenderizing the chicken, and now he's cutting it.
“Will Logan be okay with that?”
“‘Course, he'd take you anywhere you wanna go.”
You suppose friends do that for other friends.
“Thank you for the suggestion, Tucker.”
“No prob.” He's now elbow-deep in a Ziploc bag, seasoning the chicken with one gloved hand. The smell of Adobo, oranges, and chipotle peppers makes your mouth water. He also has an apron on, which makes you feel light and warm.
You're beginning to understand now what it's like to feel welcomed, befriended, a part of people's lives. Yes, you have Hannah and Allie, who always make you feel welcome, but you've never gone out and made friends on your own. Hannah was at freshman orientation, and befriended you herself, because Hannah's smiley and kind to everyone. Then Allie became your friend because Hannah introduced you.
But to find friends on your own, to go to a hockey house and watch someone marinade chicken for their taco night, it's a different feeling entirely. It makes you think that maybe you're not a lost cause like your mother has told you so many times before. In your first month of college, she visited a few times, always tutting at the “state of things.”
She told you that you'd fail the college experience if you didn't get out of your dorm, but you were so overwhelmed by change that you had no idea how to do what she wanted. You've never known, actually. Your whole life is one big question mark when it comes to pleasing your mother. You stumble blindly, reaching for people, places, experiences you don't want to have, all in the name of eliciting a smile from her.
“Hey, pipes are leaking!” Logan shouts from upstairs. “Tuck, can you bring me my allen wrench?”
You look at Tucker, who appears a little frazzled between the chicken and the veggies to dice.
“I can bring it,” you say, getting up. “Where's the wrench?”
“Thanks. It's in that closet.” He points to it with his chin.
You open the closet and locate the orange toolbox. You pull out a wrench and show it to Tucker.
“That's the one. Bathroom's at the end of the hall.”
You go upstairs. One of the doors is closed, and you can hear music and what sounds like a woman's voice. You linger only for a moment before you go to the bathroom. The door is barely cracked, so you knock softly. It swings open.
“Thanks, ma—” Logan cuts himself off, evidently realizing that you're not Tucker. “Oh, hi.”
A beat. Then:
“Your underwear is pink,” you blurt. Also, Logan is only in his underwear.
He looks down. “Yeah, these are actually the product of Garrett's learning curve with the washer. He didn't know you're supposed to separate colors and whites. So now I have three pairs of pink briefs.”
You nod, still fixed on Logan's thighs and how tight the underwear sits on them. Look anywhere else.
You look at his face, which seems worse, somehow.
“Sorry,” you say, suddenly, horribly mortified. “I was—sorry.”
Logan smiles, and you envy how he can lean against the doorframe like he's not almost naked. “All good. Ten years in locker rooms desensitizes you to people seeing you in your underwear.”
“Even girls?”
He makes a so-so motion with his hand. “Depends on if I think they'll laugh at me.”
“I would never laugh at you in your underwear,” you say seriously. “You look great.”
He lifts an eyebrow. You stutter.
“I-I mean—that's…”
God, you've never lost your words like this. Your tongue feels like sand.
“Can I have the wrench?” he asks kindly.
You almost throw it at him with how fast you shoot your arm out. He takes it, fingers brushing yours. You cross your arms tightly against your chest.
Logan points to the shower with his thumb. “So I'm gonna go fix this…”
“Uh-huh! Yes. Good plan. Have fun.”
“Alright.” He gives you a thumbs-up. The door is almost shut when you say, “Wait!”
Logan opens the door a little. “Yeah?”
“Can you drop me off at the grocery store? I haven't gone grocery shopping in two weeks.”
His eyebrows knit. “Two weeks?”
“Yeah.”
Logan frowns. “You shouldn't go so long without shopping. Have you been eating enough? Is it ‘cause you don't have a car?”
It wouldn't matter if you had a car because you don't drive—driving terrifies you. And even if you did drive, you probably still wouldn't have gone shopping because doing anything related to maintaining your body has felt like an impossible task these days.
But that isn't something you can tell Logan, so you just say, “Yes.”
“Well, I can drive you to the store in the future, so you don't go that long without groceries. Just let me know. Thursdays and Sundays work best, when I don't have games or practice.”
“Okay,” you say, thinking again about how nice Logan is to you. Then you look at his chest. He is so nice, in fact, that you'd really like to bite his belly. It's taut with muscle, but you think it'd still be a good location to bite.
“Okay,” Logan echoes, and it sounds a little like he's laughing. “I'll see you in a bit.”
You nod, and he closes the door. You stare at it for a couple seconds before you turn on your heel. You're about to go downstairs, maybe ask Tucker if he needs help. But the door to Logan's room is wide open. You stop in front of it.
His jersey is on the back of his chair. His bed is made. You always enjoy seeing people's beds made even though you've never been able to maintain that habit. Straightening blankets is an impossible task; going to sleep regularly is hard enough.
Logan's room is neater than you expected. Dean's room is, according to overheard conversation from girls on campus, a sty. You take a hesitant step inside. Then another, and another. You see his closed laptop and a couple of photos on his desk. One of him and Jules. One of Logan and Garrett after a hockey game. One of the whole Briar team. You scan the faces until you find Logan, and he's smiling like he always is, curls bouncy. He has books on his shelves, and you read some of the titles: Intro to Adult Developmental Psychology; World of Ice Hockey; Bridge to Terabithia. You take out the last one. Its pages are worn, the paperback cover slightly bent. You return it to the shelf.
You pull open his drawers, finding athletic wear, sweatpants, and soft sweaters. You open another drawer and find his socks and underwear—you quickly shut it. Then you wander the room. He has his hockey gear in one corner: his stick, his padding.
You sit on the edge of his bed, wondering what it would be like to come here regularly, lying on Logan's bed and smelling his apple scent, agonizing over essays, watching movies. Every time you discover someone's space, you yearn to be a part of it. For their room to engulf you, accept you as part of the furniture, a part of their home. The pull in your stomach to feel that with Logan is particularly strong. It's bad.
Out of the corner of your eye, you catch movement too late. Garrett spots you immediately on his way to his room, which is across from Logan's. He stops at the doorway.
“Hey,” he says. “What're you doing in here?”
Even though he and Hannah are dating—or not dating, you aren't really sure—Garrett Graham thoroughly intimidates you. Hannah has told you that he’s kind of arrogant but also kind of sweet. You know he's Logan's best friend, and Logan's so gentle, so kind, that you figure he must see something very good in Garrett to be his best friend. But all you see is the same sort of boy who, in seventh grade, would kick a ball at you. Patterns keep you safe, and you've seen this pattern before.
“I am waiting for Logan,” you say, instead of trying to explain yourself. You don't have an explanation for why you're in here, but you can't let Garrett suspect that.
He nods once. “Okay. You guys seeing each other?”
Oh, you know this code!
“No, we're friends.” You wait, watching Garrett’s expression carefully to gauge if he finds that unbelievably hilarious.
Garrett glances to the side, mouth curling into a smirk. “Right, sure. Friends.”
“We are,” you say, suddenly irritated. You wish you'd stayed in the kitchen with Tucker.
“It's just, girls aren't usually in guys’ rooms unless…”
“You and Hannah studied together,” you say. “I presume you did that without having sex.”
Garrett gapes at you. “I—yeah, but that's different. You're not tutoring Logan.”
“So what? Logan can't be my friend? Sex is all men and women can do with each other?”
“That's not what I said.”
“It sure sounded like that.”
He sighs, runs a hand through his curls. “I didn't mean it that way. I just thought you were joking about being friends. Y'know, some girls pretend they aren't seeing a guy when they really are.”
You tilt your head. “Why?”
“I dunno, sometimes it's ‘cause they don't want anyone else to know. So I thought you were kidding, but…” He scrunches his mouth in thought. “I get the feeling that you don’t really do that.”
Do that sounds like it could mean many things, and you wonder if Garrett intended that.
“I wouldn't lie about being friends with or dating someone,” you say, feeling lost. You thought you knew where this conversation was heading, who Garrett is, and now you don't. People are hardly ever this straightforward with you.
Garrett nods. “Understood. Sorry for assuming.”
You look at him. “Do you like Hannah? Besides the fact that she's a pretty girl.”
Garrett’s eyebrows crook briefly, before relaxing. His voice is soft when he says, “Yeah, I do.” Instantly, you believe him. Maybe he wouldn’t kick a ball at you.
“Okay.” You get up, and he steps aside to let you pass. “I'm going to wait for Logan downstairs. See you.”
Garrett goes to his room and shuts the door. At the top of the stairs, you see Dean emerge from his room, which is the one you heard a woman's voice in. He's shirtless, which seems to be the typical state of dress here, but he's also flushed, sweaty, and has a small bruise on his neck. Oh.
Dean winks at you. “Hey, vampire.”
You frown. “What?”
“‘Cause you need to be invited in,” he says. “Vampire girl.”
“Are you making fun of me?”
Dean's smile dims. “I was—no, it's a joke.”
“A joke about how I didn't know that I could come into the house. And that's stupid, right?”
He shakes his head. “No… I wasn’t making fun of you. I thought it was cute. Polite,” he clarifies. “Most people who stop by aren’t polite. You're Wellsy's friend, right? She's polite too; she knocks.”
“Yes, Hannah's my friend. Did you really fail Developmental Psychology II?”
“Tragically, Professor Diamond was not nearly as forgiving as Dr. Jenkins. But then I switched my major, so whatever.”
“Do you invite everyone to your parties?”
Dean doesn't seem perturbed by your rapid subject changes. “Sure I do. Otherwise I'd send out handwritten invites. Logan told us what happened with you and Pembroke. That guy's a fucking sleaze, and he can't skate for shit.”
You nod. “He's repulsive.”
“Seriously. All the more reason to reject him from the team. Hey, you should come to our game. We're playing next week.”
“Your games are loud.”
“Yeah, that's part of the fun!”
“I disagree. I'll come only if Logan wants me to,” you say.
Dean grins. “Trust me, he definitely does.”
“Are you lying?”
“Nope,” he says cheerily.
You hum. “Fine. Who's that woman in your room?”
“Her name's Carmen. Lovely lady. Met her at a coffee shop.”
“Okay. Enjoy, I guess.”
He salutes. “Have done. Will do.”
You finally go downstairs. It isn't more than a few minutes before Logan joins you. His hair is damp, and his jacket covers his biceps, which is kind of unfortunate. You wonder what color his new underwear is, and then you chase that thought away, guilty for thinking it at all.
Logan takes his keys from the hook by the door and shakes them a little. “Ready to go?”
“Yes.” You put on your bookbag. “Bye, Tucker. Good to see you.”
“You too!” Tucker calls from the kitchen over the sound of frying tortillas.
“I'll be back in a bit,” Logan says, then opens the door.
You follow him out to his truck and get into the passenger seat.
“Mind if we stop at the garage first?” he asks. “It's before the store.”
“Not at all.”
It’s a short drive to the garage, but it feels like it takes forever. Maybe that’s because you stare at Logan the whole time. Well, mostly you look at his hands on the steering wheel. He wears a silver ring on his right pinky, and you can’t believe you’ve never noticed. Veins feed into each other down his forearms. You feel dizzy.
“I promise it’ll only be ten minutes at the garage,” Logan says, startling you from your staring. “Jules needs me to finish a patch job for a bike because they had to record a special episode for their show.”
“You both work at the garage?” you ask.
“Yeah, it’s our family’s garage. Jules and I pretty much run it, since…” Logan stops, his mouth thinning. “Since, uh, my mom’s in rehab again.”
“That must have been really hard to grow up around,” you say.
He sighs. “Yeah. Jules always sticks up for her, but they don’t remember—” He shakes his head, turning into the garage lot. “Anyway. It shouldn’t be too long. You can come in.”
You follow Logan inside. He navigates the garage with practiced movements. He gestures for you to sit across from him while he works, propping the bicycle onto a stand.
“Wow,” you say. “It looks like a bicycle from the future.”
He laughs. “Yeah, apparently the guy who brought it in is a professional cyclist. I always felt like a bike is a bike but hey, maybe people say that about hockey skates.”
“I wish I was balanced enough to do either of those things,” you say, watching Logan screw something on the wheel. He’s taken his jacket off, so his biceps are once again in full view.
“You don’t know how to ride a bike?” he asks.
“No. My aunt tried to teach me when I was seven, but I couldn’t get the hang of it, and then she got mad, so I stopped trying.”
“Well, that was dumb of her,” he says. “Teaching anyone anything requires patience. We all didn’t know something at some point.”
You pick at a loose thread on your pants. Logan’s words remind you once more of the cavern inside of you that quivers dangerously when someone says things aren’t your fault. “I guess so.”
Logan pushes the front wheel of the bicycle, and it spins smoothly. He looks at you. “I can teach you, if you want. Jules doesn’t ride their bike anymore. I can adjust the seat for you.”
“You want to teach me how to ride a bike?”
“If it’s something you’re interested in, yeah, why not?” Logan stands, and you follow him up. He wheels the bike to the back of the garage, then you both go outside. He locks the garage.
“You don’t have to do that,” you say, crossing your arms. What you want to say is why? Why would anyone want to do something so nice for you, go through the painful process of teaching you anything?
“I know,” Logan says as you both get into the truck. “If you don’t want to, it’s okay. But if you do want to, then I’m up for teaching you. I promise I won’t rage-quit like your aunt did.”
“Isn’t it stupid to learn how to ride a bike in college? It’s so late.” You’re always too late for things. Always behind.
“It’s never too late to learn anything, ever,” Logan says. “Dean taught me that, if you can believe it.”
“Oh.” You flatten your palms against your thighs. “Okay. I would like to learn how to ride a bike. Then I can go on bike rides with Hannah.”
“Cool. How does next weekend sound?”
“It sounds good.” You unzip your bookbag and find your coin purse that’s shaped like Kermit the Frog. You take out twenty dollars and put it in the center console.
“What’s that for?” Logan asks. “You don’t have to pay me to teach you to ride a bike.”
“It’s gas money. You’ve been so generous with me, I don’t want to not give anything in return.”
“You don’t need to give me money.”
“I want to,” you say. “You told me to say what I want to do, and I want to give you gas money.”
He glances at you, half-smiling. “Should’ve known that would come back to bite me.”
Biting. Mmm.
“I don’t spend my work study money on anything but food,” you say. “I don’t go to bars or concerts or movies. I don’t travel. It’s fine, alright? Please take it.”
Logan sighs. “Okay, but don’t make it a habit.”
“I’ll make it a habit if I want to, John Logan.”
He laughs, surprised, and you laugh with him.
“Sassy,” he says. “I didn’t know you had it in you.”
You didn’t either, but Logan seems to bring out everything in you.
Logan pulls up in front of Market Basket. He rolls down the window when you get out.
“I’ll be in the lot,” he says. “Call me if you can’t find me.”
“You’re going to wait?” you ask.
“Of course I’m going to wait.”
You go inside, thinking about how wonderful it is to have someone wait for you.
Honestly if you say or do something strange, an employee probably WILL tell all their coworkers about it all day, however they’ll basically never remember it was you specifically and instead just a faceless “customer” amalgamation of every time someone said something to them. Plus you’re giving them enrichment and something to mutually bond over. So really you’re doing an important service by being a little awkward.
Dudes healthcare is so fake. My ADHD meds are $940 without insurance. But they gave me a website of "coupons" which straight up looks like a scam website, and I got it today for $60! Just a coupon from a random website and it was $900 cheaper. America, I am confusion!! America explain!!
as a pharmacy technician i can share with you some websites that give you those "coupons" for your meds!
goodrx is the most well known one, but if i'm trying to find the cheapest price for a patient i compare it to scriptcycle, and use whichever is offering the best price. you just type in the medication (PLEASE make sure you're getting the right drug, dosage, and quantity) and your zip code and they will spit out some offers for you
some pharmacies may have their own discount card to compare to as well!
if you are getting a name brand medication, you can also look at the manufacturer's website to see if they offer any evouchers for you to use too
meanwhile people are to this day still stealing our content. either by screenshotting it and putting it on twitter, reddit, youtube, tik tok OR just blatantly copying a post line for line and playing it off as their own
when your boyfriend beats himself up over a bad acne flare-up, you come to his aid with your favorite beauty product.
His skin flares up again during his first year on the MSBY Black Jackals.
He always gets them when he's stressed. Those angry, painful red marks that decorate his cheekbones, his temples. He thinks he's grown out of them by now — even has the acne scars and textured skin to prove it — yet there they are again, waltzing back into his life like an old rival with a score to settle.
"Would ya quit bein' so dramatic?" Osamu leans against the doorframe of the bathroom as his brother scrubs his skin with a cocktail of retinoids, creams, and medicated face washes. "Ya look fine."
"Easy for you to say!" Atsumu shoots back, splashing a handful of cold water in his face. "Our social media intern offered to buy me color corrector the other day. I don't even know what that is."
"She probably just wants to make ya look good."
"She might as well have called me a scrub!" The setter rips a disposable towel from the box he'd panic-ordered off Instagram and yells into it like a child. "I have to pick up Y/N from the airport in three hours. Ya think that's enough time to fix my face?"
"Tsumu," Osamu drawls. He reaches out, yanks the towel from his brother’s hands, and shucks it into the trash bin. "You've been datin' the girl for two years now. If she gave a shit about yer face, you'd know."
"Sure, but..." Atsumu rakes his hair out in frustration. "...most of our relationship’s been over FaceTime. Her shitty wi-fi does my skin a favor."
"Well, how's that sayin' go? It's what's on the inside that counts?" Osamu muses, padding back into the kitchen. He's preparing some type of sandwich, judging by the smell. "I mean, I think yer personality's no better. But she must've seen somethin' in ya."
It takes every ounce of Atsumu's self-restraint not to shuck the box of towels at his brother's head.
Three hours later, you stand outside the arrivals terminal of the airport. Hair tousled from the flight. Fingers drumming against the handle of your carry-on. You'd flown in to support Atsumu for his first game of the postseason, and while you're excited to reunite with him after three months apart, there's always something...nerve-wracking about it. Almost as if you're meeting each other for the first time.
Those nerves subside, however, the moment your boyfriend's Jeep rounds the corner of the terminal.
"You're here!" you exclaim, burying your face into his sweatshirt once he climbs out of the car. "You wouldn't believe the flight I just had. This couple kept arguing beside me, and I'm pretty sure the little kid kicking the back of my seat gave me sciatica, but — wait, why are you wearing all that?"
Atsumu's arms flinch around you at the question. You blink up at his disposable mask, the large hoodie shielding his face from your view.
"I'm...cold?"
"It's the middle of May," you say flatly.
"I dunno." He averts your gaze. "Maybe Sakusa's rubbin' off on me."
"Bullshit," you seethe, squeezing him so hard that he yelps. "I know for a fact you licked the ground as a child. What's going on?"
"Alright, alright!" Atsumu concedes, practically wheezing beneath your iron grip. He taps your shoulder like a defeated UFC fighter and confesses, "If ya want me to be honest...I broke out pretty badly last night, and I don't want ya lookin' at me up close."
"Oh." Your expression softens at his words. The quiet vulnerability beneath them. "Is that all? Tsumu, you know I don't care about that kind of stuff."
"I know, but..." You spot the red hot blush creeping out from underneath his mask. "I wanna look good for ya, ya know?"
Your shoulders sink, a bemused sort of smile tugging at your lips. You gently reach into his hoodie and brush back the hair that's fallen into his eyes.
"You always look good to me, okay?" you reassure him, voice firm. Eyes earnest. "It's impossible for you not to. But, if you're looking for a quick skincare hack before your game tomorrow...I might have something that'll help you out."
"…stickers?"
"They're not just stickers, silly." You swat your boyfriend's shoulder in the bathroom later that night. "They're pimple patches! They drain all the fluid from any surface-level breakouts, and they even come in different colors and sizes. See?"
"I dunno, babe," Atsumu murmurs as you peel a yellow star off the sheet with your tweezers and gently apply it along your jawline. "They look awfully cute on you, but...I don't think I can pull 'em off."
"I think you can pull anything off with the right attitude," you argue, sitting him down on the chair you'd dragged over from the kitchen. "You don't even need to wear them in public if you don't want to. Just try them on overnight and see how you feel."
You push Atsumu's hair back with your fluffy headband and proceed to pamper him for the next twenty minutes — cleansing his textured skin, massaging every nook and cranny with the moisturizer you'd somehow sweet-talked past TSA. Even as you apply a yellow star to each of his spots, your movements are soft. Loving. A far cry from the vehement scrubbing Atsumu is used to.
"There. All done." You reach down and press a quick kiss to his lips. "Wanna see?"
"...huh." Atsumu blinks back, inspecting his face from different angles in the bathroom mirror. "They don't look half-bad, actually."
"See?" You yank the zipper across the top of your toiletries bag with a sweet smile. "Told ya they were cute."
Your boyfriend ends up liking the pimple patches a lot more than you thought he would. He orders a couple boxes for himself, stares at his reflection for a second longer than he normally does.
And when he shows up to the game the next day wearing them like a badge of honor? The social media headlines go crazy.
This professional volleyball player just made acne cool again.
This rookie setter's skincare routine just dropped — and dermatologists are obsessed.
Why Miya Atsumu's starry face matters in a world obsessed with perfect skin.
Needless to say, he feels a little less self-conscious about his skin after that. None of which would’ve been possible if not for you — holding him gently. Loving every part of him, scars and all.
Maybe it's time you reconsider the whole long-distance thing.
extremely funny to me that Kermit the Frog is the only main overlap character between Sesame Street and The Muppets. imagine your day job is hanging out in a community of lovely people that genuinely just want to help kids learn and care about everyone so so much and then your night job is the reason that you have to stay up to date on your rabies AND tetanus vaccine
at noon the giant you're hanging out with is Big Bird! a wonderful fellow who likes reading stories and singing and telling fun facts! at midnight there's a giant named Sweetums who makes you feel like you're being hunted for sport
Ernie, trying to maybe come out to Kermit: well you know Kermit, me and Bert-
Bert: Bert and I
Ernie: Bert and I, we've been best friends forever, but we're also something else too!
Kermit, who every goddamn night has to tell Beaker and Bunsen to keep it professional, deal with Statler and Waldorf's bullshit, AND update his organizational chart on Dr. Teeth and the Electric Polycule: that's really great to hear fellas, happy for you two! :)
She told him last night to check the suitcase she packed because at midnight tonight they are getting on a plane to ?????? (She knows where, he doesn’t).
She told him I was just here for a visit (I live several states away): I’m actually here to watch their kids for the weekend
Once they arrive in ?????, what he doesn’t know is that my entire family is going to be there to meet them and celebrate his birthday. (It’s a few days until his actual birthday, he has not even realized the flight is related yet.)
