Reverse Engineering done.

They’re not big and spacious with repetitive features and easy to identify isles like your average drug store. They’re small and homey, a unique feature for a place that is lit solely with flourecent lights. They usually have the local bodega cat (and you know a yuppie when they bitch about the cat), who sometimes lets you pet her. Their shelves are lined with snacks from obscure areas of the world, and knock off brands that somehow just taste better than the name brand. Sometimes household necessities are in their own isle, but usually theyre next to a variety of items like pet food, chips, cake mixes, cereal (it changes depending on your bodega). Coolers are filled with both alcoholic and non alcoholic drinks, sometimes humming, other times roaring because they’re fifteen years old and held together with ducttape and a stubborn refusal to replace them. And almost always there’s a deli that can give you a baconeggandcheese (all one word), in the morning and a chopped cheese whenever you’re craving it.

A bodega is not just a cornerstore, it’s the heart of a neighborhood. It’s where the kids go in the morning, swarming in to get drinks, snacks, breakfast, maybe even lunch. It’s where the tired third shifters and barely awake first shifters coming in to chat, pick up a coffee, a soda, a candy bar. It’s where you go after school, after work, late at night, in any mood or outfit.

A bodega is a brief window into the heart of New York. The one that isn’t tailored and refined by the rich, the suburbanites, the yuppies and the ever hungry universities. The one that keeps the city beating, even when all the Wall Street implants and commuters abandon ship.

I’m in Columbus, OH and we have them all over, but honestly the bigger the city, the harder they are to spot from the outside, only by locals. Small towns is where you really see them in Ohio. But I’ve found them in Tennessee, Georgia, Maryland, North and South Carolina, Florida, West Virginia, Pennsylvania, Virginia, and upstate NY as well. 

As a former music teacher, I can also say that "learn the fundamentals first" is the death knell for a vast percentage of beginners, especially adult learners.

I've run into this with drawing several times, where some well-meaning artist has lectured me on needing to study anatomy properly or not use shortcuts like CSP brushes. And oh, believe me, I know. I know exactly how to learn an artistic discipline in a structured way. I just...don't want to!

The thing is, I'm not aiming to be a professional artist. I want to draw my gay little anime guys. I would undoubtedly improve at art much faster if I approached every gay little anime guy drawing as a study exercise. But I would also have quit drawing a decade ago if I couldn't just let myself enjoy drawing imperfect fucked-up little guys with whatever shortcuts I needed to body myself across the finish line.

With my adult piano students, my approach was always "What's your goal?" If their goal was to learn exactly one Elton John songbook to play at parties, then...that's what we did. We'd put tape on the keys to label the notes, and just fuckin go for it. Learning exactly one Elton John songbook is a good and noble musical goal, full stop.

Some of my students needed and enjoyed a more structured approach to learning; if they wanted to be able to play classical music, then yes, scales were going to have to enter the equation at some point. And yet others would learn the Elton John songbook, catch their white whale, and realize they wanted to explore more of the ocean. The scales were still there for them to learn!

Often the choice isn't between "learn art well" and "learn art imperfectly" - the choice is between "learn art imperfectly" and "don't do art at all." To which I say, learn imperfectly! Or, what the hell, don't 'learn' art. Just do, and enjoy the doing of it.

Now imagine being with snowy owl!gaz in the middle of the snow covered forest, right?

It's freezing even with your gear on, lying on your stomach in hiding with snow pressed all along your front. Gaz had ordered you to stay low, to keep hidden until the zone is announced clear.

Just to your left, your sergeant seems to be faring better than you. Large, white wings obscure most of his body, and a thin blanket of snow has accumulated on top from the hours lying here. He doesn't seem phased at all, almost enjoying it all.

"You okay, soldier?" Gaz glances sideways at you, brow raised in amusement at your shivering. Teasingly, he lifts a wing "need to warm up under mommy's care?"

Usually, you'd tell him to piss off, that he won't phase you. But. It's freezing, and you swear your lungs are making an effort to actively seize up from how cold it is. So you glare right back at him and huff "yeah, actually. I'm fuckin' freezing, sir."

After a stunned silence, gaz is sliding on top of you, blanketing you both under thick wings.

The sudden temperature change is almost dizzying, your sergeants warmth and the insulation from his wings. You bask in it, thankful for him invading your space for once and—

"Fuckin' christ, sir?" You shift, heart stuttering "are you seriously...?"

The hard line of gazs cock nudges against your ass, gloves hands moving to your waist while he chirps above you "can't help it when I've got someone like you under me. Figure it evens out the closet, yeah?"

You blush at the reminder of the closet, tuck your head down and arch your back to a pleased "hah, knew you'd like it."

Gaz begins rocking into you, not at all bothers by the mutliple layers when he settles his whole weight into it. Christ, you wish you were back in that shitty motel so you could fuck him properly–

"Close." He warns, one hand sneaking under to give you a palm to rut into as well.

The cold from earlier is a distant memory, forgotten beneath the heat of his wings and the pleasure between you. Gaz chirps, coos–

"Really, soldiers?"

Because how the hell were you supposed to know his work buddy regularly breaks into his apartment?!

"Fuckin' hell, good swing, kid." Simon slumps over your kitchen sink, nose steadily leaking blood into the basin. Simon, Kyle's friend whom you've met once. "Next time, don't hesitate on a second swing."

"What the hell!" You hiss, shock draining way to pure indignation. You grab his jaw and forcefully lift the balaclava up properly to assess the broken nose "what the fuck were you even doing in here?!"

"Needed a snack." This giant of a man grunts, shrugs his shoulders as if breaking into his friends apartments for a snack is a reasonable course of action.

"Yeah, well now you need the hospital, dumbass." You frown, fishing your phone out of your pocket and shoving ghost to lean back over the seat. You miss the blush that spreads across his face from the rough handling.

You're sure ghost only stayed in the car so he could hear you tear gaz a new one for not warning you about his insane friends. He does try to escape once you actually park, which simply leaves you dragging him in by the ear.

Afterwards, you give ghost a set of keys "if you need something, you text me or kyle in advance and you use the damn door."

He held them up to his torso, raised a brow "i bet i could still fit into these."

"No way, dude," you toss a skittle at him, sprawled out on his bed with your legs resting in ghosts lap. "Your ass is way too fat now."

Which is how you end up watching your boyfriend struggle to squeeze into shorts that used to be baggy on him. The elastic gets stuck under the swell of his ass, and he has to jump a few times to pull it up. With a nudge from your foot, ghost is already pulling out his phone.

"Told you I could still fit!" Kyle huffs, adjusting the waistband. Christ, those shorts are way too tight, hugging his ass perfectly, thighs bulging. Kyle turns around and—

"Fuckin' hell, garrick." Ghost huffs, pointing the camera directly at kyles crotch.

"Leaving nothing to the imagination, kyle," you snort while simultaneously attempting to commit the thick bulge to memory. The tiny shorts ride up with every shift of your boyfriends legs. "Bet you can't touch your toes."

Kyle only snorts at your obvious attempt to see his ass again, but dutifully turns around and slowly bends over "you two are insatiable–"

RIIIIP—

"Oh my god." You snort.

He then eats while watching the bugs and reptiles in a dimly lit room

ദ്ദി ˉ͈̀꒳ˉ͈́ )✧

Awaawwwwww I love (*≧∀≦)

Then he releases a sigh so deep and profoundly exhausted that the paperwork on his desk flutters.

There are moments in a man’s life when he reflects upon the choices that brought him to his present circumstances. Price has had more of those moments than most, usually while being shot at, occasionally while filling out expense reports, and once while watching Soap attempt to determine whether a grenade could be used to open a particularly stubborn jar of pickles.

This, however, may be the first time he has seriously regretted not accepting that desk job his uncle offered him straight out of school.

Corporate office. Nine to five. Sensible shoes. Perhaps a retirement party where the greatest threat to his life would’ve been Sandra from Accounts becoming emotional after two glasses of prosecco.

Instead, he is staring at a photograph of Lieutenant Simon Riley tied to a chair in what appears to be a dungeon.

Anyway–!

When your eyes open, it's dark out. Far darker than it had been when you went to sleep. The room was almost pitch black, slivers of light peeking in through the blinds.

On your bedside table, the alarm clock glows a dim red. 2:14

Your eyes flick from it to the familiar shape in the corner, the only part of you able to move.

Sleep paralysis. You'd been having it for months now, always waking up around the same time, always stuck in your own body until you either managed to break out of it– which had never happened– or fell back asleep– which was what usually happened.

As you lied there, frozen, the shape moved, a masculine figure in all black stalking towards your bed. You watch, blinking slowly as he crawls up the bed and towards you.

Ice blue eyes stared down at you as your sleep paralysis demon hovered, hands planted on either side of your head.

You just blinked. Slow. Soft.

His breathing is loud in the dark room, heavy desperate pants as he lifts a hand to rip his mask off his face. You can't see much in the dark, but you can see the faint shapes of jagged scars, places where his flesh had been torn out messily; a jagged landscape you try to drink in before he leans down, stealing a kiss from unresponsive lips.

He grunts, huffs, kissing you desperately as he brackets you with his own form. Sometimes you're still taken aback by how real it feels. But you know it's not. If it were, he wouldn't be gone every time the sun rose.

He pulls back, saliva coating your mouths. "We missed you," he pants, kissing your jaw next, teeth weakly gnawing at your flesh. "So much."

He's heavy, hot, breaths loud as he kisses and suckles at your neck, trying to mark you. A waste of effort, as you never woke up with bruises. Which... obviously, but still. You'd prefer your demon's attention elsewhere instead.

Thankfully he meets your eyes and is able too read you, quickly connecting his mouth to yours again. You manage a weak hum as he pries you open with a sloppy tongue, kissing you deep. He tastes like vodka and cigarettes and something burnt– like food.

You kinda like it.

Your sleep paralysis demon continues to kiss you with desperate affection, hands roaming your form greedily; it had been a while since you'd last been like this, since you'd last seen him. You supposed he must've missed you from wherever he lived in your mind.

After a while though you begin to grow drowsy, eyes slipping shut as you fell back asleep. The last thing you felt was his searing kiss as he whispered something in what sounded like Russian.

In the morning, you stretched with a groan, sitting up slowly. You smacked your lips together, grimacing at the weird taste. You got up and continued to stretch. You were always stiff after being paralyzed like that.

After finishing your morning stretches, you gathered some clothes before heading to the bathroom, passing by the open window as you did.

Your tiktok feed has been filled with spouses packing lunch for their husbands, making neat little meals. You thought it would be fun to film your own!

"Come pack my husbands lunch for a fourteen hour shift!" You happily narrate, ready to show off the meal for ghost that you have down to a science.

One container of last nights leftovers for him to eat in the morning when he gets in. A fresh sandwich with sauce on the side to avoid soggy bread. Beans, rice, and steamed veggies in another box. Of course, the insulated thermos gets some hot soup to keep him warm throughout the day. Two electrolyte drinks, two water bottles though you know he always forgets to drink them.

As always, you make sure to fill it with snacks for him to pick at through the day. Crisps, trail mix, those gummy worms he loves to much.

All that is topped with a hand-written note, though you don't let the camera see that. It's private between you and ghost!

You post the video and move on with your day, only to become upset when you see the comments on it a few days later.

"No way he eats all that!"

"That's just for show. Totally unrealistic! No one needs all those snacks!"

"Do you not expect him to come back for three days??"

The solution? Responding with a video of your beloved husband at dinner that night.

Ghost, a giant of a man hunched over his plate and scarfing down pasta. It's a bit difficult to film, seeing as He's holding your hand like the clingy man he is. Still. You think the sheer size of him and the hunger he has speaks for itself.

The comments after that seem to come to a consensus

"Actually? Absolutely valid. Keep feeding him."

After that, you occasionally post the food you cook for you and your husband and watch in delight as people comment in awe.

And photo

Ask and you shall receive…. several months later!!!! 🕺🕺