sky lavender & cornerless

frequently, secretly fond of each other.

| the hollanov boston raiders teammates au | chapters: 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11 | 12 | 13 | 14 | 15 | 16 | 17 | 18 | 19

Shrugging one shoulder far more casually than he possibly feels, Ilya says, “I like both. Is secret, okay?” “Okay,” Hollander says. He doesn’t say anything else. The air’s so heavy around them that it feels like being in the middle of a scrum, the weight and heat of all those bodies pressing down on you. Danger always feels like hockey; it’s the most dangerous thing Ilya knows, except for this. Everything dangerous in his life involves men’s bodies and just how close he can get to them. Closer than he probably should.

I must admit, I am not an expert on transgenderism. I struggle to understand so much of it, and the science is conflicting. When in doubt, however, I always try to err on the side of kindness, mercy, and compassion. I also try to get proximate, and I am learning so much from our transgender community. They are great kids who face enormous struggles. Here are the numbers that have most impacted my decision: 75,000, 4, 1, 86 and 56. 75,000 high school kids participating in high school sports in Utah. 4 transgender kids playing high school sports in Utah. 1 transgender student playing girls sports. 86% of trans youth reporting suicidality. 56% of trans youth having attempted suicide. Four kids and only one of them playing girls sports. That’s what all of this is about. Four kids who aren’t dominating or winning trophies or taking scholarships. Four kids who are just trying to find some friends and feel like they are a part of something. Four kids trying to get through each day. Rarely has so much fear and anger been directed at so few. I don’t understand what they are going through or why they feel the way they do. But I want them to live.

employee (completely blank expression): “No.”

partner (autistic) (socialscript.exe encountered an unhandled exception) : “…Uh. Um. Sorry?”

employee: “We don’t have that.”

partner (wondering if perhaps he put too much of the authentic accent on the word and that’s what’s throwing the guy): “You don’t have…(pronouncing it whiter) carnitas?”

employee (face still unreadable): “No.”

partner (looking at the near-full hotel pan of perfectly normal carnitas in its usual place on the other side of the glass) (noticing this employee looks unfamiliar) (maybe he’s a new guy that just started five minutes ago with no training?) : “The…pork?” (pointing at it)

employee: “We don’t have pork.”

partner (beginning to wonder if he’s the one that’s losing it) (desperately looks to the menu on the wall behind the employee) (the menu lists carnitas as a protein option) (the word “carnitas” is not crossed out or taped over or otherwise adulterated) (carnitas have been on the standard menu since at least 2016) : “Okay. Um. Are you…sure?”

other employee working the toppings part of the line (familiar) (have seen her before) (she has cool earrings): *gives the new guy a strange look, nudges him aside, and scoops the carnitas onto partner’s bowl before continuing with the other toppings*

- the employee keeps very strictly kosher/halal/vegan and refuses to handle pork (understandable, I respect that, but if you’re gonna work at a place that serves pork I do kinda feel like when someone orders it you’ve just gotta tap in a coworker to do it for you)

- someone did something gross to the carnitas and the employee is trying to warn people not to order it (??? throw it out then? also, three weeks in a row???)

partner (well aware of what he’s getting into with this guy now): “Hi. Could I please have a bowl with white rice, black beans, and pork?”

employee: “We don’t have pork.”

partner (demonstrating a level of patience only a public school teacher could have): *points at the pan of carnitas* “Could I please just have some of that?”

employee (after several slow, confused blinks): *points at the same pan* “That’s steak.”

partner (looking at the hotel pan they’re both pointing at) (it is filled with shredded meat of a pale beige color) (at the other end of the row of pans is another pan containing dark brown, lightly charred meat chopped into small pieces): “Okay.” *deciding he’s willing to play in this fantasy space if it gets the job done, he points at the first pan again* Then could I please have the steak?”

employee: *starts to reach for the pan at the other end containing the actual steak*

partner: "Oh—no, sorry, this one please?" *points at the first pan containing the carnitas*

employee: *blinks, then just walks away and starts helping the next customer in line, leaving partner's bowl unfinished*

other employee with cool earrings: *rolls her eyes at new employee, takes partner’s bowl, and fills it with carnitas herself*

new theories:

- the employee is a bridge troll who will only dole out his delectable carnitas to those who prove themselves worthy by correctly answering his riddles three

Mr. Eternal Bluntshine of the Porkless Mind isn't the first idiosyncratic cryptid Partner has encountered at this particular Chipotle. He joins the illustrious ranks of The Lobster Mobster and 300 RPM Matthew McConaughey

Partner says he does not actually mind dealing with this unskippable cutscene every time because A) he finds it amusing and B) on one occasion, after Cool Earrings's intervention, the new employee checked him out at the register, and he rang up the bowl clearly labeled "CA-Q" (carnitas with queso) as chicken, which made it slightly cheaper

Some of my favorite possible explanations from the tags:

second handshake

like,,,,,, come one ! !!

When she fucks you, she leaves bruises. When she fucks you she leaves her bra on, her nipples hard beneath the fabric, your thumbs tracing over the topography, a mountaineer’s journey. When Ilya arrives at your room, it’s with her strap already hanging between her legs, thick in her grey sweatpants. You learn her by touch, not by sight. Your hands know the shape and scent of Ilya’s cunt but your eyes don’t. Sometimes, after Ilya leaves, you bring your hand to your nose, sniffing at the leftovers of Ilya’s slick like a bitch in heat.

Does your mother know?

No, no one knows. You keep it quiet. A ticking time bomb. Queerness is the landmine. The radium in your bones. Decay, little by little. Or is it the silence that comes bound with it, part and parcel? You can’t speak, you can’t tell anyone, not your teammates, not your fans, not your adoring public. They’d tear you to pieces. That’s how fame works, everyone’s ready to step on you to get a little closer to the light. Closer to god. Your mother calls you with the headlines but you don’t look for them. One of these days it’s not going to be pretty. One of these days, an October evening sitting on your bed, not expecting it, you’ll open your inbox to a flood of hateful messages, telling you you’re awful, you’re a predator, you’re a bad example, you’re a cheater, why don’t you just get the fuck out, why don’t you disappear, how dare you.

It’ll come. It always does.

Her tits are so small. Scarcely a swelling under the white lycra, the Adidas logo on her breastbone. She could be a boy if you didn’t know any better, her dick fat and hard rammed up against your cervix, where it nearly hurts and it feels like a hunger almost satiated. There’s something scrabbling at the back of your throat and you don’t know where to put your mouth, your teeth.