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d0youc0py · 1 year

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“Her and Soap would make a good couple, no?” Alejandro smirked, watching as you and the Scot took turns drowning each other in the pool.

“No they wouldn’t.” Ghost said quickly. A little too quick. Price chuckled knowing exactly what was running through his head.

“Why not? I don’t think I’ve seen Soap laugh so much and they seem pretty affectionate with each other.” Alejandro continued. It’s true, you and Soap were a bit touchy touchy but in a headlock and kick each other type of way.

“They’re friends- nothin’ more.” Ghost was growing annoyed of this conversation. He couldn’t blame Alejandro though. From outside eyes you and Soap could be seen as a good pair. Simon hated the thought of anyone thinking you were with anyone but him- yet he did almost nothing to make it seem like you were with him. Only the most observant people- such as Price- noticed the little things Ghost did for you. The way he always carried extra of your ammo in case you ran out. The way he always made extra of his breakfast for you to have some too. The way he would put up a fight when Price wanted to send you on a mission without him.

“I’d have to agree with Ghost on this one.” Captain sighed, standing up from his chair. He patted Ghost on the shoulder. “I’m gonna get started on lunch.”

“I’ll go with you!” Alejandro and Rudy were quick to stand up.

“What you don’t trust me?” Price raised a brow.

“Well I don’t know if you brits are very well known for you food.” Alejandro chuckled, wrapping an arm around Prices shoulder.

“You kiddin’? You know how many cooking show take place in England?”

Ghost sunk down in his seat and tugged at his balaclava. The heat was getting to him. Plus the way you, Soap and Gaz splashed around in the pool looked so refreshing.

“Hey Lieu?” You swam up to the side of the pool, resting your arms on the hot surface. “You sure you don’t want to come in the pool? I could use some back up in here.” God how he loved your smile. It was almost enough for him to rip his clothes off and hop in. It wasn’t that you hadn’t seen his face before. You were a jack of all trades- one of the trades being medicine. You had treated him for a head injury a while back and the way you accidentally called him handsome made it easy for him to take his mask off in front of you. It was the rest of him he was worried about. The bullet wounds on his abdomen. The burn mark across his chest. The deep angry scars all over his back- and all over him really. He wasn’t ready for you to know how fucked up he really was. He didn’t- couldn’t scare you off. So here he was. Sitting in a lawn chair, drinking a bourbon, in a pair of jeans and a grey t-shirt.

“Lieu?” You repeated. He knocked himself out of his trance.

“No, I’m alright.” He took another swig of his drink trying to drown out your pouty lip.

“Alright.” You sighed. “I was hoping we could’ve formed an alliance. I’m getting tired of Bubble Boy and his attitude!” You yelled the last part, causing Soap to shoot you in the head with a water gun.

“You’re just mad cause I’m winning!” Soap yelled.

“She’s kicking your arse.” Ghost shouted. His comment caused a whole new wave of competitiveness between you and the Scot- so much so that Gaz stepped out not wanting to get a black eye.

“I feel like we should be filming this.” Gaz chuckled, pulling out his phone. It was quite entertaining watching two highly trained soldier go after each other with water guns.

About an hour later Alejandro announced lunch.

“Thank god! I’m starving!” You groaned, pulling yourself out of the pool. Ghost suddenly decided the sky was much more interesting to look at than your dripping body. When he looked back down, he had to stop a groan from leaving his lips. There you were- wearing his shirt. His shirt. It was plain black- but had L.T Ghost printed on the back. His insides were swarming, and he barely had any time to process as you ran inside to start eating. He needed to stay there for a moment. He needed to calm down. He wasn’t use to this. Such little things completely throwing him off. He looked down, noticing how his bag and your bag were so close, that’s when he noticed another black clothing item. He grabbed it, holding it up. It was another entirely too big for you black shirt. The one that was probably suppose to be your cover up. So it was a mistake. You meant to grab yours but instead you grabbed his extra shirt. That helped ease the tension in his eyes. He should’ve known you were too good of a girl to be such a tease.

••••••••

The sun had finally started to set. All of you were still coming out of your food coma, and spread all over the house to digest. Times like this were your favorite. Eating delicious food. Hearing and sharing stories with your almost chosen family. Now here you were sprawled out on the tile, your feet dangling in the water as you stared at the pink sky.

“You against company?” Simon asked. You lifted your head to see him sticking his head out the door. You quickly shook your head, giving him a smile. He grabbed a chair and sat down next to you. He followed your gaze and looked up at the sky. Your eyes left the sky in favor of his jawline. He had taken off his mask to eat and couldn’t be bothered to put it back on.

Feeling your eyes on him he looked down to meet your gaze. The mask wasn’t able to hide his emotions anymore- not that you caught the obvious adoration across his face. Your eyes traced over the scar that extended from his cheekbone down to the corner of his lip. He watched you watch him- knowing exactly what you were looking at. Yet he didn’t feel insecure. You had a glint in your eye, it wasn’t judgement or pity. The closest thing he could compare it to was understanding. You didn’t feel sorry for him. You didn’t look at him with any disgust. You just admired it. Like people would a painting that they couldn’t quite understand but enjoyed the feeling it gave them nonetheless. You enjoyed the feelings he gave you. The security you felt with him. You knew instinctually that he would always be there. Guiding you. Watching you. Protecting you. Making your day better- even in the smallest ways. His scars were assurance of that. He’d always fight his way out to be there.

The look in your eyes made it possible for him to say something he’d wanted to all day.

“Wanna go for a swim?” He asked.

#d0youc0py #doyoucopy #cod #cod men #cod mw2 #cod mwf2 #cod x reader #fluff #sfw #simon ghost riley #simon riley #ghost x reader #simon riley x reader #fem reader #simon x reader #johnny mactavish #john price #alejandro cod #female reader

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skbeaumont · 1 month

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Texas Heat | Joel x Reader

Chapter 4 – The Barbeque

Series masterlist

Chapter Summary: Saturday brings a barbeque, a whole lot of flirting, and a perfect storm of tension that might just push you and Joel to the brink of something new. Rating: Mature Tags/warnings: flirting, sexual tension, smut, age difference (reader is 25, Joel is 37), AU!No outbreak. Word Count: 3.1k

Taglist: @mysterialee@amyispxnk @ghostofzion-blog

The Texas heat is almost unbearable even when you wake at just past seven the next morning. Laying in bed, you can still feel the ghost of Joel’s hand against your jaw, the gentle way his fingers tangled in your hair, the delicate fan of his breath mingling with yours. The memory keeps you in bed a little longer, has you pressing your own hand beneath the waistband of your shorts. You come hard to the thought of Joel’s expression as he looked at you from the doorway of the garage, the intoxicating pull of his eyes. You wonder how his fingers – that trailed so dexterously across your cheek not twelve hours ago – would feel pressed against your core, if they would dip inside you, laying pleasure upon pleasure as he watched you with that same dark, intense expression.

Eventually, you force yourself to get up and dress. You pull on the bikini your brought with you – white, with sculped edges and long ties that you double knot – and then don your favourite sundress, one that you’ve been saving for a special occasion. Examining yourself in the mirror, you can’t help but feel a little nervous, your stomach squirming uncomfortably. Last night, Joel had been seconds from kissing you, his hands tangled in your hair, pulling you up to meet his hungry lips. And God, the thought of it makes your toes curl, your thighs press together.

But there’s anxiety there, too.

It’s been months since you broke up with your boyfriend back home, the same one you’d been with throughout your entire time at university and the gap years between. The thought of starting something new with someone else feels terrifying in so many ways. What if Joel decides he doesn’t like you, or want you? What if he’s hesitant, or unsure, and it ruins all of the hard work you’ve done over the past few months, convincing yourself you’re deserving of love and affection?

You close your eyes against the image in the mirror, refusing to let yourself fall into old habits of self-criticism, and take a long, deep breath, letting it out slowly. You focus on thinking about Joel’s easy smile and his calloused, warm hands. You think about his broad, strong shoulders and the dark lock of hair that always falls across his forehead. The nerves die away a little, replaced by anticipation and excitement. You open your eyes again, look yourself in the eye and repeat the words Diana said to you on Wednesday. “Flirt your ass off.”

Five hours later finds you and Danny lugging a slightly rusty beer cooler over to the Cuthberts’. Theirs is the biggest lot on the road, a sprawling house surrounded by a flawlessly mown front lawn and backed by huge garden, complete with a patio – almost certainly larger than your entire flat back in London – and a tiled, picture-perfect swimming pool. You let out a low whistle as you and Danny round the house into the garden, taking in the two-tiered, five-grill barbeque in the centre of the patio and the array of chairs, sofas and tables laid out on the decking. There are no other guests yet, but you find yourself searching Joel out anyway, peering around the potted palm trees and oversized plant pots.

Mr Cuthbert, a large, jovial man in a bright Hawaiian print shirt, slaps Danny convivially on the back and introduces himself – “call me John”, he says, offering you a wink which you steadfastly ignore.

You and Danny put the beer cooler in a shady part of the patio and help John fill it with the beers from his drinks fridge – a separate appliance than his usual fridge, he proudly informs you as he hands you bottles of wine, premixed cocktails, sodas, and beers. By the time you’re done, a few guests have trickled into the garden, all carrying more drinks and food.

Slowly, the garden and deck fills up with neighbours and friends. You stand near the kitchen in the shade, leaning against the cool stone of the house, your eyes fixed on the gate, watching with anticipation as each newcomer arrives. You hear Sarah before you see her or Joel, catch the end of a shout of her infectious laughter as the two of them come into the garden.

Joel’s in tinted sunglasses that reflect the garden back at you, his hair brushed back from his forehead, dark and thick and streaked with a few errant greys. He’s wearing a loose-fitting linen Henley and a pair of shorts that show off the tanned vee of collarbone and chest, the bottom of his thick thighs. He says something to Sarah, points her in the direction of a group of similarly-aged kids and she darts off, leaving Joel to survey the garden. When his eyes find yours – or rather when his sunglasses reflect your own figure – he breaks into an easy sideways grin, holds up one hand in greeting.

You told yourself you would play it cool, ease into the flirting, but before his hand has even returned to his side you’re darting towards him, sidestepping a toddler and two middle aged women. He meets you halfway across the garden, taking large steps that cover the distance to the deck easily.

“Hey,” You say when you meet.

“Hi.” He replies, and he draws his sunglasses up off his face to rest on the top of his head, his smile crinkling the corners of his eyes as he does.

“I’m disappointed,” You say, gesturing at his shorts and shirt, “I was promised a toolbelt and workmen’s boots.”

He laughs at this, a deep, throaty chuckle that comes right from his chest.

“Toolbelt’s just at home, if you want me to go and get it.”

“Maybe later.” You reply, smirking.

“You want a drink?”

“Sure.”

You follow him to the beer cooler and watch as Joel plucks two bottles out of the icy water, opens the tops with one hand. The simple gesture shouldn’t be so goddamn attractive, shouldn’t make blood rush to your cheeks and heat pool in your belly, but it is and it does. He hands you one of the beers, and your fingers brush his warm knuckles as you take it. The corner of Joel’s mouth twitches in response, his eyes flashing in the bright sunlight. You can feel the blush hot on your face just from these tiny, pathetic touches, slick already pooling in your core, dampening the bikini bottoms under your sundress. You clear your throat and Joel nods to a quiet corner of the deck where a loveseat lies unoccupied. You follow him to it, sink into its plush cushioning. Joel sits beside you. He's so broad that he takes up more than half of the sofa, his shoulder bumping against yours as he settles. You both look out over the garden, at where Sarah and the other kids are having an intense discussion in a tight cluster.

“She really enjoyed that math lesson you gave her,” he says, musingly, “won’t stop goin’ on about it. Never seen her so keen to be over at Connie’s before, either.”

“She’s really bright.” You reply, turning to him.

“No idea where she gets that from.”

You roll your eyes at him, cross one leg over the other, watch as Joel follows the movement with his eyes, drags his gaze up your bare thigh to the hem of your dress.

“’s a nice dress,” he says, the drawl of his accent stealing away the first syllable.

“Thanks. I’d been saving it for a special occasion.”

“This a special occasion?” He asks, gaze flicking from your bare thigh to your face, the trace of a mischievous smile playing on his plush lips.

“You tell me.” You reply, letting your own mouth curve into a grin.

There’s a splash from the pool and you both turn to see Sarah emerging from the water, face cracked into a wide smile as her friends jump in after her. Joel shakes his head, laughing.

“Always gotta be the first one in.” He says, and you laugh too, watch as Sarah splashes another girl.

“You going in?” You ask, as a few adults start sitting at the side of the pool to dip their toes in and slowly climbing in after the kids. “Not a chance.” He says, “I ain’t a swimmer.”

“That’s a shame.” You say, standing up and pulling the sundress up over your head, “Would’ve been nice to have some company.”

Joel’s eyes travel over your body, taking in the curves of your breasts and waist, the swathes of bare skin. His gaze makes you feel self-conscious, but his expression is awe-struck, reverent, like he’s looking at something sacred. His pupils are blown wide despite the bright sunlight, cheeks reddening. The hand clutching his beer is white-knuckled, the other twitching where it rests in his lap like he wants to reach out and trace the path of your curves. He swallows, Adam’s apple rippling in this throat.

“I’ll be jus’ fine watchin’, darlin’.” He says, his voice hoarse.

You waste no time sliding off your sandals and darting towards the water. It’s immature, maybe, but you’ve never been able to resist diving headfirst into water. The pool is cool, fresh: perfect in the intense Texan heat. Sarah giggles as you resurface, splashes you with a back hand. You spend the next half-hour messing about with her, having handstand competitions and lying on your backs to float idly. Every time you let your gaze wander to where Joel is sitting, he’s watching you, his expression intense. He looks away the first few times you catch him, but after the fourth time he lets himself watch you, raises his beer to his lips and takes a sip. When he draws the bottle away, there’s a droplet on his lip. His tongue darts out to catch it, and you have to press your legs together in the water to dull the ache. This man, you think, watching him wipe his mouth with the back of one large hand, veins standing out on his toned forearms, is going to be the death of me.

After a few more minutes you’re starting to feel the cold, fingertips wrinkling in the water. You float over to the side of the pool and push yourself up onto the side. Droplets run down your stomach and legs as you stand up, goosebumps rising in their wake. You turn to look for where you left your bag and towel, but suddenly warmth is engulfing you, a soft, fluffy towel wrapped around your shoulders.

“Here,” Joel’s voice from behind you, his hands on your shoulders, draping the towel over you.

“Thanks.”

He steps back, lets his hands fall back to his sides.

“Water nice?” He asks, as you start to pat yourself dry.

“Refreshing,” You reply, looking up into his face.

“Looked it.” He’s standing close to you in the busyness of the garden, people milling around you both.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. Looked… good.” He swallows again, tendons in his neck shifting. You want to put your lips to the flesh there, bite down onto rough skin, lick the stubble covering his jaw.

“I should go and get changed,” you say, nodding towards the house.

You step around him, start towards the kitchen door, turning to look behind you as you pick up your bag from where you left it by the beer cooler. Your eyes meet and the heat in his is almost palpable, rolling off of him in waves. You feel his gaze follow you as you step through the door into the cool air of the kitchen. Inside, you find the Cuthbert’s downstairs bathroom, shut the door behind you and lean back against it, your head spinning, heart pounding.

By the time you’ve changed back into your sundress, food is being served. You take a paper plate and let John load it up with chicken and a burger from the grill, then go and find a seat at a table with Danny, Connie, Joel and Sarah. You slide onto the bench next to Joel, letting your thigh brush against his and offering him a chaste smile when he raises a single eyebrow in response.

“How’s work, Joel?” Danny asks, swiping a blob of ketchup from his cheek.

“Oh, fine, thanks. Busy, at the moment.”

“Tommy alright? Not been getting into any more trouble?”

Joel laughs at this, shaking his head as he replies, “No more’n usual.”

Danny offers an understanding nod in response, and Sarah giggles, catching your eye across the table.

The rest of the afternoon passes in a happy, hazy buzz of food and conversation. Joel remains beside you, your legs pressed together on the bench seat. At some point, as Danny regales you all with a story of a traffic incident he witnessed last week, Joel stretches out, raising his hands over his head. When he brings them down, he lays his arm along the back of the bench behind you. You lean ever so slightly into him, imagining how it would feel if he slipped his arm down from the wood onto your shoulders. When you lean your head back to look up at the clear sky, you let it rest on his forearm, feel the heat of him seep through the hair at the nape of your neck through to your skin. The garden has started to empty now; the sky is slowly turning a pale, picture-perfect pink as the evening draws in. Danny lets out a long, steady sigh and pushes himself to his feet.

“We should get back to Nana,” he says to Connie, who nods and stands, “but you stay on as long as you like.” He adds to you, helping Connie pull on her cardigan.

You and Joel wave them off. Sarah leaves too, tired from the day, a little bored now the other teenagers and kids have left.

“Shouldn’t stay too much longer,” you say, looking around at where Mrs Cuthbert is collecting glasses up.

“No,” Joel agrees, but neither of you move.

His arm is still across the back of the bench, your neck now leaning against it. He flexes his hand, lets the tips of his thick fingers trace the skin on your bare shoulder, pulling up the strap of you sundress where it’s fallen down. The feeling of his hands on you is exhilarating and you shift in your seat, subconsciously begging him to keep touching you, to let his hand trace your shoulder to your collarbone, to dip down beneath the neckline of your dress to your bare breasts. He doesn’t, of course – there are still plenty of people in the garden – but he does leave his fingers where they are, just resting against your shoulder. Minutes pass. The tension between you seems to be building irreversibly, all the flirtatious banter and playful teasing from earlier gone, replaced by heavy silence and a kind of buzz in the air that makes the hairs stand up on the back of your neck.

Joel clears his throat after maybe ten minutes, runs his free hand up the leg of his shorts, wiping his palm which, if he’s feeling anything like you, is sweaty with a heady combination of anticipation and nervous energy.

“Should get back.” He says, his voice low, face turned to you so that the words are said against the shell of your ear.

“Yeah,”

This time, you both move as one. You stand, slipping the strap of your bag over your shoulder as you do, while Joel picks up his sunglasses from the table and slides them into the vee of his Henley. You both call hasty goodbyes to the Cuthberts, thanking them for the food and hospitality. And then you’re leaving the garden, stepping out of sight of the deck into the small alley between the house and the fence. You’ve hardly taken more than two or three steps before you both break.

Joel rounds on you as you grab him by his shirt. Crowding you against the wall of the house, he fists a hand in your hair and draws your mouth up to his. The kiss is frenzied, passionate right from the moment your lips meet. He groans from somewhere deep in his chest, licks his tongue into your mouth, his teeth grazing your lips, bruising them. His hand caresses your jaw, fingers spanning your face, cradling it as he kisses you. It’s intoxicating. You reach up to thread your fingers through the hair at the nape of his neck, pushing yourself up onto tiptoes to card them through his curls. You moan into his mouth, let your tongue lick into his mouth, his stubble tickling your face, harsh and scratchy in contrast to his soft lips.

He pulls back, rests his forehead against yours, both of you panting.

“Do you have any idea what you do to me?” He whispers, leaning down to place open mouthed kisses on the underside of your jaw. “I can’t stop thinking about you, I can’t sleep, I can’t concentrate.”

“Joel…” It’s all you can say as he nips at your collarbone, runs his fingertips down your sides, hands searching out the flesh of your ass, pulling you to him, bending so that he can slide one thick thigh between yours. The movement brings his hips flush with yours, the line of his hardening cock pressing into your stomach, sending a jolt of pleasure through you. You grind against him, pressing your cunt into his thigh, seeking out friction. He hisses into your open mouth as he drags his hips against yours, cock trapped between your rutting bodies – a hot, thick line against you.

“Tell me to stop and I will,” he breathes, nipping and pecking at your lips, dragging a hot hand up your side to squeeze your breast.

“Please don’t stop,” You reply, gasping as his fingers find the hard nub of your nipple and pinch, pleasure coursing through you like adrenaline.

The whole thing is ridiculous: you’re pressed against the wall of your neighbour’s house, Joel’s hands mapping out the curves of your body as he kisses you. Anyone could see, anyone could come round the path from the garden but neither of you seem to be capable of caring. The dam has burst and it’s all you can do to cling to each other, rocking your hips together, seeking out friction. It’s only when you slide a hand between your bodies, seeking out the hard line of Joel’s cock that he pulls back. His lips are swollen, eyes entirely black in the low light.

“We can’t do this,” he says, “not here.”

And then you’re both laughing, the absurdity of the entire situation overcoming you. When you calm down, still breathing heavily, Joel draws your face between his hands and presses another kiss to your lips.

“I want to,” he says, stroking his thumb along your cheekbone, “Jesus, I don’t think I’ve ever wanted anything more.”

“Me neither,”

“Sarah’s staying at Tommy’s on Friday.” He says, “Come over. I’ll cook dinner, or take you out. I’ll treat you right, like you deserve.”

“Friday?” You say, “That’s a long way away.”

You push yourself onto tiptoes to kiss him again, draw his bottom lip into your mouth and he groans against you, his hips canting forward so that his cock drags against your hip.

He pulls away, rasps, “Shit, darlin’. You’re making me crazy.”

“I’ll be over on Tuesday, for Sarah.” You say, “I’ll stay until you get back from work.”

“You make it really hard to say no.”

“Then don’t say no.”

“Okay. But I’m taking you for dinner on Friday too. Don’t say I don’t know how to treat a woman.”

“Joel Miller, I don’t think anyone could ever say that.” And you press another kiss against his lips, smiling into it.

When you get home a few minutes later, your lips bruised and your head buzzing, there’s already a text in your inbox.

I’ll leave the toolbelt on for Tuesday. J

#joel miller #joel miller fic #joel miller au #joel miller smut #joel miller x reader #joel miller x you #joel miller fanfic #the last of us #the last of us fanfiction #AU!no outbreak #joel x reader #joel x you #the last of us fic

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starblaster · 2 years

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October 9th is Psychiatric Survivor Pride Day

“The problems of the ex-patient are more subtle but no less pressing. Many ex-patients try to cope with what has happened to them by pretending that the experience never occurred. However, because the experience of having once been a mental patient teaches you to think of yourself as less than human, this is not a satisfactory solution. People feel emotions. They are justifiably happy or sad, angry, calm, elated, and so forth. As patients, however, we were taught to think of ourselves as permanently crippled, and we tend to react to the normal ups and downs of life as affirmations of our secret deformity. In addition, society imposes penalties upon ex-patients which affect you whether or not you acknowledge your identity. For the rest of your life, you will lie on applications for jobs, schools, and driver's licenses, and worry about being found out. Your friends and acquaintances will be divided into two groups, those who know and those who don't, and it will always be necessary to watch what you say to the latter. Ex-patients are full of anger at what has been done to them, but alone and unorganized this anger is not expressed and is often turned inward against oneself. Our anger is the fuel of our movement, and when we come together, acknowledging our identity to ourselves and to each other, we will have made the first and largest step in striking back at our oppressors.”

— "Mental Patients' Liberation: Why? How?", originally distributed in the early 1970s by Mental Patients' Resistance of Brooklyn, New York

[image ID] Seven photographs from antipsychiatry demonstrations. They are described below, in order of appearance: 1. a picture taken at the National Association for Rights Protection & Advocacy (NARPA) Conference on November 10, 2000 in Sacramento, California. Fifty to sixty people stand around a red sign with white text that reads: NO FORCED TREATMENT EVER. 2. a picture taken on October 9th, 1999 in Toronto, Ontario during a march for Psychiatric Survivor Pride Day. Several people march in a line, including one man at the start of the march playing bagpipes. Behind him is a hand-painted sign being held up that reads: Psychiatric Survivor Pride Day. 3. pictures taken at a demonstration outside the California State Capitol building in Sacramento on February 28th, 2000. The signs in each of these pictures say: Psychiatric drugs can kill! 4. a picture taken at a demonstration outside the American Psychiatric Association's 156th annual meeting in San Fransisco, California. The activist's sign says: PSYCHIATRY IS NOT A MEDICAL PROFESSION: IT IS A TOOL OF OPPRESSION. 5. a picture taken at a demonstration outside the Jacob Javits Center, hosting the American Psychiatric Association's 167th annual meeting in New York City on May 4th, 2014. The picture features an activist wearing a printed t-shirt and is cropped so as not to feature the face of the wearer. The t-shirt says: TO HELL WITH THEIR PROFITS, STOP FORCED DRUGGING OF PSYCHIATRIC INMATES! 6 and 7. pictures taken at a demonstration outside the California State Capitol building in Sacramento on February 28th, 2000. The signs in each of these pictures say: Psychiatric drugs can kill!, STOP expansion of forced treatment, Mental illness is NOT a CRIME, and FORCED MENTAL HEALTH TREATMENT IS INHUMANE. 8. a picture taken at an antipsychiatry demonstration on May 2nd, 1998 in Freedom Plaza, Washington D.C. Two people hold a hand-painted banner-sign that says: BET YOUR ASS WE'RE PARANOID. 9. taken at an antipsychiatry demonstration hosted by the Mental Patients Liberation Alliance during Mad Pride Week in 2000, between July 13th and 16th on the lawn in front of the New York State Capitol Building in Albany. [end of ID]

#antipsychiatry #psychiatric abuse #psychiatric survival #psychiatric survivor pride day #psych abolition

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forthelostones · 9 months

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♡ black female reader x ellie williams (part one) ♡

synopsis: ellie is your TA for your english lecture at university and she pulls you aside for revision.

warnings. 18+ (mdni); switch!reader x switch!ellie, teasing, fingering, female cunnilingus, degradation, small boob appreciation, and n!pple play.

an: hi everyone! this is my first idek what this is called when i was coming up "one shot".... (is that even a thing anymore?). i am super nervous about this! but please enjoy x.

wc: 2.2k

PART TWO

It was the last few months at university and you were getting entirely tired of your English lecture. Your professor talked slowly, and quietly, and pointed out the obvious connections within the simple texts. You felt as if you were far too advanced for this 300-level college course. You answered all the questions, understood what the “deep” metaphors were, and made A’s on every paper. The only thing that kept you interested was the TA who graded all those papers. Ellie Williams was a senior English major with a specialty in Print Media. You heard stories about her, glanced at her from a distance, and saw her around but you could never gain the courage to speak to her outside of class.

She sat in the corner, near the lecture podium, with her auburn hair pulled back, and a pencil tucked behind her ear as she looked out onto the hall. She sat slouched with her legs spread open, one foot taping the ground slowly, and the occasional eye roll at a stupid question.

As you sat listening to the room share their perspectives on a Shakespearean text, you took quick glances at her over the corner of your laptop. Today she was wearing a loose, red, long-sleeve shirt, exposing her forearms. Her right arm was adorned with faded black ink that traveled all the way up her shoulder. The warmth that traveled to your cheeks fell between your thighs, as your eyes focused on her fingers that were now swirling that same pencil in a rhythmic motion.

“Have a great weekend.” Your professor nearly shouted startling you.

Your chest caved-in and your eyes bugged outward, you felt a nick of embarrassment hoping no one saw your body jolt. You close your laptop and see Ellie crack a smirk as she walks over to you.

What could she want, you think.

“Sorry y/n, I couldn’t get around to emailing you last night, but Professor said I should help you with your upcoming essay.”

Her low voice echoed in the now empty hall.

“Oh? Really? Sure. I thought my draft was pretty good but—”

“It’s not that you’re being singled out, I have to work with everyone on theirs.” She interjected.

That knot of embarrassment in your chest tightened as you saw no sincerity in her sage eyes.

“It’s last minute but it won’t take long. We can go to the office and work on it a little or we can reschedule, up to you.” She shrugged.

You pause in an attempt to act like you’re thinking. It’s Friday night, you should have something to do, but you don’t. “Sure. Let’s do it.”

You gather all your things and follow behind her into your professor's office, just across the hall. In front of you were the large floor-to-ceiling windows that looked out onto the crowded quad lawn. Students soaking up the sun and lying in the grass chatting with their friends. The other walls were covered in bookshelves with every academic book you could ever imagine. She sat her bag down and pulled out your pristine rough draft, which was now slightly crumbled.

“Hm,” slipped out.

“What?” She asked smugly.

“It’s just my paper was kind of thrown into your bag like… shit.”

“Oh, sorry.” She says attempting to smooth it out by placing it on her chest and using her palms.

She sat next to you in the large armed chair, her knees practically touching yours through her black jeans. Electricity sparked as you came in slight contact with her body. Her hands adjusted to the corners of your paper, her fingers fiddling between each page, spreading them open and moving up and down. You noticed all the notes and corrections she made, the red pen she used scribbled out sentences, rewrote phrases, and small notes on the margins like ‘too wordy’.

“Are you sure this is my paper?” You asked, snatching it from beneath her hands.

“Read it. Y/N, How Shakespeare Altered The English Language.” She read.

“You scribbled out my title too?”

Your hands became damp with nervous anger. You were top of your class, your professors adore your writing and now a TA just a year above tells you how you’re falling short.

“It was boring.” She said plainly.

“Simple language is good. It’s easier for people like you to understand.”

You face her and notice how defined her freckles are. How full her lips are and you unfurl your eyebrows as you realize how close you are to her face.

She snorted. “People like me? You mean the person who grades your shitty papers every other week? Who can absolutely give you any grade I want, that person?”

You stutter in an attempt to get words out, but you know she’s right. She could tank your grades if she wanted to. Her face turns upwards in a challenge.

“So now my papers are shitty? They’re shitty now?”

Your two bodies are now completely turned towards each other, knees touching, and eyes locked. The air becomes thick when she doesn’t reply. Adrenaline rushes to your head quickly, as someone who regularly avoids conflicts this feeling is overwhelming.

“If you read the notes… maybe you would understand. Clearly you don’t have the capacity to even do that.” She smiled.

She thought this was funny, seeing you flustered, in a hard spot where you couldn’t comprehend why you were being judged so harshly.

“I want so see everyone else’s papers.” You asked.

“What?”

“I want to see how much editing you did to others.”

You stand up and grab her bag and run your hands through it, before you could pull anything out, she jumps up and grasps your wrist with surprising strength. Your heart beats violently as her she pulls your hand away from the fabric of her bag. As she shoves you away, the junk falls out onto the floor.

“Really?” She muttered and stuffed her items back inside.

She gave you her signature eye roll and huffed as she ‘reorganized’ her stuff. As she stood up she walks towards you without saying a word. Her eye contact burnt you as they became low with anger.

“Ellie.” You sigh.

You feared that she’d use her strength against you.

“Y/N, there are no other papers,” She smirked. “For someone so smart you can be so dumb.”

Your breath caught in your throat as you heard her words. You peered over her shoulder, quickly observing the bright windows, afraid to be seen.

Her fingertips wrap around your waist softly, pulling your closer to her hips. Your lips pursed tightly together as you fought to speak.

“So you lied to get me alone?” You asked.

“Can you keep up?” She tugged at you a little more. Naturally, your body resists her touch, but you became so wet at her criticism of your intelligence.

“I can.” You reply sorely.

Her hand slowly rises up your back, tracing your spine.

“The thing is, you always leave class so fast. Rushing out. I never could catch you even if I tried.”

Her fingers do a dance under your shirt and the coolness of them startles you. Then bring her palms down to your ass, which made you moan, surprising the both of you.

“What can I say, I’m busy.” You lie.

You spent your nights in your apartment reading and watching the same movies. Sometimes you’d think of Ellie and recall her face from class if she saw you laying in bed, practically naked.

“Busy? I don’t know if I believe that.” She challenged with a grin.

She unclipped your bra skillfully with one hand. You gasped at the release of tension, you pushed your pelvis against hers, you were so close you felt her chest rise and fall.

“What’s not to believe? I’m top of my class, President of—“

“Don’t care,” She interrupted.

Her lips came one inch from yours and all you could feel is her breath graze your lips. Her eyes jolt down to the valley of your cupids bow, which made her swipe her lips with her tongue.

“I love your lips Y/N.”

“Why don’t you taste them then?”

She leaned closer but did not come in contact, her hands rubbed up towards your loosened bra and came in contact with your hard, brown nipples. She circled around them gently.

“And give you the satisfaction after you insulted my intelligence?” She grimaced.

You pushed her away and clipped your bra back and headed towards the desk to grab your things. She looked surprised as you gather yourself to head for the door. As you bent over the chair, she came behind you and thrust herself onto you. That tattooed hand slithered up your body, to your throat, and pulled you back into her body.

“Do act so coy Y/N. The way you stare at me when I spread my legs open, when my fingers glide against papers, and when I show my arms you can’t help but stare.”

Her hand travels to your pants, undos your button, and dips her fingers into your soaked panties. You gasp at the firmness of her calloused fingertips. You push your ass into her hips and feel her pelvis brush against you, she likes to feel you from this angle.

“So?” You fought to say through moans.

“So, fuck me Y/N. Why do you have to be so stuck up?”

Her fingers traced your slit, plunging deeper into the slick she was responsible for. She pulled her hands out, dripping with your desire, and she raised them to your lips. She took her other hand and grabbed your jaw gently causing your mouth to open. She slipped her fingers in your mouth making you taste yourself. You wrapped your tongue around her thick fingers, unafraid of anyone who could see inside, you felt pure ecstasy of hearing her moans as you fulfilled her fantasy.

You turned around to face her and finally kissed her. Her lips were soft with lust and her tongue slipped quickly into your mouth. She pushed your back into the desk, gripping your thighs to hoist you up on top, her strength shocked you. She wrapped her hands around your hips and pulled you deeper into her mouth. Your hands naturally fell around her waist and unbuckled her belt and desperately reached for her core.

She pulled her shirt up to reveal her bare chest. You always noticed her perky nipples, wondering about her crude disposition against bras, you weren’t complaining though. She forced a nipple in your mouth and commanded you to suck. She grabs the back of your head and pulls you in more. They were the perfect size, smaller, but perfect to suck hands-free. She restrained her moans as your teeth wrapped around her flesh. You can tell she never could give up being in control, the stories confirm that. Always on top, always servicing others, so your image of her was different than the view here.

“What if someone sees?” You ask nervously.

“Windows are shaded from the outside.” She said as she used her arm to clean the desk.

She pushed you back and began to lay warm kisses on your belly. You tuck your hands in her scalp when she gripped your wrist and slams it into the desk. You groan in pain but it excites you.

Her fingers hook into the loops of your jeans and pulls them down. Her hand palms your warm panties and brushes upwards, you try not to show how much you need her, but she presses harder.

“Say it.” She probes.

“What? That I want you?” You ask.

“Say it.”

You don’t reply and she pulls your panties off aggressively and brings her lips to yours. She starts kissing your pussy so passionately you imagine you could cum from that.

She lifts her head, “Watch me.”

The tip of her tongue and dipped it into your crease, searching for your clit. Once she finds it, she takes her fingers and spreads you wide open. Her tongue enters inside of you and your back arches into her. Your body waves up and down from desperation, you know she posses more than she’s leading on. She gets a good rhythm going and feels you dripping down her chin, she stops. Leaving your body twitching from frustration.

You stood up dripping, reaching for her.

“Y/N, say you need me.” She commanded as she was reaching to slip her shirt back on.

“I need you Ellie.” You break.

You dropped to your knees tugging at the waistline of her jeans, pulling them down with her underwear. She was drenched too, so turned on from touching you. You dug your face into her wetness, your tongue meeting her delicious taste, sweet and warm, sliding down your throat. You bring your middle and ring finger to her entrance and she sighs out of pure passion. As you entered her, you felt her fingers gripping your shoulder, and her grunts tickled your brain. You arched your fingers inside of her and worked your tongue around her clit in circles.

“Fuck.” She moaned.

Her panting got deeper, faster, and her nails pinched into your skin. You sucked at her clit to bring her to a climax. As you pulled your fingers out her stickiness strung from her core and straight into your mouth.

#ellie williams #ellie williams x you #ellie the last of us #ellie x reader #lesbian #ellie williams smut #tlou2 ellie #ellie williams fanfic #ellie x fem reader #ta!ellie williams #x black fem reader #x black reader

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honeylikewords · 2 years

Text

cubs. (jack russell)

halloween brings all the little monsters out. aka, jack gets baby fever.

(warnings: mentions of pregnancy, planning for children, allusions to sex, descriptions of physical intimacy and making out, and jack smelling his wife, if that counts. nothing technically fully n/s/f//w//, but a bit saucy. word count 2.4k )

Jack’s head tilts sideways before the doorbell even rings, one ear higher than the other to catch something she can’t hear. He turns in his seat on the couch, arm strewn over her shoulder, to look behind them in the direction of the front door, tilts over, kisses her temple, and pops up in the seconds before the slightly-jarring “ding” echoes through the house. He’s already at the door, bowl in hand, beaming down at the gaggle of children and chaperones by the time she’s even stirring on the couch to come to join him.

“Oh, who do we have here?,” Jack coos excitedly, scanning the miniature crowd. “Are you the little one from--”

“Stranger Things!,” yells a small child in a pink dress, blonde wig askew, tendrils of the plastic hair stuck to their face. “I’m Eleven!”

“Yes, sí, can you do the--” --Jack sticks his hand out and makes a face, and the child eagerly matches him, giving him their best furious expression and most powerful psychokinetic pose-- “Yes! That’s so good!”

He quickly glances up at the three adults standing behind and asks if there are any allergies in the group (and there are none, thank goodness) as his wife comes to stand next to him, smiling at the Eleven who is now turning their powers onto their group of friends. Gesturing for the kids to bring their bags closer, Jack begins dropping generous fistfuls of candy into eagerly opened pillowcases and treat sacks, small hands darting out to show off the newest snacks to one another.

“Hey there, Mirabel,” says Mrs. Russell, waving at a young girl in a blue skirt and white t-shirt, sporting a giant pair of glasses and a pink flower in her dense curls. The little one is wrapped up in a purple puffer jacket on this cold October evening, and while it is a truth universally acknowledged that a big coat is the bane of Halloween costumes, the effect of her adorable smile and ‘Encanto’ printed trick-or-treat bag is more than enough to convey the essence of the character. “Is Uncle Bruno with you tonight?”

The girl shyly shakes her head and wrings the handles of her bag in her fingers but is smiling widely when Jack speaks a few quick words of admiration for her costume in Spanish and passes her a scoop of candy for her bag.

“I’m Ariel!”, adds a small child in a green tube skirt with flared tulle flippers sewn on, a purple strip of cloth tied around their tummy over a slightly off-skin-tone longsleeve tee.

“And I’m Harry Potter!” A wand is brandished at Jack, who puts a hand over his chest in shock.

“I’m Batman!” The petite hero jumps into a pose to show off the padding of his armor, his light-up shoes kicking to life and casting green flashes over the porch.

Jack turns to his wife and grins, gesturing enthusiastically at the crowd of kids. “I think these are the best costumes we’ve seen all night, no?” She nods, and the kids all let out little shrieks and giggles as Jack procures a few extra pieces from the bowl and adds them to their bags.

The chaperones guide the straggling children into a chorus of “thank you”s before shuffling them down from the porch, past the jack o’lanterns, and on to the next house, as Jack and his wife remain in the doorway. She leans her head on his shoulder and listens to him sigh sweetly, his eyes tracing over the sunset-lit streets swarming with seas of children and their families, all screaming and laughing over one another, racing past on the sidewalks, weaving in and out of lawns decorated with tombstones and inflatable specters, plastic skeletons and felted spiders.

“You know, at the rate you hand it out, we’ll be out of candy before the street lights come on,” she teases, nudging his shoulder. Jack chuckles and puts a hand on the small of her back, shrugging as he steers her back towards the couch.

“It’s Halloween, bebé; do you want us to be known as the stingy old couple, or the cool couple that gives out extra candy to the little monsters? Besides, that Mirabel, oh my God--”

“Total heart-melter,” she agrees, sitting and cuddling into Jack’s side as he hooks his arm back over her shoulders and pulls her body close. “I think between her and that four-month-old dressed as Grogu, we may have seen the two cutest costumes in all of North America today.”

Jack lets out a groan at the memory of the adorable baby, who he had greeted at the door with a delighted peal of laughter, and squeezes his wife tightly in his arms, as if hugging her in the baby’s stead. The abrupt squish pushes a small squeak out of her, and Jack giggles, bumping the blunt tip of his long nose into her cheek.

“Sorry,” he murmurs. “You okay?”

His slight frame conceals a rather intense strength, something that comforts her, even if it still sneaks up on her every now and again that he is, in fact, as strong as he is; Jack’s touch is grounding and warm when so few things in the world are, and she’s glad, especially in the cold months, for the over-active heat of his body and the power of his embrace.

He traces the tips of his broad, tan fingers along the curve of her upper arm, pale nails leaving wake trails of gooseflesh and pleasant shivers. She realizes he’s waiting for a response before going any further with his affections, and she nods, cupping the square of his chin and running her thumb along his bottom lip. When his olive green eyes fix on hers, and his lips part to reveal the brightness of his smile, crooked to the left by the jut of his snaggletooth, she feels heat wash over her face and down her body, familiar and fluttering as he dips his face close and keeps her gaze.

“You know what I’m thinking?,” Jack purrs, voice dropping low and soft as he begins inching nearer. When he’s this close, his breath falls on her skin like a warm fog, sticking sweetly to her neck and cheeks, and the scent of him gets stronger.

He smells like their bed, she thinks. Cozy, fuzzy, and tinged with a modicum of not-at-all-unappealing sweat, there is also that distinct canine note that can only be detected in this kind of proximity. His arms are still wrapped around her, and one of his hands is coasting, flat-palmed, up and down the length of her side, following the curves of her ribs and belly, while the other finds itself resting on her shoulder, idly fingering an errant lock of hair. His face is so close to hers that she swears she could count each of his eyelashes, individually, and the hairs that form his growing stubble.

This Halloween, Jack has chosen to go as a vampire, which he thinks is exceedingly funny. Dark makeup rings his eyes and the grey in his hair glows almost blue in the low light of the fading day, lending him an unearthly quality that fits his costume well. The powers of the vampire, too, seem to be his: he has her under his thrall, certainly. His smile is mesmeric, and she can imagine that if a vampire were to look like him, there would be no end to the line of people willing to be bitten by that self-same smile.

“What are you thinking, Puppy?,” she asks, trying to redirect her own wandering thoughts. She scratches lightly at the underside of his chin and, on reflex, his head tilts up, eyes fluttering shut as a contented noise rumbles in the back of his throat. He’s so easy to please.

“I’m, uh--” He seems distracted by the sensation of her scratching at that Just Right spot between the back of his ear and the crook of his jaw, a distraction that only worsens when she begins scratching the hair at the nape of his neck. “I was going to say that I… I was thinking we…”

His hands lie still on her, twitching every now and then when she finds a particularly pleasing spot to scratch, and she relishes the sensation of being the one who now has her beloved under her own thrall; Jack leans his head into her touch and follows the motion of her hands, chasing her attentions. A sigh leaves his lips and he unclenches his shoulders, melting into her as she leans back against the armrest of the couch and Jack follows, laying his head on her chest.

His weight is surprisingly heavy atop her as he lays himself on her belly, slotting between her knees and positioning himself for ease of scritching. He’s not a big man, by any means, but there’s a density to him, and she’s feeling it now as he presses her into the couch with his body.

She pauses her petting briefly as she adjusts to the new position, and her hands still in his hair, which causes a growl of displeasure to part his lips. At that, she looks down at him and sees one green eye peering up at her (the other still shut and squished into her chest), and sticks her tongue out at him before continuing the strokes to his salt-and-pepper pelt.

It’s rather soothing, playing with his hair like this. There’s a therapeutic element to the combination of his body weight, intense warmth, rhythmic breathing, and the texture of his hair under her fingers, and she lets instinct carry her, as salient thought drifts away into the blissful mist of repetitive motion and familiar feelings. She traces the lines of his scalp, watching his black and grey and still, sometimes, brown hair forest up around her fingers, content to just match the tide of his breaths with her own, their ribs pressed together and expanding in synchronicity.

After a moment, Jack stirs. Turning, he cranes his face so that he can look at her squarely, and she feels the irresistible magnetism of that green gaze tugging her deeper into his spell.

“I want to try for one of our own,” he says, shattering the stillness like a foul ball through plate glass. “Tonight, if you’re ready.”

It takes her a second to blink away the haze that had settled around her head, and when she does at last manage to, she finds herself staring down into Jack’s face, taking him in with utmost fascination. If she heard him clearly, and she believes she did, he asked her--

“A baby, by the way. In case I wasn’t clear.” He flashes her a smile and a breathy laugh, and he pats her side playfully. “I’m sure you could figure that out, amorcita, but I like to be direct.”

“Oh.”

It’s all she can think to say: not because she is unhappy, or undesiring of the same things, but simply because the effect of Jack Russell, staring up at her with his big, moss-colored puppy eyes, brazenly stating that he wants to try and conceive with her, is flooring. He pushes up on his forearms, and suddenly he is above her, his face lit starkly by the shadows of the setting sun and the television, marking him out in black and white. His eyes glow, even in the darkness.

The wolf’s smile slips into his features as he stares down at her, watching her reactions with delight. He can hear her heartbeat, she knows, smells the minute shifts that not even she is aware of. He knows her, inside and out, and surely knows which way she is swayed, but he waits patiently for her to give him a sign, a command, an enthusiastic yes or a firm no. He won’t move without her urging.

She cups his face and lets out a shaky, excited breath, one that shivers in her sternum and makes Jack grin. There’s that crooked canine of his, sharply glinting in his smile, and she trembles joyfully at the sight, wondering if their child would have their father’s snaggletooth. She hopes they do.

“Tonight,” she repeats. Jack’s eyes widen.

Gently, she tugs him down and presses his pouty lips to hers, and the dam breaks. Jack lets out an inhuman groan of delight, dropping his center of gravity low to lean into the kiss, and uses his blunt incisors to pull at her bottom lip, nipping and sending the wet, lapping sounds of kissing echoing through the room. He uses one hand to hold her jaw in place, then begins trailing kisses down and around her chin, working his way to her throat.

“Look so pretty in your costume,” he rasps, voice low and clouded. “‘S hard for a man to keep his hands to himself.”

Before she can snidely remark that he, in fact, has not been keeping his hands to himself for almost the entirety of the evening, Jack sinks his teeth into her neck: not hard enough to wound her, but certainly hard enough to make her forget every other thought, her mind now focused completely on the reality that her husband is leaving marks all across her throat.

“You smell,” Jack groans, “So good. And, oh, God, when you have our cubs…”

He pushes his face into the crook of her neck and inhales, a series of Spanish and English curses flowing from his lips as they wander across her skin, and his hands begin rucking up the bottom of her blouse when--

“DING.”

Jack’s head whips up, and the two of them stare with wide eyes at one another. His face is flushed a deep umber and his lips are shiny, hair a fluffed mess, and she can only imagine she looks even more sordid and knocked askew. They exchange a communicative glance before the doorbell rings a second time and Jack, ever the gentleman, kisses her forehead, rapidly apologizing.

“We’ll get back to this, querida, I promise, I swear, I want to--”

She waves him off with a smile, and sees him bolt for the door, candy bowl in hand. He throws it open with gusto, and as she watches, she sees the transformation come over him; the brightness in his eyes, the giddiness of his smile, the sincerity of his sweetness. He’s going to make a magnificent father. And she’s going to have a very, very happy Halloween.

#werewolf by night #jack russell #jack russell x reader #wwbn #wbn #marvel #(i also see people spell his name as:)#jack russel #jack russel x reader #i cant believe it a FIC and it's a slightly RISQUE one! (this is not permission for people to send me n...s....f.......w by the way)#i just am like. in a weird state and i thought married!jack and his spouse getting to do fun halloween kissing and having baby fever would #be cute and nice ghdkhgkalhgdkhg #original #it's a little short for me (i usually like to go about 5k or more?) but this is just a Test Run #if you guys want more jack lmk and i'll hopefully be doing other jack stuff for myself so :3 anyway its 3 am now gnight

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gxdsfavgal · 1 year

Text

Step Aside

Pairing: Rafe Cameron x Kook!fem!Reader

Warning: arguing, just a very short blurb that could potentially be a short series, not edited

Part 2

There was a party happening this afternoon, I didn’t know who’s it was but everyone knows I’m up for anything.

I got invited by Kelce, my first friend on the island. He taught me the in’s and out’s of the island, in his words I am basically a native now.

But all I know is Pogues and Kooks is a thing here. I’m still not used to it, not used to how Kooks looks down on Pogues.

Anyways, I had a busy day with helping my parents with some paperwork and meetings but I definitely needed a break from reading fine print.

I got ready for the party at Cannyhill? Someplace that ended in ‘hill’. I just knew it wasn’t that far, and that it was definitely a Kook party.

The sun was still beaming even though it was late afternoon, so I decided that shorts and a regular top was the way to go. People here dress differently for these types of parties, designer all around even though they know it’s going to be covered in vomit later on in the night.

I quickly grabbed my things, spraying myself with my signature scent, and left in my car that I always dreamt of when I was younger.

I sped down the streets with the salty wind in my face as I followed the GPS to the address Kelce sent me.

As I arrived, I immediately could tell the vibe of this party. It was Kook Central, filled with expensive jungle juice and collared shirts. The loud music was definitely found through social media, because they definitely did not grow up around trap music.

I parked my car on the side of the road for easy access if this party turns out a bust. I walked through the pathway and into the grassy lawn where everyone was at. The music was loud and so was people’s cheers once they saw me.

“Heyyy! Look who’s here!” Kelce and his friends crowded me.

“Finally got out of that damn office.” I joked to them as one of the girls handed me a red solo cup, which I accepted and chugged.

Everyone else waved at me and said their ‘hellos’.

I began to walk around and talk to the others there, creating conversation about parents and the beach club. Normal “Kook” things I guess that’s what they call it here in the OBX.

“So yeah, my dad got me Hermes sandals from his trip to New York but I hated the color so I just gave them to some lady on the main land.” a random girl whined about to me and her boyfriend ignoring the repetitive story.

“Oh wow. That is so sweet of you.” sarcasm flowed out with my words as my smile didn’t drop once.

“Hey, sorry to interrupt.” Kelce apologized to the couple I was talking to as I pulled me away. “Forgot to introduce you to the host.”

“Lead me to it” I followed behind him as he led me throughout the house, up until I reached the balcony that looked over the party.

There was only a few people up here, exclusive, seemed like you needed to be on the guest list to be up above everyone else.

“Rafe.” Kelce hollered.

A tan and tall body turned towards me, his arm around a shorter girl. Once both of them turned around I was able to see who the girl was.

“Sofia.” I nodded towards her with a friendly smile, and she nodded back with a awkward one.

“Who are you?” Rafe snapped.

First red flag, having an attitude in the first interaction.

“Y/N Y/L/N” I held out my hand with a smile, hoping to change his tone.

He scoffed and ignored my handshake.

“So what’s got everyone hooting and hollering for you?” he twisted his neck, arm falling off of Sofia’s shoulder.

“That’s a good question. It’s weird, people call me the Kook Queen? I’m new so I do-”

“Kook Queen?” he laughed out loud, clutching his chest as if he was going into a heart attack.

“I mean she basically is the Kook Queen.” Sofia said softly with a chuckle from beside Rafe, which earned a hard stare.

His face was in shock, his eyebrows furrowed, and neck tilted.

“Dude. Her like great great great grandfather-

“I am a descendant of founder of the Outerbanks. It’s nice to see that you guys know your history here.” I laughed to his face while lightly smacking Kelce’s shoulder.

“Hey! Kook Queen has arrived!” I heard from behind me.

“Barry!” I walked up to him to give a light hug.

“How the fuck do you know her?” Rafe asked harshly.

“Calm down Country Club, she lives at Corolla.” Barry laughs as his hand rested on my shoulder. “A lot has changed when you went on your little vacay.”

“Holy shit.” Rafe mumbled under his breath.

“Big ass house ain’t it. Rich ass mofos.” Barry clapped as he left to go back inside Tannyhill.

My head turned quickly at the shadow in the corner of my eye, Rafe’s shadow that was very quick and heavy.

He cleared his throat and bent down to my level. “I think we got off on the wrong foot. I’m Rafe Cameron.” he put on a fake friendly smile as his hand was reached out for me to shake.

I happily took his hand and shook it firmly. “Nice to finally meet you Mister Cameron, it seems we have a scheduled meeting coming up soon.” I gave him a smile and a pat on his back. His eyes seemed to almost bulge out of his skull.

#gxdsfavgals masterlist #cmac</3 #rafe cameron #rafe cameron angst #rafe cameron smut #rafe cameron fluff #rafe #obx rafe #rafe obx #rafe x sofia #rafe cameron x sofia #kooks #obx kooks #outerbanks #outerbanks rafe #obx3 #obx

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xjoonchildx · 2 years

Text

adonis | pjm x reader

🚨 summary: your crackpot of a neighbor will not rest until you throw yourself at the gorgeous paramedic in town. she's nuts, y'all.

🚨 pairing: reader x paramedic!jimin

🚨 genre: meddling neighbors? horny little old ladies with bad-slash-good intentions? awkward OCs who can't find the words to speak in the presence of greatness?

🚨 warnings: one very mouthy senior citizen, sweet/shy jimin, an OC who can't find a clean shirt throughout the entire fic, one very spoiled pomeranian, smoking, sexual innuendo, literally one line of implied smut

🚨 word count: 3.4K (lmao)

🚨 notes: this is my drabble *snort* for the possum anniversary and i am celebrating the wonderful @starlostjimin who is such a cool, funny, amazing, talented person. did you know that 911 is 911 in america AND canada? anyhoo. i hope you like my very first jimin fic ever, and i hope it delivers on the things that you wanted 💕

thank you always to @hobi-gif for being the most amazing beta and person in general.

If you had to wager a guess, you’d say it was Mrs. Choi from the fourth floor who’d dialed 911. That miserable old bat has always struck you as kind of a snitch.

At any rate, that’s how you find yourself standing outside your condo at ten o’clock at night, wearing nothing but a faded bathrobe and a pair of worn-out house slippers. Lights mounted on top of the fire truck idling at your building’s entrance turn the courtyard into a tragic makeshift disco, everything and everyone splashed in flashes of red and white.

You mill around on the damp grass with the rest of your neighbors, each of you turned into temporary exiles in mismatched sleepwear.

Mr. Nam from the sixth floor is yelling into his phone as he paces, giving someone an earful about the disruption. Mrs. Song from the seventh floor was smart enough to grab a lawn chair and she watches the scene unfold like it’s one of her beloved dramas. Mr. Baek from the first floor doesn’t pay any mind to the fuss around him, engrossed in a book good enough to drown out the grumbling and sirens.

But you don’t spot the woman who lives in the unit next to yours – not right away – because it takes her an absurdly long time to heed this whole evacuation business.

When Mrs. Yun finally breezes through the condo’s glass doors, she does so with all the subtlety of a pageant queen. She makes a beeline for you, decked out in a Hawaiian-print muumuu loud enough to wake the dead – accessorized by a full face of makeup, a full set of curlers, and her trusty Pomeranian tucked under one arm.

“What is all this fuss about?” she pouts, giving Chichi an affectionate scratch. You lean over to give the dog your own scratch and she licks your fingers as thanks.

“Hell if I know,” you shrug. “I came outside when I heard the sirens. Which, by the way, was about ten minutes ago.”

“I was busy,” Mrs. Yun sniffs, affronted by your reprimand. She sets Chichi down to pat her curlers and make sure each is still in place. “I have a friend coming over tonight.”

“A friend.”

“Yes honey, a friend,” she echoes, tone haughty. “You should try it some time.”

God, you really should. The only man in your life these days is the Doordash driver and the last time he’d come by, he’d made a clumsy joke about your sodium intake. You’d been embarrassed, sure, but somehow that pales in comparison to this reminder that you’re being outsexed by the little old lady next door.

“You should ask someone when they plan to let us back in,” Mrs. Yun says, tapping her foot impatiently. “You should ask – ” she pauses to look out over the crowd, eyes lighting as she points one fresh gel nail in the direction of the fire truck, “ – him.”

You follow the trajectory of that thin finger with your gaze until your eyes land on Mrs. Yun’s intended target. And then you blink as you take in what is surely the most beautiful man you’ve ever seen. Dark eyes and sandy blonde hair and a jawline so sharp, it could have been cut from granite.

Holy shit.

“I’ll say,” Mrs. Yun grins, and your face burns with embarrassment when you realize you’ve spoken out loud. It flames even hotter when she raises an arm to wave him over.

“Sir? Sir!”

“No. No, no, no, no, no.” You panic, whispering in the most threatening tone you can muster. “Put your hand down. Don’t – ”

But it’s too late. Mrs. Yun has already caught the attention of this Earth-bound Adonis. He makes his way towards you both without delay, wearing an easy smile so devastating it makes sweat bead at your temples.

“Hi there,” he greets kindly. “How can I help you?”

“Thank you, Mr. – ” Mrs. Yun pauses to squint at the name embroidered on the man’s dark navy uniform, “ – Park. What’s all this uproar about tonight, huh?”

“Yeah, sorry about that,” he chuckles, and you find yourself mesmerized by the way his eyes crinkle at the corners. “Someone called 911 because they smelled smoke, so we had to come check it out.” A radio secured to his shoulder crackles with an incoming transmission and he pauses to listen before he speaks again. “Pretty sure they’re almost done checking the building. Old places like this, we’ve always got to put in a bit more attention where the wiring is concerned. Wouldn’t want to leave you ladies in a dangerous situation.”

“Oh, of course not,” Mrs. Yun purrs, making no effort to hide the cheeky once-over she gives him. “We certainly appreciate you being thorough.”

The Adonis – Mr. Park – flushes, clearing his throat as the tips of his ears turn pink. You make a mental note to sit Mrs.Yun down later to explain that a few things have changed since her heyday.

The radio crackles again, a garbled voice coming over the line.

“Sounds like they’re almost done,” he explains, looking down at his feet to find Chichi sniffing at his boot. He crouches down to pet her and she curls into the curve of his hand, eager for his touch.

Somehow you’re willing to bet this man has that kind of effect on everything in his path – men, women, and houseplants alike.

He gives Chichi a few firm scratches before getting back to his feet. The rigid fabric of his uniform pants strains against the lean muscles of his thighs as he moves and Mrs. Yun’s eyes practically bug out of her face. You’d jam an elbow in her side if you thought there was a chance you could pull it off without being caught.

“I’d better get back,” he says, turning to you with one of those debilitating smiles. Your toes curl inside the shabby velvet of your slippers. “Please don’t hesitate to let me know if you need anything.”

“Oh, we won’t!” Mrs. Yun calls out, appreciating his retreating form with a lifted brow. You wait until the man is well out of earshot before turning on her.

“What the hell was that?” you demand.

“That – ” she says with her nose in the air, “ – is why you never leave the house without your face on.”

“You were practically undressing that man with your eyes,” you accuse hotly. “You do know what sexual harrassment is, don’t you?”

Mrs. Yun huffs as she bends down to scoop up Chichi. “I wasn’t harassing the man, I was appreciating him. Fine art is meant to be admired.”

“Oh, please,” you grumble. “And don’t think I missed that little detail about the smoke.”

She narrows her eyes at you.

“Mind your business.”

🚨🚨🚨🚨

One week later, a knock at the door nearly startles you right off the couch. You frown into your half-eaten carton of ramen and set it down on the coffee table, taking a moment to seriously contemplate pretending not to be home.

But then there’s more knocking – more insistent this time.

You pad across the floor, crack the door open and the ramen in your stomach threatens to come right back up.

“Hi again.”

You blink.

“Sorry to bother you, it’s just that your neighbor suffered a fall and she said you would have a key to get into her place.”

The Adonis – Mr. Park – looks a little sheepish as he stands in the doorway, waiting for you to speak like a normal human being with a passable set of social skills. He shoves one hand through his sandy blonde hair and the locks seem to fall back in slow-motion.

“I – y-yes of course,” you stutter, so flustered that you nearly trip over your own feet in your haste to scramble for the kitchen. You dig Mrs. Yun’s spare key out of the silverware drawer and rush back to drop it into his waiting palm.

“I hope she’s okay,” you worry, biting at the inside of your cheek. “I’m right here if you guys need anything else.”

“We’ll take good care of her,” another voice promises, and you crane your neck to peer past the stunning Mr. Park to search for the source of it. A second man stands out in the hallway, a heavy duffel bag slung over one muscular arm covered in a myriad of tattoos. His face is boyish and beautiful and soft, a stark contrast to his powerful body.

Jesus. Who’s doing the recruiting in this city?

“We’ll have this back to you right away,” Mr. Park promises, and your neck heats when he rewards you with one of his sweet smiles.

The second they leave, you make a beeline for the bathroom – and cringe as you stand in the mirror and peel one half-dried ramen noodle off the front of your shirt.

🚨🚨🚨 🚨

15 minutes later, Mr. Park’s picture-perfect partner is knocking at your door.

“Hey there.”

You might have run a brush through your hair and dabbed on a bit of tinted chapstick in the last five minutes, but he notices that – or the absence of one half-dried ramen noodle, he makes no indication.

“Hi again,” you say. “Is she okay?”

“Oh, for sure. Maybe a little banged up, but otherwise she’s alright. She’s asking for you though, if you can walk over with me.”

“Yes, of course.” You shuffle into the hall and let him lead the way, through the open front door to Mrs. Yun’s unit and the narrow foyer that opens up into her living room. She’s upright on the couch, holding an ice pack to her head. The glorious Mr. Park is bent down on one knee at her side.

“I’ll tell you what,” she says, looking as pleased as a queen holding court, “I’m grateful every day for the very dedicated public servants in this city. That was terrifying.”

“But you’re okay, right?” you ask.

“Nothing broken, so far as we can tell,” the Adonis says. “She’s probably going to be good and sore tomorrow, but for now she’s doing just fine.”

“Thanks to Mr. Park and Mr. Jeon here,” Mrs.Yun says sweetly. A little too sweetly, in fact. The wheels in your brain start to turn and you eyeball her from across the room. She peeks at you from behind the ice pack and dons an angelic smile.

“Yes, they are certainly appreciated,” you say slowly, the skepticism in your voice vibrating at a frequency only Mrs. Yun can hear. She beams at Mr. Park as he gets to his feet and starts to pack up his things.

Mr. – Jeon, was it? – slings his heavy duffel bag over his shoulder. “Be sure and take those anti-inflammatories tonight, okay? You’ll be all locked up in the morning if you don’t.”

Mrs. Yun practically preens at the personal attention she’s gotten from these two insanely good-looking men. “I will.”

“You’re lucky to have a good neighbor,” the Adonis says to Mrs. Yun, turning to you with a genuine smile. Your heart thuds in response. “If it’s alright with you, keep an eye on her tonight? She might need your help.”

“I’ll keep an eye on her, alright,” you say with a tight smile, and Mrs. Yun clears her throat.

🚨🚨🚨🚨

“Promise me – right now – that you really fell.”

“What did I tell you about leaving the house with your face on?”

“Answer the question,” you fire back and Mrs. Yun sighs, tossing the ice pack down on the couch.

“Yes, honey, I did fall. I fell in love with that scrumptious Mr. Park the second I saw him. And if I were a woman thirty – ”

You raise an eyebrow.

“ – Okay, fifty years younger than I am, I would be taking him for a spin myself. But since I’m not, I’ve decided that you should have him. Did I bend the truth a little? Yes. But for a good cause. I’m a very thoughtful person, you know.”

“You are outrageous,” you hiss, pacing as Mrs.Yun pretends to look for dirt under her fingernails. “This is a waste of public resources! They’re supposed to be responding to emergencies. Real emergencies.”

“First of all – ” Mrs. Yun is defiant, chin in the air, “ – Nothing ever happens in this town. Nothing. And second, there’s dust in your panties, sweetheart. If that’s not an emergency, I don’t know what is.”

Your mouth falls open in a silent scream and Mrs. Yun ignores it, climbing off the couch with ease to cross the room and crack open a window. She pulls a box out of the tiny accent table perched beneath it and proceeds to light an absurdly long cigarette.

“You’re too damned young to be shut away in your house all the time,” she argues, pursing her lacquered lips to blow a stream of smoke out the window. “Work. Couch. Work. Couch. How can you stand it? Let me tell you what I’d be doing right now if I could turn back the clock and have your youth again: Mr. Park. I’d be doing Mr. Park. You should be doing Mr. Park.”

You stifle a disbelieving laugh. The novelty of your neighbor’s loose lips and bad habits wore off a long time ago, but sometimes she still manages to catch you off guard.

“Well, I’ve got an early morning so unless you have any more unsolicited sex advice to share, I’m going to have to call it a night.”

Mrs. Yun blows another long stream of smoke out the window.

“Nope. I’ve got it all off my chest.”

“Good then,” you say, turning on your heels. You make it all the way to the door before you pause and call out to her.

“And put that thing out!”

🚨🚨🚨🚨

Three days later, you find yourself struggling with an overloaded paper bag from the grocery store. Yes, you’ve purchased the reusable ones and yes, they’re a hell of a lot stronger – but you never miss an opportunity to leave them hanging in the closet on your way out the door.

Something in the bag is wet – well, moist at the very least. And it’s enough to have you gripping the bottom tight with both hands as you try to maneuver your way through the revolving door at the entrance to your condo. It’s an awkward fit inside the narrow sliver of space and as you’re shuffling forward, the door’s momentum dies. You push at it with one foot and lose an onion from the bag, nearly losing your balance in the process.

You blow out a heavy breath and go to push the door again, only this time it smoothly glides away before you even make contact. The misstep makes you jerk forward, but at least the door keeps moving long enough for you to step out of it.

“Think you lost something back there.”

Most of your hair has slipped out of your ponytail holder by now, the strands matted to your forehead with the sweat you worked up on the walk from the car. But when you turn, you can still make out the glorious Mr. Park quite clearly. He drops the onion back into your bag and smiles at you.

“Please, allow me.”

He lifts the bag out of your arms, carefully securing the bottom like you’d done just moments before. With your hands now free, you push your hair out of your face and silently pray that you don’t look as unfortunate as you suspect you do.

“You don’t have to do that,” you demur. “But I appreciate it anyway. Mr. Park, right?”

“Well, I’d much prefer you call me Jimin,” he laughs, the sound of it making heat bloom inside your chest. “But yeah, it’s me again.”

He’s not wearing his uniform, you realize. And though some small part of you mourns the loss of those fitted shirts and pants, his off-duty look – an oversized sweater, jeans and pair of sharp boots – sure as hell doesn’t disappoint.

“Do you… live here?” you ask stupidly, as though a man this handsome could live anywhere on this entire street without someone taking notice. “Or – ”

“No, no,” he says quickly. “I came by to check on your neighbor. You know, after the fall and all. I told her she could call me if she ever needed anything and she asked me to stop by.”

“You gave – ” you pause, shock forcing your voice at least an octave higher, “ – You gave Mrs. Yun your phone number?”

His cheeks pink at the observation. “She’s in her 70s, you know? Lives alone. I really don’t mind.”

You truly have no idea how your chain-smoking, jazzercising, oversexed hellion of a next-door neighbor has managed to convince this man she’s a frail old woman in need of a hero.

Will wonders never cease?

“Besides,” he says, “She’s kind of...quirky, you know?”

“That’s a very strange way to say unhinged,” you counter.

He laughs.

“You’re funny. Come on, I’ll walk you up.”

yun: DID YOU HAVE YOUR FACE ON [ 9:15 PM ]

yun: he told me he helped you with your groceries [ 9:15 PM ]

yun: now tell him to help you out of your clothes [ 9:16 PM ]

you: go to bed [ 9:16 PM ]

Two days later, legs like noodles from spin class, you limp through your front door and sag onto the couch. You might have napped for a second, you’re not entirely sure – but after a knock sounds at your door, you are most definitely alert. Your thighs protest as you force yourself off the couch to answer it.

You crack the door open and it’s him. Adonis. Mr. Park. Jimin.

And you’re wearing a gray workout shirt with what you are certain is one very sizeable sweat stain down the front. Good God, will there ever be a time when you see this man and don’t look like a complete wreck?

“Oh my gosh, did she call you again?” you ask, incredulous. “You are so sweet to do this for her, really but this is too – ”

“ – She didn’t call,” he interrupts, looking just the tiniest bit bashful.

“Oh.”

“Listen, this is kind of embarrassing and maybe not entirely appropriate given I know where you live, but it’s just that I don’t have your number.”

Your eyes widen and your already distressed legs start to feel a bit more weak. Jimin scrubs a hand down his jaw before he speaks again.

“I was actually wondering if you might let me take you to dinner sometime.”

You blink.

“Or I could cook you dinner. I make this really great prawn dish? But again, I’m not trying to be a creep or anything and it’s okay if you’re not comfortable with that – ” he’s backpedaling now, his words coming out in a rush.

“– You are not a creep,” you insist, when you’ve finally come to your senses and figure out how to access your words and use them to form sentences. “I just – I was just not expecting that. But yes, I’d love to go to dinner with you.”

Your knees threaten to buckle at the slow smile that comes over him.

“That’s great.”

🚨🚨🚨🚨

You fling the silverware drawer open and practically rip Mrs. Yun’s key out of it in your mad dash to her apartment. No, you do not feel guilty for letting yourself into her house, the woman has absolutely no boundaries and could use a taste of her own medicine.

You slam the door behind you when you walk in, and Mrs. Yun squints at you from her perch in the window. She blows out a perfect ring of smoke and then raises a brow.

“Got a bee in your bonnet?”

“Give me one of those,” you demand. “Right now.”

🚨🚨🚨🚨

There’s a knock at your door – again – only this time, you already know who’s on the other side. It’s your beloved Doordash driver, bringing an order of your beloved shio ramen. Two, actually.

You open the door to grab your food and Jimin calls out from the couch.

“Need some help with that?”

“Nah, I’m good,” you say over your shoulder.

When you turn back to thank the Doordash guy, he’s staring into your living room, eyes wide and trained on Jimin. You clear your throat and he snaps his focus back to you.

“Have a good night,” he says pleasantly.

And then he gives you a thumbs up.

yun: can the two of you keep it DOWN [ 11:22 PM ]

yun: some of us need our beauty sleep [ 11:22 PM ]

#jimin fic #jimin x reader #park jimin #possumversary

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drakewyne · 7 days

Text

a supercut:

"in june of this year, patient made a self endangering attempt while under the influence of several prescription drugs. patient is emotionally alienated almost entirely from a world of other human beings, and exhibits a psychotic dissonance from reality. subject to delusions and obsessive compulsivity, patient's fantasy life is preempted by primitive, regressive libidinal preoccupations many of which are distorted and bizarre. somatization has developed a false reality of incomprehensible intent for all others. fundamentally doomist, catastrophist, and pessimistic, patient is categorized by a high intellect but an intense compulsivity and behavior coupled with delusions of aggrandizement that tend to revolve around highly sexual or anatomical themes . . . "

tests were administered privately in an inpatient clinic with a fountain in delaware in the summer of 2023. by the way, these notes did not appear to nancy as an inappropriate response to the summer of 2023 at all.

.・゜゜・

before that, nancy was living in a large and very generational estate in crest hill. it was a lovely white proto - gothic with wide lush lawns. it once had children. now she describes it as a "mostly deco, senseless killing neighborhood."

she remembers ' visions of johanna ' on a record player, and a new housekeeper telling her that she saw death in her aura. nancy remembers chatting with her about why this might be so, paying her, opening every french window, unlocking every door and sleeping in the living room.

.・゜゜・

it was hard to surprise her then.

it was hard to even get her attention.

she was absorbed in her intellectualism, her bleak metal heart, her obsessive devices, her somatization, her shitty coffees and bad cigarettes, and the scientologist who routinely called her to tell her of e - meters and how she could become a clear because she continuously indulged the conversation.

she recalled to him a blue light that filled her room when she was young.

"huh?"

"so i was almost abducted."

"oh . . . uh, well—"

"what's clearer than that?"

he didn't call back. she walked around barefoot, considered getting abducted by aliens on the new tennis court near her house — another senseless killing.

.・゜゜・

nancy van der huis felt herself a missionary of apocalyptic sex. and a martyr for the adhd.

.・゜゜・

TO PACK:

- skirts

- shirts

- extra pair of shoes

- socks

- cigarettes

- bag with: hair care, toothbrush and paste, deodorant, prescriptions, tampons, skin care

TO CARRY:

- mohair jacket

- tablet

- keys

- glasses

- gum

this is a list printed loopy and drunk on a sticky note and slammed to her closet door. the list enables her to keep a keen focus — notice the cigarettes, for the thumbnails, and the gum, for the thumbnails and the cigarettes.

as clear as her starry eyes were beckoned to be, this is a list of someone who prizes self control, yearns for momentum, is determined to play vaguely and spectacularly on script. it is versatile and ambiguous. her performance shifts like water current.

there is one significant omission, an article she needs and rarely has: a timepiece. she typically didn't need one in the day, but alone, she often lost track of time and made it all up in her head. she slowly grew dissonant with the potential difference on her phone, and finally, would call tim and ask him what time it was.

she had an ambiguous and fluid identity, nearly missing if not for a tendency toward catastrophe and coronaries in a super snatched sick pleasure — going big, so to say, touching like an angel — but she didn't really know what time it was.

#┊ : ̗̀➛ nancy . . . ( visions 2012 )#┊ : ̗̀➛ writing . . . ( melodrama 2017 )

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sixty-silver-wishes · 1 month

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things that happened at today’s market-

- they played will wood over the speakers and me and my vending partner just. looked at each other

- I sold/traded TWO caligari prints (!!)

- ran into someone who said their friend liked “metropolis,” which I had a piece for, and asked if they could send them a picture of the art. I said yes, and it turned out their friend was my tumblr mutual in another state

- someone brought a giant goblin shaped puppet

- a group told me they were playing “count the straights” at the market and only found one person

- someone with a shirt that said “I got pegged at cracker barrel” came up to my booth and I got so distracted laughing at it I forgot to tell them about my sales

- someone had crocs with shrek horns, which they called “shrocs”

- long discussion with someone as to why eraserhead baby deserved better

- the wind blew one of my beetlejuice prints away and it smacked one of my vending partners in the face

- as we were striking the tent, one of the poles got stuck, and they put megalovania on the speakers. and so you had like four or five people angrily assailing a tent pole as megalovania was playing. shit’s wild

- I got free fries from the food truck next to us :D

- traded some buttons for a frog-shaped lawn ornament, which I used to hold down the prints to keep them from blowing away. we decided to name it frodger

overall 10/10 experience. signed up for the next one

#vendor stuff

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paisholotus · 8 months

Text

ᑕᕼᗩᑭTEᖇ TᕼᖇEE

༄ؘ ۪۪۫۫ Gₑₜₜᵢₙg ₜₒ ₖₙₒw ₜₕₑ ᵤₙfₐₘᵢₗᵢₐr ۪۪۫۫ ༄ؘ

Percy's Pov

He offered me a chair to the right of Mr. D, who looked at me with bloodshot eyes and heaved a great sigh. "Oh, I suppose I must say it. Welcome to Camp Half-Blood. There. Now, don't expect me to be glad to see you." He said, leaning back. "Uh, thanks." I scooted a little farther away from him because, if there was one thing I had learned from living with Gabe, it was how to tell when an adult has been hitting the happy juice. If Mr. D was a stranger to alcohol, I was a satyr.

"Annabeth?" Mr. Brunner called to the black girl with brown and blonde braids. She came forward, and Mr. Brunner introduced us. "This young lady nursed you back to health, Percy. And I see you've met Selene, daughter of Clio, the Sun Goddess. Annabeth, my dear, why don't you go check on Percy's bunk? We'll be putting him in cabin eleven for now." He said, pointing down the cabins.

Annabeth said, "Sure, Chiron." She was probably my age, maybe a couple of inches taller, and a whole lot more athletic looking. With her deep brown skin and her long blond/brown braids, she was beautiful too, I've never seen girls like Selene and Annabeth from my school. Annabeth's eyes were startling gray, like storm clouds; pretty, but intimidating, too, as if she were analyzing the best way to take me down in a fight. While Selene's eyes were a light brown color, with a hint of gold shimmering, they reminded me of pools of honey.

Annabeth glanced at the minotaur horn in my hands, then back at me. I imagined she was going to say, "You killed a mino-taur! or Wow, you're so awesome! or something like that. Instead, she said, "You drool when you sleep." Then she sprinted off down the lawn, her braids flying behind her. "So," I said, anxious to change the subject. "You, uh, work here, Mr. Brunner?" I laughed awkwardly.

"Not Mr. Brunner," the ex-Mr. Brunner said. "I'm afraid that was a pseudonym. You may call me Chiron." He said, smiling. "Okay." Totally confused, I looked at the director. "And Mr. D ... does that stand for something?" I asked, looking him up and down. Mr. D stopped shuffling the cards. He looked at me like I'd just belched loudly. "Young man, names are power-ful things. You don't just go around using them for no reason." He said blankly. "Oh. Right. Sorry." I apologized. "I must say, Percy," Chiron-Brunner broke in, "I'm glad to see you alive. It's been a long time since I've made a house call to a potential camper. I'd hate to think I've wasted my time." He said, biting into an apple.

"House call?" I asked, confused. "My year at Yancy Academy, to instruct you. We have satyrs at most schools, of course, keeping a look out. But Grover alerted me as soon as he met you. He sensed you were something special, so I decided to come upstate. I convinced the other Latin teacher to ... ah, take a leave of absence." He said lowly.

I tried to remember the beginning of the school year. It seemed like so long ago, but I did have a fuzzy memory of there being another Latin teacher my first week at Yancy. Then, without explanation, he had disappeared, and Mr. Brunner had taken the class ."You came to Yancy just to teach me?" I asked. Chiron nodded. "Honestly, I wasn't sure about you at first. We contacted your mother and let her know we were keeping an eye on you in case you were ready for Camp Half-Blood. But you still had so much to learn. Nevertheless, you made it here alive, and that's always the first test." He said proudly.

"Grover," Mr. D said impatiently, "Are you playing or not?" He asked. "Yes, sir!" Grover trembled as he took the fourth chair, though I didn't know why he should be so afraid of a pudgy little man in a tiger-print Hawaiian shirt. "You do know how to play pinochle? Annabeth and Selene are my best players." Mr. D said, looking at Selene proudly. "I'm afraid not," I said. "Well, Selene, do you mind teaching Percy?" He asked her. I looked over at her, watching her give him a big smile and nodded. "It would be my pleasure, Sir." She then turned to look at me, smiling softly.

"it is, along with gladiator fighting and Pac-Man, one of the greatest games ever invented by humans. I would expect all civilized young men to know the rules." He explained what the game was. "I'm sure the boy can learn. Plus, Selene is a great teacher, " Chiron said. "Please," I said, "what is this place? What am I doing here? Mr. Brun-Chiron-why would you go to Yancy Academy just to teach me?" I asked, desperately trying to understand his reasoning. Mr. D snorted. "I asked the same question." He said, chuckling.

The camp director dealt the cards. Grover flinched every time one landed in his pile. Chiron smiled at me sympathetically, the way he used to in Latin class, as if to let me know that no matter what my average was, I was his star student. He expected me to have the right answer. "Percy," he said. "Did your mother tell you nothing?" He asked me. "She said ..." I remembered her sad eyes, looking out over the sea. "She told me she was afraid to send me here, even though my father had wanted her to. She said that once I was here, I probably couldn't leave. She wanted to keep me close to her." I told him, sadly.

"Typical," Mr. D said. "That's how they usually get killed. Young man, are you bidding or not?" He asked me.

"What?" I asked. He explained, impatiently, how you bid in pinochle. "I'm afraid there's too much to tell," Chiron said. "I'm afraid our usual orientation film won't be sufficient." He said.

"Orientation film?" I asked. "No," Chiron decided. "Well, Percy. You know your friend Grover is a satyr. You know"-he pointed to the horn in the shoe box -"that you have killed the Minotaur. No small feat, either, lad. What you may not know is that great powers are at work in your life. Gods-the forces you call the Greek gods-are very much alive." He said.

"Yeah, I kinda figured that when I saw Selene's mom. I mean, my best friend has furry legs and hooves." I said, glaring down at the floor. I stared at the others around the table. I waited for somebody to yell, not! But all I got was Mr. D yelling, "Oh, a royal marriage. Trick! Trick!" He cackled as he tallied up his points.

"Mr. D," Grover asked timidly, "if you're not going to eat it, could I have your Diet Coke can?" He asked. "Eh? Oh, all right." He said, rolling his eyes, and handed him the can. Grover bit a huge shard out of the empty aluminum can and chewed it mournfully.

"I just can't believe GOD'S are real. Are they like the same thing as....like...Jesus..that type of GOD?" I asked. "Well, now," Chiron said. "God-capital G, God. That's a different matter altogether. We shan't deal with the metaphysical." "Metaphysical? But you were just talking about -" "Ah, gods, plural, as in, great beings that control the forces of nature and human endeavors: the immortal gods of Olympus. That's a smaller matter." He said, matter factly.

"Smaller?" I asked. "Yes, quite. The gods we discussed in Latin class." He said. "Zeus," I said. "Hera. Apollo. You mean them." He nodded. And there it was again-distant thunder on cloud-less day. "Young man," said Mr. D, "I would really be less casual about throwing those names around if I were you." He said sternly.

My heart pounded. He was trying to make me angry for some reason, but I wasn't going to let him. "Ok, sure. But I don't believe in gods." I said, flatly. "Oh, you'd better," Mr. D murmured. "Before one of them incinerates you." He said, crossing his arms.

"P-please, sir. He's just lost his mother. He's in shock." Grover said, pleading.

Selene nudged me and urged me to stick out my hand. She told me to close my eyes and I looked between Chiron and Mr. D, then back to Selene and hesitantly closed my eyes. I felt both of her hands cup mine, and I felt my hand warmly vibrate. She told me to open my eyes, and I gasped.

There was a glowing golden orb floating in my hand. I looked up at Selene, then back to the floating ball in my hand. "W-what...is that?" I asked her lowly. "It's my powers. I can do more, but I'm still practicing." She said, gigging at my mouth- opened shocked face.

"Well, Percy, do you believe now?" Chiron asked me. I couldn't even process what I was seeing. She carefully took the glowing ball away, and suddenly, everything that had happened the last 24 hours was swirling around in my head, and I suddenly felt light-headed.

"UH OH! HE'S GOING DOWN AGAIN!" I heard someone yell before everything went black.

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undeadremcycle · 6 months

Text

Open Starter @lunarcovestarters

Option A: Puck's Luck Casino

It was day three in Lunar Cove, and Remmington was already out on the streets, going from place to place asking if they were hiring security. It was about the only job they had experience for. Ex-military, disabled, and unemployed didn't make for a very long resume. Still, they'd written up a CV after looking up a guide online, printed off a full folder of them, put on their nicest clothes, and hit the downtown street. They figured the best places to hit first would be the ones they knew hired security, like casinos. Despite how surprised they were to find a museum in such a small town, it was kind of a relief to know there were still some familiar landmarks, even in a place like this.

Still, nerves were nerves, and Remmy found themself digging around in their pockets for a cigarette and lighter, stepping aside as they slid the folder of papers under their arm. To their dismay, though, they seemed to have forgotten their lighter. Glancing around, Remmy spotted someone standing near the street and shuffled over, tapping them on the shoulder. "Uh, excuse me-- you don't happen to have a lighter, do you?"

Option B: Town Green, near the Gazebo

"Well, what do you think, bud?" Remmy stood in the middle of the lawn near a large gazebo, dressed in sweatpants and a shirt, while Moose trotted faithfully by their side, his tongue lolling out of the side of his mouth. They couldn't help but smile at him, as his big, brown eyes scanned the lawn. "Big enough for ya?" The large, fluffy dog turned his head to look up at them, as if to say 'It's perfect'. With a chuckle, Remmy bent over to and unclipped the guide from Moose's harness, unbuckled the harness and then stepped back, letting him loose. And the giant dog, happy for his break from "work", took off as fast as possible, running and romping around the gas, turning to look back at Remmy. They held up the old, dirty tennis ball and saw his eyes light up, butt in the air, before winding their arm back and throwing it off towards him.

They did this a few more times before picking up the ball once again and turning to throw it in a different direction. Only, this time, the tennis ball flew directly into someone else, who had previously been in Remmy's blind spot. "Shit!" they cursed, trying to run over and stop Moose before he plowed through said person. "Sorry! I'm sorry! He won't bite! O-or hurt you! He's a good dog!"

#gif chat #starter #lunarcovestarter

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dick-helmet-magneto · 1 year

Text

The younger X-Men and brotherhood fighting.

Charles and Erik sitting out in lawn chairs, wearing shorts and tropical print shirts, drinking, watching them like two dads watching their kids playing in the yard.

#cherik

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catoi-calamari · 8 months

Note

I’m dying out here, the gradual enshittification of all products is killing me. Could you please share your knowledge of brands that actually make good, durable clothing items? Tsym!!!

The Big One v3.0:More Boots!

>Blundstone

>Thursday Boot Co

This version is focused mainly on work/masc clothing . If anyone has recommendations for more decorative/femme clothing, please share them with me so I can update the post :)

Make sure to check the version number if you see this in the wild, it may have updated!

Recommendations marked with an asterisk (*) means I have no personal experience with them, but I've heard enough good things that I added them to the list.

1. Shirts/Tops

First of all, I'm a huge whore for 100% cotton, but in theory polyester will last longer. On the other hand, polyester will last forever, seeping into fish and local blood streams for millenia to come. Second of all, if you want cool graphics then I'd highly recommend doing it yourself. I'd say the easiest options for getting reliable, long lasting graphic tees are screen printing, tie dye and vinyl decals, but this depends on what resources you have access to. Keep in mind this is for shirts that you'll (hopefully) be able to wear for over a decade since really any decent cotton tee will last a decent amount of time.

Recommendations

-ASCOLOR

These are the best blank t shirts I've found, period. Stitching is great, the fabric is thick, and from what I can tell they're slightly more inclined to ethical production than your average mass produced T-shirts. They also sell nice jackets and coats as well!

I might try out a couple of pairs of pants from them to see what's up.

Band Tees

For some reason these tend to be really solid, depending on how big the artist in question is. Usually printed on Gildan, which ain't bad. They are expensive though, which means they may not be as great of a deal

This would be the section where I talked about stuff that isn't just t shirts but idk any brands that make consistently durable examples for a good price.

2. Pants

I would recommend a maximum of 1-2% elastane if you're getting skinny jeans, otherwise it's 100% cotton denim baby. Durability decrease exponentially the higher percentage of non-denim there is.

Also, I highly recommend selvage jeans if you can afford them. They use a tighter knit and are made to be worn in.

For cargo pants, get something that's thick and has ripstip material.

Recommendations

-Levi's

The lowest in price I would go tbh. I recommend the 502s since they're 100% cotton but 511s have been a staple of the street fashion world for a while. They're skinnier jeans ain't bad either, but I feel like they're starting to hit the edge of being too thin.

-The Unbranded Brand

Focused solely on getting the price of selvage jeans down to affordable levels. Fair warning, I bought a pair of black jeans (with 1% elastane) and the formaldehyde smell still hasn't gone away. I have an indigo pair that smell fine though, and besides that they're my favorite pairs of jeans.

5.11

Now most """Tactical Apparel""" stores tend to be a bit...off, but since this is a post about durable clothing, I gotta mention the probably undiagnosed autistic guys with a special interest in manly man pants. I have a pair of 5.11 Canvas Cargo Pants and I've taken these things camping, through outdoor airsoft fields, and underground deathcore moshpits. The bastards still looked mint when I finally handed them off to my partner because my ass got too juicy to wear them and gave me a blister when I spent all morning working for a landscaper. (That job was the final straw in my anti-lawn radicalization arc btw.)

To reiterate, I would look for anything that's ripstip and not paper thin. Nylon also works but the texture sucks.

Duluth Trading Co.*

Carhartt if they didn't sell out, from what I've heard

Insert Mid Level Selvage Jean brand that's about $150-$250 a pair*

3. Shoes

Always invest in whatever goes between you and the ground. This goes for mattresses and chairs as well. And for fucks sake get something that can be resoled, and find a cobbler near you. Also look up the Sam Vines Boot Theory of Economics.

Recommendations

Vans

Unlike converse, I've only ever bought one pair. The problem with Vans is the lack of impact absorption, something that can be fixed with aftermarket inserts in theory. Old-Skools take insoles fairly well. Their ComfyCush line is aimed at fixing this problem but I haven't tried any of them. I did get a pair of Ultraranges recently and they seem decently durable, but I've yet to really start wearing into them.

Any skate shoes in general*

Theyre made to be dragged across concrete at relatively high speeds. Try to go for suede.

Solovair*

Now, I have beef with Doc Martens since they sold out, but they're still cheap, comfortable, and made out of leather, which is all you need. Anything lower and I would argue that it's too cheap. However, they can't be resoled, they're leather is kind of thin, and they definitely have a fast fashion mindset.

Solovair is a company that uses the original factories in England to make their own line of lookalikes, for a slightly higher price and slightly higher quality. I've heard their customer service is shit.

Redwing*

I have heard nothing but praise for these. I'm going to buy a pair of Supersole 2.0s once my current pair (which didn't make the list since they kinda went downhill) finally bite it.

Danner*

Another popular recommendation for leather boots.

There is a queer owned boot brand that has canvas and leather boots that are relatively cheap and have cool art but I forgot the name

3. Socks

Blundstones*

Chelsea boots but austrialian

Basically either get Darn Tough* or Point6 some decent socks from whatever brand works for you. I highly recommend merino wool hiking socks, and I just wear cotton socks during the summer.

4. Underwear

You do wear underwear, right?

Recommendations

TomboyX

Queer-owned business catered towards gnc people. Their stuff is dope, high quality, and made in the US with livable wages for their employees. Highly recommend.

5. Specialty

From cold weather gear to military surplus, this section covers everything else.

Recommendations

Patagonia*

I'm still amazed they're this popular and have this much of a focus on sustainability and longevity. Their sibling, North Face, definitely fell into the consumerism pit years ago but Patagonia has still been chugging along.

Military Surplus

I feel a bit guilty for gatekeeping the specific companies I like, but if you go to the right places (eBay) you can get durable clothing for SUPER cheap. It's usually not the highest quality, but it's better than the same thing from an outlet mall.

Chrome

Mainly a bicycling brand, their bags are the kind of things that last a stupidly long time. The internals of them aren't amazing, mainly just an empty main cavity with a laptop sleeve and a smaller separate pocket, but all of their stuff is rock solid. They also have a solid warranty as well.

Swiss Army

Yes, the knife guys. They haven't changed their looks since the late 90s but their backpacks are designed amazingly well. They also have a limited lifetime warranty. I've noticed some cosmetic wear on mine after a few months of using it pretty roughly, thankfully it's just skin-deep stuff but it's also different to older examples I've seen. Definitely more suited towards carrying books and folders.

#sorry this took so long lol #fast fashion #clothes #consumerism #certified og catoi post

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porcelainballerinas · 2 years

Text

mar.

advil (ibuprofen), 4 pack

sally hansen pink nail polish, 6 pack

clorox bleach, industrial size

diane hair pins, 4 pack

seafoam handheld mirror

"i love new york" t-shirt, white, small

apr.

nongshim ramen noodle bowl, 24 pack

cotton balls, 100 count

"thank you for your loyalty" cards, 30 count

toluene por-15 40404 solvent, 1 quart

uv led nail lamp

cuticle oil, value pack

clear acrylic nail tips, 500 count

may

advil (ibuprofen), 4 pack

vicks vapor rub, twin pack

portable electronic nail drill

salonpas heat-activated muscle patch, 40 count

lipstick, "night out red"

little debbie chocolate zebra cakes, 4 boxes

jun.

large faux-clay planter pots, value set

carnation condensed milk, 6 pack

clear nail art acrylic liquid powder dish bowl, 2 pcs

birthday card - son - pop up mother and son effect

nike elite basketball shorts, men's small

jul.

saviland holographic gold nail powder, 6 colors

nescafe taster's choice instant coffee

advil (ibuprofen), 4 pack

pixnor pedicure double-sided callus remover

bengay medicated cream, 3 pack

aug.

newchic ochre summer dress floral print, sz 6

wrigley's doublemint gum, 8 pack

plastic adirondack lawn chair, colonial blue

sep.

nail buffers and files, 10 pcs

coppertone sunblock, 6 oz

oct.

cozynites fleece blanket, pink

sleep-ease melatonin caps, 90 count

icy hot maximum strength pain relief pads

nov.

tampax, 24 count

faux-resin hair clips, 3 pack

dec.

advil (ibuprofen) maximum strength, 4 pack

true-gro tulip bulbs, 24 pcs

jan.

feb.

healthline compact trigger release folding walker

yankee candle, midsummer's night, large jar

mar.

chemo-glam cotton head scarf, flower garden print

"warrior mom" breast cancer awareness t-shirt, pink and white

may

mueller 255 lumbar support back brace

jun.

birthday card - "son, we will always be together," snoopy design

jul.

eternity aluminum urn, dove and rose engraved, small

perfect memories picture frame. 8 x 11 in, black

burt's bees lip balm, honey, 1 pc

aug.

sep.

easy-grow windowsill herb garden

oct.

yourstory customized memorial plaque, 10 x 8 x 4 in

winter coat, navy blue, x-small

nov.

wool socks, grey, 1 pair

-- ocean vuong, amazon history of a former nail salon worker

#ocean vuong #i cried while reading this for the first time and just now when typing it up in the middle of the library #long post #tw long post

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pajamamadonna · 2 years

Text

Unknown Pleasures

https://archiveofourown.org/works/40337385/chapters/102174954

Because I needed a scene where Eddie and Max meet (and some time to gush over Kate Bush).

A standalone chapter from a longer Hellcheer work.

---

It is a Thursday afternoon in the middle of May, the bugs buzzing—a heat to the breeze, which tugs at tendrils of their hair and cotton shirt hems. Butterflies balanced in the wind as Chrissy and Eddie lap from the mouth of the trailer, laughing. While the spring air molts its humming humidity, the overgrown grass—gnarled between sweeps of mud and snaking gravel roads—green and reaching itchy. Where the lawn blades buckle beneath Eddie’s rubber Reeboks—squashed as he struts. A pencil behind his ear—his tape deck in one fist, a stack of black-spined cassettes sliding (plastic clacking) in his other, his tongue tipped between his teeth in focus. Chrissy, trailing Eddie’s picnic table path—a textbook and binder clutched to her chest.

Pinched as Eddie notices that the table is already occupied. A slender girl slumped on its bench, her arms crossed—one red Van bouncing. Her headphones, two muffling discs absorbed by the orange of her hair. Sorrow in her stare. Eddie has seen her here before—recognizes her with a sink of sympathy. But she always scurries off before he can make conversation.

Though this time, she does not register her tripling company until it is too late to avoid the necessary grapes of greeting. Eddie, grinning as he clatters the toppling giraffe neck of tapes to the table—twisting from his waist (lean and lithe and darling) to slide the cassette player in its place amidst the wreckage. Drawing his shoulders and tugging his jeans up his hips (they had slipped). Before waving—his lips rolled in a line.

To which, the girl startles, shooting to her feet—her blue eyes wary as she snatches her silver Walkman from the table and readies to depart.

“Wait, wait wait—” Eddie urges, his palms submissive and flat—pleased as the girl unears her headphones—rhymed in a rinse of reluctance. “You don’t have to get up,” Eddie grins lazily, swinging a lolling wrist. “We’re just hanging out,” he says, hiking his knees to step (over) and settle (on) the opposite bench—moving like a marionette.

Brown-eyed beaming as the girl freezes, minding Eddie’s association with auburn uncertainty. Before she sinks back in her seat, her limbs brittle—never breaking the defensiveness of her glare.

Where Eddie looks her gently up and down—sluggish so as not to spook her. Deciding, eventually, on the girl’s slate blue band shirt, which sports a slap of sad-sack jangle pop.

“The Smiths,” he reads, sliding his elbows to the table and leaning forward with a grin. Convivial as he scrunches his nose. “They’re pretty whiny, right?” He glimmers in the kindness of his insult—as though he is admitting something shared (generous).

Still, the girl seems unsure, nodding sharply—its clip distracted as she traces the descent of Chrissy’s settling (sweet to Eddie’s left as she spreads her supplies).

So Eddie seeks to soothe the caution. “Cool hair though,” he says, pointing to the screen-printed quiff—black beneath the girl’s ginger braid. As Eddie flicks his finger towards her tape player. “Is that what you’re listening to?” He asks.

“No,” she shakes her head, stroking a loving finger along the plastic. “This is Kate Bush,” she says.

To which, Eddie presents an open palm, churning his chin with a grin—beckoning with his fingers.

Where the girl knits her brow in contemplated compliance. Before setting her jaw and pressing the black square button on her Walkman—ejecting and relinquishing the tape.

As Eddie scrapes his boxy tape player towards his chest, loosening leisurely—narrating his effort with a wordless rig of his brows. Where he opens the tape deck’s jaws and places the two oreo-cassette circles around their designated spokes. Clicking the door shut and pressing the red-arrowed rewind—back to the beginning (fruiting for the full effect). The button popping upon its completion.

So Eddie pokes a firm finger, smirking—his chin propped in his palm as the music begins to play. Carried by the synthy spine of the song’s start—its sound, urgent and odd. Overlapped, in its progression, by thick mallets (Elrond’s aqua horse hooves) thundering towards the booming beat of bright nova bursts. Brainy for the pickled belting of lyrics.

It doesn’t hurt me.

Do you want to feel how it feels?

Charged through the course of the song, its energy electric—exploratory, risky, raw, and feminine. Where Eddie sighs as the anthem concludes—his eyes eager. “Kate Bush, huh?” He steams a sloppy smile—strung as the next song starts to spin.

Slam.

It’s in the trees!

Slam, slam, slam.

It’s coming!

Earned as Eddie assesses. “She’s kinda a freak,” he welts the words warmly—appreciation in his appraisal. “So are you, Red,” he grins.

To which, the girl digs dryly. “Bit of a pot and kettle situation,” she says, smirking with the syrup of the burn.

So Eddie laughs—tracing the loops of Chrissy’s binder idly. Still, want for curating camaraderie, Eddie attempts to engage the girl once more—revealing his spread of clubs and jacks. “You’re Max Mayfield,” he says casually—recalling the brutishness of Max’s brother, his penchant for violence, and the freshness of his loss.

Too damaged for kindness.

His death, a rock nonetheless.

Where Max swallows at the reminder, rolling her eyes in an attempt at lifting elsewhere. “Yeah,” she says, shame in the press of her lips.

As Eddie smiles to bat it away. “I’m Eddie,” he says.

“I know,” Max nods.

“This is Chrissy,” Eddie swings a hand her way.

“Yeah,” Max says, impatience in her ice. “I know.”

So Chrissy tries. “Your hair is really pretty,” she offers gently.

To which, Max blinks—blanched like she does not understand the compliment (as though she expects something different). Where she ebbs her appreciation like the briny lap of a lagoon. “Thanks,” she says (dubious).

As Eddie jostles a grin between his ears, slugged of mutual humility. “How do you like Forest Hills?” He asks, opening his arms to the clock of the trailer park, snuggled unceremoniously (forgotten) in the wilting woods.

“It’s shit,” Max spits.

“Yeah, it sucks,” Eddie laughs, the sound like charcoal.

“I think it’s charming,” Chrissy says, her voice high as she rubs the heel of her hand on the table’s edge—so clearly out of place.

Where Eddie is struck by her spirit, leaning (like a tucking tilted tower) towards Chrissy with a smug smile—ducking briefly for a kiss. And basking in the profusion of her acceptance (his belonging).

“So you two are like…?” Max trails off, her lip curled in adolescent disgust.

While Eddie ties the sneakers of her thought, answering nasally. “Dating?’ He grins, giddy with the worming wheeze.

“Yeah,” Max affirms, blushing despite her decorated boredom.

To which, Chrissy smiles. “Yeah,” she says, placing an affectionate hand on Eddie’s arm.

“How the hell did that happen?” Max asks, before untightening—speaking hastily. “No offense,” she assuages, darting her stare from nose to nose—where Eddie cannot quite parse the intended recipient of her apology.

So he hums a throat-back groan, dawning in delivery—smiling with the sap of his equal misunderstanding (unresolved for the earning of luck). Nonetheless receiving that, which Max suggests. “You mean, how did Eddie The Freak Munson sweep Chrissy Cunningham, the Queen of Hawkins High off her feet?” He circles a grin.

“Yeah,” Max says, twisting her own soft smile.

“High charisma,” Eddie shrugs, reaching for the blank papers lined in Chrissy’s open binder—intending to crowd them with campaign brainstorming (a summer one-shot, the sun on his horizon). Prom (queasy) and graduation in the meantime.

Warmed as Chrissy shines his knight’s helmet. “And he plays guitar,” she smiles, her front teeth tied like a bow.

“Yeah,” Max says, looking shyly to her lap—stumbling a spell. “I knew that,” she says, wincing with the reveal (a flush on her face). “I can hear you sometimes,” she explains, shaking herself for composure.

Where Eddie is touched by her sweetness—licking his lips in flattered amusement. “You play?” He asks, plucking the pencil from behind his ear—wiggling the wobble of its stem into an animated yellow triangle.

“I don’t know how,” Max says, her disappointment evident.

“I could show you a few things,” Eddie offers. “Basic chords and shit.”

To which, Max brightens—turning pink in excitement. “You’d do that?” She says, emerging for a breath. The girl beneath the glower.

“Yeah,” Eddie grins. “Why not?” He says. “Then you can write your own songs—give Kate Bush a run for her money.”

Where Max nods—noble like a squire with a sword. “Cool,” she kicks a captured smile—its coax, a relief.

So Eddie chuckles, extending his hand for a shake. “Guitar lessons, okay?” He says as Max connects (another little lamb). “That’s a promise.”

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