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candycandy00 · 11 months

Note

Could you right a zombie apocalypse au with dabi? I don’t have any idea about how it could go but always love the only one bed trope haha

The Trade Part 1 - A Dabi x Reader Zombie AU

Splitting this into parts because it was getting too long. Part one has no smut (but there will be plenty in part two, don’t worry!).

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4

Smut to follow in part two, strong language, violence, implied (failed) rape attempt, etc. 18+.

The first time you saw the mysterious black haired man in the woods, you were convinced he was one of them. After all, in the shadows of the trees his extensive, deep purple scarring had looked like wounds. He’d walked slowly, almost lumbering. It wasn’t until later that you realized his unusual gait was due to him dragging a large animal behind him.

When he emerged from the forest and into the sunlight, with you watching silently from the tree line, you finally understood that this was no zombie. It was a scarred man who had just killed a deer for his supper.

From there, you followed him to a clearing by the road, where a rusty white van was parked. You stayed hidden just inside the woods as you watched him set up camp around the van. He drove plastic gardening stakes into the ground all around him, then wrapped some sort of wire around them, marking a perimeter. He then methodically tied empty cans in sets of threes to the wire, every few feet. It seemed like a lot of work, but it would definitely alert him if a zombie wandered into his area.

He didn’t seem to have any system in place to detect human interlopers though, as they could easily spot the cans and step over them. Either he was foolish enough to believe he was completely alone out here, or he was confident enough in his ability to defend himself that he wasn’t worried. You hoped it was the former.

He started a small fire, then went to work skinning and cleaning the deer. You took note of the fact that he seemed to have plenty of supplies, including bottled water. You couldn’t help licking your dry lips. You’d been drinking water from a nearby river, but it was unfiltered, and sometimes made you sick. You drank as little of it as possible, so it kept you alive but you were persistently thirsty.

When he began cooking the deer meat, you had a battle on your hands to keep your stomach from growling loudly enough to give away your presence. You reached into your tattered backpack and pulled out the last strip of rabbit jerky you had. A family you’d met over a week ago had given you some wrapped in paper, and you’d made it last as long as you could. Aside from a fish you’d managed to catch in the river and three potatoes you’d dug out of an abandoned garden, the jerky was all you’d eaten in ten days.

The deer meat smelled delicious, but you didn’t dare approach. You had to observe this man for a while first. He’d pulled several things out of his van, so it clearly had lots of supplies inside. If you could learn his habits, maybe you could steal from him. You’d certainly done it before, to anyone who seemed to have more than they absolutely needed.

Eventually you retreated further into the woods and climbed into a tree to sleep. It was the only way you could rest while knowing zombies roamed about. The next morning, the man with the van was gone, and you cursed yourself for sleeping so soundly.

Two days later, you spotted the man coming out of a convenience store that had obviously been looted already. It was in a tiny, empty town, and you’d crept in to look for food. When you heard loud crashes and bangs coming from the store, you ducked into an alley across the street and watched.

The glass door of the shop burst open as a zombie was seemingly thrown outside. As it tried to stand back up, the black haired man stepped out of the store, holding an aluminum baseball bat. He pressed his boot into the zombie’s chest to hold it down, then swung the bat, smashing the zombie’s head with one hit.

Two more zombies followed him out of the store, and three others lumbered over from nearby streets, attracted to the commotion. You felt a sense of panic, even though you were hidden and far enough away that you could easily flee before any of them reached you. Zombies in general did not scare you. They were slow and dumb and easy to lure into traps. You’d killed plenty with your hunting knife. But in groups, they could be terrifying. Any more than three at a time sent you into flight mode.

The man was surrounded by five zombies, but he didn’t seem worried or scared at all. In fact, he seemed… pissed off.

He swung the bat with a fury that made you more nervous than the zombies did, splattering blood and brains all over the concrete beneath his feet. When only one was left, he hit it over and over, long after it had stopped moving and its head had been reduced to mush.

“Motherfuckers!” he screamed. Then he panted as he regained his composure. He shoved the bat into a sling at his back and went back into the store. Later, he emerged carrying a crate full of stuff. You couldn’t see much of what he had, but you were pretty sure he had found some useful items left behind by looters.

He climbed into his van and left. This time, you were not alarmed by losing sight of him. Clearly the two of you were traveling in the same direction, and even though he was traveling faster in his van, he was apparently making stops along the way, probably to hunt. You’d catch up to him again, you felt certain of it.

You decided to venture into the store. It was very likely that he had cleared any zombies from the interior, and it had been several minutes since the fight outside and no other zombies had appeared.

Inside, the shelves were almost completely bare, save for some trash and items deemed too useless to bother carrying around - toys, a pair of foam flip flops, a cane that looked too flimsy to be a proper mobility aid. You got down on the floor and looked under the shelves. A fellow survivor you met two months ago had told you about this trick. “People tend to be in a hurry when they’re gathering supplies,” he’d explained, “so they end up dropping stuff. Some of it ends up kicked under the shelves and the people who come in later don’t think to check there.”

Beneath the shelf to your right, you found a package of expired gummy bears. You ripped them open and shoved a handful in your mouth, savoring the juicy sweetness. They were the best gummy bears you’d ever eaten. When you had half the pack left, you rolled it down and pushed it into your backpack for later.

Under the shelf to your left, you found a bottle of shampoo that was open and spilling out. You grabbed it and closed the lid. There was still over half a bottle left! You hadn’t shampooed your hair in over a month, so this would be a luxurious treat.

You found a few more items under the other shelves: a single battery that would fit your flashlight (you hoped it wasn’t drained), a small box of bandaids, and (most precious of all), an unopened bottle of sweet tea.

These treasures safely tucked in your backpack, you left the store and headed in the same direction you’d seen the white van leave in. As you passed by the alley you’d hidden in earlier, a pair of pale white hands suddenly reached out from it and grabbed your arm. You jerked free, repulsed by the feeling of cold, damp flesh on your skin.

A single zombie shambled out of the alley, arms raised in front of it as it reached for you again, mouth biting the air in anticipation of tasting human meat. You backed away from it as you slid the hunting knife out of the holster on your thigh. In most cases, you chose not to fight or kill zombies. It was messy and, even in the best circumstances, risky. Plus it was a pain to sanitize your knife in a fire before using it to skin the small animals your sometimes caught.

You looked back at the store. Should you lure it in there and shut the door? But that would leave a rather nasty surprise for the next person who came along and decided to check the store for supplies. You sighed and pulled your backpack off as you continued backing away, keeping a modest distance from the zombie. If there was a struggle, you didn’t want to risk your backpack being ripped or damaged. It was sturdy and easy to carry, and who knew when you’d come across another one? You dropped it on the ground and backed a few more feet away.

Once you felt you were in a good position (plenty of open space in all directions so you could flee if necessary), you stopped and waited for the zombie to get closer. Once it was near enough to almost touch you with its outstretched arms, you quickly ducked around behind it and shoved your knife into its ear. The arms dropped, then the body collapsed onto the pavement. You retrieved the knife and breathed a sigh of relief as you wiped the blade off on the zombie’s shirt.

Poor bastard. He died in the most hideous lime green T-shirt you’d ever seen.

You picked up your backpack and left the small town, excited to drink some of your tea later in the evening.

It took you four days to find the man with the van again, and it was totally by accident. You’d followed the nearby river to a waterfall. You’d grown up in this area, so you remembered there being a waterfall around here somewhere. Figuring it would be a great place to wash up and use that shampoo you found, you followed the sound of rushing water until you spotted it.

The waterfall wasn’t huge, but it was high enough that falling from it would probably be dangerous. The water at the base of it, near where you stood, was only around four feet deep, as you recalled. You and your friends would occasionally go swimming there during particularly hot summers. You remembered picnics under the shade of the trees that lined the river, laughter as you took turns running into the falling water. The memories made you feel numb more than anything else.

As you stood there beside a tree, you heard a loud splash. You ducked behind the tree by reflex, then peeked around it to see the man emerging from the water. Had he been under for the whole three or four minutes you’d been there? All your thoughts suddenly froze in your brain when you realized the man was completely naked. Apparently he also thought this was a good place to bathe.

His body was marred by the same deep purple scarring that covered parts of his face and arms, like a patchwork. There was something oddly mesmerizing about those scars. He was lean, with just the right amount of muscle, and his black hair glistened in the sun as water dripped from the tips and ran down his torso.

As he stepped out of the water, you couldn’t help stealing a glance at the rather impressive appendage between his legs. Even wet and cold, it looked pleasingly large.

The man walked over to small brown bag and pulled out a towel. How had you missed that bag? Regardless, he toweled off and then spread the towel on the ground and sat down. He pulled a can of what looked like beer from the bag and cracked it open. Then he pulled out a tattered paperback book and leaned over on his side.

Was he seriously just going to relax by the river… naked? That’s when you noticed the handle of some sort of weapon sticking out of the bag. He certainly wasn’t defenseless. You’d seen his incredible strength a few days before.

With a start, you realized this was a great opportunity to check out his van. It had to be parked close by, and the man clearly planned to be there for a while. You took one more long look at his well toned body before tearing your eyes away and heading back into the woods.

The trees were tall and their dark green foliage nearly blotted out the sunlight above you. But there was enough light to spot a white van amongst the browns and greens of the forest, so it didn’t take you long to find it.

You approached carefully, remembering the man’s tendency to use traps and systems to alert him of danger. The leaves were moist and slippery under your feet, perfect for remaining silent as you stepped lightly around the van to reach the back. Then your heart dropped to your feet.

The back doors of the van were covered in wire lined with metal cans. It would be physically impossible to open them without causing a huge racket. You checked the side doors, and they were locked tight. You had some experience breaking into vehicles, though you were definitely no expert. You peered in through the window, only to spot more wires and cans tied to the inside of each door.

You sighed and walked away, heading back to the waterfall. When you reached the trees you’d hidden in before, the man was pulling on a faded black T-shirt over his ripped jeans. He looked good in them. He gathered the rest of his belongings into the brown bag, zipped it up, and walked off in the direction of his van. He passed within twenty feet of you, but you were perfectly still behind a tree.

You waited for a while after he left, to be sure he didn’t return for something he forgot, then you moved close to the water, slipped off your backpack and pulled out a few items. A change of clothes, a towel, and the shampoo you’d been saving. You stripped off your clothes, leaving only the thigh holster with your knife snapped inside. You washed the clothes you took off in the water then draped them over low branches in the nearby trees to dry.

Finally, you stepped into the water and dipped your whole head in to get your hair wet. The water was cool, but not enough to be uncomfortable. It looked crystal clear and clean, and it soothed the various cuts and scrapes you’d incurred over the past several days.

You squeezed out some shampoo before tossing the bottle onto the shore and lathering up your hair. It smelled heavenly! Like fresh flowers and honey. You rubbed the lather all over your body, figuring that if men had been using one product for their hair and bodies for years, so could you.

Once you were covered in soap, you went over to the waterfall and stood under it, letting it rinse you clean. It felt so close to an actual shower, you nearly cried.

You played around in the water for a little while, then stepped out and dried off before dressing in clean clothes. You relaxed by the water, just as the man had done, while waiting for your wet clothes to dry. The sun, reaching you now that you were out of the woods, felt warm on your skin.

You left back through the woods, but just before you broke free of the tree line by the highway, you heard the distinctive sound of someone walking. Someone alive. Twigs snapped and leaves crunched, the noise so close that you whirled around to look for the source.

Two men approached from the direction of down river. You could smell them from several yards away. Apparently being so close to the river had not inspired them to wash up, at all. They appeared to be in their mid thirties, both sporting unkempt beards and long, scraggly hair. Both carried backpacks, rifles on their backs, and numerous knives attached to their belts.

These were exactly the sort of people you tried to avoid. In your time on your own, you only approached certain types: women, families, small mixed groups that seemed to get along with each other. You never approached single men, much less multiple men together with no woman in sight.

Usually, you were extremely vigilant. You always spotted other people in plenty of time to hide or flee if they seemed like bad news. In the early weeks of the outbreak, when you’d first ventured out on your own, you’d met a younger girl who was exceptionally good at sneaking around and avoiding being caught by the living or the dead. You’d traveled with her for a while, learning her techniques as well as how to use a knife. Since then, you’d always managed to evade danger. But today you had dropped your guard. Perhaps the shower had been a little too relaxing.

“Hey there,” one of the men said, throwing up his hand in a wave.

You debated whether you should make a run for it or not. They had rifles, so they could probably shoot your legs out from under you if they wanted to. You stood completely still, watching them as they got closer.

“You out here alone, girl?”

“No,” you said, trying to keep your voice firm, “my friends are waiting for me just up the road.”

You hoped they would believe the lie, that they’d rather avoid getting into a fight with a group they knew nothing about.

“That’s funny,” the other man said, “we walked along the road for a long time and we didn’t see anyone waiting for you. Are you sure they didn’t leave you behind?”

His tone made it clear that he didn’t believe you. Shit. How could you get out of this situation? You kept yourself steady and replied. “Really? Maybe they parked in the woods. They do that sometimes, for the shade.”

“Good idea,” the first man said. “These trees sure do block out the sun. They block out a lot of stuff.”

“Well,” you said casually as you turned toward the road, “I better head over there before they get worried and come looking for me.”

You made it a few steps away, walking at a leisurely pace to feign nonchalance, when you heard fast, heavy footsteps running toward you. Glancing back, you saw one of the men rapidly closing the distance, holding up the butt of his rifle like a club.

You broke into a run then, but you didn’t make it far. The rifle struck your head, your vision blurred and darkened, and you felt yourself falling over. You were unconscious before you ever hit the ground.

*****

When you woke up, you heard the sounds of a crackling fire before your eyes adjusted to the bright orange light against the murky darkness of the forest.

You were lying on your side on the ground, close enough to the fire to feel its heat on your skin. Your hands were tied together in front of you with thick, coarse rope that rubbed your wrists in an unpleasant way. One of the men was sitting nearby, skinning a rabbit. The other, the one who had knocked you out, was standing on the other side of the fire, stoking it with a long stick. Your backpack was lying a few feet away from you.

Afternoon had turned to dusk, still light enough to see without a fire or flashlight, but dark enough to make you wary. From your experience, fires in the woods at night were not the best idea. The glow sometimes attracted zombies, so only groups with enough people to keep watch normally lit them. You had stuck to small fires in the daytime, just lit long enough to cook some food or boil some water from the river. Zombies didn’t know to look for smoke.

The two men didn’t seem to be conversing at all, so pretending to be asleep to listen to them was pointless. You pulled yourself to a sitting position, your knees pulled up in front of you. They hadn’t bothered to take your knife from the holster on your thigh. Had they simply not noticed it? Or did they think you were this little of a threat?

The man standing at the fire noticed you were awake and flashed you a smile. It was a repulsive smile, accompanied by dark eyes moving over you hungrily. You could guess why they had taken you captive. You’d heard plenty of stories. You glared at him and steeled yourself for a fight.

“We’ll have dinner first,” he said in his rough voice, gesturing toward his friend with the stick. “Then we’ll have dessert,” he added with a grin, pointing the stick at you. His friend chuckled.

You suddenly felt like throwing up. These men were disgusting, with their leering stares and stinking bodies. The thought of one of them touching you for even a moment sent ripples of revulsion through your entire body.

Shame it wasn’t the handsome black haired stranger with the scars.

Wait… did you seriously just think that? Ugh. You’d been out here in the woods for far too long.

You tried to stay calm as you assessed the situation. The good: you still had your knife, and your hands were tied in front of you instead of behind you. Cutting yourself free would be easy once you got away. You also knew these woods fairly well, and were accustomed to moving around in the dark. The bad: there were two of them, and they were clearly much stronger than you. They both had those rifles too.

You glanced around, taking in the now blazing fire and the positions of the two men in relation to it. You almost smiled. This was nearly identical to a scenario Toga, the girl you’d traveled with, had told you about being in before she met you. And you remembered exactly how she’d said she escaped.

You scooted over a bit, making a show of wincing and leaning as if your backside was sore. You needed to have both men on the other side of the fire from you. The one sitting on the ground cleaning the rabbit would be easy. The other was pacing back and forth, occasionally stirring the branches and logs in the fire. If you timed it just right…

There! As soon as the pacing man got close to the other one, and they were both across the fire from you, you suddenly kicked out both your legs, shoving your boots into the base of the fire. Sparks and embers flew everywhere, flames reached out like glowing hands and crawled along the ground, alighting leaves and twigs. The sitting man yelped and fell backwards, the other one cursed and backed away from the flames, but he was too slow. Fire danced up his pant leg as he screamed and tried to put it out by slapping at it with his hand.

In the chaos you got to your feet, grabbed your backpack off the ground, and ran into the trees. You heard one of the men yelling for the other to go after you, then a screamed reply of “Fuck you, I’m on fire!”

Once you’d ran so far that you could no longer hear their shouts or see the glow from the fire, you huddled next to a tree and used your knife to cut the rope, freeing yourself. You holstered the knife and pulled your backpack onto your shoulders, then looked around for a hiding spot. The woods were getting darker by the minute, but that was an advantage for you, not them.

Eventually you found a tree that was perfect, and you climbed it quietly and carefully. You tucked yourself against the trunk and nestled into the branch, an action deeply familiar to you by now. Around half an hour later, you heard one of the men run by your tree. By that time it was so dark that you would’ve been shocked if he’d spotted you. After that, you only heard the usual sounds of the forest as you drifted off to sleep.

The next morning you didn’t climb down immediately. You used your high vantage point to look out over the area, scanning the woods for any sign of the two men. Would they give up on you, deeming you too much of a hassle to deal with? Or would last night’s events only make them pursue you more doggedly? You couldn’t be sure, but you also couldn’t spend the entire day up in the tree. After watching for a few more minutes and feeling certain the men were not close by, you climbed down to the ground.

You headed to the river first to wash your face and fill your water bottle. You doubted you’d be able to start a fire today, for fear that the smoke would give away your location, so you couldn’t boil the water. You grimaced at the thought of drinking raw river water again, but you’d sip it if you absolutely had to. Having an upset stomach was better than being dead. There was maybe a mouthful of sweet tea left in the bottle you’d found in the store, but you wanted to save it for as long as you could.

When ready, you made your way back through the woods and to the trees that lined the highway. You didn’t dare step out into the open. Too many dangerous folks traveling the roads. But you stayed close enough to be able to see the highway at all times. You rarely saw cars going by these days. The last one you’d seen, besides the white van, had been over a week ago.

You walked through the edge of the forest, moving in the same direction you had been for a few weeks now. You didn’t have a particular destination in mind. You simply wanted to keep moving, keep away from people, stay near the river where you could always get water and sometimes even catch fish, stick to the woods where you could occasionally catch a squirrel or a rabbit. It wasn’t a great life, but it was all you had at the moment.

You’d walked nearly the whole day when you saw a very welcome sight: the white van parked just inside the woods, several yards ahead. You were surprised that you’d caught up with him so quickly, especially after being slowed down by those two assholes last night.

As usual, you approached it carefully. When you got close enough, you realized the back door was standing wide open. No wires or cans had been strung up. The driver’s side door was open as well.

What the hell was going on?

There was no way the man would leave his van like this. Even if he suddenly had to shit, he wouldn’t leave his stash of supplies completely unguarded. Had he been attacked? The image of the two men flashed in your mind. The black haired man was strong, but they had guns. They could have forced him out of the van. But in that case, where were they?

You circled around the van from a distance, looking for signs or clues as to what had happened. You strained your ears to listen for footsteps, but you heard nothing. Could the man have been attacked by zombies? Maybe he stepped out to pee, was suddenly surrounded, and had to run deeper into the woods to get away.

Mind racing with possible explanations, you decided to watch the van for a little while, in case someone came for it. After nearly an hour, the woods were getting dark again. If you were going to make a move, now was the time. You took a deep breath, then walked over to the back of the van. You peered inside, and to your hungry, desperate eyes, it looked like the holy grail. The entire back of the van was filled to the brim with supplies.

You climbed up into it and looked around in wonder. There were cases full of canned goods, bottled water, snacks, and even a few packs of beer. There were boxes with things written on them like, “bandages,” “batteries,” and “soap”. Curiously, there were several boxes of black hair dye. It almost looked like the storeroom of some convenience store.

All of this was too suspicious. You didn’t dare grab a lot of stuff. What if the man really did have to suddenly relieve himself? Or had to run from zombies but was circling back around to his van? You decided to be cautious and grab only a small number of items, things he probably wouldn’t even notice. Then you could watch the van from an afar and grab more stuff if he never came back.

You opened your backpack and shoved in two bottles of water, a can of peaches, a can of pork and beans, a bag of potato chips, and two chocolate candy bars. The carbs would come in very handy. You’d had so little energy lately. Pleased with your choices, you zipped up your backpack and pulled it on, then turned to exit the van.

You stopped dead in your tracks. Standing right outside the van, staring at you with one hand on his hip, was the black haired man. He looked at you with a deadpan expression and said, “Looks like I caught myself a thief.”

#dabi x reader #dabi smut #Dabi #touya todoroki #touya x reader #bnha zombie AU #Dabi x you #X reader #bnha x reader

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bluepixiedream · 25 days

Text

Okay okay I’m currently writing ‘Good Dogs Only’ chapter 2 BUT I HAVE ANOTHER IDEA I CANT HOLD BACK. I NEED TO VENT IT OUT.

IM VERY EXCITED

OKAY HERE WE GO

I Need Your Help

Simon 'Ghost' Riley x Reader

Summary: Attacked while going home, reader is left desperate with a bloody, psychotic man tied in their garage and not a lot of options. What's a person to do? Go down to their respective bar crowded with terrifying, bloody thirsty men and pray you choose someone who will help you.

Thank god Simon 'Ghost' Riley will help a pretty thing like you, in exchange for a bowl of dinner. And maybe a bed to stay in. Oh, you have a free bedroom? That's great love, he's thinking more of YOUR room though. How else is he suppose to show you how much he adores you asking him for help? Such a sweet thing. Come give him a kiss and let him clean up...

Cw: 18+, MDNI, violence, language, blood, cursing, and kidnapping. Kind of a dark fic? Viewer discretion is advised. CW will update along the way

Picture it:

Cute, pretty innocent reader who works hard at their job, enjoys their nice home that’s located outside of town, your flower and small vegetable garden that you spend hours on to make it more lively, all sorts of books on your living room shelf (quite obviously doesn’t get many visitors due to the adult nature of some of these books) and occasionally binges Doctor Who. Normal. Peaceful. Nothing out of the ordinary.

After work one day, you head to a small market for some dinner supplies which includes a pot roast, a meat cleaver and a bottle of rum. Unbeknownst to you, a stranger hides in the backseat of the car while you’re inside and you are none the wiser. Throwing the items in the passenger seat, you head on home. Music blaring. A lit joint between your lips and the wind in your air. Friday night and you have a hot date with a few toys and a new book that should have arrived this afternoon. Everything was perfect.

A light pops up on the dash and anxiety slams into you like you can’t imagine. What was wrong now? Could you make it home? How much would this cost? Before, you weren’t high enough and now you were too high. You wanted to curse yourself.

Pulling over as quickly as you could, you decide after a minute to check all the doors and make sure everything was okay. Before you could take off your seat belt, a plastic bag is placed over your head and tightened.

Panic and adrenaline floods you as you struggle to breath. Your hands, that immediately went to your neck to relieve the pressure, release and attempt the poke a hole through the thick, unforgiving plastic. You think that this is it. This is how you die. Pathetic and alone. Murdered of all things.

But thankfully you tear through and air hits your screaming lungs. Without thinking, you wrap a hand around your brand new meat cleaver and begin swinging behind you. Somehow managing to get out of your seatbelt, you continue your brutal assault until you're sure you killed your attacker, or at least, knock them out.

You're breathing hard. Everything is covered in the attackers sticky, cooling blood. You can’t even cry. Completely shocked at what has transpired these last few minutes.

Not knowing what to do, you start driving home again. Music off. Windows up. Fear stinking up the air. The drive home had never been longer, nor quieter.

Pulling to your house, you open the garage door and drive in, refusing to get out until the door shuts completely. You hear the man, their attacker, groan in pain and you kick it in high gear. Grabbing a dinning room chair and some rope you had hoped to use for private time, you use what strength you have to pull him in the chair and tie him like you’ve read over and over again in your BDSM books. You tightened the ropes as much as possible before stopping. The man is trying to wake, but can’t. Blood is drying against his head and bruises are blooming across what you can see.

Leaving your car door open, you grab your groceries and, in a complete and utter daze, turn off the light and head inside.

Once inside, you wash your hands before starting dinner. Halfway through with zero thoughts in your head, the attacker is awake and screaming at you to let him go. That he will kill you. You will suffer greatly for what you’ve done. You don’t do anything until dinner is put in the crockpot and you take a quick shower to get rid of the rest of the blood.

What to do, you think. Do you call the police? Wouldn’t they wonder why you didn’t call immediately? Why take him back to your place? Is that weed they smell in the car?

Would they release the attacker? Would the attacker come back for you to finish the job?

You can’t think. You can’t deal with this. What should you do? No family to turn to. You can’t get their coworkers involved, that’s just wrong. You have nobody.

You remember a bar near the other side of town, near an empty field. It’s normally filled with military people, bikers and gangsters. A “neutral place” so to speak. Nobody fucks with each other and they got booze, music and sometimes ladies who paraded themselves. It was a haven for them.

And a perfect spot for you to go and find a person to help you…deal with this situation.

Changing clothes and almost feeling a bit better, other than the man screaming if you listened hard enough, you decide it’s time. You stop at the garage and realize you can’t take your car, wait for a cab to pick you up a block away. Before you leave, you tell your attacker that you are getting help.

You don’t clarify what help you're getting, or for who. For the attacker, or for the attackee.

The cab drops you off a few blocks away from the bar and happily accepts the cash you hand them. It’s getting dark, the lights from the bar illuminates way and the big man who is watching people come and go waves you in. He thinks it’s definitely not the your scene, but who is he to say otherwise?

People fill the bar. Some are playing poker. Others are sitting at the bar and others are in booths having secretive discussions. You can’t help but feel eyes on you, clocking you, a shark drawn to blood. You try to not look around too much before going up the bar and ordering two shots of vodka to calm your nerves. As soon as they arrive, they’re both immediately knocked back, side by side. You order two more and start to feel comfortable enough to look around.

A few men in leather jackets playing pool glance at you but they go back to playing. A few people covered in tattoos and dark clothes stay to themselves in a booth closest to the door and the other booth holds four men who were obviously military. One man had mutton chops and a beanie. Another was beautiful with dark skin, full lips and a baseball cap. The third had a Mohawk and a lazy smile to whatever mutton chops had said. The last, and the one you figured out was staring a hole into you, was a complete enigma. Built like a tank and scarier than the boogie man, a black mask covered his whole face as a sewed on skull mask covered the top part of his face. His eyes were dark, and latched on to yours immediately.

Hands sweaty and nerves shot, you throw back the two shots once more before gathering the courage to walk up to the big man in a skull mask.

Apart of you rips you to shreds. How stupid you were. You already had one psychotic maniac in your garage and here you are, walking up to another one, possibly.

Nobody at the table was ready for you to walk up, as suddenly the atmosphere changed as all four eyes locked on the new arrival.

The 141 was use to people staring at them, whispering about them, wanting them. It was completely different when someone actually walked up to them. And especially being as…innocent as you were. A cute flower shirt stating “Carrot On My Wayward Son” with blue jeans and sandals didn’t exactly scream “intimidating!”. You had everyone’s attention.

But especially Ghost. Who clocked you as soon as you stepped in and didn’t stop as you drank and took inventory of the crowd.

It was exhilarating.

“Can I get you a drink?” Was the first thing you said and it was directed at Ghost. If you could scream at yourself, you would. No introductions, no “sorry for interrupting” or “I hope you guys are having a good night”. Immediately going for “do you want a drink and take me home?”. This wasn’t you.

Neither was almost beating a man to death, so you were finding out new things about you all the time.

You didn’t pay attention to the rest of the guys, who looked wildly at each other. This was NOT what they had expected but they stayed silent. Many people didn’t approach Ghost but here you were.

He stayed silent as well, taking note of your facial expression and watching as it fell. Taking his silence for rejection. Before you could apologize and turn around, his voice came out from the mask and if you survived this whole ordeal, you would beg him to read a manual so you could masturbate to it later.

“Bourbon. Kentucky.”

A smile laced your lips as you nodded and turned around to order it for him. He decided rather quickly that he liked your smile and wanted to see it more. Ignoring the rest of his team, he got up and silently followed you up the bar. You snagged a place by the wall and waited as the bartender completed your request.

You couldn’t ignore the behemoth of a man standing next to you and you couldn’t stop your face from warming up as you realized how close you two were standing.

“Not y’r usual scene, luv?” His voice vibrated through you. Addicting. You chuckled looking up at him.

“That obvious?”

“Dead give away.” His gloved lightly touched your shirt, but you could swear he just set it on fire. You couldn’t help but also blush at how ridiculous you must look. You laughed at yourself.

“I guess I didn’t see what I put on before getting here.” You tried explaining lamely, suddenly thankful the bartender chose to drop off his drink.

“Put it on my tab. ‘ers too.” The way he said it made your argument die on your tongue. Of course you could pay for it, but how could you say no?

You could see him pull his mask up and you found the bar to be interesting, desperate to give him privacy.

He would be lying if he said that didn’t make his cock hard. Look at you. Being so obedient and so polite. Fuck, it was gonna kill him. After his mask was back on, you turned back to him, losing yourself in his dark eyes.

“Thank you.” In your head, it was confident and stern but in reality, it barely came out a whisper.

“Wha’ do ya need, luv?” Getting straight to the point, and it brought you back to why exactly you were here in the first place.

You weren’t here to flirt with guys in skull masks. You were here because you were in trouble and you needed help. You couldn’t help the broken inhale or the way you chest shuddered. Ghost clocked all of it. Suddenly, his dark thoughts became even darker.

Something was wrong with his little luv and he wanted to fix it. No, he needed to fix it.

“I’m…kind of in a bind. And I don’t know what to do.” He hummed at that. He glanced back to his table before meeting your eyes.

“Your place or mine?”

You explained you didn’t drive here and asked if you should get a cab. He declined, stating he’ll take you both. Giving him directions to your place, you couldn’t help but be surprised at his vehicle of choice: a black Harley. You should have guessed but it still made you stutter. He looked over at you with your wide eyes and eyebrows near your hair line and laughed. Deep and velvety and it grew a flower inside of your chest that you couldn’t explain away.

“Scared, luv?” Ghost chuckled, fixing to put his helmet over your head. “Hang on tight.” Watching him mount his bike should be considered illegal, and you couldn’t help the clench of your thighs as you took in this specimen.

It had been way too long.

He turned on his bike as you got behind him and hanging on to him tightly, he began the ride back to your house. Your prison. You soaked in his warmth and the way his muscles contracted against your chest. He was all muscle and it had been too long since you felt muscle. You wished the drive was longer, so you could pretend that maybe you actually went to the bar looking for fun, and you really did pick up a guy and now you were headed back to your place to see how far you would go. You could actually be normal.

But all dreams end and yours ended rather quickly as he pulled up to your driveway. You waited for him to kill the bike and tell you it’s okay to let go. He does after a moment. He didn’t want you to know how good it felt having you wrapped around him. Like you belonged there. Like you belonged with him.

Tearing the helmet off and shaking your head, you hand it back with a small ‘thanks’. You both stared at each other before his eyes left yours to look over at place. Jogging your place to memory. Now he knew your address, and if you thought he wasn’t coming back, well, you would be sorely mistaken.

“Cute place.” His voice melted you and you couldn’t help but give him genuine smile. You did appreciate his comment, you had worked hard on your yard and house. This was yours. You wanted to make it perfect.

You begin walking to your front door as your heart went into overdrive. You feel like you should turn him away. You should get a rain check. You wanted this guy to come back, not help you with this. You didn’t want to scare him away. Before you knew it, both of you stood in the front door as you dug in your pocket for your house key. Finding it quicker than later, your hands shook as you unlocked the door. Before you could do the logical thing and stop him from coming inside and discovering one of your deepest and darkest secrets, you swing the door open and step inside.

It was quiet, thankfully, as you allowed this hunk of man to walk in after you and close your door.

Ghost didn’t know what to expect. You still haven’t told him what issue you were having and his mind was going wild. Was it a boyfriend issue? Landlord being a prick? Stalker who couldn’t get the message?

Looking over your house, he thought it was too fucking cute. Maybe you had a rat issue and didn’t have a man to help you out. Of course, Ghost would help you out. And you two would be discussing payment later after it was done.

He took in your soft yellow lights filling the room. An older episode of ‘Doctor Who’ playing silently as his eyes took in your posters that covered your walls. Some of them were older movies. A few he recognized, like ‘The Thing’ by John Carpenter and ‘Legally Blonde’ with Elle Woods. He had Johnny to thank for having control over the TV one night in the barracks and he didn’t want to admit that it caught his attention more than not.

Your bookshelf caught his eye next as he took in your collection. A few were a book series that he didn’t know but they looked fantasy in nature, and others were one offs and some horror books scattered around but one that caught his eye and made him turn back to you was: ‘How to tie up your partner properly and 99 other things BDSM related.”

He couldn’t help the smile, even if you couldn’t see it.

“In a bin’, yeah?” Your cheeks violently heated up as you realized he clocked your books and saw one that must have peaked your interest. You crossed your arms and laughed, heading now towards the kitchen to stir the crockpot, to keep yourself busy.

“Sorry about those. I don’t really get much company. They’re just for looks. Like gag gifts.” You tried to explain. Ghost followed you and took in a big whiff of what was one of the best things he's ever smelled before.

Look at you in your perfect little home, not scared to go to a bar filled with bad men, approaching him like it wasn’t a death sentence and respecting his privacy while he drank. And fuck. The food smelled delicious. You were perfect. Absolutely perfect.

“‘t’s okay, luv. You give me whatever’s cookin and I’ll get you in and out of any bin’ you want.” You thought he was still lightly making fun of you. You couldn’t be further from the truth. You smiled, but it didn’t reach your eyes. Your heart was thumping thinking that the garage was too quiet. Was the man sleeping or did he escape? Was he waiting for you to check on him before attacking you again? Would this new man actually help?

Did you make the worst mistake of your life?

Deciding no time like the present, you needed advice and sooner the better, you stood by the door, less than a foot away from Mr. Tall, Dark and Sexy and took a deep breath in.

“I was hoping you could help me with this. Help me…navigate. I don’t know how to explain it, so I wanted to show you first and then tell you, if that’s alright?” Your voice started off strong but got quieter as time went on. Ghost suddenly became rigid and aware of his surroundings. He couldn’t think of what could possibly be behind that door that you so desperately didn’t want to show him, but had to. You needed help. And you found him.

It didn’t matter what was behind that door. Of course he would help you, sweet thing. And then he would eat dinner with you, then fuck your brains out and while you were sleeping, install some security cameras before asking you out on a proper date.

You had interested the beast when you walked in bar, and his interest has only been growing since.

“Go ahead luv, I got you. I’m ‘ere.” His voice shouldn’t have calmed you as much as it did, but you couldn’t stop the wave crashing over you. You trusted him and that was terrifying.

Unlocking the door, you swung it open.

The smell was the first thing to hit him.

Dried blood and sour piss wafting in and leaking into your home. The darkness was consuming and you couldn’t see a inch in front of you until you flicked on the light and your horror scene could be fully realized by the man in the skull mask.

Other than the small green car that had its back door opened with dried blood covering the seat, a small freezer near the back exit and a shelf full of canned goods, there was a bloody man, tied up with his head off to one side, either dead or passed out.

“I know what it looks like but-“

“Little dove, this is exactly what you think it looks like.” You expected him to sound horrified, or at least disgusted. Not…amused. It startled you but you kept your cool. Maybe this was his initial reaction. He certainly wasn’t expecting this, you assume.

You head to the freezer to grab a bottle of alcohol. Rum. Ghost closes the door with you three in the garage and walks to the tied up man. He takes note of his stained and soiled clothes, multi-day stubble and greasy hair. Ghosts gloves hand reaches out and grips the man by the hair, waking him up and forcing him to look at Ghost with a dazed look before all sleep vanished and what was left was pure rage. Ghost held out his other hand for the bottle, which you did as you were told. He quickly made do with the cap before pushing the man’s head back and pouring some in his mouth.

“How d’ you end up here? Honestly.” His voice dropped lower than you had heard it before. It was terrifying and made you realize how nice he had sounded before. How much you enjoyed that.

The man tried to turn towards you but Ghosts hand wrapped tighter around his hair, refusing to let him move an inch. “Not at her. Me.” He commanded and you realized quickly that this man wasn’t just a soldier but a leader. A commander in his own right. It was terrifying and yet, strangely, horribly turned you on.

It had been way too long, you completely decided.

He had gave you back the bottle which you took gently before standing away from the two, trying to stay out of the attackers eye sight, trying to listen to the man who was clearly in charge now. The attacker sneered, his lips curled back as he gauges the guy that held him.

“This stupid fucking bitch-” before you could put together what happened, the attackers head snapped back and he yowled in pain. Fresh blood spurting out from his nose as now he laid crooked and absolutely broken. Ghost didn’t give him a second before yanking him back to him, anger now littering his voice.

“Wanna try tha’ again without insulting my little dove?” You couldn’t stop the warmth from flooding you. When was the last time someone spoke about you like that? Protected your character like it was your job?

You were definitely going to call him after this, you thought happily to yourself in this middle of the chaos.

“Oh fuck you man. Your girl is a fucking cunt-”

Another hit and after that Ghost began walking away, beckoning you with his fingers, which you obeyed without a care in the world. The man was left to himself screaming and when the door closed on him, his screams were greatly reduced but still there if you listened. And you did. You stayed quiet, gauging what the newcomer thought. Ghost stayed silent, and inched his hand to the bottle that you held which you gave him graciously. He pulled his mask up to drink and you looked away again, but you could hear it pour down his throat and it settled something warm in you. Once he was done, he pulled his mask back down and gave you the bottle and you followed lead. The rum eased some of your anxiety, letting you feel warm as you pulled off your shoes and sat on your couch, waiting for him to join.

Ghost grabbed a chair before dragging it and sitting it directly in front of you, invading your space. You wouldn’t complain. Maybe he wasn’t close enough…

“So, luv. I was expecting some boyfriend issue. Maybe dirty landlord, or a fuckin’ rat. But kidnapping and torture? Well. If you didn’t have my interest before, you definitely got it now.” His accent was deeper and darker but you couldn’t say if he was angry or not. Your eyes dropped from his in shame and landed on his chest before his fingers lightly gripped your chin to lift them back to his. You gulped before you nodded. Fear soaked you through and through. You needed to tell him your story. You needed him to understand.

“Well, I was driving home from after work…”

#cod #simon ghost riley #ghost x reader #ghost cod #drabble #THOUGHTS #FEELINGS #THIS IDEA HAS BEEN IN MY HEAD FOR OVER A YEAR #call of duty #cod mw2 #cod mw3 #cod men #simon riley x reader #simon riley x you #ghost x you #eventual smut #it’s so long I’m so sorry 😭

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beautyandlifestyleblog86 · 7 months

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Ways to practice eco-friendly living in your home

1. Reduce energy consumption:

- Install energy-efficient appliances and LED light bulbs.

- Turn off lights and unplug electronics when not in use.

- Use natural light as much as possible.

- Set your thermostat to a lower temperature in winter and higher in summer.

- Insulate your home properly to reduce heating and cooling needs.

2. Save water:

- Fix any leaks in faucets and toilets promptly.

- Install low-flow showerheads and faucets.

- Collect rainwater for watering plants.

- Only run the dishwasher and washing machine with full loads.

- Use a broom instead of a hose to clean outdoor spaces.

3. Practice waste reduction:

- Recycle paper, plastic, glass, and metal.

- Compost kitchen scraps and yard waste.

- Opt for reusable products instead of disposable ones (e.g., cloth napkins, rechargeable batteries).

- Avoid single-use plastics, such as plastic bags and water bottles.

- Use a reusable shopping bag.

4. Use eco-friendly cleaning products:

- Choose natural, non-toxic cleaning products or make your own using ingredients like vinegar, baking soda, and lemon juice.

- Avoid products containing harmful chemicals that can harm the environment and your health.

5. Grow your own food:

- Plant a garden to grow vegetables, fruits, and herbs.

- Use organic and natural fertilizers instead of synthetic ones.

- Compost food scraps to enrich the soil.

6. Opt for sustainable materials:

- Choose furniture made from sustainable materials like bamboo or reclaimed wood.

- Use eco-friendly flooring options like bamboo, cork, or reclaimed hardwood.

- Select paint and other finishes that have low or no volatile organic compounds (VOCs).

7. Reduce plastic waste in the kitchen:

- Use glass or stainless-steel containers for food storage instead of plastic.

- Replace plastic wrap with beeswax wraps or reusable silicone covers.

- Use refillable water bottles and avoid buying bottled water.

8. Conserve energy in the kitchen:

- Use energy-efficient appliances.

- Cook with lids on pots and pans to retain heat and reduce cooking time.

- Opt for smaller appliances like toaster ovens instead of full-sized ovens when possible.

9. Encourage sustainable transportation:

- Use public transportation, walk, or bike whenever possible.

- Carpool or arrange a car-sharing service with neighbors or colleagues.

- Transition to an electric or hybrid vehicle if feasible.

10. Educate and involve your family:

- Teach your family about the importance of eco-friendly practices and involve them in the decision-making process.

- Encourage everyone to adopt sustainable habits and lead by example.

- Discuss environmental issues and brainstorm new ideas for greener living.

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comingfromastatechampionasshole · 7 months

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Making Yorkshire Parkin: When You Want to Remember, Remember, the Fifth of November (but you forgot)

I bought Lyle’s Golden Syrup on a whim in our international grocers months ago, nestled between the Marmite and jarred clotted cream. I didn’t know what golden syrup tasted like, I had no use for it, and no recipe I had ever read included it. Naturally, I bought it immediately. Walking by the racks of Japanese candy and multiple incidences of ramen noodles, I asked myself, “Is there a particular reason I’m buying this, or am I just pissed they don’t have Walker’s and don’t want to walk away empty-handed?”

Months later, I end up watching a video on parkin. Uses golden syrup. In this moment, the stars align.

How did I stumble on this? Well, I’m interested in historical food, and even more so historical baking, and November was coming up. Try the Guy Fawkes day cake, it proclaimed to me, and as I watched it, and it was described to me as an English gingerbread-style cake, i thought, “There’s nothing about that idea I don’t like! I can make parkin, it can’t be that hard. Not like i’m going to be able to buy it here to try it.”

And hard is not the word for it. Let’s go on a journey.

So the first thing is, that Yorkshire parkin isn’t the only parkin in town and so, as I glanced at recipes, i discovered that there were multiple theories of the business, and many of these theories involved insulting each others’ grandmothers. Lancashire parkin uses mainly golden syrup, resulting in a sweeter and softer-flavored cake, and I guess that’s why the only things a civilized human being knows about Lancashire is that it’s in the North of England, and it features in the Merrily Song from the Wind and the Willows. No, the more I read, the more I realized I wanted Yorkshire parkin, a dark, aggressive form of the cake that makes heavy use of black treacle and threatens to kick your teeth in. It’s no wonder that Yorkshire gets all the great wonders of the North, like Wuthering Heights, The Secret Garden, and that one pizza place I really liked.

It turns out that Yorkshire parkin uses a very small amont of golden syrup, and so you may be saying to yourself at this point, “Doc are you unnecessarily complicating your life to say you literally opened this stupid plastic bottle of sugar syrup?” to which I say, ‘No one asked you, okay?”

Black treacle is the first thing on this list, and this was actually the easy part. One of the ‘fun’ things about reading recipes from English to English (and sometimes even to English!) is that you have to make substitutions, and people’s attitude toward substitutions for ingredients run the gamut from questionable to hysteria. The good news is that this unites us all, and I am sure there will be several fine Brits yelling at me that unsulfured molasses is nothing like black treacle, in the same way that many Americans lost their mind at the mere suggestion that a digestive might be more or less equivalent to a graham cracker. I welcome your hatemail, Hail Satan , Lord of Spiders, just use unsulfured molasses and you’ll be fine.

But then we have the problem of “medium oatmeal.” The Brits are running on a completely different system than we are with our paltry three or so styles of oatmeal: Rolled, steel cut (often called Irish oats), and instant. There are some outliers, but they are mostly the exclusive purview of places where one might buy free-range ostrich farts and consensually squeezed oranges. Meanwhile, on a rainy rock in the North, we have seventeen separate grades of oatmeal, some of which are only found on one specific moor where young maidens cry over it, keening into the wind (An expensive delicacy not unlike kopi luwak) Try as I might, I found it near impossible to get medium oatmeal, and so I took the most reasonable out possible: Buying steel cut oats and frantically googling photos of medium oatmeal until I had processed it down to the rough appearance.

This is medium oatmeal. Probably.

The assembly of it is stunningly old-fashioned, and I’m not making a joke when I say it seems basically unchanged from the 1700s: You mix the sugar and butter ingredients together in a sauce pan until the sugar melts, and then throw it into the dry mix, putting it together and then throwing in an egg as some desperate attempt to give so loft to what is going to be a doorstop or perhaps the blunt object that was originally used to kill Guy Fawkes, as well as a splash of milk, though what it hopes to contribute to the action I can’t possibly imagine.

Having read over all this at 9:30 pm on the 5th of November, I ready myrself to assemble the parkin so I can leave it out for King James or whatever. Then I read the cook time on the cake: Seventy to Ninety Minutes.

“Fuck this shit, I’m American,” I said, cracking open a beer and heading upstairs with my sixteen guns while eagles cried and sang “God Bless The USA” overhead.

REMEMBER, REMEMBER, THE SIXTH OF NOVEMBER, WHEN ALL THESE INGREDIENTS ARE STILL SITTING IN MY KITCHEN.

So, I have followed the recipe. The cake is in the oven. What will it become? Stay tuned!

#Food writing

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cheatingwifelover · 6 months

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Home Invasion

It was a Friday night, we'd been drinking quite a bit and pretty much fell into bed around midnight and were out like a light. She was wearing a nightgown and I was in house pants, effectively pajama bottoms, and tshirt. Apparently, wasted as we were, we forgot all about locking the house up before we went to sleep, and about 2am we woke up to a couple of guys in our bedroom.

They could have left without ever coming in to the bedroom because they'd already ransacked the place with us asleep, but I'd left my computer on to my flickr page and they saw it. They checked out the photos of my wife and decided they were going to fuck her. I was really out of it because they'd also gotten into my tools and found some big plastic ties and I woke up groggily to find my wrists and ankles bound and the two of them working on my wife. When they noticed me struggling one of the came over to me and added duct tape to the ties around my wrists and ankles.

They put duct tape over our mouths. It was really too dark to see her eyes but from her body language I could tell she was scared. While I struggled one of them worked his way underneath my wife and was holding her wrists over her head and the other was using his knee to force her thighs apart. One of them said to me: "may as well relax, we're going to fuck your wife and we're going to be awhile. Don't worry, you can watch," and laughed.

They took turns fucking her. The first one to fuck her came pretty quick and his buddy took his place between her legs. As he fucked her, he told her she had a damn tight cunt for a mom. He lasted a lot longer than his buddy, and then he told him to get his phone so they could make some memories, clearly amused by his “wit.” His friend just laughed and said “good idea, bro.”

“Are you ready to find out if this whore can suck a cock?” When they took the duct tape off her mouth my wife immediately started talking....she promised she'd do whatever they wanted if they just promised not to hurt us. “But not here,” she said, “not with my husband right here.” They said “no way, we're not leaving him in here by himself. “You'll do what we want right here or we will fuckin' hurt you, fuck you both up. But if it makes you feel better,”...and one of them removed a pillow case from a pillow and pulled it over my head.

“That better baby,” he asked? “You better fuckin' be nice to us.”

“Now show us what you can do honey, it's time to suck some cock.” I couldn't see anything but I could still hear.

“Oh fuck yeah,” was the next thing I heard from them....”throat it bitch”...then the sound of my wife gagging. “That's it honey, check that gag reflex”.....”oh yeah, fuck.....this bitch could suck a golf ball through a garden hose, maybe we should take her home with us.”

I could hear one of them rummaging through my nightstand, and then he said "fuck, check this shit out...somebody likes their astroglide" (I had an open bottle in there and two fresh bottles still in their packages...what can I say, I love to edge). I heard the other one grunt and say ...”fuck, I'm gonna cum.” My wife was gagging a little again so I assumed he had his cock down her throat.

“Damn, that was good, you gotta get some of this,” he told his friend. “Later,” he replied, “right now I'm going to put this lube to use and fuck the whore in the ass.” I could feel him climb up on the bed and then say, “here bitch, be a good girl and lube up my cock so I can give that big ass a try.” Next thing I heard was “oh fuck, the shit hole on this slut is tight,” he said, “her cunt was a little loose for my taste but her shit tunnel is wicked tight.”

“Don't make me do all the work now bitch, you need to be nice to us.”

“Your turn now, work that ass on my cock, get your groove on. Push back on it.”

I could hear her grunting in time with his thrusts. “Oh yeah,” he said, “the slut has done this before.”

“Work it baby. Oh fuck this shit is tight. Mmmmm...like that baby.” he asked her?” Since I couldn't see I only found out later he had started to finger her clit. “Tell me you love it, tell me. “Tell me you love my cock up your ass.”

“I love your cock up my ass,” she said unconvincingly.

“I knew you would you nasty whore,” he told her. He had pushed her down onto the bed, topping her, one hand under her fingering her, and I could hear the bed springs start slowly squeaking while he mercilessly pounded her ass. “Like that honey,” he asked?

“Oh,” was her only reply. Then “oh no, oh no....oh my god...no........oh god no,” she moaned clearly on the verge of cumming. “Oh god...” she chanted.....”oh god no."

“Get off her, my turn,” I heard the other one say.

“She loves it up the ass,” his bud replied as I felt him getting off the bed. “Fuckin' slut loves it up the ass. Did you see how hard the whore came?

“Fuck. I'm still hard, can't decide if I want throat or cunt now.”

“Bitch can suck some cock. Just fuck her throat for now, we'll dp the whore later.”

My wife was gagging again, more now than previously and I heard the one in her mouth say....that's it, gag on that cock you fuckin' whore. Oh yeah, that's it, suck it.....fuck does your mouth feel hot....now suck my balls....that's it, get them both in your mouth....oh yeah....fuck does this whore know how to work a cock he cried out. Look at this chick swallow my fuckin' cock he said. I'm all the way down the slut's throat.....we may have to come back and get some more of this bitch...fuck is this good.

They way they had the bed squeaking I thought it might break.“Bitch can suck a cock can't she,” the guy fucking her ass asked. “And you weren't shitting me” he chuckled, “her shit tunnel is wicked tight. “Fuck,” he said, “feels like I'm having to drill this tunnel out it's so fuckin' tight”....don't think I'm going to last very much longer.” Ughhhh.....ahhhh,” he moaned shortly after.

“I was going to cum down the whore's throat, said his friend, but I think I want another round in her cunt. “Yeah, we need to take a break,” his bud replied, “the bitch is milking us dry. Let's have her bring us a couple drinks.”

“Good idea, get us something slut,”you got vodka? Tequila? Rum? Whatever...just bring us something and be smart, remember, your hubby will be back here with us and we will fuck him up if you pull any shit.” Next thing I know they turned the TV on, “netflix and chill” said one of them and laughed. “Wish we had some porn,” said one of them.”Got any porn,” they asked my wife when she came back with their drinks.

“I'm sure my husband has some on his computer,” she told them. “Fuck yes he does,” they laughed, “we already checked some of it out...you're one of the stars. Why you think we had stopped to fuck you....no point in jacking off to some photos when we got you right here to fuck.”

“Come sit here by me and my boy,” he told her patting the bed, “let's get better acquainted, maybe we can be friends. We'll take it a little slower this time, get to know each other.”

“You like to make out baby? Show us some love, get our cocks nice and hard again, and we'll fuck you, we know you love it. But this time you're going to have to ask nicely. Beg a little for us to fuck you. Bet hubby has never heard you beg for his cock..It's only right he gets to hear his wife begging for some cock, don't ya think?”

I couldn't tell exactly what was happening. No one was talking but I could hear what I guess you would call sounds of passion and they were apparently taking turns making out with my wife and sucking on her big tits. The silence was broken when one of them said ...”I love your big titties honey....you like to have them sucked?....I'm not a lip reader baby....you like your titties sucked....say it....we need to hear it. Say it. Hubby wants to know too, don't you hubby,” he said, and finally after a little more coaxing I heard my wife utter a quiet “yes.” We can barely hear you honey,” he chided, “yes, what, tell us what you like,” and to my surprise she said “yes,” again, followed by “yes, I like my tits sucked.”

I was later to have my suspicion confirmed that at this point my wife was on top of him. She had straddled him earlier in order to make out as he commanded. He was playing with her tits and sucking them. I had no idea how much time had passed but I sensed she must have been making out with him and having her titties sucked for quite some time. There wasn't much talking but I could hear the unmistakable sounds of kissing. The friend I now know was between me and them on the bed, just watching and stroking his cock. Finally I heard him say, “it looks like you may have found yourself a new girlfriend,” the reply to which was, even by just the sound of it, a smirking “sorta looks that way, don't it.” The friend then said, “yeah motherfucker, get a room,” and laughed.

My imagination of what must be happening with my wife was running wild. I heard “oh no, you heard what I told you.” Next, it sounded like my wife whispered something, and I heard a “what honey?”....”I can't hear you and neither can anyone else.” Then my wife said aloud, softly, but still loud enough for me to clearly hear, “will you fuck me.” “What” he said in reply, “what, still can't hear you,” and my wife said “fuck me.”

“Is that any way to ask for a favor?” he said. “Didn't mommy and daddy teach you any manners? What do you say?” “Please,” was her reply. “Please what baby,” he said in return. “Please fuck me?” she replied. “You're gonna have to do better than that,” he told her, “let's hear a little more sincerity.”

“Please fuck me,” she pleaded, “PLEASE.” “That's better,” he said, “now tell me you love me.” “What?” she said. “You heard me, tell me you love love.” There was a long pause before my wife said robotically “I love you baby, please fuck me.”

Then, to the surprise of all of us I think, even his friend, he said, “no,” followed by another long pause before he said, “but I will let you show me how much you want it by fucking me. I want to see those big tits while you ride my cock. You do all the fucking while I just lay here.”

There was movement on the bed, and I heard my wife moan “ahhhh” as she apparently sunk her married cunt down on his cock, and once more, the bed began to squeak. “Oh yeah honey, that's it, ride that cock like the slut you are.”

“Get in here and get ready to take that ass,” he ordered his friend. “This whore wants to be doubled. Don't ya slut.” The bed continued to squeak but my wife remained silent. “I asked you a question whore,” he shouted. “You want my friend to take your ass while you ride my cock?” “Yes,” my wife answered. “Yes what whore?” he asked again. “Yes I want your friend to fuck me in the ass while I ride your cock.”

“You heard the whore,” he said, “she wants your cock in her ass, so let her have it.”

She likes it,” he said to his friend, and laughed. “If the cunt's husband could see the look on her face right now he'd shit,” he said, laughing some more. “Hey hubby,” he directed to me, “you married a huge fucking slut.”

My wife didn't say anything but I could hear the noises she was making. I had been telling myself she was doing what she felt she had to do, but I could hear the sounds of sex: wet sloppy sounds, skin slapping, and the bed squeaking out a steady deliberate rhythm, and I began to think he was telling the truth, In spite of myself I found the thought tremendously arousing. Not being able to see for myself because of the pillow case over my head, the sounds poured into me and were amplified by my imagination.

Then I heard my wife get vocal. “Ugh, ugh, ugh” she sputtered. I could hear the smug arrogance in the voice that next said “you want us to stop?"...along with a rising crescendo and increasing rhythm from the squeaking bed, and my wife just said: “no.” Before I could turn away to hide my arousal, I felt the cold bedroom air on my now stiff cock and flushed with shame and embarrassment knowing that my cock had escaped my pajamas and waved to anyone who looked my own involuntary complicity in what was happening.

Afterwards, my wife rolled off and ended up laying right beside me, spent. “I'm sorry,” she said, “I couldn't help it,” sounding like she might be crying a little. The bed was still for several minutes, then one of them, I guessed the less dominate of the two, rolled off the bed on the other side and said to his friend, “we need to get going. It's going to get light out pretty soon.” The more dominate one appeared to be still laying on the bed, my wife between us. He said, “Ok, get everything in the car and wait for me, I won't be long.”

I felt movement again on the bed and felt extra weight to my side and knew he had moved on top of my wife. The bed was still for a moment and quiet. Then I felt a weight on me and a steady movement and realized that my wife had opened her leg's for him and he was fucking her. With his weight on her she couldn't scoot away from me and couldn't open her legs to him without draping her right leg over me. Every thrust into her cunt transferred the movement from her leg to me and made me an inadvertent partner to their coupling.

The steady slow squeak... squeak...squeak...squeak, of the bed was the only sound for a while, until I began to hear a high pitched but low volume, “oh...oh...oh...oh” in time with each squeak. Her elbow bumped my head as she moved her arms and I realized she had wrapped them around his neck and pulled him down to kiss her. The “oh....oh....oh” was louder, but muffled now by his mouth upon hers.

I felt her begin thrusting back at him. My cock was again stiff and poking out of my pajamas into the cold bedroom but I didn't want to move away from my contact with her body. The oh oh oh morphed into mmmm, mmmmm, mmmmm, and she moaned out “ oh god I can't believe this," and finally a prolonged "ohhhhhhh."

I realized they were making out. It was her kissing him like this after everything that had happened that sent me over the edge and unable to contain myself, my cock, without ever being touched, spurted out four ropes of cum in response.

#married pussy

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mrsquill · 1 year

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Whole World in His Hands

Pre-Outbreak!Joel Miller

Summary: Hi! So I haven’t written fic in… four years? I think? So please be nice to me! TLOU broke my heart and put it back together again and stamped on it simultaneously, and I couldn’t get the idea of Single Dad Joel, Uncle Tommy and baby Sarah out of my head, so here’s this!

Set within the timeframe provided by the show however no apocalypse here, baby! So, Sarah was born in 1989. Hope my maths be mathin’!

Notes: I’m not from the States, so I’m sorry if any cultural references are wrong. I’ve also never played the games - so if any backstory is missing/I’ve completely ignored, again: I’m sorry! This is based on the beautiful relationship between Pedro and Nico’s portrayals.

Warnings: Sarah’s mother is mentioned with the tiniest bit of angst, but mostly fluffiness and repairing my broken heart. So please, enjoy!

1997

The sun was starting to set slowly on another stifling Texas evening in August. The plastic grooves of the white garden chair Joel was sat in were sure to leave a mark on his bare back, but he was content enough to stay there forever. He closed his eyes and listened, half-asleep, to the sounds of lawnmowers, kids laughing, dogs barking, and Tommy shuffling around in the backyard.

The radio host announced ‘We Have Forgotten’ by Sixpence None the Richer was next up, and to enjoy, folks. Well, Joel was sure to do just that. The late summer air was soon full of breathy vocals and lilting guitar strings as he adjusted his position slightly in the late golden light, careful not to wake his little girl.

Sarah was snoring lightly, sprawled across his lap in her towel, dark curls damp from a day in the pool they had in the backyard. Supporting her head with one arm, a well-earned bottle of beer rested in his other hand, sunglasses fixed on his nose as the smell of barbecue wafted over. Joel couldn’t be sure his younger brother was actually ever quite full, not even after third helpings of birthday cake.

He’d hosted Sarah’s eighth birthday party that day - admittedly, a month late - and was grateful for it to be over, despite seeing the joy on his baby’s face when all her friends turned up for a day in their pool. The pancakes in bed and wonky birthday tiara had been enough for her to declare that this was the best birthday ever, so the surprise party was the icing on the cake.

Joel and Tommy had actually managed to pull it out of the bag: the thought of 12 screaming eight-year-olds potentially drowning in his backyard was enough to wake him at night in a cold sweat, but his brother had firmly reminded him with a slap on his back: “You’ve kept one alive for this long, brother. How hard can eleven more be for a couple hours?”

Tommy had kept the girls entertained by generally making a fool of himself in and out of the pool, and Joel had kept them fed and watered with a steady stream of hotdogs and soda, reminding them to keep reapplying sunblock and keep their hats on. His brother had rolled his eyes, but Joel reasoned one of them had to be the sensible one - and it’s been me since the day you were born, he’d added.

The moms came and duly collected at the time allotted on the shitty invitations he’d cobbled together in secret a few weeks prior, and Joel was forced to defend himself from being hit on by precisely all eleven women - single or not. He’d firmly rejected invitations for a coffee, or a whiskey, but had grudgingly agreed to come and check over a leaky faucet which he strongly doubted was leaking at all.

When the last little girl - Hayley, Sarah’s best ever friend - had left with her mom, Joel had closed the door and slid a hand over his face, resisting the urge to slide downwards and crumple on the floor. He’d groaned inwardly, Tommy chuckling from the hallway. You’re crazy, his brother had remarked, watching Joel interact with the women, his awkward flirting and half-hearted laughs enough to make anybody cringe. You don’t need to be alone forever, man. You’re thirty! You deserve a lil’ fun!

Joel reminded his brother than such fun was off his radar for the foreseeable, and Tommy held his hands up in mock defeat. S’good thing, I guess, he’d admitted. They don’t know what they’re missin’ with the younger, better lookin’ stud of this house anyway. Joel had merely rolled his eyes at that, heading for the backyard, exhausted from the day’s efforts and seeking a few moments of peace and quiet with his daughter.

He had found Sarah reading through her cards and sorting through assorted gifts on the porch swing, snuggling happily into his side as he collapsed beside her. You have a good birthday, baby? He’d asked, nervous for her answer. Everything Joel did was for Sarah. It was the reason he hauled his ass out of bed for 4am contracting shifts, had learned how to style her hair by shyly asking a teacher at her school, had let her paint his nails pink at their backyard tea party and had loved every second of it.

Sarah replied that she had, but now she wanted to play mermaids one more time, please?! It’s still my birthday! Joel could only oblige - his own dark eyes pleading at him, fringed with delicate lashes that he was certain came from her mama. Joel didn’t tend to think of Sarah’s mother often - if, at all. She had asked a few questions here and there, and he’d always managed to deflect them. As he’d slipped into the warm water with Sarah giggling on his shoulders, he knew that the time would come where they’d have the conversation he’d been avoiding, since the night Joel had brought her home from the hospital.

Looking at Sarah’s sleeping form, now, her button nose and pouted lips, Joel’s heart heaved with love for her. Joel looked over at Tommy from beneath his sunglasses, wolfing down his tenth hotdog of the day, wondering how they’d made it so far. Sarah shifted a little in his lap, and Joel felt himself swept back in time, 22-years-old, a new father without a fucking clue about what to do with this baby without a mother.

He remembered it like it was yesterday - his ex had called the house he and Tommy had just bought. Her voice shaking on the line: I can’t do this, Joel. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you I was pregnant. She’s yours. Please take her. I don’t have anybody else to call. He hadn’t heard from her in six months - it wasn’t a serious thing, she was a cashier at the store he got his liquor at when the weekend rolled in, and they’d been having fun. Careful fun, right?

In blind panic, Joel got to the hospital and found the right room. How he did it, he’d never know. The baby was already alone, save for a nurse who gently gestured that he should sit down and try and get his breathing together. As soon as she was placed in his arms, Joel knew his life was changed forever. She was it, this tiny snuffling bundle mewling up at him. She had his eyes, he was sure. Even if they weren’t his; it didn’t fuckin’ matter. He wasn’t leaving the hospital without his girl. His Sarah.

God, it was hard. So fuckin’ hard. Some days, Joel was close to breaking point; parenting books and VHS tapes only going to far with what they could teach him. But when Sarah wrapped her tiny finger round his, or gave Tommy a gummy smile and shrieked with laughter, Joel knew he’d take a thousand shitty days for that one slice of heaven. His perfect girl. They got through it, together.

Still got ten years of this shit, Tommy mused, his foot gently kicking an abandoned Barbie across the grass, jolting Joel from his reverie. Cheers to that, he motioned to his younger brother, taking a long pull from his beer. Tommy looked down on his niece with affection he’d had for eight years, the expression well-worn on his face, before he turned and headed inside.

The song on the radio was drawing to a close, the sky above an even richer shade of honey than before, as the string lights across the pool glowed in the approaching evening light. Bath, then bed, Joel hummed to himself as he prepared to lift Sarah to his chest gently, ready to repeat the routine he’d shaped his life around. Joel was holding his whole world in his hands, and he felt like the luckiest man alive.

#joel miller #joel the last of us #joel tlou #sarah miller #sarah the last of us #sarah miller tlou #tommy miller #tommy tlou #tommy the last of us #the last of us #the last of us fanfiction #tlou hbo #tlou fanfiction #pedro pascal fanfiction #pedro pascal #nico parker #my stuff

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ggjunkie · 30 days

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Heavenly Hazards

Chapter 4

“Why do you have an invite from The Adam?”

You pause from where you’re bent at the waist, attempting to open a pack of water bottles. You’re very obviously losing the battle, the plastic only wrinkling under your grip. At his question, you hesitate, unsure of what he’s referencing, before remembering that damn ticket. An annoyed groan on your lips, you release your grasp on the plastic and quickly straighten your spine with a weak pop.

“I don’t know,” you shrug, exasperation from the stub creeping into your voice. You try to keep it steady; it’s not Aeson you’re annoyed at. “I live near the venue, so I figured…”

From behind, Aeson guffaws in disbelief. For a split moment, you couldn’t help but feel a pang of frustration at his reaction. He doesn’t understand- it’s not like you asked for it. “Dude, he signed it. That’s his signature.”

You finally spin around, taking in his paled expression. He looks as though he’s holding back a laugh, unsure if this whole situation is a joke. At his concern, you begin to feel your walls crawling up. He doesn’t need to be scared. You’re in heaven. Nothing bad can happen to you now…

Right?

“Yeah, I’m aware” You snipe. Aeson’s face falls, and so does your mind’s defensive stance. He’s just trying to help. “I’m sorry, I just… I guess he doesn’t usually do that?”

“No, he doesn’t” his voice is softer, as if approaching a scared animal. He’s walking on eggshells and it tightens your throat in guilt. This conversation is teetering towards something serious, and if your sweaty palms were any indication, you don’t like it. “He doesn’t even officially announce his concerts. He expects everyone to just show up– except you, apparently.”

Your mouth starts to feel dry, “Oh. Maybe I knew him while we were alive?”

At that, Aeson actually laughs. “Yeah, sure– if you were alive in the Garden of Eden. That’s Adam. The Adam. The First Man, Adam. How did you even get this?”

A flash of golden feathers crosses your mind.

You ignore it.

Instead, you shrug, the weight of the situation finally weighing on your shoulders like a heavy blanket. You’re hoping if you don’t look it in the eyes, then it won’t be real. Rather, you avert your gaze to the floor, fingers half-mindedly picking at the seam of your robe. It’s only your first week in heaven. Did this mean you were in trouble? If you didn’t go, though, you’d only receive more and more tickets. How did you even end up with one?

“Well,” Aeson draws out, earning your attention. He has more color to him, the once-dulled twinkle in his eye shining as bright as ever. “Maybe we can both go.”

“Oh? Do I get a plus one?” You know it’s wishful thinking, but can’t help the relief that washes in like a comforting wave.

“Nope,” That wave instantly recedes, the metaphorical beach transforming into a dry, disgusting desert. “But I can sneak in under your robes.” You couldn’t help but giggle at that, playfully swatting at his chest.

“Yeah, no.”

“Eh, worth a shot. You should still go, it could be fun!”

You tilt your head, weighing the pros and cons. Pros? Fun concert! Cons? Everything. “Ehhhh, some rando inviting me to his concert? Kinda creepy.”

Aeson nods in agreement. “No totally. From what I hear, he’s an asshole who’ll try to get in any bombshell’s pants. But dude… free concert ticket. Just sneak out before it ends– I can even find something to do nearby in case you need help or something.”

You pucker your lips in thought, not even sure who Aeson would hear that gossip from, before sagging your shoulders in hesitant defeat. “Yeah alright, you got me. However, if I go, then you have to come with me to buy some better clothes and makeup. Your treat.”

Aeson, ever the optimist, beams at the idea of a day out on the town. “Deal!”

–

You had to learn the hard way that if you give Aeson an inch, he’ll take a mile. And after inviting him into your apartment for a bottle of water, suddenly he decided he can come and go as he pleases.

Safe to say, the pounding on your door shattered the peaceful stillness of your apartment like a sledgehammer through glass. Startled from your sleep, your mind struggled to shake off the grogginess as you reached for awareness in the dimly lit room.

Heart pounding, you sat up abruptly, disoriented and confused by the abrupt banging. For a moment, the fear of the possible intruder gripped you tightly, your pulse racing with adrenaline-fueled dread. But as your senses gradually sharpened, the rational part of your brain came forward.

You were in heaven now, far away from the dangers of the mortal world. Not to mention, even the most polite robbers wouldn’t knock on your front door and wait for you to let them in. With a shaky exhale, you forced your racing heart to slow its frantic pace.

Careful not to make a sound, you slipped out of bed and tiptoed across the room, every step cautious and deliberate as you made your way downstairs, afraid to open the door to a pair of golden wings. As you reached the bottom of the stairs, you paused, hand hovering uncertainly over the doorknob, before swinging it open.

As the door unfastened, it revealed a hyper Aeson standing on the other side, his expression a mix of excitement and mischief. Relief washed over you in waves as you took in his familiar face.

“Come on, we gotta go look at clothes!”

–

The promenade unfolded before you, offering not only an array of food, but also a variety of charming shops that transformed it into a fanciful mall of sorts.

Amidst the crowd, you couldn't resist the allure of the cute robes on display. They were perfect for providing coverage, while also presenting different cute patterns. That way, you can still look and feel like an angel, but at least an angel with a personality. With a grin, you snagged a few, already envisioning how they would look. You stuffed them into Aesons arms, making him pay for you.

As you kept an eye out and about for a good makeup store, you nearly toppled over someone in your path. With a startled gasp, you moved to apologize, only to feel your expression sour as you realized it was the platinum-haired girl from yesterday. There was a hint of satisfaction in her smirk as she caught sight of your reaction, but it quickly vanished as her gaze landed on Aeson beside you.

“Are you two on a date right now?” she didn’t seem pleased.

“Wh-no!” you were taken aback. “What is your obsession? We’re friends! We do friend activities!”

Tuning out Aeson's playful jabber about how you “called me your friend.”, you were caught off guard by the sudden shift in atmosphere as the platinum-haired girl fixed her piercing gaze on you once more.

“Will you be in attendance for the concert tonight?”

"How did you—" you began, your voice faltering as she cut you off.

"I'm Lute. Adam's Lute," she stated firmly, her words laden with authority, leaving no room for argument. "But you don't get to call me that. You call me Lieutenant.” She thought, before adding a quieter, “We’re friends.”

The air crackled with tension as you struggled to process her words, your mind racing with questions. The most pressing of which burned on your tongue, demanding to be voiced.

"Why do I have a ticket?" you asked, your voice tinged with a mix of apprehension and defiance.

Lute's frown deepened at your question, her displeasure palpable as she delivered her blunt response.

"He thinks you're hot," she stated matter-of-factly, her words punctuated by Aeson's nervous laughter before he wisely fell silent under her withering gaze. "And you have a nice rack. Which I agree. I'll see you tonight."

With that, Lute turned on her heel and disappeared into the throng of people, leaving you standing there, feeling exposed and vulnerable beneath her penetrating scrutiny.

"What a bitch," you muttered under your breath, the weight of her words echoing in your mind long after she had gone.

#adam x reader #hazbin hotel adam #hazbin hotel #x reader

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preordainedplace · 5 months

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we came into town under cover of night, because we were pretty sure the people here were going to hate us once they really got to know us. it was summer. it’s always summer with us. in our lives together, which are sweet in the way of rotting things, it is somehow permanently summer. the moon rose above the trees, older than time, greener than money. you hung your head out the window of our dusty lemon-yellow el camino and howled, and i turned up the radio, because the sound of your voice was already beginning to get to me. the speakers crackled and the music came through: frankie valli and the four seasons. pretty as a midsummer’s morn, they call her dawn. let the love of god come and get us if it wants us so bad. we know where we are going when all of this is done. some people might say that buying a house you’ve never actually seen close-up is a bad idea, but what does anybody know about our needs, anyhow? for us it was perfect. the peeling paint. the old cellar. the garden in the back. the porch out front. the still air of the living room. the attic. everywhere entirely unfurnished and doomed to remain largely so, save for our own meagre offerings: a cheap sofa, an old mattress, a couple of chairs and some ashtrays. maybe a table salvaged from some diner gone into bankruptcy, i don’t remember. neither do you. we drank store-brand gin with fresh lime juice out of plastic cups or straight from the bottle and we spread ourselves out face-up on the wooden floors. an aerial view of us might have suggested we’d been knocked down, but what we were doing was staking our claim. establishing our territories. making good. not on the vows we’d made but on the ones we’d really meant. you produced a wallet-sized transistor radio out of nowhere and you found a sympathetic station: somebody was playing howlin’ wolf. smokestack lightning. o yes, i loved you once. o yes, you loved me more. we entered that old house like a virus entering its host. you following me, me following you. however you like. the windows were high and the walls were thick and sturdy. it was hot as blazes. the guts of summer. always down in the sugar-deep barrel-bottom belly of summer itself. always. in our shared walk down to the bottom, which bottom we will surely find if only our hearts are brave and our love true enough, we have found that it is somehow invariably and quite permanently summer. - john darnielle, tallahassee cd liner notes

#god sorry. was dissecting my copy of the cd for collaging and she grabbed me #nothing quite like the way john writes about houses huh!#the house that dripped blood #tmg

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rjzimmerman · 2 months

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Excerpt from this essay from Sierra Club:

I’ve spent years encouraging people to ditch single-use plastic. Probably the most egregious example of single-use plastic is bottled water: The bottles are made from fossil fuels, the water filling them is often taken from communities and ecosystems that need it, and the pollution created when they’re disposed of will outlast all of us.

So when I heard that people were getting excited about the Stanley cup—a durable, reusable alternative to bottled water—at first it seemed like a victory. Stanley drinkware has been around for decades, mostly marketed as a rugged brand for workmen and outdoorsmen. But recently the company repackaged its signature products in a rainbow of colors and began marketing to women, positioning itself as a lifestyle brand for people headed to the carpool line or yoga class. Stanley’s collaborations with influencers sparked a storm of social media buzz, with people rushing to snatch up the latest limited edition and amassing collections of the colorful tumblers. The excitement over the Stanley cup grew into a fad—and that fad has become costly for the planet.

Unfortunately, Stanley cups are far from the only eco-conscious product to get corrupted by consumerism. Earth Day is just around the corner, and my inbox is currently filling up with Earth Day promotions from nearly every company that’s gotten ahold of my email address.

A few months ago, I bought a new pair of organic cotton pants from a company that uses minimal packaging and donates to conservation. I loved the fit and felt good about my purchase. But now that it’s almost Earth Day, this eco-conscious company is trying to make me believe that the only way to help the planet is to buy another pair of pants. By commercializing Earth Day, we’ve missed the point.

It's like this every year. Earth Day has become another “Hallmark holiday” marked by special sales and promotions, just another excuse to get people to spend money on things they don’t really need. Somehow, it’s even become an opportunity to shower kids with gifts. An HGTV article published last year promotes “20 Buys to Help Kids Celebrate Earth Day Every Day.” The gift suggestions range from wooden toys and organic cotton tees to kid-sized gardening tools and animal-adorned dinnerware made from bamboo.

Now, there’s nothing inherently wrong with a junior gardening kit or bamboo dinnerware. In fact, many of the ideas on these lists are better-than-average products in terms of environmental impact. Anything that gets kids interacting with the environment is better than cheap, plastic indoor toys; if you’re in the market for durable plates your kids can’t break, looking for sustainable materials is a good call. The problem is that we’re being sold a myth that shopping is the solution to our environmental crises.

The first Earth Day was a call to action against rampant air and water pollution. Twenty million people took part in demonstrations across the United States, and the movement led to the formation of the Environmental Protection Agency and some of our country’s strongest environmental laws, including the Clean Air Act, the Clean Water Act, and the Endangered Species Act. There were rallies and teach-ins around the country. People talked about the connections between environmental health and poverty, population pressure and pesticides. There were gardening workshops and automobile burials. It was a political, radical, and joyous event. No one went home with a swag bag full of face creams in recyclable jars and bamboo plates for the kids.

Earth Day has been watered down from a revolutionary moment that recognized shared values and the common threat of environmental harm to a day that’s little more than a social media hashtag like National Siblings Day or National Ice Cream Day. No amount of sustainable Earth Day purchases can buy our way out of the climate crisis or protect endangered species from extinction.

When environmental action is defined by the types of products we buy, we’ve really lost the plot.

#Earth Day #consumerism

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darkdarkroom · 2 years

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~ Nothin' But a Good Time ~

Eddie Munson x Reader

Summary: The morning after Eddie hosts a party at your house, you’re left with no memory of what went on last night. Eddie’s strange behavior suggests that you’ve forgotten something big, but he’s not telling; what exactly did you do? Best friends to lovers, just fluff, gn!reader. Flashbacks in italics. Comments and reblogs are super helpful and very welcomed!! CW: Mentions of alcohol, underage drinking. Masterlist

-------------

This isn’t your bed.

This isn’t a bed at all.

Your eyes snap open as the realisation hits you, hands gripping the sides of the plastic sun lounger that you appear to have spent the night on. Not only are you not in a bed, you’re not even in a bedroom; you’re outside.

Disorientated, you raise your pounding head to get a better look. Your first thought is a reassuring one – at least you know where you are. Thankfully, you’re at home on your own back patio, and even more thankfully, you remember that your parents are on vacation.

The lawn is littered with plastic cups, interspersed with the occasional beer bottle glinting in the sunlight. Someone’s t-shirt is strewn across a rose bush, and a lone flip flop floats idly across the swimming pool. You’re in a similarly unkempt state yourself, still in last night’s clothes with the taste of stale alcohol on your breath. There’s a fuzzy blackspot where your memories should be, but the evidence speaks for itself. There was a party here last night, and you know exactly who’s idea it was.

Eddie fucking Munson.

You muster up all the strength you have in your hangover-weakened body and stumble to your feet, flinging off the jacket that you don’t remember covering yourself with. It’s one of Eddie’s, the familiar scent of his cologne tinged with an earthy hint of weed lingering in the air as you scowl at the offending article. “I’m gonna kill him” you whisper to yourself, before turning on your heel and marching into the open back doors.

If it were at all possible, the house is in an even worse state than the garden. Empty cans and glasses litter every surface, the trash overflowing onto the floor. You step over a crushed pizza box as you venture through the living room, grateful at least for the lack of partygoers overstaying their welcome. The only person you want to see should be around here somewhere, and you feel a rush of vindictive adrenaline as you finally spot his familiar form sprawled out on the sofa.

He’s fast asleep, one arm tucked behind his head as the other clutches a cushion to his bare chest. His hair is tousled with sleep, the curls artfully messy as a serene smile lights up his face.

Oh, that face.

Even amidst your anger you have to admit that Eddie is incredibly lovely to look at, though you’d never admit that to him. There’s a sweetness to him as he sleeps, all the bravado of his protective pretences stripped away. It’s a side of him most people never see, but you’re lucky to know it’s always there, hidden beneath a tough exterior.

You watch him for a moment, his chest gently rising and falling as he remains oblivious to your presence. The two of you have been best friends for a long time now, but last night was the first time you’d seen him in weeks. You’d taken for granted being able to see him every day at school, but since you’ve graduated things have been a little... distant.

So, when he'd called you yesterday to entice you along to a Corroded Coffin gig, you’d jumped at the chance to see him. Going to Eddie’s gigs is always a no brainer – you love the music, but more than that, you love seeing him up there having a good time. No matter how big (or small) the audience is, when he’s onstage your best friend is positively glowing with happiness. And when he steps offstage? That high is so much better than any concoction his little black lunchbox could offer up.

The end of a night is always the same: a few drinks at the bar with the guys and the handful of fans they’ve picked up, before the two of you back to yours for takeout and a movie on the sofa. That’s what you’d had in mind when he’d called yesterday, and you’d made sure to have a stack of videotapes by the VCR ready for when you’d returned. A stack that now litters the floor, you note.

Eddie is a deeply fun guy to be around, but not exactly the tidiest person you know. Or the most restrained. This had been one of your objections when, in a post-gig high, he’d broached the subject of an after party back at yours. In your hungover haze you’re not sure exactly what compelled you to agree, but then again, Eddie always knows how to get you onside.

“Come on, sweetheart. We've got the whole night ahead of us and you’ve got an empty house just crying out for a party. Not throwing one would be a tragic waste of its potential”.

Eddie glances at you with a raised eyebrow, undeterred by your disdainful stare. You should’ve known better than to tell him about your empty house; after a successful gig of course he’d have only one thing on his mind.

It’s been weeks since you’ve seen him, though, and all you want is a good night in with your best friend. “I was thinking more along the lines of takeout and a movie, but maybe that’s kinda lame -”

“Not at all!” he interrupts, stepping a little closer, “I can think of no better way to spend my time than with you. I just can’t help it if I get a little over excited at the prospect of a night to remember with the greatest person I know”.

Ah, that classic Munson charm. You’re used to it, but not fully immune to it even after all this time. He settles on the sofa next to you, fixing you with intense eye contact and an earnest smile. “You and I, we’re a good team, right? A few friends, a few drinks, and a lot of good music – trust me, it’ll be worth it”

No matter how good the party was – and you really don’t remember – it can’t have been worth the stress this morning is now bringing you.

Eddie sighs in his sleep, hugging the cushion tighter to his chest. He looks so serene, so innocent, and you’d almost find it adorable were you not so furious with him. You stride over to him, shaking his shoulder vigorously. “Eddie, wake up!”

A sleepy groan escapes from his lips, and he snuggles deeper into the sofa. “No, s’too early” he mumbles, brow furrowing as he turns his head away from you.

“I’m serious, don’t go back to sleep” you hiss, fighting your nausea as you lean over him. His nose wrinkles in annoyance, but he slowly turns to face you with a deep sigh. His eyes blink open to look at you, and the scowl softens into a radiant smile.

“Mornin’, sunshine” he murmurs, gazing sleepily at you. “Sleep well?”

“Don’t ‘sunshine’ me,” you object, “and I most certainly fucking didn’t. Not having such a great morning either”

His smile drops instantly, a brief flash of surprise crossing his face. He’s wide awake suddenly, eyes wide and lips parted. “Woah, what’s up?”

You narrow your eyes at him, spreading your arms to gesture around the room. “Have you seen the state of this house? This is why I didn’t want a party in the first place”

Eddie flinches slightly at your remark, a frown creasing his brow. He props himself up on his elbows to get a better look, but after a quick glance around the room he simply shrugs. “S’not that bad. Trust me, I’ve seen worse” he says wryly, kicking at a stray can by his feet.

His nonchalance at the situation infuriates you. If this was his place, he’d have every right to be calm. But your house? It’s a different story entirely. Your parents keep the place immaculate at all times, and so the chaos that confronts you now is more than a little bit distressing. It’s hard to suppress the panic that threatens to bubble up in your chest.

“Not that bad? Eddie, this is a nightmare” you fret, glancing up at the clock above the mantelpiece – ten AM. “Fuck, I only have three hours before they get back!”

In a burst of frantic energy, you begin collecting as much trash as you can possibly carry. “They trusted me and I’ve fucked up, I’ve majorly fucked up”

Trash spills out of your arms as you lean down to pick up a bottle, which only exacerbates your agitation. You’re screwed, you’re so so screwed. “I’m never gonna get it clean in time, they’re gonna kill me!” you exclaim, before a firm hand on your arm stops you in your tracks.

“Alright, alright. Just hang on a for a moment”

Eddie spins you round to face him, placing his hands on your shoulders in a gesture that’s oddly reassuring as the warmth seeps through to your skin. His deep brown eyes scan your face, a tinge of concern reflected in them. “Look, I get why you’re stressed, but it’s honestly not a big deal. Three hours is plenty of time if we work together. We always make a good team, don’t we?”

You roll your eyes, but relax a little under his touch. “Being a good team is what got us into this mess, Eddie, so it had better be able to get us out”

“I got you, sweetheart, don’t stress. I’ll take the kitchen, you take the living room, and then we’ll tackle the garden together” he says confidently, unintimidated by the sea of trash that surrounds you. You really have to admire his confidence when faced with such a situation. Misplaced, maybe, but it did help to quell your worries somewhat.

Twenty minutes later you’re getting stuck into the task, armed with a roll of trash bags and cleaning spray. You can’t help but smile as the sound of Eddie’s singing floats in from the other room, his voice still slightly raspy from sleep.

No matter how big a party is, Eddie is always cheery and animated the morning after. His constant energy is one of the things you like the most about him, and it’s comforting to have it with you right now.

“I meant to ask,” you call, “how come nobody stayed over?”

It had been strange, waking up to find the place near deserted. Usually you get at least a handful of hangers on the morning after a party, but this time it seems that everyone decided to clear out. Eddie pokes his head out of the kitchen, can of soda in hand. “I sent them all home last night, after you fell asleep”

“How late was that?”

“Around one, maybe?” he says, taking a sip of his drink.

One? That’s pretty early by Eddie’s standards. His after parties are known to go on until sunrise, though you rarely make it to that point. It seems strange that he’d called it a night so prematurely, especially since he’d been so keen for the party in the first place.

“Really? You didn’t want to keep things going?” you ask, and he shrugs nonchalantly.

“Not really. Didn’t really feel like it once you were out for the count”.

He ducks back into the kitchen after that comment, putting an end to your line of questioning. You’re left staring at the doorway for a moment, thinking it over.

No way would the Eddie you know end a party just because you’d called it a night, so what’s up with that? Is there something he’s not telling you? Still, it doesn’t seem like he’s willing to elaborate any further, so you return to your cleaning duties in silence.

A full half hour later, Eddie emerges from the kitchen. He steps into the living room with a wide grin on his face, surveying the now immaculate space. “Told you we could do it. Looks like you’re feeling better too” he remarks, straightening the coffee table with a nudge of his foot before flopping down onto the sofa.

“Much better. Not looking forward to tackling the garden though. Any idea how to clean a pool?”

He laughs, glancing out of the windows and then back at you. “Nah, but we’ll figure something out”

There’s a pause as he holds eye contact for a moment, his expression unreadable. You barely have time to work it out before he glances downwards, turning his face away from you. “Must admit, I was a little worried about you earlier” he says, fiddling with the tasselled edge of a cushion. “I hate seeing you like that”

The playful, teasing Eddie you know so well is suddenly replaced by a quieter, more sensitive version that you haven’t seen in a long time. It’s the same Eddie that used to come out when you were ill or having a rough day, but never stuck around for very long. He rarely opens up or gets emotional unless he’s really pushed, and you can’t remember a time when he’s been upfront about his feelings.

He’s the type to brush things off with casual humour, never getting down to the heart of a matter. You’ve learned not to press him any further than he’s willing to go himself, and so you approach this with gentle caution.

“Seeing me like what?”

“Stressed. Angry at yourself. Blaming yourself” he says, running a hand through his hair. He’s still facing away from you, and you’re certain it’s deliberate – it’s almost as if looking at you would be too much for him. You decide to act casual and busy yourself by dusting the mantelpiece, hoping to stretch this moment out for as long as possible.

“Looking after this place is a big deal, I think it was a pretty normal reaction to waking up and finding it trashed” you reply, your back turned to him. You’re testing him, seeing how far he’s willing to take this sudden vulnerability. Out of the corner of your eye you see him snap round to face you, one hand gripping the armrest.

“But it wasn’t your fault. You know that, right?” he insists, a pleading edge creeping into his voice. This is truly bothering him, you realise, though you’re not quite sure why.

“I held a party when I knew this would happen” you remind him, risking a glance over your shoulder. His gaze is fixed onto you, his eyes dark and intense. Genuine concern is written all over his face, but it’s gone the second your eyes meet his.

“Psshh, no way am I letting you take the credit for this!” he smirks, and suddenly confident Eddie is back in control. He kicks his feet up on the coffee table, reclining with his hands behind his head. “That party was my success, full credit is mine”

“Well take some responsibility for the aftermath of your ‘success’ and help me clear the garden” you shoot back, gesturing for him to follow you outside.

He offers you a sarcastic salute and a mumbled “You got it”, before getting to his feet and stretching his arms above his head. He’s standing directly in a sunbeam, and the muscles on his chest and arms are neatly defined in the soft light.

Oh, that’s a weird thing for you to notice.

But then again, how could anyone not notice? You have to admit that he’s looking incredibly good standing there, all tattoos and soft skin and…

Nope, this is weird. Very weird.

Come on. You’re not supposed to notice things like that about your best friend. Still, his physique is suddenly more of a distraction than you’d like it to be. You push the unwelcome thoughts deep down and glance at him over your shoulder, trying to fix your gaze on his face rather than the region below it.

“Would it kill you to put a shirt on?” you sigh, tucking a roll of trash bags under your arm before stepping outside. “No one needs to see… all of that”.

The eyeroll you follow it with is probably overkill, but if it is Eddie doesn’t catch on. “Please, you love it really” he smirks, following close behind. “Anyway, my shirt seems to have vanished”

“Why did you take it off?” you ask, handing him a bag and getting straight to work.

“I didn’t, sweetheart” he says casually, with a sideways glance. “You did”.

You freeze.

He’s messing with you, right? Last night is little more than a few hazy images in your mind, and the hangover suggests that you had a few too many so… Oh god, what exactly have you forgotten?

Eddie watches you patiently, one eyebrow raised as he studies your reaction. His calmness hopefully means that whatever you did wasn’t too bad, so you flash him a smile and get stuck in to cleaning up. “Good one, Eddie” you scoff, “But I highly doubt that.”

“Do you not… hang on, do you really not remember last night?” he asks.

“Not really. I remember your gig, and there’s a few flashes of something here and there, but it’s pretty much a blackspot”

Eddie stares at you for a moment, the same unreadable expression from earlier on his face. “Explains a lot” he mumbles, before returning to throwing trash in his sack.

“What do you mean?”

“Doesn’t matter. I’d just forgotten you were so much of a lightweight” he teases.

“Yeah, very funny. So where is your shirt, exactly?”

“Like I told you, I wasn’t the one who took it off.”

This is a blackspot you really want to remember. “I’m confused, Eds. Why would I do that?”

“You were begging me to come swimming with you, and I guess you were tryna’ get me ready” he laughs, pitching an empty can at your head. You catch it skilfully, tossing it into your sack and eyeing him warily.

“Ugh, how much did I have to drink last night?”

“More than you usually do. You were all like ‘Ohh, Eddie, pleeeease,” he mimics, swaying comically. “Come swiiiim with me!”

“Come on, Eddie! I wanna go swimming!” you coo, gripping the hem of his shirt with both hands. The ground is spinning beneath your feet, and you stumble a little as you struggle to remain standing. Eddie catches you, though. Of course he does. He’s so reliable, isn’t he? And so sturdy. Yes, you think, patting his bare chest, sturdy is the right word. His body is firm under your touch, and you smile to yourself as you lean into him.

“Swimming isn’t a smart idea, sweetheart. Not in your state, anyway” he says, walking you backwards and away from the pool’s edge.

“But it’ll be so much fun! Get this off you, can’t go swimming in your clothes” you exclaim, as he relents with an eye roll and obediently lifts his arms above his head. A swift tug reveals his bare torso, before you yank the garment over his head and fling it away from you. There’s a rustle as it lands in a hedge a few metres away.

“See? Now we can go!”

“You’re not going swimming” he says firmly, still moving you backwards. “Sit down over here, okay”.

The backs of your calves hit the edge of a sun lounger, and he gently manoeuvres you into a sitting position. His hands rest on your shoulders, warmth seeping through your clothes to your skin. You blink up at him, his face blurring at the edges. If you really focus, you can see the gentle smile on his lips as he gazes down at you, those deep brown eyes like pools of molten chocolate. He looks so good in moonlight, doesn’t he? He looks good all the time.

One hand comes up to brush some hair out of your face, tucking it neatly behind your ear. It feels good to have him so close, so reassuring. His hand lingers on your cheek, his touch both unfamiliarly intimate and yet incredibly natural…

The sound of glass hitting concrete snaps you back into the present, and you search for the source of your interruption. Eddie nods towards the empty glass by your feet, which you must’ve kicked over. “I went to get you some water but in the two minutes I was gone, you’d managed to fall asleep”

So that explains your unconventional sleeping arrangement. Still, the fact that Eddie seems to be avoiding your eyes tells you that there’s definitely something more to the story. “Should’ve made me go to bed, I’m lucky it didn’t rain last night”.

“You looked so peaceful, it seemed a shame to wake you. And I was nearby anyway, in case you needed anything” he explains, pushing himself to feet.

You’d just assumed that he’d passed out on the sofa by accident; it hadn’t occurred to you that it was a calculated choice. Eddie had chosen to forgo the guest room in order to keep an eye on you, sacrificing his comfort for your benefit.

“Oh. Thanks” you mumble, as he wanders away from you to continue clearing up. Again, it seems that he’s done talking.

The two of you resume your routine in silence, filling up sack after sack with party debris. You’re examining the pool situation when a shout from the side of the garden gets your attention, and you look up to see Eddie waving his shirt above his head. “Found it!” he calls, jogging over to meet you. “Still want me to cover up… all this?”

“Do what you want” you reply, ignoring him as runs his hands over his bare chest with a suggestive grin.

“As you wish” he beams. With a flick of his wrist he drapes his shirt over a lawn chair, before beginning to unbutton his jeans.

“Whoa whoa whoa, what do you think you’re doing?” you gasp.

Eddie doesn’t bat an eyelid, pushing his ripped jeans over his thighs and down to the ground. “As far as I can tell, sweetheart, the only way to get the trash out of the pool is to get in it myself” he says, kicking his clothing to one side. You can’t argue with his logic, but still – the sight of him standing brazenly before you in only his underwear is a little alarming.

Eddie isn’t the most confident of guys, but cocky? Oh yeah. He has nothing to be ashamed about, certainly.... not that you’re staring, of course.

“Okay, I guess that’s a good idea” you affirm, trying to look anywhere else than at him.

“You stand here and grab the things I throw out, we’ll be done in no time” he says, before diving headlong into the pool. He emerges from the water seconds later, torso glistening, posing dramatically like a model in a men’s cologne ad. His hair is dripping wet, and he pushes it back from his forehead with one hand. “Let’s get to work!” he chuckles, before tossing a crumpled plastic cup in your direction.

The chore quickly becomes a game, with you forming a moving target for Eddie to hit as you dash around the poolside. When you’re having this much fun, it’s easy to forget just how stressed you were earlier. Eddie’s always been good at getting you out of your own head, and by this point you’re more curious than mad about last night.

“What did you mean earlier,” you begin, as Eddie climbs out of the pool, “When you said you didn’t feel like continuing your party after I feel asleep?”

He shrugs. “It was our party, and you needed some rest, and… I d’know” he says noncommittally, shaking the water out of his hair.

“You’ve never cared about that stuff before. Why let me ruin your fun this time?”

“You didn’t ruin my fun” he grimaces, glancing sideways at you. His tone has an edge to it, and you’re surprised at how quickly his defences have gone up. “Maybe I was tired too”

“Were you?”

“It doesn’t…”

He stops himself, rubbing his cheek with the back of his hand. “Do you really not remember anything from last night” he asks, which only confirms the fact that you’ve definitely forgotten something big.

“Is there something I should remember?” you shoot back.

He stares at you in silence, his brow creased in a frown. There’s an intensity to his gaze that speaks of hope, searching your face for something he’s clearly not finding. Eddie lets his gaze drop to the floor, breaking the tension you hadn’t realised had built up between you.

“Nope. I’m gonna go upstairs and dry off, okay” he says, his voice measured but tinged with despondency. “I’ll check the bedrooms while I’m up there, but I think we’re done”.

He walks away with his shirt slung over his shoulder, and you watch silently as he steps inside the house and out of view.

God, you wish you could remember last night.

Maybe then you’d know why Eddie is behaving so strangely. Come on, think. Could you have said or done something to piss him off? You wander over to the sun loungers, hoping that a specific location will help rejog your memory like it did earlier. From here you can see the sofa, and your lips press together as an image begins to surface.

She had her hand on his arm, leg pressed against his as she laughed at something he’d said. He’s not that funny, you thought bitterly, watching as she threw her head back in hysterics. You’d seen girls draping themselves over him in this fashion many a time, but for some reason this particular one was making you very uncomfortable.

It was probably just because you’re not used to it happening here, you told yourself. You’re not used to random girls invading your home and throwing themselves at your best friend. What was her name, anyway? You didn’t remember.

Around you, the party was more crowded than you’d like. Strangers filled the house and spilled out onto the patio, clearly enjoying themselves a lot more than you were. Maybe you’d loosen up a little bit if you upped your alcohol intake, you thought. Drunk you wouldn’t care so much about dumb things that don’t matter.

Right on cue a guy you’d never met before strolled past, wielding a bottle of beer in each hand. You plucked one out of his grasp and flicked the cap off, taking a long swig before he could register what’s going on.

Out of the corner of your eye, you caught the girl running a hand through Eddie’s curls. You looked back at beer guy with a grim smile. “My house, my beer”.

Girl problems – of course.

Clearly you’d done something embarrassing to scare her off, and that’s why he’s mad at you. She’d probably seen you taking his shirt off and left in disgust, and he ended the party because it just wasn’t fun without her.

Still, that memory has left you with a sense of something very uncomfortable that you can’t shake. The image of her draped over his lap doesn’t sit well with you, just like it didn’t last night. What’s with you today? If you didn’t know any better, you’d say that little pang of discomfort in your chest is the product of jealousy.

Which of course is a ridiculous idea.

Why would you be jealous of a random girl? Eddie doesn’t belong to you. He’s just your best friend, a guy who you know better than anyone and who you’ve really, really missed lately…

Oh, fuck.

Jealousy it is then.

It’s certainly not a good feeling, and it’s not one you’re prepared to experience. You wrap your arms around yourself as you consider the situation, suddenly rather cold despite the midday sun.

Then again, you think, it’s not like the signs weren’t there. You’ve been thinking about him a lot lately, but you’d just thought that after all those years of seeing him every day, it’s hard being apart. It seemed natural to miss him, and you know what they say about absence and the heart… but maybe you’ve grown a little fonder than you’ve let yourself realise.

When Eddie had suggested a house party instead of a quiet evening in, you’d thought your main objection was the inevitable mess you’d be left with. You know now that you were wrong.

The idea of the house being filled with other people wasn’t one you liked, because all you’d wanted was to be alone with Eddie. And when that girl had cosied up to him, it hurt. You’d turned to drink rather than face up to the emotional turmoil you’d rather not experience.

Well, you're certainly experiencing it now.

But that doesn’t matter. Whatever you’re feeling – and you’re certainly not giving it a name – it’s overshadowed by the fact that you ruined things for Eddie last night. As his best friend first and foremost, it’s your duty to put his feelings above yours and make the situation right.

Composing yourself, you step inside the house and sit on the sofa to await Eddie’s return. A few minutes later you hear his footsteps on the stairs, and look over to see him enter the room. He’s finally wearing a shirt, albeit a little creased, and he smiles when he notices you.

That wonderful, heart stopping smile.

No, none of that. Play it cool.

“I hope you don’t mind,” he says with a grin, “But I used your hairdryer to blow dry my boxers”. He wiggles his hips in a little dance, winking at you over his shoulder. “Nice and warm”.

“Oh, lovely” you nod, reassured to see that his usual cheekiness has returned.

He dances his way into the kitchen, calling out “Sandwich?” as he disappears from view.

“I’d love one, thanks”.

You let a few seconds pass as you think about your next move. The last thing you want is to leave things on a weird note, regardless of your feelings, so you’d best make things right before he goes home.

“I can call her for you, if you’d like” you begin, although the very idea isn’t one you enjoy.

“Call who?” he replies, leaning out of the kitchen to frown at you.

“The girl from last night. The one you were getting all cosy with”

You expect more of a reaction from him than the eyebrow raise you get.

“Huh?”

“I fucked things up between the two of you” you continue, which only seems to confuse him further. “Dark hair, fishnets?”

“What? Oh, her. There’s nothing going on between me and her, she’s just a fan who can't keep her hands to herself”. He pauses, letting his gaze drop to the floor. “And I’m not… I’m not mad at you, okay”

He ducks into the kitchen, but seconds later he’s back again. There’s a curious smile on his face, his head cocked to one side. “Out of everything that happened last night the only thing you can remember is me being groped by some chick. It really bothered you, didn’t it?”

You shrug, picking at a bit of fluff on your jeans. “Not really. Just happened to be passing through, that’s all. Didn’t pay it too much attention”

“No no no, don’t give me that”.

He takes a few steps into the living room, watching you with a strange fascination. “Everything else is a fucking blackspot apart from that. It mattered to you”.

“Why should I care who you get ‘groped’ by?” you grimace, hoping he’ll give up this line of questioning before you give yourself away. “Thought you were making sandwiches”.

“Yeah yeah, I’m on it” he says, without looking away. “Come on, think. If you can remember that much, you can remember everything else”.

He holds your gaze for a few seconds, brow furrowed ever so slightly. “Just think, okay” he says softly, before heading back into the kitchen.

So you were wrong. It’s not the girl, and he’s not mad at you… which makes sense, come to think of it. When you woke him up, he seemed so happy to see you until he realised you were mad at him. It can’t have been something you did that’s troubling him – it’s the fact that you’ve forgotten what you did.

You get up and wander over to the back doors, trying to piece together everything you remember from last night. You agreed to the party, a whole bunch of people arrived, a girl got cosy with Eddie, you got jealous, you drank a lot.

Everything seems to be in place so far.

It’s a little hazy after that, but then you grabbed Eddie by the pool, tried to take him swimming, he sat you down on a sun lounger and brushed your hair behind your ear and…

His hand lingers on your cheek, the intimate touch both unfamiliarly intimate and yet incredibly natural. God, you’ve missed him. You’ve missed the way he smiles at you, and the way he calls you sweetheart. You’ve missed the sound of his voice as he sings to himself, and the way he wrinkles up his nose when you compliment his voice. You’ve missed borrowing his jackets for warmth when weather cools down, and the scent of cologne and cigarettes surrounding you like a blanket. You’ve missed how he is first thing in the morning, all warm and sleepy and husky voiced…

You’ve missed him so, so much.

And now here he is. You can barely focus on anything else, but right now you see him so clearly. He’s gazing down at you with a look in his eye that speaks of affection and wistfulness, his fingertips gently brushing against your skin.

You wonder if he looked at that girl this way.

“She’s probably waiting for you inside” you mumble, moving your head down to shake off his hand.

“Who’s waiting for me?” he asks, moving to sit beside you on the sun lounger.

“The one with the pretty smile and the perfect hair”

He seems to find this funny somehow, chuckling gently to himself. “The only person who fits that description is you, sweetheart” he says softly, nudging his shoulder against yours.

You shake your head insistently. “You’re just saying that”

“I don’t say things I don’t mean”.

You scuff your shoe along the ground, feeling his gaze even when you’re not looking at him. Are his eyes always this intense? They’re beautiful, you think. Everything about him is beautiful.

“This is your party, Eds. You’ve got better things to do than look after me” you tell him. You can feel his warmth next to you, his bare skin brushing against your arm.

“Not at all. Told you earlier, I can think of no better way to spend my time than with you”

You feel yourself swaying a little and lean into Eddie for support. “Then why did you invite all these people?” you groan, resting your head against his shoulder. He’s so close to you, so close you can hear his heartbeat if you focus hard enough.

His arm slips around your back and pulls you into his side, a heavy sigh escaping his lips. “Kinda wish I hadn’t now, sweetheart”.

Me too, Eddie, you think. But what comes out is a slurred, “I’ve really fucking missed you”.

“I’ve missed you too” he says, before adding “More than you know”

More than you know?

“What’s that s’posed to mean?” you mumble against his skin. It might just be the beer fog in your brain, but something here feels different. Eddie feels different. He feels good, certainly, but different. Good different. Tell-me-more-different. I could sit here all night, different.

“Don’t know if I should say. Not sure you’ll remember in the morning anyway” He says, his lips brushing against your hair as he speaks. The sensation sends a pleasant shiver up your spine.

“I will. You can tell me anything, we’re friends”

You feel his chest rise and fall as he sighs again, one hand absent-mindedly rubbing circles on your waist. “That’s just the problem, isn’t it. Don’t think I can be friends with you anymore”

Huh?

You push against his chest, sitting up to get a better look at him. “What the fuck, Eddie?” you slur, sliding yourself further down the sun lounger and crossing your arms over your chest. Eddie doesn’t want to be your friend? Maybe you don’t want to be his either. Well no. You do.

No you don’t. Not friends, anyway.

Fuck, you feel weird.

Does the earth always spin this fast?

“Aw, come here” he chuckles, gently pulling you back towards him and taking your hands in his. “Look at me, sweetheart. I didn’t mean it like that”.

He’s looking at you with that searching gaze again, those beautiful doe eyes fixed onto yours.

“I shouldn’t have pushed for a party, but thinking about being alone with you all night, snuggled up on the sofa… it was too much”

“Too much?”

“Actually, no” he sighs, softly stroking the backs of your hands with his thumbs. “It’s not enough”.

Not enough.

The world around you is blurry, the noise from the party nothing more than a faint hum in the back of your mind. All you can hear is Eddie’s voice, all you can see is his face as he gazes down at you with such… such… what is it?

You remember that look so well, suddenly. It’s ingrained in your mind, so vivid it’s almost as if he’s in front of you now. You can hear him humming to himself in the kitchen, and you realise how patient he’s been considering the enormity of what you’ve forgotten. The happiness when he woke up to you, the confusion when you were mad at him, the moments of tentative emotion… it all makes sense.

You know exactly what happened last night.

“When I said I can’t be your friend... friends isn’t enough anymore” he continues, his voice gentle and earnest.

There’s a pause as he draws his bottom lip between his teeth. He’s building up to something, you realise, but he doesn’t seem nervous. He seems hopeful. His gaze drops for a moment, before returning to meet yours again with a renewed intensity.

How could you have forgotten this?

“Eddie?” you call, trying to keep your voice measured. “I remember”.

There’s a sharp intake of breath, before he slowly emerges from the kitchen. He’s watching you warily, his wide eyes scanning your face as he tries to glean how you’re feeling. He wasn’t nervous last night, but he certainly is now. “How much?”

“All of it”

“I love you” he breathes, his eyes bright and sparkling in the moonlight. “Doesn’t matter if you don’t feel the same way, but there it is. I love you”.

He’s so pleased he’s finally said it.

And so are you.

Of course, you’d rather you could see straight, and it would probably sound better if your words weren’t slurred, but:

“I love you too”

His lips curve into a relieved smile, cheeks flushed red. “You know, if you weren’t so drunk right now this would be the perfect time to kiss you”

Eddie takes a few steps towards you, swallowing hard. “And?”

“And I’m not drunk anymore”

His face lights up with his trademark smile as he gets your meaning. He closes the gap between the two of you, pulling you into him with a hand on your lower back. The other hand comes up to gently cup your face, fingertips brushing across your cheek as he looks at you the same way he did last night – with love.

And love is exactly what you feel as his lips meet yours, gentle at first as the pair of you savour the moment. The passion soon increases as his kisses become more insistent, your hands tangled in his hair and his chest flush against yours. He’s kissing you with all the pent up emotion from the past three months, the I love you’s and I miss you’s that he’s been dying to say conveyed in the movement of his lips.

Just friends could never be enough, but this?

This is perfect.

#eddie munson fic #eddie munson x reader #eddie munson #eddie munson fluff #x reader #stranger things fic #stranger things #mine

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fcble · 9 months

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DOUBLE A-SIDE: a single where both sides are designated the A-side, with no designated B-side; that is, both sides are prospective hit songs and neither side will be promoted over the other.

In which Andrew has some difficult conversations. FEATURING: Andrew Han, Yoon Mingeun, Park Intak, Kang Haksu WORD COUNT: 4.1k NOTES: Two shorter pieces with similar themes that are not exactly completely related to/reliant on one another. Can be read together or independently! Also not proofread please lmk if you find typos or something doesn't make sense.

[ A-SIDE — MAY 10, 2023 ]

Andrew steps into Intak's studio, announcing himself not with a knock or a greeting, but merely his presence. He sees a flash of movement as Intak minimizes one of his windows.

Haksu and Mingeun trail behind him reluctantly. Andrew pulls Mingeun the rest of the way into the room and shuts the door behind all three of them.

"No one is leaving this room until we write our anniversary song," he announces.

"What if I have to piss?" Mingeun asks.

"Intak?" Andrew asks. It's almost telepathic to see Intak reach into the bowels of his desk and retrieve a plastic soda bottle. He spins in his chair and tosses it to Mingeun, who catches it, looking stunned. Andrew knows he has an almost addiction to Mountain Dew, and the bottles pile up until they spill over onto the floor.

"What if I have to shit?" Mingeun asks next.

"I don't think Andrew-hyung will keep you from using the bathroom," Haksu says. He steps around Andrew to take a seat in the worn loveseat, the only other chair in the room. He leans forward to look at Intak's screen. "Are you working?"

"Yes," Intak answers shortly.

"I asked Jaeseop to get us food if he doesn't hear from us in a few hours," Andrew says. He sits next to Haksu, dropping the bag containing his laptop on the ground, in front of Intak's electric keyboard. Its identical counterpart sits right next door in his own studio. He can't help the way his hands move automatically, picking out the beginning of Fur Elise.

“What kind of food?” Haksu asks, clearly skeptical of Andrew’s quite literal taste. “Pizza Hut, again?”

“Olive Garden,” Andrew answers cheerfully as he plays. He doesn't rise to Haksu's obvious bait—he's used to it. And he might have a point. They do eat a lot of Pizza Hut.

He turns his attention to Intak. “What are we starting with?”

“Nothing.” Intak says.

Andrew stops playing. “I was really hoping you were going to say something other than that.” He thought he could rely on Intak to have something, anything. Taein asked them months ago, in January, to start working on what would be their fifth anniversary song later in the year. Andrew had agreed, and then gone back to putting the finishing touches on his album. It was always Intak’s responsibility to produce concept-fitting songs that Taein actually liked. Andrew has no idea how to work in the gayageum and the taepyeongso and the piri and whatever else Intak uses.

Intak shrugs. “You could do it.”

“I couldn’t.” It’s a deep-seated conviction. Andrew can’t do whatever Intak does, because he doesn’t have that same knowledge of history and culture and Korea itself that seems to be inherently built into his group members. He’s reminded, embarrassingly enough, of when he heard their debut song for the first time, and asked after the vaguely string sounds in the instrumental. In Andrew’s head, string instruments were cellos and violas and violins and double basses, and maybe, and a more radical day, harps and lyres. Not Asian zithers.

“Don’t you think it’s time you tried?” Mingeun, this time. He leans against the wall, arms crossed, the room having run out of seats.

The room feels stuffy all of a sudden. Andrew has tried. Every sample Intak’s given him sounds shitty and stereotypical in his hands, like a soundtrack straight from a film scene where the characters step into a Chinatown somewhere and the lighting dims and the screen clouds with smoke. When Intak writes music with the same sample, it becomes uplifting, a celebration of a heritage and a culture yearning to burst forth in an increasingly anglicized world. Andrew envies him.

Haksu nudges Andrew with his foot. “You should.”

Andrew is frozen, unable to respond. Haksu is right. He should. But now, he feels like there’s too much at stake. His album did well—it’s their best-selling one yet—and that means he has a reputation to uphold. They have expectations for him now. They think he’s smart and talented and worthy. Andrew knows the limits of his own abilities. They don’t include writing a usual Fable title track. There’s a reason his album sounds the way it does—that’s what he knows, what he’s confident in. It’s a breath of fresh air next to the sameness of the rest of their discography. That’s his job. Not the traditional sound that defines almost all of their songs.

He pretends everything is fine. "Are you sure you don't have anything?" he asks Intak. "We don't have a lot of time."

Intak begins to scan through the files on his computer. "Because we spent so much time on your album," he grumbles. "I have demos Taein-nim rejected."

"Let's fix one of those," Andrew says decisively. Mingeun looks like he wants to argue. Or maybe that's how he always looks, because he always wants to argue.

They start with the longest ones first. Intak turns on his speakers and presses play on a three and a half minute audio file—Andrew can see the exact time if he squints.

“I remember this,” Haksu says, ten seconds into the song. As far as Andrew can tell, it’s Intak’s usual conglomeration of sounds. An unknown, echoing instrument skips in and out of the main melody. The bass is minimal, but consistent. It sounds almost interchangeable with the majority of their discography. “It’s from a long time ago. Our second mini album?”

Intak nods. “I tried again for our third. Taein-nim said no again.”

Andrew takes extensive mental notes on each subsequent song. The glacial pace of the second one, probably meant to be a ballad. The bass-driven third one, traditional instrumental lost in the 808s. The one with the beat drop that sounds like it switches to a completely different song. One with Haksu singing nonsensical demo lyrics that he doesn’t remember. Another slower-paced one, driven by a string instrumental. A rock song.

“Taein-nim said I should give that one to Neon Nights,” Intak says.

Andrew shoots Mingeun a quizzical glance. Mingeun shakes his head. “She likes doing everything by herself,” he says in English, referring to Hwajung, the band’s main producer. The change in language surprises Andrew. They’ve all worked together before, on Andrew’s album, and then on a Neon Nights one.

Andrew sighs. “Who doesn’t know?” he asks, also in English, because Hwajung is also Mingeun's girlfriend.

“Who do you think?” Mingeun says. “He’d get mad at me.”

It’s Haksu. Andrew knows that even if Haksu won’t say anything out loud, he’s thinking certain thoughts. Celibacy and pre-marital sex and they’re idols and all of that.

He can't be mad at that. Mingeun and Hwajung are pretty good at keeping it on the down low, pretending they barely know one another at work. If Andrew hadn't seen them sit so close to one another they were basically sitting in the same seat while they worked on his album, he'd be no wiser than Haksu.

Haksu folds his arms over his chest. “You’re doing it again. Stop talking about me.”

"Learn English," Mingeun says, speaking Korean again. Haksu learning English would be of no detriment to them, Andrew knows. They'd fall back on broken, rusty, grammatically incorrect French, in which they can barely understand each other, because Mingeun speaks Canada's archaic French with an unintelligible accent.

Haksu grimaces. "That's Westernized," he says, as if he doesn't partake in a predominantly Western religion while dressed in Western clothes, about to eat Olive Garden in a few hours.

“The music,” Intak interrupts, and they go back to listening to shorter and shorter segments. Some of them are pieces. A chorus. A verse. Half of each. One is Intak humming a few bars. He clicks out of that one quickly.

“I wanna hear it,” Haksu says. His request is ignored.

A few minutes later, Intak finally runs out of demos.

“Taein-nim rejected all of those?” Mingeun asks.

“I doubt he listened to all of them completely,” Intak says, “but yes.”

In Andrew’s ears, most of them have blended together. He’s grateful to hear Haksu say, “I like the orchestral one that goes like”—he hums a bit of the song—because it gives Andrew a chance to step in and say, “I thought that one was the best too.”

He does think it was one of the better ones, but mostly because it was nearly complete. His best guess for its rejection is because it's not nearly as upbeat as some of Intak's other compositions. Andrew figures it should be fine for an anniversary piece. It's better that way—something slower and steadier that demonstrates their growth as people and artists.

He starts thinking of lyrics. Something provocative and dramatic. Intak’s demo lyrics are all about a nostalgic, wintry longing that brings to mind comparisons to Robert Frost’s “Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening.” Andrew is thinking about something in the opposite direction, something bigger, something brighter. Love is like a volcano?

“I want to keep the idea of the lyrics,” Haksu says, breaking Andrew’s reverie.

“It’s our anniversary,” Andrew says, nearly rendered speechless from Haksu’s words. “If the melody is melancholy, the lyrics should be happier.”

“No one says shit like ‘melancholy,’” Mingeun says. “Let’s keep going with Intak-hyung’s idea.” At some point during their listening party when Andrew wasn’t paying attention, he migrated from the wall to the floor next to Intak’s desk.

Sometimes Andrew despises democracy. They weren’t always democratic. Not in the days when it was just him and Intak, because then it was Intak making most of the decisions. Andrew never wanted to intrude or overstep. He has the confidence to do so now, but he knows this is an argument he won’t win.

So he relents easily, says “Fine,” and pulls out his laptop. Mingeun looks surprised at his lack of disagreement. He really enjoys arguments, Andrew thinks.

He plays audio engineer, because he still disagrees with the idea and theme of the song. Out of the corner of his eye, he watches the three of them gather around Haksu’s notebook to develop Intak’s fledgling ideas. He sits back in his seat, losing himself the layers of the song. He listens to the song forward and back. He turns on and off each one individually, and then two or three at a time. He pictures the way the vocals will layer on top and underneath. He thinks about asking Haksu to sing one of his new lines, just so he can experiment with it. He tries not to imbue it with his own style—an extra synth here and there, a secondary melody in a minor key, one too many layers of vocals.

His flow state is interrupted by the chime of a new text message. It’s Jaeseop, texting exactly three hours after Andrew told him he was heading to work.

bringing ur food (๑>◡<;๑), he reads. Below is a selfie of Jaeseop holding a plastic bag, the sky bright blue behind him.

“Andrew,” Intak says loudly, and Andrew looks up, surprised that his name came from Intak and not Mingeun.

Andrew tugs his headphones off and watches Intak rip a page out of Haksu’s notebook. “Do the demo with this.”

“Me? Why can’t Haksu do it?”

Mingeun snatches the page from Intak’s hand. “I’ll do it if he doesn’t want to.”

“Andrew’s doing it because he’s going to arrange it,” Intak says. Mingeun reluctantly hands the paper over to Andrew. “He’s the one who wants to stay in this room until the song is done.”

“I said that for all of us,” Andrew says.

They’re interrupted by Jaeseop’s arrival. He seems cheerful as he sets down the bags on the little space remaining on Intak’s desk. Tucking his hands into his pockets, he asks, “Is it going well?”

For some reason, the onus is on Andrew to answer. He feels the weight of their gazes: Jaeseop is expectant, Haksu is skeptical, Intak is steady and bored, and Mingeun’s is his usual scowl.

“It’s going very well,” he says.

Haksu gives him a reproachful glance and says, “He’s underselling us. We could finish the song today, as long as Taein-nim approves of it.”

Jaeseop brightens. “Sounds good! I can’t wait to hear it.” He sounds like he genuinely can’t wait to hear their song.

He leaves just as quickly as he arrived. The door is barely shut behind him when Haksu stands up and announces, “I’m going to church. Mingeun is coming with me.”

“I didn’t agree to that,” Mingeun complains.

“It’s Wednesday,” Andrew says at the same time.

Haksu looks at both of them like they’re stupid. “So? I worked on the song. I did my part. There’s nothing else for me to do.”

“He’s right,” Intak says. He crosses his arms and gives Andrew a look that very obviously says he shouldn’t argue. So Andrew folds without saying anything.

To his surprise, Mingeun picks himself off the floor. “Thanks for the food, hyung,” he says, grabbing one of the bags on Intak’s desk.

The speed at which people work when they want to leave will never cease to surprise Andrew. He doesn’t think this is hard work as much as Haksu does. He could stay here for days or weeks, immersed in the music, so long as Jaeseop keeps providing him with food.

As Mingeun and Haksu leave, he hears Haksu grumble under his breath about Americans and fast food and forks.

“Chopsticks are from China,” Andrew overhears Mingeun say before the door swings shut.

In the quiet, Intak says, "I'll start working on the b-sides."

This comes as a surprise. "I thought we were releasing an anniversary song, not an anniversary album."

Intak looks like he was caught off guard as well. "I could have sworn Taein-nim said that to both of us."

Andrew is slighted. Why wouldn't he be, when he wasn't given these same guidelines? He's the one who's shaped and guided their sound outside of all the traditional title tracks. Fable can pull off other concepts, because Andrew pushed them in those directions, even if it was only one song per album.

“Do you think Taein thinks of your music differently than mine?" he asks.

Intak takes a minute to think about it. Andrew can practically see the gears turning in his head.

"No," he says, and Andrew wonders why it took him so long to come to that conclusion.

“He must,” Andrew insists. He refuses to let the topic drop. “I didn’t get to write our debut song.”

“I didn’t ‘get to’ write it either. I wrote it because I could write a good song."

“I can write good songs.”

“Yeah. I don’t disagree.”

Talking to him is like talking to a brick wall. Intak is smart, but there's always a disconnect between what he thinks and what he says. Andrew has to pry every response out of him, like he's pulling teeth.

Intak methodically unpacks the remaining takeout bag and takes a bite of his carbonara. “This sounds like it's really important to you,” he says with his mouth full. “Can we talk about it later?”

“No. I thought I passed the audition and debuted in Fable to be a songwriter."

"I thought you passed your audition because you speak four languages."

Andrew shrugs, because he did say that, even though it's not quite true. Everyone lies on their resumes. He said that because he thought it would impress Taein, and it did. “Something should have changed by now.”

"You. You’re the one that should change," Intak says as he stabs his pasta with vitriol.

He has changed. He’s older now, and wiser, as generic and contrived as that sounds, with a better understanding of his place in the world. He isn’t that same person who auditioned so many years ago with an unplaced confidence that he could survive and thrive in the cutthroat music industry. He’s accepted Fable’s middle class, second tier status, and he finds he doesn’t mind as much as he thought he would.

"I have."

Intak takes a long look at him and says, "Not enough."

Then, as if to signal that conversation is over, he puts his head down on his desk. "Record the fucking song, Andrew," he says, voice muffled.

They never write any b-sides.

[ B-SIDE — JUNE 3, 2023 ]

Andrew isn’t one to lose his temper. So he surprises even himself when he stands up and walks out of the room. Jaeseop is still talking. He pauses in the middle of his sentence.

“Where are you going?” His voice is muffled by the door and walls.

“Out,” Andrew answers from the other side of the door. “I’ve heard enough.”

He has heard enough. All Jaeseop had to say was that their album was delayed again. It could have been a text message.

He hikes up all three flights of stairs instead of taking the elevator. At the top, he leans his body weight into opening the door to the rooftop. It creaks open reluctantly, hinges squealing in discordant protest. Then he has to do the same thing to close it.

He takes a seat on one of the two stone benches, overlooking the city around him. There isn’t much to see. The sun is setting, and the glow of the copywriting sign becomes more visible with each passing minute. The other, taller, buildings cast long dark shadows and block out any possibility of Andrew seeing farther than across the street.

He sits there for a minute, thinking and trying to cool down. He’s unfamiliar with anger when it comes from within. Frustration and futility, sure, but anger is a different beast. That’s Mingeun’s forte.

The door protests again, inching open. Andrew stares. Another thirty seconds pass before Mingeun steps outside. Speak of the devil—or think of him—and he shall appear.

Mingeun leaves the door ajar. He takes a silent seat next to Andrew.

“Do you need something?” Andrew asks. He can feel his anger creep into his words.

Mingeun crosses his arms. “I need a reason to talk to you?” he asks. “You seemed upset when you left. Is that enough?”

“I was,” Andrew concedes. Mingeun could still have an ulterior motive. Jaeseop always sends the youngest members to do his bidding, like some villain with his henchmen.

“I didn’t think you’d notice,” he continues.

Mingeun rolls his eyes. “I can fucking see.”

He sounds upset. It shouldn’t be a surprise. He’s always upset about one thing or another. And why wouldn’t he be upset about this?

“I thought we were more important to Taein,” Andrew says, dropping the honorifics on purpose. “More important than a survival show trainee.”

Mingeun shrugs. “He could have something on Taein, like Haksu did.”

He matches Andrew’s use of honorifics. They both know the easiest way to get through to their CEO is to wear him down with astronomical persistence. A bit of bribery and blackmail never hurts either. Andrew can’t imagine what other secrets Taein might be protecting, especially after Haksu’s extravaganza. He thinks they’ve all learned their lessons since then: Taein should break fewer laws, Haksu shouldn’t stake his career on a few secrets, and the rest of them should sleep with one eye open around him regardless.

“Didn’t you watch the show?” Andrew asks. Mingeun watches every kpop survival show he can get his hands on. Where he finds all the time to do that remains a mystery.

“I did,” Mingeun says. “I didn’t care for him. What kid thinks he can cover Taemin in his audition? He only got as far as he did because his parents are famous. There’s nothing he could have done on his own for Taein to take notice of him.”

Andrew lets him go on his tirade. He’s feeling better. Even though he’s now left to face the reality of his delayed album. It should be their album, but he has a hard time thinking of it that way. He puts a part of himself into each and every one of his songs and albums. Granted, he has one album to his name, but he thinks his point stands. And even if his music is never as good as he wants it to be, as he thinks it should be, that shouldn’t stop them from releasing and promoting it. Intak releases, for lack of a better word, shit, on every EP since their debut. Andrew has never been offered that same opportunity.

“You’re not listening to me,” Mingeun says.

Andrew snaps out of it. “I am.” He’s not. “I don’t want to talk about him.”

“Fine.” Mingeun drums the fingers of his right hand against his thigh. “What do you want to talk about?”

This Mingeun makes Andrew uncomfortable. If it weren’t for his restless motions, he’d think it was a different person sitting next to him. He’s never this receptive or attentive or willing to talk.

“I don’t know.” Now Andrew is the one who doesn’t want to talk. The role reversal freaks him out a little. At the same time, he can’t pass up this chance to have a decent conversation with Mingeun.

Then it comes to him. “My stage name. I’m sick of it. I don’t think I ever liked it.”

“Okay,” Mingeun says simply.

Andrew expects more from him. He thought they were going to talk.

“Does it bother you that much? Am I supposed to feel bad for you?”

He should have known not to bring this up with Mingeun. It’s a touchy subject. Mingeun sounds more like himself now.

“It does.” Andrew wants to say more, but Mingeun isn’t done yet.

“I never liked your name either. It’s so presumptuous. Out of all the characters, you picked those two?” He looks disgusted. “That’s the reasoning parents use when they choose names for their children. You did it for yourself.”

Andrew fires back. “My parents never gave me a Korean name and they were never going to give me one. I didn’t have another choice. You should know that.”

They’ve known each other for years. That’s supposed to be common knowledge. How can Mingeun not know?

The smallest remaining rational part of Andrew’s brain knows it’s because Mingeun fills his head with so many other things. He’s got his near-encyclopedic archive of kpop groups and songs and dances. It should be easy to see why personal information would hemorrhage from his brain. Does Mingeun know their birthdays? He doubts it.

Mingeun rolls his eyes. “Yeah, but it didn’t have to be that one.”

What else could it have been? Andrew was never given any examples or suggestions. Just the thinly veiled threat that if he wanted to make it in Korea, he needed a Korean name. Mingeun should understand that.

“You always make everything about yourself. You never ask about me. Mingeun, how was your day? Mingeun, are you having fun on Shooting Stars? Mingeun, why does Taein hate you more than everyone else?”

“Taein doesn’t—” Andrew starts.

“Yes, he does.”

They lapse into silence, because Andrew knows, somewhere deep down, that as much as he thinks Taein dislikes him, Mingeun’s situation is worse. It isn’t a competition, but Mingeun’s always had it worse. He just chose not to see it.

When Andrew thinks Mingeun has cooled down, he says, “Tell me about your name.”

“Oh.” The surprise in his voice is evident from a single syllable. He gets over it quickly. “'Min' is the generational character. You know, the dollimja."

Andrew does not know, but he nods along and pretends like he does. Mingeun looks him in the eye and says, "You don't know."

He doesn't have it in him to argue.

"It means quick and clever," Mingeun continues, tracing the Hanja character on his thigh. Andrew recognizes it in pieces: the character for mother, radical 66. “The ‘geun’ character is the one for diligence.”

He writes this one with his finger too: 勤, speeding through the horizontal lines and finishing with a sloppy rendition of the strength radical.

“It’s nice,” Andrew says, because it really is a nice name.

“Better than yours,” Mingeun says in a way that’s clearly meant to provoke. Andrew doesn’t rise to the bait.

“Doesn’t seem like a high bar,” he says, and when Mingeun laughs at that, he feels like he’s crossed some impassable reach and brought the two of them a small step closer.

In the days that follow, Andrew drops his stage name informally. Most of the group calls him Andrew anyway. There's no special announcement. Daewoong calls him Yejun three times and Andrew doesn't respond three times, and after that, he gets the point too. Taein asks him about it, and Andrew spins a tale of authenticity and identity his boss clearly doesn’t give a shit about. But Taein doesn’t push further, and he’s left feeling more like himself than he has in years.

#╰ to be written in ink is to be immortal — [ writing. ]#ficnetfairy #fictional idol oc #fictional idol community #idolverse #idol oc #kpop oc

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shootonsight · 8 months

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Tallahassee (2002) Liner Notes

We came into town under cover of night, because we were pretty sure the people here were going to hate us once they really got to know us. It was summer. It's always summer with us. In our lives together, which are sweet in the way of rotting things, it is somehow permanently summer. THE MOON rose above the trees, older than time, greener than money. You hung your head out the window of our dusty lemon-yellow El Camino and howled, and I turned up the radio, because the sound of your voice was already beginning to get to me. The speakers crackled and the music came through: Frankie Valli and the Four Seasons. Pretty as a midsummer's morn, they call her Dawn. Let the love of God come and get us if it wants us so bad. We know where we are going when all of this is done. SOME PEOPLE MIGHT SAY that buying a house you've never seen close-up is a bad idea, but what does anybody know about our needs, anyhow? For us it was perfect. The peeling paint. The old cellar. The garden out back. The porch out front. The still air of the living room. The attic. Everywhere entirely unfurnished and doomed to remain largely so, save for our own meager offerings: a cheap sofa, an old mattress, a couple of chairs and some ashtrays. Maybe a table salvaged from some diner gone into bankruptcy, I don't remember. Neither do you. We drank store-brand gin with fresh lime juice out of plastic cups or straight from the bottle and we spread ourselves out face-up on the wooden floors. An aerial view of us might have suggested we'd been knocked down, but what we were doing was staking our claim. Establishing our territories. Making good. Not on the vows we'd made but on the ones we'd really meant. You produced a wallet-sized transistor radio out of nowhere and you found a sympathetic station: somebody was playing Howlin' Wolf. Smokestack Lightning. O yes, I loved you once. O yes, you loved me more. We entered our new house like a virus entering its host. You following me, me following you. However you like. The windows were high and the walls were thick and sturdy. It was hot as blazes. The guts of summer. Always in the sugar-deep barrel-bottom belly of summer itself. Always. In our shared walk down to the bottom, which bottom we will certainly find if only our hearts are brave and our love true enough, we have found that it is somehow invariably and quite permanently summer.

#the mountain goats #tallahassee #tallahassee album #i'm so normal about this #i hope i didn't miss anything on this i would actually cry from embarassment

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eastgaysian · 9 months

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hey girl did you know that Some people might say that buying a house you've never actually seen close-up is a bad idea, but what does anybody know about our needs, anyhow? For us it was perfect. The peeling paint. The old cellar. The garden in the back. The porch out front. The still air of the living room. The attic. Everywhere entirely unfurnished and doomed to remain largely so, save for our own meager offerings: a cheap sofa, an old mattress, a couple of chairs and some ashtrays. Maybe a table salvaged from some diner gone into bankruptcy, I don't remember. Neither do you. We drank store-brand gin with fresh lime juice out of plastic cups or straight from the bottle and we spread ourselves out face-up on the wooden floors. An aerial view of us might have suggested we'd been knocked down, but what we were doing was staking our claim. Establishing our territories. Making good. Not on the vows we'd made but on the ones we'd really meant. You produced a wallet-sized transistor radio out of nowhere and you found a sympathetic station: somebody was playing Howlin' Wolf. Smokestack lightning. O yes, I loved you once. O yes, you loved me more. We entered our new house like a virus entering its host. You following me, me following you. However you like. The windows were high and the walls were thick and sturdy. It was hot as blazes. The guts of summer. Always down in the sugar-deep barrel-bottom belly of summer itself. Always. In our shared walk down to the bottom, which bottom we will surely find if only our hearts are brave and our love true enough, we have found that it is somehow invariably and quite permanently summer.

#john darnielle excels at using pretty plain language very effectively. consecutive punches to the gut that dont require metaphor #so when there is that one bit of figurative language it hits that much harder. augh.

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seaofolives · 10 months

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we played #Sk8Shorts in the limping bird site! these guys aren't on ao3 yet bc uhhhh smth smth titles so I'll dump them all in here first for readability etc:

day 1: kiss

The thing about dating Kaoru is that he only ever has two moods when it comes to kissing: a) the one where he absolutely does not want one and the one where it can only be possible on his terms.

One might think that for a touchy-feely guy like Kojiro, Mood A is the absolute worst. But no—he actually prefers that over Mood B.

“Thanks for dinner, love.” Mood B always comes like a burglar—a rare tender word, warm arms wrapping from the back, then the fatal kiss on Kojiro’s shoulder. He shakes him off as if he were a roach in the kitchen but by then, the deed is done: Kaoru is swooping away like a ghost while Kojiro is left to claw his white chefʼs jacket from his back to inspect the damage.

And there it is: a kiss mark painted in bolognese sauce. On his newest jacket—!

“You—!” Kojiro stomps towards the door and screams at the empty stairwell. “You ingrate, youʼre sleeping on the floor tonight!!”

day 2: guests at a wedding

Master Ainosuke gasps and mumbles, “But of course!” which sets Tadashi on the prowl for the thing that caught his eye. There’s lots of things to see here, of course—guests in sleek suits and gowns, red hibiscus flowers and bright sunflowers decorating the elevated walkway…it’s a summer wedding, after all. But because none of them are nearly as elegant as roses, they can’t be what has enamored his employer so.

So he keeps searching still…and there, around the tail of the groom’s white suit. That hem is definitely cut into the shape of flowers which only serves to bring out the faint flower garden detailed onto his back.

“Roses, of course,” Master Ainosuke talks on, and because he loved the idea, now he’s applauding the newlyweds more loudly as they leave the conference room. “Mine must be roses.”

Tadashi keeps his smile hidden in the corner of his lips. On his phone, he opens up the document called Master Ainosuke’s Wedding Plans and notes it down.

day 3: hair

“By the way, did you cut your hair?” Langa only remembers to ask when the bottle of sparkling strawberry water rolls down the chute. He picks it up and twists it open.

“Yeah.” Reki moves his deck to his other arm and takes the proferred drink. “Hey, you noticed!”

“I was about to ask earlier, but then the train arrived.” Langa smiles, uncapping his bottle of sparkling mango water. “It looks good on you.”

“Yeah?!” Reki breaks out into a grin. “Thanks. And here’s your reward for being the best boyfriend.” When he puts up his thumb, Langa cracks up.

day 4: create something using more than 1 prompt (prompts used: domestic, broken)

“Ah—!”

The bowl lands with a dull crack, and Kaoru curses his luck because that specific bowl was a souvenir from Paris.

“What was that?!”

Nothing! is what Kaoru wants to tell Kojiro in the living room, but that will definitely arouse suspicion.

So he cries back instead, “What was what?!” as he grabs a plastic bag and cleans up.

“Did something fall?”

“No, nothing fell!” Kaoru sweeps the floor for good measure. “I’m craving ice cream, what flavor do you want?”

“Huh? Oh, get me vanilla!”

“Okay!” Kaoru leaves the house through the back, taking the evidence with him.

day 5: flowers

“Huh?” Miya says when he approaches. “You’re actually here. I thought youʼd be at Crazy Rock by now.” And itʼs rude to chastise this mannerless kid during the service so Hiromi reins his tongue in.

“Somebody has to deliver these flowers and I wasnʼt gonna let anyone else do it.” With the wreath standing perfectly parallel to the door, Hiromi steps back to inspect the bursting ring of yellow chrysanthemums and white lilies, the sender being simply noted as DOPE SKETCH and friends. It was the “most reputable” way they could express their collective sympathies without indicting his, Cherry blossomʼs and JOEʼs day jobs.

“Huh. Thanks, I guess.”

“Donʼt mention it—” Hiromi finally snaps. “Punk, thatʼs not how youʼre supposed to behave as a relative of the deceased!” Squaring his shoulders, then, Hiromi bows low to him. “I am deeply sorry for your loss.”

Miya sighs. “Itʼs just my grandma—”

Hiromi glares at the kid.

Swallowing up whatever protests he may have, Miya returns his bow with a quiet note of acceptance.

day 6: firsts

Kaoru wouldn’t admit it but when Carla told him that Kojiro was calling, he’d been about to tell her to tell him to call him tomorrow, after he’d napped for a few hours. But a guilty conscience eventually brought his thumb to the green phone icon.

And all just to listen to this poor guy wail like a monkey who’d been abandoned by his ape mother in the middle of Italy. He’d tried to get some there-theres in edgewise, but all his words were simply devoured by the howling, even when he started badmouthing the chef who badmouthed his dish.

So obviously none of his bright ideas are working, all of it having been spent troubleshooting some stupid defect in Carla’s scheduling module. But then there’s actually a rare lull in the call and he could hear Kojiro gasping and sniffling, and he thinks he owes it to the sad idiot to try again.

So he does. He comes up with something new and gives it a whirl for whatever it’s worth. “Hey, remember that time I burned my thumb trying to make instant noodles? And I had to call you all the way from the taco restaurant because I was panicking. And you were so scared, you forgot to put the frying fork down when you ran off to my house.” That story always made Kojiro laugh, at his expense.

Well, he’s just glad now that it’s working. Kojiro’s sobs have transformed themselves into the sounds of a madman cackling.

Kaoru smiles, having missed this song. He’ll get him for that one day, but for now: “Remember what you told me, then?”

“Yeah, yeah,” Kojiro sighs, sniffling. “There’s a first time for everything. I know.”

day 7: confession in the middle of an argument

“This,” Kaoru is seething, “is your fault. This evening is ruined because of you.”

“And you’re just overreacting, you dramatic robomaniac!” Well, if Kaoru thinks two can’t play that game, he’s wrong! Kojiro matches him glare for glare, fang for fang, both of them hunched over the VIP counter, nails digging into the wood. “I already told you the truth, but you won’t listen to me!”

“You’re just making excuses so you can wash your hands off of a commitment, you spineless gorilla!”

“What commitment are we talking about! A commitment with you?” Kojiro’s laughter comes through in derisive barks. “What kind of relationship are we in, anyway, a contract?! You’re just pinning your mistake on me because you couldn’t do anything about it!”

“And you didn’t do anything about it!” Kaoru drags in a deep breath, hot and rolling. “You know how important this was for me! No, I thought you knew how important this was for me. I trusted you, you insipid baboon—!”

“It was me!”

The voice is new, partly because he wasn’t there when they started quarreling and partly also because he’s normally so quiet. But when Kaoru and Kojiro turn to face the newcomer, they find Langa standing smack dab in the middle of the restaurant.

“Sorry, Cherry, I took the cheesecake,” he exhales. “I was hungry, and JOE said I could have whatever was in the fridge. I didn’t know that you were saving the cheesecake as an after work treat. Sorry.” Well, that explains it.

Kojiro straightens up and sighs loudly. “Well, to be fair, I should have already put a sticky note on it when he asked me to reserve it for him yesterday.” When Kaoru stomps off to confront the delinquent youth, he grabs the aggrieved man by his skinny wrist. “Itʼs not worth it, moron, he’s just a kid.”

#sk8 #joche #some renga and tadaai and friendly hirooomiya?#anyway them #seaofolives original

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