#Texas Mus

[pangloss-artee]

loving the guaraná jesus enthusiasm

texas too hot......

[cowboydisaster]

Dark Red

pairing: Simon "Ghost" Riley x fem!reader word count: 5.6k summary: The Task Force 141 goes out drinking, and you wind up on your stomach in Ghost's bed. If you knew it would only take a few rounds of drinks, you would have gotten drunk with him earlier. (eventual smut, lots of family 141 interactions beforehand) a/n: This is my first COD fic and also the first thing I've written since May, so go easy on me if it's ooc pls xx. If you like this fic please give a follow or a reblog, I'm fixing up my blog and I'll be writing a lot more Simon. beta read by @margowritesthings warnings: nsfw, 18+, minors dni (smut, fingering, size difference, doggy)

masterlist

Your dress is wrapped tightly around your frame, held up by tiny golden chains that drape over your shoulders. It's dark green, and just barely covers your ass. It's definitely not the tactical gear that you’re used to wearing. You swallow thickly, pulling it down over your thighs as much as possible as you glance over yourself in the mirror. You barely recognize the reflection in front of you. No eye black, no tac-vest or combat boots. Tonight you’re not a soldier, you’re a civilian.

Price had arranged a night out to celebrate the 141’s latest win. He invited the Task Force alongside some allies for drinks at a club of all places, figuring everyone deserved to unwind. You were hesitant at first, but the boys all reassured you it would be just a few drinks. 

Once all the little details of your outfit are in place, you give yourself a onceover before pushing open Price’s bathroom door. Ghost, Soap, Gaz, and Price are all leaning over the kitchen counter, speaking quietly about the mission. They smile, oblivious to you as you exit the bathroom, feeling a bit self conscious about the dress Kate insisted you wear. That is until Ghost catches a glimpse of you out of the corner of his eye and quietens. He turns, and you watch his back straighten, hands in the pockets of his jeans as his eyes slowly run up and down your body. Something about that stare… you wonder if Ghost would ever see you the way you see him. It's been years now of you pining after him. You could never tell him. He’s your lieutenant, and besides, you’ve heard what happens to the recruits who make a move on Ghost. Every single one of them was harshly rejected and dropped from the program. You can't compromise your job, especially not for someone who doesn’t want you back. 

 Ghost stares, and the other three men turn to you in sync. A fierce blush blooms across your face as four pairs of eyes land on you. Ghost is wearing that familiar balaclava, the one he wears out in public or around the base. It hides everything but his eyes, and you stare into their swirling depths for a moment before the eye contact becomes too much. You clear your throat, glancing down over your dress. 

“Too much…?” You whisper, questioning your choice of fashion and makeup. 

“No…Not too mu–” Ghost is cut off as Soap lunges forward with a smile bigger than Texas and slaps you on the arm.

“Lookin’ good, bonnie lass!” Soap laughs. He looks nice himself. You’ve only seen him in sweats around the base, but tonight all four of your teammates are dressed to the nines. 

“Not so bad yourself, Johnny.” You smile, clutching a small purse to your hip. 

“We ready then, Cap?” Gaz asks, glancing up from his phone for a moment, “Laswell just got there, said she brought König.” 

“Yes.” Price smiles at you, checking his watch, “I've ordered two Ubers. Should both be here.” 

You follow them outside, smiling and nodding to Ghost as he holds the door open for you. The Captain and Gaz take the first car while you file into the second with Ghost and Soap. Soap sits in the front, leaving you in the back with Ghost. Your lieutenant is quiet most of the ride over, letting Johnny fill the silence, which he does. But it's hard to focus on Soap talking. You’re hyper aware of the eyes on you and how exposed you are. Your breasts are practically pushed up into your face, and the dress suddenly feels all too tight. You’re used to fighting, not celebrating, not partying. You take a few deep breaths, knowing that once you get a few drinks in your system you’ll feel better. 

“You alright?” 

Your eyes flick up. It’s Ghost, just barely over a whisper. His eyes are fixated on something out of the window, but he still must have noticed your anxiety. You nod.

“Just nervous.” You admit, “I’m not used to all this.” You whisper, gesturing down to your dress and matching strappy heels, then to the car that is driving you through the nightlife. Ghost smirks under his mask. 

“Me neither. Bourbon helps.” He says. 

“You drink bourbon?” You ask, glancing over. Soap hasn’t noticed your little conversation and continues to chat up the driver. You hadn’t taken Ghost as a bourbon man, he’s piqued your curiosity. 

“I fancy Kentucky.” He remarks. You chuckle. 

“Don’t let him know that.” You nod your head in Soap’s direction. 

“Never.” Ghost smirks, adjusting the cuffs of his sleeves. Your eyes fixate on the tattoos lining his left arm, just briefly exposed. You force your eyes away, knowing if you stare too long you’ll get caught up in the intricate pattern. The thought of running your fingers over those tattoos lingers in your head, soothing you enough to make the ride. 

—

The club is nice. Colored lights stream from the ceiling, a steady thrum of music vibrates lowly through the walls. You take in your surroundings, watching people drink, and dance with one another. It's a bit dark, hard to make out faces. You take note of all the exits while following behind Gaz and Price, both leading you all towards a closed off section of the club. Laswell is already there waiting along with her wife and König. The man must have already had a few drinks because he’s more relaxed than you've ever seen him. König’s eyes immediately land on you, and flutter down to the short cut off of your dress. You gasp as a burly figure pushes past you, separating you from König’s eyes. Ghost. He stands between the two of you and starts unclipping the velvet rope that separates you from the VIP section, much to the bouncer’s frustration. You blush, looking back to König whose eyes are sheepishly staring at the floor. Ghost must have pulled out his famous deadly glare. Your cheeks burn red. 

“There you are!” Laswell exclaims, motioning for the bouncer to lift the velvet rope that secures her area. No one seems to have noticed the little interaction between Ghost and König, thankfully. 

“VIP?” You chuckle. “Was that some CIA shit?” You ask, passing into the nicer, more secluded area of the club. A couch wraps around the corner wall, a table sitting in front of it. 

“Afraid not.” She smiles, wrapping an arm around her wife’s shoulders. You take a seat on the couch, watching as Ghost motions for Price to follow him towards the bar.

“We’ll be back.” He mumbles. Price pats Ghost on the shoulder as you watch them leave. 

“So, König?” Soap asks as he sits down, nodding towards the masked man. You take note that a beanie rests atop his head in place of his usual tac helmet. 

“Hmm?” König asks, suddenly alert. His eyes dart until they land on Soap. 

“How many drinks is it gonna take for you to shed the mask?” The scot asks. König grows quiet, tightly gripping his beer bottle by the neck. 

“Nein, I do not–” König begins before Soap jumps up, fist down on the table. 

“Nine?!” Soap laughs, “Keep em comin’, Ghost!” Soap hollers towards the bar. König shakes his head profusely.  

“No, that is not what I meant.” König tries to clear the situation up, but is drowned out by noise as Gaz and Soap laugh together. Laswell shoots you a knowing glance. You feel for her, being the only woman to watch these children.  

“You went with the dress I suggested.” Laswell notes, a proud smile gracing her lips. 

“I did.” You remark, blushing, “It's a bit tighter than what I’m used to.” You admit, sitting up straighter as a few from the table look back to you. 

“That's the point.” Laswell laughs, shooting you a quick wink. 

Before you can ask what she means by that, Ghost and Price return with two trays of shots. Half the shots are a golden, bronze color and the others are crystal clear. You raise an eyebrow as Ghost sits down beside you. 

“Get your bourbon?” You ask. 

“Had three down at the bar. You’ve got some catching up to do, yeah?” 

As everyone plucks shots from the trays, Ghost slides three in front of you with his knuckles. Two bourbons and one of the clear liquor. 

“What's this?” You ask, picking up the shot and holding it under your nose. It burns your nostrils, stealing the air from your lungs and replacing it with a sharp sting. 

“Patrón.” Ghost replies with a smirk. Your eyes follow as he grabs a clear shot from the tray with one hand, and pulls his mask up over his lips with the other. You’ve never seen his lips before. He brings the small glass to his lips, and you try to memorize the shape of his them, the jut of his jaw. It's gone in a flash as he downs the shot like it’s water before pulling his balaclava down over his chin. 

“Your turn.” He smirks, giant hand pushing the shot glass towards you. 

You follow suit, throwing your head back and letting the alcohol slide down your throat. You grimace at its strength, making a sour face. 

“Fuckin hell.” You cough. 

“You’ve got a bit of catching up to do.” Laswell points out, nodding down the table. You notice as Gaz takes the last shot from the first tray and your eyes boggle. 

— 

An hour later

Steady music thumps through the building. It feels slow, sensual. Maybe it’s because you’re wasted, but your confidence is through the roof as you make your way across the dance floor. Your eyes are locked onto your group, specifically searching for Ghost. The more alcohol that enters your system, the more you find yourself staring at him, noticing his every movement, every breath. You’d never allow yourself these thoughts while sober– the thought of wanting your Lieutenant is out of the question when your mind is clear, but right now it’s not. Your eyes search for him as you make your way back to the VIP section. 

“Lt?” You ask, sliding back onto the velvet sofa. 

“Went for a piss.” Soap exclaims.

“Why don’t you go meet him in the bathroom, maybe he could finally bend ya ov–” Johnny starts. 

“Soap!” Price cuts him off harshly. Soap only laughs, looking down the table to Gaz and the Captain. You look between the two of them, absolutely oblivious to the jokes that have been passed around the table all night.

“Oh, come on, Captain! He wants her and everyone knows it. We all see that shriveled up, cold, dead heart meltin’ at the sight of this bonnie.” Soap points to you. 

“Bloody hell, we bet on it!” Gaz chuckles, adjusting his cap.

“I must admit, I do see it.” König adds in. You squint down the table at him, and he immediately looks away. Price looks down at the boys like he’s schooling children. Your mouth falls open, taking in all the new information. 

“Remember that's your lieutenant you’re talking about. Leave his private life alone. You know how Simon is.” Price interjects, stopping the conversation before it gets out of hand. You blush fiercely, taken aback by their words. You don’t even think about what they’ve said, you can’t. Price looks to you apologetically. 

“What?” You ask, looking between them. “Ghost?” You double check, making sure that your hearing hasn’t totally left you. 

“He’s gone on you, mate.” Gaz adds, tone more serious than you would have expected.

“Christ, just pass me another drink.” You say, extending your hand out as König slides a shot down the table.

—

Thirty minutes later

You can feel his eyes on you. They’re burning through the thin fabric of your dress, where your breasts rest perfectly inside the silk, where the curve of your ass swells just above the hem of the dress. Your cheeks blush, whether from his eyes or the alcohol you’re not sure. Ghost doesn’t even try to hide his gaze, openly staring at you across the floor. His bourbon is held tightly in his hand as he watches you twirl on the dance floor between Soap and König. The lights aren't nearly as bright as your smile, and the night isn’t nearly as dark as the glint in your eyes. 

Ghost had watched men approach you on several occasions, and each time Soap shoved them away from you. You hadn’t given any of them the time of day. But Ghost? You’re taunting him, testing his self control to the point that he’s about to break. Every swing of your hips accompanies a purposeful glint in your eyes, a subtle bite of your lip. You’re teasing him, and he can’t take it. 

He deserves it. This is payback. He’s been apparently wanting you for months, and everyone in the damn Task Force knew about it but you. You’ve had enough of it. You extend your drink out for Soap to hold, accidentally bumping it against his chest and spilling a bit down his shirt. He takes the glass with furrowed eyebrows, looking down at your tipsy frame.

“Where ya headin’ to?” He yells over the music. 

“Have to use the bathroom. I’ll be right back, j-just watch my drink.” You stumble over your words, eyes never leaving Ghost’s. Soap nods, taking your cocktail and continuing his conversation with König. 

Ghost inhales deeply from across the room, eyes fixated on the taunting little “come hither” motion of your finger. You turn away from him, making your way towards the VIP bathrooms. You walk slow enough that he can follow after you, not that you’re even capable of walking too fast, lest you lose your balance and fall over. You push past a few other people, your heart beating quickly as you go. The music is loud and the lights are low, which you’re grateful for. Hopefully no one notices Ghost trailing behind you. A warm buzz radiates in your chest, pulsing down your bones as the liquor you’ve been downing boosts your confidence and slows your movements. 

You push the door open, stepping into the dimly lit bathroom. It’s clean and orderly, perks of the VIP section. Immediately, you walk in front of the oval mirror, checking over your outfit and fixing your hair. You reapply a quick layer of red lipstick, tucking it back into your purse just as you hear the lock click. 

Before you can turn around, a solid warmth presses against your back. Ghost. The sink digs into your hip bones as he sandwiches you in, one hand pushing your hair over your shoulder. His skin on yours is more intoxicating than any drinks you've had tonight. He's never touched you, not like this. You giggle, tipsy as ever as he rolls his balaclava over his nose. 

"Ghost–" You whine, fingers clenching around the sink as he gently nips at the skin of your neck. He inhales your perfume, exhaling in a deep growl that rumbles through you. 

"Simon." He corrects, hands wrapping around your hips. For just a moment, you sober up. He wants you to use his real name? 

Your coherent thoughts fall away as he turns you around, hands nearly bruising your waist. He kisses you. It's sloppy and drunk, but it's everything. All the months of wondering, and hoping– he's kissing you. If you'd known it would only take a few rounds of drinks for the courage, you would have gotten drunk with him earlier. Painted fingernails dig into his shoulders as you lean up for more. His tongue delves into your mouth, and you whine. He tastes like his favorite bourbon, smells like expensive cologne– his signature scent that you could recognize anywhere. Eventually, you pull away for the oxygen that he's so easily stolen from you. 

"Everyone said…" You take a deep breath, glassy eyes flicking from his scarred lips and chin up to his eyes. He waits for a response, but sees hesitation.

"Hmmm, what did they say, love?" 

"They said you wanted me." 

"How couldn't I?" Ghost growls. 

You yelp as he grabs underneath your thighs and lifts you up onto the sink. His hands are massive, maneuvering you as if he was trained to do so. Your legs wrap around his waist, grinding against the pressure in his jeans.

"Fuckin hell, I've wanted you since you first joined the Task Force." Ghost growls in between kisses and bites to your pulsepoint.

You think back to all that time ago. It seems like ages since you met the cool headed, brooding, terrifying Simon "Ghost" Riley. You remember thinking how easily he could break you. Now?– Oh, how you want him to. 

Hearing him say it out loud sends a wave of need straight to your core. Your hands shoot for his black leather belt, but he shakes his head, stopping you before you can unclasp it.

"Not here, love." He shakes his head, gripping your chin to press one slow, sweet kiss to your plump lips. Your eyes slip shut, and you pout as he pulls away from you and slides his balaclava back down over his chin. Disappointment pools over you as you search for an explanation.

"Flat's not far." Is all he says before he grabs your wrist and pulls you off the sink. He unlocks the bathroom door and begins pulling you back towards the crowd. "Here. Order us an Uber, yeah?" Simon asks you, slipping his phone into your free hand. 

It's too much for your drunken mind to take in as he leads you through the crowd of people. Colored lights strobe, making it hard for you to make out faces, but eventually you spot your group across the club. Soap is still holding your drink, but now he's looking around. Price and Laswell are with him, eyebrows drawn together in worry.

Remembering your task, you look down to Ghost’s phone. It's already opened up to the app, but messages are coming in and you can't swipe them away quick enough. The light bothers your eyes, and you attempt to read the messages as they flutter across the blurry screen.

Cpt. Price:

-Is y/n with you at the table? We seem to have lost her. Very worried.

You swipe the message away, and quickly order an Uber to Ghost’s saved home address. It's difficult, and you have to squint to make out all the swirling numbers and bright lights. But eventually, even in your state, you manage to get a confirmation code and receipt. An unsaved number pops up, more than one notification at a time lighting up the screen:

-LT, where'd you end up?

-Y/n asked me to hold her drink, disappeared on me. 

-OH SHIT

-LT!

-YOU HOUND!

-HAHA! Getting a pump, eh, LT? No worries, lad. I'll tell the Cap what's going on.

Several erotic emojis pop up on the screen and you blush fiercely.  Then you giggle. Soap, of course. You shake your head to rid yourself of the idea. The last thing you want is for Soap to blab about this. 

Simon pulls you through the exit and into the cold night. The breeze causes a shiver to run up your spine, and your dress helps none. As he leads you towards the road, you check the address once more and slip Simon’s phone back into his blazer pocket. 

"I d-didn't know you lived in Manchester." You whisper as he leads you out into the cold night. 

"Manny, born and raised.” You can hear Ghost huff through his mask, as if something humors him, “But no one knows where I live." He mutters, leading you down towards the busy street. 

No one except for you.

Cars pass by, and scantily clad men and women rush down the sidewalks searching for the same pleasure that you’re seeking. You bite your lip, feeling a bit nervous now that this is actually happening. Simon squeezes your hand. 

A steady trickle of rain begins to sprinkle down from the dark night sky, and goosebumps trail down your bare arms and legs. As soon as you tense, Simon is pulling his blazer off. 

“Simon, that's not necessary, really–” You begin to protest, but he is already wrapping the expensive jacket around your shoulders. 

“Hush.” He warns, and you obey. It's instinct. He’s your lieutenant after all.

You can see the tug of a smirk under his mask, blonde eyelashes fluttering as his brown orbs flick down over your body. You frown lightly, feeling bad that he’s given up his jacket for your sake. 

“Don’t worry, love. I'll be taking it all off soon, yeah?”

The alcohol buzzing through your system, making everything fuzzy, only intensifies the burning desire in between your legs. You don’t know how much longer you can wait. If you had it your way, he would have already taken you, bent you over the sink and had his way. The thought alone causes butterflies to fall in your stomach. Cold fingers wrap around Simon’s phone, still resting in the coat you’re now wearing. His recent notifications are all from Soap, and you scroll through them until a new one pops up on the screen.

“Car’s here.” You whisper, half lidded eyes searching until you find the sleek, black Volvo as it pulls against the curb. He takes your hand again, pulling you towards the car. 

“Simon, how long is this ride gonna be? I don’t know how much longer I can take this.” You admit, wanting nothing more than to tear your damn dress to shreds and throw yourself at the man beside you. He only huffs, showing a self restraint that you could only dream of. 

“Patience.” Is all he says as he opens the car door for you. You step inside the nice car, scooting towards the other side to make room for Simon to sit in the back with you. You see the momentary panic in the driver’s eyes as a 6’4 masked man climbs into his backseat, but Simon only places his hand on your thigh and politely confirms the details with the man. 

Simon grips your thigh, the large pads of his fingers leaving imprints on your soft flesh. You shake your ankle, distracting yourself from the desire growing in your abdomen.

“Drive fast, yeah?” Simon mumbles, sliding twenty quid to the driver.

—

The door lock clicks. Simon checks it twice. 

His hands are on you in an instant, picking you up by your thighs and pushing you up against the wall. He didn’t turn the lights on, and your eyes struggle to adjust to the dark as Simon’s lips run over your jaw in sloppy kisses. You moan, hands wrapping around his neck and resting on the back of his balaclava. 

“Simon, please–” You whine, throwing your head back as he nips your earlobe. 

“Just a second, darling.” Ghost growls, holding you against him. He carries you through the dark flat, maneuvering drunkenly down an even darker hall. He approaches a door, and kicks it open like a human battering ram. You’re slowing him down, your lips pressing against him everywhere that they can reach, leaving love bites that he’ll still have in the morning. You kick your heels off before he even sets you down, your hands tearing off the blazer from your limbs. It hits the ground, Simon’s phone buzzing silently in the pocket. He’ll find several missed calls from the boys in the morning. You don’t even want to think about the notifications your phone is receiving. Luckily, you dropped your purse as soon as you entered the front door, so it can be a problem for tomorrow. 

Simon gently tosses you down on his king sized bed, and you fall onto the plush black blankets. They’re warm and soft and they smell like him. It’s all too intoxicating. You lean forward and unclasp Simon’s belt buckle as quickly as your intoxicated hands can manage as he pulls his shirt over his head, not bothering to unbutton it. You’re taken aback as you notice a sizable scar on his ribs. It's a messy, deep, pink scar that indents into his otherwise pale skin. Your eyebrows wrinkle, fingertips brushing near the flesh before he snatches your hand away, squeezing it too tight to the point that it hurts.

“Don’t.” Is all he says. It’s a warning, and you blush a deep crimson out of embarrassment. 

“Sorry.” You mutter, quietly. Simon brings your hand up to his lips, pressing a slow kiss to your knuckles. 

Ghost leans forward, hand gripping the side of your neck as he kisses you again. His balaclava tickles your nose as you deepen the kiss, leaning more into him. Any embarrassment or awkwardness from your last interaction falls away as he pushes his jeans down over his legs, lips still interlocked with yours. Simon steps out of his jeans and boxers, and your jaw falls slack. 

“Simon–” You stutter, eyes fixated on the length between his legs. Your eyes flick back up to his face, seeing the proud smirk he wears, even through the mask.. He simply won’t fit. It’s just not possible– He’s too big.

“I can’t-” You shake your head.

“I’ll be gentle, love.” He reassures, climbing overtop of you on the bed. Nervously, you nod. You trust him. Big hands grab you by the waist and flip you onto your stomach. You whine, clutching the sheets below you. He shushes you, and you gasp as golden beads and zipper teeth fly across the room, bouncing off of the floor and the glass window overlooking the city. A loud tear rings out as Ghost shreds your dress from the seams.

“Fuck, Simon! That was expensive!” You yelp as he pulls the ruined fabric from your body, discarding it on the floor. Laswell’s gonna kill you.

“I’ll  buy you a new one.” He growls, warm hand running down your bare back. His finger loops under the black lace thong you’re wearing. Simon smirks, “All for me?” He asks, releasing the lace so it smacks back down onto your skin. 

“Yes– all for you, only you, Simon.” You mumble, pushing your ass back up in hopes that he’ll touch you.

“That’s my girl.” 

You moan at his words, hands moving to your hips to shove the lace down off your legs, but he brushes your hands away, stopping you.

“Leave it on.” Simon rumbles at your back. You nod your head against the pillow, bringing your hands to rest under your head. Ghost pulls your thong string to the side, letting it rest just out of the way.

“Fuckin ‘ell, love.” Simon takes a breath, trying to keep the control that you’re so close to snapping as his fingers trail over your dripping folds. 

“Fuck, Simon. Stop teasing.” You beg, hips pushing back against his hand. He chuckles, dipping two fingers into your throbbing cunt. 

“O-Oh!” You whine, gripping the sheets as he hooks his thick fingers, hitting every sweet spot inside of you. Simon kisses your back, nudging your legs with his less busy hand so that they’re folded under your stomach and spread apart. He positions you low enough that your stomach touches the bed. He curls his fingers, scissoring them occasionally as you throb and whine for him. He groans at the noises you make, working you open until you’re ready. 

“Perfect.” He grumbles, sliding his fingers out of you. You whine in confusion until you feel the tip of his length teasing at your entrance. 

“Ready, love?” Ghost asks. You moan, biting your lip and nodding your head. 

“I need to hear you say it.”

“Yes. Im ready, just– please Simon, fuck!” You stutter. 

Simon slowly pushes in, and you gasp for air as he parts you like the fucking red sea. It hurts a little, and your nose wrinkles as you exhale. Simon notices the hitch in your breath, carefully examining your reaction to make sure you’re comfortable. It only takes a few moments for you to acclimate, and then he feels incredible. His size stretches you, reaching depths you didn't think possible. He hits every sweet spot as he spears into you. 

Simon’s chest presses against your back as he pushes into you. His scarred lips lock onto your neck, biting you as he fucks you from behind. He grips the headboard to steady himself, nearly leaving indents in the wood as he thrusts.

It's rough, drunk and sloppy as he drills into you. He starts out at a slow and steady pace, grinding into you rhythmically so as to not hurt you. Your exhales become sharp huffs, swirling together with the puffs of air he exhales next to your ear. If only you could turn around and kiss him again. You crave his lips against yours, satisfying the craving you’ve been ignoring for so long. But you know Simon might not be ready for that level of intimacy yet. You’ve heard stories, connected the dots. 

All too soon, you find yourself teetering on the edge from his movements. You gasp and moan under him, whimpering out his name so loudly that you’re sure the entire building can hear. The headboard rocks against the wall with every thrust, loudly slamming and leaving dents in the drywall. Neither of you care, too wrapped up in each other to even realize. 

Your neck is bruised from Simon’s lips, adding to the pleasure that’s pushing you over the edge. You fight it, but lose as pulsing heat tears through your core. Stars explode in your vision, eyes shut tight enough that they wrinkle. 

“F-uck, Simon!” You scream, nails digging into the sheets as your whole body trembles with the weight of your orgasm. Your walls squeeze Simon’s length in time with his thrusts, turning him into a groaning mess. 

“Bloody fuckin ‘ell." Simon groans, accent thicker than usual. His warm breath tickles your ear, and you gasp as he bottoms out, hitting your cervix. 

“You- You on the pill?” Simon manages to stutter out between deep grunts. He can’t risk pregnancy, can’t be a father. But you feel so fucking good and he can’t bring himself to unbury himself from your perfect, dripping cunt. 

“Got the patch– you’re good. Just fucking fill me up, please.” You beg, rocking your hips against him. He nearly curses at your words. You have a foul mouth in bed, something he wouldn’t have guessed. You whimper his name, and that’s all it takes. 

Simon grunts deep and guttural, and with one an iron grip on your hips, he fills you up with his spend. You moan, taking it all until you can’t, and it comes dripping out around him before he’s even finished. 

“That’s it, fffuck– y/n.” He grunts as the last of his seed spills out.

You press your forehead against the sheets, wincing as he pulls out of you and collapses beside you on the bed. A sheen of sweat lines both your bodies, but as much as you’d like a shower, you’re exhausted. A digital clock rests on the table beside Simon’s bed, and you sit up, squinting to look at it. 0300. Damn. 

You look back towards Simon. He’s half sitting up against the headboard, half laying down. You notice the thousand yard stare that he’s putting off, and you gently cup his chin, pulling his gaze towards you. 

“You okay?” You ask, rolling up his balaclava with your dainty fingers. You uncover the subtle smile on his lips. You smile in retur, half lidded eyes focusing on the shape of his lips. Your thumb traces over them gently.

“Better now.” He whispers. You press a kiss to his lips, slow and sweet before pulling away. 

“Get some sleep, love.” He says, softer than you’ve ever heard his voice. Much to his surprise, you tuck yourself into the crook of his side, wrapping your arms around his torso. Sleep overcomes you almost immediately. He’s too warm, too perfect. It’d be impossible for you to stay awake next to the comforting, human heater that he is. 

Simon hesitates. It’s been a long time since anyone has been this close to him. The bourbon gave him confidence enough to bring you home, but this is a very new territory, and not even the alcohol can guide him through this one. Sex is one thing, but intimacy? Emotional vulnerability? Simon burned those handbooks long ago.

“Love?” He asks, awkwardly looking to see if you’re awake. You don’t respond, asleep he confirms. Simon’s not sure what to do. He doesn’t want to move you. Are you comfortable? Is he too close? Too warm? 

He sighs, looking down at your arms tightly wound around him. No one’s shown him this type of affection, not ever. He’s not sure how to reciprocate it, but he wants to. One day at a time. Simon pulls the blanket up over your waist, checking twice to make sure that it's covering you. Carefully, he places a hand over your back, feeling your soft skin against his. 

He doesn’t sleep at all, opting to stay awake and watch the small rise and fall of your back on his lap. He doesn’t deserve you, he's sure. But you’re here, and that’s something.

[wish-i-were-heather]

TOO SWEET ⤵ NASH HAWTHORNE X READER

ABOUT: 3129 words, no use of y/n

STORY: you meet back up with your childhood best friend, and he gets a bit out of hand.

WARNINGS: drunkess/alcohol? i guess that's it

TAGS: @littlemissmentallyunstable @gretag13 @lanterns-and-daydreams @whatsamongus @alwaysthefangirl @zuzanna-jadw1ga @emelia07 @f4iry-bell @low-caloriesmonsterultra @that-daughter-of-hephaestus @jimcarreyfann42 @maybxlle @xoxo-vee @elysianwayy77 @ravishinglyliving @- this is just everyone who wanted to be tagged for grayson cuz i wasn't sure, pls lmk if u do/don't wanna be tagged for other characters!!

inspired by a post by @jkriordanverse <33

A/N: SORRY THIS WAS SUPPOSED TO POST WHILE I WAS GONE BUT THE QUEUE DIDN'T WORK >:( anyway so like i said i saw that post about drunk nash singing hozier and i was like omg yes. this gets kinda long i could've split it into two but i didn't so here we are

You were no stranger to formal events. Your family wasn’t necessarily rich, but you were well off. Somewhat higher status. So it wasn’t unusual for you to be at events that required you to dress up a bit. Put on a dress, do a bit more makeup, put on your good earrings. 

But this one was different.

It was a big charity event run by one of the biggest family names in the country, but the dress code was less suit and tie, high heels and pearl necklaces. For some reason, they had decided to play into the fact that they were in Texas. A western themed event. And for some reason you decided to go, despite having no experience with that style.

You thought it would be simple enough. Find a cute but not too fancy dress and a simple pair of boots to match. The dress you were able to find in your closet- a white one that fell loosely to just about the length of your knees, square neck, and thin straps. Nothing too revealing nor too elegant. The event, unlike most, was about simplicity. 

It was the boots that you had trouble with. 

You’d never worn a pair of cowboy boots before. Silly, supposing you lived in Texas, but you had just never been part of the crowd that wore that regularly. Because you only planned on wearing them to the event, you just ordered a pair online because it didn’t matter too much to you.

Only when they arrived did you realize that they were a bit too big. Nothing crazy, it wasn’t like wearing five sizes too big, more like half. And that half a size still made a difference. 

You stepped out of your car in front of the venue. It was some sort of ranch that clearly hadn’t been used as a proper ranch in who knew how long. The large barn doors were open, revealing all the partygoers and tables and drinks and lights and everything inside. 

Sure enough, everyone was dressed similar to you. Not too formal. Nothing like you were used to wearing. You felt out of place, even though every other person there looked the same. 

With a sigh, you made your way to the entrance. You weren’t exactly sure what to expect there. The only reason you came was because it was a Hawthorne event. You knew that name; you’d known that name your whole life. Your family had been close with the Hawthornes. You grew up with the four boys. Well, mostly with Nash. You were closer to his age than Grayson, Xander, or Jameson. 

But as you grew older, you drifted apart. Adulting happened, you got busy, and eventually you lost contact with Nash. You still had his number in your phone- well, at least his old one from when you were fifteen. Odds were he probably had a new one, and you weren’t willing to text and find out.

So maybe some part of you deep down was hoping to find him again here. It was probably hopeless. Such a big event, so many people, the chances of finding Nash Hawthorne were quite low. 

Yet here you were. 

You kept walking, making your way through the entrance. You were just on time, not too early or too late, but there were already plenty of people walking around. You didn’t recognize any of them. 

There were sounds of glasses clinking, country music in the background, and countless voices conversing as the evening began to unfold. You walked through the crowd, awkwardly adjusting the strap of your dress.

There was nothing wrong with it, but you couldn’t help but feel self conscious, even when everyone was just as casual.

Suddenly, your foot caught on an uneven plank of wood, the oversized shoe not helping one bit. With a startled yelp, you tripped forward. Instinctively, your arms moved out to catch yourself. But there was no need, because before you could properly fall, strong arms caught you, helping you balance again. 

“Woah there,” a familiar voice chuckled. And as you looked up, you found yourself looking into the amused eyes of Nash Westbrook Hawthorne. 

Your eyes widened when you realized who had caught your fall, your face suddenly heating up for no particular reason. 

“Nash?” You breathed, hardly able to believe it. 

He laughed, his grin widening in return when he recognized you too. “Well I’ll be damned. It’s been a long time.”

“Yeah, no kidding.”

Nash took a step back once you were standing again. “You look great, by the way. I don’t think I’ve seen you in this type of dress in… well, ever. The boots too, they look like they suit you.” You could tell he was teasing.

“Am I that obvious?” You asked, tucking your hair behind your ear nervously. “They’re too big, but I figured what harm will it do, right? Oh,” you added. “And, thank you. You look… great, too.” 

Why were you being so awkward? It’s just Nash.

Just Nash.

He laughed again, a deep, warm sound that you remembered well. “Thanks, darlin’. Here, why don’t we go sit down? Catch up somewhere quieter.”

You agreed, and the two of you navigate your way through the crowd of people. He was guiding you subtly, his hand gently resting on the small of your back. As you walked, you couldn’t help but notice how at ease he seemed, like he belonged there.

Which made sense, it was his family’s event. And Nash of all the Hawthornes was the one who was most comfortable in those Western-themed situations. 

Most likely to win a rodeo. 

You and his brothers had voted him that when you were kids. 

Nash led you to a quieter spot in the back, as promised. There were some hay bales set up as makeshift seats. Sure, there were chairs that you could’ve snagged from an empty table, but where was the fun in that? 

“Have a seat,” he told you. “I’ll get us some drinks.” And before you could respond, Nash was off. You watched as he walked away, finding yourself glad that he was turned away so he couldn’t see you staring. 

His hair was about the same length and style from when you were younger- you supposed he found what he liked and stuck to it. But that didn’t matter because he was wearing a cowboy hat. Maybe it was for the occasion, but you knew him, and odds were he was wearing it because that was just what he liked. 

But, of course, it had still been almost ten years. He had most definitely grown. Taller, visibly stronger, and his voice had gotten deeper. 

You weren’t complaining. 

Nash returned, and you were snapped out of your thoughts. “So apparently there’s no alcohol. Avery’s decision, not mine. Hope you like iced tea.”

“Thanks.” You took the cup from him as he sat down beside you, but realized he’d only grabbed one. “Why didn’t you get one for yourself?”

Nash shrugged. “I’m not a fan of tea. Even without sugar or nothing, it’s a bit too sweet.”

“Oh,” you nodded. Then you thought about what he’d said earlier. “So, Avery…?”

“Oh, yeah, you don’t know her, do you? I mean, I’m gonna assume that you’ve seen everything on the news and such, but you’ve never met her.” 

You had definitely been paying attention to any news involving the Hawthornes ever since you stopped talking to him. Maybe paying a little more attention than you wanted to admit. “Is she nice? Good to Jameson?” “Oh yeah,” he nodded. “Very good to Jamie. They’re good for each other.” 

“Good, good.”

Why were you acting so weird?

Just Nash. 

You took a sip of the iced tea, the cold calming your nerves a bit. Nash leaned back on the hay bale, as if picking up on your nervousness and trying to make himself more open. 

“So,” he began. “How has life been? Last I heard you were looking at colleges out of state?” 

You nodded, suddenly feeling more comfortable when you knew what to say. “Yeah. I went up to Massachusetts.” “Really. Did you go to school there?”

“Yeah. Harvard? Have you heard of it?” You joked. “I don’t know, it’s not very well known.”

Nash laughed with you. “Harvard. You’re kidding.”

“What, you jealous?” Already back into your old ways, teasing him.

“No. That’s where Grayson’s going.”

Your eyes widened. “What? That’s crazy. On the off chance I run into him, I’ll tell him you say hi.”

Your conversation continued, wandering from how your lives have been to his thoughts on the whole inheritance drama when it first happened. Then somehow you started talking about the fact that they now had a dog named Tiramisu? 

Oh, Xander named it. 

That made more sense. 

But as the night progressed, you still found yourself being awkward. The conversation would come to a slow point and Nash would be the one to bring something up and start talking again, not you. Why was it suddenly so hard to talk to him? Sure, maybe you hadn’t spoken in years now, but he was so easy to talk to that it felt like no time at all.  

“You know,” he mentioned eventually. “I’ve missed this. Missed you, missed us. We should try to get together sometime, while you’re here.”

There was something about the way he said us.

“Yeah, that’d be fun. I’m here for the next week, so we could-”

“After the party?”

His offer caught you off guard. You wanted to spend time with Nash, of course, but you hadn’t expected him to want to get together so soon. You weren’t against it, though.

“Oh yeah, after this works.” You took a sip from the drink to try to look more natural; it looked even more forced. “Where do you want to go?”

Nash grinned. 

“Can you sing?”

A question like that was never good coming from a Hawthorne. 

~~

The rest of the event had gone by quickly. Avery had eventually gone up and said a few words, and afterwards Nash introduced you to her. She was nice, as you thought she’d be. 

You also said hello to Xander and Jameson again, which was fun. Grayson, of course, was still at Harvard. Xander made a pinky promise to you that he’d “make sure Gray finds you on campus or else.”

Then, you and Nash were off.

He’d only told you once you’d left where you were going: a karaoke bar. 

You were not a singer, by any means or definition of the word, but Nash reassured you that it was just the two of you for fun. Neither of you were expected to be professionals, so that gave you some bit of closure and got you a little more excited.

You were sure that there had to be some sort of karaoke room in the Hawthorne House, but that’s not where you went. Nash took the two of you to a karaoke bar. But when you arrived, there was an individual room reserved for you. 

Even if it was taking away from the social bar aspect of the karaoke bar, you appreciated not having to sing poorly in front of strangers.

“So,” Nash began once you were settled in. “Have you got any songs to start with?”

You shrugged. “Do you know any Disney?”

He fully gasped. “Do I know Disney? Do I know Disney? Is my last name Hawthorne? Hell yeah I know Disney!”

Nash hadn’t been lying. Together, you sang a song from practically every Disney movie that existed. And as you sang, you realized you didn’t care what you sounded like. He made it so easy for you to let your guard down and relax and just have fun. 

Nash, on the other hand, you quickly realized he had a voice. Deep and controlled, like he knew what he was doing. The only cracks in his voice were because the note was either too high, or just the result of him drinking.

It was a karaoke bar, after all.

Maybe he was secretly a professional country singer in his free time, it’d been so long since you last spoke to him that you had no idea. 

After finishing Love Is an Open Door from Frozen, you both finally paused to catch your breath after nonstop singing. 

“Y’know,” Nash said, taking a sip from the drink he’d ordered- this time with alcohol. “Hans may have been an ass, but he’s a damn good singer.”

You chuckled. “Says you. You are surprisingly good at this.”

“Surprisingly? Ouch,” he said playfully. 

“Seriously though,” you continued. You both took a seat on the couch. “Do you sing often or is that just… a natural talent?”

Nash shrugged humble. “I don’t know. I will sometimes for fun.”

“What do you usually sing?”

He took a final sip from his drink, setting it back down with a loud clunk. “Let me show you.”

~~

Hozier. 

That’s who Nash liked to sing. 

You didn’t know what you were expecting. Maybe some sort of country artist, simply because of how he liked to dress and talk. Not Hozier. But, of course, you weren't complaining. Because those songs seemed to match his voice perfectly. And he sounded beautiful.

Nash had spent a good fifteen minutes singing, taking a drink between each song. Which, obviously, as alcohol does, seemed to have an effect on him. His words grew sloppier, attempts at dancing growing more wobbly.

After a dramatic singing of To Be Alone that felt more like a serenade by the way he looked at you during the chorus, you would’ve thought he was done. He looked pretty tired and out of it from the drinks, too. 

But then the next song auto played- Too Sweet, one of Hozier’s newest songs.

Nash Hawthorne, half drunk and easily excitable, practically screamed.

“I love this song!” He cried, running over to where you were seated and pulling you up to stand with him. You laughed and let him take you.

“You know, Nash, I think I’ve really only ever heard this on the radio-”

He cut you off by beginning to sing when the lyrics appeared on screen. You grabbed the second microphone that you’d set aside and followed along as best you could. It was a bit hard for you to focus, though, as Nash stumbled next to you and tried his best to keep both his feet and his voice steady. Though he tried his best, he was failing miserably.

It was hilarious.

“I think I’ll take my whiskey neat,” he sang, or more accurately, shouted. “My coffee black and my bed at three. You’re too sweet for me!”

When the song ended, he finally let himself sit down. He picked up his drink and had another sip, and you then took it from him.

“Hey!” He pouted. “I’m drinkin��� that. You can drink your own drink, don’t drink my drink.” 

How many times could he say ‘drink’ in a sentence?

“What?” You laughed.

“I mean-” hiccup. “I mean don't drink my drink, it’s mine.”

“I’m not drinking it, Nash. I promise,” you said, talking slowly the same way you would to a little kid. “You’ve just had too much. And we took your car, I don’t want to have to drive it for you…”

But it was a little too late for that, wasn’t it?

You took the free water bottle that’d come with the room off the side table and handed it to him instead. “There, drink that.”

Nash took the water and without hesitation opened it and chugged it, successfully spilling water all over himself. You didn’t even bother to clean it up, because he didn’t even bother to care that he was now soaked. 

“Okay,” you said, more to yourself than him. “We should probably get going.”

“One more song?” Nash asked, failing to balance his hat on his head and deciding to throw it across the room when it didn’t stay on.

“Fine. One more song.” 

Imagine your reaction when you recognized the intro to Save a Horse, Ride a Cowboy.

~~

“I’m not five.”

“You sure are acting like it,” you told him. “Sit still and buckle yourself up or I’ll do it for you.”

Nash muttered something under his breath about you not being the boss of him, but he eventually buckled himself up in the passenger seat of his own car, and you got in the front. Nash wasn’t quite completely drunk, but obviously enough to not be himself, because now he was acting like a pouty little kid. 

Yeah, it would probably be best if you drove.

As you pulled out of the parking lot, Nash began typing away on his phone. You didn’t know what he was doing until you heard music begin; he’d bluetooth connected his phone to the car speakers, and was now blasting Take Me to Church. 

He sang along, a sound you assumed usually sounded angelic, but now his voice cracked at pretty much every single note. Things only got better worse when he rolled down the window and sang into the dark of the night. 

You reached over and dialed the volume down, just a bit. When the song ended, you finally took your chance to speak.

“You really like his music, don’t you?”

Nash nodded. “Mhm. He sounds like me.”

You chuckled and let the car fall to silence as you drove him home. 

“I missed you,” Nash suddenly blurted. 

“I missed you too,” you admitted honestly. “You’re a good singer.”

“You’re a good driver.”

“I’m only driving because you got drunk off your ass,” you reminded him, keeping your eyes on the road.

“Thank you for not crashing the car,” he said genuinely, like it was the most serious thank he could give you. “And driving me home.”

You sighed. “You’re welcome, Nash. Try to get some rest when you get home, okay? I’m sure you’ll feel shitty in the morning.”

“I’m gonna start now,” he said, earning another laugh from you. Nash slumped in his seat, and brought his hat down to cover his eyes. “Goodnight, darlin’. Don’t let the… Hozier bite.”

That last statement was so absurd that you couldn’t tell if you were laughing, coughing, or dying in response. 

You caught your breath, though still laughing quietly to yourself at what he’d said. 

“Goodnight Nash.”

You thought back to the times when you were younger, and the two of you would stay up late past when you were supposed to be asleep. Most of the time, the lack of sleep got to you and you’d both say the stupidest things. 

Maybe he wasn’t so different all these years later after all.

the writing above belongs to me. please do not copy, modify, repost on other sites or claim as your own. © 2024 wish-i-were-heather

[goldengay49]

California, so close to snapping: I-

Texas: SHUT UP

California: …

California (in a monotone speaking voice): you don’t know me… but you don’t like me… say you care less how I feel… but how many of you that sit and judge me… ever walked the streets of Bakersfield…

Texas: …

Texas: SO YOU DO LIKE COUNTRY MUS—

[shoshiwrites]

Hi! I’m the anon that requested the handholding prompt, and I just wanted to say thank you. It was everything I could have hoped for and more!! It made me smile!!

If you are still taking requests, I would request Jo/Egan with the prompt touching foreheads or bandaging/stitching an injury. As you can see, I couldn’t decide between one prompt, once again. I look forward to whatever you write and of course, never feel pressured to write anything. I hope you are doing well 🫶🏼

Hello anon! Thank you so much for your lovely message. I'm so glad you liked that prompt, and I appreciate your understanding very much. I've kept "bandaging/stitching an injury" on my list, and filled this one for "touching foreheads." This is my first try at Bucky POV, and we kind of ended up on the depression-nap side of things (see my terrible header below). Thank you to @mercurygray for helping me work the end. Bucky Egan x War correspondent OC.

Six months. 

And he’s felt every minute of every one, or at least it seems that way on days like this. Gray as all hell, like a storm gathering over the lake. Every minute if you didn’t count the gaps, the headaches, the days he sleeps away, the things he couldn’t remember those first few weeks. His jaw still wakes him in the night, dull if he’s lucky, a screaming pain if he’s not. He can never forget the things he’d actually want to forget, can he? Now that would be too easy.

Never coughed up an explanation for Buck either, even when Buck looked at him sideways about something or the other. Even if he wanted to, his throat goes dry at the thought, like the dust and dirt along the floorboards.

Holding onto it gives him something to hold onto, at least. The anger. 

Six months of this damn nightmare, the bloodshot bone-chilled day and night. Different nightmare than the sky. He has those too. This is the kind of dream where you’re stuck in it, you can’t move, there’s footsteps outside the door. He’d had those as a kid. Terrified him. 

It’s sure not the the kind they nail up pictures for, paper edges catching on the unfinished timber, hoping to summon some kind of vision. He’s so tired he’s practically drooling into the pillow, letting his eyes wander far enough along the wall that it hurts, over Rita and Ginger and Ava’s shining faces. 

There are pictures kept in books too, pouches and the occasional wallet, those all but sewn into jacket pockets. Girls back home.

Not even a letter. Not one goddamn letter, he thinks, the sigh of it harder than seems fair to his mother or his sisters, trying to get around the mail delays and sending cards for every holiday they could think of. What the hell even was Arbor Day, anyway?

(“Trees,” Brady had said, not looking up from the keys of his saxophone.

“...right.”)

He thinks about Texas, and Florida, and Idaho, and Nebraska. Girls and dresses and perfume, manicured hands, no dirt around them. Marge’s friend, he can’t remember her name, pretty, dark hair, disinterested in a kiss but amenable to dancing. They’d all wanted to forget, right? Not when you’re flying out the next day. 

He thinks of Lil, the cupid’s bow of her lip and the goosebumps under her sweater. She’d wanted to forget too. A brother somewhere in…he can’t remember now. Burma? Her grandfather hadn’t had too many nice words for him, John. Not that he could blame the man.

He thinks of Jo. Crouched over that little green typewriter the way Brady fiddles with his sax, the sound of the bell, the sound of the keys. Like Buck over the radio. The way she looked up at him, like she’d just realized something important. The way she smelled when she let him get close enough, like flowers after a spring rain. 

The air’s sour in here, and cold. Showering helps, besides freezing your damn balls off. 

He lets himself think it, about his head in her lap in the grass, or on a sofa, or anywhere, really, where she’s leaning down and she’s touching him, the little calluses on her hands, and her forehead close to his.

It hurts too much, and maybe he can admit it, here in this damn coffin of a bunk, mattress about as comfortable as one, that maybe she’d wanted to forget too.

You don’t kiss like that, he thinks, with acid in his throat, when you care what comes next.

She writes like she cares, though. She writes like she believes in all of them, like it’s real and not just what her paper wants or somebody wants to hear. 

Maybe he can admit that now, if he doesn’t think about the note she’d left.

He’d rather think about anything else, hell, he’d rather walk outside with no shoes on, listen to the Yankees lose by a single run.

He’d rather wish this damn pillow was a different kind, her thigh or her body or her forehead, even, pressed against his. Not that he’d admit it out loud. 

And her mouth right there, he thinks, like he can just make that half-second trip to kiss her, and kiss her again.

[sugdenlovesdingle]

You know that scene in Emmerdale's Aaron and Robert are having that hushed little married couple argument about letting Faith in the house (she's trying to move in), we'll I would love something like that for Buck and Tommy 😂.

Like maybe Eddie or Madney just won't leave and they're having a quiet argument in the kitchen about who's fault it was that they're even there in the first place 😂

Oh i can definitely see it happening with Eddie. They invited him over for dinner or something to cheer him up and then expect him to just go home after, only he's had too much to drink to be able to drive and drunk!Eddie gets all melancholy and Buck is torn between wanting to Be There for his best friend and wanting to get naked with his hot boyfriend.

I don't know if you meant it as a fic prompt but this happened:

----

"What do we do? He can't go home like this." Buck said quietly, one eye on Eddie slumped over on the sofa.

He'd invited Eddie along when he mentioned going to Tommy's to cook for him, knowing Tommy wouldn't mind, and the evening had been nice. Only one beer with dinner turned into a lot of beers during and after dinner, and Eddie moping and talking about how his life was a mess.

"I know, he's had way too much to drink." Tommy agreed, having joined Buck in the kitchen under the guise of helping him with dessert.

"Maybe I should call him an Uber."

"He'll pass out in the car and they'll leave him on the curb. And that's the best case scenario."

Buck groaned and dropped his head on Tommy's shoulder.

"I hate it when you're right." he stepped a little closer and wrapped his arms around Tommy's waist, letting out a content sigh when the other man's wrapped around his shoulders and he pressed a kiss to his temple.

"Maybe he'll just pass out on the sofa soon and we'll get him a blanket and some aspirin for the hangover tomorrow, and we can go upstairs." Tommy said hopeful.

"Tomás!" Eddie called out from the living room. "You still owe me a rematch from our mu-my-mui our sesh the other day! Let's go big man! I can take you!" he stood up from the sofa and almost lost his balance.

Tommy winced.

"Maybe I should go make sure he doesn't get himself killed falling through the glass table."

Buck tightened his grip on Tommy's waist.

"Not yet."

"What're youtwo doing'nthere?" Eddie had stumbled into the kitchen. "You're making out! In secret!"

"No, no, we weren't. We're just... standing here." Buck said, wishing Eddie would go back to the living room and give them five minutes of peace.

"Uhuh... that's what me and Shannon used t'do. And then, and thennn... there was Chris!"

"I don't think there's any risk of that happening for us." Tommy said, amused.

Eddie considered his words for a moment and then nodded.

"But Buck likes kids! He's like... the... baby whisperer. He... he... can talk to kids... you know? You need to give him a baby. Do you hear me Tomás? You gotta give Buck a baby."

"I'll keep that in mind."

"Hey Eds, do you want to crash on the sofa tonight? It's getting late." Buck offered.

Eddie frowned.

"No. No. Noooo. I'll just... go hooome. To my big... house... with no-one in it... because my son went to Texas... bcuz I screwed up."

"Nope you're staying here." Tommy insisted. "Or else Evan and I will be worrying about you all night and wondering if you made it home in one piece." He reluctantly let go of Buck and gently steered Eddie back to the living room.

"You don't have to worry about me!" Eddie announced, a little too loudly. "I'll be fiiiine!"

"Yeah, well, you can be fine on my sofa for tonight. Humour me." Tommy told him. "Evan, can you get the blanket and pillow from the spare room for him?"

About an hour later, Eddie was snoring on the sofa and Buck followed Tommy up the stairs to the bedroom. He let himself fall forward onto the bed and buried his face in Tommy's pillow, not turning around until he felt the other man's hand running down his spine.

"I'm sorry." he mumbled, deciding to bury his face in Tommy's chest instead.

"What for?"

"Ruining date night..."

"Evan..." Tommy started and waited for Buck to look at him. "Nothing's ruined. You wanted to cheer your best friend up because he's going through a tough time. What's so bad about that?"

Buck gave him a one armed shrug.

"It's not exactly the romantic night we planned..."

"No... but we have plenty of opportunities for romantic nights together. I wouldn't be able to enjoy it anyway if I knew Eddie was home alone feeling miserable. And I know you wouldn't either."

"I suppose not." Buck agreed. "And the hangover he'll have when he wakes up will be plenty of payback." he joked and they both laughed.

[20th-century-railroading]

Long Live the 118 by Joe McMillan Via Flickr: I think the best end-cab switcher paint scheme was applied to two groups of T&NO EMD SW-1200 switchers. The first group, numbers 113-118, arrived in February 1954, followed by the second group, 123-128, in February-March 1957. These 12 units were classed as road units and featured classification lights, train number indicators, MU connections, in-cab speed recorders, and silver-painted ends. The first duty assignment for most of these engines was replacing steam power on Texas and Louisiana branch lines.

In this photo, taken in February 1954, 70 years ago, SW-1200 118 has just arrived on the property and is the sole power on train 377, which ran from Yoakum to Kenedy, Texas, returning as Train No. 378. The first run with the 118 on this local freight was on February 24. 1954. The 118 stayed around briefly before being replaced by other SW-1200s and eventually by Alco switchers.

This locomotive underwent number changes, rebuildings, and repaintings while on the Southern Pacific roster. Still running after 70 years, this unit now operates on the Moscow, Camden & St Augustine short line in East Texas. It is immaculately maintained on the MC&SA and sees daily service.

Photo by Joe McMillan, February 1954, at Yorktown, Texas, while the crew was loading horses into two stock cars. The branch line through Yorktown was abandoned in 1972.

[elizajakkbeth]

FELLOW CONNIE N JOHNNY SHIPPER MY BELOVED

Connie HCs bc she is my sunshine gremlin

So I have yet to see any Connie HC posts? And as far as I'm concerned I'm going to force feed the fandom all the TCM victim content I could possibly write. Enjoy, people, because I know I will. ─── ⋆⋅☼⋅⋆ ───

First point I would like to say is that Connie is book smart, obviously, but seeing as she grew up on a ranch herself she definitely knows some foraging. She'll know what kind of local forage is safe and toxic, probably knows an entire lot about flowers. "Oh, you got stung by nettles? Hold on a minute," She disappeared for a few moments, only to come back with dock leaves in her hand. She said nothing, and wouldn't explain, instead had you sit down and put your leg out. She took a few moments to crush a few of the odd looking leaves, and then place them over the irritated, slightly bumpy skin. The irritation faded slightly, and the wound's burning heat dissipated, but it was certainly still irritated. She sat squatted in front of you, in pause for a while to think. Lips pursed, brows furrowed, staring at the little continent-shaped patch on your leg as if the bumps in your skin would provide her an answer. Out of seemingly nowhere, Connie brightened up and turned to look in her little bag for something. What exactly, you had no idea, she simply didn't talk in the moment of focus. When she turned back to you, smile wide enough to reach her ears, she had a roll of tape out, in a little dispenser. That made absolutely no sense. Still, she placed the tape one strip at a time over the reddened patch, taking them off with surprisingly careful touches. She flinches every time you wince, probably losing a few leg hairs in the process of all this, but somehow, the stinging feeling dissipated. You had no explanation, and you just stared at the ginger as she focused so heavily on the tape. After she finished with that, she crushed and applied the rest of the dock leaves, and it actually helped immensely. But it didn't before. "Miracle tape?" You mumble, before she smiles up at you, patting your leg before sitting back opposite you. One leg up, arm rested on her knee, she shook her head. "No, silly, the tape gets rid of the nettle hairs." "Oh."

Connie does like the appearance of flowers quite a lot. It's her one goal to visit those pretty tulip fields in the Netherlands, pink tulips are her favourite flowers of all time. She'd help in a community garden for sure.

She absolutely adores honeybees. She has them land on her shoulders quite frequently, and while her friends panic a lot when this happens, she's completely calm about it. Connie was raised on a farm, she's more than used to bugs and animals.

Unfortunately, though, she isn't a thousand percent innocent. Heavens only know how terrifying this little girl is when someone irritates her or her friends. She goes from sunshine baby to holding a frying pan and being ready to Rapunzel up in this place in like two seconds

If you tell anyone, including the other victims they will NOT believe you. You're the only person who knows about this side of her. Ever. Because you're you and this is my hc you're welcome

She obviously isn't the strongest bodied, but she definitely hits hard enough to throw people off. She's not one you'd look at and think "This one grew up on a farm", for sure. But she's used to handling shovels and heavy garden equipment for extended periods, and it shows when she knocks people flat on their ass out of nowhere.

Connie definitely struggles with words and processing things fairly often, and sometimes she just pauses to think. It's like she's spaced out but she isn't. She gets this little frown that she's thinking really hard and it's super cute.

She's better at cuddles. And she's the most precious thing to hold literally nobody has ever denied her a hug before

Her freckles on her arms are only really visible in the summer but she has a couple of moles

Connie isn't the most confrontational person out there, obviously, but when she gets upset she is absolutely livid. Zero to a hundred, immediately, would die for her friends with no hesitation. She never swears, but she has creative insults for real. (Think "wheelie bin" or "easy bake oven")

She could fix Johnny. That is all wont elaborate

Connie is the type that hangs out with her friends and might not really understand or enjoy the things that her friends like, but she'll happily sit and listen. She just really loves them, and seeing them happy makes her smile.

In other words, she's a great listener. And in turn gives good advice. Again, she could fix Johnny.

Call it basic, but her favourite milkshake and ice cream flavour is vanilla. It's just suited to her palette. She also dislikes plain chocolate ice cream, and usually ends up disliking it in milkshakes. Safe bet is to test just the one and if she likes it as an ice cream flavour she'll like it as a milkshake. (Big brain for words here wow)

She's actually a big tea spiller. She has all the gossip. But she will never ever tell anyone anything bad about a person unless it's absolutely 100 percent confirmed true.

Conspiracy theorist exclusively at 3AM on Wednesdays and Thursdays.

If ever you're in a hospital bed and asleep she can and will curl up next to you (hc I originally came up w. for my dumb ass if I were a tcm character but still applies). She curls up into your side and probably puts her head on your chest. She's almost always asleep when you wake up.

─── ⋆⋅☼⋅⋆ ─── Connie my beloved she is so sunshiney <3 <3 <3

[aggravatetheaxe]

what r their SPECIALs and tag skills. what brought them to being couriers. are they friends. or is this Strictly Business and they don’t know each other until they’re doing the courier 6 job

MOON AND LEV

My Couriers 6 Moon Geu-rin and Levent (alias, unknown to most, Levi Ben Ali Haggin)

their playlist

SPECIAL

Moon (28F) - S8 P8 E8 C2 I5 A4 L5

Lev (52M) - S5 P3 E4 C8 I5 A7 L8

What brought them to being couriers?

I need to research more about the Korean War, because they honestly gloss over it criminally in American schools, and it's also relevant to Moon considering pre-War Fallout is a 1950-60s nuclear """Utopia""" with the ""enemy "" being Communist China. I also remembered that "Moon" is kind of an especially contentious surname to give her, so now I'm like, oh, is this just utterly offensive? I am a champion overthinker, but I clearly also need more education about politics lol.

All that being said, after 2 centuries of living in one place, Geu-rin's family migrated from Alaska to Los Angeles, where she was recruited into the NCR. She had always been insecure about fitting in as a California citizen and the recruiters played on those fears - and her hope that she'd be able to help support her disabled mother - to get her to enlist. Basic was an extremely rough experience for her in a multitude of ways. Just pick a joy she might have had and she was stripped of it. Her culture, femininity, interests, everything.

If that wasn't bad enough, after deployment, skirmishes with the Khans and later the Legion kind of drained all the light from her eyes. She is no longer sure that humanity and goodness even exist. Regardless, her role in the conflict began to disgust her. When her mother expressed the same sentiment, she "accepted" this by cutting ties (thinking this would benefit her mom) and turned to self-medication through alcohol.

When her contract was up, rather than re-enlisting, she moved East, taking shelter with the none other than the Khans. Eventually, keeping her past a secret from them no longer worked. Needing a job but unable to stomach another tour with the NCR, and truly believing that she's only of use if she has a gun in her hands, she became a courier with the Mojave Express instead.

Lev's family were originally of the New England Commonwealth for many years until his great-grandparents migrated to Kentucky; then his grandparents migrated to Northern Texas. His parents grew up on a cattle ranch but left to head West in their late teens, while his mother was pregnant with him. They ended up on another ranch in Arizona. By the age of 14, the very adventurous Lev left for Nevada, where he immediately joined the Desert Rangers. He lied about his age, but he was such a natural shot that no one questioned him.

He served with them until he was 42, at times the only Ranger who could reach peaceful accord with the various Khans/Families. When the Rangers merged with NCR, he took issue and left. But being a Ranger was his identity for so long that, at that time, he fell into kind of a rough patch with drinking, drugs, cards, all the things Vegas is very bad for. But always one to put on a happy face - and a nice suit - most people didn't realize how deep in the hole or how bad off he was.

After an incident with a lounge singer, he was banned from his favorite establishment and realized he had to do something. He decided getting a job that required a lot of physical activity, like the Rangers had, would do him good, so he joined up with the Mojave Express despite their ties with the NCR. And he found he really enjoyed his job, too!

This leads them both to Primm, where, due to a clerical error (probably caused by Ulysses), they are both marked as Courier 6. Neither of them are willing to give up their job, because both of them are like i need this :despair emoji: so they grudgingly decide to go together and split the pay. They also both end up getting shot in the head by Benny. The rest is herstory.......

Lev is very much

whereas Geu-rin came back wrong and she's aware of it.

They're both bisexual. Lev is a Bugs Bunny coded bisexual who harasses Benny, and Geu-rin is a demisexual demiromantic bi who is harassed by Veronica and Boone. She bonds with Veronica via cute animal trinkets (good ending) and "bonds" with Boone by kicking him and punching him in the face and throwing him on the floor like a wet spaghetti (bad ending)

Are they friends or what?

Their relationship transcends friendship, but not in the conventional ways. They aren't romantic and they aren't a dad/daughter relationship - they aren't even a student/mentor relationship. They are really and truly nothing more than coworkers yet they would go into battle and take a bullet for each other. If either of them believed in fate, they would probably believe there is some outside force drawing them together, because their existences are so complementary that it seems like only intelligent design could have wrought it. They are ride-or-die companions and understand each other on a deep and existential level, although they have very few heart to hearts and disagree on plenty. HOWEVER, someone looking at them from the outside would probably not see that. They'd just see two associates who only mildly get along. They never refer to each other as "friends" they use words such as: coworker, associate, companion, comrade, compatriot, confidant/e, partner, etc.

Their connection is some deep spiritual desert trauma bonding shit. if you hurt one of them you don't even know you screwed up until it's too late.

[world-cinema-research]

Week 7 Blog Essay: Texas Chainsaw Massacre (1974) and the Comparison to Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon (2000)

(TWO FILM ESSAY)

By Jensen Boles

In the year of 1974, Tobe Hooper directed The Texas Chainsaw Massacre. He was also known for directing films such as Eggshells (1969), Poltergeist (1982), as well as the sequel, The Texas Chainsaw Massacre 2 (1986).

Above is the original theatrical trailer for The Texas Chainsaw Massacre.

Tobe Hooper's casting choice for this film mainly consists of unknown actors consisting of Gunnar Hansen, Marylin Burns, Edwin Neal, Paul A. Partain and Jim Seidow. While these actors were unknown at the time, they did eventually gain some recognition from horror fans, thanks to this film. Gunnar Hansen who played Leatherface in the film, even stated in an interview "Yes. And in fact, once Chainsaw came out, I started getting asked to be in films."

The story of The Texas Chainsaw Massacre is set in the same year the film came out, being 1974. The story of this film follows five friends who head to rural Texas to visit the gravesite of one of their grandfathers which has been desecrated. While on their way they stumble upon a psychopathic hitchhiker and an abandoned house that's home to a chainsaw wielding, cannibalistic psycho, named Leatherface along with the rest of his family who are also psychopaths and cannibals who are also known for tormenting their victims.

The film was known for having a low production budget consisting of only $140,000 and having a cast of mainly unknown actors as mentioned above. However the film made $26,572,161 for the worldwide box office. The film was also known for being really controversial due to its excessive violence and disturbing content which got the film banned in the UK for 25 years. The film was also inspired by the real life serial killer known as Ed Gein.

Despite the film's low budget and controversy at the time, the film was still praised by fans as well as a few critics such as Roger Ebert who stated "It’s also without any apparent purpose, unless the creation of disgust and fright is a purpose. And yet in its own way, the movie is some kind of weird, off-the-wall achievement. I can’t imagine why anyone would want to make a movie like this, and yet it’s well-made, well-acted, and all too effective." Roger Ebert was stating that despite the unconventional elements along with the film's low budget and controversy, the film was still effective and enjoyable in the horror genre.

Moving onto my second film of the week, Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon, which was released in the year 2000 and has a totally different plot which is set in 19th century Qing Dynasty, China and involves a young Chinese warrior named Jen Yu (Zhang Ziyi) who steals a sword from a famous swordsman named Li Mu Bai (Chow Yun Fat). Li Mu Bai was originally going to give his sword to a young female warrior, Yu Shu Lien (Michelle Yeoh) before it was stolen by Jen. Yu Shu-Lien, then gives chase to Jen and along the way, she encounters bitter loose ends, fervent passions, and an unconquerable desire for freedom.

Above is a still frame from Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon that consists of Yu Shu Lien (Michelle Yeoh) about to battle Jen Yu (Zhang Ziyi) in the most iconic scene from the movie.

In comparison to The Texas Chainsaw Massacre, Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon had a larger production budget consisting of $15,000,000 and made $213,966,221 worldwide. The film has also won an Academy Award for best cinematography as well as a Saturn Award for best Action/Adventure film.

The film has also garnered praise by fans and critics alike. Peter Bradshaw from The Guardian said "In the old-fashioned entertainment that it delivers, and in its inspired combination of seriousness and playfulness, Crouching Tiger is already assuming the lineaments of a classic." I think Peter Bradshaw makes a good point because the film is still considered a classic to this day and the cinematography still holds up today as well.

All in all, both of these films are totally different from one another because of the different budgets, the different setting, and the different style of films. The Texas Chainsaw Massacre had a lower budget and was set in Texas in the year of 1974, Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon however, had a higher budget and was a period piece set in 19th century China. The Texas Chainsaw Massacre was also a horror film which had gained some controversy over the years, while Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon was based off of a Chinese novel and had won awards for best cinematography and for best action film. Even the actors for both films are considered different, while The Texas Chainsaw Massacre had unknown actors at the time, Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon had a few well known actors, yet some of the actors weren’t known well amongst certain audiences.

[voesneroeiz]

i do not fucking care if a cop got shot do not blare rhat loud ass AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAK sound while i am trying to fucking sleep holy shit why is every emergency alert in texas loud enough to break the fucking sound barrier like it’s a 12 year old boy in a call of duty lobby i was sooo sleepy and snoozing abd then i had to hear that stupid ass emergency alert not even from my own tv from the tv in the fucking LIVING ROOM ang it woke me up and now i’m fucking scared bevause ooo scary noise! scary fucking noise I hope whoever devides to put that shir on tv at 6 in the morning shits themself bro oh mu fucking god

[brandonwayneb]

“Solicit Suffocation Hospital Cots”

“Suffocate Psy Siphone Death Stapes, Death Tape. Professional Genocide is OBVIOUSLY the only violator of MASS PUBLIC AFFAIRS.”

“Velvet Newspaper Solicit COT Suffocation,

COT COT COT”

“Solicit City Genocide.”

“SOUL LICK, SIPHONED DEATH”

“Solicit SOUL HOSPITAL assassinations”

MASS crimes have nothing to do with “IN DIE VISUALS” “INDIVIDUALS”

Thats WHITE GENOCIDE TEAM CORRUPTION

“VELVET ROPE NEWSPAPER DEATH CLUBS”

multiple white assassins, public ops.

public operations, micro transactions hospital systems

“Silicon Valley”

“Solicit TALKS SO LIGHT”

“Solicit Genocide Public Death In Full Historical Operations, past current and future, white corruption CO LODGE, SWEAT COTTAGE

COT COT COT

“Solicit Suffocation DEATH COT beds”

white intentional homicide in purposed malpractice, “sarcasm” and “commonality english district distortions”

SOLICT SUFFOCATION

DEATH, White Collar

“COLOR CRIMES”

Save GAY RAINBOWS

Do Not Blame “IN DIE VISUALS”

HOSPITAL VISUALS

STING OPS

SAY UR TURN

SATURN DEATH BAITS AND BETS

ALPHA BET WARS AND PUBLIC GENOCIDES

“Solicit White Velvet Club”

“Irish Red Elf”

“ELEPHANT RANT”

“IRISH RED ELF”

White homicide crimes directly on Irish lives, and public culture swapping.

SWAPPING. SWIPPING

“Snipe” “Pipe” “Pick When Ripe”

WHITE ILLEGAL SWATS

Genocide Teams

“Velvet NewsPaper Murders”

Mandarin Asian

Psy Beer Ann

Siberian Tooth Tiger

Mandarin

MAN DARE ASIAN

WORLD WAR CALLS TO GLOBAL RACIAL JUSTICE

Mandarin Asian

"MAN DARED A RED ASIAN"

IRISH RED

ASIAN RED

LIBERIA 🇱🇷 PSY BEER ERA

ERA ECHO EVA LONG GOREIA

EVE. EVERYONE

LIBERIA PSY BEER RED ANNOUNCEMENTS

MAN DARED ASIAN

MAN DARES RED EYE RIOTS

Liberia 🇱🇷 “white backdoor doors”

Texas Bores

Texas Pigs

Pigsty Piggly Wiggly White Shops,

Sex Ops

Bi Ops

Mu Tea

Multi

Multiple Pools

White Globalist Hostile Hospitals Traffic.

JEEPERS CREEPERS

JEEP BEEP BEEP, SEX SHEEP

DEATH COTS

Texas T Bone 🦴

Texas Vortex Vore Park Core

Texas TEA AXE

TEA AXE WHITE VELVET GENOCIDE CLUBS

TEA AXE VELVET ROPES

TEA EXCLUSIVE EX COMS

TEA WHITE GOD ALL SO MIGHTY

TEA CHANGE TEXAS RANGERS

DERANGED, DERANGERS DE RANGER,

POST OP, SEX COPS

Texas Ranger Psy Ops

"derange rango reign go lizard desert talk."

Disallow white genocides everywhere possible!

Focus Internal and International affairs

White Genocides

"white secret star agents"

"liberia bible belt"

🇱🇷

"Texas Hog Wash"

"Texas White Fog Cast"

SEA SEATTLE WATER ASSAULTS

STAR BLUE STONE FISH EXPLOSIONS

Seattle Satlight

Seattle satellites on "seat texas torture satan"

"seat satan"

"texan tax"

"texan tazmania devils"

"white genocide hazmat mass murders"

America 🇺🇸

Liberia 🇱🇷

"white bAXE door casting"

"BACK STER"

"BASTARD"

"BAXSTER AND SOPHIE"

"SO SIPHON"

America and Liberia

"Micro Crushing Bookshelves"

"Crushing Elf Bones"

"Element Genocide Lab Crimes"

White global wars

genocide war horns

throats made of thorns

"white fog horns"

[azlovesem]

Nobody wants to talk to me or they would. So i just keep firing away. And more die more damage is done. I dont ever get defeated im an eternal soul who is beyond anythi v you csn thtow at me. Too bad you csnt say the same eh. Or a few towns might still be on the msp. It is like the bible ive been yo this stupid tock befire not long sgo by mu standard cslculations in time.which can be adjusted time itsslf csn be manipulated. Anyone not on that level is far ftom my level. Im big im bag im beyond ur little primitive lil rockets or ai. Nobody cares theyrecwatching whst im gonna fo to you and your unholy creations. Thst thing looks like the killer from itpbot only a retard from texas eith thrir jobs on the line eould cheer like that fir dumb looking shit. Hiw you like truth kids? Not the same as losers tell you on tv. I beat them sll i got more thAn the gitl i hit sll the best girls plural. Bug you cant daye that msny wondn right? Maybe i shoild fo that experiment nug upu kids know as wrll as i do at sny given time thetes ususlly only one youd kill for.

Simone de Beauvoir, from "Inseraparable: A Never Before Published Novel,"

[baenxietydad]

SwynRPWriMo Task #11 -- The Comment Section: Write ten comments your character has left around the Internet

tracker

10 comments left by reddit user u/austinpostofficebox (a reference to Source Decay, a song by The Mountain Goats on Mu-yeol's favorite album) on posts in r/themountaingoats

1. Any love songs without a sense of impending doom?

u/austinpostofficebox (67 upvotes)

I hate to be pretentious but the most beautiful love song I've ever heard is Standard Bitter Love Song #5, an unreleased TMG song that was only performed once in 1992 [link to the song]

It makes me think of the way I loved my wife when she was still alive. The way I always will, except the song is pure joy, no longing.

2. What are some the most underrated mountain goats song in your opinion?

u/austinpostofficebox (15 upvotes)

OP I see your Old College Try and raise you International Small Arms Traffic Blues off of the same album. It's a pet favorite of mine. I'm from Asia, so geographic and historical references outside of the US in TMG songs always really excite me to hear. Like, "cool, John knows the rest of us exist." I love comparing the Alpha Couple's relationship to the border between Greece and Albania, fraught, yet intertwined and there's nothing that can be done about it.

But yeah, my top 10 list would be, in no particular order, and only sticking with released songs:

Distant Stations

Hostages (controversial, because it is less obscure, but I think it isn't appreciated enough)

Some Swedish Trees

Bell Swamp Connection

Alpha Sun Hat

Korean Bird Paintings

Onions

Stars Fell On Alabama

Alpha Desperation March

The Window Song

3. TMG Tattoos?

u/austinpostofficebox (7 upvotes)

I've always wanted a TMG tattoo. I've considered just getting "Matthew 25:21" because A. it would be funny because people would think it was a Bible reference when I'm not a Christian; and B. because I've been unable to be normal about the lyric "you were a presence full of light upon this earth, and I am a witness to your life and to its worth" since my wife died, which would be the reason I'd want it anyway.

4. Hey, /r/themountaingoats, what's your favorite unreleased song?

u/austinpostofficebox (12 upvotes)

Ethiopians, 100%.

"And I can't think of one thing in this whole wide blessed world that's more dangerous and frightening than you when you get bored" hello??? "Good things never last bad things never die" just kill me

Also You Were Cool, but I'm in my 40s and it shouldn't affect me the way it does, but it does.

5. Songs for when you feel hopeless and you need to sit with that feeling for awhile?

u/austinpostofficebox (24 upvotes)

Mobile for when you're begging God to kill you. Autoclave for when you' know you aren't worth loving. Steal Smoked Fish or TG&Y for "life sucks but I'm going to keep wasting oxygen." Balance for an impending sense of doom and not being able to fix it.

6. I want to get into TMG, where should I start?

u/austinpostofficebox (24 upvotes)

I started my partner with All Hail West Texas because it is personally my favorite album. I think he liked it! He doesn't listen to music much. And nobody else has listened to TMG because I told them to, so I don't have a large sample size, but AHWT is a good intro.

If you like the lo-fi vibe, work backwards. If you didn't love it, go to Tallahassee and work forwards.

7. What was everyone's first introduction to tmg?

u/austinpostofficebox (60 upvotes)

In 2002 I was living in Seoul, South Korea. My late wife and I were from Daegu, a city further south. Our apartment building had several American English teachers living in it and I had recently gotten brave enough to befriend them to practice my English. My wife and I were at our friend Henry's apartment when at some point he put on his cassette of Nine Black Poppies. Something about the frantic guitar strumming in Cubs In Five caught my attention and I liked that the songs were wordy but you could clearly hear what he was saying-- I thought listening to the band more would be a fun challenge to improve my English.

22 years later and they're my favorite band.

My brother suggested my partner, who is technologically challenged, buy tickets for me to see them in Bristol earlier this year and I got to take my son. I don't think he likes TMG that much but he knows them because of me, so he had a good time.

8. Any words or phrases you first learned from a TMG song?

u/austinpostofficebox (20 upvotes)

English is my third language and in 2002 I learned the idiom "waiting for the other shoe to drop" from Alphonse Mambo off of Coroner's Gambit

9. Are there any songs where the Jordan Lake Version is better than the original, in your opinion?

u/austinpostofficebox (40 upvotes)

Better: See America Right

Not better, but I can only sing it this way now: Foreign Object -- I like the lyric and melody changes that he did in this version

10. What's y'all's favorite half baked TMG lyrics?

u/austinpostofficebox (32 upvotes)

ONE? There's so many. Though half-baked? I feel like cooked rare more like it. John Darnielle is an excellent communicator.

Woke up afraid of my own shadow, like, genuinely afraid -- the delivery? gut-punch

I hide down in my corner because I like my corner -- bitch, me too

I was sitting in the street. I don't believe I've made it clear what exactly I mean by that. I was sitting in the middle of the street. --been there, mate, been there

Selling acid was a bad idea selling it to a cop was a worse one -- I'd say

Martin calls to say he’s sending old electrical equipment That’s good, we can always use some more electrical equipment! -- can we though?

[weaversweek]

My Year in Mix 1997 - Career highlights

My Year in Mix: 1997, twelve posts to cover all the important aspects of popular music from this year.

Part two: Long-service awards and career highs. Acts that had been around forever, and achieved a massive commercial breakthrough this year.

"Say what you want" - Texas. Glasgow's acoustic rockers finally broke through, thanks to some smooth, soulful, ear-friendly singles. And the incessant yapping of superfan Cliff Evans.

Their album "White on Blonde" was ubiquitous throughout 1997, four hit singles fell onto the radio like old friends. Not sure they've lasted terribly well, when was the last time you heard some of the other hits?

Here's the band on Conan O'Brien's show.

"Summertime" - The Sundays. Growing up takes time; five years for Harriet and David to record the album at their home studio, looking after their child.

Bright and breezy, like skipping through the meadows on a late summer's day.

A live performance in London.

"Tubthumping" - Chumbawumba. Respected chart commentator James Masterton wrote,

Imagine a record like "Tiger feet" and "Hi-ho silver lining" for the 1990s, imagine a song with a chanting chorus of "I get knocked down/but I get up again", imagine a record devoid of all anti-political posturing and devoted instead to the joy of drinking as much as possible for as long as possible. Longtime hardcore fans of the band (of which there are many) will potentially be disgusted at the way their idols have suddenly turned commercial, the rest of us will just enjoy what is far away one of the best, most original and fun singles of the year and one which you can guarantee will be played at roadshows and Christmas parties from now until the end of the next millennium.

International megastardom followed, with a well-received followup. And then they enlivened the BPI awards by giving John Prescott an early bath.

Jay Leno's show hosted this all-live performance, which contains some slightly rude language.

"The drugs don't work" - The Verve. Psychadelic shoegazers eased their sound towards alt-rock, with Richard Ashcroft's voice still the best feature.

Not the sort of song I'd normally pick, but The Verve were absolutely huge in 1997 and in no other year. And sometimes a song about failed psychoactives fits the mood, released at the start of September - a week when the whole country went completely and utterly doolally.

From Jools Holland's "Later" show.

"Something about the way you look tonight" - Elton John. After his career resurgence ("Sacrifice", "The Lion King"), everyone expected the new Elton song to do decent numbers. Top ten possibly, and certain to give his album "The Real Picture" a good shelf life.

Nobody expected it to sell five million copies. Five million copies, more than any other song before or since. The success was propelled in part by the b-side, which Elton performed at a hastily-arranged gig in central London, and which hasn't stood the test of time very well.

Back to Conan O'Brien for the A-side.

[teledyn]

Sadly however good it might be, that article is a lock-in trap, no access without submitting your email, so, basically, fuck you Intercept, you might be good, but you haven't been listening. No PII for you!

Can someone who bowed down copy-paste that article somewhere non-preditory?

See also…

Update: as it turns out, a text-mode browser gives the text, so here it is...

White supremacists and other domestic extremists maintain an active presence in U.S. police departments and other law enforcement agencies. A striking reference to that conclusion, notable for its confidence and the policy prescriptions that accompany it, appears in a classified FBI Counterterrorism Policy Guide from April 2015, obtained by The Intercept. The guide, which details the process by which the FBI enters individuals on a terrorism watchlist, the Known or Suspected Terrorist File, notes that “domestic terrorism investigations focused on militia extremists, white supremacist extremists, and sovereign citizen extremists often have identified active links to law enforcement officers,” and explains in some detail how bureau policies have been crafted to take this infiltration into account.

Although these right-wing extremists have posed a growing threat for years, federal investigators have been reluctant to publicly address that threat or to point out the movement’s longstanding strategy of infiltrating the law enforcement community.

No centralized recruitment process or set of national standards exists for the 18,000 law enforcement agencies in the United States, many of which have deep historical connections to racist ideologies. As a result, state and local police as well as sheriff’s departments present ample opportunities for white supremacists and other right-wing extremists looking to expand their power base.

In a heavily redacted version of an October 2006 FBI internal intelligence assessment, the agency raised the alarm over white supremacist groups’ “historical” interest in “infiltrating law enforcement communities or recruiting law enforcement personnel.” The effort, the memo noted, “can lead to investigative breaches and can jeopardize the safety of law enforcement sources or personnel.” The memo also states that law enforcement had recently become aware of the term “ghost skins,” used among white supremacists to describe “those who avoid overt displays of their beliefs to blend into society and covertly advance white supremacist causes.” In at least one case, the FBI learned of a skinhead group encouraging ghost skins to seek employment with law enforcement agencies in order to warn crews of any investigations.

That report appeared after a series of scandals involving local police and sheriff’s departments. In Los Angeles, for example, a U.S. District Court judge found in 1991 that members of a local sheriff’s department had formed a neo-Nazi gang and habitually terrorized black and Latino residents. In Chicago, Jon Burge, a police detective and rumored KKK member, was fired, and eventually prosecuted in 2008, over charges relating to the torture of at least 120 black men during his decadeslong career. Burge notoriously referred to an electric shock device he used during interrogations as the “nigger box.” In Cleveland, officials found that a number of police officers had scrawled “racist or Nazi graffiti” throughout their department’s locker rooms. In Texas, two police officers were fired when it was discovered they were Klansmen. One of them said he had tried to boost the organization’s membership by giving an application to a fellow officer he thought shared his “white, Christian, heterosexual values.”

Although the FBI has not publicly addressed the issue of white supremacist infiltration of law enforcement since that 2006 report, in a 2015 speech, FBI Director James Comey made an unprecedented acknowledgment of the role historically played by law enforcement in communities of color: “All of us in law enforcement must be honest enough to acknowledge that much of our history is not pretty.” Comey and the agency have been less forthcoming about that history’s continuation into the present.

  In 2009, shortly after the election of Barack Obama, a Department of Homeland Security intelligence study, written in coordination with the FBI, warned of the “resurgence” of right-wing extremism. “Right-wing extremists have capitalized on the election of the first African-American president, and are focusing their efforts to recruit new members, mobilize existing supporters, and broaden their scope and appeal through propaganda,” the report noted, singling out “disgruntled military veterans” as likely targets of recruitment. “Right-wing extremists will attempt to recruit and radicalize returning veterans in order to exploit their skills and knowledge derived from military training and combat.”

The report concluded that “lone wolves and small terrorist cells embracing violent right-wing extremist ideology are the most dangerous domestic terrorism threat in the United States.” Released just ahead of nationwide Tea Party protests, the report caused an uproar among conservatives, who were particularly angered by the suggestion that veterans might be implicated, and by the broad brush with which the report seemed to paint a range of right-wing groups.

Faced with mounting criticism, DHS Secretary Janet Napolitano disavowed the document and apologized to veterans. The agency’s unit investigating right-wing extremism was largely dismantled and the report’s lead investigator was pushed out. “They stopped doing intel on that, and that was that,” Heidi Beirich, who leads the Southern Poverty Law Center’s tracking of extremist groups, told The Intercept. “The FBI in theory investigates right-wing terrorism and right-wing extremism, but they have limited resources. The loss of that unit was a loss for a lot of people who did this kind of work.”

“Federal law enforcement agencies in general — the FBI, the Marshals, the ATF — are aware that extremists have infiltrated state and local law enforcement agencies and that there are people in law enforcement agencies that may be sympathetic to these groups,” said Daryl Johnson, who was the lead researcher on the DHS report. Johnson, who now runs DT Analytics, a consulting firm that analyzes domestic extremism, says the problem has since gotten “a lot more troublesome.”

Johnson singled out the Oath Keepers and the Constitutional Sheriffs and Peace Officers Association for their anti-government attitudes and efforts to recruit active as well as retired law enforcement officers. “That’s the biggest issue and it’s greater now than it’s ever been, in my opinion.” Johnson added that Homeland Security has given up tracking right-wing domestic extremists. “It’s only the FBI now,” he said, adding that local police departments don’t seem to be doing anything to address the problem. “There’s not even any training now to make state and local police aware of these groups and how they could infiltrate their ranks.”

A spokesperson for DHS declined to comment on the 2009 report or on the agency’s specific concerns about white supremacist and right-wing groups.

Timothy McVeigh, a U.S. Army veteran, bombed the Alfred P. Murrah Federal Building in Oklahoma City on April 19, 1995, killing 168 people.

Photo: Robert Daemmrich Photography Inc./Sygma/Getty Images

In 2014, the Department of Justice re-established its Domestic Terrorism Task Force, a unit that was created following the Oklahoma City bombing. But for the most part, the government’s efforts to confront domestic terrorism threats over the last decade have focused on homegrown extremists radicalized by foreign groups. Last year, a group of progressive members of Congress called on President Obama and DHS to update the controversial 2009 report. “The United States allocates significant resources towards combating Islamic violent extremism while failing to devote adequate resources to right-wing extremism,” they wrote. “This lack of political will comes at a heavy price.”

Critics fear that the backlash following the 2009 DHS report hindered further action against the growing white supremacist threat, and that it was largely ignored because the issue was so politically controversial. “I believe that because that report was so denounced by conservatives, it sort of closed the door on whatever the FBI may have been considering doing with respect to combating infiltration of law enforcement by white supremacists,” said Samuel Jones, a professor of law at the John Marshall Law School in Chicago who has written about white power ideology in law enforcement. “Because after the 2006 FBI report, we simply cannot find anything by local law enforcement or the federal government that addresses this issue.”

Pete Simi, a sociologist at Chapman University who spent decades studying the proliferation of white supremacists in the U.S. military, agreed. “The report underscores the problem of even discussing this issue. It underscores how difficult this issue is to get any traction on, because a lot of people don’t want to discuss this, let alone actually do something about it.” Simi said that the extremist strategy to infiltrate the military and law enforcement has existed “for decades.” In a study he conducted of individuals indicted for far-right terrorism-related activities, he found that at least 31 percent had military experience.

After a series of investigations uncovered substantial numbers of extremists in the military, the Department of Defense moved to impose stricter screenings, including monitoring recruits’ tattoos for white supremacist symbols and discharging those found to espouse racist views.

“The military has completely reformed its process on this front,” said the SPLC’s Beirich, who lobbied the DOD to adopt those reforms. “I don’t know why it wouldn’t be the same for police officers; we can’t have people with guns having crazy ideas or ideas that threaten certain populations.”

After a news conference on Aug. 6, 2012, community members in Oak Creek, Wisc., hold up a mug shot of Wade Michael Page, an Army veteran and the suspected shooter in a deadly attack on a Sikh temple.

Photo: Darren Hauck/Getty Images

Reforming police, as it turns out, is a lot harder than reforming the military, because of the decentralized way in which the thousands of police departments across the country operate, the historical affinity of certain police departments with the same racial ideologies espoused by extremists, and an even broader reluctance to do much about it.

“If you look at the history of law enforcement in the United States, it is a history of white supremacy, to put it bluntly,” said Simi, citing the origin of U.S. policing in the slave patrols of the 18th and 19th centuries. “More recently, just going back 50 years, law enforcement, particularly in the South, was filled with Klan members.”

Norm Stamper, a former chief of the Seattle Police Department and vocal advocate for police reform, told The Intercept that white supremacy was not simply a matter of history. “There are police agencies throughout the South and beyond that come from that tradition,” he said. “To think that that kind of thinking has dissolved somehow is myopic at best.”

Stamper said he had fired officers who expressed racist views, but added, “It’s not likely to happen in most police departments, because many of those departments come from a tradition of saying the officer is entitled to his or her opinions.” Whether the First Amendment protects an officer’s right to express racist, white supremacist views — or even to associate with organizations that endorse those views — is something that remains a subject of debate, Stamper said. “You can fire someone. Whether the termination will stand up under review is the real question.”

“Local, state, federal agencies, all to some extent have their hands tied, because it’s not necessarily against the law to be a member of a domestic hate group” said Simi, noting the military as the one exception because of its unique legal status. For instance, the U.S. government considers the KKK a hate group — but membership in the group is not illegal. That’s the case for all domestic hate or extremist groups, though authorities can choose to target their members under conspiracy statutes, Simi said.

Most police departments don’t screen prospective officers for hate group affiliation. The SPLC has reported that the number of these groups peaked at more than 1,000 in 2011, from less than half that in the late 1990s, though experts like Simi note that many of these groups “come and go” and membership between them is often fluid.

Although officers have been fired for expressing hateful views — sometimes to be re-hired by other departments, as happens regularly with officers accused of misconduct — some officers have also challenged those dismissals in court. Robert Henderson, an 18-year veteran of the Nebraska State Patrol, was fired when his membership in the Klan was discovered. He sued on First Amendment grounds and appealed all the way to the U.S. Supreme Court, which declined to hear his case. Last year, 14 officers in the San Francisco Police Department were caught exchanging racist and homophobic texts that included several references to “white power” and messages such as “all niggers must fucking hang.” Most of those officers remain on the force after an attempt to fire several of them was blocked by a judge, who said the statute of limitation had expired.

“All agencies, if they want to, can curtail this problem — the problem is that many do not,” said Jones, who has been tracking similar incidents following the 2006 FBI report and believes many more get buried behind the code of silence that often dominates police departments. “When somebody holds a belief that indicates that they do not see all Americans are worthy of equal protection under the law, it compromises their ability to be a police officer.”

A member of the Georgia Security Forces, an extremist militia, participates in a military drill in Flovilla, Ga., on Nov. 12, 2016.

Photo: Mohammed Elshamy/Anadolu Agency/Getty Images

According to the Counterterrorism Policy Guide, the FBI has the option to mark a watchlisted police officer as a “silent hit,” thus preventing queries to the National Crime Information Center, a clearinghouse for crime data accessible to law enforcement agencies nationwide, from returning a record that identifies the officer as having been flagged as a known or suspected terrorist. The document states that a “specific, narrowly defined, and legitimate operational justification” must be given in order to mark a Known or Suspected Terrorist (KST) entry as a silent hit. The suspect’s membership or affiliation with a law enforcement or military agency with access to the NCIC database is one of the specific justifications listed, implying that extremist infiltration is enough of a concern that the FBI has built-in protocols to prevent domestic terrorism investigations from being obstructed by members of law enforcement.

The FBI document also notes that in order to protect the safety of local law enforcement, suspects who are “violent or are known to be armed and dangerous” may not be marked as silent hits. It’s unclear how that standard applies to armed law enforcement personnel, especially since the FBI document singles out not only white supremacist groups for their ties to law enforcement, but also militia extremists and sovereign citizen extremists. While there is plenty of overlap between them, the last group, in particular, is characterized by deep anti-government ideology and the belief that “even though they physically reside in this country, they are separate or ‘sovereign’ from the United States,” the FBI notes on its website. “As a result, they believe they don’t have to answer to any government authority, including courts, taxing entities, motor vehicle departments, or law enforcement.”

In a 2011 article, the FBI’s counterterrorism analysis section called sovereign citizens “a growing domestic threat to law enforcement.” In one 2010 incident, two Arkansas police officers were killed when 16-year-old sovereign citizen Joseph Kane fired on them with an AK-47 assault rifle after he and his father were pulled over for a routine stop.

A 2014 survey found that sovereign citizen extremists were perceived by law enforcement agencies as a top threat, ahead of foreign-inspired extremists. And a 2015 DHS intelligence assessment, written in coordination with the FBI, warned about the continuing threat sovereign citizen extremists pose to police officers.

The counterterrorism guide does not specify the conditions under which the FBI will notify local law enforcement agencies whose members may be under surveillance as silent hits. Michael German, a former FBI agent who specialized in domestic terrorism investigations, told The Intercept that such alerts are likely handled on a “case-by-case basis.” “Typically, if someone in the police department is suspect, unless it’s an extreme case of leadership, professional courtesy requires some sort of notification,” he said.

The FBI did not respond to a detailed series of questions sent by The Intercept about its knowledge of extremists’ presence in law enforcement agencies, but a spokesperson for the agency did comment on the practice of placing silent hits on law enforcement officers. “While a silent hit would keep a subject who is a law enforcement employee from knowing they are under scrutiny, it would be standard practice to let someone at the agency know that one of their officers was under investigation,” the spokesperson said.

  Although the FBI’s counterterrorism guide prohibits watchlisting individuals in the Known or Suspected Terrorist File “based solely on activities protected by the First Amendment,” the document does not elaborate on what would constitute such activity. Nor does it state what specific actions on the part of officers would be serious enough to warrant inclusion in the watchlist. The document refers to the Terrorist Screening Center’s March 2013 Watchlisting Guidance, previously published by The Intercept, for additional details regarding the watchlisting standard. The FBI did not answer questions about what activities would warrant entry into the list.

Civil rights groups have denounced the Known or Suspected Terrorist database’s lack of transparency and the vague formulation of its standards. In a detailed analysis of the KST watchlist based on documents obtained through a Freedom of Information Act lawsuit, the ACLU observed that the goal of the list “is not law enforcement, but the surveillance and tracking of individuals for indefinite periods.” The April 2016 report characterized the watchlist as “essentially a black box — an opaque and expanding accumulation of names.”

A disproportionate number of Muslims have been included on the watchlist, and because the database is accessible to federal, state, and local law enforcement agencies nationwide, the ACLU said, they are exposed to “unwarranted scrutiny or investigation by police.” That level of scrutiny has hardly been applied to white supremacists, however, even though the country’s first anti-terrorism laws, in the 1870s, were aimed at protecting black citizens from groups like the KKK, and despite the ongoing threat posed by these extremists.

“This is a fundamental problem in this country: We simply do not take this flexible, and forgiving, and exceptionally understanding approach for combating any other form of terrorism,” said Jones. “Anybody who’s on social media advocating support for ISIS can be criminally charged with very little effort.”

“For some reason, we have stepped away from the threat of domestic terrorism and right-wing extremism,” Jones continued. “The only way we can reconcile this kind of behavior is if we accept the possibility that the ideology that permeates white nationalists and white supremacists is something that many in our federal and law enforcement communities understand and may be in sympathy with.”

That sympathy might just be reflected by the election of a president who was endorsed and celebrated by the KKK, and who has been reluctant to disassociate himself from individuals espousing white supremacist views.

“This election, for white supremacists, was a signal that ‘We’re on the right track,’” said Simi. “I have never seen anything like it among white supremacists, where they express this feeling of triumph and jubilee. They are just elated about the idea that they feel like they have somebody in the White House who gets it.”

Top photo: A member of the Ku Klux Klan protests the removal of the Confederate flag from the state house building in Columbia, S.C., on July 18, 2015.

a few years ago there was an exposé in the intercept about how, according to the fbi, police departments are so thoroughly infiltrated by white supremacists that it's policy to avoid working with them when possible. just something to think about