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seaslugfanclub · 7 months ago

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Kool-aid Isn’t the Only Thing I’m Thirsty For

Happy 4th of July everyone!

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“Y’know my great grandfather was stationed in France?”

“No shit? My nephew was deployed there.”

“Yeah— Cant remember for the life of me what division he was in, but he was sent back to the states after he blew off most of his fingers.”

“Yeesh.. Makes me mighty glad I missed out on all o’ that! hey- make sure to keep flippin’! These need to be grilled correctly.”

“Don’t tell a man how to use his own grill…”

Sykes, Rourke, and Alameda hovered over the grill, Sykes in charge of the burgers as he shot the shit with the old commander and cow wrangler, a half-smoked cigar hanging from each of their mouths and a chilled beer bottle in hand.

It had been a while since Sykes had celebrated the 4th, but he had subtly dominated the command of the grill. And Rourke was more than happy to piss away time, puffing on his cigar as he talked about old war battles with the two other men.

The sun beat down on the men, who had stationed themselves in the old lot behind the main studio building, both Rourke and Sykes had exchanged their usually stiff outfits for their old wife-beaters. While Alameda wore a simple plaid button up. An old radio played classic yacht rock, sitting atop a splintering picnic table. And a cooler filled with drinks was placed beside the grill, a few spare wasps hovering around the yellowed plastic of the cooler.

“(Y/N)!!!” Sykes hollered, Rourke and Alameda flinching at the noise,

“How're you doing with the Kool-aid!?”

(Y/n) opened the door to the backyard, calling back, “Almost done!!!”

Closing the door, (Y/n) turned towards Medusa, who was finishing mixing the disgustingly sweet drink, limp cigarette between her lips

“Hey, don’t get any cigarette ash in it!” They whined.

“Oh please, I won't! At least the ash would cut back the sugar.” Medusa muttered, sweeping back her dangling American flag earrings.

(Y/n) nodded, pulling on the hem of their denim shorts that stuck to their sweaty skin. “Cool, Imma bring out the ketchup and shit, Facilier, do you wanna join us?”

Facilier, who was draped on the counter across from Medusa, top hat off and slightly fanning himself shrugged,

“Eh, I’m not too big on burgers Chére. And I’m pretty sure drinking even a small glass of that red monstrosity will put me in an early grave.”

“You sure? I brought some illegal fireworks that we’ll be setting off later? You could do the honors of lighting them?”

Facilier paused his fanning, “…Illegal you say? What kind?”

“Oh I’ve got; Snakes, sparklers, firecrackers, M80, black cats, Roman candles, screamin’ Mimi’s, ladyfingers, fuzz buttles, snicker bombs, church burners, finger blasters, gut busters, crap flappers, whistling bungholes, spleen splitters, whisker biscuits, honkey lighters, hoosker do’s, hoosker don’ts, cherry bombs, nipsa daisers with scooter stick, and whistling kitty chasers.” (Y/n) listed off with their fingers.

…

“….Well, I could never pass up a good ol’ Roman candle… sure. Just let me know when you bring ‘em out.”

(Y/n) laughed, nodding excitedly as they carried out all the condiments, paper plates, and napkins to the backyard, Medusa bustling beside them with the large pitcher of iced Kool-aid.

“I haven’t had a proper July 4th cookout since I was a girl! I still remember my ol’ mother and father screaming over the undercooked hot dogs… Oh, back when this country had proper domestic violence~” Medusa cooed, a nostalgic smile making her eyes squint.

The park attendant gave Medusa the side eye, brows furrowed before shaking their head, (Y/n)’s attention quickly turned towards the large men outside.

They tried not to blatantly stare at how tight Sykes beater was stretched around his chest, or how all of the men’s chest and arm hair were slicked with sweat, OR how an old anchor tattoo made itself known on Rourkes back whenever he flexed, OR OR how good Alameda looked taking a long puff his cigar.

…

“…Meat's back on the menu tonight…” (Y/n) thought to themselves, hoping that the heat could excuse their flushed face.

To break out of there thoughts, (Y/n) shouted to the group,

“Alright! Who’s ready to party!?”

———————————————————————

“What in god's name are they doing?” Hook muttered, watching through the window in morbid fascination as (Y/n) fanatically cheered on Facilier, who had begun to laugh maniacally as he shot off three Roman candles at once.

“Oh it’s that silly American holiday, today. The one where they dress up is garish clothing and raise their cholesterol.” Cruella hisses, already feeling a headache coming on. “I tell you those Americans eat like they have free healthcare..”

“Ugh, a wretched holiday for a wretched country, the traitors..” Governor Ratcliffe sneered.

“Oh, now look at that—” Hook pointed out,

From the backyard, Rourke hands (Y/n) what seems to be a small, multicolored bazooka, a wicked grin on his face as he helps them light the rocket's fuse.

Rourke ruffled their hair, stepping back a few paces to join Sykes and Slim’s side, watching proudly as (Y/n) braces and aimed the rocket towards the sky, shooting a fiery ball high up into the night air, which promptly exploded into a burning flower of sparkles. The firework joking one of many across the dark sky.

“USA! USA! USA! USA!”

…

“…I bet 30 dollars one of them is losing a finger tonight.” Clayton speaks up amongst the crowd of villains watching from inside.

“Aye, make that 50.”

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Just wanted to write a little blurb celebrating the 4th of July! I realized just how little American villains the Disney cannon has, and I wanted an excuse to thirst over Rourke and Sykes in old wife- beaters grilling me a burger🤤.

(ALSO DISCLAIMER!! This was merely written for fun. I love America and I love the beautiful nature it has, but I don’t love the American government.

This was not written with any political intention, only thirst for old men and Kool—aid.)

#disney villains #self insert #disney imagine #disney x reader #lyle rourke #disney atlantis #bill sykes #medusa #dr facilier #alameda slim #4th of july #america ya

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emswritingsstuff · 5 months ago

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Radio Control (Daryl Dixon x Reader)

summary: playing your music in the car, daryl isn't a huge fan.

note: very self-indulgent drabble, i headcanon that daryl likes heavy rock music, so quite the opposite of yacht rock. also i wrote this in like JUNE

WC: 0.3k

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“Turn tha’ shit down,” Daryl scoffed as reached over to the car radio. Smacking his hand lightly, you shot him an offended look. “It’s not even that loud. Besides, without the music I’d be bored as hell.” You could feel Daryl roll his eyes as he focused his attention back to the road.

Passively listening to the music, your face lit up when Reelin’ In the Years by Steely Dan started coming through the speakers. Turning up the volume knob slightly, you sang along. Daryl’s small grumbles were heard in the background but you just ignored it, just living in the moment. Soon the music got extremely quiet, abruptly stopping your singing to look over at Daryl.

“What was that for?” as you spoke, it was your turn to reach for the volume knob. But quickly getting stopped by Daryl who grabbed your hand and held it up. “No, can’t focus with yer hippie music blaring,” he kept sneaking glances at your angry expression. Snatching your hand back, you crossed your arms and looked out the window.

“It’s not hippie, it's yacht rock. If you're gonna insult my music, do it right.” You could sense Daryl’s eyes roll again as you saw him pinch the bridge of his nose out of your peripheral . He let out a deep grunt and shook his head. “Doesn’t matter, I should get music choice anyways,” leaning forward your put up your hand and wagged your finger. “Nuh uh, I’m passenger. I get the choice here.”

Daryl, not wanting to continue the argument any longer, just sighed. “Fine, play what ya want. Won’t complain again.” Getting all smiley again you said a quick, “You’re the best” before turning the music back up.

Jamming out again, you felt the happiest you had felt in a minute. Finally getting to the music you love again. And even if Daryl complained about it, you knew he loved it. You could see it in his body language when he tapped the steering wheel to the beat of the song.

#daryl dixon #daryl dixon x reader #the walking dead #the walking dead x reader #x reader #fanfic #fluff #drabble

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stawpny · 17 days ago

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random states and their genre of music they would listen to

New York: punk rock (musicals..)

Massachusetts: dad rock (90’s) or like that one Irish song I have no idea the name of

California: pop (mainly 2000’s but he’ll play popular songs occasionally)

Texas: capitalist country

Florida: absolutely anything

Louisiana: southern jazz (did u know there’s a house in New Orleans)

Illinois: Midwest emo (The Front Bottoms, Modern Baseball, all of it)

New Jersey: indie folk (the crane wives is all I can see him listen to)

Alaska: noah kahan and Hozier

Connecticut: entirety of the yacht rock station

Washington: grunge rock

Gov: only listens to horrible pop songs they play on the radio

Nevada: ayesha erotica

Virginia: classical fella

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bettyfrommars · 13 days ago

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Crawling towards the finish line that is this year – biker!Steve notices and remembers you used to love Christmas when you lived in town (maybe it’s something that’s lost on you now). I feel like he’d do something quietly sweet.

This is coming from the girl who can’t write a single sentence for her Steve fic so pls feel free to ignore lol ❤️‍🔥

Welcome to 2025! Gah, I'd been hopinggg to get this out before the end of last year as a holiday gift for you, Mel, but alas. You know how it goes. Loved spending time with him so thank you for always wanting to get to know our biker boy.

biker!Steve x afab!Reader

For others seeing this, I know "biker Steve" can get confusing here because I have two different ones 😂 But this is Ring of Fire Steve, in a universe parallel to Hawkins called Hawkeye. You do not have to be familiar with that au to enjoy/understand this.

18+only but this is just so fluffy. Strange things happen in Hawkeye, and this is no exception. Introduction to a place called Hellfire Hollow. A Christmas song is mentioned, but that is it.

Word Count: 2.2k

"Does this look okay?"

You stepped out of the bathroom to smooth your hands up and down your thighs. Steve was stretched long on your bed, head propped up on the knuckles of his fist, flipping through an issue of Sassy magazine.

He mumbled "uh huh" before even looking up, fully engrossed in a quiz titled: How to know if he is really into you. You said his name and he blinked to attention.

"Wowzers," he froze and then slowly sat up, swallowing hard.

An awkward laugh bubbled out of you. "I take it that's a yes?"

It's not like you were in an evening gown or anything, but you realized he's only ever seen you in casual jeans and tees, possibly a hoodie or two. He probably didn't even know you had a waist to speak of.

He hasn't moved, you're not sure he's even breathing until he offers a few micro nods. It took a herculean amount of strength not to blurt out that he loved you, but that would be absurd. Normally he’d put on the ‘ol Harrington charm of pretending he didn’t care, but he was too far gone at that point.

"You didn't say where you are taking me," you shifted your weight from foot to foot. "So hopefully it's not to go rock climbing or something."

His wallet chain jingled as he stood to step over and kiss you softly on the corner of your mouth, hovering close as he spoke. "That's right, it's a surprise, but what you're wearing is fine. More than fine. It's beautiful, I mean, you're beautiful." He moved back to gather his thoughts. "You'll need a coat or something though. Something warm you can put on once we get there."

"Consider my interest piqued," you scratched your fingers through the side of his hair, tucking a piece behind his ear with the hoop piercing, and he leaned into the touch like a cat. He wore a black Corroded Coffin tee under his blue and green flannel, and that spicy cologne you liked.

It's the first week in December, but it's rare for the temperature to ever fall below freezing in Hawkeye, so you no longer own a heavy winter coat. Your trusty leather jacket is hanging on the door handle behind you, and you hoped that would suffice for the evening.

"You're so far away," Steve said once you were in the truck, patting the space on the bench seat next to him, begging with those puppy dog eyes for you to scoot over to be closer to him. Once you were there, his hand went to your knee, and that is where it stayed for the rest of the trip unless he was fiddling with the radio.

"I missed you while you were gone," you said over the grumble of the engine and his trusty yacht rock sifting from the speakers. Steve just got back from being out of town on a run with his motorcycle club for a few days.

"Really?" He turned to stare at your profile as if he needed confirmation that it wasn't a joke. "I missed you too. Thought about you the whole time. There was a payphone at the place we ate at on the way home. I was gonna call, but then I thought nah that's stupid. You were probably busy anyway."

"I would've liked that,” you replied, but it was too quiet for him to hear.

He drove for a while, to the outskirts of town where the highest point in the sprawling desert was telephone poles lined against a darkening sky, snuggled in a sea of sagebrush. He cut left down a road that didn’t even look like a road at first and then crests a ledge that drops down into a valley.

Finding a station on the radio playing Christmas music, he twists the knob to turn up the volume a notch. It's Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas by Judy Garland.

"I love this song," you said, cracking a smile.

"I know."

It was your turn to check his profile to see if he was pulling your leg. Steve only shrugged and squeezed your knee.

"How would you know that?"

He sniffed, secretly proud of himself. "You, um, you told me. One time at school you were sitting alone on the roundabout humming a song, so I asked to know what it was. You seemed like you didn't really want to tell me, but I don't know, I'm pretty persuasive, I guess." He flicked a shy smirk. "It was in a movie you used to watch with your grandmother."

You weren't sure if it was the memory itself or the idea that a ten-year-old Steve managed to retain that detail, but emotions tightened in your throat and tickled there until you coughed.

"I wish it would snow," you admitted, lowering your temple to his shoulder. You imagined the landscape ahead covered in white with fluffy candy flakes blanketing the windshield before the wipers brushed them away, but it never snowed in Hawkeye.

"We're almost there," he replied with an answer that was seemingly unrelated, tilting his head so that it was touching yours. .

It's then that you see it: Hellfire Hollow.

Against the deep purple sunset, the trees looked like long, crooked, menacing fingers coming up out of the ground.

"Have you ever been here before?"

"Never," you said. "I've only heard the stories."

The bark of the trees that comprised Hellfire Hollow were said to be black with char and void of any foliage or other signs of life. Some say they were the product of a horrible fire that swept the town generations ago; others believe they came out of the earth like that.

"Didn't a kid disappear out here a while back?" You adjusted in your seat, leaning forward to get a better look. “He was in high school. There was a search party and everything.”

"Yeah they never found him," he parked and turned the engine off but left the lights on. “He showed up like months later as if no time had passed. Said he went through a tree, ended up in a place called Hawkins, and couldn’t find his way back. No one believed him.”

“Weird.” That was the only thing you could think of to say, peering in through the sinister shapes.

“That’s Hawkeye for you,” he unfastened his seatbelt and paused. “You know you don’t have to worry, right? I won’t let anything happen to you.”

“I know,” your gaze fixed out the windshield to the motes of dust swarming in the beam of the headlights. “I like this place, it’s creepy.”

“I thought you might,” he stretched across the cab with a grunt to flick open the glovebox and grab a flashlight with a yellow handle. “We’ll go get some dinner after this, but there’s something really cool I want to show you. Not many people know about it. Grab your coat.”

“How far are we going?” You wondered this as he helped you step down from the cab; you couldn’t imagine traveling far enough for that much of a temperature drop.

“Hundred yards or so,” he stole a kiss, and then another and another, lips salty and cinnamon sweet, taking your face in his hand for one final long one, huffing a soft exhale of pleasure. “I promise, it’ll be worth it.”

A sharp wind bit through the air, whipping his hair in his eyes, and your whole body rippled from the chill, hissing as you shrugged into your jacket.

He held your hand once it was through your sleeve and pointed the flashlight beam ahead. Each step felt like walking on popcorn, and a huge bird, possibly an owl, flapped its wings to ascend from the branches with the fanfare of some mystical beast.

The weight and smell of the air changed, as if that specific area belonged to another space in time and you’d crossed an invisible barrier. Faint whispers crackled at your ears like they would in a hypnagogic state, making your skin ripple with gooseflesh.

“It’s right over here,” you were pinned to his side while he guided you to the left, carving a path of light through the inky night. One massive, charred tree had a thick trunk with an opening in it the size of a hobbit door.

You shivered so hard in reaction to the icy pocket of space that your back teeth clacked together. Steve hooked an arm around you and pulled you into his side while he used the other to point at the opening in the tree.

“Get closer,” he hushed, giving a soft nudge. “Look inside.”

After a sharp intake of breath, you held it in, staring at the arched opening in the seemingly ancient tree that was something out of a fable; it had roots erupting from the ground like the bent knuckles of some earth dwelling beast..

The opening was big enough for you to crawl through, but just. Without a glance at your companion, you bent down and shuffled forward, bending a knee to stick your head in.

“Wait no!” He was quick to snatch you back, his eyes wide and feral. “I didn’t say go in. That would be bad.”

You wet your bottom lip, your warm breath making smoke in the air. “Why would it be bad?”

He took a firm grip on your arm instead of answering. “Let’s look together. Stay back here with me.”

You were happy to go along with that suggestion, another chill cramping the muscles in your thighs.

Lowered to mirroring crouches, you peered inside. At first you saw nothing but the dark insides of a hollowed out trunk. After a few blinks, the space filled with what resembled static from a television.

But it wasn’t static; it was snow.

Snow?

A gentle stream of fluffy, white flakes inside the tree? Never had Hawkeye ever seen a snow fall.

Steve turned to catch your reaction, pleased to watch your jaw go slack.

“How is it possible?” Your mesmerized eyes glistened with wonder, tilting your head back to see if it was falling from above.

“Hell if I know,” he nuzzled his nose against your cheek. “It’s a doorway to another place, that’s what they say.”

“Another place?” You squinted, peering closer to see the outline of a building, lined with pine trees. There was a whole scene of a tiny town in there, as if someone shook a gigantic snow globe.

He rested his temple against yours to watch the scene. “I remember you said you wanted to see some snow.”

“Yeah.” Your throat tightened when you swallowed, a dam of tears building behind your eyes. Steve had proven to be such a thoughtful boyfriend, you felt melancholy about all of those years you’d spent without him.

“It’s a doorway to another world that is kinda like ours,” he continued. “Some people go through and come back, but some people don’t. There’s no rhyme or reason to it, as far as I can tell. A guy from our club went through there once when he was running from the law. He showed up the next day, but he was ten years older. Said he’d made a whole other life for himself with a wife and all in that other town, but he robbed a bank and thought he’d hide out here for a bit.”

“Did he go back?” Your hands crept under Steve’s lined Carhart jacket to leech his warmth and his armpits welcomed you in.

“That’s the sad bit,” he squeezed you, exhaling. “The tree wouldn’t let him go back. Every time he tried, he’d just end up in the belly of a regular old tree. He tried for months, it drove him mad I think. Ended up crashing his motorcycle in a high speed chase. Died instantly.”

You were silent, watching a few stray snowflakes escape the doorway only to melt instantly on the matte black bark.

“Maybe that means he finally made it back,” Steve mumbled.

“I hope so.” You didn’t realize at first, but you were taking steps backward, creating distance from the entrance. The idea occurred to you that maybe some cowboy lasso would fly out and snag you to drag you into that other place.

“C’mere,” Steve pulled you around so that your chest was against his, leaning in for another kiss.

“The tip of your nose is like ice,” you chuckled, dragging your lips along his before wiping your own nose with the back of your sleeve.

“Yeah, it’s fucking freezing out here. You hungry?”

Your nod was enthusiastic, but you kept checking the snowy portal over your shoulder as you walked. There was a gravity about it, pulling you in, a sense of untethered yearning. Little did you know that the urge to step inside that tree was one you’d have to fight every day for a long, long while.

#biker!Steve #Steve Harrington fic #Ring of Fire #Steve Harrinton fanfiction #betty's asks #magic realism #for Mel

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ourpickwickclub · 1 month ago

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The Retropop review of Bouquet is so nice and objectively fair. He gets it.

https://retropopmagazine.com/gwen-stefani-bouquet-album-review/

On 2020’s Let Me Reintroduce Myself, Gwen Stefani declared she’s ‘still the original me’, but four years later the singer – who scored a run of hits with No Doubt before launching a chart-topping solo career – reemerges as a ‘70s yacht rock siren on her fifth LP, ‘Bouquet’.

A collaboration with country producer Scott Hendricks, the 10-song LP sees the hitmaker ditch the ska, electro-pop and hip-hop sounds of her previous releases in favour of a more organic direction, resulting in her most personal body of work to date.

It’s only fitting that first single Purple Irises features Gwen’s husband, Blake Shelton, as her duet partner. Not only one of the earliest songs to emerge from the album sessions, the autobiographical track journeys through her early relationship insecurities to the pair’s life together on their Oklahoma ranch.

Lead single Somebody Else’s is something of an outlier on the record, with the storming anthem bidding farewell to the past with no uncertainty. A sure-fire radio hit, it stands out as one of the strongest tracks in her repertoire and a line in the sand as she proclaims: ‘Leaving you saved me, my God / Look at me blossom.’

The botanical theme runs through the record, with the title song and Marigolds early highlights that celebrate their connection, as she sings on the former: ‘Look at the life we made / We’re makin’ our own bouquet.’

It’s a metaphor for the album as a whole, with each song reflecting a particular moment, mood or emotion; Empty Vase is a tribute to Shelton filling her world with life and colour, while Pretty sees Gwen compare her inner glow and contentment to a dazzling diamond ring.

The understated Reminders is among the singer-songwriter’s most poignant lyrics, as she reflects upon the moments of happiness that enrich her day-to-day life, as the slow-burning Swallow My Tears sees her set aside past heartbreaks and embrace the present wholeheartedly.

"No doubt a jarring listen for longtime fans who have come to expect a signature sound from Gwen, it’s nonetheless one of the strongest releases of her career to date and further proof of the diva’s versatility in tackling a spectrum of genres with ease. It may not be her most commercial offering, but ‘Bouquet’ will surely be remembered as an essential chapter in Gwen Stefani’s decades-spanning and ever-evolving career."

A great review! Thanks for sharing it.

— M

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nycbabyjoey · 1 year ago

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Escape From Silly Times Daycare - PROLOGUE

NSFW 18+ Only

Sunlight peeked in through the cracks in the blinds as the alarm on Michael's iPhone started to chirp. Michael struggled to crack open his eyes as he threw his large, weighted comforter from off of his body. He slumped his hand over and hit the phone to stop the incessant noise. His phone showed the same time it always did: 6:30 a.m. This was the start to Michael's day... every day.

Michael turned his eyes over to the other end of the bed to his wife, Phoebe, who was thankfully still sound asleep. Phoebe didn't work and Michael's habit of making noise early in the morning (i.e. getting ready for work) made it so he had to endure an earful from his cranky wife in addition to his early routine. So, as he slipped out from under the sheets, he made sure to do so without making a peep.

He quietly made his way over to his walk-in closet and slowly slid the door open. Rows of repeating articles of clothing were on either side - one shelf of khakis, one closet rod of grey suits. The only articles which offered a more colorful variety were Michael's button down shirts, which alternated between white or blue, and an assortment of ties to match with his outfit. The most standout tie was one covered in a pattern of dollar bills, which Phoebe had gifted him ironically enough with his own money to celebrate his first day at his new job three years ago. It was a novelty tie; obviously, he couldn't wear it to work but that didn't stop Phoebe from ranting at him that he didn't appreciate her gifts.

First, Michael stripped out of his sleeping outfit, including his dirty boxers, partially stained with the remnants of an especially exciting dream he had had last night. He chucked them into an ever-growing pile of his dirty underwear that was mounting in the laundry basket. These dreams were hazardous to the load of laundry, but they were pretty consistent since Phoebe had expressed her disinterest in having sex regularly.

Michael groggily changed into his typical outfit - white button down shirt with the top collar buttoned with a grey suit and a striped tie. After changing, he slid the closet door behind him, wincing in fear as Phoebe stirred at the sound of the door squeaking. With the door completely shut, he sighed a quiet sigh of relief, happy that he hadn't woken his wife up at the last possible moment.

Safely in the kitchen, Michael's breathing returned to an audible norm now that he was blissfully alone for the only time of his entire day. For thirty minutes, he was able to sip his coffee, eat his toast, and work on a few clues from Sunday's crossword without anyone interjecting and telling him what to do. Once the thirty minutes were up, he had to begin his drive to the office, which added to his alone time but was not nearly as relaxing as his morning coffee due to the overwhelming amount of traffic. It was a long commute into the city, which is why his alarm was set so early in the morning. He dreaded it; nonetheless, he grabbed his keys and braced for the flood of cars.

As the chorus of horns on the interstate surrounded him, Michael gripped his steering wheel and took a long, deep breath. Car horns were always the background noise to his yacht rock radio station, but Michael hadn't been able to come to terms with their daily occurrence; in fact, they only became more irritating with every commute. Michael turned up the current song, trying to drown out the roar of never-moving traffic.

"Arthur, he does as he pleases All of his life, his master's toys Deep in his heart, he's just, he's just a boy Living his life one day at a time And showing himself a pretty good time Laughing about the way they want him to be"

The verse echoed in Michael's head until he was jolted back to reality by a shout, "Mike!"

Michael was sat at his cubicle in the office with his computer monitor turned on and his email opened to several unread messages. He must've gotten lost in his routine, mindlessly parking his car, making his way up the elevator, and setting up his work area as if he were on autopilot. As if he were a zombie.

The shout came from his coworker Jim, who was sat partially on the edge of Michael's desk but with both feet on the ground. He held up a folder of forms. Michael hated Jim for always showing him up at work and brownnosing the boss. Jim had the charisma that Michael lacked but made up for in actual work.

"Morning Jim," Michael managed. "How's your day so far?"

"Not bad, not bad," Jim responded. "Just had a meeting with Mr. Boss Man. Seems like they're going to announce who's getting the big assistant manager promotion later today."

Michael had his eyes set on that promotion since the former assistant manager left the position. He was a shoo-in, after all. He had the most sales of any of the agents, was always on time, and even stayed late most days. He didn't want to seem too excited in front of Jim since that was the sort of thing that would earn him some ribbing from his coworker, so he played it cool.

"Oh yeah?" Michael inquired, continuing the conversation. "You have any idea of who's going to get it?"

Jim looked around the office, raising his eyebrows as a sly grin grew on his face. "Well... it's me!" he announced. "That's why I just had that meeting. Oh gosh, I'm supposed to keep quiet about it, but I just can't keep my big mouth shut!"

Michael's heart sank. Of course Jim had schmoozed his way into the big promotion. Why would Michael even bother getting his hopes up? Jim must've noticed Michael's reaction because he immediately took the opportunity to dig the knife in deeper.

"Hey, keep your head up," he feignedly encouraged. "There'll be other promotions. Now that I'm your supervisor, I can always put in a good word." Michael had to physically restrain himself from rolling his eyes and groaning. "Speaking of being your supervisor," Jim continued. "I have some sheets I need filled out before EOD that I won't be able to get to because I have a lunch thing with a client. If I send you a link with those sheets, would you be able to handle those for me?"

"Actually, I..." Michael began to protest.

"Perfect!" Jim celebrated. "That'll be such a big help! You are such a team player!" He then opened his manila folder and placed one of the forms in front of Michael. "Also, before I go, could you sign and date at the bottom there?"

Michael began to look over the form. "It's just performance review stuff," Jim clarified. "All very standard."

That was enough for Michael to sign - if it would get Jim to leave him alone faster.

Jim took the form back and thanked Michael before leaving him to get to those Google sheets that needed to be completed. Michael opened Jim's link to a folder with a dozen sheets, each with hundreds of rows that needed to be math-checked and approved. He groaned, mentally rescheduling all the tasks he had planned to work on today. These sheets would take him all day.

And so they did. As Michael diligently did the math for each row and verified the result, he felt his mind wander to the reoccurring dream he had been having. The dreams never involved his wife, which Michael would sometimes feel guilty about. Last night, the subject of Michael's fantasies was Zendaya. She had busted down the door in a pair of sexy lingerie and crawled towards the foot of the bed, ravenous for his cock. She jumped on top of him before whispering sensually, "I want to feel it throbbing inside me."

Michael came back to reality, realizing that he'd have to redo the math of the last few rows as he hadn't even been consciously paying attention to the results. He looked around anxiously, worried that someone may have noticed the slight bulge in his dress pants. It was hard for Michael to focus on the task at hand, not only because of his sexual frustration, but also because it was so goddamn boring! And as Michael would get distracted, it would only take longer and longer.

A coworker stopped by at five o'clock to tell Michael about the happy hour happening in the lounge area to celebrate Jim's promotion, but Michael still had two sheets left to do. Regardless, he would rather jump out his office's sixth floor window than "cheers" to the tool who assigned him the extra busywork anyway.

At 8:00 p.m., Michael finally finished the last row and forwarded them back to Jim before shutting down his computer.

The drive back home wasn't as painful as the one that morning, mostly because the interstate was clear of rush hour traffic at this late hour. Still, the impatience to get home after a long day frustrated Michael. It was 9:06 when Michael made it inside his front door, which gave him an hour and twenty-four minutes to eat dinner, shower, and brush his teeth before going to bed.

Phoebe was in the kitchen as Michael walked in to reheat some leftovers. She wore a black see-through lace robe, which caused the immediate return of Michael's bulge. She had rollers all through her dark hair and she snacked on some potato chips with one hand as she swiped on her iPad with the other. She didn't bother saying "hello" to Michael before rushing towards him with the iPad.

"Babe!" she exclaimed in her dash, "Look at this bag! Don't you think it would look so great with my new heels?"

Michael glanced at the Prada website only briefly, not really looking but just out of a sense of obligation. "Yeah, definitely," he half-heartedly agreed before making his way to the fridge.

"I'm so glad you think so, baby!" Phoebe cheered. "Because I ordered it earlier!"

"Didn't you get a Prada bag like three weeks ago?" Michael asked as he pulled a cold dish of ziti out of the fridge.

"I know!" Phoebe said. "Now, I'll have options!"

Michael popped the ziti in the microwave before turning back to Phoebe. "Ok, honey, just..." he stammered. "We may need to be a bit careful with spending going forward. I... I didn't get the promotion."

"Oh, honey," Phoebe said with melancholy. "I heard. I'm so sorry."

"You did?" Michael questioned.

"Um... yeah," Phoebe responded. "Your... your boss called."

Michael sighed as the microwave beeped. He dejectedly opened the microwave door and grabbed the now hot bowl of ziti, throwing it on the kitchen counter as his fingers quickly felt the burn.

"Come tomorrow, that silly promotion isn't even going to matter," Phoebe declared as she grabbed her bag of potato chips and started to head upstairs. She paused though and turned back towards Michael, "Oh, before you take a shower, can you take the trash out? It's full. Thanks, baby!" She made some kissy noises and made her way upstairs.

Once Michael finished his dinner and took the trash out to the end of the driveway, he took a shower before joining Phoebe in the bed where she was reading Gone Girl next to the reading lamp stationed on her bedside table. Michael, horny from earlier, started to cuddle up to his wife and kiss her on the cheek. Despite his obvious hints, Phoebe would just smile and giggle shortly with her eyes glued to her novel. Michael figured his best chance would be to just ask, preparing himself for the usual rejection.

"Oh, baby," Phoebe pitied. "I'm in the middle of my book."

"It'll be quick," Michael bargained, knowing that was typically a bad thing.

"Fine," Phoebe agreed, much to Michael's surprise. She lifted her robe to unveil her pussy, dry as a desert. Michael, on the other hand, was ready to go and his precum acted as an instantaneous lube. He climbed on top of his wife and inserted himself; his tiny penis didn't cause any discomfort for his wife as he did so. As he thrust, Phoebe held her book behind his head, continuing to read as Michael did his best to pleasure her. She read about a paragraph before the sex ended with Michael whimpering and keeling over to his side of the bed. Michael gasped for air in pure ecstasy while Phoebe turned to the next page in her book. "That was nice, dear," Phoebe said simply, obviously not believing her own words.

It was 10:39 at that point and Michael closed his eyes as Phoebe continued her book. As Michael started to fall asleep, he thought ahead to the day that awaited him. It would be another average day where he would be used and emotionally neglected by his wife Phoebe, teased and condescended to by his coworker Jim, and rendered involuntarily celibate much to his sexual frustration; all the while feeling trapped in this never ending, soul-crushing cycle that made him feel worthless.

Michael was right about the details of tomorrow, but his overall conclusion was not correct - tomorrow would be anything other than an average day.

Waking up to his alarm at 6:30 a.m. was much the same as was his regimen of throwing his messy boxers in the laundry, getting dressed in a replica of yesterday's suit, and making his way downstairs to the coffee machine without waking Phoebe up.

However, as he sipped his coffee and worked on his crossword, he noticed Phoebe coming down the stairs in the same lace robe from last night. He set his coffee down and immediately began pleading, "I'm sorry, babe. I didn't mean to wake you up! I'll try and be quieter next time!"

"You didn't wake me up," Phoebe said morosely. "I came to say goodbye."

"Goodbye?" Michael questioned. Suddenly, there was a knock at the door. Michael turned to it as if something alien was on the other side; no one ever knocked this early in the morning. He looked to Phoebe for some type of validation, but she stared at the floor. After a moment, he walked over to the front door and opened it. Two large uniformed men pushed past Michael and entered the house.

"Hey!" Michael called after them, following closely behind. "Hey! You can't just barge in here! What's the big idea?!"

He made his way back to the kitchen where the two men were stood next to Phoebe. "I assume this is him?" one of the guys said, pointing at Michael. Phoebe silently nodded and the man turned to address Michael for the first time.

"You've been enrolled in a special program for reeducation," the man explained coldly. "Your program begins immediately and we are here to escort you away as soon as possible. You are required to leave all personal belongings behind or they will be confiscated from you at your arrival. If you resist, we are authorized to detain you through force. If you don't have any questions at this time, then we ask you to turn around and leave with us peacefully."

Michael's mouth hung agape. For seconds - what felt like minutes in his head - he was speechless. "Any questions?!" he finally responded. "Any questions? Yeah, I have a few questions. Phoebe, what are they talking about?"

Phoebe looked up at Michael with some shame. Her voice cracked a little as she spoke, "I love you, Michael. I really, really do, but... you're not the kind of husband I need. I need someone who can provide for me. Someone who bets on himself and wins every time. I need a real, supportive man."

"I provide for you!" Michael shouted back.

"You can't provide everything I need!" Phoebe claimed.

Michael scoffed. "All of this is because I didn't get the promotion, isn't it?"

"It's not just that!" Phoebe answered. "Our sex is terrible. I barely feel your prick inside me and it only takes ten seconds of me lying there like a starfish for you to..."

"Ok! Ok! I get it!" Michael interrupted, suddenly embarrassed that this intimate conversation was taking place in front of two strange men. "So what? You think you can just send me away to this 'reeducation' program and they're gonna teach me how to be a big, strong man for you?"

"No, that's not what they're going to teach you," Phoebe clarified. Michael was puzzled. It felt like every minute detail Phoebe dropped into the conversation changed Michael's understanding of the problem entirely. Why was Phoebe complaining about his inability to provide and please her if she wasn't going to send him away to a program that fixed those issues? She continued, "When you come back, things will be completely different. But, we can be together forever. And happy! It's for the best."

"You can't make me go," Michael said, standing his ground. "You can't take me against my will. That's illegal!"

"We have all the proper paperwork," one of the men said, pulling a piece of paper out of his uniform's inside pocket. Michael's eyes widened as the man unfolded the form to display to him. Michael's signature and yesterday's date were at the bottom, clear as day. It was his performance review forms - except it wasn't. He had agreed to something else entirely without his knowledge.

Michael turned to Phoebe with a look of absolute betrayal in his eyes. Phoebe looked away again, unable to make eye contact with him. "Jim?" was all Michael could utter in absolute disbelief at Phoebe's disloyalty.

"Alright, time to go," the other man said, grabbing Michael by the wrist. The other man held Michael by his other wrist and Michael complied as they lead him towards the front door.

An unfamiliar van was parked outside Michael's house. Michael was lead to the back of the van and instructed to climb inside. The van doors were shut, sealing Michael away from his mundane, everyday life.

Michael took one last look through the van windows as the van pulled away from his home, unaware of the experience that was waiting from him at his ultimate destination.

If you missed my last post, then you may not know that all future chapters of this story will be posted on a monthly basis to my Patreon exclusively for patrons at the $7 tier. If you want to know where Michael is being sent away to (you can probably guess; it's in the title), then join the club over on Patreon! Thanks guys!

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