#garage and shed organizer

[espoirose]

Denver Large Large transitional attached three-car garage workshop photo

[isthatcoolkeith]

Traditional Garage - Garage An illustration of a substantial traditional detached three-car garage design.

[gominisoc]

Snug as a bug!

[asexualjedi]

I have received my grandmas like electric organ cool that’s neat love that. Now I gotta figure out where the fuck to put it.

[rottenpumpkin13]

What is it like having either AGS as a roommate?

SEPHIROTH

Pros: Quiet and keeps to himself, keeps the house neat and tidy.... bordering on obsessive, responsible, it's like living with a cat: if he likes you he'll curl up beside you in silence, investigate objects he's curious about, and want that the house follow a routine for meal times.

Cons: Sheds hair everywhere, you don't hear him approaching so he'll scare the shit out of you, says concerning comments unprompted like "At least the soil which buries our bodies in the end will be warm," might adopt a cat at random, falls asleep in random places and you might trip over him, which he will be insulted over.

ANGEAL

Pros: Home cooked food, very nurturing, great music taste, will help you with anything, brings you snacks, the house is filled with plants and always smells fresh.

Cons: Passive aggressively does the dishes, passive aggressively pins the chore chart to the fridge while making comments about how "Ain't nobody do shit," passive aggressively sweeps while saying "You guys are gonna miss me when I'm gone," will bring in random things he found at garage sales/on the side of the road without consulting you.

GENESIS

Pros: Lets you borrow his books and his clothes, lends his ear if you need to vent about your problems, fun to hang out with, will read to you, gossips with you, mixes you drinks, extremely organized.

Cons: Nosy, thinks his music taste is superior and therefore all must listen to it at maximum volume, gives insane advice that is 70% of the time illegal, he's organized but his stuff is everywhere, unpredictable mood swings, blunt, petty and will leave a dirty mug in the sink for 3 months if it means proving a point.

[thriftedtchotchkes]

you're a mean one, mr. miller

pairing: joel miller x f!reader

summary: you and ellie decide the solution to joel's grinch-like approach to the holidays lies in finding him the perfect gift

warnings: jackson era, grumpy old man!joel, significant other!reader, fluff, mild angst, gift giving, christmas at the miller's, so many polaroids

word count: 3.8k

12 days of pedro masterlist - ty to @hellishjoel for organizing this project <3

The Miller household always gets a little tense around the holidays. When the days shorten and snow begins to fall, Joel throws himself into patrols and plans for winter-proofing Jackson, and it's all he'll talk about for months. It's obvious he does it on purpose. 

Christmas is basically an unspoken no-no under his roof, and there might as well be a swear jar for the word if his reaction is any indication. He refuses to acknowledge it and only tolerates the day itself because he knows it makes you and Ellie happy. 

You just wish it made him happy, too. You know it used to. Every year, Tommy regales stories about their Christmases in Austin as kids, and later with Sarah. Joel loved Christmas. 

They used to visit the tree farm, pick the tallest, fullest tree they could fit in their living room, and decorate it the very same day. Their attic and even parts of their garage were home to lights and tinsel in every color you could think of, and ornaments Sarah brought home from art classes and the yearly holiday fair at school.

All of that changed after the outbreak. It wasn't just her passing that did it. It wasn't even the threat of death or worse lurking around every corner. It was time. 

Joel just got used to life without it. After 22 years of missed holidays, he decided he didn't actually miss them at all. He couldn't afford to spare precious resources or energy on anything that wasn't necessary for survival. But that isn't the point of Christmas, is it? 

You celebrate your loved ones and their joy. You celebrate life. Here in Jackson, he finally has all of that, but if Joel is anything, he's a stubborn man set in his ways. You can tell he's still resistant to the idea because he genuinely believes there are better uses for his time.

You can also tell he's afraid to let his guard down. You just haven't figured out a way to show him he doesn't have to be. No one's safety is guaranteed in the world you live in, but you're protected now. And that responsibility isn't solely on him anymore.

If you could give him anything for Christmas this year, it would be peace. One day, even just a few hours of tensionless shoulders and a wrinkle-free brow would be a gift for all of you. He deserves to enjoy something merry and cheerful again, just for the sake of it.  

So, you ask the person who knows him best in the world for help.

"What do we think about getting Joel a Christmas gift this year?"

Ellie glances up from her guitar with the most incredulous look you've ever seen on her face. 

"Depends. Do you have a death wish?" she jokes, draping her arm over her instrument so she's sitting more comfortably. She's settling in—you both know this is about to be a painful conversation.

"No, but—," you sigh, leaning against the door behind you. It's still chilled, even through your coat, from when you barged into the shed and interrupted her practice. "I don't know. He wouldn't make that big of a deal, would he? It doesn't have to be anything flashy, just something small. Something nice."

"So, you wanna get Joel something nice for a holiday he hates? That makes total sense," she says, rolling her eyes.

You don't appreciate the sarcasm, but you expected it. She knows as well as you do that Joel won't be thrilled by the gesture, if he even accepts it.

"El, come on. I could really use your help here," you try to appeal to the part of her that usually can't say no to you, and thankfully she's starting to cave. "If there's anyone who can come up with a present Joel will actually like, it's you."

She sighs. Her fingers drum an arrhythmic beat on the wood grain while she thinks, a habit she must've picked up from Joel.

"Look, Joel's not really a 'thing' kinda guy," she replies, and she's probably right. He's never been the kind of guy who has physical attachments. "When's the last time he actually gave a shit when something broke or got lost? Even his watch is broken."

"Yeah, but that's different. You know it's different," you counter softly. But you can see the point she's trying to make. "Okay, so we don't get him a 'thing'."

She nods, waiting for you to offer another idea, but you're even more stumped than you were when you got here. 

"Maybe you can draw him something?" you grimace, grasping at straws now.

"His house is full of shit I've drawn," she deadpans. "Plus, I thought this was an us gift. That sounds like a 'me doing all the work' gift."

You let out a frustrated groan, and your head thunks dully against the door. You knew this wasn't going to be an easy task, but you thought it would at least be possible. Joel's a complicated man—it's one of the things you love most about him—but his wants and needs are surprisingly simple. 

He loves a home-cooked meal, especially meat and potatoes. He enjoys cold beers with Tommy on the porch during the summer and walking Ellie through complicated picking patterns when she's stuck on a song. He likes relaxing on the couch and watching old Westerns or cheesy action movies, and craves your body, soft and pliant, under his after a frustrating day on patrol.

But you want this to mean more than any of that. A special something that goes beyond the norm to loosen some of the springs that keep him wound up tight and constantly in motion. 

You glance around Ellie's space as your hope begins to dwindle, and the corkboard above her bed catches your eye. It's always been there, covered in doodled-on scrap paper and photos of her family and friends, and you're positive you've seen it hundreds of times since you've been in Jackson. But this time, it gives you an idea. The idea.

"That Polaroid camera you found in Eugene's basement—the one in the library. Does it work?"

Ellie's brows furrow at your sudden question. She clearly didn't expect it, but you're hoping she'll be on board once she finally catches on.

"Uhh, yeah, Cat and I were messing around with it the other day. Worked pretty well for us," she replies hesitantly, pointing at the entertainment console next to you. "It's next to the PlayStation."

Humming in response, you squat in front of the shelf to inspect it. It's in great condition, even better than you expected. Even the flash button lights up and whirs just like you remember. 

Before she can protest, you whip around and snap an extremely candid, brightly lit photo of her. If the look on her face is the same one you just caught on film, then you're already off to a great start.

"Dude, what the fuck? What was that for?" she groans in annoyance, blinking the bright spots out of her vision.  

"A scrapbook," you grin. "For Joel."

She's still glaring at you as she rubs her eyes, but she bites back whatever retort she was about to say. You watch her expectantly as she chews on the idea, relief blooming in your chest when she finally nods.

"I guess that could work," she says slowly, still thinking over the logistics in her head. But then she frowns. "When exactly did you plan on taking all those photos? Not to be a downer, but Christmas is in like, a week."

Damn, she's right again. It'll be hell in a handbasket to fill an entire scrapbook in that amount of time, and even if you manage it, it'll be a half-assed attempt at best.

No, if you're going to do this, then you're going to do it right. No rushed or slapstick presents for the man who already hates Christmas—Joel deserves better than that.

"What if we let Joel do his bah-humbug thing one last time? That's probably his idea of a perfect gift, anyway. Then next year, it'll be this," you hand her the fully-developed Polaroid.

It shows Ellie hugging the guitar Joel made for her, but there's no sign of the shocked annoyance that followed the camera flash. Instead, she's smiling. She has that rare, unguarded expression on her face, the one reserved only for people she trusts. It's a tender moment of peace, forever frozen in time.

She looks up at you, and you can see it in her eyes. She gets it, now.

"You do realize it's still a 'thing' present though, right?" she interjects playfully, and you have to resist the urge to grab the wood polishing cloth on the table next to you and swat her with it.

"Yeah, but it's a sappy thing. Admit it, Joel's a huge sap and you know it. You said it yourself, his house is basically a glorified fridge with your art magnetized to the walls."

She rolls her eyes again, but you can see the smile tugging at her lips. She knows it's true.

"So, you'll help me?" you ask, daring to hope that she'll agree.

"As long as you don't pull this shit again, I'll do whatever you want," she lifts the Polaroid, shooting you a dirty, but affectionate look before handing it back to you.

A grin breaks out across your face, and you bolt across the room to hug her awkwardly around the instrument still sitting in her lap. She places it down so she can wrap her arms around you properly. 

Physical affection has never really been Ellie's thing but if you catch her at the right moment on the right day, you might get lucky. Today, you do.

"So, when do we get started?" she asks, pulling away.

"Right now," you reply, unable to contain your excitement. For the first time in over two decades, Joel Miller might actually have a merry Christmas, and that's something to celebrate. 

"Now?" she gapes at you, looking over her shoulder longingly at her guitar as you drag her out of the shed. She barely has enough time to grab a coat before you're out in the cold with nothing but each other, a camera, and a plan.

"Now." 

ONE YEAR LATER

Jackson in the spring is one of the most beautiful things you've ever seen, even among your memories of the world pre-outbreak. Snow remains on the mountain peaks in the distance, but the foliage below blooms with the promise of warmer weather. Somehow, you managed to capture it all—fresh flowers in the shop windows, friends and neighbors shedding their coats and congregating in the streets, and the post-winter excitement that spreads more and more with each sunny day. 

You hid the stack of photographs in an empty jumbo box of tampons in the hall closet, positive they’d be safe from Joel’s prying eyes while you and Ellie continued your mission.

In the summer, two new foals were born, and Ellie and Maria spent almost every day at the stables to help out where they could. They even named them—Shimmer was Maria’s choice, and Ellie named the other Callus just to piss off Joel. Not only did it work, but it resulted in some of the cutest pictures of the season. 

Joel and Tommy built a porch swing for Maria and their rambunctious toddler and spent countless balmy nights drinking Tommy's extra-strength whiskey and shooting the shit. They even broke out their guitars every so often and managed to bully Ellie into playing with them once or twice. You caught that on camera, too. 

Slowly but surely, the memory box filled up, and the photos were transferred to a scrapbook you and Ellie made yourselves—with a little local help. One of the school teachers happened to be a former librarian with a bookbinding hobby, and graciously gave you a treasure trove of old, tattered books that were perfect for your project. 

By autumn, everything was falling into place. Ellie adorned those pages with painted leaves in shades of red, orange, and yellow to complement the photos you took at the town’s annual Harvest Festival and Thanksgiving potluck. You hopped around from booth to booth, table to table, and thanked your lucky stars that Eugene was a hoarder and held onto every pack of film he found over the years.

Now, it's the night before Christmas and you have a single shot left. One last photo intended for the final page, but you can’t think of anything you haven’t already documented. Looking around Tommy’s living room, there are plenty of moments you’d love to capture, and yet none of them feel like the moment. 

How the Grinch Stole Christmas plays in the background while you sit on their couch, curled into Joel’s side with Ellie’s head on your lap, but you’re barely paying attention, still lost in your thoughts. Joel isn’t paying attention, either—he was unsurprisingly averse to the movie to begin with—so when you don’t laugh along with everyone else at the Grinch’s antics, he immediately knows something’s up. He kisses your temple, careful not to jostle Ellie.

“What’s got you so in your head you’re not even laughin’ at Jim Carrey? I thought you loved this movie,” he murmurs against the shell of your ear. His familiar Southern twang somehow warms you up more than the fireplace crackling next to the television. 

“I do. I think I’m just getting a little sleepy, is all,” you reply softly, sagging into him. “Winter dance prep sucked this week. It’s like everyone conveniently forgot they volunteered to help.”

He nods, mumbling an apology into your hair.

“Guess that makes sense. All that runnin’ around you’ve been doing with that camera of yours probably ain’t helpin’ either,” he says offhandedly, and your brows furrow in response.

It’s not the first time he’s mentioned your sudden interest in photography, but with his gift sitting less than 10 feet away under Tommy and Maria’s Christmas tree, it seems more than a little suspicious. You catch Ellie glancing up at you in your peripheral, and you meet her gaze as discreetly as you can.

“Yeah, maybe,” you laugh it off, hoping it doesn’t sound as tense to Joel’s ears as it does to yours.

“What are you doin’ with all of those photos anyway? I swear, you take ‘em and then they disappear into thin air,” he presses on, none the wiser.

“Wouldn’t you like to know?” you joke, shaking your head as if that’ll shake off all of his incoming questions. But it doesn’t work nearly as well as you hoped.

“Y’know, I was wonderin’ that myself,” Tommy interjects from the recliner to your right. “You’ve been takin’ photo after photo for almost a year, and I don’t think I’ve seen a single one.”

Maria scoffs next to him, coming to the rescue before you’re forced to come up with a believable explanation. 

“Mind your own damn business,” she smacks him in the chest, then shoots you a sympathetic look. 

You asked for her help not long after you and Ellie started planning Joel’s gift, so she knows how important this is. The last thing she’s going to do is let her husband’s need to stir the pot ruin it. But Tommy’s not the type of guy to give in that easily.

“I’m just sayin’, might be nice take a look at ‘em. You probably got some good ones of the kids in there, ‘specially from birthdays and holidays—,” he manages to get out before Ellie cuts him off.

“Can you guys have this conversation somewhere else? Some of us are actually trying to watch the movie,” she sits up from her spot on your lap to glare in his direction. 

Then, Tommy abruptly stands like something just occurred to him and strides across the room to the mantle above the fireplace—right where you set the camera down earlier. Your heart leaps into your throat. 

“Hold up. This thing’s still got one shot left, don’t it?” he asks excitedly, and you’re not sure how to shut him down without drawing too much attention to yourself or sounding mildly hysterical.

“Well, yeah, but—“

“Oh shit, s’got a timer and everythin’,” he continues, fiddling with its limited settings. He turns back towards the rest of the group and holds up the camera with a grin. “C’mon, everybody get together. We’re takin’ our first official Christmas card photo.”

“But, Tommy—,” you try again, but you’re drowned out by Joel’s sad attempt to leave the room.

“Look, I said I’d watch the movie, but I sure as hell didn’t agree to take a damn Christmas photo,” he grumbles, moving to stand, but you latch onto his flannel before he gets too far. He softens at your downtrodden expression and settles back in.

“Just to be clear, m’doin this for her, not for you,” he amends his previous statement gruffly, throwing an arm around your shoulder. You kiss his cheek gratefully, and Ellie pretends to gag as she shuffles to sit between your legs.

“Whatever you say, big brother. All you gotta do is sit there and look pretty. Think you can handle that?” Tommy teases him, making one final adjustment to the camera's placement. “Alright y’all, here we go.”

He sets the timer, then runs to the couch, squishing into the only available spot between Maria and an armrest. Everyone huddles together with varying levels of smiles and grimaces on their faces while you wait for the camera to go off. Except, it doesn't.

“Wait, how long did you set the timer for?” you peer around Maria to see Tommy looking genuinely dumbfounded.

“…Does it not just go 5, 4, 3, 2, 1, shoot?” he asks sheepishly.

"Oh my god, are you kidding me?" Ellie groans, leaning back against you, and the entire couch bursts out laughing. 

And in that moment, the flash goes off.

Yeah, this is the one.

The photo in your hands feels like the culmination of every memory you made and preserved in the past year. Five faces—and one tiny sleeping one—look up at you, fully developed and as happy as you've ever seen them.

Tommy and Maria sit side by side with their son in her lap, their heads thrown back in laughter. Next to them, Ellie sits between your legs, mid-knee slap, as you cackle with your chin resting on top of her head.

And then there's Joel, grinning from ear to ear as he looks on at the family he's fought so hard to protect. The family that's safe and sound, and enjoying an ordinarily special day, just for the sake of it. You can only hope that a book full of photos and everything it represents will be enough to convince him once and for all that it's the truth.

As you slide the final Polaroid into place, Joel sidles up behind you and wraps his arms around your waist.

"What's all this?" he watches curiously as you close the book and swipe your hand lovingly across the cover. Then, you pick it up and turn in his embrace, leaning back against the kitchen counter. 

"A gift," you reply carefully, hugging it to your chest. 

You glance over to where Ellie's still sitting in the living room, but she shakes her head and offers you a small smile, her delicate way of telling you that you're on your own. You take a deep breath before continuing.

"It's a Christmas present from me and Ellie," you explain, hoping to convey even a fraction of what this means to you. "Look, we know this isn’t necessarily your favorite day, but...we still wanted to do something nice for you."

He nods, his expression frustratingly unreadable. But then he does something unexpected.

"Y'gonna keep huggin' it or are you gonna show it to me?" he drawls jokingly, and your brows shoot up in shock.

"You wanna see it?" 

His face falls, and you immediately feel terrible at the brief wave of hurt that crosses his features. You didn't mean to sound so surprised, but you didn't anticipate this easy acceptance.

"'Course I do. The two of you spent a whole year workin' on this thing, why wouldn't I?"

That grin you know he loves lights up your entire face, and you turn to place his gift back on the counter. Flipping to the first page, you step aside and let him explore it for himself.

He takes in each moment of each season slowly, running his fingers across Ellie's doodles between photos and in the margins. Spring is framed by butterflies that you're somehow just realizing are painted in all of Sarah's favorite colors. 

Ellie added so many painstaking details you'd never talked about. You're not even sure how she knew something like that, but you're grateful it's there. Joel notices it too, and reaches down to take your hand, gripping it tightly for the rest of the book. 

He's silent as flips through summer and fall, and when he finally reaches winter, you feel him begin to tremble beside you. 

The last page sits open in front of you, the photo from earlier flanked on either side by notes from you and Ellie. As he reads, then rereads them, you can see the cogs turning. He's starting to understand why you did this—and how something as simple as a photograph isn't just a look back on a life well-lived. It's a reminder to keep living.

“This is…,” his brows furrow as he tries to find the words to express the conflicting thoughts racing through his head.

“I—I’m sorry, I didn’t get you anything," is what he ultimately settles on, but when he looks up at you, his eyes are wet. You immediately drop his hand to cup his cheeks.

"You didn't need to. I have everything I've ever wanted right here," you tell him gently, brushing away the tears threatening to fall. 

You glance over at the familiar faces in the living room, the same ones looking up at you from the page below, and he follows your gaze. The tension in his body begins to bleed away the longer he watches them, and you learn the wrinkle in his brow isn't actually the permanent fixture it always seemed to be.

He reaches up to cover one of your hands with his own, and you can feel his heart racing through his fingertips. In the back of your mind, you wonder if this is the moment it happens. If his heart grew three sizes bigger today, and if he's finally ready to give himself the gift of peace.

“Merry Christmas, Joel Miller," you whisper, kissing him deeply as the sweet voice of Cindy Lou Who brings the movie credits rolling in the distance to a close.

thanks for reading and happy holidays!

dividers by @saradika-graphics

[munson-blurbs]

Single Dad!Eddie x Fem!ReaderSeries

1 | 2 | 3 | 4

Summary: Eddie's guard is back up after overhearing people gossiping about a secret that only you would know about. When he lets his animosity take over, the damage may be too great to repair.

Warnings: angst, Eddie is really mean to Reader, mentions of CPS, Reader's grandma has Alzheimer's, slowburn, strangers to enemies to lovers, angst, Eddie is 30, Reader is 28, no use of y/n

WC: 3.7k

Chapter 4/20

Scruffy!Eddie edit credit to @eddiemunsons-missingnipple Divider credit to @saradika

Eddie is still fuming when he pulls into the music store’s parking lot. He’s opening today, and his hands tremble as he fumbles with the keys. All of those parents are going to know that he’s a failure of a father.  The Munson reputation clung to him like a bloodsucking leech, regardless of his numerous attempts to shed it. He’s destined to be an outcast at best and a monster at worst. 

Finally managing to unlock the door, Eddie flicks on the lights, blanketing the shop in a hazy glow. The silence is deafening, and he swears that his brain will implode if he doesn’t get some background noise. He walks to the section labeled ‘METAL’ as if on autopilot, grabbing Metallica’s Master of Puppets and shoving the cassette into the player. Ash insists that they play classic rock over the crummy little sound system; something about it being ‘palatable’ for the customers, but she’s not here to scold him. 

He thinks back to when this album was released, towards the end of his third senior year. The good ol’ days, when I only worried about passing O’Donnell’s class and planning Hellfire campaigns, he thinks wryly. But, no; that isn’t quite true. He’d had to worry about the trailer getting repo��d, or whether he and Wayne could stretch their food stamp budget enough to feed two grown men. Concerns that his uncle had tried to hide from him until he no longer could. 

“Ed, you’re eighteen now,” Wayne had said, just one month after Eddie’s birthday, “and I’m gonna need you to start payin’ some bills around here.”

At the time, Eddie thought he was just being a bastard. It wasn’t until a few days later when he’d spotted the envelope marked PAST DUE in bold, red letters that he realized it wasn’t a punishment, but a necessity. 

He’d been selling for Rick ever since. Well, until now. 

“Battery” fades out to “Master of Puppets,” and Eddie flips the CLOSED sign to read OPEN. He glances at the calluses on his hands and smiles sadly, thinking of all the hours he spent learning the chords in his room. After weeks of non-stop practicing—Hetfield’s solo was a bitch—he’d raced down to Gareth’s garage and played all eight minutes straight through. Watched as his friends’ jaws dropped in awe. Gave him a standing ovation. Told him he was a fucking rockstar. 

“You’re a rockstar, all right,” Eddie sarcastically grumbles now, clanging a roll of pennies against the counter before dumping them into the till. “Getting ready to drop your new hit single: Do you want a receipt with that?”

His morning has been nothing short of monotonous: help the customer find what they want, ring them up and make small talk, and then organize (or, in his case, pretend to organize) the store when it’s not busy. 

There’s too much down time for him to be left alone with his thoughts. As soon as he has a moment to himself, he’s ruminating on his regrets of the past. He turns up the music volume in a half-hearted attempt to drown them out, but they manage to worm their way into every nook and cranny of his brain. 

Eight years ago, a twenty-two year old Eddie Munson left his podunk town of Hawkins, Indiana to pursue rock stardom. He’d driven to Chicago with only the pocket change he’d saved up and his guitar on his back. A big city for a man with even bigger dreams. 

It didn’t take him long to realize that being Eddie Munson meant next to nothing in a place that was bursting with musicians desperate for the chance to become famous. He appreciated the anonymity at first; he could blend in without being chased by taunts of Freak or Loser. But after nearly a full year of auditions where he was just another guitarist who could carry a tune, he’d started to lose hope. Prepared to return to Hawkins with his tail between his legs, he’d stopped at the nearby bar for one last drink. 

“We can’t go on without a lead singer and guitarist!”

A frantic voice captured his attention, drawing his gaze from the pint of beer in front of him. 

“Well, Sam bailed. Again,” another man points out, tone heavy with irritation. “So either we go on without him, or we don’t go on at all.”

Eddie finds himself standing up and walking into a conversation where he was never invited. “I, um, play guitar. And sing?” He winces as it comes out like a question. “I can show you, if you want.” What was he doing? He couldn’t line up a gig to save his life, and now he’s offering to play for some band he doesn’t even know?

The two guys, both about his age, exchange a dubious look. “All right,” says one with shaggy dark hair. “Let’s hear what you got, Guitar Boy.” He hands him his own guitar, and Eddie adjusts the strap before diving headfirst into the chorus of the first song that comes to mind:

If you think I'll sit around as the world goes by You're thinkin' like a fool 'cause it's a case of do or die Out there is a fortune waitin' to be had You think I'll let it go you're mad You've got another thing comin'

The other guy cocks his head, a delighted smirk spreading across his face. “Judas Priest. Solid choice.” He paces a bit, twirling a drumstick between his fingers. You got a name, Guitar Boy?” he asks.

Eddie nods. “Eddie Munson.” He sticks out his hand, silently willing it to stop trembling, and shakes theirs.

“I’m Marcus,” the shaggy-haired man says. “This is Bryan. I play backup guitar; he’s on drums. Our bassist should be here soon; his name’s Pete.”

“And Sam was our lead guitarist and singer, but he’s a fucking asshole,” Bryan quips, and Eddie chortles at his brazen attitude. “Anyway, we mostly do covers…check out the setlist and see what you know.” He hands Eddie a crumpled piece of paper, filled with familiar songs and artists.

“I can do any of these,” Eddie says, a satisfied warmth filling his chest as he watches the guys grin even wider.  

“Tell ya what,” Bryan says, plopping behind a drum set plastered with a logo reading Hard Knox. “If you don’t suck tonight, you can play with us permanently.”

“Yeah,” Marcus agrees. “We’re gonna be big, man. We just need someone to help us get there.”

“Let me run back to my place and grab my ax,” Eddie tells them, adrenaline propelling him to his apartment. This was it. This was the break he needed. Just as he was about to give up, God or fate or destiny or whoever was finally giving him a chance to prove himself.

The show went off without a hitch; Eddie’s guitar skills bringing a normally quiet audience to their feet. Bryan clapped him on the back as he looked at Pete and Marcus; the three nodding at each other. “Welcome to Hard Knox!” he announced.

“Sam leaving was the best thing to happen to us,” Pete laughs in agreement. A bartender in a tight skirt and fishnet stockings brings over a round of shots, and the four men clink glasses.

“Fuck Sam!” Eddie shouts before taking the drink. The tequila burns as it coats his throat, but he doesn’t dare reach for the lime. No, he has something to prove.

“Fuck Sam!” the rest of the band echoes enthusiastically. Their choral response reminds Eddie of the way Corroded Coffin used to be before he’d left: when he’d say something, Jeff, Gareth, and Danny would listen. He was born to be a leader.

Things started to fall into place. His one night endeavor with Hard Knox turned into a biweekly gig at the bar, which eventually turned into shows almost every night at various venues across the city. He’d even convinced the guys to play some original work of his, reminding them that cover bands don’t get record deals. 

He had a steady income. A group of friends who appreciated him and his music. Beautiful women who eagerly threw themselves at him at the end of the show. And then it would repeat the following night in a new place. Everything was perfect.

Until it wasn’t.

Last night’s chaos has you all disheveled; it wasn’t until you got to work this morning that you realized you hadn’t even packed your lunch. You try to convince yourself that you can wait until you get home to eat, but about fifteen minutes before your break, your stomach lets out an embarrassingly loud growl.

“I’m gonna run to the deli and grab something,” you tell Will, throwing your jacket over your shoulders and digging out your car keys. “Want me to pick up anything for you?”

“Uh, Tylenol?” he grimaces, rubbing his temples. The kids had music class today, and the sounds of ten preschoolers singing off-key combined with their clashing tambourines served as a recipe for a pounding headache. “And maybe a bag of sour cream and onion chips?”

“You got it.” You shoot him a thumbs-up as you make your way to the parking lot as quickly as possible, determined to get your food before the lunch rush starts.

You manage to just beat out the crowd of hungry nine-to-fivers, grabbing a veggie wrap to-go. Crunching on a cucumber slice as you take a big bite, you start back towards your car, but the music store next door catches your eye.

A check of your watch confirms that you have a few minutes to peruse, maybe grab a copy of the new Toni Braxton cassette you’d been wanting. If there was ever a day to treat yourself to a little gift, it’s today. Your mind is foggy and your body feels like it’s dragging sandbags as you make your way over. You knew that taking care of an ailing relative would be physically demanding, but you weren’t prepared for the emotional toll it would take. Seeing your grandma helplessly laying on the bathroom floor scared drew all of the oxygen from your lungs, filling your body with worry. And just a few hours later, she was furiously swearing at you, claiming to hate you. She’s an ever-swinging pendulum, and you’re downright exhausted.

A small glob of hummus lands on your lower lip, and your tongue licks it off haphazardly as you push open the door to the music store. The jingle of the bell is meant to alert the employees that a customer has entered, but when you look around, there’s no one there to help you.

You walk towards the aisle labeled R&B, starting by thumbing through the “B” section–nothing. Perplexed, you make your way to the “T” section, still with no luck. Was Toni Braxton so popular amongst Hawkins residents that they’d bought out every copy of Secrets?

“You can’t eat in here,” a terse voice calls out. You’re so startled, you nearly drop your sandwich. A piece of tomato flies out of the tortilla when you jump, hitting the linoleum flooring, and the irritated person sighs. “Aaand this is why.”

You pick up the fallen vegetable and turn around to see Eddie Munson standing before you. “You scared me!” you say, but your body visibly relaxes. Twenty-four hours ago, you never would have guessed that he would have a calming effect on you. How quickly things can change, you muse silently. “Can you help me find the new Toni Braxton? The Secrets cassette?”

Eddie scoffs, crossing his arms over his chest. “Can you follow simple instructions? No. Eating. In. The. Store.” He rolls his eyes. “Just because you teach preschoolers doesn’t mean you get to act like one.”

The smile that briefly danced across your lips slips into a frown. What the hell happened in the few hours since he’d dropped Harris off at school? Did you imagine that you two had gotten along?

“Are you okay?” you ask, brows furrowed in confusion. “I-I can put the wrap in my car, just give me a sec…”

He shakes his head. “No, actually, I’m not okay,” he sneers. “But I bet you knew that already.” He shifts his posture so he’s standing a bit taller. “Y’know, you have some fuckin’ nerve, coming in here after what you did.”

“Did I miss something?” Your voice gets smaller with the gnawing feeling of brewing confrontation acting as a brick on your chest. “I thought–”

“Tell me what you thought,” he interrupts, leaning on a box of tapes. “Wait, no; let me guess. You thought that because I rejected you, you could go around blabbing my personal business around the school.” He scrunches up his face, biting his lip as he looks at you. “Did I get it right?”

“Your personal business?” 

“Mhm,” he answers pointedly, spinning a skull ring around his finger. “Is that not it? Was it because you were embarrassed that I heard your grandma say that she hates you? I don’t blame her, by the way.”

Your force your gaze to remain trained on him, staring into his brown eyes that have hardened with fury. “She doesn’t hate me,” you breathe out, “she just can’t remember me anymore. When she knew who I was, she loved me. A lot.”

“Yeah, whatever you say,” Eddie rolls his eyes. “That doesn’t take away from the fact that everyone and their goddamn dog knows about the CPS report.” 

“What CPS report?” you ask, a sinking feeling settling in your stomach. “Is Harris okay?”

He takes one look at your puzzled expression and barks out a harsh, incredulous laugh. “Seriously? You can drop the innocent act.”

“I seriously have no idea what you’re talking about!” you snap, frustrated at his unwillingness to hear you out and your own lack of understanding. “All I know is that this morning, you didn’t hate me–or maybe just hated me a little less–and now you’re back to being the worst human being I’ve ever met.”

Eddie scratches at the shadow of a beard that’s formed on his jawline; an itchy reminder that he didn’t get to shave last night. “You should consider yourself lucky if I’m the worst person you’ve ever met. Tell me, what have I done? Thrown some insults your way?” He claps his palm to his chest exaggeratedly. “How ever did you survive?”

“Mock me and my teaching skills, pretend like you’re going to call when you knew damn well that you weren’t, call me a bitch, and your latest and greatest,” you counter, ticking off the instances on your fingers, “accuse me of something I didn’t do.”

He considers this for a moment, taking a deep breath before speaking again. “So you’re trying to tell me,” he starts, gritting his teeth, “that we were in the same wing of the same hospital at the same time, but you weren’t the one who told people about the CPS case they opened on me?”

“That’s exactly what I’m saying,” you hiss. 

“Then how the fuck did Carol Perkins find out about it?!” His volume raises to a roar, and you wince at the sting it leaves echoing in your eardrums. “Because I fucking heard her talking about it with Steve Harrington! So if you, the person who was there, didn’t open your mouth and tell her, who did? The CPS fairy?”

“I don’t fucking know!” you shout, swallowing thickly in a meager attempt to bide time before the tears inevitably leak from your eyes. “I don’t know, but it wasn’t me.”

Eddie rakes a hand through his frizzy curls, smacking the other on top of the nearby box. “Just…just get out,” he mutters. “I can’t listen to any more of your bullshit.” He starts back towards a door marked EMPLOYEES ONLY before turning back around, eyes narrowed. 

“Y’know, I wouldn’t have hooked up with you that night if I knew that this is how you handle a one-night stand,” he says, pursing his lips as he steps closer to you. “And I never should’ve let Harris step foot in your classroom. I would drive him to a school in goddamn Timbuktu if it meant having you out of my life.” He pauses, scraping his teeth across his lower lip and exhaling a terse laugh. “It’s too bad I can’t forget about you like your grandma did.”

The words knock the wind out of your lungs. Your knees buckle slightly, and you have to steady yourself on the closest shelf. Tears blur your vision as your legs carry you out of the store; you feel yourself walking, but it’s like an external force has control of your body. The words fuck you sit on the tip of your tongue, or maybe you say them—it’s too hazy to tell. The world is covered in a shiny layer of cellophane; you can see everything, but you can’t touch. 

You’re crying too hard to drive, so you sit behind the wheel, seatbelt clicked in place, letting out sobs that leave your whole body shuddering. It’s all too much, and though you logically know that Grandma didn’t want to forget you, his comment hit a raw nerve.

It wasn’t a straight path; Alzheimer’s never is. A few months ago, she could remember you in the morning but forgot you by the afternoon. She would call you by name at 9 AM but ask who you were at 2 PM. One day you were her granddaughter; the next, you were a total stranger. You thought it couldn’t hurt more than it already did, but the repeated reminders that she no longer recognizes you at all is a constant knife through the heart.

You’ll be late if you don’t start driving back to work now, so you turn the key in the ignition and adjust the gear shift to reverse. As you look up to glance in the rearview mirror, you catch sight of him. He’s dumbfounded, and you could laugh at how ridiculous it is that it took him seeing you bawling in your car to realize that he went too far this time.

Unable to stomach the thought of further confrontation, you take a deep breath and drive away, leaving him to mull over what just happened.

He’d assumed you’d left already when he’d walked outside for a smoke break, placing a cigarette between trembling fingers before he’d even left the store. He almost drops the lighter on his scuffed sneaker when he sees you hunched over, resting your arms on the wheel as your body heaves. He’s not sure how long he’s been staring when you lift your head, exposing tear-streaked cheeks and red-rimmed eyes. Your gazes lock for just a millisecond, but it tells him everything he needs to know. 

It wasn’t you.

When Eddie arrives at the school for pick-up, he scours the crowd of impatient parents for Carol. He finds her talking with another mom; no doubt spreading more gossip about him. Maybe he shouldn’t have pretended that their Satanic cult rumors didn’t bother him when they were back in high school. Maybe if they knew, they would understand that he’s just a goddamn person trying his best, just like everyone else.

“Hey,” he starts, pushing the fear from his voice and willing his strength to remain unwavering. “Who told you about the CPS stuff?”

Carol plasters an obviously fake smile on her face as she responds. “I don’t know what you mean,” she says simply. Her carefree tone pushes Eddie to his limit. 

“Cut the bullshit,” Eddie growls, quickly losing his temper. “I heard you talking to Steve Harrington about it. So either you tell me now, or I’ll make sure your husband knows about that guy I saw you with at the Hideout a couple of months ago.”

Her face blanches, color draining from her cheeks. “It was Jason Carver,” she mumbles, biting her thumbnail. “His wife, Chrissy, is a nurse at the hospital and saw the report. She told him, and he’s been telling, well, everyone else.”

Eddie swears that steam is billowing out of his ears. Everything is coated in a red haze, and he finds himself unconsciously clenching and unclenching his fists. “Where is that sonofabitch? I’m gonna punch him in his smug little–”

“Mr. Munson?” you cut through his rant. His head snaps in your direction. You’ve fixed your makeup; if Eddie hadn’t seen you crying earlier, he would’ve been none the wiser. “Can I speak to you for a moment?”

“Y-Yeah,” he stammers, shifting his weight to the balls of his feet. “Actually, I needed to tell you someth–”

“I think you’ve said enough today,” you say, voice calm but firm. “I just wanted to give this to you before Harris comes out.” You hand him a pink piece of paper. “It’s a transfer slip. Starting next week, Harris will be in Ms. Marion’s class. I didn’t tell him anything about it, so you can say whatever you want. I don’t care anymore.” That’s not quite true; the idea of Eddie feeding Harris lies about you makes your stomach curdle, but there’s only so much you can control. 

Eddie’s, usually quick with a retort, is uncharacteristically quiet. “I, um, I thought…the secretary told me that all of the classes were full.” It’s a cop-out, but he can’t push himself to tell you what he knows now. Not when you’re already bruised. 

“They made an exception because I was the one who requested it this time,” you explain, clenching your jaw. “Looks like you got your wish. You can forget about me now.”

He takes the paper and shoves it in his back pocket. The confession is on the tip of his tongue, an apology not far behind. Say it, he berates himself. Just fucking say it. You might be able to fix this if you just—

“I’ll go get Harris,” you tell him, breaking into his thoughts. “Good-bye, Mr. Munson.”

--

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[kintatsujo]

is it fair to say that my father was sort of a hoarder when he had like, fuck, let's see, a large barn, multiple camping trailers, a three car garage, a pig shed, a chicken coop, a lean-to shed, and he still had to keep two antique cars in my garage and an antique Ford truck outside because he was running out of space for shit?

it was all ORGANIZED but that's a lot of shit considering a ton of it was stuff like the same six sizes of wrench and thirty something pocket knives and broken chairs he had no intention to fix.

I've called him a hoarder in the past but at the same time I'm like "well he didn't start doing the churn thing until his dementia got worse"

...I'm being silly, aren't I

[hihigherdi]

A long time ago when Trump was first in office, I had a sustained two week anxiety attack, convinced we were going to experience a significant war and I had to be prepared. I’d just gotten a big bonus and I spent a ton of it on survivor gear - all of those buckets of rice, beans, dehydrated food, camping gear, solar lights - so much more. I made go bags for work, my car and home. The primary one was stolen when I first moved in here via a break in where thieves stole a lot of stuff people were storing in the garage. The backpack was in my parking spot - poof, gone.

I lugged so much of it here - over the years I’ve slowly simplified it but I’ve been a little afraid to let all of it go. it started this habit of buying extras - why not buy three Justin’s boxes of peanut butter packets even though I only need one? Why not have five ketchups so I never run out?

When R was here organizing, I *saw* it - all of the canned food that had expired, all of the stuff I was keeping in the pantry that I didn’t use because I didn’t even know I had it. She gently said “if you feel like you want to bake cookies, you can just zip over to the store and buy flour.” Part of it was never having enough food when we were little - we could afford it, my mom just never bought enough for us. It’s why I’d drive around on Christmas looking for snack food before all the kids came over. Granted, that could be my food insecurity speaking and my filter was grounded from that, it’s a very likely possibility.

Anyway. R is coming back for my last infusion bringing her BFF A who is an organizer and a professional chef. She’s going to organize so much of my stuff but the deal is, I only have what I really want to keep, consider getting rid of the extras of things I don’t need (including three spatulas, etc) and focusing on keeping what I love and use for myself every week instead of all of the imaginary dinner parties I throw in my head. So that’s what I’ve done today, after…11 hours of sleep? I’ve been slowly whittling it all down and it feels so great. I’m 90% done. It’s not as much as I thought but it’s just so good to let it go.

My surgery is tentatively scheduled for October 01, pending what happens with this biopsy on Friday. That feels lightning fast. My last chemo infusion is next Wednesday - I’m not going to lie, I’m afraid of it based on this last one, I was so debilitated by the fatigue, I had more hair shedding than usual, no appetite and the peripheral neuropathy was hard so I’m going to try to freeze my hands and feet during the infusion to prevent it. It has definitely lessened, thank God but it’s not gone away entirely. It can take a long time.

I cry so frequently these days, even writing that it’s the last one. I’ve held it all together for five months, and I can feel the emotional and mental reserves I’ve leaned on to that beginning to crumble. That’s probably good. Things are starting to get……thin when I’m sleeping. My dreams are wild and I heard repeated knocking three times last night. My cats were on high alert. I pit myself in a golden bubble and reminded myself that I live in a building where people could be knocking at other doors, not likely at 3am but it helped. I stayed up until 4:30am watching The Office and then slept hard until 9am.

I’m numb when I think of the MRI biopsy on Friday, two of my worst things happening at the same time is like a cruel joke (biopsies aren’t painful but just traumatic waiting for the results). I’m strong - I can and will do this. And then chemo, and then the surgery which completely freaks me out - I have a massive fear of “going under” - and then I’ll know what happens after those biopsies come back.

In talking about work, my oncologist recommend that I extend my leave of absence to at least March of next year. The neuropathy is concerning her as are my cognitive tests, and I think for a living. She reminded me how they have taken my body to the point of decline where the basics work but there’s a lot of damage. And the mental damage of all of the biopsies on top of that, she thinks I need time. I agree with her. So I’m going to pursue that, it means I live on a lot less and I don’t think I am guaranteed a job when I go back but I’m not worried about that.

[starlightvld]

Always on Your Six - Chapter 6/7:

(The smutty chapter has arrived!)

Ghost walked alongside Johnny as he pointed out the barn where his mother kept a few chickens and sheep, the precarious garden shed, and his father's old garage, all accompanied by amusing stories of an idyllic childhood. Ghost tucked the anecdotes away in the section of his brain dedicated to everything Johnny, especially the wistful sadness that coated his tone when he spoke of his father. Ghost had no idea what it was like to have a loving father, but he could almost imagine it while listening to Johnny speak.

He hummed little encouragements and asked a few questions along the way, basking in the normalcy of it all. This was how things were supposed to be, with Johnny jabbering at his side, warm and smiling—

"I'm not boring ye, am I?"

Ghost blinked at Johnny's sudden interruption of his own story about playing footie in the far pasture and getting chased by an irritated goat when the ball went over the fence. He glanced over at Johnny and found him looking at Ghost with a hesitant expression.

Anger rolled through him. This was not how things should be, but thanks to Mary Wallace, Johnny's trademark confidence was in shambles. Ghost took vicious pleasure in the fact that she would be punished for her cruelty, but it didn't matter in the here and now. The damage was done, and Ghost would have to rebuild what she'd broken between them.

---

Read the rest on AO3:

Or start at the beginning: https://archiveofourown.org/works/58075078.

[captain-silvera]

how do you approach landscaping for your builds? you're so good and i struggle so much with that piece when i build...

Hi! Actually, it's always very difficult for me. I can plan the landscape design for several days and redo the finished one over and over again if I'm not completely satisfied with the result.

I have only a couple of techniques and tips that I use, but they don't always help hahaha. First of all, I decide what the landscape will be: symmetrical or chaotic. With symmetry everything is simpler, but organizing the triumph of chaos is sometimes incredibly difficult.

The main thing for chaos is composition. Here trees come into play - they immediately frame the buildings and place accents. Well, additional buildings on the lot also matters: garages, sheds, crypts, greenhouses, etc. I always start working with these two points.

Then I fill the space around all the buildings and trees, based on the style and external harmony.

[ghostofaboy]

I know you’ve written for these two before(especially Frankie) so many it’s not as interesting to ask, but do you have any hcs for Frankie or Din? I love ur fics btw!

Talking about Frankie and Din is always interesting to me. They are fascinating characters.

Frankie:

This man is a snack fiend. Always has things in his cupboards, always sat on the sofa eating something. If you're planning a party and need nibbles then Frankie is the guy to ask.

Loves tinkering. At home his garage or shed is full of little 'projects'. He loves taking things apart to figure out how they work.

Linked to the tinkering, Frankie is very organized. Everything has its place. Never leaves a project half done or left unfinished. So this guy will take your toaster apart, but he will put it back together and it'll work. Also you know he owns a label maker.

Frankie doesn't sleep well. He'd always been more susceptible to bad dreams even as a kid. So throw in some PTSD and he's got no chance for a good night's sleep. (Poor sleepy boy)

Not an adventurous cook, but what he can cook he does well.

Not a big reader, although he does have his favorites, but loves the movies. If it were more affordable he'd go every week. Always buys boxsets of his favorite shows and loves any special features and behind the scenes stuff.

Hates watching shows about flying. They never get the details right and it pisses him off.

A switch in bed. He can be dominate, be can be submissive. Frankie is very good at adapting to who he's with and what they both want in that moment.

Din:

Total neat freak. Everything has its place and must be put in the right place. Probably had a quiet melt down several times when Grogu was first on the Crest.

Very well read. There isn't a lot to do between bounties in hyperspace so to stop himself from over cleaning his weapons (*ahem*) he got into the habit of finding cheap novels whenever he could.

I can get behind asexual Din Djarin, but when I write him it's often as sexually inexperienced. He's just not had the time and opportunity to really explore that side of things. He's had sex but he's never had the chance to be intimate.

Din can sleep anywhere. I mean anywhere. On rocks, sat up somewhere, when it's warm, when it's cold. Whatever the location or situation if it's safe then he's out like a light.

He has no idea that he's attractive. If told so he'll think it's a line or a trick.

I think it's universally accepted that Din Djarin has a breeding kink.

Not a big talker when first meeting people. Likes to sit and watch and weigh people up. But oh boy once he considers you a friend get ready for stories. So many. Things that he's done, places he's visited, stories he's been told.

[starlight-lesbians]

i hc that greaseball does all her own mechanics sooooo… her shed literally looks like a garage

dinah is like ‘don’t you want any decor in here’ and greaseball points to a bunch of spanners hung on the wall like ‘i have decor’

also just like random nuts and bolts and pieces of her metal lying on the floor, dinah starts keeping a pair of slippers at greaseballs after she stood on four screws in one evening

incredibly in character yeah

dinah gets her a lil shelf for all her trophies and it’s the only organization of stuff she has lmao

its like she decorates with her body parts kinda (that’s metallll)

i imagine GB going over to dinah’s and being deeply perplexed that everything is soft and cozy and colorful lol

[do-androids-dream-ao3acc]

BuckTommyWhumpWeek, Day 5 Concussion

All the Pain, Chapter 5 | Read on AO3 | In this chapter (CW): Tommy has a concussion, and all is not it seems to be. Hallucinations, vomiting. | @bucktommywhumpweek

(-> Chapter 1) (-> Chapter 2) (-> Chapter 3) (-> Chapter 4)

Later, Tommy won't be able to remember how he staggered out of the house.

Or what's left of it. There is still something left, but he doesn't know that yet. The darkness is no longer quite so oppressive because he can see a few stars above him. The house, however, is surrounded by a cloud of smoke and dust. It's surreal, like in a dream. Tommy takes a few steps, looks back, staggers on and looks back again, but none of it seems to become any more real. 

His eyes hurt. Perhaps these are, poetically speaking, unshed tears. It's probably more the smoke and all the dust that's on his retinas, but perhaps it's appropriate to mourn this house. It was nothing special, but it was his. And Evan liked it. Evan, he remembers, who is now lying under the rubble of Tommy's bathroom and who desperately needs help. It's time to look away from the debris, to look ahead for rescue. Tommy knows that's an euphemism. It's hard to organize his thoughts or concentrate on anything.

One last look. He can't see any fire, but where there's smoke, there's fire, pretty sure; you don't have to be a firefighter to know that. Something seems to be lying at the back of the house, on or near the garage, as if something had fallen from the sky and chosen his house, of all places, to rest upon. Was it an earthquake after all? A storm that blew something over from the neighborhood? The weather forecast didn't say anything. Tommy doesn't really recognize what’s lying there, either. For a moment, the impulse to turn back to the ruins of his house is very strong. Because he doesn't recognize it from here, which is kind of strange, after all, as a pilot he needs a flawless vision. There's just something in his eyes, and when he strokes them, his fingers are wet. Maybe he has shed a tear over all this crap after all. Or maybe it's blood. Didn't Evan say he was bleeding?

Evan. The thought strikes him like a bolt of lightning, which is somewhat ironic. Tommy will have to tell him about it later, when everything is all right again. There's a joke in this, isn't there? Something-something about a lighting strike. As he trots on, the thought is lost.

It’s only at the edge of the forest, the first sparse foothills of vegetation, that Tommy turns around once more. It's actually strange, he thinks as he looks at the smoking remains of his house, that he has settled at the edge of the woods. A firefighter playing with fire, so to speak – forest fires are a real danger in California, especially in the summer months. For a moment, he stands there no longer knowing why he’s here. He feels a little dizzy and stretches out his hand to hold on to a tree. The bark is crumbling under his palm, it has been dry recently. 

The house. He needs to get help for Evan.

Tommy shakes his head, as if to organize his thoughts, but it hurts, and it doesn't help one bit. It's all a bit confusing, and it's all a bit much. He's lost a lot back there, and if he doesn't hurry, he'll lose the most important thing in his life too. Why did he walk so far? What did he want here? 

Tommy fumbles for the phone, it's still in his pocket. He pulls it out and stares at it as if he doesn't even know what it's for anymore. Then he remembers. He had no signal in the house (in the ruins). But out here... Tommy presses the buttons, but nothing happens. He shakes the phone as if it would do any good and stares at it in disbelief. Is it broken? 

“Hey,” someone shouts, “hey, Sir! Please help me!”

Tommy slowly turns towards the forest. Someone is coming from there, limping forward, it's a bit of a blur. Tommy wipes his eyes again, he still seems to be bleeding, but he doesn't even know why anymore. 

“What's going on?” he asks.

That is a complex question, but not for the man stumbling out of the forest. The guy is limping and bleeding from his forehead. He looks kind of familiar to Tommy, but it's still pretty dark, and Tommy somehow just can't see properly. This is becoming increasingly frustrating.

“A fire,” says the stranger. “Do you have a signal?”

“No,” Tommy replies regretfully, waving the phone in his hand. “But I'm a firefighter. Where's the fire?”

The man stops, leans forward and rests his hands on his knees to catch his breath. A good-looking guy, apart from the fact that his forehead and legs are bleeding, and he’s quite tall and beefy. The type of guy you should expect to handle with an emergency by himself. Instead, he ran away to get help, which is probably the more reasonable way, especially if there’s a fire.

“Fireman, huh?” says the guy, ”great, but without tools... Isn't there a house back there? We could ask for help.”

“There used to be a house. I need help myself,” says Tommy, as if he's just now remembering. “My boyfriend, he's trapped...”

“Well, mine is too. A friend, I mean, not my boyfriend. Guess I’m straight.”

The man lets out a strange laugh, and Tommy feels a cold shiver creep down his spine. Something is odd here, a heartbeat off track. But he can’t put his finger on it. All he knows is that someone needs help. Now it seems to be two people already, and he's in the middle, it seems to be a kind of stalemate.

“Where's the fire?” he asks, more urgently.

“Back there, by the road,” says the stranger, pointing vaguely behind him. “He's trapped in a car.”

There really is a street back there, Tommy knows that much, the main road. He lives close to a feeder road.

“You could have stopped another car. Or call the fire department,” Tommy points out. 

“I've tried everything. It's the middle of the night, damn it. Are you coming now?”

Tommy feels his legs start to move, although the movement doesn't reach his brain until a moment later. He’s on autopilot now, because there’s been an accident, there’s a fire and someone’s trapped. Evan is trapped, too, but he can’t help him, he needs a working phone. Maybe the main road is his best chance, there will be cars, right? Even if that guy – what even is his name? – says he couldn’t stop one, that doesn’t mean there aren’t any. Tommy is sure he can’t save the guy’s friend. If he’s trapped in a burning car, there’s not much he can do, he’s probably already dead. It’s a weirdly disconnected thought, but Tommy knows why. Because Evan is still alive, and he can still help him. 

“So, a boyfriend, eh?” says the man, almost in a conversational tone, as they wander through the dark forest. “Been together for long?”

“Only a couple of months,” Tommy returns.

“That's longer than I've ever been with a woman. Which probably says something about me. And… is he worth it?”

That’s a weird question from a stranger, a stranger he’s walking through the woods with. But that's exactly the point, isn't it? The question of whether something is worth the risk. Tommy knows his way around here, he would probably find the road in his sleep, and although his head hurts and he has trouble looking straight ahead, he knows that there must be a reason why he didn't walk in the other direction. Or it is simply coincidence. But now it's too late, because now he's met this guy, and Tommy is a first responder, he would never dodge a call for help.

“He is,” he replies, because it's true. It was selfish thoughts as he pondered about whether this man's friend could still be saved and that he was actually just running to the road to get help for Evan. More selfish than perhaps ever before in his life. 

“I think I can see the road.”

The stranger points ahead, and sure enough, the trees thin out again. The blackness of the night has given way to a flat gray. The road must be behind the trees, it's close.

“I don't see any fire,” says Tommy.

“I see it,” goes the guy, and suddenly, he pushes Tommy forward. “Hurry up.”

“All right,” says Tommy, confused. “Just give me a minute, I feel kind of sick.”

He leans on a tree, more clinging to it. His stomach revolts, there’s bile in his mouth. 

“It'll be fine,” says the man. “Go on.”

Somehow, Tommy does indeed keep walking. If he doesn't, he knows he's going to puke, and then what? Who's going to help this guy, who's going to help Evan if he doesn't pull himself together? Tommy stumbles out of the woods and is suddenly standing on the main road. He takes a step back, he can hardly believe it himself, but there’s solid asphalt beneath him again. Just the road, right and left, empty and gray like the sky that announces the morning. 

“Where's the car?” he asks as he turns around. 

The guy is no longer behind him. Where did he go? As if he were sleepwalking, Tommy steps into the middle of the road. Maybe it is a dream after all. 

“Just keep walking.”

Tommy turns around again, but there's no one there. Was there ever? Is anything real? Fear creeps up inside him, leaves his skin clammy. Maybe he’s going insane. 

“There’s the car,” says the invisible voice, and Tommy hears a sound, almost a sob. It’s himself, because what is he to do if he’s imagining things? What is happening?

He looks ahead. A last, sane thought in his brain tells him that the cars are heading towards the city from there. It is early morning. It's a commuter road, isn't it? And those… those are spotlights. There’s a car on the road, and it’s coming towards him. The lights blind him, and his eyes hurt so much, but Tommy is rowing his arms. He thinks he's calling something too, and maybe the next sound is squealing tires. There's someone there, someone is talking, aren’t they? Tommy can barely hear it. He's choking, everything is on fire now, and he's puking his guts out on the middle of the road. 

Maybe there is a fire, and it's consuming him from the inside. It's not quite right, but it's not quite wrong either. Because it’s true. Whatever’s going on, Tommy’s world is on fire somehow. For whatever reason, he's suddenly on his back, and there are stars above him; stars, slowly fading into the pale grey of the morning. There's no road beneath him, there's only soil.

He's alone. This feels wrong. Because if there really is a fire somewhere, then he has to do something about it. Evan is still there. He can't lose him. There's still so much... so much he needs to tell him.

It's the last thing on Tommy's mind before the sky suddenly decides that it's nightfall after all, and the darkness engulfs him.

[faelliely]

Relationship: Lightning McQueen/Jackson Storm

Rating: E

Jackson’s the only one who can possibly understand, the only one who’s broken his records. They’re the fastest men alive and gambling your life for a living means everything else dulls by comparison. Maybe he’s fucked up for wanting this, but he can’t blame himself for yearning the thrill, needing to feel alive.

The race had barely ended when that signature jet black sports car rolled up outside his trailer, tinted windows down and electric track pulsing through the stereo at max volume, the deep rumble of the engine rattling the door frame Lightning was leaning against. Neither of them had even had time to change out of their race suits, the adrenaline of over 200 m/ph still singing in Lightning’s veins.

“Hey, champ,” The rookie took a deep drag of his vape, exhaling the smoke around his words. “Get in.”

And he’d be lying if he didn’t say everything about Jackson’s aggravating personality was kind of hot. Really hot. Rolling his eyes he slid into the passenger seat, threw a poorly-formed excuse back at his crew when they asked if he was really going somewhere with his rival, and Jackson slammed the pedal to the floor, the idling engine roaring to life as they tore away from the track and into the twilight.

Weaving in and out of traffic, Lightning had no idea where they were going, but naively trusted that the other knew what he was doing. There was no way they were obeying the speed limit, Jackson running every red and downshifting to rev the engine as he crossed the double line to pass slower vehicles. Driving like an absolute dick, though Lightning knew he could trust his control, that this was child's play to the talented rookie. Despite his cool demeanor, casually smoking with one elbow resting on the window sill, eyes lidded and lazily gripping the wheel, Lightning knew he was showing off.

And it was working. Unfazed and competent, dark hair in his eyes, shit-eating grin on his pretty face as the smoke curled past his lips. He was raw sex appeal, and the heady bass was hardly the only thing thumping in Lightning’s heart.

They pulled into a parking garage and Jackson killed the engine, beckoning the other to follow him wordlessly. Lightning had barely taken a step into Jackson’s hotel room when the other was on him, fisting one hand in the front of his suit and slamming him up against the closing door, forcing it shut and crushing their lips together.

When they’d started this, Lightning had been taken aback by how aggressive Jackson had been in every aspect of the act. Now he recognised it as passion, craved the energy, gave back as good as he got.

As they broke for air Lightning dragged down the zipper on his own suit, exposing his overheating skin as Jackson latched on to the column of his neck, dragging his tongue up his thundering pulse and sinking his teeth in below his jawline. They had an agreement to no marks where the cameras might see, which meant of course the rookie pushed that boundary every single time they did this.

He’s still so riled up from their race. Lightning hauls him back in for another bruising kiss, tasting the bitter chemical of the vape mixed with a spice that was undeniably him, forcing his tongue past his teeth in an attempt to claim some dominance and taste more. In response he’s pushed to his knees, Jackson shedding his suit over his defined muscles and dragging all 8 inches of his cock out to slap it against Lightning’s face like a complete fuckboy. Three barbells through the frenulum and a ring through the head, because of course a pretentious prick like Jackson Storm had a pierced dick.

They’ve done this enough times now for him to know the drill. Lightning runs his tongue across each piece of metal and swallows down as much as he can in one go, Jackson letting his head fall back so he can look down his nose at him. “You look pretty good from this angle, at my feet.”

Lightning snorts derisively, letting his teeth scrape the underside in retaliation. “Don’t get used to it.”

Jackson roughly fists his blonde hair, forcing him down his length, tears springing in Lightning’s eyes as he struggles to take everything he’s given.

“Don’t tell me our veteran can’t handle me?” Jacskon coos, relentlessly guides the immense length of him past his lips until he chokes. “Oh wait, we already knew that, mister second place.”

It’s always the same kinds of insults, but the humiliation burns through him hotter than any other sex he’s ever had. Lightning thinks there must be something wrong with him, to want this from the man who’s taking everything from him. Knows he’s only a few months off retirement if he can’t keep pace with this asshole, still wants him as deep in his body as he is in his head.

They impatiently move to the spacious double bed and Jackson carelessly tosses him the small bottle from his luggage, makes himself comfortable against the headboard while Lightning shamelessly crawls atop him, so turned on he’s able to slide two fingers into himself with little resistance. He keens, canting his hips forwards so he can feel those barbells drag against his hardness. Can see the thick desire in Jackson’s eyes even as he won’t let himself reward Lightning with any kind of noise.

Personality aside, Jackson is everything he craves. Conventionally attractive, fit, over 6 foot, skilled, sharp and smart, exudes that bad boy aura. But Lightning’s also everything Jackson desires, too. Being in his thirties is hardly old, barely a line on his youthful face, and Lightning’s always been a pretty boy; Jackson knows, had his poster on his wall since he was a kid, was arguably his sexual awakening in his teens. He secretly owns every model spread, not that he’ll ever admit it. But to have the real Lightning McQueen under him like this, to be able to break the legend both on the track and here. It’s the biggest rush of his life, more than just winning, more than being the best.

When Jackson ruthlessly slides the entire length of his cock home in one go, Lightning chokes out a moan, strangled and breathless. He can feel his heart racing, feels every one of those piercings pop past his rim, can barely hear the other mocking him over the white noise ringing in his ears.

“Nobody else gets it. Only I can fuck you like this. Not your fans. Not your dead mentor. Definitely not your little absentee girlfriend. Me.”

And that’s really it, isn’t it. Jackson’s the only one who can possibly understand, the only one who’s broken his records. They’re the fastest men alive and gambling your life for a living means everything else dulls by comparison. Maybe he’s fucked up for wanting this, but he can’t blame himself for yearning the thrill, needing to feel alive.

“I fu-” Lightning drops his head onto his forearms, grits his teeth and whines into the hot air. “-cking hate you.”

Lightning may loathe the man, wants to grind him into the dirt with everything he has, but he’ll never say no to him, to this. Knows he’ll never feel this with anyone else.

“I know. Now shut up, you’re killing my boner.”

Lightning knows it’s a lie, that the rookie loves it when he talks back, doesn’t want a kill unless it’s a fight. Jackson slides his thumb in beside his cock and pulls, Lightning’s jaw dropping in a silent scream. It’s so much, too much.

“Mm, it hurts.” Lightning moans, hands scrabbling for purchase on the comforter as Jackson drags him wider, can feel his orgasm rush up to meet him with the pain of it.

He’s felt himself fly, weightless as he’s thrown back in his seat, the smooth exhilarating hum of his car beneath him as he went faster than anyone before him. It’s not too dissimilar, he thinks, to how it feels to get lost in this pleasure, thrilling and mindless, a rush that leaves him operating on instinct and desire.

Jackson’s thrusts are relentless and deep, piercings grinding against his prostate and making him see stars. Lightning’s eyes are wet with tears, rolling down his face, he glances back to see Jackson’s wolfish grin and hungry eyes drinking in the sight of him shaking apart. Lightning can feel the other get impossibly harder inside him at his tears, smiles with all his teeth when the pace only gets rougher.

Jackson wraps one race-callused hand around his throat and rumbles that deep baritone against the shell of his ear and he’s gone.

“Come.”

His head spins as he comes from his cock alone, keening and spattering the crisp hotel sheets. With the pressure against his windpipe he can’t breathe, gasping through the throes, sending him higher. It’s easily the hardest he’s ever come, his vision whiting.

“Guess you are faster than me after all, old timer.”

“Do you ever shut up?”

Barking a laugh Jackson fills him with warmth, rasping a curse, grip on his hips bruising as he drives home. Lightning feels his cock twitch in interest as it leaks out of him and drips to the bedspread, right before Jackson pulls out and pettily pushes him into the splatters of their own come. Lightning gives an unmanly shriek as the cold liquid contacts his heated skin, just makes Jackson laugh more.

It plays with him more than it should, being drawn close, intimate after what they’ve just done. This is meant to be a quick fuck for relief, not anything more. Still jolts through him when the rookie draws him in for a long, slow kiss, wiping away his residual tears with his thumb.

“Thanks, babe.” Jackson murmurs between kisses, winding their fingers together and making Lightning’s heart skip a beat. That is until he uses that hand for leverage, pushing Lightning off the bed and ruining his afterglow, giving him a sharp, patronising smack to his ass.

“Now get out.”

[dustedmagazine]

The Spatulas — Beehive Mind (Post Present Medium)

Earlier this year, I wrote that The Spatulas’ March Chant EP presented “an adept rock band that plays messy while sounding polished.” Still true of Beehive Mind, the group’s earthy, thumping debut full-length. This time around they’ve refined their identity, constraining the dizzy edge that developed on songs like “Psychic Signal” in favor of the bushy stride they found on “Slinger Style.” The resulting music is richer, with the band more inclined to settle into lively, jingling grooves. Like its predecessor, to listen to Beehive Mind is still to hear four people make joyfully askew, introspective rock & roll in a room together, but with maybe a few more rugs laid out and a window opened on the evergreens.

Beehive Mind isn’t a showy record, but nor is it a shy one. “Somewhat Alike,” a winding mid-tempo romp, is representative. The band builds an organic cacophony out of eddying guitar and an articulate, just-right rhythm section; the swirl never overwhelms, but persists, reinforcing the song’s momentum. While March Chant often thrived in dissonance, with its psychedelia shaded no wave, Beehive Mind blooms naturalistic, humming and buzzing like a walk in the woods. That’s a credit to the band’s unfussy instrumental cohesion and, in particular, to the texture created by Lila Jarzombek’s intuitive lead guitar. You hear it on “Somewhat Alike,” when she grinds off a storm of sparks that clouds and complicates vocalist and rhythm guitarist Miranda Soileau-Pratt’s intrepid chord progression, or when a spiral of acute notes poke melodic pinholes in “The Long Way”’s homey atmosphere.

In Beehive Mind’s folky, punky weave of noise and tuneful DIY sensibility, you can also hear the influence of the Dunedin sound. Soileau-Pratt has cited The Bats, in particular, as being formative, which is apparent in the baroque jangle of “The Long Way” or the bright, relentless “Maya.” 1960s garage rockers like The Kingsmen, or The Sonics on “Have Love, Will Travel,” come to mind in the album’s edgier moments. “Shedded Life,” for instance, shows this other side of The Spatulas. It kicks off with Jon Grothman’s stern, rubbery bass before the rest of the band joins in. There’s more menace in the music here. Kyle Raquipiso drums with a greater tension while the guitars march, sheer and resolute under an urgent Soileau-Pratt — as I was on March Chant, I’m reminded of Patti Smith at her most righteous and belligerent. Soileau-Pratt is a flexible and emotive annunciator and, Smith aside, can evoke singers as disparate as Nico or Joanna Newsom – her wide vowels on the very Nico “Somewhat Alike” line “are you forever drowning?” or her crinkled croon on the closer, “Frontotemporal,” respectively.

Perhaps the most moving and telling song is the title track. A glistening guitar sets us off on the same wistful path as Bill Direen’s “Do You” before gathering forward on an eloquent bassline. The feeling is similar to the simple, sparkling melancholy of Beat Happening’s “Indian Summer,” but lusher. As “Beehive Mind” ebbs and flows, a drone streams off of the entire band, highlighting each player but holding them together as a collective. That unfussy cohesion again. Because “Frontotemporal” is just voice and a single guitar, “Beehive Mind” is the last time we hear The Spatulas swaying and dipping, seeking as one. Plenty of groups play well together, but The Spatulas play affectionately together. It’s communal music. We should all be so lucky to have friends like these. If you happen to, consider starting a band.

Alex Johnson