#just really needed to share and there’s no other way to express this

[nemisuki]

𐔌✧.* ꜰʀᴇᴇᴢᴇ .ᐟ ֹ ₊ ꒱

ೀ⋆ || Eating some ice cream leads to stronger bonds, vulnerability and radiant smiles ❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･

. ♬ ݁˖ || inspo song : spotify version & yt version ᯓ★

ᝰ.ᐟ || shoto todoroki x f!reader, she/her pronouns, pure fluff, words of affirmation, 891 word count •°. *࿐

The young boy wasn't aware of how he found himself in such a position.

His bubbly classmate followed him around like a shadow — every second of the school day — practically glued to his side.

Shoto may be dense, but he's not completely clueless, he knew about her strong feelings for him.

Maybe because she's so unapologetically open about it but still...

He doesn't particularly mind her presence, often feeling more comfortable if she were at his side then not, growing used to the hyper melody — her voice — next to him.

Y/N is quite an enthusiastic girl, so he's not that shocked when she calls him to join her outside the dorms, the duo sitting on a bench as they share a cold snack together.

She smiles, easily breaking the joint popsicles, handing him half of it as he hesitantly accepts.

"I always think stuff tastes better when shared!"

He silently nods.

There's not much he has to say whenever they're together, after all, she seems to understand his quiet nature better than most people.

"Too bad I have no younger siblings, I ate these alone growing up."

She quiets down for a second — the gears already turning in her head — and proceeding to give him a mixed look of amusement and curiosity.

"Hey 'roki, are you also an only child?"

He meets her intrigued gaze, averting his eyes for a moment as he hums in thought.

Eventually deciding to spare her from the situation regarding his eldest sibling, maybe he'll tell the girl another time, but he'd much rather keep this moment light hearted.

As it always is with her — something peaceful — away from all the struggles of his life back home.

"I have two older siblings... a brother and sister," he softly mumbles.

Her eyes light up at the new information, tilting her head as she continues.

"Do you all look alike?"

His brows slightly furrow as he wonders — never really giving it much thought before — slowly recalling Natsu and Fuyumi's features, looking up to the starry sky as he remembers the similarities.

"Probably yes."

She giggles as her imagination runs wild, previously assuming he'd be an only child, given his stoic demeanor.

The confirmation only makes her questions multiply.

"Similar personalities?"

A family full of people just like him would sure be a funny site, if true. He shakes his head, re-meeting her fascinated gaze with a calmer expression.

"No, they are nice."

She immediately replies, as if bothered by his words, the subtle negative self-esteem catching her attention.

"You're nice too— I mean, you're nicer!"

His eyes soften, just barely, not saying anything in response as he takes a bite out of the popsicle.

Y/N seems to notice, her smile growing at the realization as she asks another teasing question.

"Which one of you is better looking?"

"Both of them are beautiful."

She playfully pouts, giving him a look of disapproval and nodding with confidence at her next words.

"No way! I refuse to believe it, you're the most beautiful 'roki."

Her gaze returns back to her cold snack, casually taking another bite like she was just pointing out the obvious, smiling at the delicious taste. Not even needing to know what his siblings look like to be sure of her answer.

He stares at her for a moment, processing what she just said.

A small smile slowly breaking on his face as he looked forward, a warm sensation felt in his chest, a feeling of much needed tranquility as they sat next to each other.

"You're probably the only one that says so..."

His smile was gone before she could catch it.

She hums.

"I don't think that's true, but even if it is, not only do I think you're better, I will always think that way."

Their gazes slowly meet, warmth filling both of their bodies despite a soft breeze passing by, heartbeats steadying in unison.

It was odd.

Nothing out of the ordinary was happening, yet the air around them felt different tonight, more intimate.

"If they're worth 100 marks, then you are worth 101. That special point will always be saved for you."

No other words had to be said, the sound of rustling leaves being long forgotten in the background.

Her eyes showed nothing but sincerity and affection.

It was him that broke eye contact first, looking straight ahead as another soft smile breaks out on his face, not even trying to hide it behind his walls anymore.

He doesn't visibly light up often but when he does... she's right — he truly is beautiful.

The fact that she had the power to make him feel at ease, made her more thrilled than anything else. She'd always offer him a place to be vulnerable; maybe that's why he likes having her around.

Have the urge to keep her just as close.

"The popsicle is good."

"Mhm?"

He looks back at her with a softened expression, making her heart jump at the sight.

"I'll buy you one, next time."

She shyly smiles.

"Okay, I'll be waiting then."

They weren't aware of how much time had passed, sitting together under the moon, having a small break from their rigorous training and studying — hectic student life in general.

But it didn't matter, not when they got each other, brought together by a pair of popsicles.

✦ ⎯⎯⋆ ˚｡⋆ ୨ masterlist || taglist || intro || socials ୧⋆ ˚｡⋆⎯⎯ ✦

ᴀ/ɴ ||| hi my beautiful flowers! wrote a todoroki fic bc i got burnt out from bkg after his birthday fic lolz... also this was inspired by a scene in the c-drama 'when i fly towards you' bc the mmc reminds me so much of shoto! now time for me to go, plus ultra! ᕙ( •̀ ᗜ •́ )ᕗ ᴛᴀɢꜱ ||| @leleyro (❁ᴗ͈ˬᴗ͈)

[leonalovesalot]

You’re all argumentative

ArtDonaldson x Reader

18+ Minors DNI

wc: 3.2k

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Art was not having a pleasant evening.

He sat all alone at the dining table with a meal that he cooked all on his own just for you. So that you could come home and relax and let him take care of you. He wanted to share this delicious feast with you that he poured his blood (he nicked himself with a knife while cutting some onions), sweat (every burner on the stove was on and he had to crack open a window due to all the heat emitted), and tears (they were beginning to brim his eyes as the clock kept ticking and there was no sign of you) into this dinner.

He didn't know if he was more furious, or upset. It was almost nine o'clock and you promised to be home at around seven. Did a promise mean nothing to you? You were his fiancée for God's sake! When you say 'I do' at the wedding, will you also not mean that?

He shakes his head, he didn't really think that about you. He was just disappointed in how his night turned out. Maybe you had a good reason. He sighs and picks up his phone from off the table and taps the screen to check if he missed any texts from you.

Nothing.

Art, on the other hand, had left you six missed calls. Six. None of which got any responses.

He groans and runs this hands over his face in frustration and continues staring at the clock on the wall.

The food was growing cold and would be inedible soon. But a part of him wanted it to be- he wanted you to bite into it and not enjoy it as much as you would've if you'd have just been here on time. He wanted you to notice that it was cold and conclude that he'd made it a long time ago and that you fucked up by being late. He wanted you to apologize; to feel guilty.

Art chews the inside of his lip and tastes blood, which he thought was technically satiating his hunger. He shakes his head at the strange thought and taps his foot impatiently.

The clock struck nine and the door finally burst open. You came in with a disheveled appearance, holding your purse in one hand and jacket in the other.

"I'm here! I'm here!" You call out while catching your breath.

Art stood up and walked to the entrance of your home and leaned against the stairwell with his arms crossed. He says nothing and just stares.

You hang your jacket on the coat hook and bend down to unzip your knee-high boots. You wore a skin-tight black dress that went down to your mid thighs. Art said goodbye to you before you left and thought you looked so incredibly sexy but now he thought you were overdressed. Why did you need to dress so provocatively for a casual hangout with an old friend?

"That ran way longer than I thought," Your soft voice pulls him out of his increasingly concerning thoughts. "I was just going to show him around downtown because that's where his office is going to be. But we ended up back at his apartment and I helped him unpack a little," You rambled about your busy evening and put your boots on the shoe rack.

Art said anything, but you hadn't noticed yet. If you had, you'd see that his jaw was clenched and his face was turning red with anger.

"Oh, I hope you didn't wait up to eat with me. Sammy and I ended up ordering in." You finally stand back up to face him. You had a small smile on your face which faded when you saw Art's expression.

"Hey, what's wrong?" You ask concerned with wide eyes and furrowed brows.

Art sighs and shakes his head, "nothing." He turns away from you and trudges back to the dining table to eat by himself.

You stand there confused. What just happened? Why was he upset?

You were nervous about Art's behaviour because he was usually good at telling you what was wrong. But this was new.

You slowly follow him and come upon the beautiful dinner he had laid out for you. Your lips part as you take in the candles he set up in the centre of the table. Surrounding them were plates he placed carefully with grilled salmon, sides of salad, and bread. He had already poured you a glass of wine too. The guilt begins to eat away at you and it became clear why he was acting this way.

Art just sat down silently about to eat but then stopped. He had lost his appetite. He was hungry, yet, he couldn't bear to look at the food right now. Because when he did, it just reminded him of how much work he put in while you were at some Sammy's apartment eating shitty takeout. He stands up and begins to walk to your bedroom but you call out to stop him.

"Art," You say softly, he stops in his steps but doesn't turn to look at you. "I'm so sorry, if I had known I would've come home earlier." It was a weak apology. On any other day, Art would've immediately accepted and kissed you all over but today wasn't that day.

"I called you six times," He says monotonously and turns around to face you. You were a little surprised that your apology wasn't enough, but you knew you really had fucked up this time. This wasn't just a simple accident where you shrunk one of his gym shorts in the wash, or forgot to buy something at the store he specifically told you he needed. No, today you wasted his time. You made him feel unimportant. You put someone else above him.

"My phone was in my purse. And you know that I keep it on silent-" You were trying to explain yourself but it came out like you were putting the fault on him.

"Then why own a phone if you're never gonna use it? Throw it in the trash," He cuts you off and shrugs.

You cringe. You hated when people got all sarcastic during an argument. But you deserved it.

You take a deep breath, "Art, I'm sorry okay? I can still eat with you? Please?" Your eyes pleaded.

He scoffs and rolls his eyes, "that's not what this is about. It's not about the fucking food."

You looked down at your feet, contemplating what to do next. His anger didn't seem to subside even a little - if anything, you think you made it worse.

You slowly look back up and gather courage to meet his gaze, "I'm sorry, I should have checked my phone. I shouldn't keep it on silent but I like to be present, Art." God, you sucked at this. Another apology that ends with you attempting to justify your behaviour. You hated being the 'bad guy'.

Art was unimpressed, not buying a word.

He sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose, "where even were you, Y/N?

"With Sammy," You say quietly, not knowing why he asked you this. You thought he knew.

He didn't say anything knowing you despised the silence. So you continued, "I told you, he moved out here because he was hired at this big firm a-and uhm he wanted me to acquaint him with the city."

Art quirks his eyebrow, "didn't you show him around last weekend too?" He questioned.

You didn't understand why it mattered but you told him anyway, "yeah, but we ended up just chatting the whole time that day. And today I gave him a proper tour so," you didn't know why you were so timid all of a sudden.

Art nods slowly while staring down at a bloody hangnail on his index finger, like it was more interesting than anything you had to say. You just shift awkwardly feeling like a kid about to be punished.

"And who is this 'Sam' again?" Art looks up at you briefly, then back down at his finger. He refused to call him by that puerile nickname you used.

You swallow, "he and I went to high school together."

His head snaps back up making you flinch, "high school - right." He runs his hand through his hair, "And what? Were you two a thing or something? Back then." You were going to laugh it off, but nothing about the look on Art's face made it seem like he was joking.

"I- what? No. No, not even a little. We talked like maybe five times throughout the entirety of high school," you force a chuckle to ease the tension.

This should've made Art feel better, but it didn't. The hours between seven and nine were filled with nothing but overthinking. His mind conjured up irrational scenarios of you and Sam together—out in the city, laughing, enjoying each other's company. And it made him sick to his stomach.

"So, why do you have so much to say to each other now?" Art noticed he was being cold, but couldn't do anything to stop it.

Your eyes darted around the room as you drowned further in confusion. How are you supposed to answer that?

"Well, we're both older," you pause and think harder, "and we have careers and- and lives and so naturally there's a lot to discuss and-"

"Are you fucking him?"

Silence.

Your lips parted in horror. You were shocked at his words, how could he ask you that? How dare he think you were capable of something so heinous as infidelity? He was your fiancé for God's sake! The heavy diamond ring wrapped around your finger wasn't just for decoration. You wanted him to have you forever. That wasn't something you could ever take lightly.

"I'm gonna pretend you didn't just say that," you reply slowly, still recovering from that low blow.

Art couldn't keep his tongue under control anymore. Every impulsive thought was going to be voiced tonight and he'd just have to deal with the consequences as they came.

"Well I did. You want me to repeat myself?" He was clearly trying to rile you up. You knew he was but you still wanted to be the bigger person and rise above this immature squabble. You didn't want to fight. You wanted nothing more than to kiss and make up. But, God, every syllable coming out of his mouth was making it impossible to not scream at him.

You let out a heavy sigh, "look, I get that you're upset right now but that doesn't give you the right to speak to me that way." You tried to maintain the tranquility in your voice, but you were betrayed when it wavered slightly at the end.

Art knew you were right. You were always right and he was truly disgusted with himself for asking you a question like that. It was demeaning. But part of him wanted you to hurt; to have your night ruined, just as his evening was.

"Well, that depends." Art crosses his arms over his chest, accentuating his biceps.

Your eyebrow quirks up at his words, "on what?"

"The truth," his intense gaze never strayed from yours, which made your blood run cold. "If you weren't fucking him, then yeah, I shouldn't speak to you this way. But, if you were," he pauses, "then I can speak to you however I want."

You were already at your wit's end and those harsh words were your last straw.

You scoff, "you're being serious about this?"

"It's a simple question, Y/N."

You run your hand through your hair, out of frustration. You shake your head and look up at him. You didn't want to satisfy him with an answer. You thought about walking away and just leaving but that would only exacerbate things. So you swallow your pride and respond through clenched teeth, "no, Art. I wasn't fucking him." You emphasize each word to really drive the point home.

The corner of his lip curled up into a smirk. He got what he wanted but it seemed that all his anger from earlier had poured into you. He was sleeping on the couch tonight, no questions asked.

"See? That wasn't so hard," Art lets out a chuckle which makes your blood boil. He really shouldn't have said that. He should have just taken the win and put the whole thing behind him.

You stare at him for a moment, and your overflowing irritation begins to make you smile. It unsettled Art more than he'd like to admit. Fuck- maybe he'd gone too far.

"Yeah," you nod, "it was easy." You say slowly. "Shame about dinner, though. All your effort," you look at the dining table, "wasted."

Art swallows, "yeah," he clears his throat, "but it's okay." He was hoping this passive-aggressiveness would disintegrate and the night would just end. He wanted to hold you.

You turn and slowly walk towards your plate of food that was set up for you. Art watches you carefully, not sure what you were doing. You weren't acting like yourself.

You look down at the now-cold, unappealing plate and pick it up off the table. Art stands still, the room was so quiet he could hear his heart beating.

You stare down at the plate for a few seconds, then spit harshly onto it and toss it back down on the table, a few bits of salad flying off.

Now it was Art's turn to stare at you in horror. He was deeply offended, but had no intention to fight back. He was back to being his usual, unassertive self.

"Don't ever make me feel like a whore again." Your eyes were glossy and wide. You were unfaltering. Domineering.

You don't wait for Art's response and leave the dining room.

Art lets out an exhale he didn't know he was holding in.

Holy shit.

Art stood still in the dining room feeling his stomach churn. He needed to make things right but he was so nervous. He didn't know if he could handle your rejection. He definitely pushed you too far and he couldn't believe that he was now the one in the position to apologize.

He takes a deep breath and walks down the hall towards your shared master-bedroom with his tail between his legs.

He comes upon a closed door. It's okay, he was expecting it.

Inside, you were changing out of your dress and taking off your jewelry. Your body was still hot with rage.

Art reached up and knocked, apprehensive. He closed his eyes, awaiting your response. Or lack thereof—because he got nothing.

"Baby? Can I come in?" Art's voice came out trembling. It made you smirk.

You were standing by the closet, putting your dress on a hanger, wearing nothing but your bra and underwear. You didn't bother to respond. The door was unlocked anyway.

Art wraps his hand around the doorknob and decides to quietly turn it to see if it was unlocked. To his surprise, it was. You wouldn't leave it unlocked if you didn't want him to come in, he thinks.

He opens the door a crack and then gathers the courage to push it open all the way. His breath hitches when he sees your basically nude backside.

He silently walks over to the foot of the bed and sits down on the edge. He fidgets with his hands in his laps and debates whether or not to talk to you. He could wait for you to say something, but he knew that wasn't too likely. He waited as you picked out pyjamas for the night.

"I shouldn't have asked you that- that question," he forces out a few pathetic words and stumbles as he does so.

You don't respond and bend down to pick up the shorts you just dropped (on purpose). Art's eyes widen and he quickly diverts his attention to the bedsheet he sat on. To make matters worse, Art could feel himself getting hard. He was so fucked up.

"I trust you, wholeheartedly. You- you know that."

Silence.

You reach behind and unhook your bra. Art, hearing the click, turns to look back and his cock twitches at the sight before him.

One thing at a time, he thought. He closed his eyes and took deep breaths to force his erection away.

You slide your bra off and let it hit the floor. Then, you slip on a thin (see-through) tank top and put on your shorts. It was an unusually warm night.

You finally turn around and walk past him, to your side of the bed. Art's eyes followed your every movement but you didn't once glance at him. That stung.

"Y/N," he attempts to grab your attention again, "I'm sorry. Really, I am."

You put your phone on charge and pull the covers back, ready to lay down and fall asleep. You were fine with going to bed angry. Art wasn’t. He needed to have his arms around you—or the other way around—for him to drift off. You were his melatonin. He knew he was looking toward a long, sleepless night if he didn’t make it up to you now.

Art turns back and crawls toward the head of the bed, wanting to be nearer. He lies down next to you, resting his elbow on your pillow beside your head, using his hand to prop up his own head. Hesitantly, he reaches out and places his hand on your waist above the blanket.

"Please don't ignore me," he murmurs.

You were faced away from him, eyes closed. But he knew you were awake.

"I love you, I'm sorry," he says genuinely and leans down to kiss your temple.

Eyes still closed, you say, "and what're you sorry for?"

Art was just relieved you were talking to him so he quickly says, "for- for insinuating that you were being unfaithful."

The corner of your lip curls slightly, "see? that wasn't so hard."

Art swallows the taste of his own medicine.

But at least you seemed to forgive him.

You open your eyes and turn, now on your back. Your gaze meets his and you almost feel guilty for what you put him through.

Almost.

You bring your hand up to his cheek and pull him down into a soft kiss. He immediately obliges and returns the kiss. You were about to pull away but he brings a hand to the back of your head and keeps you pressed against him. His tongue explored every inch of your mouth and you let him. You latch onto his bottom lip and lightly bite it, making him moan. His hands begin to wander, fingers tracing your jaw, down to your neck, and then finally your tits. He feels them in his palms and squeezes them making you arch against him.

The two of you finally pulled away breathless and smile softly at one another.

A few seconds go by as you catch your breaths and a playful glimmer enters Art's baby blue eyes.

"I'm kinda hungry for something else now," he says lustfully.

You smile softly and push the covers off of you.

All was forgiven.

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Happy one-year anniversary to Challengers!! This movie awakened something in me that won't be put to rest for the rest of the century.

Also, I was initially going to post a Patrick fic for the anniversary, but that one is going to take a little longer so it'll most likely be finished within the next day or two!

I really loved this fic lol it started as a silent treatment thing from Art where only Art is upset with the reader but my playlist began playing woo by rihanna and like breakin' dishes and that somehow turned the tables but I think it came together quite well :))

[streamafterlaughter]

Soundtrack to Disaster

Chapter XVII: Am I Making You Feel Sick?

masterlist | playlist | prev. | pinboard | read on ao3 | read bee's diary

songs for this chapter: erase me by lizzy mcalpine, true hardcore (ii) by fiddlehead, strangers by ethel cain

chapter tags: hurt/slight comfort then more hurt haha hehe sorry!! angst, swearing, drinking, hurt feelings, insults, misunderstandings, everyone's kind of a dick in this one sorry??? | cw/dead dove, do not eat: mentions of suicidal tendencies/ideation such as intrusive thinking, making light of own death. bee has horrible coping mechanisms. also trauma! | fic tags: Angst, hurt/(eventual) comfort, (eventual) smut, slow burn, enemies to friends to lovers, Eddie Munson x Fem!OC!Reader, Modern AU | REMINDER: THIS FIC IS RATED EXPLICIT. 18+ mdni.

a/n:... tee hee? :p it's a long one buddies! strap in!

DISCLAIMER: I do not consent to having my work fed to AI engines, or reposted in any way, shape, or form on other websites unless otherwise stated. THIS WORK IS BEING REPOSTED TO MY AO3! Feel free to check it out! Please let me know if you see my work elsewhere. I am satiated by reblogs and comments, so please! Interact with my work! It motivates me to write more, and it helps to know someone out there is reading.

taglist (open!): @children-of-the-grave @five-bi-five @kellsck @faggotinie @xplrnowornever @taccobelle @micheledawn1975 @mewchiili @dreamerjj @losingmygrasponreality @munsonburn3r @justalotoffanfiction @bl0ssomanddie @eddiesgirl1944

--

“Here it is!” You pull into the parking lot of the duplex, located only ten minutes away from your own apartment.

“Bee, you don’t have to come in. It’s gonna be boring, and probably kinda pathetic. Not like I can afford much on a prisoner’s salary.”

“Hey. You know, you don’t have to move out right away. I kinda like having you around.” You nudge your brother as the two of you climb the front porch steps. “Unless it’s what you want.”

“Crashing at my little sister’s place is kinda harshing my vibe, truthfully.” He snickers as he says it, unable to keep up the act. “Let’s just see it. Who knows, maybe it's a hidden gem?”

“What the hell, sure.”

—

It is not a hidden gem. In fact, the place is a fucking eyesore, far too visible for your liking. The wallpaper is ancient and garish, yellowed likely with the previous owner’s cigarette smoke, and peeling along the edges. The kitchen is tiled with fake linoleum, clashing immediately into the den’s unfinished hardwood. The appliances are ancient, from the mid eighties if you had to guess. Furniture was sparse and tacky, and the whole place smells like mothballs. 

“Rent is twelve hundred a month.”

You gape at the landlord. “Including utilities?” The old, sweaty man shakes his bald head. “You can do whatever you want with it, but I’m not payin’ for it. Planner on takin’ that wallpaper down for years.” You try to catch your brother’s expression without giving yourself away. If you know Chris at all, he’s not gonna take this place. There’s no way. 

“You know I’m a felon, right?”

The guy shrugs. “Me too, kiddo.”

“I’ll take it.”

“Chris!”

“Great! First, last, and security deposit can be paid to me on move-in day.” He offers his fat, greedy hand to your brother, and you have to fight the urge to swat it away. Chris takes his hand, shaking it once, and accepting the contract to sign. 

“Chris. You really do not have to move out.”

“Yes I do, Bee. I love you dearly, but I need my space. So do you! We aren’t kids anymore, we can’t share such a small space without jumping down each other’s throats.”

You feel blindsided. Up until this very moment, you thought you’d been getting along swimmingly with your brother-turned-roommate. “Are you sick of me already?” You try to play it off, like you’re teasing him, despite dreading his answer.

“Of course not. But it’s not fair of me to not only walk back into your life after six years, but your home? The physical place where you exist? And, on top of that, I’ve had a roommate for six years, I could stand to have a place to myself.”

You sigh, surrendering your argument. “Okay, I get it. You need to spread out. But, you wanna live here?”

“‘Course not, but it’s what I can afford right now. I’ll work my ass off at the bar and fix it up next summer. Get you and your friends to help me out for pizza and beer.” You can’t help but smile at the thought: you, Steve, and Robin peeling off the old wallpaper while Chris and Eddie haul a gently used sofa inside to replace the stained and shredded couch currently sitting in the den.

“Remember, this doesn’t have to be your forever either. You can leave Hawkins.”

“Yeah, one day.” He muses, staring at the wall in front of you.

—

“Should we be drinking if we’re about to get called in to work?” You pick at the label of your beer bottle as your brother takes a swig of his own.

“Eh, does it count as work if I’m in the band?”

“You guys don’t go on ‘til ten, you’ll be slingin’ drinks with me until then.”

Chris shrugs. “One drink’s not gonna hurt us.”

You respond by taking a sip of your own, enjoying the hints of pumpkin in the seasonal ale. As soon as you feel it sliding down your throat, both your phone and your brother’s buzz.

“Welp,”

“Speak of the devil.” He shakes his head. 

The Family Ties:  mama (to you, crispy): Hi my darlings! So so sorry to ask you this… > Actually, no im not!... You put me thru a combined sixteen hours of labor… > Will you please come save your poor mother and help run the bar tonight?? > Kevin would also appreciate the extra hands…

You catch your brother’s gaze and snort. “This woman, I swear.” He quickly types out a response.

crispy:  we’ll be there in 20 mama: thx =) 

“You wanna drive?” You dangle your car keys in front of his face, and he attempts to snatch them from you, but you pull them away at the last second. “And let you pick the music? Fuck, no!” You cackle, skipping past him and into the driver’s seat of your car, immediately plugging your phone into the fraying aux cord, and shuffling your playlist.

“We cannot listen to this the entire way there, I’m begging.” The song blaring through your speakers is not Chris’s taste at all: a horribly depressing indie pop song usually meant for playing while staring out a train window while your mind goes somewhere else entirely. Before you can stop him, Chris snags your phone from the cupholder and taps the skip button. “That’s more like it! Knew you had it in ya!” The new track is louder, more drum heavy, and a lot more upbeat than the first, and you have to wonder why you’d put your whole library on shuffle and chance such a drastic contrast. 

“My taste is vast and expansive, dear brother.”

“Gee, wonder where you got that from.” He means himself, you know that, but most of your taste in music has been despite your brother. Sure, you love punk music, but his musical knowledge starts and ends with “post-hardcore” bands. He’ll indulge you sometimes, letting you explain the story of Ethel Cain’s character to him in detail, but he’d never seek that out for himself. 

You pull into the parking lot still bickering about who has better taste when you’re both silenced by the sheer amount of cars. “We are so fucked.”

“So, totally, fucked.” You nod, craning your neck to look for an empty spot. You pass Edie’s van in the back, pulled up to the stage door as Jeff is hauling in his amp. You pull up next to the vehicle. “Go help your friends, I’ll try to find a spot that isn’t a million miles from here.”

Chris nods, throwing your car door open and stepping out, greeting his friends and already lighting a cigarette. 

Before you even put your car back in drive, the door is yanked open again, and Eddie slides into the passenger seat. “Hey.”

“Hi.”

“What’s up?”

You can’t help the scoff you let out. “I’m uh, about to go park?”

“Mhm, cool.” He nods, like he’s fascinated by this fact. “You gonna drive, or…?”

“Why are you in my car, Edward?”

“Pullin’ out the government name, huh? Well, ‘scuse me for intruding!”

“Whatever.” You roll your eyes, trying to stifle the smile threatening to break on your lips, and shift your car into drive. “Probably gonna have to park across the street.” You muse, still having no luck in finding an empty spot.

“You guys don’t have employee parking?”

“We’re a bar, not an office building. First come, first serve.”

“Damn, tough times.” His face stretches into a cartoonish frown, and you bite your lip to keep from giggling like a middle schooler. “Wait!” His outburst causes you to slam on the brakes. “Sorry! Thought I saw a spot but there’s a fuckin’ clown car parked there.”

“That is definitely Robin’s car.” You nod at the bright red VW Bug, decorated with bumper stickers reading “Baby on Board! (I’m Baby)” and “I Brake for Lesbians!”

“That… tracks, actually.” Eddie chuckles, and you nod. “But don’t tell her I said that.”

“No promises. Ooh, this guy’s leaving.” You flick your blinker on and slow to a stop, but before you can even get the chance to turn once the truck’s pulled away, the spot is swiped from you, a bright white BMW screeching into place.

“Oh, fuck you!” Your voice is rising above an acceptable level for inside a car, and you can feel your face getting hot as you let your foot off the pedal, rolling away from the spot that could have been, fuming.

Before you can stop him, Eddie rolls your window down and climbs halfway out, leaning toward the back of the car. “Hey, fuck head! We were here first!” He cups his hands around his mouth as he yells, loud enough to startle any passersby. 

A familiar voice calls back, a few seconds later.“Sucks to suck, asshole!”

“Hold the fuck on.” You slam on your brake and throw your car into park, jostling Eddie around in the process. “STEVEN!” You’re also yelling now. “That was my fuckin’ spot, dick head!”

“Oh, shit. Sorry, Bee, I had no idea.” His apology is weakened by his giggling.

You stand there, arms crossed as Eddie jogs up beside you. “No fuckin’ shit.” Eddie shakes his head, now also laughing. “Of course it was you.”

“What the hell is that supposed to mean?!”

“You, with your fancy car and stupid hair, thinks he’s fuckin’ entitled to everythi-”

You wave your arms between the boys. “Okay, enough! Here’s what’s gonna happen. Steve, since you’re so fuckin’ good at finding parking, you’re gonna park my car. I am gonna take Jackass Number Two here–” You jab your thumb towards Eddie, “inside to start setting up. Then, I am gonna bring my ass behind the bar, and likely not leave that spot for the next six hours, considering the abnormally massive amount of people here tonight. Sound good?” They each mumble unconvincing noises of agreement. “What was that?”

“Yes, Bee.” They drone in robotic unison, a bit they’ve long committed to as a response to your scoldings. 

“Great! Fantastic! Steve, I will see you inside. Eddie, let’s go, my brother’s gonna be fuckin’ pissed at you.”

“Shit. Must be Tuesday.” He’s still grinning, and you can’t figure out if he’s charming or irritating you. He yanks the bar door open, gesturing for you to go inside first, before skirting behind you like a dog on a short leash.

–

“Mom?” You call her as you yank your apron off the coat hook, tying it haphazardly around your waist before sliding behind the bar counter. “You doin’ alright?”

“Hi, honey! Yeah, I’m alright. Kev just happened to go on lunch five minutes before we got absolutely flooded with people.” She gestures to the crowd clamoring in front of her, and it’s then that you notice what you’re dealing with. These patrons are clearly all a part of the same subculture, clad in leather and denim, with long and unruly locks of unbrushed hair. Simply put, they all look like Eddie Munson. 

“These guys all here for the band?” You shout over the noise of the music, paired with the unintelligible shouting of the customers.

“Think so! Chris was talkin’ about putting some of the songs on the internet. Maybe he finally did!” Your mom’s words give you pause, Chris never mentioned wanting to share the songs to you. It’s a second slap in the face when you’re forced to acknowledge that Eddie didn’t either. 

“Good for them!” You plaster what you hope is a convincing smile, and direct your attention to the patron in front of you. She’s short, petite, and probably wearing twice her weight in metal chains clipped to her clothing. Ink covers both of her arms, and you fight the urge to study what the shapes could possibly mean as she orders a rum and coke. You make her drink quickly, without an attempt to make conversation like you normally would, considering the noise level. She slides you a twenty and smiles, snatching her cup off the counter before the condensation has the chance to sweat. As you continue making drinks, your eyes wander to the stage, where the guys are still plugging wires into various pedals and amplifiers. Eddie approaches the mic, where he says something unheard by anyone except him and their sound “engineer,” Gareth’s friend from college fiddling on the small sound board in the back of the room. Finally, Eddie gives a thumbs up, and pulls his in-ear speaker out to rest 

on his shoulder before crouching to tape the setlist to the floor in front of him. 

“Bee!” You’re pulled back into reality with your mother’s fingers snapping in your face. “Where’d you go just now? I need you here, making drinks with me! You can think about your boyfriend later.” The last part is said more lightly, and you feel your face flush.

“Mom, you can’t say that here. Every girl in this room wants that title, I sure as hell don’t need them thinking I’m standing in their way of that!” 

“Hey, definitely not every girl. I already know a few of them play for the other team.”

You roll your eyes. “Should I let Robin know?”

Your mother’s response is cut by the piercing sound of feedback, stabbing through your ears like a kitchen knife. On stage, the guys wince, frantically searching for the source of the shrieking before yanking a wire, successfully silencing it. 

“Sorry!” Eddie says sheepishly into the mic, evoking a buzz of awkward laughter from the front row. “We’ll be back, uh, soon!” There’s a scattered applause as Eddie hurriedly follows the rest of the band backstage. 

“Bee!” You hear her call your name over the noise. 

“Hey, Rob! See you found my parking spot stealer.” You nod to Steve, and he pouts at you. 

“Oh, did he piss you off tonight too?” Robin elbows the boy in his ribs, causing him to wince in pain. “Because dingus here decided to invite his old buddies from Hawkins High School here tonight.”

You gape at her, then at Steve. “Come again for Big Fudge?”

Steve opens his mouth, closes it, and repeats the movement twice more before speaking. “Listen, it’s just a couple guys from the team. I will make sure they behave themselves.”

“It’s not them I’m worried about.” You glance to the stage behind you, which is empty now, save for Kevin making sure everything is properly placed. “If Eddie finds out his high school fuckin’ bullies are here, he’s gonna lose his mind.”

“Oh, c’mon, give Eddie some credit.”

“Steve, do I need to remind you what happened when I got stood up? What do you think he’s gonna do if he sees the guy that used to shove him into lockers here? On the night his band plays!” You don’t know why you’re so pissed off, you’d never had a direct problem with Tommy. Carol Perkins, however, was someone you’re praying Steve didn’t think to include. 

“I think he’d be a perfect gentleman!”

You snort, pouring a beer from the draft for a very thirsty biker. “Right, Eddie’s a gentleman and I actually can fly.” You nod as you speak, the sarcasm dripping from your lips like acid. “Let’s get real for a second. He’s gonna lay the kid out if he even catches a glimpse. Don’t say I didn’t warn you!” 

But Steve isn’t looking at you anymore, he’s looking behind you, but when you turn around to see, there’s nothing there. “Hello? Earth to Steve?”

“What? Sorry, thought I saw someone.” You cock an eyebrow at him. “Must’ve imagined it. Anyway, don’t worry. I’m driving tonight, so I’ll be sober enough to keep everyone in check.”

“Oh, Stevie. Ever the babysitter.” Robin coos mockingly, patting his shoulder. “I, however, cannot relate. One dirty shirley, pretty please!”

“I wouldn’t have ever guessed.” You tease her, already preparing the drink she always orders. As you pour the sprite, the house lights dim around you, leaving only the overhead bar lights beaming through the dark room. The crowd gets impossibly louder, a cacophony of shrieks and shouted obscenities as the boys take the stage. Chris comes first, waving his arms to get the crowd hyped up, followed by Jeff swinging his bass around his shoulder. Of course, there’s a gap between Jeff and Eddie. You see Gareth on the side of the stage, shaking his head as he talks to someone you can��t see. From where you are, he looks… worried? 

Finally, Gareth grabs the mystery person by the shoulders, spinning him toward the stage. Eddie walks out, barely registering the crowd in front of him. You lean over the bar to ask Robin, “Is he alright?” But she only gives you a shrug. Eddie approaches the mic, adjusting it to his height despite the fact that it had been perfectly set already. “What’s up, Hawkins!” He practically shrieks into the mic and is rewarded with the hysterical screams of almost everyone in the room. “We are Corroded Coffin, thanks for comin’ out!” He steps away, and Chris taps his sticks together to count them off. It takes all of a minute before something goes wrong.

You notice before anyone else, but Eddie’s a whole count off, coming in an entire measure too early. Luckily, you can tell that Chris and Jeff have caught it, and work with Eddie’s slip up.

It doesn’t stop there, though. You’ve never seen Eddie so… off before, definitely not while performing. He’s not giving the crowd the show he normally would, lacking the theatrical stage presence and banter between songs. There’s no personality, and it confuses you to watch. You’d assumed Eddie would be ecstatic by the turn out for his band, but to you he seems anxious. 

“What the hell is wrong with Munson?” Gareth appears beside you, causing you to jump. 

“What?” You shout over Eddie’s slightly off-key singing. 

“He was freaking out before they went on, said something about the Dark Side being here? Some weird shit?”

Oh, no. “Did he say anything else?”

“Yeah, he was raving about how he’ll never be a ‘gentleman’.” Gareth raises his fingers in quote. “Do you have any fuckin’ clue what any of that means, or why he’d be so fucked up about it?” He looks at you with suspicion, like somehow he’d heard you say all that not ten minutes ago. 

“Wh-” Then you pull your eyes from Gareth to look at Steve. “Fuck.”

“You need to fix whatever is going on there,” He points at the stage, where Eddie has seemingly broken a guitar string and is trying to play around it. “Because I tried, and he wouldn’t fuckin’ listen to me.”

“Shit, yeah. Okay. Give me a second.” You push away from the counter, over to where your mom is punching orders into the computer. “Mom, we need to shut this down.”

“What the hell are you talking about, honey? We’ve never made this much on a Tuesday in our lives.”

“Yeah, and we never will if we don’t do something right fucking now.”

“Okay, listen, sweetie. I know you don’t love Corroded Coffin, and frankly I don’t either, but they’re apparently very well liked–”

“Mom! Would you listen to this for a second?” You gesture for her to shut up and actually hear how the band currently sounds: Awful. Somehow Chris has lost the count, likely from the way Eddie seems to be rushing through their second song, singing way faster than the song actually calls for. “He’s crashing out, I need to talk to him before he embarrasses himself even more.”

Luckily, your mom has a heart, and seems to want to help you get Eddie out of this. “Okay. What can I do?”

–

When the second song comes to a clattering end, your mom rushes onto the stage before the band can dig themselves further into mockery. “Sorry, sorry!” She scurries up to Eddie and whispers something in his ear, her hand over the mic to make sure no one else hears. He nods, then moves forward.

“Hey, really sorry guys. We’re gonna take a beat for some technical difficulties. Talk, dance, drink amongst yourselves. We’ll be right back.” And just like that, the house lights are on, and the band is setting their instruments down before walking off stage.

You call to Kev. “Hey, you got this, right? My mom’s coming back, I gotta go take care of something.”

“Yeah, no worries! Go help your boyfriend!” He means it, you can tell by the grin on his face, but it doesn’t stop your flinching. You slide out of the bar as your mom returns, and weave your way through the sweaty crowd to get backstage. “Hey!” You call out to the guys’ backs as they enter the green room, watching as Eddie throws something at the wall. “Whoa, hold on!” You jog to catch up before Eddie can slam the door, shoving it open. “I need to talk to your frontman. In private.” The guys groan, but exit without more of an argument. You turn to Eddie, who’s practically shaking in front of you, fists clenched, jaw set. 

“What the hell do you want?”

“What the fuck is your problem?”

“My problem? This is who I am, Bee! You of all people know that, know where I come from.” His tone is drenched in venom, you can feel each word stinging behind your eyes. “I’m not nice. I’m not, how’d you put it? A gentleman?” You freeze. “That is what you said, right?”

“Is that what this is about?” You dare to take a step toward him. “Is that all you heard?”

“Why? Did I miss you hurling more insults at my character?” He’s practically shouting, and you do your best not to cower. 

“No, but you might have missed some important context. For your information, Steve had informed me that your high school bullies are here. I told him not to be surprised if you lay them out for daring to show their faces on your band’s night. I never meant for you to hear that. I shouldn’t have said it.” 

He doesn’t respond right away, studying the floor instead of looking at you. “Oh. That would have been some pretty useful context.”

“Mhm,” You nod, rolling your eyes. “Now you definitely need to go back out there and show that crowd who Eddie Munson actually is. Because whatever the fuck that was, wasn’t him.” He looks up to meet your eyes, but you avert your own to his shoes. “The Eddie I know is way more metal than that.” You can hear him chuckling, tension fading from the air. “I am really sorry, I didn’t mean for you to hear that. Especially that part. For the record, I think you’re pretty gentlemanly generally speaking.”

“Do you now?”

“You always open the car door for me.” You state mater-of-factly. 

“That’s ‘cause it’s you.”

Before you can ask what he means, your mom calls from behind the door. “You almost ready to go? These guys seem like the type to get violent if they don’t get what they came for, and I can’t afford a new front window right now.”

“Yeah, we’re coming!” You call back, and turn back to Eddie. “You okay?”

“Yeah, I think so. Even if I’m not, I’d rather not owe your mom a new front window.”

“That’s the spirit!” You reach your arms over your head, exaggerating a cheerleader pose. Eddie scoffs, shaking his head as he walks past you, and out the door. You trail behind him, shaking his shoulders as the two of you walk back to the side of the stage, where the rest of the band waits for their frontman.

They redo their entrance, and luckily for everyone the crowd is willing to give them a second chance. Eddie’s second time approaching the mic is much more in character, addressing members of the crowd with points and devil horns, amping them up before snatching the mic from the stand.

“Let’s try this shit again, huh?” He growls, and the crowd goes completely nuts. Your ears ring with the volume, and you have to plug them until you’re safely back behind the bar. “My dearest apologies for… whatever the fuck that was!” Eddie exclaims, and it pulls a roar of laughter from the fans. “We are Corroded Coffin, thanks for comin’ out!” He starts in on their first song again, this time on the correct count. It’s like night and day, Eddie on stage now compared to before. He’s moving, thrashing around as he nails every chord he plays, vocals strong and perfectly pitched, without a single sign he’d ever struggled to hit them. You move despite yourself, swaying to the rhythm as you pour a beer every couple of minutes. Before you know it, though, you’re not taking orders because the whole room is on the dance floor, a circle pit forming in the middle as Eddie slices through a guitar solo. You can’t help but be entranced by his presence onstage, drenched in sweat and shining as a spotlight hits him, eyes squeezed closed as he screams into the mic, and you feel each note in your bones. 

Sooner than you hoped, the show is over. Eddie’s shirt has been tossed into a gaggle of shrieking girls, and you watch as they pathetically fight for the piece of fabric. Eddie tosses his pick back, and Chris hurls his sticks behind it before waving as he exits the stage. Eddie lingers to hand the setlist to a particularly excited looking guy in the front row, dapping him up before needing to be pulled away by his friend. You can’t seem to unglue your eyes from Eddie as he walks off stage, sweat dripping down his bare back, jeans clinging to his slim waist as his hips swing side to side.

Someone clears their throat, snapping you back to earth. “Bee? You okay?” Robin is in front of you, with Steve next to her looking at you with a raised eyebrow.

“Yeah, I’m fine. Why?”

“You’ve been zoned out for like, five whole minutes.”

“I have not!” You huff, definitely guilty of the accusation.

“Uh huh. Okay. What happened?” Robin collapses onto the barstool directly in front of you. “I want details!”

“What do you mean?”

“What did you say to Eddie? I saw you go backstage.” You catch Steve sitting too, trying really hard to look disinterested, and still failing. 

“He overheard us talking about Steve’s friends. Well, partially.”

“You’re telling me that shit show was because of us?” Steve chimes in, offended.

“More like because of me. He heard what I said about him being nice.”

“And that threw him so far off his game he had to start over.” Robin deadpans, blinking rapidly. Interesting.”

“It is?”

“Yes, dingus. Extremely.”

Steve huffs. “I don’t get it.”

“You wouldn’t, you’re a guy. Bee, you get it, right?”

“I mean, I think so? I get what you think you’re saying, sure.” 

“I don’t think, I know!”

“Can someone please tell the stupid man what the hell is going on?” Steve is practically pleading with you now. 

“Eddie’s in love with Bee.” Robin states, crossing her arms over her chest in challenge. 

“He is?”

“He is not!” You might as well throw a tantrum, the way you whine the words at your friends. 

“Why else would that affect him so badly?” Steve doesn’t have an answer to that. Neither do you. “See! Like I said.” Robin bares her teeth in a taunting smile.

“Get out of my bar.”

“What?”

“Leave! Last call! You’re cut off, whatever! Just get out.”

“I’m drunk! I can’t drive!”

“Steve, you too. Out.”

He gasps. “What did I do?!”

“You brought Little Miss Know It All over here.”

“See, Robin? This is why no one likes us.”

Robin rolls her eyes, sliding off the stool. “Yeah, whatever. I’ll see you tomorrow, right?” She points at you, and you sigh. “I promise, no more very clear observations. At least for your sake.”

“Fine. I will see you tomorrow.” With that, you wave your friends away, and watch as they dodge leather clad arms on their way out the door. 

–

The bar is trashed. Plastic cups litter the entire floor, along with peanut shells and assorted garbage. You huff as you walk around the bar with a trash bag, sealed into latex gloves as you pluck piece after piece of trash off the floor. 

Your mom slides the cash deposit into a poly bag and sighs. “What a fuckin’ night, huh?”

You giggle at her candor, and Chris joins you with the mop bucket rolling behind him. “You guys are really gettin’ your voices out there.” She muses, scribbling a half dead ballpoint on the deposit slip.

“Yeah, we finally finished the music video we started before I went away. Posted it last week and I guess some really popular punk podcast gave us a shoutout. Super dope.” You’re happy for your brother, but something deep in your chest cracks as you picture him getting signed, packing up, and leaving you behind, and taking Eddie with him. Again. The edges of your vision blur the more the thought takes on a life of its own: Corroded Coffin to perform at Superbowl LXIII 2029, the biggest stage in the entire world. In other news, sister of Coffin’s drummer and washed up author and journalist, Bee Last/Name, was found dead in her apartment this morning. More at eleven.

“Bee, sweetie?” Your mom calls out to you, voice wavering with concern. “You alright?”

“Yes, ma’am. Sorry.” You physically shake the thought from your head and return to litter patrol.

“Chris, the boys still here?”

“Yeah, I think so.”

“Tell them to come help you.”

“Mom, they don’t work here.”

“I will give them each a beer.”

Chris lets out a loud “HA!” before disappearing backstage to grab his bandmates. When he returns, it’s with Jeff, Gareth, Gareth’s sound guy, three very pretty, very sweaty girls, and Eddie. “They all said they’d help for a free beer.”

Your mom shrugs. “Don’t go unionizing on me, this is a one time thing.” The group disperses, snatching spray bottles and rags and feverishly cleaning the tables and booth seats. 

“Huh.” You take in your surroundings, hands resting on your hips. “Can’t even do my fuckin’ job without some bullshit.”

“Bee, they’re helping.” Chris attempts to console you to no avail. 

“No, it’s cool. Can’t be in the band, can’t be the bus boy. Can I at least be the one that goes the fuck home?” You have no idea why you’re so on edge suddenly. You know it definitely is not because the same girl that ordered from you earlier this evening, the short one covered in tattoos,  is about to climb Eddie like a tree. She barely reaches his shoulder, having to get on her toes to whisper something in his ear, causing Eddie to toss his head back with laughter. And you watch the whole thing unfold in your own mother’s bar. Nope. That definitely isn’t the reason.

“Yeah, actually. Bee, go home. You’ve done enough tonight.” The words don’t come from your mom, nor do they come from your brother.

They come from Eddie. He doesn’t even bother to look at you while he says them. 

“Excuse me?”

“You’ve had a long night. You should go home.” He shrugs, and you feel something in your chest crack.

“Fuck you, man.” You brush past him, into the back room to grab your keys. There are no footsteps following behind, chasing you down to apologize. You leave through the emergency exit, setting the security alarm off. In the now empty lot, you can see your little corolla across the street, illuminated by the lights of the overflow lot. Alone. You walk to your car alone, drive back home alone, and enter the apartment where you live alone. You don’t bother turning the lights on as you enter, tossing your keys and bag onto the front table before trudging to your room, tossing your beer-soaked clothing to the floor. Before you can think too much about it, you throw your fist into your bedroom wall. 

“FUCK!” You retract your hand into yourself, cradling it with your uninjured one. The wall is fine, but one look at your knuckles tells you that you’ve mangled them at least a little bit. “Fuck. Shit, god fucking DAMN IT!” You’re in hysterics, hand throbbing as you frantically dig for your phone in the chaos of your discarded clothing. You find it, and immediately drop it on your bare foot. “Oh my fucking god, I’m gonna put a goddamn gun in my mouth.” The words tumble out, spoken for no one except the knick knacks on your bureau. When you’ve retrieved your phone a second time, you scroll through your recent messages and realize just how screwed you are. 

You have somehow managed to piss everyone off tonight. Steve and Robin, for kicking them out. Chris just wants to keep the peace, and you can understand that. But Eddie…. You can’t see how that one’s your fault. You apologized, and you really thought everything was okay up until the end there. So, as if suddenly a fiend for self sabotage, and once you’ve wrapped an ice pack around your bruising hand, you send the text:

> i dont think being friends with you is working for me. 

And turn your phone off before collapsing into bed.

[iboozi]

CALL ME YOURS

Genre: black cat! (Ish) reader / golden retriever! Jeongguk, reader is a bookstore owner, jk is just him, strangers to friends to lovers?

Summary: In which your first meeting is full of nerves and a mildly awkward conversation.

Part : 1/(?)

w/c : 2.7k

A/N: Welcome to…. The first part!!! I’m super excited to share this. I hope you like the gentleness of this story!! This may be a slow book, but it’s just to show there’s no rush in life.

Take your time and leave feedback <3

Also! let me know if I should make a taglist??

-Zoobi out 🪩

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 .

One.

If you were to be sure of one thing in your life, it was that books had never failed you. At least not yet. Probably to do with the fact that you were so particular with the ones you did end up reading, that hours of meticulous research would be carried out on reviews and backgrounds before you even thought about touching a physical copy. 

Believe it or not, even an oddly written blurb could throw you right off the path of cracking open the pages and entering the world of those characters. Was that an analogy on your drab outlook on life? Perhaps. But it kept you busy, and busy meant you didn’t have to think about anything else.  

The comfort that books provided was unmatched by humans. Souls of artists were most vulnerable in those fluttering pages, and to be granted a partial insight as to what fantasies they could conjure was a great opportunity within itself. 

So, that’s why you opened up a bookstore. It was nothing impressive, just stood on the end corner of what used to be a busy street. Despite living in Seoul, which housed a population of over nine million people, this was one of the streets that never seemed to attract others. 

Two years of owning the bookstore and you had seen more businesses around you close than open. That should be an obvious sign that your pride and joy was in danger of being shut down, but hey – books didn’t fail you.  

Stacking those very books up onto a neatly organised shelf in your tiny store had become your Friday evening routine and there was no other way that you’d rather spend the end of the working week. A new order of books had just arrived, after months of negotiating with your distributor. You promised that you’d really sell the books this time and you were going to make sure of it. 

How? Yet to be decided. But it was going to happen. 

Others definitely wouldn’t have tried this desperately to continue running a shop that had an end date so clear in sight, but there was nothing else you could turn to.

 No one else to turn to as well. 

However, you’d argue that this place was your home. Decorated the way you wanted your childhood bedroom to be, with soft, pastel coloured beanbags and plushies in one corner and large overgrown plants in another. Desks were pushed up against the wall for those who wished to study and the only light available would be either through the large windows at the front or the obnoxiously huge flower lamps dotted around the place – strictly no overhead lighting. 

 It was a minimalist’s nightmare, but after being restrained from expressing yourself for so long, this was your little act of rebellion. It wasn’t much, but it was all you needed. 

The shrill of the bell above the door announced the entrance of a customer. It never failed to disrupt the built up peace of your bookstore. Not only that, but the accompaniment of the splintered door grating against the doorframe procured a melodious tune of despair. 

The door was due to be fixed – and you had been meaning to do so, but you were majorly caught up with the landlord threatening to increase rent, that the idea of spending money faster than you could make it, was harrowing to you. You weren’t made for adult problems, and this one seemed to be looming over you, taunting you as day by day you’d scrabble for even some extra money that just never seemed to show up. 

You could only wince as the door caught on the rug that you had you found at the thrift store down the street- it was on sale, so you didn’t hesitate to snatch it away from the prying eyes of the grandmothers around you.  

It was ugly, for sure- the design faded from before you even purchased it, but it did the job of soaking in the water people seem to dredge in every night. More so this past week, seeing as the heavy rain that was most definitely not forecasted, brought on an array of newcomers. 

How they found the store? No idea. But customers were customers, regardless of if they bought something or not and turning on the heating slightly higher, allowing warmth to seep into their bones after a chilly night out, helped you feel somewhat more accomplished. 

Most visitors were here for shelter from the downpour and crowded around the entrance, making a great deal of noise but others... well there weren’t really others, just the occasional customer popping in to see what books you had, before popping right back out onto the cobbled street, like they were never there. 

But alas, tonight, the rain had subsided to a moderate drizzle, leaving just you and the regulars, Namjoon and Seokjin -  although you were still rather uncertain which one was which. 

The only thing you were sure of was that every Friday, around 5pm, the two of them showed up in their work attire and sat at the desks, overlooking the street, and just talked. There was the occasional laughter, but talking was what they did most. Sometimes there was handholding, and other times they shared the same book, taking turns to read out lines to one another. 

And okay, you would admit there was some jealousy in the way you looked at them, jealousy in the way that they were able to take time out of their days just to feel the comfort of each other. They fit together so naturally that looking at them for too long made your eyes hurt. It was sickening how cute they were. 

At least it was in your store. They also bought books every week, so you couldn’t  complain about them in anyway. 

The final chime of the bell reminded you of this new individual who seemed to have opened the stiff door with such ease, you wondered if you had gaslighted yourself this morning. Even after pressing the entire weight of you and your ancestors, the door only budged slightly. It took a few shoves to get it to fully open, and you had been glad that the streets were empty. 

Was he some kind of body builder? Would it be considered rude to stare?

Clunky boots and a frame swallowed in black entered your peripheral and you slowly peeked over – only to see a man somewhat your age looking right at you. He shuffled his feet, wiping off any remnants of water and stood at the entrance nervously. Dark hair was plastered to his forehead, shielding you from seeing his features, leaving you slightly disappointed. 

Hold on. 

There was no need for disappointment – what was wrong with you? An increasing heart rate only signalled your rising anxiety. New people scared you. And he was quite possibly the newest person you had met in a long time and-

“Uh, is there a restroom in here?” a smooth voice interrupted your thoughts.

You froze, looking around to see if anyone would grace this man with an answer, only realising that he was indeed focused on you. Oh man. 

“Oh! Um, yes! It’s just that way,” you pointed down the low- lit corridor leading towards the back end of the store.

He peered in the direction of your hand, nodded at you and made his way there. Unluckily for him, you had yet to grasp that a man so tall and broad could exist and happened to be standing in his way. So, when he brushed past you, a mix of citrus and rainwater wafted up into your face, so subtle – yet so delicate. 

Unconsciously, your eyes fluttered closed - to anyone else, it looked like you were trying to get a moment of tranquillity after a long shift, but there you were, guiltily trying to ingrain his scent into your memory, into your skin, so you could turn it inside out and wear it as your own.

“Hey, you okay over there?” asked Namjoon – or Seokjin.  

Time stopped. Lightly coughing and unfurling your tightly shut eyes you meekly looked up at the two men stood before you, both with very apparent smiles on their faces. 

“...Yep, all good. Can I help you with anything?” 

“Just wanted to say bye – and have a good weekend. We’re heading out now,” mused Seokjin – you were sure it was him (hopefully) – he did dye his hair often and was sporting a faded purple look (he totally rocked it).

“Oh. Um, thank you. Enjoy your weekend as well. Sorry we didn’t have the books you wanted,” 

They both shrugged – how were they so in sync? And they slowly made their way out, bumping shoulders with one another as one small, yellow umbrella held loosely over their heads did little to protect them from the heavier rain that had started up again. 

You smiled to yourself, basking in the quietness of the store once again when footsteps neared you from behind. Turning around in a slight daze, you underestimated your pivoting abilities and ended up smacking your face into a chest. A firm chest. 

Citrus evoked your nose once more. It’s funny, because you always had associated the smell as bitter and coarse, but in this moment, under the barely functioning lamp that you’d half-heartedly decorated with vines, the smell had never been so saccharine. 

A gentle touch found its way on either side of your waist, barely there, nonetheless it kept you standing straighter than you had in years.

“Woah there, steady now,”

Looking up, a small gasp escaped your lips, realising that you had forgotten the presence of the newcomer. He did look slightly different this time with his hair pushed back so you supposed you could let yourself off this time.

A small bar adorned his right eyebrow and complemented his strong forehead. But that wasn’t what you could focus on. 

No, it was the doe eyed look this stranger possessed. The look that spoke the volume of a million words and simultaneously calmed the thrashing waves of your heart. Artists had tried for years, to capture people’s gaze in paintings, but you knew that any attempt to imitate the stranger clinging on to you, would fall short – nothing would compare to the real thing.

Roaming your eyes down his face, you noticed the multitude of moles scattered across his even skin like a constellation – your very own personal one. Even the faded scar added to the look, the imperfection making him shine brighter. Only when your eyes moved to his mouth did you realise it was moving and this person was actually speaking to you – and you were practically ignoring him. 

“-id I hurt you?”

“What?”

“I asked if I had hurt you. Are you okay?” the mellow tone of his voice soothed you, right before you snapped yourself to attention. 

You pulled away abruptly and cleared your throat,

“Y-yeah, I’m not hurt. Thank you.”

And that’s all there was. Simple conversation.  It’s how you operated – minimal talk, and you couldn’t help it. You were always told that if you had nothing interesting to say, don’t say it. Luckily you learnt that at a young enough age.

You stepped back and brushed the invisible dust on your jean clad legs whilst walking back to the shelf your focus was previously on. Your heart rate was rapidly rising, and you fought to keep it at a level rate. 

Just breathe.

In.

And out. 

If the stranger noticed your odd behaviour, he didn’t mention anything of it, which honestly made you a thankful, considering your not-so-friendly attitude towards him even though you basically ogled him for what seemed like five minutes – it was only half a minute, but time passed differently in this bookstore. 

As you busied yourself with the new collection of books – they were all classics – you heard a low chuckle, and the unmistakeable sound of boots. 

They weren’t closing in on you this time, but moving in the opposite direction, towards the romance section. You stopped, slightly confused and looked back at the man as he browsed the display, eyebrows furrowed in concentration. 

Five minutes passed like this, him walking around the case a few times, picking a book up, reading the blurb and depositing it right back to its original place. You may have glanced back a few times, watching him repeat his actions over and over but, just to make sure there was no funny business going on – nothing else.

Before he could resume his pacing again, you walked yourself right over to him and stopped.

“Are you looking for something?”

This stranger, who towered over you flinched. He flinched and grasped his chest with a tattoo covered hand – which you failed to notice before – and looked towards you, shock evident on his face. 

Shit. You came off rude. Most definitely was not your intention but, it was too late to back out now. 

Looking around, you attempted to rein in the harshness of your voice and stammered out, “I mean you just seemed to be looking for a certain book, so would you like help?”

That seemed to do the trick as he lowered his hand down and sheepishly rubbed a hand against the back of his head. 

“Ah, I was just looking for a romance book. I mean-well not exactly romance, but maybe something with underlying tones of it?” he grinned at the last part, hoping not to sound as awkward as you possibly did. 

“Oh,” you nodded in understanding. Then proceeded to look at the same section of the shelf he was looking at before. 

You paused. Hummed a little to yourself and lapped a circle around the display. Halted in front of him again, and spoke out “Call me by your name,”

Your customer’s eyebrows jerked up suddenly and his mouth parted slightly. 

“You want me to call you Jeongguk?”

Jeongguk. That was his name. It suited him. Variations of nicknames shot through your head, but you ignored the thoughts and-

Wait what did he say?

“What- no, that’s the name of a book, I’m recommending it to you?” you picked the book of said recommendation and handed it right over to him. 

Grasping it in his overly large hands, Jeongguk looked down and inspected the book. Turned it over, read the blurb and flipped it right back to the front. He peeked up at you with an embarrassed smile,

“Well that makes a lot more sense,”

You smiled softly at him and mumbled out,

“It’s not a dramatic love story per se, but it focuses deeply on the emotions that comes with love, no matter how short lived it is. And it also happens to be my favourite book, so lucky you.”

At the end of your sentence, Jeongguk’s smile shot up into a grin. A full blown grin, where his pearly whites were bright on display for you and the crinkling of his eyes almost made you giggle ever so slightly. “Is that all for today?” 

You weren’t sure why you asked him that. You had actually enjoyed his presence, even his silly little pacing - and his face was a bonus that you couldn’t help but stare at. 

“Yes Ma’am,”

Oh God. The nerves were back. Your heart rate was rising. You were distracted. This interaction was going on longer than it needed to. You looked over at the clock and realised it was 30 minutes past closing time. 

You quickly snapped yourself back into the present and grabbed the book, stalked over to the cash register for a spare bag and hastily stuffed the book inside before stalking back to him and holding the bag out in front of you. 

“It’s on the house. From me to you.”

Jeongguk’s grin faltered as he slowly took the paper bag, grazing your fingers and twiddled with the handles. 

He opened his mouth to say something. Thought about it. Closed his mouth. Thought a few more seconds and said,

“I’ll make it up to you. Tomorrow. I-I’ll get you coffee and tell you how much I’ve read,”

You nodded frantically, eager to get the conversation over with and as Jeongguk made his way over to the ancient door, the rush of disappointment flooded back. 

And when the bell chimed again, you whispered your name out. It was enough to have Jeongguk turning back, with a confused look on his face. You said your name out loud once again, ensuring that he heard you correctly,

 “I’ll call you by my name, so call me by yours.”

[no1onepiecefan]

i love the idea of marco on the red force and as the only devil fruit user on the ship, he has fifty pirates ready to jump into the sea for him at all times.

shanks & co who watch marco like a hawk whenever he’s on the deck like he’s not a veteran of over thirty years. marco who subsequently taunts them all with their kind concern; gestures of jumping off the ship and pretend stumbling. there’s hushed specific instruction for whoever’s on watch to keep an eye on him whenever he’s close to the edge, and if it wasn’t so amusing it would be so sweet.

none of their concern would be expressed openly, no way. they all think they’re being casual and nonchalant as they collectively tense up watching marco kick his legs while fishing. they all think they’re unnoticeable and smooth when someone always conveniently needs a bath at the same time marco does. shanks thinks he’s hilarious and charming whenever he puts his arm around marco’s waist, wiggling his eyebrows, like marco didn’t notice the quick intake of breath as he leaned a little too far over the edge of the ship admiring the scenery.

marco doesn’t mind it. he just laughs at their antics and enjoys the harmless attention. he never digs into why they’re so jumpy, why would he assume anything deeper than a crew full of non-df users orientating a df-user? however, after enough shared drinks and lips loosened with alcohol it’s revealed that none of them ever shook that day in the east blue. they all remember when luffy was dropped into the ocean and their captain returned with one hysteric anchor in his hold and one less arm. shanks bet his arm on the future but there’s no doubt he’d sacrifice another for a friend. he really is such a high maintenance captain. the horrid fear of losing luffy and the catastrophic aftermath of the event lives with them all; and for their unfortunately infinite love for shanks, and their growing care for marco; they’re not trying to repeat the past.

i don’t think the drunken confession would shake marco, his captain was whitebeard after all, and his family included the likes of portgas d ace and oden to name a few. he knows recklessness, he knows fear, and he knows loving concern maybe more than anyone on the sea. however, the confession is something, and maybe marco stays more central on the red force, invites people to bathe with him and lets others do the fishing. maybe when shanks wraps an arm around his waist, he reciprocates with an arm around his shoulder, laughing at the shock on his face

[courtkossai]

that ... just entirely baffle . to be honest , this is why sometimes hesitate about folks who identify along lines that body belong to nonhuman , therefore body is nonhuman . of course this is not true for whole group , but get feeling that some of these folks do not understand that physical identity tend to come from physical experiences first , and this is where words and definitions come from too . 

kossai is not human , never was , and really , experiences do not fit clinical framework beyond barest bones sense of lack proof in scientific terms . fortunately kossai do not care for science to approve , so much as wish could express without hate … though to be pedantic , kossai would say people do have proof , but already decide on framework - ill human - rather than dare to consider anything new . this serve in some ways , and really frustrate in others . 

faeriehood and religion intertwine so closely , and yes , will fight back idea that this fit into delusional framework - extremely happy to share community spaces with all kinds of folk , but different frameworks use different words and resources to at least some extent , and that is extremely important to preserve and allow . let everyone figure out personal standing in these frameworks , or to deny frameworks entirely - what help under one framework might not help under another . ( and even then , everyone within frameworks is still individual with individual needs and preferences . )

I'm getting angry that some therians have gotten ahold of the term holothere and are trying to exclude biological nonhumans out of its definition by saying, "It's clinical zoanthropy if it's biological. All holotheres know they are biologically human. " Okay, but you can still be a clinical zoanthrope AND a holothere. And also, like why tf in almost every mainstream nonhuman space must you acknowledge your "human" body. You must acknowledge how you're still "human" at the end of the day. Imagine telling a trans person they still need to hold significance to their deadname or their AGAB, and that they need to remind themselves what gender they got assigned every time they say they are trans. You know how odd that is??? Like, no, I was never human, I never felt like one, so why must I acknowledge something that never came naturally to me??

I don't know where the hell they've gotten these rules that it's entirely non-biological and purely physical. They keep ignoring the second part of the definition, which is "...and fundamentally nonhuman in every way." I am nonhuman in every way. I am a holothere. I biologically identify as nonhuman.

I'm so sick of folks trying SO hard to distance themselves from clinical zoanthropy to the point of excluding folks like me from definitions that were meant to include us, including physically identifying folks who are non-delusional. I'm so tired of the "We actually know we're human" schtick. I'm not human. Never was. Stop trying to water down a term to make you comfortable. I'm an animal. I'm nonhuman. I'm a holothere. I was born this way. My blood, organs, and bones are nonhuman. Deal. We were always here. You guys just pushed us away. We have been here for centuries.

We finally got the term holothere, and of course, once some therians caught wind of the definition, they put their own "they must acknowledge being human though" spin on it. I'm so tired.

[jerksbitch]

dreamt about sam winchester last night . it went like this

him:

me:

[mutantfactor]

Fangs of Fortune | Zhuo Yichen & Zhao Yuanzhou 𓆩 .˚⋆ Darkest Night ⋆˚. 𓆪

[stberggren]

     if he was less distracted by emil, tom would surely be consuming this meal more ravenously. having not had a meal like this in a long while definitely kicks in that instinct. tom is not sure whether or not he should consider it convenient that he is not as concerned about his appetite as he is concerned about watching the man next to him. he neglects his hungers and it does fill him with a nagging sense of never being satiated. 

     “you don’t have a kitchen?” tom muses. judging by the way emil tells him he has not cooked for weeks it sounds like it hasn’t been a voluntary break and, much without thinking it through, he is telling him, “you are welcome to mine whenever you need.” he can’t tell whether it makes him sound greedy or generous  - or if it somehow reeks with desperation. he swallows a bite of his food to keep himself from adding anything more to that and making it worse. 

     there is slight, but notable shift in his tone. tom is not exactly startled by it, but it does make him sit a little more alert. tom gives his silent nod of a approval, signaling him to go ahead with an evidently curious expression settling on his face. a small, quizzing smile. he wonders why this conversation hasn’t come sooner and how they have so elegantly brushed past the particularities of emil’s being here. and past the oddness of him. tom does not really have an answer to his question. he doesn’t understand why he has never felt urge to question the validity of his story. premonition? shared madness? something or other about it being jarringly obvious that he does not belong here?

     tom takes a moment to think before he answers, trying to say something more than i don’t know. eventually he reaches over and carefully caresses the side of his face, “i’m not sure there is a straightforward answer to that. i suppose i am inclined to believe in things that many people aren’t and, in that way, maybe you are just lucky that, out of anyone, you met me.” his thumb runs along his cheekbone and then he lets the hand fall back down, putting it on his knee. he leans forward, “besides you haven’t given me much time to think about it. even if you are simply mad, which i don’t believe, i rather like it.”

that feather light brush of tom's fingers is like a whole new spark into his veins. it takes some restraint not to turn around and just grab at him again. so, despite the ease with which he has taken up space in this home, emil finds himself a little relieved at the prospect of a little alcohol in his system. it has at times been a little bit of a crutch in his life, one he rarely acknowledges. but this isn't different. he isn't drowning his sorrows at the bottom of a bottle. he is only sharing a drink with...well, tom isn't quite a friend is he? they teeter on the edge of something far more complicated and deeper than that. but either way, to drink in good company, take the edge of a little, that has never hurt anyone before has it?

emil mumbles a thanks before he grasps his own glass, eyes fixed upon tom when he lifts it to his lips, just watching him for a moment. he manages not to make a face at the dryness of it. it's definitely cheap. but it will do the job and with some good food on his tongue any wine can be elevated. he provides himself that comfort quite eagerly, dipping one of the dumplings into the lingonberry sauce on his place before he tears into it.

❝ haven't cooked anything in weeks, ❞ he mumbles between bites. it feels like stepping back into a piece of himself. his eyes flicker up again, resting on the other man before him. even just sitting across from him feels like torture. somehow both too far away and yet too close, within reaching distance. he is certain the only thing that will keep his restraint in check would be finding a safe topic of conversation, but his mind slips of anything surface level, anything easy.

instead, he sits back in his seat, lifting his glass of wine to his lips only to pause halfway there. ❝ can i ask you something? ❞ he tilts his head, slight furrow in his brow as genuine curiousity crosses his features. ❝ why did you believe me? about where i came from. ❞ or 'when' he supposes but he can't bring himself to say it. sounds too much like a corny line from some old television show or a three star, half-baked science fiction novel.

[worldofgoo]

sorry if ive made this exact post before i love metablogging when i have nothing else to say. funny that i gave myself permission to talk and express myself on my main account yet i continue to basically only talk in my personal blog rambling hole, i think i realized a while back that mostly its just my friends that care about my posts/interact with me so posting where theyre concentrated is i guess more efficient and less embarrassing

[marbleboa]

how do you stay motivated to keep making art, especially when it's in the ugly growing pains/studying stage?

Hm, had to think about this one quite a bit. Different people's motivations and processes for creating art can pretty varied--what works for me may not work for others, but I'll try to answer this best I can!

Personally, I've found that phase of dissatisfaction you've described can also be a sign that you're entering a phase of growth! You're recognizing that there's something that can be improved, even if you don't quite know what it is yet. Things like feedback from others and targeted studying can help you figure out what that is, and eventually things will feel more comfortable. Of course, this comfort won't always last, but that's okay! Making art is like a cycle, varying degrees of of 'it's so over' to 'we're so back' over and over. Your skill will be growing regardless.

In regards to staying motivated through that...for me, a lot of it is shifting gears from resentment/worry about where you are, to focusing on excitement about seeing what's on that other side. Change is inevitable, in many situations that can seem worrying but in art I find it more of a comfort. As long as you keep working past your comfort zone, keep finding inspiration, figuring out not just what works but why it works, I believe positive progress will be made.

Of course I know sometimes all that's easier said than done, just had a really nasty bout of artistic loathing myself(thanks, pmdd!!!). But just...try to be patient with yourself, and best of luck!

[backslashdelta]

.

[scramjettracy]

Sometimes the similarity between Gordon and Virgil was striking. For all that they seemed to be total opposites, once in a while Scott would do a full double take as it seemed Virgil’s voice would emerge from Gordon just in a more tenor range. But it wasn’t just Virgil-wisdom, was it? It was Virgil-wisdom enhanced by sunshine and tempered with the experience of things Scott wished Gordon had never had to know. And all that sharpened by the fact that, of all their family, Gordon could probably come closest to understanding Scott. Because the two of them WERE similar in more ways than Scott liked to admit. Gordon would get it if he knew. If Scott let him.

But how could he? With so few other points of stability in his life, Gordon needed Scott as a big brother.

But maybe big brothering could involve sharing a little, just enough so that Gordon could feel comfortable to share back if he needed to.

He shuffled a little closer and nudged Gordon’s shoulder gently with his own.

“Heh yeah well… she was always good company. And I like to keep her abreast of all the melodrama… all the Situations y’know?… just so happens historically a lot of them have involved You.” He rested the side of his head against Gordon’s for a moment, eyeing the bandaged arm. “She’s never surprised, by that, by the way. Twas ever thus. After Virg and Johnny I think she’d come to the conclusion I was just an anomaly and kids were mostly easier to keep alive than they thought. Then you came along and… between stopping me leaping off high places and you yeeting yourself into every available water source… she said we kept her fit at least.”

An obviously doomed military attack on the giant lizard was playing out silently on the screen. Gordon was watching, but not really watching. His emphatically casual posture and calm expression couldn’t fool the man who’d played that game for half his life.

“I miss her. I know it’s been so long, maybe I shouldn’t need her anymore. But… it never goes away and I just worry I’ve spent so long trying to imagine what she’d say that my memory of her is more me than her. What if after all this time I’ve led you guys down the wrong path? What if she’d have done differently to Dad? What if she woulda talked him out of all this? Persuaded him that y’all deserved to have normal lives? To be safe? I ask her about it and I can’t… I can’t hear her response anymore.”

If the Tracy penthouse was quiet (too quiet?) when you left for what was an entirely too full day of meetings, it may have been a different case on your return.

The enormous holoscreen was lit, playing a rather antiquated movie featuring a rampaging dinosaur currently chewing an office block to the screams of innocent humans.

A pair of canvas shoes kicked off just over the doorway, a scuffed hold-all abandoned alongside them. A box of rather tempting mini apple pies on the edge of the kitchen worktop, a set of officewear hung over the back of a chair-

And one head of blonde hair, sprawled out on the sofa with his feet up, currently engrossed in the movie.

The screaming noises might have concerned Scott, had their authenticity not been thrown into some doubt by unconvincing roaring sound effects effects and frenzied orchestral music turned up so high the floor was vibrating.

Rolling his eyes he sidestepped the deck shoes trip hazard, and strode into the kitchen to deposit the bags of food on the work surface. Four bags, to be precise because apparently the only way to get “a bit of everything” was the Special Occasion Family Buffet deal for 8.

Which came with a vegan celebration cake, a generic banner reading “IT’S A CELEBRATION!!!”. And three helium balloons.

He’d given the balloons to a young family he’d passed on the way back to the apartment. The banner he guessed he’d stash for some generic celebratory occasion.

He rubbed at the grooves the hessian-handled paper bags had left in his palms. Their evening meal weighed approximately the same as a couple of human toddlers.

Some might deem it excessive… alright it absolutely was an excessive amount of food for just the two of them but it had saved him having to make an actual Decision about what to order.

He was all decisioned-out for the day.

He snuck a tiny apple pie out of the box to fuel the short walk across the room towards where his baby brother was still engrossed in wobbly CGI lizard-violence.

Godzilla swiped at a helicopter and reminded Scott that his initial idea of surprising the oblivious squid by leaping over the back of the couch and crushing him mightn’t be the best plan. He crouched instead at the side, just behind Gordon’s head and as the onscreen monster swung its head menacingly towards the camera Scott threw his arms around Gordon’s neck and whispered ‘BOO!’

He should have expected the bowl of popcorn to the face…

[s-soulwriter]

Things Real People Do in Dialogue (For Your Next Story)

Okay, let’s be real—dialogue can make or break a scene. You want your characters to sound natural, like actual humans talking, not robots reading a script. So, how do you write dialogue that feels real without it turning into a mess of awkward pauses and “ums”? Here’s a little cheat sheet of what real people actually do when they talk (and you can totally steal these for your next story):

1. People Interrupt Each Other All the Time In real conversations, nobody waits for the perfect moment to speak. We interrupt, cut each other off, and finish each other's sentences. Throw in some overlaps or interruptions in your dialogue to make it feel more dynamic and less like a rehearsed play.

2. They Don’t Always Say What They Mean Real people are masters of dodging. They’ll say one thing but mean something totally different (hello, passive-aggressive banter). Or they’ll just avoid the question entirely. Let your characters be vague, sarcastic, or just plain evasive sometimes—it makes their conversations feel more layered.

3. People Trail Off... We don’t always finish our sentences. Sometimes we just... stop talking because we assume the other person gets what we’re trying to say. Use that in your dialogue! Let a sentence trail off into nothing. It adds realism and shows the comfort (or awkwardness) between characters.

4. Repeating Words Is Normal In real life, people repeat words when they’re excited, nervous, or trying to make a point. It’s not a sign of bad writing—it’s how we talk. Let your characters get a little repetitive now and then. It adds a rhythm to their speech that feels more genuine.

5. Fillers Are Your Friends People say "um," "uh," "like," "you know," all the time. Not every character needs to sound polished or poetic. Sprinkle in some filler words where it makes sense, especially if the character is nervous or thinking on their feet.

6. Not Everyone Speaks in Complete Sentences Sometimes, people just throw out fragments instead of complete sentences, especially when emotions are high. Short, choppy dialogue can convey tension or excitement. Instead of saying “I really think we need to talk about this,” try “We need to talk. Now.”

7. Body Language Is Part of the Conversation Real people don’t just communicate with words; they use facial expressions, gestures, and body language. When your characters are talking, think about what they’re doing—are they fidgeting? Smiling? Crossing their arms? Those little actions can add a lot of subtext to the dialogue without needing extra words.

8. Awkward Silences Are Golden People don’t talk non-stop. Sometimes, they stop mid-conversation to think, or because things just got weird. Don’t be afraid to add a beat of awkward silence, a long pause, or a meaningful look between characters. It can say more than words.

9. People Talk Over Themselves When They're Nervous When we’re anxious, we tend to talk too fast, go back to rephrase what we just said, or add unnecessary details. If your character’s nervous, let them ramble a bit or correct themselves. It’s a great way to show their internal state through dialogue.

10. Inside Jokes and Shared History Real people have history. Sometimes they reference something that happened off-page, or they share an inside joke only they get. This makes your dialogue feel lived-in and shows that your characters have a life beyond the scene. Throw in a callback to something earlier, or a joke only two characters understand.

11. No One Explains Everything People leave stuff out. We assume the person we’re talking to knows what we’re talking about, so we skip over background details. Instead of having your character explain everything for the reader’s benefit, let some things go unsaid. It’ll feel more natural—and trust your reader to keep up!

12. Characters Have Different Voices Real people don’t all talk the same way. Your characters shouldn’t either! Pay attention to their unique quirks—does one character use slang? Does another speak more formally? Maybe someone’s always cutting people off while another is super polite. Give them different voices and patterns of speech so their dialogue feels authentic to them.

13. People Change the Subject In real life, conversations don’t always stay on track. People get sidetracked, jump to random topics, or avoid certain subjects altogether. If your characters are uncomfortable or trying to dodge a question, let them awkwardly change the subject or ramble to fill the space.

14. Reactions Aren’t Always Immediate People don’t always respond right away. They pause, they think, they hesitate. Sometimes they don’t know what to say, and that delay can speak volumes. Give your characters a moment to process before they respond—it’ll make the conversation feel more natural.

Important note: Please don’t use all of these tips in one dialogue at once.

[gold-wolf-soldier13]

honestly genuinely think a lot of writers here on tumblr have lost the plot more than a little. like if your writing for external validation, ie begging for comments and reblogs or saying kudos/likes mean less, i really believe you need to take a step back and reexamine your relationship with your writing. of course we all love to hear how much someone likes our work- we’re human- but the incessant posting and polling about comments and how “no one comments anymore” is starting to give entitlement. you aren’t owed engagement. just because you’re choosing to put the your work out to the public sphere, whether it’s here on tumblr or ao3 or wattpad or literally anywhere, for free and explicitly for others entertainment doesn’t mean they- the strangers on the internet- owe you anything. they don’t owe you a like, a comment, a reblog, a favorite, a bookmark- they don’t have any obligation to you. if you’re posting and immediately concerned about engagement metrics you’re no better than any tiktok or instagram content creator.

[reasonsforhope]

"For years, California was slated to undertake the world’s largest dam removal project in order to free the Klamath River to flow as it had done for thousands of years.

Now, as the project nears completion, imagery is percolating out of Klamath showing the waterway’s dramatic transformation, and they are breathtaking to behold.

Pictured: Klamath River flows freely, after Copco-2 dam was removed in California.

Incredibly, the project has been nearly completed on schedule and under budget, and recently concluded with the removal of two dams, Iron Gate and Copco 1. Small “cofferdams” which helped divert water for the main dams’ construction, still need to be removed.

The river, along which salmon and trout had migrated and bred for centuries, can flow freely between Lake Ewauna in Klamath Falls, Oregon, to the Pacific Ocean for the first time since the dams were constructed between 1903 and 1962.

“This is a monumental achievement—not just for the Klamath River but for our entire state, nation, and planet,” Governor Gavin Newsom said in a statement. “By taking down these outdated dams, we are giving salmon and other species a chance to thrive once again, while also restoring an essential lifeline for tribal communities who have long depended on the health of the river.”

“We had a really incredible moment to share with tribes as we watched the final cofferdams be broken,” Ren Brownell, Klamath River Renewal Corp. public information officer, told SFGATE. “So we’ve officially returned the river to its historic channel at all the dam sites. But the work continues.”

Pictured: Iron Gate Dam, before and after.

“The dams that have divided the basin are now gone and the river is free,” Frankie Myers, vice chairman of the Yurok Tribe, said in a tribal news release from late August. “Our sacred duty to our children, our ancestors, and for ourselves, is to take care of the river, and today’s events represent a fulfillment of that obligation.”

The Yurok Tribe has lived along the Klamath River forever, and it was they who led the decades-long campaign to dismantle the dams.

At first the water was turbid, brown, murky, and filled with dead algae—discharges from riverside sediment deposits and reservoir drainage. However, Brownell said the water quality will improve over a short time span as the river normalizes.

“I think in September, we may have some Chinook salmon and steelhead moseying upstream and checking things out for the first time in over 60 years,” said Bob Pagliuco, a marine habitat resource specialist at the National Oceanic and Atmospheric Administration in July.

Pictured: JC Boyle Dam, before and after.

“Based on what I’ve seen and what I know these fish can do, I think they will start occupying these habitats immediately. There won’t be any great numbers at first, but within several generations—10 to 15 years—new populations will be established.”

Ironically, a news release from the NOAA states that the simplification of the Klamath River by way of the dams actually made it harder for salmon and steelhead to survive and adapt to climate change.

“When you simplify the habitat as we did with the dams, salmon can’t express the full range of their life-history diversity,” said NOAA Research Fisheries Biologist Tommy Williams.

“The Klamath watershed is very prone to disturbance. The environment throughout the historical range of Pacific salmon and steelhead is very dynamic. We have fires, floods, earthquakes, you name it. These fish not only deal with it well, it’s required for their survival by allowing the expression of the full range of their diversity. It challenges them. Through this, they develop this capacity to deal with environmental changes.”

-via Good News Network, October 9, 2024