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deathbecomesthem · 16 days

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Kiss The Cook 5 | 1.5K

Linecook!Eddie Munson x Server!Reader

18+ ONLY, MDNI with any of my work.

Summary: Eddie and Server get deep into their heads when we decide he might be able to sell us weed.

We get a couple hundred words of an Eddie POV here.

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Keith, your ex, had a weed man. The years that you were with Keith, you could hand him some cash, and 24 hours later you’d have a few pre-rolled joints and some loose bud for your pipe. For all you knew, Keith was actually the weed man, because you never got to meet the guy on the other side of the transaction. It was easy. It was nice. It was one of the reasons you kept Keith around longer than a person with good sense should have.

You know Eddie smokes weed, it’s hard to mistake that smell hiding under the soap, deodorant, and laundry detergent. You also suspect that he at least dabbles in selling. It’s not that you’ve seen any money or drugs changing hands at the diner. You think Benny would probably drag Eddie out of the place by his hair if he ever caught wind of that, and Eddie respects Benny too much to take advantage of his place like that. It’s the people he knows. It’s the way he leans in to listen to a friend when he stops by. The way he says, “Come by at 8 and I’ll have your stuff for you,” before slapping their shoulders and grinning.

You have a lot of regrets about your time with Keith, but the biggest regret is not asking him to explain how to acquire marijuana. Yes, Eddie has the drugs you want. Yes, he will probably sell to you. Yes, you have cash. No, you have no idea how to use that information to actually get the weed in your hand. You consider doing what the guys that stop by do, you can almost imagine yourself leaning in close so that the hair that hangs around his ears would tickle your nose. You’d say -

-what, exactly? Hey, can I buy some pot from you? No, that won’t work. You’re standing inside the small stock room at the back of the restaurant, staring at the folded up bar towels fresh from the laundry service while you ponder how to buy drugs from the line cook you definitely don’t have feelings for. You definitely didn’t go out with him a few nights ago for the first time ever, and it definitely wasn’t abso-fucking-lutely impossible to read how he feels about you. You should be in the dining room right now bussing the dirty tables left after the lunch rush, it’s only an hour to close. Instead, you stand and look at the terry cloth rags, frozen with a feeling of anxiety that isn’t warranted by your current situation. You realize you’re worried that Eddie would think you’re uncool if you ask him the wrong way - an idea that makes you cringe at your own stupidity.

“Idiot,” you mutter to yourself under your breath before reaching out and finally grabbing two towels and the bottle of spray cleaner on the shelf next to them.

“Who’s an idiot?” Eddie’s question makes you jump. Your brain processes that he’s standing behind you, and you wonder if you said anything else you were thinking out loud instead within the safe confines of your skull. He’s standing too close when you turn to face him, you lean back a little to give yourself the room to answer him.

“Just me, I’m an idiot.” You answer as you sidle past his imposing frame. He follows you back into the kitchen empty handed, apparently forgetting whatever it was that drove him into the stock room in the first place.

“Are you ok? What happened? Did that guy do something again?” Eddie’s sounding upset. Concerned. Last week one of your regulars put his hand on your ass, and it shook you up pretty good. You didn’t tell Eddie about it until days later, after you’d already warned the guy that if he came back, you’d break his hand. You’d been worried that Eddie, or Benny, would do something profoundly stupid if they saw him in the diner again.

“No, that guy won’t be back. It’s nothing like that,” you turn back around and find him standing too close again. You step back, “I’m just being an idiot. It happens sometimes. Let’s just get the fuck out of here, ok?”

Eddie’s eyes probe your face, looking for any hint of something more serious than what you’ve told him. It makes you feel warm. It makes you want to pull the neck of your shirt up over your nose to hide yourself from his gaze. He doesn’t seem to notice your discomfort, just nods his head, puts up a hand, and heads back to the kitchen.

The next 90 minutes is spent with you both performing your well rehearsed dance, though you find yourself a little out of step. Your mind is occupied, playing and replaying scenarios in your head. The idea that you need to buy weed from Eddie isn’t a flight of fancy anymore, it’s a looming cloud of uncertainty. It’s when you’re refilling the ketchup bottles that you realize what has to be done, and a weight is lifted. Because it’s not even about the weed anymore, it’s about you and Eddie. It’s about getting out of your head and talking to him without worrying about how he’ll think of you. It’s about letting yourself see where this thing might go, even if it means you end traveling as far as a closer friendship.

“Eddie,” you call behind your shoulder as you finish wiping down the counter between the bar and the line, “do you sell weed?”

“Me? Sell weed?” You can hear him scoffing along with the sound of him stacking the plates from the last load of dishes. “Yeah, of course I do.”

“Let’s talk after work.”

—

Talk. That’s what it is. A casual conversation where neither you nor Eddie know your roles. Those simple transactions are easy for him. Friendly. But when it comes to you, he’s tongue tied. He has a hard time listening to what you’re saying. You don’t know it, but right now he’s distracted by the way he can see the indents on your bottom lip. He’s seen your lip pulled into your mouth, absentmindedly biting down, on moments of concentration. It’s all he can see, it’s all he can think about. So, this simple transaction where he gets your order, just like when he’s working the line in the kitchen through the door behind your back, it’s a mindless task. But those marks on your lip.

“...so I thought, ‘what the hell’, ya know? Eddie’s not gonna be a dick to me. Judge me, maybe, but no more than he does when I order a reuben with provolone instead of swiss.”

Eddie tuned in at the wrong moment, because the context for what you’re asking of him is lost in your rambling. He has no fucking clue what you’re talking about. He nods every so often when you look at him, obviously hoping for some kind of affirmation. Sure, whatever you want. Have I told you how much I like the way your smile is crooked? The left side shoots up higher than the right, and I think about kissing you there every time I see it. Eddie nods again, noticing that sneaky crawl of your lip.

“-Ok, so why don’t you just come over? You know where my place is, right? Just come over right now and we’ll figure this shit out.” Eddie asks. He doesn’t know it, but his entire face is open to you. Head dipped down so that he’s looking up at you. Head cocked at the position of a kiss. His mouth is closed, full lips lightly pressed together.

Eddie thinks the world has stopped turning. The moment after the words leave his lips pauses. Everything is slowed down to a single second. He can see the exact millisecond when the words register in your brain and you begin to consider them. He’s a scholar when it comes to the ways you face moves. He can tell when you’ve not slept well in the morning, he can predict your menstrual cycle down to within 24 hours of the first cramp. He’s watching the crease between your eyes. He’s watching the bridge of your nose. He sees it all, and holds his breath. His feet can feel the hard asphalt as he walks to his car, to run from the “no” that might be coming. He’s ready, your lips part, and your chest expands. You’re going to say -

“Sure,” your words are accompanied by a lifting of the corner of the side of your mouth, “I’ll follow you home.”

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Taglist: @taccobelle @starksbabie @sheneedsrocknroll92

#eddie munson fanfic #eddie munson #eddie munson x reader #eddie munson x you #linecook!eddie munson #eddie munson smut #eddie munson series #eddie munson au #eddie stranger things #eddie munson imagines

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sole-cuore-amore-e-droga · 5 years

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Tel Aviv 2019: Straight outta United Kingdom to Eurovision with a blatantly non-blatant Melodifestivalen reject

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Yes, obviously, Eurovision: You Decide might as well be the safest NF to ever exist. We get that you don’t want to even try, the UK, but can you please act like you’re not in Big 5 for a year and ATTEMPT to try your hardest with the song??? I doubt that, despite SuRie’s bubbliness, “Storm” would’ve pulled numbers if it were in semi, unless the anti-neo-Nazi stage invader were to butt-in there and people would then send sympathy televotes the Brits’ way or something. Unsatisfying. (The man, that is.)

And so we have gotten another safe as ever British entry this year, performed by an excited personality that got a side-dish song and now is tasked to sell the side-dish as greatly as he’s possibly able to - the first season of All Together Now winner, Michael Rice! The dish is “Bigger than Us” and I’m neither glad nor sad the song has not enough factor to eat up Michael as a whole if it’s that much BIGGER. Not even the fact that it’s a Melodifestivalen reject (yes, the title IS correct, one of the song’s co-writers, whom I’ll name later, has possibly said it at some point, and he couldn’t keep it to himself anymore so he sent it over to another country!) could help this poor number out.

If you strip the singer off, you just get a stereotypical Eurovision-y ballad you overhear when scavenging through foreign NF catalogues, wondering which kind of rent-a-songwriter-program person contributed to it. Well John Lundvik (yes THAT one) doesn’t sound like THAT kind of name you’d hear when you think of songwriters of such shtick but Laurell Barker is, so there you go. These are just the two masterminds behind this one, as there are more but icr their names and honestly idc to.

And there’s nothing wrong about these typical ESC NF shlocks. Only when you’re young and dumb enough to enjoy these kind of songs, but I had to unfortunately grow up and see just how “useful” they are... n’t. I mean, it’s great for the artists whose big dream is to taste Eurovision and NOT as a backing singer, but most of the time the singers that get these songs can’t even slightly relate to what they sing, and thus we get people like Bishara entering Melodifestivalen and Isaiah entering Eurovision.

Maybe Michael did get to experience the kind of love that’s BIGGER than him and his partner, idk. I certainly don't want to bother asking him. And frankly, it's only me overthinking this issue, because ain't nobody in the world really got time for that, definitely. Well, at least the relationship’s going on nice! (except for when Mike sings “‘cause I can heare the universe when I’m feeling you breathe”... spooky. o.I)

Anyway, time to get to talk more about the song. It's actually not THAT bad, just a little too typical and unextraordinary, where in the current times the Eurovision has to not be predictable in sound and to excite the viewer with... well, anything that can excite anyone. Be it the visuals OR the song. OR both. What's so special about "Bigger than Us" that can keep the viewer on toes? Probably just that keychange. I wish there were more things about it but not every commentator out there would have enough time to let them people know Michael works in a waffle shop, let alone the time that "HE WON A TALENT SHOW'S FIRST SEASON BUT THE SHOW ISN'T THE X FACTOR OR THE VOICE ZOMFG!!". Let alone people even listen to any Eurovision commenting these days, lol. It might be a charming little piece for some people though, but I don't see them voting for people selling their songs vocally much more than songs that draw in viewers with different ways. It's just a standart talent show winner song for a standart talent show winner that sounds like it's slightly too stuck in the mid-to-late-00s-early-10s rather than the 90s, which is warm and cool and all, but it's likely gonna not do the cool lad Michael the justice he'd need, just like SuRie's song for SuRie. Mayhaps a top 20-ish, or, in Lucie's case, even a top 15, is possible (although it's mostly thanks to the juries - they're the only ones eating up big voice ballads. And anything Maltese. And anything Australian. And anything Swedish... that only represents Sweden. Sorry Lukas Meijer), but when the British optimism levels are set in a deep deep ditch by default every year when the BBC comes with their platter of choices for EYD, what else could be there to raise them up after even Lucie hasn't done that amazing enough for everyone to believe that the UK are capable more than just always finishing last with 0 every year? Of course, a better than average song, but does BBC care about even pulling one out of a songwriting camp? These kind of songs are too shite for their taste, apparently, so with songs they send like these, it's probably yet another meander-er.

Which is a shame, because once again, it's not bad. It's just too plain Jane for Eurovision anymore. It's like everyone dressed up gorgeously for Miss Universe's National Costume event and you went with a cheap-ish designer dress that is decorated by small details that are notoriously known as the country's symbols just to count as something "national". It's like everyone brough their best baked (and dare I say extreme) dish to a dish competition and you only brought in a nice looking baked cod and circled the fries around it. It's like a prom night where everyone dresses casually and you come up all in a dull olive colored jacket and jeans with torn out knees. There might be something hidden in its niceness that can conquer (nice piano, nice chords, nice vocals, nice chorus, nice song formula, nice choir, nice keychange, nice message)... but with everything too nice, it just feels like that the UK are not feeling like getting a 'nice' result. Unless there's something that can make Michael do a 'male Lucie' and launch it around the 14th-19th place at best, but...

And here's the section where I repeat myself some more of what I think of the song as a whole and chances as a whole:

Approval factor: Eh I'll probably have to approve this but only reluctantly somewhat, maybe because I felt positive on the first listen unlike these people who wanted UK to dare to do something else than safe... yeah lol

Follow-up factor: It’s rather marginably favourable song than SuRie’s and only because I like it despite its ‘blandness’. “Storm” is just a song that I don’t really care about. Provided Michael gives all out personality-wise though and the revamp’s not gonna suck balls (if there’s one), this is a decent step in a decent direction for the UK... hope Michael’s not getting stage-invaded by anti-Israel people!

Big 5 factor: Thanks to all this pre-partying kicking in heavily as I put out these reviews (and actually having finished), it turns out that Michael is one of those people that clearly works his hardest to sell this typical British averageness (like he sells his waffles), with his live being so decent enough he was thought of to be a perfect EYD winner this year, so, if he keeps building up his vocal strenghts and rehearses a lot (and stays well and such), he’s actually likely to at least achieve something above bottom 7! Yes, yes, John Lundvik is still the master that will beat his pupil in the end, but that wouldn’t seem that excruciating for the UK anymore if they happen to have a place that’s not bottom 3 or anything. Just for the Michael to do his utmost best out there, and if he does, the UK won’t be in an extremely bad position this year - just not a very high reacher, because at the end of the day there are more nations that run straight with their A-game and therefore continue leaving the common-appealers in the dust. Only Sweden (and Australia until 2018 or so) usually excels at their safeness. The others must outstand to survive. And to wrap things up on this factor section, imo the UK just meanders in the safeness for another year - but at least the good enough safeness that might even be able to qualify if it were sent by a semifinalist country! (apart Sweden ffs, of course Mr. Lundvik would qualify with this one if he kept it to himself, jeez)

NATIONAL FINAL BONUS

Thankfully EYD didn’t really stink this year, because of certain key factors:

• There’s always this one or two act(s) that acts like a saviour each year. Bianca and Dulcima (or Darline idk) from 2016, Holly and Salena from 2017, Asanda (and maybe Jaz? or even Raya??) from 2018 and... ponder no more, Kerrie-Anne’s got you covered in that spot! Her version of the two one’s of “Sweet Lies” was arguably the greatest possible choice for the NF (or, in this case, the “very least bad”, and eventhough it’s incredibly reminiscent of Sigala’s “Sweet Lovin’” (vocals provided by Bryn Christopher, who - controversial opinion - is probably my fave male singer of all time), which makes it “dated” (to a 2012-2014 pop radio degree, yes), it still was a bop that I’d want to dance to in rollerskates (if I had any!!) and spray the colourful smoke things that... well idk what it is but the said video of “Sweet Lovin’” demonstrates the action. Get back to me to let me know what’s that, anyone reading this. K-A lowkey underperformed though (just like Asanda from last year) but the bop remained AND she was rightfully included in the British televote’s superfinal trio! ^^

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• The hosts were, yet again, the ever-so-loveable comedienne of Lithuanian roots, Mel Giedroyc, and the witty-ass Eurovision 2015 winner Måns Zelmerlöw. The duo is charming as usual and delightful to see on the Beebs when there’s the Eurovision case. If I didn’t know him better I’d even say Måns is a native English speaker. When there’s at least the drought of the ever-so-good entries in an EYD, we can look back at the hosts provided us some entertainment we’ve probably been missing while trying to find some on those competing entries. My favourite moment throughout that evening was the “next up is” jokes, all randomly stringed together, all in one row - all of those “next ups” were so hilariously random (until one hit the point - I think it was something about adverts or another performance being next up).

• The postcards were lovely too. With the format of EYD upgraded to make it as a three-song duel between two different versions of each one and the juries deciding on the best one for each (one vote per version), we got to see some nice friendships over there (I mean, a postcard for two people who did duel over whose version is the best - they had to listen and compliment each others’ versions) and some nice things the artists said themselves on separate postcards. Like the time when the only band of the competition of the year’s, MAID, named Buranovskiye Babushki as one of their girlband idols (a ‘so random yet glorious‘ answer) and the victorious Michael confessing that he’s “never been to Tel(iv) Aviv”... that’s true Michael, I believe ya. You’ve so never been there that ou struggle to even say it right! Not to mention that the postcard setups were cozy, too.

• Can we all just kind of agree that at least the jury for EYD made THE BEST CHOICES POSSIBLE??? I mean, yeah, it’s a biT cruel they’re the ones to choose the superfinalists without the audience’s interference, but they still made the best choices possible, at least imo. Anisa’s “Sweet Lies” was a godawfully dreary sex slow-jam (no really, I can’t not imagine a scenario where you can’t use it anywhere other than a sex scene in a movie, or a steamy hot shower scene. Call me crazy-minded but it’s true), MAID’s “Freaks” was godawfully too creepy, strange and unbearable, and Holly Tandy’s “Bigger than Us”... well... while much more chill and way less overbearing (also with not enough “BIGGER” memes potential), it would have probably not stood out all that much - just written off as a Kygo remix rented for a cheap price of half a pound (but still co-written by John Lundvik though!!). So thanks to Rylan and the other two for picking the superfinalists reasonably, unlike A Dal jurors this year. It still wrenches my gut whenever I think about it, ugh.

• What even would be an appearance of Måns if he didn't try to remind y'all of his enthusiasm for Eurovision. No one really cares he won Eurovision 4 years ago, if anything, I dread that he's only being remembered as the "male singer guy of Love Love Peace Peace song" by the newer fans. At least Pepperidge Farm I remember how Måns really wanted to get to Eurovision (even if he didn't participate in that many Melodifestivalen editions). So in this year's EYD he went all out to be a part of the Eurovision best (British?) songs medley (and we got Katrina and the Waves later in the show, performing the nation's last winning hit, 22 years later... and that wasn't even a fully British-branded win, if yanno what I mean!), and it's all courtesy of the Melodifestivalen's best known scriptwriter and an occasional Eurovision commentator (and Melodifestivalen's narrator too), Edward af Sillén. Or at least I remember it being written that he has written some stuff for Måns to do in EYD, IDK. Eitherway, it was kind of a fun thing, the interlude. Just remembering all the nice Eurovision entries out there, even including Gina G (whose ESC entry was also sung by another person in another NF whose review will be up next I suppose!).

• Heyyyyy, wasn’t it all kinds of nice to see SuRie doing an interval act and a reprise of her own run-of-the-mill entry “Storm”? I applaud her of doing a tremendous piano rendition of it, with even singing some notes a little higher than in the actual song. Maybe THAT version could have done so much better in Lisbon - showing off SuRie’s vocal decency, intimacy and... idk about the intruder part, hopefully he’d have had no way to wrestle the mic out of SuRie’s hands that time. At least SuRie had just enough support from Eurofans to be wanted to represent the UK one more year in a row, with a special EYD designed for her, where the songs could be mostly composed by her and not by the useless songwriting camp. While it’s a nice idea for some British and non-British people to get to know each other on these camps, the end results barely end up satisfying because the artists barely get involved in the songs they’re singing - not even a song line, not even a hum of contribution! Why can’t you at least take examples from German songwriting camps... (except for the time “Sister” was invented, that one could have been a perfect contribution for an EYD (not necessarily in this year’s format but still)

All in all, this may seem like an improvement of things, but I still am really hoping that BBC will give into a decent internal selection... afterall there are good names that are down to do Eurovision and didn’t even say it will harm their ‘reputation’ (*cough* Paloma Faith *cough* Hurts), and yet BBC refuses them somehow, not thinking that Eurovision is more than just a SONG contest (while ironically not even having their songs sounding THAT ‘great’, oops)? Or at least reformat EYD big time and make it exciting a la Australia Decides is (you know you suck when even your colony does better NFs than you). For now, I’ll just grit my teeth and nicely wish Michael Rice all the best in Tel(iv) Aviv. You’ll need it, chap! And in secret I hope that you’ll get it xx

#eurovision 2019 #tel aviv 2019 reviews #united kingdom 2019 #michael rice #bigger than us #united kingdom

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corvega-assembly · 3 years

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Can’t See the Future

Summary: Nora switches pods at the last minute, not that anyone was informed. Rosalie isn’t sure what the hell she’s meant to do, but finding Shaun seems like a noble goal. Right up until the weight of the end of the world comes crashing down on her. She’ll need a little more to keep her going than avenging her sister's family and running head first into a half assed goal with no plan. At least Hancock’s got her back. Rating: Mature Pairings: Hancock X sosu (FOC) Warnings (for this chapter): canon typical violence, alluded to fictional racism

Chapter 13: When all is lost we find out what remains

The National Guard training yard is right across the way from the little farm. The family is still so pleased by Hancock and Rosalie taking care of the raiders that they make them breakfast. And when Hancock says he’s too hungover to go yet, lunch.

Rosalie debates calling him out on the lie, but he falls back asleep almost as quickly as he said it, so maybe he was tired too.

Rosalie is full, and rested for the first time in what feels like weeks, but her legs are still sore from overuse. Hancock complains about how bright the sun is and it makes her wonder about so many things…

“Why aren’t there more farms? There are a lot of raiders, and not really enough farms to keep them all fed if all they do is steal.” Hancock looks surprised and then he ponders a moment.

“Most settlers left, between The Institute swapping people out and generally being a pain in the ass and then the Minutemen folding, ain’t a lot of safe real estate for folks. Some turned to raiding, even the scavvers been awfully hostile lately. ‘S why everyone takes turns on the walls of Goodneighbor, too many people just want to oppress others, keeps everyone remembering they need their neighbor.” Hancock seems honest at least, even if Rosalie wonders if it's to keep the neighborhood safe or keep people dependent on him. “But there’s still pockets of people just trying to survive. That's why I came with you, try and do some good out here.”

There is a lot Rosalie could say to that, but settles for, “I just.. I just want to find Shaun, I’m not-”

“Hey, you’ve already done more than most. Helping Kent alone shows you're willing to get into the middle of shit and kick some ass. I respect that.” If Rosalie is slightly awestruck she can’t be blamed as they approach the training yard.

Hancock says they should circle around the outside before making their way inside, so they start towards the helipad.

As it turns out they never even have to go inside a single building, there in a crate, behind an all too easy security gate is a set of pristine, T-51 power armor. It even has a full fusion core. So Hancock follows along behind her as they make their way back to Goodneighbor. If anything was debating giving them shit, it decides against it.

KL-E-0 is eager to give Rosalie instructions on how to make the suit even beefier, but they quickly run into an issue that KL-E-0 can’t help with. Keeping it juiced. Fortunately Daisy says that given four days and a little mission run for her she could get enough Fusion Cores… if Rosalie is willing to pay.

So Rosalie parks the rig in KL-E-0’s shop, counts out her caps for what she hopes will be enough core’s to get her through The Glowing Sea. She braces herself for another Bobbi scenario, running all over Boston. Instead Daisy, sweet as could be, just asks for her to clear out the library of mutants and to drop her book back in a return.

Hancock looks at her with awe as she proceeds to spend an hour talking to Daisy about life pre-war, with a promise to not only return the book but try and check out some new ones for her. His expression doesn't fall, even as they head out into the ruins towards the library. Hancock follows this time, as Rosalie steers them through the street’s Nick had taught her to take.

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The super mutants are dug in deep at the library. Only one entrance is even an option to them and once they’re in, it reeks. Blood and sweat and piss. The smell is so strong it burns Rosalie’s eyes. Hancock doesn’t have the luxury of the squishy bit of her nose doing its job to dampen the smell. But he seems prepared for anything and everything, pulling a red, white, and blue bandana out and tying it around his face. He even pauses to offer her a red one that he has folded up inside a vest pocket, she takes his proffered gift and ties it on. It smells like him; Mentats and smoke, and under it all the smell of abraxo.

Once it’s on her face, Rosalie turns to give him a thumbs up and his face is set in a serious line. “Stay behind me, you look like a tasty snack.” To them or to him she wants to ask, and it's the dumbest thing she’s thought in at least a week so she falls into step behind him. Debating just sinking into the ground to join her family in embarrassment.

Hancock doesn’t seem to notice her awkward pause and instead is pointing and yelling for her to take out a turret. Which she does, but he’s already moved on to the super mutants, rolling under one and shooting it point blank in the chest. It goes down, screaming ‘stupid ghoul!’ at him. Hancock seems to be trying to control his shots, avoiding spraying the already picked over bookshelves in gore and buck shot.

Not that these books will ever get the smell out of them. But still, it’s sad when a super mutant knocks an entire shelf over trying to swing a sledgehammer at Hancock and missing by a mile. Books falling to the ground in thuds.

Super mutants are horrible awful things, and their hounds are just as bad. The noise they make is unnerving and when one bowls into her, knocking her over and standing on her chest, she is reminded of raw sewage as it opens its mouth to bite her. Luckily, or unluckily, several protectrons enter the fray, one blasting the hound on her chest, distracting it long enough for her to roll away from it. She gets under a table and shoots at its legs.

Rosalie loses sight of Hancock while crawling on the floor, firing at super mutants who pass by. But she can at least hear him yelling back at the mutants. So she keeps up the good fight, occasionally peeking her head out to fire at the seemingly endless horde of green enemies coming from the subway below.

“Super Mute Brute!” Hancock yells as he rolls in under the table she’s occupying, his side bumping hers as he’s wrestling with his gun. He’s pulling out a different ammo from his belt, glancing her way a moment, a grin on his face that spells trouble, “Having fun yet?”

Then as fast as he was with her, he’s gone and she can hear him get on top of the table. He is enjoying the fighting, enjoying the bloodshed and the… effort. Rosalie would much prefer to be reading these books than fighting among them.

Eventually, after what feels like a full week, the last mutant is dead. An intercom message plays and the protectrons switch back to being friendly. The marble floor is hard on Rosalie’s back and knees. She thinks she’ll bruise as she starts to crawl out of her hiding spot. Hancock is sitting on the marble railing, shaking a plastic bottle’s contents out into his hands when she finally stands up.

Rosalie bends backward to crack her back, and Hancock is staring her down when she straightens. His handful of pills forgotten. With the bandana around his face it’s hard to judge what he’s thinking. Although he’s clearly been caught, it doesn’t seem to bother him. He keeps staring at her as he pulls down the bandana, pops a mouthful of pills and pulls it back up.

Confusing man. She turns and walks to a book return. As she pulls the book from her bag, Hancock slides up behind her, watching. “Think the lollipop’s are still good? Oh shit they have pencil toppers, never mind.” For the return of one book, Rosalie nets two pencil toppers that look like hearts and are hard as rocks. Which is exactly as they were 200 years ago.

“You always so excited to get lame prizes?” Rosalie responds the only correct way for a 29 year old woman to do so, by pulling her bandana up and sticking her tongue out at him. He chuckles a bit and shakes his head.

Rosalie is trying to find at least a few books that are still worth grabbing for Daisy, and maybe herself, as Hancock goes through bodies. Eventually she’s almost used to the smell. In the end she has a Jane Austin and a ‘new’ release by J.I. Flintin. Something her mother would have loved to read.

On the way back to Goodneighbor Hancock tells her about the way ghouls are treated, often turning to books when no one else would speak with them, he’s flippant about about his own treatment however. “Never had that problem myself, heh.”

He sounds down on himself at times and then he’s singing his own praises. She wishes she knew if it was all bravado or if he’s got as much ego as he lets on.

Before they reach Goodnieghbor he stops her in the street with a hand, “Listen, ain’t saying you gotta or nothing, but the offer stands. If you wanna crash at the statehouse you can. Take my bed, I'll take the couch, it’s pretty full upstairs.”

“Or I take the couch and you take your bed. I was sleeping on a couch before the war.” She shrugs and smiles at him, honestly the offer is lovely because if she meets the man from Vault-Tec one more time she’ll scream. But he’s looking her over, pulling his bandana down and frowning. So maybe not a real offer then.

“Sister, going into a ghoul’s bedroom, even one as handsome as me, isn’t gonna win you any favors with some of the locals. And Goodneighbor loves to gossip. You take my bed behind a solid locked door, I bunk in the office, rumors fly that I’m sweet on ya. That’s fine. We close the door and doesn’t matter if we’re doing the deed or not, half the statehouse will have their ears against the door just hoping to hear anything.” Or maybe a real offer with added worry.

“I really am out of fucks to give about anyone's opinions of me. If you didn’t get that from The Shroud get up and shitty acting.” She frowns, for fucks sake a few months ago she was washing her mothers ass. The world had gone and ended and people are still concerned over who is sleeping with who.

Hancock gasps, big and dramatic, he’s got his big smile back, the one that reaches his eyes. “Shit you mean to tell me you’re The Shroud? You been holding out on me sister.” He bumps his hips into hers, “If you don’t care then fuck em, let em talk. It’s all some of them are good for.”

He holds the gate open for her, and follows her to Daisy’s. Daisy is pleased with the effort, even if she agrees with Hancock that Rosalie could have picked nearly anything else at the return. Rosalie is surprised, somehow, at Hancock dropping a small collection of bloody bits and parts he’s shoved into a backpack being placed on the counter. There are claws and bits of creatures Rosalie can’t even imagine in the bag, and Daisy buys the lot.

Hancock turns to her and says, “Mutes grab up all kinds of shit and stick em in those bags, sometimes you can get real lucky.” He’d put his hands in the gore bags and she can’t help but to gag. Both Daisy and Hancock laugh at her. Daisy asks if she wants a drink at The Third Rail, to which Rosalie says yes.

It feels normal, almost, if she turns her head and squints. She’d never gone out to drink with friends before, no time to do so. Rosalie opts for a Nuka instead of booze, which doesn’t bother Daisy one bit. Hancock is sipping some sort of beer that he says tastes like piss in the happiest voice. Rosalie gapes at him for a moment before Daisy tells her it all tastes bad. It’s the first moment she has had that hasn’t been focused on either survival or Shaun. Daisy leaves a few drinks in with a much younger, for her anyways, man, while Hancock hoots and hollers after her.

In the quiet, with Magnolia singing on stage, her thoughts twist and turn. Nora wouldn’t be sitting here, even as social and outgoing as she was, she’d be planning and plotting. Rosalie hasn’t spent time with children since she was one, she doesn’t even have a home to take Shaun too. So even if she manages to get The Institute to give Shaun back, she’s left with no real way to take care of him. Hancock must sense her thoughts darkening because he pays for their drinks, telling her, “Bedtime, sleeping beauty.”

In the end they’re in one room with Hancock on the couch(just for tonight) and Rosalie curled up with her new knitted blanket on the bed. She focuses on the sounds of people pressing against the door, and eventually, the sound of the watch talking amongst themselves just outside it. They really do gossip and it makes her smile. It’s easier to sleep when they’re are people around she realizes as she slips away.

Notes:

#FFfo #FFfo4 #FFcstf #sosu_rosalie

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forgotten-goddess-souls · 3 years

Text

My family has resided every summer break at Lake Conjola every year since I can remember

We go with longtime family friends, the Scott's, and their daughter Jules, has been my summer buddy for years.

We didn't talk much at school, or as much as we used to after I slowly joined the social Hierarchy and became more popular. I know that I'm going to be invited to her wedding, and she for mine if I ever decide to.

Jules had short platinum blonde hair, very pale skin and a small body. She had glittery eyes that made it look like she was daydreaming all the time and she was unashamedly her.

I was tall, with long dark brown hair, icy blue eyes and tan skin with little moles peppered on my face. My lips were alot bigger and my skin had cleared up since my diet started going better. My body was thin and curvy, and my legs were alot longer.

'Darcy! Get up!" My older brother Tristan yelled, repeatedly slamming on my door at 5am, indicating that our departure and torturous three hour journey were to begin.

And as true to the nature of early morning risers, my mother was fixing her makeup and my dad was tying his shoelace. Tristan was dressed in his usual eshay resembling attire and I was the only one that had sweats, a singlet and no bra, sloppy bun and a scowl of distain on.

The car, pre packed and washed with our surfboards tied on- was ready to go. I piled Tristan's annoying pillows between us and turned on my phone to listen to my playlist which I had handcrafted the night before.

Stopping once for gas, a bathroom break for my dad, and a drive-thru to get coffee; we arrived at Lake Conjola at 9:40.

It never changes, its the perfect anti internet old person retirement place with a lake that shone under the Australian sun.

At the front reception, I could see Fiona Schweppes- who waved at my family warmly and was a familiar since 1999.

Every year it seemed like a competition to get to Lake Conjola first every summer, The Scott's were not this year.

I took my baggage to the shared room and claimed a bunk before Tristan could, and immediately went on my phone to reply to all my friends, exactly 128 texted on snap telling that they'll miss me and how they'll keep me updated, which they did.

I was FaceTiming my friend Lilian, who was moping about her boyfriend Tyler being an ass to her. She was yelling at her mum and half ranting, I was bored and scrolling through my Insta half heartedly.

I heard a cheer and deduced that Jules and her fam were here, and switched from FaceTime to Snapchat Lilian.

I changed to suit the cold endings of weather and into my warm jumper and a pair of mini shorts, shaking my hair loose and fixing my long eyelashes with a curler.

Jules, ever the optimistic labrador, practically fled the car and raced into the arms of my parents, to which mum stumbled back with surprise and dad to look quizzically at the yet to turn 16 year old.

In my pocket I felt my vape pen (Iced Mango) slowly ride up, and itched to go to the bathroom for a minute. Tristan 'bro hugged' Mr Scott, who slapped him on the back and let out a jolly laugh at how fine of a young man he was turning to be, making sure to comment on his acceptance to Uni, and his future in Economic Business.

Mrs Scott walked out last, I noted (though I wish I hadn't) that she looked deathly tired. It was mostly due, I would later learn, that this was due to her recent job loss. A vacation was needed for her.

Jules made her way to me, trying her best to not eye Tristan, who she'd been in love with since year 5.

"Hey," She greeted, as I threw an arm around her scrawny shoulders, "Hey, ready for the pools bitch?" I said, as she wrapped her thin arms around me, as though I were a space of comfort.

We went to her cabin and helped her unpack, she'd done a small revamp and finally swapped her 'whatever fits' to a 'ALT" Style, and as we hung up her hoodies, she was taking puffs from my vape. "My mum lost her job, so this is probably gonna be the last time we come down until she gets a new one." She said sadly, I threw her a sad frown. "Hey, it'll probably only be for like, two summers, then you guys will be back and cruising around on your boat.

She half smiled, "Your parents are smart adults, they'll work it out like they always do." I added, she smiled fully, and I threw a pillow at her to stop her basically stealing my pen.

After she changed we went to the deck and caught up with my dad and Mr Scott, who were sharing a beer and cooking while Tristan and mum went with Mrs Scott to get some groceries from the small local shop just down the road where the residential beach houses were facing the lake.

We sat down and began playing a round of Uno, resulting in my dad whopping Jules and I, and the adult men to give us cruisers in celebration.

Me and Jules were on the deck chilling and drinking when Tristan burst in the deck, startling Jules that she fell off the hammock in surprise. We angrily looked up at the 19 year old as he laughed at us.

"You Moron!" I yelled throwing a stray flip flop at his head which he slapped out of the way easily.

"There's a local hockey game happening on dry ice, it's tomorrow, mum said we can all go." Tristan said, grabbing a beer from the cooler and opening his phone. He threw the cap at me and flipped the bird, to which I returned.

After a hearty brunch of salads for me, and the disgusting smell of bacon dogging me as I looked at the local busses to get to the hippie shop and buy some cheap crystals and incense.

We rode into town half an hour later, wearing jumpers and mini shorts with our hair in fresh braids thanks to Mrs Scott - who was looking much better and singing along to the radio when we left.

Tucked away from the busy mainstreet was a small shop, rounded by other shops and a mosaic tile hopscotch imbedded in the grass. It was small, with a rustic sign reading

Three Sages Universe Shop • Crystals • Tarot Cards • Incense • & More

We started to get involved with this when we were five, making positions out of mud and glitter, and trying to summon demons seemingly in retrospect for fun.

We boarded off the bus, pushing past the families and annoying the locals. I quickly found the shop, and entered the familiar surroundings. Piled on tables and shelves were millions of diffrent and interesting things. The shop only had two things locked, Crystals and ugly jewleery that was apparently real gold.

Taking out our own bags we managed in under an hour to just browse and get our hands in heaps of things; the biggest find was a star chart and surfer dude necklaces.

We brought our findings to the cashier, hidden behind a wall of lip balms and sea spray salt that tourists snap up.

Not having the heart to steal from small business, we paid for our goods and set off to find something to do before returning to tan (me) and go kayaking to the cliffs (for Jules).

We went to IGA and brought tanning oil and marshmallows for smores on the gas stove top at home.

We headed home, the bus being late that we almost had to walk the crazy length to get there. Jules was quiet, as though she were pondering something.

"Darcy, I've been thinking;" "Uh Oh." "Oh shush. I want to loose my virginity." This sudden revelation caught me off guard. "With Josh?" I asked, not picturing the SRC tightass to do it before marriage. Not that there's anything wrong with it, but he was constantly putting others down for it he may as well have became a pastor at age 3.

"He and I aren't... Seeing each other. In fact, I don't even care who it's with. As long as it's with someone I trust, then I'm ready." "Oh, right. Like a summer fling is what your saying?" I rendered, "I hear ya, but all the teenage boys at the caravan park weren't pleasant looking, they were either 12 years old or simply looking for a blowjob."

"True, what about an older guy? Like 20 or something." "Yeah I'd buy that. A cute summer fling, with no strings."

"Yeah! But a steamy, hot one. Like out of a movie..." She turned to the window of the bus and began day dreaming. "Pump your load and hit the road." "Shoot and Scoot." "Ejaculate and Evacuate."

Hearing a 'hrrmph' sound, I looked behind us and saw a woman aged a solid 45, glaring daggers at us, holding her son's ears.

The poolside was too windy to enjoy any amount of sun, and we abandoned the river because the wind swerve sure to pick up some icy water and throw it at us.

We went back to the cabin instead, and fell asleep on the lounge watching loony tunes. When we woke up it was half way to dinner, and that the mum's were day drunk already and the family were too relaxed, and Tristan was mysteriously no where to be found.

My mum and dad were up ridiculously early, playing their gospel music so loudly that the night owl Scott's groans were heard next door.

____

Missing Chapter

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rosehoare · 6 years

Text

The future of love

Published in Sunday magazine, 2014

Ready for Valentine’s Day? It’s the day we celebrate the romantic notion that you can love the same person your whole life!

I mean romantic, as opposed to realistic. Because, let me tell you, my friend: by committing ourselves to monogamous relationships with one person (just one! That’s half what’s considered reasonable to help yourself to from a biscuit sampler), we are behaving like sexual anorexics, starving our basic, hardwired hunger.

From a computer scientist’s point of view, forging a face to face connection belongs in the too hard basket. And from a philosopher’s point of view, we are living in an age of such overweening narcissism that we might not be capable of real, scary, grown-up love anyway.

Nevertheless, since our weak minds cling to the delusion of love and our culture obsesses over “cute couples”, and since being single can get to feeling like a slow withering of the soul, the question persists: how can we stay in love and be happy?

Last September, ethicist Brian D. Earp and some colleagues at the University of Oxford’s Centre for Neuroethics co-authored a paper proposing a chemical intervention to a crummy problem we have inherited.

That old “men just aren’t built for monogamy” cop-out turns out to be backed by data observable across species, and championed by evolutionary psychologists.

“The engine of natural selection is that you want to maximise reproduction,” Earp says. “We’re not puppets of our genes, but from an evolutionary standpoint, it makes no sense to have one sexual partner your whole life.”

Things were simpler for our Pleistocene-era ancestors. They lived half as long as we do, roaming around in groups of about 150 relatives, raising their kids communally. And after three or four years, the parenting was done, whereas we live in a more information-rich world, where raising a child to the point where it can fend for itself like the feral kid in Mad Max doesn’t really cut it anymore.

(Procrastination being what it is, I could tell you a lot more about this colourful Pleistocene era, with its woolly mammoths, sabre-toothed tigers and other such “megafauna” which we may, in our lifetimes, see “rewilded” in a Jurassic Park-like situation. Google it if you don’t believe me.)

The point is, Pleistocene parents used to be able to get back amongst it very quickly, while today’s parents are committed to parenting until the child is 16. And even after that, couples are expected to spend decades more as monogamous romantic partners.

Clearly, Earp says, “there’s a gap to make up between what our human dispositions are like and what we expect of ourselves. The question is how do we make up that difference?”

Currently, we respond to the problem with infidelity (10-54% of wives and 20-72% of husbands) and divorce (around 42% in New Zealand). We go to relationship counselling but plenty of couples don’t benefit from it. So Earp suggests we try huffing oxytocin.

Oxytocin is the hormone we naturally produce in situations related to attachment. It floods our system when we orgasm, when we go into labour, when we breastfeed, when we hug. When you come home and see your dog, you get a burst of oxytocin, and your dog does too.

On the face of it, oxytocin seems like a miracle drug for couples counselling. It reduces anxiety and stress (even when couples are discussing a ‘chronic source of conflict'). It boosts trust, eye contact, empathy and attentiveness. Under the influence of oxytocin, couples remember their good times more readily.

It even improves monogamous impulses: last year, neuroscientists found that after inhaling oxytocin, men in relationships displayed less interest in a pretty female than single men.

But it has a few wacky side effects. Oxytocin can turn the volume up on us-and-them feelings like envy, schadenfreude and ethnocentrism -- it makes people less friendly to strangers than they would otherwise be. For people with aggressive tendencies, oxytocin seems to actually enhance aggressive behaviour. It also brings up more bad memories for those with anxious attachment to their mother.

“Oxytocin isn’t just this universal enhancer that makes everything more positive, happy and trustworthy,” Earp says. “It interacts with the person, who they are and what their attachment styles are.”

All the same, for the right people and in the right environment, Earp thinks oxytocin shows promise. “I don’t want to have to be constantly spraying something up my nose in order simply to function in my relationship, but if I used it in a counselling session while I’m learning more productive communication behaviours or something like that, and then I weaned myself off of it but I retained what I’d learned, that could be very useful.”

But enough of bringing our Pleistocene impulses into the 21st century with experimental chemicals! Hasn’t technology already brought us further than that? Set the flux capacitor to 2045, Marty. Where we’re going, we don’t need roads!

Dr James Hughes is a sociologist and executive director of the Institute for Ethics and Emerging Technologies in Connecticut. I wanted to ask him about the possibility of love with an artificial intelligence (AI).

Some futurists predict that, by 2045 or thereabouts, we will experience something called the Singularity, a point when artificial intelligence will overtake human intelligence, and keep improving at an exponential rate, leaving us all in its dust.

Some people find the prospect of AI menacing. Dr Hughes is not one of those people (although he is concerned about the effect it might have on the labour market). He doesn’t find the idea of a relationship with a disembodied AI all that outlandish.

For one thing, he says, we already interact with AI a lot. Software that uses algorithms and big data to predict what we want -- Netflix, Google, dating agencies -- are a form of AI. And Hughes says we already know that humans “anthropomorphize and seem to take a great deal of emotional comfort from relationships with technology”. In the 1960s, an MIT scientist created a rudimentary chat bot and programmed it with a script for psychotherapy. He was disturbed by how readily people opened up to it.

“The Roomba is another example: the little circular robot vacuum cleaners that wander around your house and suck up your dirt? People were naming them. They would feel heartbroken if one got broken and they’d send them back, and if asked ‘do you want a replacement’, they’d say ‘No, I want my one back’.”

Hughes says the attractions of electronic forms of love and romance are manifold: an electronic partner is constantly available, there’s less risk of sexually transmitted disease or unwanted pregnancy, and you don’t ever have to bicker with your robot lover, unless that’s what you’re into.

And yes, let’s get to the part you have probably been wondering about: sex with a robot or a remote human, via teledildonics and whatnot, promises to be fulfilling and, according to robot sex expert David Levy, commonplace by 2050.

When it comes to the burden of emotional and sexual engagement in a relationship, technology is already helping pick up the slack: a new sex app developed for Google Glass allows partners to stream each other’s points of view, can flash up sex advice in flagrante delicto and can even dim the lights. (Can you imagine anything sexier than watching your partner issue a pre-coital voice-activation command to their wifi-enabled home lighting system?)

Researchers are currently programming facial recognition software to help people with autism read emotional cues, so, Hughes says, “We’re looking at a future where ‘Your wife seems to be happy right now, but she’s really mad at you’ suddenly flashes up on your Google Glass.”

Regardless of whether it’s with a human you only connect with in World of Warcraft or a robot, Hughes believes technology will enable unimaginably richer connections. We’ll use haptic technology that responds to touch; facial recognition software that helps read moods, and nano-neural interfacing that enables us to share thoughts and memories.

“There may be AI in the future who, because of the depth of their programmed understanding of the human mind and emotions, knows you ten times better than anybody else could,” Hughes says.

Ah, but would I feel known? However nice it might be to have a robot lover who can suggest a movie I’ll love, wouldn’t I somehow still compartmentalize my feelings for an AI as being of a different, lesser order to what my feelings could be for a human?

Not if you can’t tell them apart, Hughes says. A classic test designed by math genius Alan Turing pits an AI against a human intelligence, and asks us to guess which we’re communicating with. “Every year, we see AI getting higher and higher thresholds of people guessing they’re human,” Hughes says. “The interesting thing about the Turing test is lots of humans fail it. There are humans whose interaction and style of communication is such that they can’t communicate as fully realised human beings.”

Given how important and universal the experience of love is, philosophers haven’t made a very impressive job of explaining its mysteries. In fact, some of the most influential philosophers had abysmal love lives. Nietzsche sprang a proposal on a girl he barely knew, was rejected and died alone. Kierkegaard had a nice girlfriend, but got emo and broke off their engagement. Sartre and De Beauvoir came close with a markedly bohemian relationship - lots of intellectual chats, no fidelity, no marriage, no kids.

So far, so romantic. Then along comes Alain Badiou’s In Praise of Love.

In an interview format, the elderly French philosopher describes love as a sharing of perspectives that creates a new reality, an event as irrevocably life-altering as when Keanu takes the red pill in The Matrix.

Dr Tim Rayner, a philosopher at Sydney-based consultancy Philosophy for Change, has been pondering love ever since he gave a disastrous speech about its essential unknowability at his brother’s wedding years ago, and he thinks Badiou has come closest to nailing love, on behalf of philosophy.

“Badiou thinks when you fall in love with someone, you see your life again -- not just as it could be, but as it should be.”

“It’s a real world that we’re drawn into,” Rayner says. “It’s not like a window that we can look through and go ‘that was interesting’ and move on. We feel compelled to actualize it, because it’s part of who we are.”

That’s Badiou’s philosophical ideal of love, but it’s not how he sees things enacted. Rayner says Badiou is especially cranky about people looking for “risk-free” love based on mutual compatibility -- the kind of casual, exploratory relationships orchestrated by dating services, where, if things get tough, it’s easy to walk away. Anyone hoping to make love more convenient, to gain the ecstatic feelings without hazarding any disruption to their life, is missing the point. Love, the only way Badiou would have it, is necessarily fraught.

“It’s a very frightening place to be,” Rayner says. “You’re violating the sanctity of the ego and putting yourself in a position of vulnerability. But you need to go there to create the common space of love. And since we do live in a fairly egoistic society, for some people, that’s too much of a leap to make. But if you are going to commit yourself to the love experience, you have to say ‘my life is no longer just about me, it’s about us, and everything I do from now on is about strengthening that bond’.” Then you have to figure out how you’re going to change the world together.

Maybe the new reality you create together is being Hollywood’s hottest power couple. Maybe it’s doing a really sensational home renovation. For a lot of couples, it’s having kids -- a transformative experience that can have meaning for couples beyond fulfilling an ancestral drive.

That’s a traditional perspective, but Rayner says you can experience Badiou’s kind of love outside of a romantic relationship, too. For Badiou, a militant Maoist who agitated in the ‘68 uprisings, comrades can have a kind of comradely love forged by being engaged in a common struggle. And Rayner thinks colleagues -- workers or artists -- collaborating on a project can feel powerfully bonded by the experience of co-creation.

And if you’re single this Valentine’s Day, take heart: you, too, can experience Badiou’s world-reconfiguring, romantic love, all by yourself.

“When you meet another person who just sweeps you off your feet and gives you a sense of how your whole life could be different, often those kinds of relationships are unrequited”, Rayner says. “I mean, the best romances are, right?”

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delsonbundrick97 · 4 years

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