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whatifyoulivelikethat · 10 months

Text

touchin', m | jjk

pairing(s): jungkook x reader

summary: Jeon Jungkook has got ten minutes and a hard dick. So he says. You learn you can't trust everything he says though.

warnings: rated M (18+) for language; lovers that call themselves friends-with-benefits because JK is a fool; both parties are freaking annoying tbh; smut (fem reader, double lip piercing JK, heavy petting, standing doggy with clothes on, lots of neck making out, light nipple play, low-key forearm kink); fluff; non-idol!AU - JK is wearing the outfit from his 2023.06.29 Weverse live

“I have ten minutes and a hard dick.”

You rubbed your temples.

“Jungkook, why are you calling me?”

Breathless surprise, as if the man on the other side of the line didn’t realize how jarring it was to call someone announcing a time limit and a stiff rod. “I have–”

“I heard you,” you growled back, interrupting him sharply as you heard the knock on your front door. “I just can’t believe you. You’ve got plenty of people trying to get in your pants.” You unlocked the door and wretched it open. “Yes?” you blurted out impatiently.

What?

You weren’t expecting anyone decent at near midnight.

Big peepers stared back.

“But I don’t want anybody else in my pants,” Jeon Jungkook told your ear and your face.

You rolled your eyes and dropped your phone. “You look like an egg.”

He did. Black beanie jammed onto his head, his black-brown hair sticking out every which way underneath, even a dropped jaw to emulate that pointed side of said metaphorical egg. White Nike t-shirt two sizes too big for him. Loose black sweatpants. Cute monochrome black-and-white sneakers you would not be letting into your home.

He bit his lower lip, still clutching his smartphone. You noticed there was another piercing on his lip now.

“I thought… we were…”

You pulled him by the front of his shirt and yoinked him inside.

“Don’t just stand out there with your mouth agape,” you scolded gently, shutting the door. “I don’t want you talking about your hard dick to my neighbors. Take off your shoes.”

It was an awkward moment of bodies pressed together and hastily followed instruction. You had to pluck his phone from him and end the call because it seemed like Jungkook had decided his primary task was ogling you and your bare legs. A large, vintage band t-shirt was good enough pajamas for you. You bent down to shove his shoes against the wall and you were very sure Jungkook’s eyeballs were glued to your ass. All that was well and good, but what was thinking, calling you up about his hard di–

His lock screen flashed on when your thumb grazed against it.

You spotted one of your Instagram photos hiding behind the time stamp and his numerous notifications.

Huh.

You looked away.

“Take this,” you muttered, jamming his phone back into his open hand. “What are you doing out so late anyw–”

You cut yourself off once you realized how close Jungkook was.

In this entire space of your front entrance, he had picked centimeters away from your chest to be his standing spot, forcing you to look up at him and his big dark brown peepers. Seemed like he was eating well. He had a little more fullness to his cheeks tonight, although he still had his sharp jawline and that silver hardware gleaming on the right side of his lip. One hoop, one new stud.

“I… I, uh…”

You intended to deliver some firm comeback, but instead you relented under that gaze and pressed your thigh against his. Just to feel him. Not too much, but enough to have the contact and strike the friction between bodies.

“Um…” He was mumbling, struggling to think. “I have to go meet my parents at the train station. They said they picked up some stuff for me and that I should go get it.”

You frowned. “So… why are you here?”

A jolt as you realized he was closer and taking your hand, pulling it down, lower.

Lower.

“I can’t go like this…”

Pressing your hand to his crotch, his lips already on yours as you palmed his rock-hard erection through his pants.

Yeah, you can, and Jungkook could tell what you were thinking from your smirk against his kiss and the tease of your tongue. There was no reason to make this easy for him, no matter how easy he was. You smiled, avoiding too much pressure in the kiss, both to frustrate him and because you were uncertain about irritating the new piercing, but Jungkook chased you, sharpness in his inhale, following your steps deeper into your dark home.

The one light you had on was in your bedroom, but you might not make it at this rate.

Strong hands grabbing the back of your head, fingers spreading out over your scalp, pulling you closer, and you met his insistence with calm, tracing your tongue over his lips and flitting in and out. Saliva and softness, the backs of his hands roughly hitting the wall, crowding you with his larger frame as you snaked your hand up and down his length, the fingers of your other hand sliding up the hem of his shirt and hooking over the waistband of his sweatpants, tugging him to you.

He moaned into your mouth when your fingertips caressed taut skin.

“What am I gonna do with you?” you purred, teasing him, nicking at his lower lip. The heat of his body was radiating and addictive. Too many clothes for how aroused he was. “I thought you said we weren’t that serious, hm?”

His hands in your hair tightened. “I t-take it back…” he whimpered. “I told you… I don’t want anyone else…”

You touched him all over, massaging his balls and toying with his cock, smearing the pre-cum over your palm and his length, pressing your soft thigh against his hard one. Rolled your body against his, your hot breath on his chin, his moan smoke above your eyes, and now he could feel that you weren’t wearing a bra under your shirt.

He shivered in delight.

You chuckled.

“I think you would say anything to have my hand on your dick.”

Pressed your lips to his throat and kissed down, wrapping your hand around his length. His pants were falling down his legs. You felt one hand leave your head and then his pants shifted. Then his fist hit the wall, a thunderous boom amidst his shudders that you felt through tongue and teeth, careful not to leave marks.

“H… Harder…”

You snickered. “You’re going to see your parents. I can’t leave hickeys.”

He whined, but you ignored it, flicking his earrings and licking under his earlobe. Tingling kisses left behind in your wake. He smelled like his usual clean soap. The tips of his hair feathered against your temples as you kissed the space under his ear, delicately sucking on it.

That was enough.

Time crunch and all that shit.

You were about to slide down the wall, but Jungkook stopped you, grabbing your shoulder.

You looked up, cocking an eyebrow. Half-laughing inside because his beanie was barely on his head, his unruly hair spilling out. There were visible beads of sweat by his furrowed brow, but you bit your words back and focused on those lidded dark eyes and flushed pink lips gasping your name breathlessly.

“B-Bend over.”

It would have a sterner effect if he hadn’t stuttered.

The side of your lips curled up irresistibly. “Oh?”

He lifted his fist off the wall and the foil packet caught the light.

You smirked.

“You’re so fun, you know that?”

Jungkook grinned and smacked the condom into your cheek, dragging your face to his, wild black hair over his eyes as he kissed you, indenting your lip with his jewelry.

There was something extra slutty about being mostly dressed and fucking standing doggy against the wall. He pressed his palm on your lower back but you were already slipping further down the wall, your panties at your knees, ass up, and you heard him swear when the throbbing head pressed into your dripping heat.

“Fuck… me… are you a virgin or what? Fuck!”

He would know from personal experience that you most certainly were not. You neglected to remind him he hadn’t warmed you up himself. Instead, you hiked your shirt up more and tilted your head playfully. Added commentary to be extra insufferable. For fun, of course.

“You’re welcome.”

“I’m not…”

Your hand hit the wall. Both palms flat, lowering more and pushing back as he pushed in, the ache viciously filled with his girth, pleasure suddenly racing up your spine and devouring the equilibrium.

“I’m not, fuck, thanking you, a-ah…!”

He was the one with his hands gripping your hips but you were the one to start off the bruising pace, sucking a breath between teeth and shoving your ass into his crotch, amplifying the power of his thrust, warmth swirling in your core, satisfaction blooming in your exhale.

“Mmmm, Jungkook, yeah, fuck, just like that…”

Your fingers curling into fists, immediate fire in your veins, clenching around his hard length and enjoying every second. Power and lust and savage sweetness, feeling his fingers dig into your hips, hearing his breath hitch, his moan vibrating in his throat. You had to stifle a laugh as you realized that he was suffocating all his sounds so he could concentrate, hm, how interesting, but you let yourself fall into the pleasure, tipping your head back and sighing, the building wave of orgasm seeping out and spreading over your lower belly, pulsing around him.

You dropped your torso a little lower and heard Jungkook groan, gripping your ass harder.

“Hah… so good… fuck…”

His name falling from your lips, with desire and grace, not hiding the feeling but burning in the fervor, remembering his insincere face telling you a bold lie, we’re not that serious, and you recalled thinking, is he just saying that because he thinks I’m intimidating or what, but you let him think what he thought and want what he wanted, his nails clawing into your back, harder, regular plans becoming more irregular, breathing heavier, hotter, until he was constantly searching for you with those shining brown eyes of his, pulling you to his embrace and trying to lock down this escape artist with his lips.

Maybe it worked.

Who knows.

You pressed your fist into the wall and let out a hiss of hot breath, clenching your core and all around him, ah, chasing that brutal fullness, that declivous slick friction with every loud smack, the prickling crawling up your legs and ribcage, come on, give it to me, your low purr intoxicated by the carnal desire and Jungkook couldn’t say anything, probably clenching his jaw and burning up from the heat, closer, his pants turning into coarse gasps, choppy and erratic, faster, hotter, throbbing, there.

He didn’t have time to warn you.

You felt your inner walls pulse and flinch, squeezing hard, the rush injected into the tension and making you gasp, thrown off by the sudden shaking ecstasy, your hand slipping on the wall. Catching yourself mid-slide and feeling Jungkook jerk, freezing your hips in place as he came in intense jerks, straining against your tightness, your name in a silvery, fucked-out moan.

Damn.

Could get used to that.

Your hair was all over your face, making the dark room even darker. “Heh. Trying not to cum too fast, huh?”

“S… Shut up…”

He barely forced it out, his hands giving out and sliding up your stomach. Oof, he was warm, his chest radiating heat onto your back, and yet you smiled as you felt his fingertips rub against your hard nipples, sending shivers of pleasure through you in the afterglow. You pushed half of your hair back, amused at seeing his beanie somehow now on the floor. He lifted you up even though you didn’t ask, slipping out and shoving his sweaty face into the back of your neck.

“Hey,” you were about to protest, but he was squeezing your breasts and nipples, making you buck against him as he sighed into your skin.

“You smell so good, mmmm…” he was mumbling, ignoring your squirming.

You tried to reorient him even though he was the one trying to distract you. “Oi, aren’t you supposed to be going somewhere?”

“Wuh?”

You tried to unstick his hands from your chest but he pressed his forearms to your sides. Instantly, a tremor danced through your muscles, thundering, not allowing the arousal to subside. You sucked in a tight breath, feeling him clamp down on your waist with his arms. “What happened to ten minutes, I gotta go see my parents?”

“Oh… eh… it’s okay,” Jungkook hummed, kissing your neck through your hair. “I made that up anyway.”

Somehow, you had low-key guessed that, but there was no reason to let him get away with it. “I don’t like lying, you know,” you curtly reminded him.

“Sorry…”

He pushed your hair aside with his nose and plopped his head on your shoulder, hugging you tightly with his sweaty body. Your arms were hanging a bit limply in front of you, but that was because of his muscular embrace. It made you feel a bit like a caught kitty cat.

“Don’t do things like that,” you scolded, but he was shoving his nose in your jaw, warm breath and feathering kisses over the curve of your neck while massaging your breasts.

“Sorry… I just wanna be with you,” he murmured breathlessly. “You’re so cute.”

“I’m not cute,” you retorted, burning comfortably and uncomfortably from his touch and words, respectively.

“And pretty. And smart.” He was ignoring you even though he was the one making out with your ear. “I was afraid you would find me annoying…”

“You are freaking annoying,” you confirmed, placing your hands on the backs of his, but not pulling them away. “I told you to tell me when you were horny, not make shit up.”

You could practically hear his pout. “Well, I didn’t know I was until I was driving over here.”

“That doesn’t make any sense.”

He changed the subject. Classic. “Why do you have to wear clothes?”

“I can’t answer the door naked.”

“But it was me.”

“How would I know that?”

It was hard to describe the comfortable kind of exasperated he made you. A welcome, spontaneous, borderline ridiculous distraction. You somehow managed to get him to untangle himself from you and clean up, his clothes carelessly flung in random places, and you shook your head at him, you’re gonna have to pick those up later, but as soon as he had washed up, Jungkook was pushing you down on your bed, pressing your naked body to his and sighing softly, his hair a floofy mess.

“I didn’t say yes to you spending the night,” you said calmly as he kissed your collarbones, sparks lingering from the contact of his lips. You looked down. “Stop looking at me like that.”

Those round, shining eyes lit up in the semi-darkness of your bedroom.

“Like what?”

Pretending like he didn’t know, uh huh.

You shook your head and tangled one of your hands in his hair, nudging him up.

“Come here.”

He scooted up earnestly. You placed a fingertip on his lower lip as he neared, making him pause breathlessly.

“Is this new?”

You couldn’t miss the sparkling in his gaze as you mentioned it. “Y-Yeah…”

You raised your head and kissed it softly. “Should take good care of it as it heals, mmmm? So let’s just be rough down here…” you breathed, your other hand raking over his thigh, smiling as he flexed under your touch, moaning into your mouth, a sweet taste that you couldn’t stop craving, and yet you had to point it out one more time.

He had the audacity to pretend, after all.

“But we’re not that serious, right?”

Jungkook groaned and shoved his face into your neck as you laughed. “I take it back! Stop being mean…!”

There was just something about his impatient whine.

“Alright, alright…”

Bad decisions were made.

Like staying up until four in the morning fucking.

Ah, shit.

drabbles masterpost | masterpost

#jungkook x reader #bts smut #jungkook x you #jungkook smut #jeon jungkook x reader #jeon jungkook x you

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mostlysignssomeportents · 10 days

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Rebecca Roque’s “Till Human Voices Wake Us”

I'm touring my new, nationally bestselling novel The Bezzle! Catch me in TOMORROW (Apr 17) in CHICAGO, then Torino (Apr 21) Marin County (Apr 27), Winnipeg (May 2), Calgary (May 3), Vancouver (May 4), and beyond!

"Till Human Voices Wake Us" is Rebecca Roque's debut novel: it's a superb teen thriller, intricately plotted and brilliantly executed, packed with imaginative technological turns that amp up the tension and suspense:

https://www.blackstonepublishing.com/till-human-voices-wake-us-gn3a.html#541=2790108

Modern technology presents a serious problem for a thriller writer. Once characters can call or text one another, a whole portfolio of suspense-building gimmicks – like the high-speed race across town – just stop working. For years, thriller writers contrived implausible – but narratively convenient – ways to go on using these tropes. Think of the shopworn "damn, my phone is out of battery/range just when I need it the most":

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=XIZVcRccCx0

When that fails, often writers just lean into the "idiot plot" – a plot that only works because the characters are acting like idiots:

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Idiot_plot

But even as technology was sawing a hole in the suspense writer's bag of tricks, shrewd suspense writers were cooking up a whole new menu of clever ways to build suspense in ways that turn on the limitations and capabilities of technology. One pioneer of this was Iain M Banks (RIP), whose 2003 novel Dead Air was jammed with wildly ingenious ways to use cellphones to raise the stakes and heighten the tension:

https://web.archive.org/web/20030302073539/http://www.wired.com/wired/archive/11.03/play.html?pg=8

This is "techno-realism" at its best. It's my favorite mode of storytelling, the thing I lean into with my Little Brother and Martin Hench books – stories that treat the things that technology can and can't do as features, not bugs. Rather than having the hacker "crack the mainframe's cryptography in 20 minutes when everyone swears it can't be done in less than 25," the techno-realist introduces something gnarlier, like a supply-chain attack that inserts a back-door, or a hardware keylogger, or a Remote Access Trojan.

Back to Roque's debut novel: it's a teen murder mystery told in the most technorealist way. Cia's best friend Alice has been trying to find her missing boyfriend for months, and in her investigation, she's discovered their small town's dark secret – a string of disappearances, deaths and fires that are the hidden backdrop to the town's out-of-control addiction problem.

Alice has something to tell Cia, something about the fire that orphaned her and cost her one leg when she was only five years old, but Cia refuses to hear it. Instead, they have a blazing fight, and part ways. It's the last time Cia and Alice ever see each other: that night, Alice kills herself.

Or does she? Cia is convinced that Alice has been murdered, and that her murder is connected to the drug- and death-epidemic that's ravaging their town. As Cia and her friends seek to discover the town's secret – and the identity of Alice's killer – we're dragged into an intense, gripping murder mystery/conspiracy story that is full of surprises and reversals, each more fiendishly clever than the last.

But as good as the storytelling, the characterization and the mystery are, Roque's clever technological gambits are even better. This book is a master-class in how a murder mystery can work in the age of social media and ubiquitous mobile devices. It's the first volume in a trilogy and it ends on a hell of a cliff-hanger, too.

If you'd like an essay-formatted version of this post to read or share, here's a link to it on pluralistic.net, my surveillance-free, ad-free, tracker-free blog:

https://pluralistic.net/2024/04/16/dead-air/#technorealism

#pluralistic #books #reviews #novels #mysteries #thrillers #technorealism #gift guide #rebecca roque

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vaspider · 7 months

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Today I went to my neighbor and said

And he agreed!

But then I realized I need more jars because i have preserved so much fruit this summer, so the figs are in the fridge macerating until I can go to the hardware store or New Seasons and buy more jars.

I finished making the last of the plums into 3.5 more pints of plum jam.

I'm going to start unloading grape jam on people. Three fucking GALLONS.

#my peasant roots let me show you them

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hanasnx · 9 months

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nothing but trouble

MINORS DNI 18+ WORD COUNT: 0.9k WARNINGS: established relationship | no angst they just yell at each other out of sexual tension <3 | shooting at ppl but no explicit violent or corpse descriptions | seeing you naked but no feminine descriptions are applied to your figure | implied smut.

The last time. you thought. This’ll be the last time.

A promise unkept as your oldest friend lumbered in, heavy boots against the wooden floor. His very introduction back into your life is a plague on your past self’s wishes. You swore then it would be the last time.

Yet here INDIANA JONES remains, left un-smited by divine intervention, and undeterred to a near nefarious degree.

“What do you want?” you’d asked.

Like a fool you heard him out. All his shiny and grand notions over a piece of junk unheard of for a thousand years. He’s got a new lead, and a new motive, and you’re naive enough to believe it when he claims you’re the only one that can help him.

You fall for those big, green eyes. The dopey, crooked grin he wears whenever you’re agreeable to his whims. As soon as he’s within your atmosphere, you can practically smell your own attraction to him pulse off you in waves. It’s humiliating.

“C’mon, kid, I wouldn’t ask if it wasn’t important.” he’d persuade you. Sweet talk you as smoothly as he’s done before. Curse your enslavement to your most selfish bodily desires.

Indiana Jones is nothing but trouble.

“Get down, are you crazy?” Indiana barks, his large and rough handling of the back of your head makes you hiss at him in anger. Shoving you down, shielding you from the staccato of the machine gun fire, is appreciated even as unceremonious as it is.

“And you- are reckless!” you chide, the weight of a shotgun in your hands banging against the hollow sound of the bar as you rise above it. Taking advantage of your opponent’s weapon overheating to a jam, you cock your firearm.

“Wait!” Indy shouts. His body, warm and rigid, slots behind you, catching you when the kickback of a shotgun shocks you, the hilt recoiling into your collarbone. Your partner grunts from the impact but holds fast, cushioning your fall to the ground by landing underneath you. “You’ve never shot something like that before, what were you thinking?” he admonishes, and you roll off of him.

“At least I’m doing something!” Hysterical, your scream ripples through your voice, and you meet his wild eyes, brows pinched together in a most daring glare. You’d lifted the hardware from a fallen enemy— and you’d expected a jolt— but your collarbone did not. It aches.

Indiana picks himself up, throwing a glass bottle in your direction; his satchel swings around his hips from the force of his pitch. You duck, and whirl around, witnessing it shatter against the forehead of an unsuspecting villain rounding the corner. Your expression of incredulity inflicts that most frustrating and famous scoff of relief of his. A cute shrug that said, “Did you really believe I’d do that to you, sweetheart?” Your eyes narrow at him, and you exhale sharply through your nose.

“Hand me that, doll,” His hands outstretch, ready for the impact of the shotgun when you toss it to him. It pops open under the pressure of his experienced touch, the shells discarding as he searches the box of ammo he found near the strewn corpse you swiped the weapon from. Reloading, and snapping it shut with a flick of his wrist. You helplessly attempt to ignore the adrenaline tearing through your veins, crying out for any sort of relief— which must be why your desire towards him has increased tenfold regardless of how insufferable you declare him to be. The way he takes charge of risky business with a sense of admirable fearlessness you wish you could bottle. You wonder what it’d taste like.

Sharing a cramped space on a boat had very limited perks. One luxury you’re afforded is a private bathing area connected to your room. You pat yourself dry with a towel, hair still wet and dripping onto you as you exit, the steam dispelling. You hadn’t bothered to collect garments to change into within the confines of the bathroom, being as confined as it is. Entering the room bare, in search of what to wear, Indy rises from his place on the bed. As if reverting to formal manners in a moment of bewilderment, to stand when a lady joins one at a table. A flash of an unfamiliar countenance graces his handsome features, soundlessly conveying confusion, and displacement. It’s not like Indiana to feel he doesn’t belong somewhere. A thought crosses his mind that you might now know he’s here, and his sudden movement was a way to prove his presence. He sits up straight, the pose uncomfortable enough for you to address.

“It’s nothing you haven’t seen before.” you assure, sifting through your belongings. Not before noticing the way Indiana’s eyes wander down your figure. At your words, he relaxes marginally. A low rasp emits from him, and you cast him a side glance.

“I’ll never get tired of seeing it.”

A curl to your lips you can’t hide, a scoff through your nose, and he knows he’s got you.

“Well, c’mere. Let me take a closer look at’cha.” he phrases it like he’s about to search your body for wounds, and he’s exasperated by the chore. He settles at the edge of the bed, a thick finger of his beckoning you over, nonchalant in nature.

You oblige him.

As if there exists an invisible string connecting the two of you, you’re tugged over, coming to stand in between his knees. His calloused hands handle your waist, drawing you in. When your instincts run away with you, you lean down, placing a kiss on his willing lips.

Salty. He tastes salty.

#indy: drabbles #ch: indiana #indiana jones drabble #indiana jones fanfiction #raiders of the lost ark fanfiction #indiana jones writing #indiana jones smut #the dial of destiny fanfiction #the dial of destiny smut #indiana jones x reader #indiana jones x f!reader #implied smut #indiana #indiana jones series

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depressedstressedlemonzest · 6 months

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Hay It's Getting Cold Out

“The fuck?” Ian’s words stumbled from his lips as he walked into the apartment to find straw littering all over the kitchen floor.

Mickey’s head peeked up from behind the kitchen island and he ducked back down.

“Mickey why does our apartment look like a barn?” Ian walked over to the kitchen island and found Mickey on his knees surrounded by straw and plastic storage bins.

“I’ll clean it up.” Mickey muttered as he picked a knife up and jammed it into the bin, sawing a square into it before punching it through.

“What are you doing?” Ian asked trying not to sound accusatory but not being sure if he was succeeding.

Mickey paused and looked up at Ian, “It’s getting cold out, it's going to get colder this weekend, like below twenty degrees out.”

Ian raised an eyebrow, “Yeah, and we live in Chicago, this happens a lot in the fall and winter.”

“Well, I wanted to do something for Clawdia, but everything I was looking at was super expensive. But then I found this do it yourself thing and it would only cost about ten bucks.”

“Claudia?”

Mickey grimaced, “Clawdia, the cat that has the missing leg that hangs out around the pool in the summer.”

“You named her Clawdia?”

Mickey groaned, “Yes I named her, yes I’ve been feeding her, and no I don’t want her to get cold this winter, so I’m making her this cat house. But when I went to ordered the straw to get delivered I thought a bale was only like a pound or two, turns out it’s a fuckton. So I’m making more than one for any of Clawdia’s friends that get cold this winter and want a nice warm box.”

Ian felt his lips curve up in a smile, “That’s so s-”

“Fuck off Gallagher.” Mickey huffed sinking back down to keep sawing at the plastic bin.

“You know if you wanted a cat-”

Mickey groaned, “Fuck OFF.”

Ian looked at the mess and shook his head, he went to the bedroom and put his phone on the charger before digging into the closet and grabbing another knife from the closet.

He came back into the kitchen and sunk onto the floor across from Mickey.

Mickey eyed him as he grabbed another one of the storage bins and stabbed the knife into the side before sawing a line into it.

Ian glanced up at Mickey and grinned as he sawed the square out of the bin and punched it through.

Together they made six cat shelters, even with each one stuffed full of hay they still had a good amount left over.

“How about we go to the hardware store and get some wood? Make a big shelter for the rest of the hay?” Ian suggested when they finished sweeping and bagging the remainder of the straw up from the kitchen floor.

“I didn’t want to make it a big project.” Mickey sighed tying the bag up and shoving it aside.

“I know, but I’m sure we can budget it enough to make it work, besides what else would we use the hay for?” Ian asked with a laugh.

Mickey smirked, “Well, there is that fantasy about doing it in the loft of a barn in the hay.”

Ian’s laugh slipped from his face and he looked at his husband sternly, “We are NOT putting that hay in our bed.”

Mickey laughed reaching up and cupping Ian’s face with his hands, “C’mon Carrot Farmer, you know you need to make sure the stable hand is doing the chores.”

Ian let Mickey pull him into a kiss before gripping his wrists gently, “No way. Now let’s get these ones out to Clawdia before it does get cold out.”

Mickey rolled his eyes, “Spoil sport.”

“Well we couldn’t have done that at a better time.” Ian muttered as he looked at the picture Mickey had sent him.

Clawdia the three legged cat in one of the shelter boxes with four little puffy kittens around her.

“You know, that extra room we have would make a good nursery.” Mickey mused over the phone.

“No way.” Ian’s voice was firm, but when he looked at that photo again he felt his heart melting.

“Only Clawdia, and only her kittens. And once they’re all old enough we’re getting them all fixed.”

“Glad you’re agreeable because I already brought them inside. And since we still had that hay I took out the drawers of the dresser and put some in each.”

#based on the stray cats and the kittens outside my apartment #who we all just want to bring inside and shelter #and we're all sneak feeding them around the cameras that the landlord put out to catch us because he's a dick #gallavich #mickey milkovich #ian gallagher #gallavich fanfic #ian gallagher loves mickey milkovich #shameless #mickey milkovich loves ian gallagh

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robsheridan · 8 months

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Members of London’s 1981 electroplasm scene, a fusion of extreme body modification, mortality edging, and electronic music, where specific frequencies generated by custom modular synthesizer hardware were found to stimulate spectral wavelengths enough to generate ecloplasm and control its psychokinetic growth into electronic wiring, creating sounds unlike anyone (living) had ever heard before.

The most hardcore electroplasm musicians, flatmates at a warehouse space they called The Cortex, began fusing their nervous systems to the hardware such that the electroplasm could flow through their bodies, syncing with their biorhythms, turning them into electronic posthuman processors in a chain of spirit-charged flesh modules. As the ectoplasm rewired their brains and warped their forms, they were no longer technically “alive” by standard definitions, but held on the bleeding edge of the mortal plane by the spirits trapped in them, howling supernatural tones they shaped with their body instruments.

As the niche scene grew, more devotees joined the chain of spirit vessels in The Cortex, giving their bodies to the rhythm, building the beat, forming new otherworldly sounds with each new human instrument. These “beat zombies,” as NME coined them, could only continue “living” as long as the sonic frequencies continued through the chain, and so the beat at The Cortex ran 24/7, their “musical life support.” Hundreds of fans gathered to dance at the undead rave, the most unique performance art ever seen; some predicted the sound would last forever, growing so big that one day every human who ever lived would become connected to it, a jam session across all souls, here and beyond.

Unfortunately, the entire electroplasm scene ended abruptly just a few months after it had begun, when the power was cut to the warehouse space, killing all 78 posthuman vessels instantly and releasing all of the spiritual energy trapped within them at once in a psychokinetic blast that razed four city blocks. It turned out that when the musicians gave their minds & bodies to electrically-charged ectoplasmic sound, they never thought about who would pay the utility bills.

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NOTE: This alternate reality horror story is part of my NightmAIres narrative art series (visit that link for a lot more). NightmAIres are windows into other worlds and interconnected alternate histories, conceived/written by me and visualized with synthography and Photoshop.

If you enjoy my work, consider subscribing to my free newsletter to stay up to date on my projects, or supporting me on Patreon for frequent exclusive hi-res wallpaper packs, behind-the-scenes features, downloads, events, contests, and an awesome fan community. Direct fan support is what keeps me going as an independent creator, and it means the world to me.

#synthography #synthography horror #80s synth #alternate history #ai art #ai horror #nightmAIres #rob sheridan #horror stories #ai sci-fi #sci-fi #writing #80s music #electroplasm

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delulustateofmind · 15 days

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A City of Dreamers [Part One]

Series Summary: ModernAU of ACOTAR, Azriel breaks away from the small town of Windhaven to escape his toxic family and chase his dreams with his newfound family. Leaving behind his small-town life for new ventures in Velaris.

Part Two coming soon!

Work Count: 1.5K

Trigger warnings: Tabaco use and trauma mentioned, I think that's it!

Another night, another nightmare. Azriel awoke to the gentle sunlight creeping through his window, emitting a small groan as he stretched amidst the boxes littering his bedroom, remnants of his recent move taking a toll on him. Another task he needed to complete to a list that already seemed endless.

Three years prior, Rhysand, fresh out of university, pitched the idea of starting a tech company called ‘Night Corp.’ Rhysand’s father, a real estate mogul, agreed to fund the venture under the condition it operated in Velaris. As the company prospered, they moved into an apartment closer to work.

The company ‘Night Corp’ is the biggest in technology. Booming after a year of the three of the ‘brothers’ working eighty-hour weeks. Azriel running the programming and hardware side. Cassian working on management and dealing with the paperwork. While Rhysand was the face, he made sure to bring in the investors and funding. Over time, the company grew larger and larger. Which led to the boys moving into an apartment closer to work.

The apartment boasted amenities, including separate bathrooms and balconies for each room. Azriel found solace in his smoke breaks on the balcony, appreciating the alone time overlooking the city with a faint scent of tobacco in the air. Cassian however would always chastise him for smoking, but old habits are hard to die out.

Struggling with the sleepless nights fueled by long coding sessions and haunting memories, Azriel joined Cassian in the kitchen. Finding Cassian making breakfast and doing a small dance as he jammed out to his booming music.

Azriel moved past him to start his morning coffee, much deserved from the late night he had. Cassian shot him a big grin.

“There’s a boxing gym nearby if you want to check it out with me later today,” Cassian mentioned as he removed his headphones.

Azriel shook his head, his messy dark curls bouncing. “I need to ensure the program is fine for the next big launch. Security reasons” Azriel shrugged. “I’ll check it out later with you some other time.”

Cassian raised a brow. “You know, Az, you don’t have to work yourself to the bone anymore. We’ve got a solid team now. Gone are the days of us slaving away in Rhys’ mom’s basement. Remember, you hired the best from Velaris Tech. Let them shoulder some of the load.”

Azriel shrugged, pouring his coffee and taking a sip. “I’ll think about it”

It’s true, that Azriel did seek out some of the best programmers for the business. A business that started in a business that now had several major buildings around Prythian. While Velaris remains to be headquarters.

Rhysand, already at the office, tasked Mor, who was already busy as the marketing director, to find him a personal assistant. Signaling the start of yet another busy day at Night Corp.

*****

In an apartment two doors down from the boys lived Feyre and Y/n. Childhood best friends who grew up in a small town together that later reconnected. Both of them had faced their challenges.

Feyre is one of three sisters. The oldest was Nesta a famous ballet dancer, one of the best in all of Prythian who frequently traveled, rarely visited unless for the holidays. The middle child, Elaine, worked as a florist in the Springs. However, she did visit more frequently than Nesta. Feyre was the youngest and unfortunately, her father already exhausted most of his income on his other two daughters, leaving Feyre to figure her life out on her own.

Feyre never was able to go to college unless she wanted copious amounts of debt. Though her artwork was enough to pay for rent, her income wasn’t stable enough. Some months were better than others, leaving Feyre in the middle of applying for a position as a personal assistant, there was no guarantee she would even get an interview without a degree. She was still going to give it her best shot. The job paid well enough that she could start saving up for her studio and be able to pay rent.

Y/n on the other hand, inherited her parents' coffee shop. After they had passed away, left her with nothing but the deed to a business that she never knew her folks owned. Y/n spent her days tirelessly researching how to even run a business and while sorting through her emotions of losing her parents- cleaned up the place. From time to time Feyre would come and help. Painting the walls, even including a beautiful mural of the Sidra River on one of the walls. After a year of opening the business, the income was stable enough that she could hire a full staff.

The coffee house was unique in a way that instead of being open in the early hours of the morning, the cafe would instead be open late into the night. Allowing night owls like herself to feel the comfort of a good cup of coffee.

It was late afternoon when y/n woke up, she had worked a double late night shift after one of her managers called out. Climbing out of bed, groggy, hoping that her staff could handle the shipment coming in today, reluctantly checked her phone. Finding no calls from the afternoon staff, she considered it to be a small success, a small smile appeared on her face before walking into the living room to find Feyre on her ancient laptop typing away at her resume.

“Morning” Feyre murmured with her brows furrowed in concentration as she slowly typed away.

“Morning. Didn’t Tamlin get you the latest model from Night Corp?” y/n murmured sleepily. Taking a spot next to Feyre on the couch.

“He did, but…” A deep sigh escaped Feyre’s lips “We broke up” she reluctantly met y/n gaze. “He proposed and I said no…” her face showed regret as she didn’t meet y/n’s curious glance.

Y/n gazed at her, a look of pity for her friend on her face as she leaned her head onto Feyre’s shoulder. “I’m sorry Feyre. What made you turn him down?”

“Funny thing is, Tam wanted a traditional housewife. Someone to plan parties, wear fancy dresses, and be pampered” Feyre explained, her tone tinged with sadness. “That’s just not me, I need room to grow. He was kind, but I think I really hurt him y/n” She shook off the sadness and continued with determination “So, I’m applying to Night Corp for a personal assistant position. How hard could it be?”

“I’m here for you if you need anything…with the whole Tamlin situation. But I have to say, I’m proud of you for coming to that conclusion about what you want in life. That wasn’t an easy decision I’m sure.” Y/n gave her a soft smile before laughing softly. “You? Applying to a tech company, Feyre you had to ask me the other day how to download an app on your phone. Feyre you still use BuzzFeed!” Feyre playfully nudged y/n.

“Buzzfeed will always have a special place in my heart, how else am I supposed to know what kind of pizza my zodiac sign is?” Feyre said with a chuckle “But seriously, the job pays well, and it can’t be that challenging, right? Plus, they’re on the rise. Word on the street is that their main office has a slide! How cool is that?”

“I wish you the best of luck, I know you would nail that interview” Y/n grinned before getting up to get ready for her shift. “I have to be in early today, to help with the truck order. Let me know if you get a call from them, we can go celebrate!” Feyre gave a warm smile before slowly typing away at her cover letter. Feyre was absolutely awful with anything technology-based.

After an hour of getting ready, y/n waved goodbye to Feyre and headed out the door. Locking the door to the apartment and heading down the hallway. Scrolling through her phone she bumped into someone.

“Sorry,” she stammered before peering up at the man before her. Dark raven black hair with a slight curl that almost covered his eyes, a black face mask that hid most of his face, and hazel eyes that resembled burnt honey. He was beautiful, a classically handsome man. The man peered down at her roughly a whole foot taller and said in a voice that was so deep it sounded sinful.

“You’re alright,” he murmured before gliding past her down the hallway back to his apartment. The sultry voice sent shivers down her spine. A blush had warmed her cheeks before she made her way to the elevator, their brief encounter replaying in her mind. Seemingly hypnotized by the deep voice, a melody she deeply wanted to hear again.

Azriel returning from his run, sliding in the front door of the shared apartment, couldn’t shake the comforting scent of vanilla and coffee the girl exuded.

#acotar #azriel x reader #azriel #cassian #rhysand #feyre archeron #feyre acotar #rhysand acotar #modernau!acotar #modern au #sjm #azriel x you

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sweetandgentlecreature · 8 months

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use a photo on your phone camera roll and write a quick scene/hc for it

Ooh, how cute!! This was written on a day when the caffeine won, if that isn't already abundantly clear. Unedited and off the cuff. Gif isn't mine, but has been sitting in my camera roll for a hot minute. Message me for credit!

It was another beautiful morning in the garden of Eden. Last night's rainfall was but a memory now, as the sun shone brilliantly through the open windows of their humble abode. A nice breeze stirred the trees and ruffled the floral curtains in the study. Day two of tinkering on his latest project brought more of the same. Those tiny screws were driving him nuts as nimble fingers trembled to hold them still until they were secured into place. It was a peaceful repetition that he took pride in. He had the patience of a saint to sit hunched over the open tower, piecing together the perfect machine bit by bit, but it would be well worth it in the end.

From across the house, her soundtrack gave him whiplash. What started as today's latest hits transitioned to 90's boy bands, old country ballads, and everything in between. He couldn't help but chuckle as he listened to the tiny rave that took place in the kitchen, a party for one. Leaning back in his chair to take a peek down the hall, he caught glimpses of his little dj jamming out to Backstreet's Back as she buttered her toast. He'd been up for hours, long enough to get in a run and a shower, but her day was just getting started. Her hair was piled atop her head in a bun, messy and wild, and the shirt she'd stolen from his side of the closet billowed around her thighs as she swayed. In his moment of distraction, his hands slipped. The screw clattered against the hardware and disappeared down into a corner out of reach.

"Shit. Uh...Darling?" he called over the opening notes of Benny and the Jets. "Think I could get your help for just a moment?"

"Coming!" she called over her shoulder, took a bite of her breakfast, then wiped her hands on a paper towel. When she appeared in the doorway, she was a vision of natural beauty. No wonder Adam had been so tempted. Low hanging fruit is the sweetest. "Whatcha need, big guy?"

He turned the tower a bit and pointed down into it. "I dropped a screw down here. Would you mind to fish it out for me?" She laughed and nodded, moving to squeeze between him and the desk to try her hand at it. Delicate fingers felt through the intricate network of wires and cables in search for the tiny screw. The tip of her tongue poked out a bit as she searched blindly for it. Watching the focus on her face had him oddly aroused, and she didn't even flinch when his hands came up to brush along the smooth, supple skin of her thighs. He found himself distracted again with the line of her panties, when she called out in victory. Pinched between her thumb and forefinger, she held it up for him to see. "Got it!" To her surprise, he took it from her and discarded it into the small dish on the corner of his desk.

"What's wrong? I thought you wanted to finish this today."

He smirked, wrapped his arms around her waist and pulled her down to sit in his lap. "Oh, I will. Watching you now, though, I've just remembered something."

Raising an eyebrow in suspicion, a playful smile spread across her face. Surely she was picking up what he was putting down. "Yeah? And what's that?"

When he kissed her, his intentions were made clear. "You're looking especially delicious this morning, and I haven't had breakfast yet."

He didn't pick up another screw until later that afternoon.

#sweet friends #henry cavill #henry cavill fanfiction #henry cavill fic #henry cavill smut

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hooked-on-elvis · 3 days

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A MULTI-INSTRUMENTALIST MUSICIAN 🎸🎹🎙️🎶

Voice is an instrument but it certainly was not the only talent Elvis Presley had in his life. He played guitar, piano and sometimes even bass for his recordings, being specially skilled on the piano, but often fooled around with other instruments like the drums, accordion, ukulele, flute and even violin. He couldn't read or write music and had no formal lessons but, as a natural musician, he played music by ear. He would simply hear a song, pick up an instrument, and play.

Let's see some pictures.

GUITAR: It was the first instrument Elvis had real experience with. By the age of 11 his mother gifted him with a guitar she purchased for his birthday (January 8, 1946) at Tupelo Hardware store for $7.75. He used that guitar all through high school, and even in his early career. He owned many more, and much nicer, guitars during his career, and used many prop guitars in his movies. One of the most famous ones is the 1955 Martin D-28, used by EP in his early career during the Sun Records era. It had a custom made tooled leather cover with his name "Elvis Presley" blazoned across the front. If you want to learn more about Elvis' guitars, I recommend you to visit scottymoore.net.

PIANO: About the pics of Elvis in 1956 playing the piano while Liberace plays his guitar, I find it very interesting considering what kind of musician Liberace was. He was a prodigious talent with the piano (began playing the piano at the age of 4). Elvis must have felt very confident to play the instrument around him. EP's friends spoke many times about how EP was great playing the piano. It was his instrument, despite being best remembered with his guitar in his hands. Over time he got better and better. Elvis played the piano for recording sessions and onstage throughout his career.

BASS: When The Beatles visited Elvis in California in 1965, they all jammed, with Elvis on bass.

DRUMS:

ACCORDION, VIOLIN AND CLARINET*:

Update: Apparently, the last instrument is a clarinet, not a flute, and EP is playing around with it other than seriously playing. It's typical of him. Some of them he really dedicated himself to learn, some others he played just to joke around with his friends. The intention with the post is actually just show how Elvis was curious about instruments and music and general.

#there must be another instruments i haven't found pictures yet but there you go... an insight of Elvis' love for music #elvis presley #elvis #elvis the king #elvis fans #elvis fandom #elvis history #50s elvis #60s elvis #70s elvis #elvis music

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seat-safety-switch · 1 year

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Once again, my enemies have done to me what they always do: get angry at me for getting impatient at Home Depot. And in a way, they’re right. It is both of our faults that I got upset. The workers are trying their best, and sometimes they have more pressing duties (customer pooped in the display toilet?) than coming to help me cut some plywood on the saw. That’s not their fault. What is their fault is that they once, years ago, showed me the key that they use to unlock the plywood-cutting saw’s safety interlock, and didn’t notice me taking several pictures of it with my phone before uploading it to a lock-breaking website operated by an unaccountable offshore artificial metamind.

They shouldn’t be too mad: sure, I did use their key-cutting machine to make a copy of that key, but I paid for it, just like any other sucker. That’s the right thing to do. If anything, they saved some money by my work of piracy, because I didn’t have to wait for an employee to come by and use the key-cutting machine, either. I’d love a business where customers walk in, serve themselves, and then give me some money. It would leave me with a lot of free time to waste at Home Depot waiting for someone to come by and slowly operate the power tool I already know how to use.

I do hear you saying now: if you’re so fucking handy, then how come you didn’t take it home and cut it yourself? The answer is that today’s modern plywood sheets are too big to fit into my delectable shitbox of a van, which was only made for three or four years in a suburb of Chengdu. Even now, getting any information about the model requires officially applying through the Chinese embassy, and often times all you’ll get back is “it is very suspicious that you keep asking so many questions about this.” I still keep trying, though, which probably means I won’t get to visit the factory in which it was made, or at least the Party representative who shows me around it won’t be very gracious when she spots me trying to shove mufflers into my pockets. So I have to hack the plywood in half and kind of jam it in there at an angle with the hatch propped open. And I can’t turn right very sharply or it will all fall out into traffic.

Home Depot says you should “do it yourself.” This is a noble pursuit, and, if anything, my core ethos. Of course, what they actually mean is “fuck it up, and buy materials to do it at least twice.” Their hypocrisy is laid bare in this exact situation, but worry not. I made sure to run off a few more orders from other customers before the orange-aproned Gestapo cottoned onto the sound of basic competence. With any luck, they too will become impatient with the doddering pace of hardware-store monopolists. I could use a second pair of eyes to watch my back while I’m working the key cutting machine next time.

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thornsnvultures · 10 months

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eddie munson x reader (pwp: platonic w/ potential)

cw: self harm, bruising, mental illness, hurt/comfort, talking about therapy

a/n: this fic talks about y/n having bruises in lots of varying colors because of their age. I know this isn't the case for some darkskinned poc. I'm not trying to exclude people out of spite/hate but I mostly wrote this for myself to process bad mental health stuff I'm going through. if you skip this, i totally understand as it's written with myself in mind and I'm white. I try to avoid any indicators of physical appearance in my fics so they can be read and enjoyed by anyone, but it was hard to avoid it with this one. putting this long winded warning here so no one's caught off guard. ok bye.

-----

Eddie's knock on your apartment door was met with silence. It wasn't that out of the ordinary, you weren't a very loud person to begin with, but you knew Eddie was coming over. The two of you made plans just last week, he called you the other day to check if they were still on. The grocery bag full of ingredients for tonight's dinner was in his hands, all bought from the list you gave him.

So it was strange that you didn't answer on the second, then third, knock. He called your name a few times, pressed his ear to the door listening for any sign of movement or call that you were coming. Nothing.

His gut was screaming that something was wrong. Maybe you were sleeping, had a long day at work and forgot to call him to cancel. It wasn't like you, but maybe...

Eddie fumbled with his keys, the bag of food dropped to the floor. He didn't know why he had so many fucking keys or where they all came from. Next time he goes the hardware store he's getting yours specially printed with a nice cover so he doesn't lose it in the ten others he's got jangling around with him. Finally, he finds yours and jams it in the door, his fingers shaking.

Sleeping, you're probably sleeping.

The bags of food are tossed on the counter along with his keys and he makes his way down the hall. Your roommate is gone for a few days to visit family so it's just you in the apartment, alone. Your door is closed but Eddie can hear music, one of your favorite songs. That's got to be it, you didn't hear him over the music.

Eddie takes a deep breath, and shakes his head. Of course you're fine, he's being silly.

"Hey, it's me," Eddie calls out. He knocks on the door as he opens it.

And the smile on his face falls.

You're crying. Sobbing. Eddie doesn't know if you heard him over the music, your tears, any of it. Or if you don't care. Because you're sitting on the floor and punching your leg. Your bare legs, both of which he's never seen before. He understands why now, your aversion to wearing anything but long pants, because they're covered in bruises. Mottled in all different shades of color, some old, some new. And you're giving yourself new ones.

Eddie doesn't think. He practically tackles you down to the floor, wrestling your hands up over your head. You're sobbing and still fighting him and you're way stronger than he thought you'd be but he can't let you do this.

"Stop it! Stop," he shouts at the same time you're shouting at him to let you go.

He's kneeling over you, stradling your waist but not putting any pressure on your body. Just holding your wrists so you stop.

Eddie's heart is hammering wildly in his chest. You stopped fighting, too tired from your kicking and screaming. Now you're just crying. Taking heaving, shuddering breaths that make your whole body shake. But you're tired.

"If I let you go will you do it again?"

You shake your head.

"Okay."

Eddie lets go of your wrists and moves off of you. You just lay there so Eddie does too. He pulls your limp, shaking body into his chest and holds you. You wipe tears and snot into his shirt but he doesn't care.

"I'm sorry," you shakily whisper. "Sorry I ruined our dinner."

"Nothing's ruined. Nothing you could ever do would ruin it. Not even if you spit in my food."

"Gross," you reluctantly laugh under your breath.

Eddie kisses your head and holds you when you start crying again. His heart hurts. That you've been hiding this part of yourself away, dealing with it on your own for so long, it hurts. And he wishes he hadn't found out this way, but now, now he can help. Even if it's just holding you after, or letting you wipe snot on his shirt and spit in his food.

He tells you all this. Asks if there's anything he can do. He's your friend. Your best friend. He wants to do anything he can.

"Just be here. Just hold me."

The food Eddie bought sat out on the counter the whole time the two of you laid on your bedroom floor so you ordered take out instead. Eddie let you put on whatever movie you wanted, but you put on one you knew he liked too.

"Are you seeing anyone?"

You freeze, looking up at him from your mouthful of lo mein.

"Like...a therapist, a counselor," he clarifies, looking away. "Wayne made me go talk to this guy after...well, after I started living with him. I don't know, it helped. He got me into DnD actually."

You swallow down your mouthful of food. Eddie can feel your eyes on him. He's never told anyone that.

"No. I'm not seeing anyone."

Eddie looks at you with your feet folded up under you, sitting sideways on the other end of the couch.

"It might help...talking to someone. I can get a number for you to call," Eddie hesitates, "no pressure though."

"Yeah. No. It's- thank you."

It's quiet for a bit, but not uncomfortable. Just quiet. You've always been quiet.

"Oh man."

"What?" Eddie snaps his attention away from the movie. You look disappointed, holding his now empty container of shrimp fried rice. "Did you want some?"

"No," you sigh, "I forgot to spit in your food."

Eddie laughs the hardest he's laughed all day and tackles you into the couch, tickling your sides. You're laughing so hard, gasping for air, and Eddie would do anything to keep that smile on your face forever.

#eddie munson x reader #eddie munson x you #eddie munson x y/n #eddie munson angst #eddie munson fanfic #eddie munson fan fiction #my fics #tw self harm #tw sh related #tw sh

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