#How to Pour a Concrete Slab

[lawnsroot]

The Ultimate Guide to How to Pour a Concrete Slab

So you want to tackle a concrete project but are not sure where to start? (How to Pour a Concrete Slab) Pouring a concrete slab might seem a bit overwhelming, but with the right guidance and some know-how, you can get it done. In this detailed guide, we’ll take you through the step-by-step process of pouring a concrete slab, from preparing the area to adding those finishing touches. Let’s get…

[clawsdevour]

last customer

wc: 0.6k content warning: post-time skip, osamu x reader, fluff, not proofread

⠀ೀ * : ,,,

it's cold and frosty out as you made your way down the concrete sidewalk to the brightly lit restaurant. the snow's starting to pile up, each snowflake landing on your flushed cheeks before you're under the roof of the address on your phone.

stiff fingers gripped on the doorhandle as you pushed it open, the warmth of the restaurant immediately rushing towards you as you sighed out of relief as the bell rang at the top of the door.

the ringing caught the owner's attention from the kitchen. sticking his grey head of hair out from the kitchen doorframe, he looked at you with confusion before checking his watch.

"um.. hi!" immersing yourself in the heated restaurant as you stood by the door staring back at his figure.

"hi, i'm sorry we just closed.." his brown eyes peering back at you from his watch with concern as he noticed how cold it must be outside.

"oh- i'm sorry.. i thought i'd arrive before your shop would close," looking down at your shoes wehre your toes are absolutely frozen despite having fluffy socks on before turning your body towards the door that showed the chilling winter night through the glass.

right when you were about to head out as the bell rung due to the movement of the door just slightly moving, the owner calls back at you while you heard the restaurant's air vents turn on.

"wait, since you've come so far in this freezing weather i might as well whip something up!" his deep voice shouted from the kitchen, catching your attention.

you felt bad since he was almost done getting ready to close, but you couldn't turn down his offer. his face was as grey as his hair with a slightly worried expression plastered on his face.

"..okay, sure! i'd love that," your lips jolted into a big smile as the blush on your cold cheeks lit up.

turning your back away from him, his fingers got to work and started scooping up some fresh rice to wash.

his other hand gestured at you to have a seat right in front of him where you can watch him work his magic.

"soo.. what would you recommend chef?" putting your arms on the table and leaning in to examine his skills at work like a curious cat.

his brows just so slightly raise when he notices your gaze upon him. looking up from the rice pot he mumbles out a mmm.. to think, what would be nice and warm to suit this weather? he thought to himself thinking about what would be the best to offer.

"hmmm i'd say the salmon yaki onigiri. it's got a crispy fried outside with some delicious fresh salmon on the inside," his droopy eyes giving you a gentle smile as he works relentlessly at the rice.

pouring out the starchy water to refill the pot before he plugs the wire into the rice cooker, he's leaning on the counter to make some small talk.

"what brings you here so late? and in the freezing snow?" taking his hat off to comb his fingers through his hair.

"just felt like trying a new restaurant.. in the middle of winter," you can't stop holding eye contact with his deep brown eyes that drew you in.

pausing for a second as you two stared, you had to break it up, "..oh! i'm y/n by the way. nice to meet you..?"

"osamu miya, like atsumu miya's twin brother" nodding his head as he took a rag to wipe his wet hands with before walking into the fridge to grab fresh orange salmon out.

"you're gonna love this dish," placing the slab of fish onto the cutting board while taking out his knives to sharpen.

masterlist here

[achromatophoric]

Enid: I’m gonna slather you with so much glitter they’ll be calling you Wednesday Cullen.

Wednesday: When I’m through with you, the only foundation you’ll be wearing is the concrete slab poured atop your corpse.

Enid: Oh yeah? Well, the only horror story you’ll be writing after this is about how badly I ruined your pert little monochromatic ass!

Wednesday: Please. The only things you know how to ruin are a peaceful evening and a tasteful color scheme.

Enid: *leaps* Cunt!

Wednesday: *charges* Moppet!

– A safe distance down the hall. –

Bianca: Geeze. What line did Addams finally cross line?

Yoko: Huh? Why do you think— Oh right, you don’t normally visit this late. Yeah, this is normal.

Wednesday: *goes hurtling through a second-story window*

Bianca/Yoko: 😬😎

Enid: *runs up to the broken window and looks out*

Bianca: Normal. Okay, sure. So why exactly are they fighting?

Yoko: Eh. This is less them fighting—

Enid: *shouts down* Babe! Color?

Yoko: —and more like their aggressive foreplay.

Wednesday: *far below* Green. You may go harder.

Bianca: 😐

Enid: You got it, bitch! *cheerily leaps out the window*

Bianca/Yoko: 😑😎

[kissingmilfs]

(Caribbean anon) "i feel like sevika greatly enjoys bending mel over when they’re dancing. and one hand on mel’s waist and the other is spread across her back to keep her bent." - yessss! You understand the vision. Mel probably has the nastiest dutty wine in her somewhere. She's West African (in this AU anyways). The ass shaking and waistline are genetic. They're probably even worse about it when they're home alone,tbh.

Poor Mel can't even be vocal in peace because while she may be tipsy, she's also not trying to wake Isha up. Or the neighbours(would the Zaunites even file noise complaints on each other? I don't think they would). At one point,the urge to scream out gets so bad that she actually bites Sevika's hand in her attempt to not make noise.

(But going off how Sevika reacted to Caitlyn biting her in season 2, joke's on Mel, she's into that shit.)

oh fine! you pulled my leg enough! (joking) i’ll write the blurb! see the horny couple below.

content warnings: semi-public (strap) sex, dirty talk, horny dancing (18+)

(please do not come for me if you look up the song mentioned and get offended @ the non-caribbean people. the lgbtq caribbean community v much loves the song despite the first few words 😬)

* *ੈ𑁍༘⋆ ੈ𑁍༘⋆ *ੈ𑁍༘⋆ *ੈ𑁍༘⋆ *ੈ𑁍༘⋆ *ੈ𑁍༘⋆ *ੈ𑁍༘⋆ *ੈ𑁍༘⋆ *ੈ𑁍༘

it’s already 8pm as the party settles down to the adults only. isha effectively crashed over an hour ago. the combined power of too much food, a slice of cake, a sip of Jinx’s shandy and then a drop of rum sneaked to her by no other than Sevika. isha wanted to stay up later because her favorite dessert, coconut tart, had not yet been delivered. everyone knows the auntie is constantly running late and most likely held up at another party. now it’s all the adults outside as jinx and ekko huddle to themselves in the living room.

sevika threw both of them a warning look as she slipped back outside. she trusts both of them but trust doesn’t mean she doesn’t know what 19 year olds can get up to. but sevika gets a good laugh when ekko straightens up and pushes jinx off of him.

sevika’s shoes press into the slightly soft ground of the backyard. each step determined and purposeful. she finds mel in an idle conversation with their next door neighbor. her girlfriend doesn’t seem too engaged but she’s far too polite to exist the conversation. luckily for mel, sevika does not care. she approaches the auntie with a respectful smile on her face. sevika even notices how mel brightens up as her boyfriend comes to her rescue.

“excuse me, auntie. but can i borrow mel?” sevika asks while touching the woman’s shoulder with a vague smile on her face.

the woman pauses mid-conversation. she glances at sevika then at mel before reluctantly nodding. sevika immediately grabs hold of mel’s hand, guiding the woman towards the protected area of the backyard. it’s a basic concrete slab underneath an awning connected to the house. it’s where they kept the food and drinks and a few chairs.

sevika pops open a beer effortlessly with the edge of the table then begins making a drink for mel.

“always coming to my rescue. my prince charming.” mel’s voice is silky with an underlying raspiness. sevika cannot help but smile. good to know they’re both feeling the effects of drinking and the summer air.

sevika is rather heavy handed with the rum she’s pouring. it’s not entirely intentional but mel certainly won’t mind. after creating the rum punch, sevika takes a little sip from the clear plastic cup then hands it off to mel.

it’s now mel’s turn to guide sevika. the song on the playlist shuffles to a familiar tune. sevika can tell by the way mel’s shoulders begin moving that her partner wants to dance. and dance they will. sevika leaves her drink on the food table and carefully spins mel around. sevika wraps one arm around mel’s waist, molding their bodies together. she hears a pleased hum coming from mel. sevika grinds her hips against mel’s ass in a slow circle.

then sevika hears a surprised whimper coming mel. good. mel can feel the added bulge in sevika’s pants. burying her face in the crook of mel’s neck, sevika can smell her girlfriend’s coconut hair products, her shea butter and that sinful egyptian musk she wears. her nose presses against mel’s skin as they find the rhythm of the song together. mel tips her head back slightly on sevika’s shoulder. their hips moving in sensual circles. sevika’s strap snug on her hips and crotch.

mel bites her lip at the tension building between them. they’re in their own little bubble. the music fades into a new one but they’re still pressed tightly. sevika starting to breathe heavy against her neck. but then the song shifts to Romping Shop. sevika, all but growls, in mel’s ear. sevika’s arm moves it’s wrapped position and she comes to grip mel’s waist. mel doesn’t need any further instructions. the song is moving through her the same way it is for sevika. sevika’s prosthetic arm bends mel over and plants against her lower back. and that fucking dress. the dress sevika told mel was too scandalous for a kid’s birthday party. the dress sevika warned mel would get her in trouble. it’s a tightly crotchet dress of yellows, blues, greens and purples. the second sevika bends mel over the fabric rides up on mel’s thighs.

even if the dress wasn’t mean to fit mel’s curves it simply had no choice. her body outlines and hug the fabric. and as mel begins whining slowly and sensually and as sevika matches the pacing—the fabric slowly but surely rides up inch by inch. and fuck, mel just had to look back at sevika mid-song. her hand on one knee and the other still expertly holding her cup of rum punch. her eyes are half-lidded and sevika can see the wanting, the lust pooling and swimming in those green eyes.

mel can feel sevika’s strap grinding against her ass but more importantly she can feel it teasingly grinding into her cunt. it’s not merely enough. sevika’s tucked it properly and even as mel grinds down—it does nothing more than frustrate her. sevika looks around the backyard momentarily and notices everyone’s left. she has no recollection of that happening. she didn’t hear anyone say goodbye.

“let’s go.” sevika growls and pulls mel up by her waist. she does not hesitate or answer the confused look on mel’s face. mel stumbles over her feet but eventually finds her footing as sevika pulls her towards the side of the house.

mel’s drink swooshes around in her cup at the speed in which sevika pulls her. the side of sevika’s house faces someone’s garage. sevika pushes mel against the wall. she grabs the cup in mel’s hand and takes a big sip. then sevika cradles her girlfriend’s jaw.

“open.” it’s the only command that sevika grunts out. mel only looks confused for a few seconds before she opens her mouth. sevika takes another sip, tips mel head back a little then carefully allows the alcohol to flow out of her mouth into mel’s. once the drink is transferred, sevika squeezes mel’s jaw and crashes their lips together. mel immediately slips her arms around sevika’s neck. both hands come to grip mel’s waist and sevika lifts her against the wall. without second thought, her girlfriend’s legs wrap around her waist.

with sevika pinning mel against the wall, one hand grips the underside of her thigh while the other frantically yet effortlessly tugs mel’s underwear to the side. her fingers brush against mel’s cunt and sevika takes a deep breath.

“you’re already fucking wet.” sevika groans while her fingers move to the zipper. once she’s pulled it down—sevika guides the strap out.

mel moans and greedily bucks her hip upwards. “and it’s your problem to fix.” she watches sevika guide the tip of the strap to her aching pussy. tipping her head back with a quiet moan as sevika rubs the shaft between her folds.

sevika’s pupils visibly dilate when she pulls her hips back slightly and see a noticeable slick glimmering on the strap. and sevika cannot contain herself. not when mel’s also staring down at the sight. and especially not when sevika also aches to buries herself deep into mel. hearing mel’s slight panting snaps sevika out of her slight daze. and they both hold their breaths as sevika guides the flesh-toned strap to mel’s entrance and with one thrust of sevika’s hips—she’s buried to the hilt of the toy.

one hand immediately slaps over mel’s mouth because she instantly forget her surroundings and was close to releasing a high pitched moan. sevika wastes no time building up to the momentum that has mel whining and staring at sevika with an almost dumbfounded look in her eyes. mel pants and moans quietly (the best she can) against sevika’s hand. each thrust presses mel into wall. she’s bound to have an imprint on her back later.

but mel cannot bring herself to care. not when sevika’s forehead is pressed against hers and she can see sevika holding back from grunting. and sevika’s fingers dig into the back of her thigh to keep her upright. every time sevika pulls out slowly—she immediately slams back in with a force that makes mel whimper. and all mel can do is take it. her nails scratch at sevika’s neck and her undercut which all proves to further egg sevika on.

“who owns this pretty pussy?” sevika drops her hand from mel’s mouth, awaiting the answer.

mel’s mouth drops open, attempting to answer sevika but it’s futile. all she can do is withhold all her moans and whimpers at the back of her throat. sevika growls and her now free hand grips mel’s waist. she slows her steady thrusting and opts to grind her hips against mel’s.

“come on, pretty baby. you can do it. tell me who this pussy belongs to.”

mel whimpers and weakly tugs sevika forward to plant her lips below sevika’s ear. her eyes are practically lulling to the back of her head. “g-gods…sev…you, baby.”

sevika manages to hold mel even closer than possible. “say it, mel. you know i can do this all night.” sevika replies with a growl in her words as she continues grinding the strap into mel. “don’t go dumb on me yet, baby.”

mel pants near sevika’s ear. “…belongs to you…it’s all yours.”

with those few words enough for sevika, she gives her everything and more to fucking mel into oblivion. they’re so lost and dazed in their own world—neither one of them hear the tarts being dropped off or fully put 2 and 2 together that jinx, ekko and isha are responsible for the fireworks exploding in the front yard.

[belokhvostikova]

𝐘𝐨𝐮'𝐫𝐞 𝐆𝐨𝐧𝐧𝐚 𝐁𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐤 𝐇𝐢𝐬 𝐋𝐢𝐭𝐭𝐥𝐞 𝐇𝐞𝐚𝐫𝐭

𝐒𝐲𝐧𝐨𝐩𝐬𝐢𝐬 | What was supposed to be a summer vacation to your boyfriend's hometown, turned into God's greatest test of morality against you. In other words, you basically fuck your boyfriend's best friend, Eddie Munson.

𝐂𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐭 𝐖𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬 | Swearing, mention of alcohol, drug use, jealousy, possessiveness, small violence, a threat of murder (little yandere, but not really-ish, I don't know, to be honest), slightly dark (I think, right? Maybe?) cheating, and explicit sexual content: fondling, spitting, dom/sub dynamic, name calling, degradation/praise kink, finger sucking, nipple play, face slapping, pussy slapping, masturbation (male), fingering, handjob, cum eating, squirting, and unprotected vaginal sex.

𝐀𝐮𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐫'𝐬 𝐍𝐨𝐭𝐞 | I... don't know what this is. Just take, goddamn it, there, take me for all I'm worth! Do I condone cheating? No. But did this idea make me really horny? Yes. And he's a little mean, so be warned.

𝐌𝐢𝐧𝐨𝐫𝐬, 𝐃𝐨 𝐍𝐨𝐭 𝐈𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐚𝐜𝐭.

Sometimes… you wished he’d never spoken those words. 

When two weeks into his summer vacation in Hawkins, Indiana was enough time spent away from the debilitating semesters of university to have his newfound room—proffered by the closest of a distant family member, because two months with the folks would just be too much—smelling of the fresh cologne of clean air and washed linen; the smell that warmed you with the loving memories of ten months of sweet kisses and heavenly whispers. 

When his navy blue comforter wrinkled under the weight of tussling bodies, because in those mere two weeks—his half in Hawkins, yours in Indianapolis—both hearts ached for the touch of one another, and he refused to deprive himself from the physical contact of his love, you. Crushing kisses, trailing hands, and connecting bodies to commemorate the rising sun, because a town miles away from the bustling city of beeping traffic and screaming pedestrians left room for the morning songs of the Northern Cardinal.

When the exhaustion of a two hour journey through cornfields and even smaller towns guided you to the place where he relished you in the memories of his boyhood; swing sets on the playground, the arcade after homework, Tuesday performances at the Hideout. Such memories came to life for you when the aluminum stock sign welcomed you into Hawkins. Sore from stiffness, your limbs crashed into the embrace of your lover, where your first night in the cursed town consisted of fucking the Friday night darkness away, until bodies glowed under the welcoming sun of the Saturday morning, where dewy grass freshened the air in contrast to the concrete slabs of cracked busy sidewalks you grew up on. 

But then… he spoke those words. 

When a stroking thumb against the hairs of your brow elicited the tired whine from your mouth, as you nuzzled your face into his naked chest to shield you from the burning sunshine pouring from the basement window. Your eyes woke to his dozy lips, chapped with pinched corners to show off the crookedness of his teeth that brought such beautiful character to his soul. Puffs of morning breath warmed your somnolent face with his morning greeting.

“I know I’ve told you this like a million times,” he croaked, “but I really am so happy that you’re here. With me.” His heavy hand landed on the apple of cheek to encourage your growing smile. “Can’t wait to show you around, can’t wait for you to meet my friends- the guys.”

Now, a new cologne of ashy darkwood and burning spices tarnished the content bubble of ten months of sweet kisses and heavenly whispers with groping handfuls and filthy intimacy. An anxious pit of guilty dread now eats you alive when the musk of his igniting cigarettes invades your being, but how can you think of such worrisome, when it’s the same scent that has your face torching with flames of desire and heart fluttering with anticipation for a new love- a different kind of love?

Other times… you are happy that he spoke those words. 

Because it led you to Eddie Munson.

-

Her diamond scintillated, shoved in your face by her persistent eagerness to show off the glowing ring that beamed under strobe lights of greens and reds that twirled from the tiny disco ball. Eric Marcher, who couldn’t give you anything more than a nod of acknowledgement when introduced—despite his intimate hand clasp and hug combo with your boyfriend, had been detailed to you as the man needed when small town goers were itching for party favors. Now, in the cul-de-sac of Mirkwood, a lively get-together of strangers, like Cheryl “soon-to-be-Levison” Daniels, bombarded you with the overwhelming hospitality of detailing their personal life to the woman who snagged Braun Peterson. 

A large smile matched that of her ring, beaming with a boastfulness of pride for fulfilling that suburban wife “dream” role, but you couldn’t blame her. A fat rock rested upon her finger to symbolize her everlasting love with her partner? Hell, you’d shove it in other people’s faces, as well. “It belonged to Nana Leslie before Oliver got it with her blessing. See, my daddy was never able to give it to my momma, because well, Nana never liked her,” you met her seven minutes ago, “but, anyways, it’s been in the family for two generations, and now it’s mine!” 

“Oh, wow.” You liked her and her family drama. Your hands maneuvered to twist her finger, watching how beautifully the jewelry captured the light. 

“I mean, it was kinda rash, ya’know, with the war and whatnot.” Her Midwestern accent sang. “Oliver wanted to tie the knot before his deployment, but I was not about to do it in City Hall. Though, he did promise me a big wedding when he comes back from Iraq.” She longingly sighed, as you nodded along. “Ya’know, something that doesn’t involve a smelly courthouse. “What about you?”

You chuckled. “What about me?”

“Have you and Braun discussed when you’d be getting married?” 

You nearly choked on your drink despite not even having one. “Oh.” Quite the response to offer. “We’re, um, not exactly there yet. I mean, we haven’t even been dating for a year.” You awkwardly laughed.

“Well, you don’t wanna wait too long!” Cheryl huffed out an airy laugh. “It’s like, when ya’know you know, ya’know?” Her attempt to philosophize the concept of love left your head nodding along to move the conversation, but Cheryl “soon-to-be-Levison” Daniels surely had to knack to keep talking. “And don’t you know?”

Do you know? “Um-”

“Would you quit harassing my girlfriend?” A familiar hand squeezed your shoulder, before the presence of Braun Peterson came from behind the couch, where he bent down to smile at you. 

“I am not harassing your girlfriend.” Cheryl scoffed. “And come on, I’ve been your best friend since we were babies! I know you! And I know you always talked about getting married!” She sternly punctuated. “I mean, it’s literally what made you cuter than the rest of the boys on the playground.”

Braun derided. “Okay, first of all, we were never best friends, I just had to endure being in the same grade as you.” You both chuckled, as Cheryl dramatically gasped. “And secondly, in case it wasn’t obvious, I’m not a seven-year-old that’s desperate to propose to any girl who was willing to push me on the swingset.”

“Oh!” You piqued his interest. “I happen to be a great companion on the swingset, I’d love to join you.” You sweetly beamed, an endearing feature that had him devastatingly blushing with love.

“Yeah?” He whispered in your face, where you met his question with a nod, reeling him in for a kiss. 

“Ugh, see!” Cheryl’s voice had you separating with a hot face. “Marriage material! At least a proposal by the first year mark.” Her brows teased, forcing him to laugh in disbelief. 

But Braun Peterson smiled, nonetheless, and your throat had constricted. While the idea of marrying your first serious boyfriend wasn’t the most unsettling notion, the reality of it coming faster than anticipated from the opinions of those closest to him, who unfortunately were raised in the small town mindset of a white picket fence before the age of twenty-five, had your tummy swirling with queasiness. Freshly out of university, the last thing you needed was a ring waying you down by a man whose loud chewing you were still trying to adjust to. A proposal in two months was not in schedule. 

Because dinner was on Saturday. Meeting the parents was next Wednesday. Niece’s birthday party in two weeks. At least three years of dating before moving in. The fourth year, an engagement. The fifth, a wedding. Children? Somewhere long after. 

Strict? Maybe. But perfect in your mind of precision? Absolutely.

“Um, could you get me something to drink?” You interrupted the possibility of any more talks of the future. “I just have to, uh, run to the bathroom real quick.”

His hand rubbed down your back so perfectly, calming the nerves that festered in your stomach. “Absolutely.” He assured you, as always. “I’ll find us something to eat, too, baby.”

So perfect, so perfect.

Your legs had guided you away from the living room before you could muster a brief goodbye. Maneuvering around shifting bodies, you found yourself counting the steps of the staircase, feeling the utter disappointment when the last steps came out in odd numbers, but the bathroom was two doors down, and the last thing you needed was to obtain tunnel vision from the minor details that didn’t fit your standards of life.

A knock to the wooden door with a silent response lifted the weight off your shoulders, permitting you to open the door and finally receive some peace. But the breath that nested in your throat lost its chance to be of relief, when a presence carried over from behind you, shoving you into the bathroom, with a  determined slam to the door. 

A rough hand muffled any of your attempts to yell out, but your stiffened body had luckily learned to vaguely relax when the man behind you turned you against the bathroom counter, and you came face-to-face with someone who familiarly made your body shudder under his stare. 

His hands moved to grip the porcelain of the sink on either sides of you. “Eddie…” You gulped, as your chest heaved. “God, y-you scared, um, I- is s-something wrong?”

“You’re making quite the impression out there, aren’t ya?” His lip barely curled into a smile, as he stared down at you. “Everyone just fucking loves you, don’t they?”

You refused to meet his eye, trying to move from the caging of his arms, but his persistence left you trapped. “Um,” you sighed, “y-yeah, all your friends are nice-”

“Oh, no, sweetheart, they aren’t my friends.” He spoke so dauntingly. “They’re your boyfriend’s friends, remember? Your boyfriend?”

“Yeah,” you cleared your throat, “um, I should go, Eddie. I need to leave.”

“No, you fucking don’t.” He deeply chuckled, finding amusement in the panicked look of your face. “You just got here.”

“Look, Eddie, I don’t know what you’re trying to do-”

“Me?” He scoffed. “I’m not tryna do anything, you’re the one that fucking started it.” His forehead forcefully pressed against yours, shoving your head back so you’d finally look him in the eye. “Remember?” He tauntingly cooed at you, getting in your face. “Remember you being a slut, and startin’ it? Because I sure fucking do.” He spat. “So don’t ask me what the fuck I’m doing, when you started it.”

Your breath heavied, as his nose ran against yours, and you squeezed your eyes shut to wield the strength to compose your anger, a hatred solely targeted to yourself. You were certain Eddie was feeding off of the visceral pounding of your heartbeat, getting off on the sheer panic of your being. 

And you hated yourself for loving it. 

“N-Not here.” You thickly swallowed. “Please.” Such a desperate plea, and it had him laughing in your face. 

“‘Not here?’” He mocked. “I think I can have you wherever I want, no? It’s sure as hell not like you’re gonna stop me, pretty girl.” A soft kiss planted on your cheek had your eyes opening. “God, you really are so pretty, y’know that, baby? Do you know just how pretty you are?”

“Eddie…” His eyes bored into yours, piercing your desire with a burning itch that had you intoxicated on his strong scent. You watched a smirk etch onto his face, as he watched you follow the outline of his plump lips. Do it. Do it. Do it. You were screaming at yourself to just give in. Thighs clenching, heart racing, mouth salivating for the man that enticed you like no other. Your breath shuddered, as your shaky fingers delicately placed themselves against his shaven face. 

Just a taste. Just a little.

You reached onto your tippy toes to feel the soft skin of his lips gently brush against yours. You were dictating this. He was letting you dictate this. Because when it all crashed, you started it, you’d be to blame. All it took was the shy kiss fueled by your hesitancy for Eddie Munson to consume what he wanted, and his tongue shoved past your teeth to ravage your taste. He had you gasping against his lips, nothing touching you but his mouth, but it felt like he was pinning you against your will. 

Eddie’s knuckles blurred white from the tightening grip you had him enduring, because frustration coursed through his body, as he fought the restraints keeping him from just giving in and fucking you against the bathroom sink. A guttural growl lurched from his chest, “What are you doin’?” He smashed his lips against you. “I didn’t ask you to kiss me.” He sneered.

His comment forced a lump to be caught in your throat, urging you to push away from his chasing lips. “N-No…” Another breathless kiss smeared against you. “Stop, Eddie, we can’t-”

“Shut your fucking mouth.” He interrupted with his tongue injected into your mouth. “Remember you wanted this.”

You were awful. “No!” You whined, unwilling to face the reality of your cruelness. 

“Oh, but, yes, baby.” He humiliated you with his mocking tone. “Yes, remember?” He whispered into your make out. “It was you, you fucking looked at me.” Eddie scorned. “How fucking stupid are you to think I wouldn’t do somethin’ about you lookin’ at me, huh? You remember lookin’ at me?” His kisses were becoming more aggressive. “You fucking looked at me, sweetheart!” You felt the air in your lungs burn from his resistance to letting you breathe. “What the fuck do you expect me to do when you were fucking lookin’ at me like that, huh?!” 

And you had been looking at him…

-

Three days ago, the Hideout had been an unfamiliar experience to you on the night of May 30th. It became evident as such when Mary Jane platform pumps rather distastefully met the abhorrent crunch of breaking asphalt from the gravel parking lot, where beat up cars and pick-up trucks haphazardly parked themselves with no formation, clearly lacking the etiquette for what was promised to you as a “nice” establishment. A wave of regret had drowned you in despair as you walked out of your car, immediately being met with the obscene noises coming from a drunken man nearly hacking a lung out, only to shoot his spit and mucus onto the dead bushes that once decorated the place wonderfully in the 60s. You begrudgingly passed the neglected entrance; its doors open for the sleazy, middle-aged men of Hawkins, Indiana to make themselves right at home, as they littered themselves amongst the breadth of the property, sparsely filling up tables and stools with cold beers to accompany them. A gasp of disgust had petered out of your lips, when each step you took sticky film residing on the weathered wood of the floor clung to the outsoles of your beloved heels, coating them with decades of syrupy beer that had found solace within the bar from the happy accidents that tailored the feng shui of the Hideout.

You were appalled. 

It was beyond the definitions of obvious that you had overly dressed yourself for the occasion. It was at this moment, you were mentally curing Braun Peterson for providing the wrong impression, completely overselling the bar he once played in, and disregarding the lack of formality that came with the building and its loyal customers. 

“Babe, it’s got a decked out bar, you can order whatever you like, trust me, my boy Johnny will whip it up, and it’s got plenty of tables for you to sit your pretty self down and enjoy the show. Not to mention, the nicest stage where you can watch me perform. It’s gonna be great, I promise!”

With a rush of worriment devouring you, you insecurely hugged your bare arms over yourself in an attempt to shield yourself from the preying eyes of unabashed stares coming from bulky men, old enough to be your father, who proclaimed themselves as regulars and patently peering to you as new meat.

Endeavoring the will to appear not so lost and clueless, you walked with your head held high, a fabricated facade of confidence, and you took refuge onto the high top table that accommodated two uncomfortable stools that shared the same layer of dust as the plastic faux wood of the table.

Yeah, you were definitely going to have it out with Braun Peterson. 

Your body felt rigid, guarding yourself from potentially coming in contact with anything biohazardous, while also feeling so small from the persistent scary stares that you felt so strongly were examining your body as if you had no autonomy. And maybe you were being a bit pretentious at this moment, but given the overflow of staggering malaise that was consuming your being and clearly placing you into an uncomfortable environment, there was an absolute negative chance of actually enjoying the night, especially after you were going to dish one out to Braun. 

Speaking of which, you caught sight of the slick-back, blond hair that was pursuing your way from a slim hallway that catered to the southend of the building, which presumably led backstage. “Hey, you made it!” Incompetent to your unease, Braun had merely stepped up and shoved you into a tight hug, a kiss swiftly placed onto your lips with a smacking mwah.

While he spoke so highly, clearly excited for his performance, you couldn’t fathom reciprocating his energy, immediately stating your concerns with a whine into his embrace. “What is literally wrong with you?”

Judging by your tone, anyone could have discerned the genuine disturbance from being in such situation, but ever the comedian, Braun merely chuckled. “That could be an hour long discussion, babe.” Your eyes flashed with disbelief at his choice to dismiss your evident worries. 

You sighed, resisting the urge to not scream in public to cater to his comfort. “No, Braun, I’m serious. Why didn’t you tell me what kind of bar this was?” You pleaded, hoping he’d acknowledge your troubles rather than brushing them off. That was one thing you had quickly discovered from the months of making it official with Braun Peterson; he had quite the sense of humor, which wasn’t at all particularly harmful, but this “sense of humor” had a funny way of not knowing when to draw the line. The line always seemingly crossing your boundaries. But god forbid you spoke out. Last time you did, his roommate Josh asked you to quit being uptight on Braun’s behalf. “I look like I’m dining at a Michelin Star restaurant, not grabbing drinks at some middle-of-nowhere bar. Why didn’t you specify?”

You really didn’t want to cause such a confrontation on his first night back performing at the place in which he claimed was “the start of everything” for him but, my god, you were seething with irritation. 

“Shit,” he huffed, understanding your worries once he took a glimpse of the perverted looks the attendees were more than glad to show off. “Look, babe, I seriously didn’t mean for this to happen-”

“You said this place was nice, Braun.”

“I know, I- I just knew you wouldn’t be into these kinda bars, but I really wanted you to come see me tonight.” He sighed. “I swear, baby,” he secured your shoulders into his hand, “I just wanted you to be here with me, b-but I screwed up. I shouldn’t have lied to you.”

You heaved in defeat, seeing the genuine remorse in his eyes. He hadn’t been far off with his assumption; twenty-three years of a city setting in the upper east side, where renovated brownstones of contemporary decor were more of your liking rather than the casualness of a lonesome bar. 

Your lips jutted with a mumbled “it’s okay” to pass the tension. But Braun’s hands had worked their way to the fullness of your cheeks, where his thumbs delicately swept under your eyes. “Thank you for doing this.” He poured his eyes into yours. “I know it’s not your scene, but I can’t tell you how much I appreciate this, baby.” Braun leaned in to press his lips to yours, and that loving comfort was enough to ease your body into relaxation against his hold. His hands released for the brief seconds it took to take off his leather jacket and hang it over your shoulders. “Keep this on, and if anyone bothers you or-or does something, please just tell me.” He implored. “I’ll be right on stage, only a couple feet away, I’ll see you, okay?”

Huffing a sigh, you simply nodded, choosing to come to a consensus of trying to enjoy the night. It had been close to reaching a year that you agreed to be Braun’s girlfriend, and from then, he’d been dying to show you everything about himself. Following the end of the school year from university, Braun had made plans to spend the summer back in his hometown of Hawkins, Indiana, where he had adamantly informed you about the band, the one in which he partook throughout his high school career, Corroded Coffin. And there was no denying it, the bubbling feelings of a blossoming relationship, one where your boyfriend had an actual desire to share the intimate parts of his life with, like seeing where he grew up, made you burst with excitement. 

Because even with his flaws, Braun Peterson had a gentle touch that filled your heart with a promising future of blissful contentment. 

“I won’t leave you out here,” his hand found its way to your thigh, “afterwards, I’ll have drinks brought backstage, where me, you, and the guys can just relax in peace. Away from these creeps.” He gripped with loving reassurance. “And- and, I promise you some of the most incredible food, okay?”

You snickered through your nose with a bit of suspicion. “From here?”

Braun laughed at your wariness. “From Benny’s Burger, got the best diner food for your pretty belly.” You arched your brow, pushing it until he gave in. “Okay, okay, Enzo’s. Seconds, thirds, all on me, baby, whatever you want.”

“Deal.” He sealed your agreement with a playful handshake. 

He smiled at you, bringing a comforting hand to your neck. “Thank you, again, pretty.” His thumb caressed. “Just wanna share this experience with you. Wanna let you know how cool I was back in high school.” He teased, as you giggled. “Here, gimme kiss.”

Braun pulled you in for a sweet kiss, letting your worries wash away with his reassurement, because he always had you. “You’re gonna do great, I’m sure of it.” You smiled against him. 

“Only ‘cause I have you here cheering me on.” Braun finished you off with one more kiss. “Remember, I’m only a couple feet away, I’ll come grab you once we’re done.” 

With that, Braun Peterson left you to your own accord, securing the warm leather of his jacket around you, as you watched him disappear into the back. Disagreements and solutions. Compromises and sacrifices. This is what it meant for the man who cherished your time, and publicly showed it like no other. Everything was okay. Until the minutes passed of tugging on your lip with anticipation, and the staged lights dimmed.

Everything was okay.

But the center spotlight had rained against a figure, and you hadn’t even internalized the fact that a stranger physically made your body react with a gasp, as you merely took in the sight of him. 

Him, who caressed his warlock, fingers teasing the strings, and lips kissing the mic with heavy pants of excitement. “Nice to see some familiar faces!” He grinned, scanning the all too familiar bar that let his amateur band of misfits play every Tuesday night; the regular bar goers seemingly flooding him with memories of his youth years. But then, his eyes landed on you. Front and center. “Even better to see some… new faces.” His lips curled into a menacing smirk, drinking up your stunning face.

Your heartbeat pummeled out of your chest, heat chewing at your cheeks, as his daunting figure had you shying away with a flush state, like you were a school girl receiving her first valentine, forcing you to wrap Braun’s jacket tighter around you.

Shit, Braun!

Quickly, your eyes diverted to the man you should have been gawking at, tuning his guitar before peering up with a smile that held all the good in the world, one he solely dedicated to you on a daily basis. You mustered a shy smile back, attempting to swallow the guilt. And this is where it should have ended. It’d be quite ignorant to dismiss the reality that attractive people come and go everyday during relationships, so this is all it was. You saw something pretty, you admired it, you left it. That’s what you promised. That’s what you committed. So you blinked yourself straight, and gave small claps of encouragement to your boyfriend. 

But the eerie feedback from the mic had your head snapping to the front man, and as expected, his gaze hadn’t left your body once; a smirk devouring his face when your eyes caught his. That night, an alluring spark ignited within Eddie Munson, and he was determined to indulge in it. 

“We’re gonna perform a couple songs for old times’ sake, bring some life back into you old fucks.” He jabbed comments eliciting some laughter from the crowd that watched these antsy boys torment their ears years before. “So just like back then, as always, I’m Eddie and we’re fucking Corroded Coffin!”

The thrash to his guitar introduced the blaring cords of a song, reminiscent to one Braun typically played for the background noise of when your naked bodies dreamily slapped together. The frontman’s stage performance flooded your senses as you became mesmerized by the fluid movement of his fingers abusing the delicate strings, and his husky voice yelling the lyrics to the abrasive song. He was encapsulating the beauty of metal with such ease and grace, playing his heart out for a dingy bar filled with good-for-nothing men. It felt so utterly undeserving. He was meant for a real stage. 

Eddie.

That’s what it was. That’s all it fucking was. It had to be. You weren’t a bad person. You couldn’t be. The familiar tunes matching that of how Braun Peterson would rut his hips into yours was the sole reason for the tantalizing heat that was creeping within your body, not because of the man with the long hair who punctured his hungry glare against you, as he belted the grotesque lyrics of whatever song it was that you never cared to officially learn the title to. But how could you have ever found the will to learn, when Braun would consume your thoughts with the drilling of his cock to the beat of the song? Why couldn’t that be enough? Why had your hips subconsciously rolled to find some needed friction against your seat to the thought of Eddie burying his face between the warmth of your body? 

Why did it feel like he was burning you alive?

The disgusting reality of your endeavor to get off on a dirty stool to another man had hit you like a ton of bricks, rightfully slapping you in the face with utter shame for who you were, and you didn’t dare to spare Eddie another glance; eyes fluttering around embarrassingly to look at anything other than Eddie. 

Braun. Braun. Braun. 

He was right there. He always had been. 

The night dragged on for an unbearable hour, filled with the ongoing cycle of desiring something that wasn’t yours and the self-loathing hatred to follow. The burn of Eddie gaze had your body crippling with anxiety, and you engaged yourself to only peer at the man who’d brought you pure happiness for the last ten months of your life. But he was there; torturing you with his eyes that felt laser-cutting from a mile away, despite how adamant you forced yourself to refuse his attention.

You hadn’t even verbalized a word to him yet. And it was devastatingly pathetic how submissive he had you. 

The last cord of the night strung out with the fellow patrons commemorating their boys for the nice trip down memory lane. You adjusted yourself to gently cheer along, feeling awful when Braun’s brightful smile had never once dropped because of your presence in the crowd. Just focus on him. It was all you had to do. As the men walked off with their equipment, Braun’s sweaty figure jumped from the stage, heading straight for you.

You immediately jumped from your seat, forgoing the complaints of him being sweaty to hold him in your arms with such fervency. “You did so great!” His hands held your back, delicate kisses pressing into the crook of your neck. 

“Yeah?” He searched for your validation, only ever caring for your words, as he mumbled into your neck, inhaling your sweet smell that comforted the adrenaline high he was experiencing. “You, uh, you liked the first song I picked out?” His brows teased.

“Of course!” You cupped his face to bring him into a smearing kiss that he gladly reciprocated. You pulled away, staring into his soft eyes that held all innocence, and you cursed yourself for ever thinking of another man when such beauty was held in the palm of your hand. Your thumbs gently swept on the underside of his eyes, as he smiled down at you. “You were amazing, Braun.” You sincerely spoke. Overcompensating? Completely. But you needed him to be okay, and his happiness was worth it. “You always are so amazing, Braun.”

He brought you in for another embrace, and sealed it with a loving kiss that had you melting in his arms. “You’re pretty fucking amazing, too, Y/N.” He spoke. “C’mon, baby, let's go on back.”

“W-wait!” You steadied yourself within your position, holding his hand tightly. “Um, w-we can just stay out here, I’m sorry for getting mad earlier.” 

His head dropped, lips jutting at you before he landed a quick kiss to your forehead. “Don’t apologize where you don’t need to apologize, baby.” He urged. “Don’t gotta make yourself uncomfortable for me- in fact, I won’t allow it. Not after dragging you here in the first place.”

“No, really it’s fine-”

“It’s not, baby, I don’t want you out here.” Braun persisted. “Plus, I’ve been talkin’ the guys’ ears off about you, I’m sure they’d love to put your pretty face to your name. Promise they’re not as scary as you think.”

What a fucking lie. 

A journey to the back hallway led you to the chipped door, where Braun relinquished a double courtesy knock before entering the room, where a waft of sweat and cologne welcomed you to the small dressing room that held the members of Corroded Coffin. Shifting behind your boyfriend, your eyes landed around the burgundy painted walls, littered with posters of the previous self-made artist who first established themselves at the Hideout. Where they were now? More than likely not Hollywood, given the cheesy names teenagers thought were cool at the time. 

“Hey, uh, guys, gained a new fan today, Y/N, this is Gareth, Jeff, and…” A polite smile to both identified men waving back to greet you was easy enough. “Where’s Ed?” Thank god.

Braun directed you to the couch, leather and torn, with its yellow foam of cushion peering from the tears after years of being broken in by body weight. “Talkin’ to Nicky out back by the stage.” Gareth had answered, as a hand towel harshly rubbed against his head to ease the dripping sweat from his frizzy curls. 

“Nicky’s the bar owner.” Braun intimately informed you, graciously bringing you into the loop. 

“You enjoy the show?” Jeff, with a genuine attempt at conversation, had gestured for you to engage in. Perhaps it was the blatant stiffness of your body from the wariness of sitting on the couch that surely soaked copious amounts of bodily fluids than you’d like to imagine, that got him to ask for your honest opinion. Or, the other obvious, that you clearly dress far from the usual scene that was typical for a Corroded Coffin performance at the Hideout. 

Trying to atone your ignorance to the metal scene, and whatever the hell tension that was between you and the frontman, your head awkwardly nodded in response. “Yeah, um, yeah, I did.” Braun’s reassuring hand landed on your knee. “I’m still getting used to our difference in music taste,” luckily that was receptive to a couple chuckles, “but it was great seeing him, a-and you guys out there, as well.”

Heavy footsteps from the stage announced themselves as they entered the dressing room, and your body hardened at the mere sight of his shining chest, coated in his perspiration, drenching the line of hairs of his abdomen to seep into the low hanging waistline of his pants. Your eyes snapped to the wooden floors, as Braun jumped to give a brief greeting to his friend who ultimately settled against the water dispenser right in front of you. 

“Ah, now that you’re all here, babe, this is Eddie; Ed, this is girlfriend, Y/N.” Already accustomed to your presence, Gareth and Jeff felt no need to weigh in another hello, which resulted in an unfortunate silence, after Eddie, himself, decided staring at you was the only formal approach. 

But it wasn’t until his intentionally loud, “huh,” that pierced the silent, did your stomach drop with fear. “This is your girlfriend?” Your eyes stung at the inevitable occurrence of your boyfriend’s friend outing you in front of everyone as the girl who just couldn’t keep her eyes to herself. 

Braun’s brows cinched at his question, huffing in confusion. “Why’re you sayin’ it like that?”

Eddie had quickly dismissed him with a nonchalant shake to his head. “I dunno, what’ve pictured you with a girl like Mindy, ‘s all.” What an asshole. 

You knew it’d be hypocritical to suddenly interrogate your boyfriend on whoever it was Eddie was referring to, especially when it showed Eddie’s intentions were not the purest of them all with the mention of a certain ex. “The fuck, dude, no, that was nearly two years ago.” Braun quickly shut down, evidently not amused with whatever game his buddy was trying to pull. 

“Relax.” He chuckled, plucking a small toothpick from the table of plattered junk food into his mouth. “Only teasin’, man, y’know me. Plus, it’s good, shows good progress on your part; movin’ from small town pretty to big city pretty.” Eddie pointed a ringed finger at you. 

Braun merely rolled his eyes at the arrogant attitude he’d learned to adjust to throughout his years in high school, but when he turned to you, and saw the tight-lipped smile you gave, he leaned in to comfort you. “Don’t give him a second thought.” He whispered against your hair. “Eddie’s just… out there.”

Patting your thigh, Braun walked to join his friend at the water dispenser, leaving you to heave the tightening breaths of your chest from the sudden suffocation you felt from guilt and anxiety. “C’mon, man, lay off the comments, alright?” Braun quietly spoke to Eddie. “I don’t need you chasin’ her away when I actually love her.”

“‘Love?’” Eddie playfully whistled. “Hm, you must actually care for this girl, huh?” 

Braun confirmed with his lovesick smile that made Eddie want to hurl. Soon, Braun was leaning in close to bump his friend in the chest. “So what d'ya think?”

Eddie’s daunting eyes looked past Braun’s shoulder, connecting with your fretful ones, and a sickeningly smile creased his face. He tsked, watching your ostentatious manner refusing to touch the furniture he and his buddies called home. “Seems a little… anal-retentive.” He smirked at Braun. “But, hey, she’s cute, and y’know what, if you like, I like her.” If only Braun Peterson knew of the extent of the underlying meaning his closest friend was alluding to. “You good to her? Treat her well?” Eddie questioned. 

“Of course.” Your boyfriend was quick to answer. 

“That’s good, that’s good.” Eddie casually nodded along, chewing on the wooden stick between his teeth. “Aye, because y’know pretty girls like her will be quick to look for another man to satisfy her. Gotta treat ‘em well, so they keep their fucking legs closed.” The toothpick snapped at the sudden clenching of his teeth, before Eddie sighed a heavy breath to calm himself. “But I think you gotta good girl on your hands, Brauny, nothin’ to worry about.” Eddie dragged out, before calling to you. “Hey, that seat comfortable for you sweetheart? Need a stool or somethin’?”

A wave of nausea slapped you, as you watched his sinister smile. 

Eddie Munson totally saw trying to get off at the sight of him. 

-

His minacious laugh puffed in your face, as he loved watching your eyes crumble in self-reproach from your actions. “Yeah, you fuckin’ remember, baby?” He cooed, as your head dropped with guilt as to what you had just done. But his abrasive hand was quick to forcefully grab your face, cheeks squishing under his tight grip. “Don’t feel bad, princess, it’s okay to share a little.” Eddie smiled, as your eyes frantically looked into his. “Quit the fucking innocent act.” He advised you. “You and I both know how much of a slut you are.”

“I-I,” your thoughts had been racing with the screams of wanting him off of you, but your body was falling limp in his arms, ready to let him take what you so desperately wanted him to take. The words died on your tongue, when suddenly harshing pounding came from the door.

“Yo, anyone in there?!” A drunken voice called out. 

“I’ll be out a second!” You managed to rip through your shaky voice, while Eddie breathily chuckled, his hand refusing to let go of your face. 

Hearing the partygoer’s footsteps decline in the distance, your heart eased for the slightest moment, and suddenly your nervous system was wailing for you to leave while you could. But before you knew it, unexpectedly, the softest kiss was placed upon your scrunched lips from the man who nearly devoured your mouth so aggressively two seconds ago; you had no choice but to be receptive. “So sweet.” He gently moved his lips against you, it had your tummy erupting with the sensations of a new touch. “So fucking perfect, y’know that? Just how perfect you are?”

Every time he briefly left your lips, you whined for more attention, quickly bringing your lips back to him with a sigh of his name, “Eddie.” 

“Mm,” he moaned against your mouth. “I can see why Brauny never shuts the fuck up about you.” The mention of his name had you stiffening. “Tell me, baby, do you suck his cock as good as you kiss him?”

Stunned and repulsed by the jerk you let kiss you, you shoved Eddie’s chest back, finally getting him off of you, and before you mind could process, your hand connected to his cheek with a stinging slap. Your burning hand had trembled, as it slowly clasped it over your mouth in disbelief. Eddie slowly turned to you with a sly grin, but before he could make any movements, your feet finally found the courage to sweep you out of the bathroom with a harsh slam to the door. 

On autopilot, you quickly descended down the stairs into the lively living room that did little to ease the bloodcurdling thud of your beating heart that felt as if it was going to rip out of you. It wasn’t until a hand latched itself to the bicep of your arm, reeling you back against a body. 

“Hey, hey, you okay, hon?” Braun’s voice echoed into your ear.

“U-Um-”

“Baby, look, if this is about what Cheryl said, please don’t pay any mind to it.” He stroked your arm with concern. “She- everybody here just has a traditional way of thinking, but it’s not what I think. I promise, I’m not looking to shove a proposal down your throat when you’re not ready.” Braun had a fascinating way of calming your worries that drastically differed from the rush Eddie had just forced you through. “Hell, I’m not even ready.” He chuckled, which was able to elicit a small smile from you, at least. “I wanna take my time with you, cherish my moments with you, baby.” 

God, you were an awful human being. 

Peering behind his shoulder, you watched Eddie saunter his way down the stairs with a lingering stare that quickly found yours. “C-Can we go?” You hastily rushed out. “I’m just a little overwhelmed m-meeting all these new people.”

“Okay, yeah, yeah.” He’s quick to drop off the beers to the living room side tables that were supposed to be your drinks. “C’mon, baby, let’s just take a breather.” 

If you knew the guilt Braun Peterson felt for the sole reason of throwing you into a crowd of overwhelming people when you’d literally just kissed his closest friend, you would have pathetically begged on your knees for his forgiveness in front of everyone, and detailed the million ways he was so incredible. But this would stay quiet; suppurating within you, because the peace on his face was more important than wrecking his life. As he guided you to the front door, you looked back to meet the eyes of the man who sparked a match inside you, his arm hanging around a blonde, when you wanted to be the one held under it. Eddie Munson winked at you, cruelly changing the course of your life. 

-

For the days to come, Braun saw an immense amount of affection coming from your part. But who was he to complain, when someone as pretty and sweet as you willingly showed the world how much you loved him? Welcoming the morning sun with your tongue prodded at the slit of his tip, before ferociously waking him with the ride of his life, as your ass pummeled against his thighs, only for the cherry on top to come when breakfast was served like you suddenly became a housewife to your boyfriend. But you’d do whatever if it meant getting the image of his best friend out of your head, despite it leading to the best orgasm you’ve ever had when you pictured it was his cock you were riding, only to realize your lip had been sputtering with blood, because you refused your mouth the need to call out his name, Eddie! 

But Friday night came, and it seemed your thoughts satiated under the cuddle of your boyfriend, who agreed to a movie night that entailed buying an obscene amount of candy from the Family Video store, where Labyrinth was purchased alongside the sweets. Wrapped under his embrace, a thick woven blanket swallowed you against the rugged couch of the basement, where you felt yourself sinking deeper and deeper. 

For once, peace had come, tranquilizing the tumultuous feelings that consumed you alive. That was until the basement door impetuously flung open before echoing with a slam, that had yours and Braun’s head snapping to the stairs that creaked under the incoming weight. “Mason?” He called out for his cousin.

But it wasn’t the familiar face of his family member who lent you both the basement of his house, and your stomach twisted with fear. “Nope.” He popped the enunciation, as his hair bounced with every step until he reached the bottom step. “But he let me in.”

Braun sat up with a curious look, too occupied with the arrival of his friend to notice the rash way you curled into his side. “Hey, you alright? What’s up?” His eyes followed, as Eddie dramatically plopped himself on the singular recliner next to the couch. 

“Ah, nothing.” He made himself at home, clearly lacking the regard of his intrusion to your night. “Just hangin’ around, thought I’d stop by.” His eyes glued to the television screen. 

“Not that we don’t appreciate you, man,” Braun began, “but, uh, this is kinda just a movie night… for us.”

Eddie watched the oddity of the movie for a split second, before his head twisted to the both of you, eyeing the closeness with a piqued brow. “Which one of you freaks picked this movie? Was it you, sweetheart?” He smiled, as he watched you shift uncomfortably. 

“Alright, c’mon, Ed, seriously.” Braun interjected. 

“I’m kidding.” Eddie scoffed. “C’mon, Brauny, it’s been months since I’ve seen you, the least you two could do is spare the couple minutes of whatever touching is going on under that blanket, and let me relax here for a minute.” He argued, sinking into his chair. You watched Braun sigh, for whatever reason suddenly becoming a lap dog to the friend he long admired throughout high school, merely bringing you closer as means to make up for it. 

“By the way, driving all the way here seems to be the last resort to relaxing.” Braun poked. 

“Aw, c’mon did you actually think I was thinkin’ of you, Brauny?” He wooed, his eyes briefly connecting with you, as Braun rolled his. “Was seein’ Cynthia down the street.” Eddie answered. 

“Dude, Ed, doesn’t she have a kid?” Braun grimaced, recalling the moments in which his cousin’s neighbor—three doors down with a minivan and white shutters—threw him an occasional hello with a stroller evident on her walk around the neighborhood. 

“So fuckin’ what?” He laughed, causing your stomach to churn with disgust. “That kid made her have massive tits, it’s not like I’m looking to be the stepfather.” Eddie smiled looking back at you, your eyes refusing to meet his. “Just a simple exchange of goods for services.” He proudly announced. “Speakin’ of which, I happen to give Cynthia my last couple’a joints, you got any to smoke here?”  

“No.” Braun sighed, scruffing his hair with his hand. “Haven’t gotten the chance to speak to Rick to get some, miss it, though.” 

“Then go get some.” 

Fuck, you knew what he was doing. 

“Me? This is my place you barged into, you go.” Braun retaliated to his friend’s taunting. 

“Can’t,” Eddie tsked, “kinda fucked around with the blonde Rick had his eye on a couple nights ago at Eric’s.” He laughed. “But in my defense, she never clarified, and was fairly easy, so, I mean…”

“Can you ever learn to just keep it in your pants?” Braun jabbed, forcing his friend to chuckle at the joke. 

“Priorities, Brauny, Priorities.” Eddie winked, before reaching into his back pocket, retrieving the loose dollar bills from his tattered wallet to slap against the center coffee table. “Look, it’s on me, we can wait for you here, right, sweetheart?” 

No, no, no. Your knees clutched to your chest, as you tried to steady the breaths that were already becoming uneasy from his presence alone. Braun peered down at you. “You can come if you want. Just gotta wait in the car, don’t want you meetin’ someone like him.” 

Your eyes flickered to the man who was sickeningly grinning, somehow having the power to pull a pulsating sensation from your pussy that had you swallowing thickly. “I-It’s okay.” It wasn’t. “I can just wait here.” You spoke so meekly, as though you’d been the victim in this situation, when Braun’s pure smile beamed down at you. 

“Thirty minutes top, baby.” A quick kiss landed against you, before he stood from the couch. “Don’t let him burn the house down, please.” Braun joked, slamming his hand against the table to pocket the money Eddie provided. 

“Gotta good girl’s influence hanging over me,” Eddie smiled, “nothing to worry about, Brauny.”

Your boyfriend chuckled, running a soft hand against the top of your head to wish you goodbye. “Love you, baby, be right back.” 

“I love you.” You shared the sentiment, watching him jog upstairs, where the basement door closed behind him with a deafening silence that shot through you. You watched the door for far longer than needed, a pressuring sting coming from your nail digging into your cuticle to get rid of the apprehension that festered in your belly. 

Eddie laughed. “What a fucking liar.” Your head snapped, ready to scream at him that your words held truth; the deep admiration for the man who did nothing wro- “That I am.” Eddie added, pulling out a zippo lighter from his pocket followed by a joint. He lavished in the twitching of your eyes, flashing from anger to anxiousness under the action of him shedding his jacket to light what was brought to his lips. 

A puff of cloud escaped his mouth before he spoke. “Take a hit, baby, you’re so goddamn tense I can practically feel the stick up your ass.” He stood from his place to sit next to you, immediately rolling his eyes as he found you shifting away from him, until your back hit the far end of arm rest, feet digging into the cushion as your knees stayed glued to your chest. “Relax, alright-”

“Eddie, we can’t-”

“I’m only tryin’ to get you to relax, shut up for two seconds and take a fucking hit.” He scolded, and your eyes widened under his intimidation. His body scooted until your painted toes were trapped beneath the heavy weight of his denim-clad thick thighs, allowing him to bring the joint to your face. “Don’t wanna have to get mean, just put it in your mouth.” You wondered where the anger from your assault to his face was lingering, surely the hit had to have pissed him off to some degree. His fingertips pressed against your lips, as your mouth enveloped the end of the joint, welcoming the burn to your throat. “Look so cute with that shit in your mouth, so good, princess.” 

You pushed his hand away when it became too much, trying to control your coughing from the large intake. “T-Too much.”

“Mhm, I know, baby.” He whispered, watching your lips pout, as his hand caressed your leg. Bringing the joint to his lips and hearing it sizzle, Eddie moaned against it. “Fuck, I can taste your mouth on it.”

You pushed your knee away to get his hand to fall back into his lap, where his fingers only moved to hover over the bulge of his pants, as he took more hits. Soon, his sole hand was undoing the buckle of his belt, and your brows arched against his movement, yet your mouth stayed quiet from any protest. 

Your lips parted in awe watching his cock spring against his belly, pants coming to hang around his thighs. His finger came to gently tease the head, before his hand wrapped to smear the precum that oozed from the tip. So casually, Eddie Munson began fucking his hand so casually, as if you weren’t sitting next to him. He acted as though he was in the comfort of his own bedroom, and you wondered whether the bit of anger that mixed in with the arousal that pressed against your belly was from the fact that he could get off without even sparing a glance at you. 

He smoked and jerked his cock, letting you bask in the glory of his heavy member, where his hand tugged the loose skin of his big balls to smack against his hairy thighs. As casual as he was, Eddie was itching to turn his head and watch your legs clench with need, something his peripheral could only get a glance at, but Eddie Munson wasn’t giving in. He felt your toes curl under his thigh, your body speaking for itself to be touched. 

“Fuck, that’s so good.” He twisted his palm against the slick head of his cock, before he squeezed down to his base for more tugs that had him wondering if your pussy felt anywhere near as good as his hand. You watched his fingers pull up his shirt, until his teeth bit down to hold the fabric up, and his toned toros was cramping from the sensation he was bringing himself. “Mmm!” He moaned, wetting his shirt with his mouth, as his hand became relentless against the thumping veins of his cock. 

No longer a thought of need, his fingers abandoned the lit joint to the ashtray that stayed stationed on the table with a few cigarettes, and his free fingers traveled to toy with his nipples, pulling the pebbled nubs to spark up his impending orgasm. “Ugh, mm!” His hips were gyrating upward, chasing the fleshlight that was his hand, as his speed increased, and your hands grasped onto the old couch for the needed restraint to not throw yourself onto him. 

With an aggressive jerk to his cock, and a stinging pinch to his nipple, the angry red head of his dick sputtered out his creamy cum, dribbling against his belly before the pool collected against his unruly pubic hair. 

His shirt slowly slipped from his teeth, as Eddie caught his breath with heavy grunts. “Fuck me, shit.” Taking his fingers, he dragged it around the breadth of his belly to gather the seeping cum, where he finally turned to you with dark eyes, and used his cum tainted fingers to motion you closer. 

You body mindlessly complied until those same fingers were pressing into your mouth, letting his salty spent invade your taste buds, before your throat began getting fucked. “Wanna fucking slap me and walk away, huh?” His free hand wrapped behind your neck to keep you gagging at his mercy. “Wanna get mad at me for you being a filthy slut? ‘N drivin’ me fuckin’ crazy?” You whined, holding his wrist in an attempt to ease the thrashing of his fingers down your throat. “God, so fucking pretty.” 

His fingers ripped from your tongue, but before your lungs could get a breath of fresh air, his mouth was on you, replacing his fingers with his tongue, as he kissed you with such ferocity, it nearly felt like a punishment. Teeth clashing and biting, you mewled in protest. “Eddie!” You gasped pushing away, but his hands kept your face close. 

“What, you don’t want me to?” He mocked, before laughing. “Y’know I don’t give a fuck.” Pushing you back against the couch, Eddie climbed over you where his mouth continued his assault against your lips, and your hands wavered into his sweaty curls. 

In the briefest moment your lips disconnected, “W-We need to-” You moaned, feeling his plump lip suction against yours. “Stop, Eddie, we should- ugh!” Eddie pulled away and watched your body crave more, but your eyes stung with its glassy coating of tears that were threatening to spill. “Braun…”

“Aw, he’s gonna come back soon, ‘n you don’t wanna get caught.” He whispered, as his forehead fell against yours. 

“He’s your friend.” Your voice cracked with guilt. 

Eddie huffed. “You better listen clearly.” His hand wrapped around your jaw to force your eyes to his. “Brauny’s a big boy. Yeah, he may be my friend, but Brauny’s got this pretty, little thing that I need to play with, so being frank with you, baby, I don’t care.” His nose flared with anger, as his words stung. “And I’m gonna need you to cut this bullshit sorry act, because it’s really pissin’ me off, and I don’t wanna have to get angry with you.” He hissed. “Okay, baby?” 

You stared into his dark eyes, mouth gulping to reply. “Okay.” And once again, your lips grazed his, letting him groan into your mouth. 

“Mm, you really are so pretty, angel, such a good girl listenin’ to me.” He murmured. “Looking like this, how could your boyfriend ever expect me to keep my hands off of you?” He kissed. “You gonna let me touch you- touch that needy fuckin’ clit. I’ve never touched one before, you gonna let me touch yours?” He tormented with the brushing of his fingers against your pajama shorts. 

You pouted your lips at him, brows cinching at his words. “I feel like you’re lying to me.”

And Eddie Munson snuck that signature laugh in your laugh that you didn’t appreciate, but your pussy surely did. “What does it matter if I’m lyin’ to you, you’re gonna let me touch you, anyway.” His fingers curled around the scrunchy waistband, before pulling them from your legs to expose your sopping cunt to the cold air of the basement. “Fuck, look at that.”

You didn’t know what came over you, but with a hand over his where he parted your legs, you chin tucked in to delicately ask him a question. “Did you really have sex with those girls?”

Eddie smiled, tongue lapping at his lip as he looked at you. “Does it hurt your feelings if I did?” You shrugged, not really sure why you asked, though clearly agitated by the knowing answer. “Do I gotta tell you pretty things, so you don’t get hurt?”

His hand combed through your patch of pubes, tickling your abdomen in a way that had your body seeking for more. “Please, Eddie.” 

“Mm, what is it, baby?” His nails raked down the side of your pussy lips, deliberately avoiding your slit to tease the nerves of your mound. “Need your little pussy touched? It’s so fucking gorgeous.” You nodded, scratching his forearm down to his wrist to urge his movements further. “Gimme another kiss first, princess.”

You pulled him in, letting your kiss spark up the butterflies that loved to erupt in your tummy whenever you saw him. Not so harshly as before, your kiss passionately swallowed you both, with the sweet connection of saliva that strung between your moving lips. But you had an appetite for more, grossly moving the kiss into a heated direction that had him moaning on your teeth. Denying yourself from him was punishment enough, the care no longer festered, you were getting what you deserved. 

“Uh, calm yourself, baby.” He spoke between kisses with a teasing chuckle. “Look at you so desperate, shh, calm down. Be slow with me for a second, sweetheart.” You obeyed, slowing your movements into a languid interaction, before your lips latched onto his tongue, pulling it out from his mouth to suck on, as if it was his cock, because you never got the chance to fully taste his musk. 

Eddie mewled, cock twitching against your thigh, as your action had him melting with a burning desire. Finally, the squelching noise of your dripping arousal echoed into the room, as his fingers dove into the folds of your pussy. “Is that your fucking clit, baby? Listen to how wet your pussy is for me.”

“Mm, Eddie.” You sucked in a breath, as your fat bud was being toyed with.

“Moaning for me, princess, you’re moaning.” He whispered into your ear. “‘Cause you're mine right now, I’m making you moan, not him, hm. Not your little Brauny. You only moan for me, at least for right now, because you have a boyfriend.” You absentmindedly nodded along to whatever words he was feeding you, too caught up with your pussy being played with to care. “We’ll see about that.” He laughed, before nipping at your earlobe. 

“Wanna touch you, too, baby.” You whined, reaching for his hung cock, letting your hands twirl around the heated length that was circulating with enough blood to fuck you for multiple rounds. 

Eddie hissed. “Sss, what are you doin’? Grabbin’ my fucking cock?” He smiled, as you stroked him, allowing him to plunge his fingers into your tightening cunt, as both your movements fell in sync with one another. “Grab it, yes, baby, fuckin’ grab that cock!”

“Fuck, that feels so good, Eddie!” His fingers pulled out to rub your clit, before suddenly your pelvis jolted with the burning sensation of his hand coming down to your pussy. “Eddie!”

“Lemme slap that clit, lemme slap that fucking clit, baby.” Your wetness splashed against your inner thighs with each spanking of his hand. “God, you don’t know what you do to me, sweetheart. Such a pretty girl, I’m fucking losin’ my control over you. Got you strokin’ my cock, while my fingers fuck your pussy, and I love it, baby, I love it so fucking much.” He babbled, teeth biting down to keep the worse words in. Your brows furrowed, as his fingers blasted within you, hooking inside to scratch that throbbing g-spot that had you wailing with want. “Smile for me, baby, smile ‘cause I’m making my baby feel so good.”

And you did, letting your head crash back with your mouth hanging open with an inebriated smile tugging at your lips, as you played with each other. His lips crashed down for another smearing kiss that had your tongues desperately pirouetting around each other. 

Your thighs began shaking under his control, pistoling his fingers in a way that was bringing you closer to your release. While looking down at your thrusting hips, he simultaneously pulled away from your kiss, leaving you to whine for his return. “No! More!”

He looked back up into those pathetic round eyes and scrunched brows with your bitten lips that nearly had him collapsing with another orgasm, as your hands pulled at the head of his cock and squeezed his balls. “Don’t you fuckin’ look at me like that.” He warned, not ready to release his load if it wasn’t going to be inside of you, but you couldn’t take your eyes off of his sweaty face, beads of perspiration invading his hairline, as his face flushed with a blushing rose that surely made him feel embarrassed with how vulnerable he looked. “Don’t fuckin’- don’t you- ugh- no, no, no, no!”

His large hand slapped your cheek, forcing your face away, leaving you gasping in disbelief. “I’ll fuckin’ slap you.” He spat, watching you merely turn your head back with a sparking revelation in your eyes that made you look even more beautiful. “I’ll slap your stupid fucking face-” Another stinging crash to you cheek that had you crying in pain, but you kept looking for more. “You like that shit?”

You hurriedly nodded, letting your tears pool from the growing pain that tightened your pussy around his fingers. “Yes, more!”

A harsh smack landed on your cheek once more, agitating your poor skin. “Mhm, like that, me fucking slapping that stupid, little fucking face.” His hand felt the wetness of your tears drenching your cheeks with every slap. “Bruisin’ that pretty fucking face, fuck! C’mere, c’mere!” 

His tongue lavished against your burning skin, bringing tingles to your body when his spit-covered tongue ran against your hot cheek to lick up your salty tears. “Get your fuckin’ hands off my cock, I’m shovin’ it inside your desperate cunt.” Eddie declared, slapping his tip to your pussy, to let your wetness pour on his dick. 

A harsh stab to your pussy lunged his thick cock into your pulsating walls, urging a screaming moan from your lungs. “Fuck! You’re so fucking tight!” His hands clamped around the front of your thighs to fold you in half. 

“Ugh, fuck! Slow, p-please, baby, slow!” You wailed. 

“Yeah?” He cooed, driving his thrust down to one punctuated one every second. “You want this cock slowly, can’t fucking handle this tight, little pussy getting fucked hard?”

Your trembling hands cupped his face, letting you bring him down for a consuming kiss. “J-Just wanna feel all of you.” 

“You are, baby, you are.” Eddie pierced himself into your g-spot. “Feel it deep inside, baby, feel my fucking cock all the way inside! Just for you! You- you fucking dirty, filthy whore!” The muscles of his ass tightly clenched to pound you thoroughly with each stroke. “Gonna let me do it faster? Huh? Fuck you into this fucking couch until your some braindead slut? Look at you taking my cock!” His hips began slapping faster. “Gonna be fucking good for me?”

“Uh-huh! Always, fuck!”

“You will?” He taunted. “You fucking will? You’ll take this cock whenever I want you to? Whenever I want this pussy of mine? In front of your boyfriend? Tie him to a fuckin’ chair, and force him to watch me fuck his pretty girlfriend’s little cunt!”

“Yes! Yes! Fuck me better than him!” Your hips moved to meet his slapping thighs, as you clenched around his cock to milk him with the cum you wanted in your cunt. “Want him to watch me take your fat cock!”

An animalistic growl forced its way out of chest, as the image of his best friend crying over the despair of betrayal elicited him to rut his hips into you fervently. “Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck!” His head dropped against your chest, reveling in the commotion of your bouncing tits that were urging to be freed. His hands pulled at your shirt, exposing your boobs that were quickly squished together under his hands, as his tongue lapped around your nipple. 

“Ugh, yes, you’re gonna make me cum!” You heaved, finding your hand had landed on his thigh at a weak attempt to slow his crashing movements into your pussy. 

“Beautiful fucking tits!” He nibbled on your pointy nipples, forcing those whines that drove him crazy to come out. “So fuckin’ delicious! And just for me!”

“Just for you! Only you!” 

“Yeah?” He pouted at you. “Fuck, fucking lick my hand, lick my fucking hand, you bitch.” His palm landed on your mouth, where you dumbly stuck your tongue out to taste the sweatiness of his hand, before that same hand came crashing down on your cheek for the umpteenth time. “Stick that filthy fuckin’ tongue out when I slap you in the fuckin’ face!”

You obliged, letting the wet muscle hang out as another slap landed on your face, forcing your head to the side. But turning your face back with the expectation of one more slap fell short, when instead, a glob of warm spit hit your tongue, one after another. 

“Fuckin’ clean that asshole from you fucking holes!” More spit. “‘Cause you’re mine! Not his! With my spit in your mouth and my cum in your pussy, you’ll be fuckin mine, right?!”

Your eyes rolled to the back of your head, as the rope in your belly was hanging on by a mere thread ready to snap. “Yes! Yes! Just yours!” You cried out. “Cleanse me! Cleanse me with your cum and make me yours!”

Eddie’s hand pressed down against your pelvis harshly, prompting a gushing stream of your hot squirt to wet yourself and his thighs, as you screamed from the highs of orgasmic ecstasy. “Fuckfuckfuckfuckfuck! I’m cumming! I’m- FUCK!”

Nothing but heavy breaths could be heard in the basement that reeked of sex and bodily fluids. Your hands fell limp around his neck, whereas he sagged the entirety of his dead weight against your chest. His teeth grinded from the continuation of your pussy clenching around him, as your body tried to settle at the unfamiliar size that inculcated itself brutality into your cunt. 

It was quiet. It was peace. 

Until the ringing in your ears subsided, and slowly began picking up on the maniacal laugh that was coming from the man who slowly picked up his head from your chest to greet your un-whitening vision with a sinister smile, and suddenly you felt the pit in your stomach sink. 

“Oh, sweetheart, you’ve just made a big fuckin’ mistake.” He chuckled, harshly pressing his forehead into yours, causing the seat cushion to dent beneath you. “Y’know why?” He tantalized, watching your eyes grow big with fear. “Because if your little boyfriend touches you after you just said you were mine,” he placed a delicate kiss to your lips that you couldn’t muster to reciprocate, too scared to do so, “I’m gonna fucking kill him.” He laughed. 

-

A minute and eight seconds. 

Braun Peterson had leaned the weight of his body against the counter, letting the low hum of the buzzing microwave lull his mind to ease, as the fingers of his hand shoved against his eye to wake from the tiredness of the morning day. It hadn’t been until the slap of a heavy hand against his bare shoulder jolted his eyes open to see his cousin slugging his socked feet against the linoleum tiles, before scratching the floor with the chair legs to have a seat at the kitchen table.

Mason had yawned, stretching his jaw from the bitter soreness of having to deal with a restless night of grinding his teeth. “Where’s the missus?” His nails scratched over his stubble. “Sleepin’ in?” Given your gratitude for a place to stay, Mason had spent the few days of your presence waking up to a full breakfast of all the fixins, differing greatly to the two-minute microwave food the young welder had to succumb to for his poor skills behind the stove. 

The morning had changed with the sight of Braun in front of the buzzing appliance. “Out, actually.”

“Already?”

“Yeah, couple days ago,” Braun cleared his dry throat, “she met Cheryl- you remember Cheryl?” Not exactly someone from Mason's graduating class, but given Hawkins’ small breadth of streets, a distant young face of hormonal acne and blue eyeshadow was all that could be pulled from his string of memories, as Cheryl Daniels still sported that purity ring that had long gone been switched out for an engagement ring to her military fiance, whom she could relish his fat benefits with. So, Mason simply nodded to get the story along. “Anyway, yeah, Y/N met her, and, well, you know how women are; one giddy introduction, next thing y’know they’re doing 9:00 a.m pilates and leavin’ me behind to eat some shit food for breakfast.”

Mason peered at the counter to see the empty box of his frozen food. “You asshole, ‘s that my last Hot Pocket?” His mundane voice spoke, too tired to hold any real malice behind it. 

“I’ll head to the store and buy you a whole new pack, relax.” 

Braun Peterson steadily watched the last couple of seconds tick down. “If anything, man, I deserve that one after you and Y/N kept me up last night.” Mason breathily chuckled. 

“Ah, sorry,” Braun stretched his arms, “Y’know Eddie came over, we watched a movie, didn’t realize it was so loud- which if you want any advice, don’t watch Labyrinth high, unless you wanna have a total freak out.”

“Not talking about that.” Mason shook his head with a laugh. “But, aye, next time you bring Munson around and make my basement reek of weed, the least you could do is save me some.”

But Braun’s eyebrows had stayed scrunched with concern to ever consider his cousin’s future word of advice. “The hell are you talking about then?” He curiously poked. 

“You and Y/N.” Mason emphasized with a sly smirk to tease. “I mean, you guys are usually pretty considerate, but I guess the weed really got to y’all or somthing, man, you two were fucking loud last night- and I mean that literally.” He laughed. “Would’ve taken her as a quiet girl.”

Braun Peterson blinked. You had went straight to bed last night after the movie. In fact, you heavily implored him to do the same, after swifty prompting Eddie out of the door when the credit scenes rolled. “Y/N and I- we didn’t… no, we didn’t-”

The microwave beeped.

[cute-girls-from-vns-anime-manga]

this

this goober here, it shows that the EN Cast for Arknights had fun recording their lines

"Das Conk Creet Baybee"

I KNOW NOTHING ABOUT ARKNIGHTS OTHER THAN HAVING THAT VOICE CLIP SEARED INTO MY BRAIN AND AS SOMEONE WHO WORKS IN THE INDUSTRIAL SECTOR AND DEALS WITH A LOT OF PEOPLE POURING CONCRETE YOU HAVE NO IDEA HOW MUCH SELF CONTROL IT TAKES FOR ME TO NOT SAY THIS EVERY TIME I SEE SOMEONE POURING OR SMOOTHING A CONCRETE SLAB!

[irkenproperty]

So Dib, tell us a story of how you met your little feral Zim, Got to know each other, how did you communicate? all the way up to having babies😊

Beautiful mini-fic under cut by my BFF and very talented RP-partner @darthzadr , about how we RP'ed Zim and Dib's meeting, please read it!

Her fic commissions are open, btw!

🩷⬇️💙⬇️🩷⬇️💙⬇️🩷⬇️💙

Earth. A blue and green paradise teaming with life both too small to see with the naked eye, all the way up to enormous creatures great enough to snuff out those very lives beneath them with a single step. Luscious forests and greenery spread out as far as the eye could see, running for miles and miles until meeting with its lover, the ocean - and there were so many different oceans, too! Some were blue and alive, and nourishing to the entire planet. Some were yellow; oceans of sand stretching out towards the horizon and beyond that still, until eventually stumbling upon an oasis. There were even some oceans, according to his books, that were bright red and bubbling hot, so much so that a single touch was enough to melt flesh and bone. Truly, Earth was Eden's glorious garden.

Once upon a time.

Dib gazed into the old photo album and turned the page wistfully, and he quickly lost himself in the images again. Having been just shy of three years old upon departing Earth his memories of his home world were fading fast, and all he had to remember it by were the pictures in his books, his father's photo albums, and one very fuzzy memory: In that, there was no green whatsoever, only concrete and smoke, and a burning-red sky.  He vaguely recalled an enormous crowd swarming like flies on the final slab of meat upon a carcass stripped of flesh, all so desperate to escape the fast rotting planet they themselves had helped to destroy. The people had poured in from all across America, Mexico, and beyond to try and find salvation. Professor Membrane's great invention was just one of but a handful of ships around the world capable of deep-space travel, and Dib could remember watching the people from the control room alongside his father and wailing baby sister; they were screaming and begging for a place upon the ship already stretched beyond its capacity. “Aren't we going to let them in, daddy...?” Dib had asked curiously, and he couldn't understand why Professor Membrane didn't answer him, nor why he was crying just as much as Gaz was as the ship lifted up from the Earth's soil one last time and took flight, leaving the dying world far behind them.

To this day, Dib still didn't understand it.

With a sigh he closed the album and looked out the window instead, to the real greenery outside infinitely more interesting than the flat pictures. Life aboard the Marina was the world that Dib knew and remembered, and now, his world was extending to a whole new plain of existence outside. When first the ship had landed upon the strange soils only a select handful of Membrane's most trusted advisors were permitted to leave the safety of the Marina to explore the vast forests and its diverse ecosystem; to take pictures and bring back precious samples for Professor Membrane to study: plant matter, fresh produce, the strange bones of creatures yet unknown . . . After many, many moons – so many moons in fact, that Dib had lost count – it was determined that the environment was a suitable biome for humanity's survivors. Fences had been erected all around the ship to create a vast compound, allowing people to venture outside whilst keeping them all safe from the unknown that lay beyond in the jungle. At nightfall curfew began, and no one was allowed to set foot outside for fear of the dark.

In Dib's opinion, this was the very best time to go outside and play.

He opened up the bedroom window and slipped easily outside into a nearby tree. The branches were strong and sturdy, and Dib climbed down like it was second nature. He gasped as his bare feet touched the dew-sodden grass, and he jumped a little on the spot both from the excitement, and the alien sensation he still wasn't used to. There was no grass aboard the Marina, after all. There were green houses and gardens where they grew food plentiful enough to feed their people – but there was no space to run around or explore. Not like this; not like it was in the strange new world.

Bubbling with enthusiasm Dib wandered along the edge of the fence, his hand trailing across the chain-links. The fence reached so high that he was pretty certain it could touch the sky – but clearly not, because it wasn't tall enough to keep the planet's creations from flying over, and sometimes into the compound. Enormous insects; creatures that looked like dragonflies and moths, and hornets even bigger than Professor Membrane himself. Terrifying, but equally so fascinating, and it made Dib wonder, what else is out there?

He gazed longingly through the fence and into the trees. Sometimes, in the dead of lonely night, he almost swore that he could see movement from within the foliage. He'd often find himself hours later still in the same place, his vision growing blurry where he'd been standing staring at the same spot for so long. There was no movement tonight so Dib kept on walking, making his steady way around the perimeter and towards the gardens. The planet's soils were rich with nutrients and happily allowed the seeds of Earth plants to take root. Alongside those, they were now growing a vast array of native fruits and vegetables of this world too. Dib's favourite were the bright pink berries swollen close to bursting with a rich, tart juice that left stains all over his lips, fingers, and everything he touched – but it was worth it. He grabbed a handful as he walked by and popped several into his mouth. He and Gaz liked them a lot, and had taken to calling them blorpberries, on account of the funny noise they made when Dib pushed them against the roof of his mouth, and they exploded over his tongue.

Snap!

Dib's head whipped up towards the fence. A flash of movement darted out from behind the trees, and the next thing he saw was a flurry of frantic motions. Something was digging outside the compound, scratch, scratch, scratching into the ground with a keen ferocity unlike anything Dib had seen before. In the light coming through the windows of the Marina, and the starlit sky dancing in worship around two giant moons, Dib could make out a long tail flaring amid the flying dirt, the tip and the base both crowned by a beautiful tuft of bright pink.

“Wow!” The gasp escaped Dib's lips before he could stop it, and all movement ceased in an instant. The tail stood completely still and erect. Then came another flash of movement as the creature leaped from its hole and into the forest cover. Dib froze in place, one hand clamped over his mouth to keep himself quiet. After a moment of nothing, a pair of bright eyes appeared from within the bushes and shone gloriously in the moonlight; unearthly pink, and utterly magnificent.

“ . . . Hello.” Dib lowered his hand slowly, and whispered just as gently. He saw the shrubs shift as the hidden creature flinched, its wondrous gaze drifting from Dib to the beginnings of its burrow, until Dib himself looked. The hole was situated right across from the gardens ripe with the blorpberries Dib loved so much. He made the connection instantly. “Oh! Are you hungry?” He grabbed a handful and tossed them through the fence. It was the feeble, clumsy throw of a seven-year-old bookworm, and only two landed within easy reach of the bush. Once they were swept away by a hand or tail almost too fast to see with the naked eye, the pink gaze returned, fixated upon the remaining berries out of its reach. Silence fell once more. Dib trembled with anticipation. Please . . . Please get them . . .

Slowly, inch by cautious inch, the creature began to emerge, and it was all Dib could do not to squeal in delight. He watched in silent awe, marveling at its brilliance. Green skin. Two black antennas. A long, strong tail like that of a monitor lizard; powerful, and deadly. It prowled the forest floor on all floors like it owned the place, snatching up the berries in its claws as it went by. And what claws! Three in total on each limb, and wickedly sharp, like that of an ancient dinosaur long since lost to time; they were the perfect tool and weapon both for a harsh life in the jungle. As it walked and ate it kept its eyes fixed suspiciously on Dib. Soon there were none left but for those still in the bush, and the creature sat in between the fence and the forest, its gaze continuously shifting between longing want at the fruit, to suspicious scrutiny at Dib.

“Hi there!” Dib whispered quietly, but his voice was so thick with excitement that he made the creature flinch backwards. “Oh, sorry!” He apologised, his tone dropping even lower in volume for the startled visitor frozen in place. Silence echoed once more as giant pink eyes remained fixated on Dib like lasers, as if trying to pierce through into his skull and see inside of his mind. As such, Dib focused in on a single thought, just in case the creature could indeed read his mind. I won't hurt you, I won't hurt you. Let's be friends.

The creature blinked, then leaped back into its hole and resumed the frantic dig. Dib sat back with his knees tucked to his chest, watching with fast growing anticipation. Dirt came flying from the hole; launched aside unneeded by the creature's immense tail. Soon, the ground beside him began to crumble inwards, opening up a fully-fledged tunnel from one side of the fence to the next. A pair of black antennas poked out first. They twitched. Twice, then the creature emerged from up the hole and shook the dirt from its body. Bright pink eyes soon found their way onto Dib again and held his gaze with ease. It was like gazing into a galaxy before his very eyes; a whole, wide new world lay within the swirling, starry light, and Dib was utterly captivated.

“Hello,” he smiled. “My name's Dib. What's yours?”

[follow-up-news]

Mississippi town has taken down a Confederate monument that stood on the courthouse square since 1910 — a figure that was tightly wrapped in tarps the past four years, symbolizing the community’s enduring division over how to commemorate the past. Grenada’s first Black mayor in two decades seems determined to follow through on the city’s plans to relocate the monument to other public land. A concrete slab has already been poured behind a fire station about 3.5 miles (5.6 kilometers) from the square. But a new fight might be developing. A Republican lawmaker from another part of Mississippi wrote to Grenada officials saying she believes the city is violating a state law that restricts the relocation of war memorials or monuments.

[lawnsroot]

How to Dry Pour Concrete Slabs: A Step-by-Step Guide

Pouring a concrete slab may not be the world’s most glamorous job, but it’s crucial in various construction projects, whether you’re laying a foundation for a backyard garden shed or setting the base of a new garage. Dry pour concrete, one of the most common methods, involves laying concrete dry and then adding water. This might sound straightforward, but achieving a robust and durable concrete…

[innytoes]

"My wife can stab me a little bit I don't care."

okay i need this but i don't know who from...... 😩

oh maybe some jubobby?!

Alfred The Cat verse. Set after the Haunted House Fic.

"You know, it's weird that someone who sees ghosts hates Halloween this much," Leo said, poking his head out of a kitchen cabinet next to the one she was rummaging through. She'd been cursing to herself about Reggie's over-abundance of autumnal mugs, trying to find one that wasn't shaped like a pumpkin or a ghost or what have you.

"Gah!" she exclaimed, nearly dropping Pumpkin Mug Number Four. At least the ghost had the decency to look kind of sheepish. "I get enough jump scares in my life, thank you."

Ever since Sunset Curve made it big and bought the creepy haunted murder-house they'd been renting, things had changed a little. Julie had moved in, officially.

Sunset Curve won a Grammy, on a song that Luke and Julie wrote together. Bobby proposed. They had the wedding in the garden, giving Tía an explanation about wanting to put down roots and make memories in their forever home, because 'our ghost friend is tied to the place he died and else he can't come' wouldn't fly.

They'd done some renovating, making sure to leave Leo's unmarked grave undisturbed. He'd been very adamant he was fine with them just pouring a slab of concrete over his remains to install a catio for Alfred. There was nobody to visit his grave anyway. That was why he'd been such easy pickings for the serial killer who used to live here.

Gertrude, the ghost of the woman who owned the house in the fifties, had passed on to the Other Side after passing on her famous scones recipe to her favourite 'adopted grandson', Reggie.

Which led to today.

With the renovations done, apparently her boys had decided this was the year they were going to win Best Halloween House In The Neighbourhood. Which wasn't even a real thing. There was no contest. There was no prize. But Reggie had insisted it was a real thing, and it was measured in how spooky your decorations were, how awesome your candy, and how happy you made the kids.

Obviously Julie didn't have the heart to argue with 'don't you want to make the kids happy, Julie?' Not to mention the puppy eyes of four musicians and a ghost.

So she said yes to the giant skeleton, and yes to the millions of decorative gourds, and yes to the fog machine and the 'spooky lights' and the creepy animatronic witch. She agreed to getting The Best Full Sized Candy Bars Ever for handing out, and hiding them from Luke. She even indulged the boys in their horror movie marathons, and Bobby stoically did not wince when she grabbed his arm so hard he had bruises the next day.

It was just that the last horror movie stuck with her. Especially today, what with it being a very stereotypical Dark and Stormy Night. Especially, especially because the guys had left the following morning for a series of concerts in New York, leaving her alone in a big, empty house with just an elderly cat and a ghost.

"We'll be back before Halloween," Bobby had promised. They video called every day, usually after the show, and he wisely never said anything about the amount of lights she had on.

"Come on, Halloween is fun! It's about dressing up in silly costumes and running around with your friends and getting free candy from strangers," Leo pointed out. "Which is honestly a terrible thing to teach children, now that I say it out loud."

"You just like it because you get to scare people who want to 'get a look at the murder house'," Julie said. And okay, it was pretty funny to see Leo scare the daylights out of troublesome tweens daring each other to touch the door.

"That too." Leo beamed. For a while, that had been the only contact he had with the living, until some 'entrepreneur' had bought the nearly derelict building, slapped some landlord beige on everything, and rented it out to some broke musicians.

"I like the cute parts of Halloween," Julie defended herself. "The candy and the pumpkin spice everything and little kids dressed up in costumes. I could just do without the horror stuff."

All of a sudden, all the lights in the house turned off.

"That isn't funny," she snapped at Leo.

"It wasn't me!" Leo said, raising his hands up in self defence. "It must be the storm."

Great. Just great. "Can you use your ghost powers to turn the lights back on?" she asked, hopeful.

"No?" Leo asked, confused. "Why would you think I could do that?"

"You can turn the TV on and off."

"I turn the TV on and off with the remote," Leo said, amused. "I think you need to... flip the breaker switch. Or something."

"Where even is the breaker switch?" Julie asked, and Leo unhelpfully shrugged. "Okay, I'm going to find some candles or something, so I don't stub my toe or anything trying to find it."

"Skill issue," Leo muttered, phasing through the table. "I'll check the laundry room."

The only candles she was able to find were Bobby's tea lights. They would have to do. She plopped one in a wine glass, holding it up by the stem as a make-shift torch. Leo came back to report the laundry room was a bust.

"Maybe it's in the hallway closet," Julie said, but Leo didn't seem to be listening anymore.

"Did you hear that?" he whispered, even though he was a ghost and nobody else could hear him.

"What?" Julie whispered back.

"I thought I heard someone."

"If this is a joke..." Julie started, but Leo shook his head, curls bouncing. He looked genuinely scared. She put her wineglass-light on the countertop.

"It's not! I heard something."

"Well, go look!" Julie hissed at him. He was a ghost, it's not like anyone could see him, or hear him. If someone had broken into their home...

"You go look!"

"You're a-"

"Hey, why's it so dark in here?" a voice asked, and Julie shrieked, grabbing the nearest utensil and thrusting it at the burglar.

Okay, so maybe when Luke, Reggie, and Alex called Bobby to see how surprising Julie turned out, and he picked up from the ER with a fork stuck in shoulder, they laughed harder than they should. Julie felt really, really bad. He'd been so worried about her, knowing she was creeped out being home alone.

Bobby, being Bobby, had just shrugged his non-forked shoulder. "My wife can stab me a little bit," he'd said. "I don't care."

And that was one of the many reasons why she'd married him.

[senor-plume]

Taylor's White Wine (by the gallon)

in my hurricane youth I paraded with gallons of white wine alongside of the river (the mighty Susquehanna) with friends and at times…glorious times… alone by myself

resting on a rock slab balancing the gigantic bottle on my teenage knee I listen to the cars and trucks above me and to the right drive on by never knowing a thing about the unassuming young lad in the midst of a mellow buzz

striking matches to gather up a flame for my unfiltered Camels I flick the spent paper to the river but the breeze takes hold of it and it ends up closer to my feet than the water

it’s a failure that I can look past as I take yet another swig from the increasingly disappearing bottle

it’s fruity it’s good it’s warm

I swallow with gusto like a madman in search of the eternal buzz and I know I’ll tackle sobriety …keep it in its place and come out the victor

the sky once an ugly shade of powder blue changes as the hands across the face of the clocks twirl confused but still march ahead blinded by the promise of a rest

here comes the evening…the night

no overrated sunset no orange sky not a hint of romance in the air

just the scent of cheap wine keeping me company like an old friend who is willing to look me in the eye as we visit

but look at me now rising from the hard concrete a bit unsteady queasy greasy and contented

with the miracle of movement I place my left foot in front of me and the right follows and soon I am walking with the bottle in my weakened hand to my home where a mother waits tucked deep under blankets muted and nervous

I reach the front door and pull it open surprised that the desperate need to vomit has not taken hold of me

and I rise up like a dumb bird in flight growing higher as the steps behind me leap in numbers and the ones in front of me diminish and soon I have my drunken hand upon the knob

I give it a little twist and open only to be hit by a wall of forced heat that pours heavy through the house

Mom fell asleep forgetting to turn it down

I hightail it to my bedroom remove my shirt and shoes and sit on my tacky waterbed where I will bob up and down until sleep makes its way towards me

with my head on the Popeye pillow case I close these eyes of mine and think about the wine …how it made me warm and not so lonely tonight …how it didn’t break up with me or point and laugh at the pimples on my forehead

It’s good and although I will awaken in the morning with a throbbing head I will recall the night in little bits and pieces but mostly I will look fondly at my drunken evening alone

and I crawl toward sleep with a thumb in my mouth and my knees pulled up to my knick knock rib cage

my long hair waving a white flag as I drift away wondering how I’m going to get more wine tomorrow

[rhetoricalangst]

Feeling things about names and history. I just read a post about how some names have been used for centuries and how the earth has heard thousands of years of mothers calling out the name Alexander and friends shrieking for their Mary. And I’m just like. These are the names people remember. I keep reading things about beautiful memories; a child making a mad dash in a recently poured concrete slab for a basement, an Oma sharing stories about trading her finest with a Native American woman. I keep seeing people write things about how future archeologists will cry when they find our remains like how we cry seeing kitten paws in ink on the back of manuscripts and penises doodled in Da Vinci’s sketchbook.

Were there ancient archeologists? People in places we know the name of but not the location digging up memories that ended up forgotten again? Did people ever think that preserving their receipts and hate mail would get the global recognition over two thousand years later?

I’m feeling things about names being used for thousands of different people who claim it as their own and in that space in that time it does only belong to them. And I’m feeling things about the names that were used for hundreds of years and probably won’t be used for a long time coming.

Feeling things about names I will never know

Alexa send post.

[dymdrimluga]

promise me

This is already a bit old art, although many arts I made a little more than six months ago are perceived as old for me. These two characters are NPCs from the Victorian Chronicle. The girl (Owen) is a Salubri healer, and the young man next to her (Isaac) is a Tremere with humanity level 9, who freed her from the Chantry and ran away with her, despite all the trouble he could get for it. The relationship between these two is purely platonic.

Owen is very emotional and energetic, Isaac is calm and kind. They protect each other, and managed to survive to modern nights. Not least because Isaac's mentor Moira seems to likes him, in her own way, and wasn't actively looking for them. They are one of my favorites NPCs. I was very inspired to draw by the song "Promise me" by the band Odyn_v_kanoe (Один в каное - Пообіцяй мені)

I think this song suits these two very well. This is a song by a Ukrainian band, and it's in Ukrainian, but here's a translation:

Promise me

How long one can pour, how long one can nurse words?

They are not children!

Through the concrete slabs the grass is struggling-crying:

“I’m alive”!

Give it your hand, give it access to the light, give it the water!

I saw, I understood the sign:

Everything is vice versa, everything is wrong,

Even you!

Refrain:

Promise me, promise me

That there will always be light in your window.

Promise me, even if it will fail,

That “tomorrow” will immediately and inevitably take place!

Promise me...

Right over they’ll turn off the water, and I’ll have again no time to wash away the sin,

Yesterday’s sin.

It will cut my freedom in half, throw it to feet,

To your feet.

This is the world of things and things are ill!

And you’re already here, in that choir!

Go toward my voice,

Go toward my voice...https://lyricstranslate.com

[aarghhaaaarrrghhh]

A Summer in a Pioneer's Neckerchief/Лето в пионерском галстуке - Chapter Nineteen

Master post here

Chapter Nineteen - Pen "Pals"

It was not the best time to have gone - the rain had been pouring for a week already, and Yura knew from the forecast that it was going to continue in the same way. But he did not have a choice - his concert tour had ended and tickets for the flight back to Germany two days hence were bought and paid for in his wallet. So, there was no other time for a visit to Lastochka.

Frozen and soaked from the constant drizzle, Yura looked at the moss-covered statues, the deserted sports area, the collapsed wall of the kitchens. Suddenly the clouds thickened, and twilight descended upon the camp, as though the sun had already dipped below the horizon. But that could not be so - six o’clock in the evening in September, too early for sunset. And too late for reminiscing. Yura shook his head. Enough wasting time. I should get going. Do what I came here for.

Making his way through the tall, wet grass, he returned to the path that led to the beach. Part of it was laid with big grey paving slabs, but as soon as Yurka had passed the children’s dormitories, the path narrowed and turned to sand, and, after a sharp bend, disappeared downwards.

As he looked at the road made of concrete squares, with sedge and dandelions growing up through the cracks, Yura remembered the newspapers that had been laid on the floor in the construction site. Back then, he had thought, If only there were newspapers from the future here. Even if not the very far future, but at least summer ‘87… Five years’ time, maybe, or ten. What about twenty…? Yurka smiled sadly - now he knew. 

‘86 passed by in a haze. The early days were unbearably sad. Returning to Kharkiv, Yurka felt like he had fallen into a completely alien and unknown world. It seemed like everything around him was a bad dream, and that to go back to Lastochka, all he had to do was wake up, But no matter how much Yurka pinched himself and tried to deceive himself, reality was there, in that stuffy city, in the four walls of that old apartment. The only thing that Yurka had left from that July during which he had been so happy were: the photograph on the rug over his bed, his memories and his letters from Volodya.

“When I got back to my room and arranged my thing,” his very first letter began, “it felt totally outrageous that I had nothing to remember Lastochka by. It’s true, Yur, we left everything in the time capsule, besides the troop photographs. Olga Leonidovna only gave them to Lena and I to hand out to the children as the bus was already leaving. You would have bent over laughing if you’d seen her as she ran after the bus - the driver didn’t notice her and hit the gas. Imagine that! Have you imagined it? I can feel you smiling.

I hope that you also received yours. I will send you a photo of the fifth troop. Send me one of the first in return. If the squad is in full force, naturally.”

Yurka sent him his, while the photo of the fifth troop he somehow managed to stick to the rug above his bed. He decided that it had to be there in particular, because the window of his room looked out to the east and the first rays of the sun fell on exactly that spot. 

In the photo, Volodya was smiling unnaturally; he looked tense and disciplined. Standing close to him were Olezhka on one side, and the fat boy Sashka on the other. The boys were standing stiffly, to attention - crisp, clean and well-groomed. Behind them, the Zina Portnova monument loomed, and above them, a spotless sky stretched far away. Each morning as he looked at that photograph, Yurka thought that they looked totally unreal, captured there. And Volodya in particular looked unreal in it. After all, only Yurka knew what exactly he was hiding behind that smile and the lenses of his glasses.

For the first couple of months, Yurka held out only thanks to the letters. No, he tried with all his strength to hide his malaise from those around him: he smiled to his parents, sometimes he went for walks with the kids from his block, he ate, he drank, he went to his grandmother’s, he helped his mum around the house and his father in the garage. But in his thoughts, Yurka was constantly returning to Lastochka, while the time ticked down between letters. In them, he found confirmation that Volodya really did exist, that he was still with him, and apparently even loved him. But they were almost a thousand kilometres apart. It was so unfair! Yurka had always thought that love could conquer all, but it turned out that distance was beyond its control.

Only as it drew towards winter did it become slightly easier. Yurka made his peace, his yearning dulled somewhat, as though his heart had also frozen a little bit along with the first chills.

As he stepped onto the next paving slab, Yurka felt as though he were stepping along the timeline from ‘86 to the next year.

Like a newspaper dated 1987, it was almost as good as new, whole, without any sprouts of grass or cracks. In ‘87, their relationship was just as pure and whole, even though they had been pining away for each  other in different cities for more than half a year by then, and they continued to take comfort in the only thing that remained to them - the letters.

Volodya wrote often and about everything. At first, his parents were taken aback: who were all these letters coming from, why were there so many of them, and why did they come so often? Yurka, of course, told them that it was his penpal who he had met at Lastochka and who lived in Moscow, which was why they could only continue their friendship like this, at a distance.

And to look at the letters, they really did appear to be just friendly - he formulated his thoughts so that no-one could suspect anything untoward behind them.

Yurka learnt to read between Volodya’s lines; he knew where a reference to their shared past and private present was hidden behind an operative phrase. Without seeing him, he could imagine his behaviour, guess at his mood from the letters, the handwriting, the inkblots and the imprints of fingers upon the paper. He knew at which words Volodya was frowning, at which he had sharply pushed his glasses back into place. He imagined his room and Volodya himself, sitting at his writing desk by a window. He imagined him at his lectures, him listening to his teachers and chatting with his coursemates. It was just what they talked about that he could not imagine. Volodya barely wrote about these discussions - he kept it close to his chest, afraid of saying anything private, despite the fact that they were now allowed to talk about a lot.

The concepts of ‘Glasnost’ and ‘democratisation’ were first heard from the lips of Gorbachev in February 1986 at the XXVII Congress of the CPSU, but Yurka truly came to understand and feel Perestroika in himself, and Glasnost and ‘New Thinking’ along with it, in ‘87. 

 These concepts were heard everywhere: in the streets, on the television, and at home. The progressive majority strove to “reconstruct” themselves, while many Soviet citizens did not believe in them, and some were afraid. But in public, it was not the adults, but rather the children insisting upon change. Their demands thundered like the tocsin and spread throughout the country. Had it ever been seen before: pioneers criticising adults, boycotting the resolutions of the Pioneer Organisation Congress, questioning whether the Pioneer Organisation was needed at all in the first place? At first glance, it had little to do with Yurka, three years past the age of being able to leave the pioneers as he was, but somewhere inside him, he felt a sense of foreboding take root: if children were being allowed to criticise, then soon something really would change. And so it did. 

‘87 was the year that business was legalised and cooperatives were founded. The deficit of goods from the USSR increased, but foreign items appeared, markets began to develop. Girls began to swap copies of Burda Style between themselves, a deficit-era magazine printed in Germany in Russian that had recently appeared in the USSR. The youth strutted about in bright, multicoloured trousers and jackets with studs and buttons, while Yurka got some flared jeans for himself, with a camel on the back pocket. But not one item pleased him more than the photograph his mum brought home from work, the one from Lastochka. The one that Pal Sanych had taken after the play. Yurka framed it and turned it over in his hands for hours as he examined the faces of the whole troupe, standing in front of the stage in the theatre. But for Yurka, the most pleasing of all, of course, was to look at Volodya, who had his arm slung around him.

Besides the ‘formal’ youth organisation, Komsomol, informal ones also emerged: rockers, who roamed around the city in the night, metalheads and punks - the most aggressive, and also a new generation of quiet hippies, dressed in worn jeans decorated with bracelets. In one of his letters, Volodya wrote about civilised-looking, athletic guys from the Moscow suburb Lyuberets, who, on the other hand, ‘cleansed’ Moscow of the informals and all those who, in their opinion, were a disgrace to the ‘proper’ (that is, ‘their’) way of life. The Lyubers - that was how those guys were called - beat the informals up, tore their extravagant clothes and cut their ‘bird’s nests’ short.

Clearly so as to calm Yurka, Volodya affirmed: “They won’t get at me.” Yurka chuckled to himself at that: I bet they won’t.

There were no Lyubers in Kharkiv. But Yurka, considering himself neither an informal nor a ‘formal’, obeyed the fashion and grew his hair out to his shoulders. He ceased to be so tight-knit with the guys from the block and turned back into a homebody. Together with his father, he watched the programme Glance every Friday, and thrice a week he wrote to Volodya, and thrice a week, Volodya replied.

His handwriting told Yurka a lot. Usually it was tight and even. When Volodya was nervous, the letters became slanted and the tails of ‘y’, ‘g’ and ‘z’ grew long and narrow like dashes. When Volodya was angry, he pressed the pen down so hard that it crumpled the paper. But one of the letters arrived with near-perfect calligraphy. Yurka immediately noticed this and asked him not to rewrite neat copies of his letters anymore, and to instead send them as they were, be it with crossings-out, inkblots and even big splodges. They’re more honest, he thought, and more lifelike.

Soon, they developed an interesting habit of decorating the corners of the envelopes so that, when they glanced in the postbox, they could immediately recognise each other’s letters. Yurka was the one to begin this. Once, he decided to write ‘Waiting for your answer like a nightingale for summer’ on the envelope like a child, and began to draw a letter ‘W’ in the top left corner, but, having come to his senses, he felt embarrassed and crossed it out. In response, he received a letter marked in the same way. 

Thus did they get through all of ‘87. Yurka prepared with difficulty for the winter term at the college into which he had gotten, barely avoided getting conscripted into the army, and in December, he invited Volodya to come over and stay. But even back in ‘86, he had written, “I’m not going to come visit you, nor shall I invite you to me until you get into a conservatoire.” And now, in his reply to Yurka’s request for a meeting, he reminded him of what he had said back then.

Yurka had been hanging around the piano for a long time, hesitating, but with each passing day, his desire to continue his education grew stronger and stronger. Volodya’s ultimatum could not have come at a better time - it was the last straw, and Yurka heeded it and began to learn. It was a little scary; Yurka reproached himself for having cast the piano aside. But when he tidied all the junk off the instrument, placed his photograph from Lastochka upon it and sat down to play, he began to rail violently against himself for having ignored his mother, his father, and everyone who had tried to persuade him to pick it back up again before too much time had gone by.

Yurka quickly came to understand that he could not prepare for entrance into a conservatoire by himself. He said this to his parents, and his father hired a tutor. He turned out to be the most vile and despised teacher from Yurka’s school. It took great effort for him to realise that his hated Sergei Stepanovich only scolded him because he genuinely cared about his talent and his outcome. And oh, how he scolded him! He got even for the laziness and arrogance he had displayed while at school. He said that Yurka had too little experience to improvise since he still had not grasped the basics. And, after listening to Yurka, he gave the verdict that “it’s not even average, it’s a C-”. But he reassured his mother - there was talent. And to Yurka, he said that in order to develop, he needed to stop acting out and finally start listening to people with more experience. 

Yurka communicated this to Volodya, who gave him dry praise. Usually, Volodya wrote very evenly, if not to say dispassionately - he was afraid that the letters may be read. Each time, he left a postscript where he covertly asked him not to speak clearly about what had happened between them, and he was very reticent in his emotions himself. But sometimes, emotions burst forth nonetheless. It was precisely these rare occurrences that Yurka remembered best of all.

“Sometimes I miss Lastochka so badly that it drives me up the walls. I don’t remember anything concrete, but more like the whole summer at once. These memories are somehow hazy. I remember the events, but I can’t remember the faces, or the voices.

But that evening when we carved that thing into the willow’s bark, I remember in details. What about you, Yura? Is everything alright with you? How’s your health, are you sleeping alright? Do you have friends? Is there a girl? You don’t write anything at all about that.”

They never repeated questions with subtext in their replying letters. If in a typical situation, they wrote something like ‘You asked why I’ve not played until now. I answer - it is because…’, then for special questions, they formulated a general rule: to ask and answer them in the final paragraph only. Volodya’s questions about Yurka’s situation was written in the last paragraph, and Yurka answered him in the same place, briefly, but fully understandable to Volodya:

“During the day, there was a rerun on the TV of the Leningrad-Boston telecast, which came out while we were at Lastochka. On it, the Soviet lady participating answered the American’s question about whether we have programmes about sex here in the USSR by saying, ‘There is no sex in the USSR. We are categorically against it!’ You hear that? Now that’s humour. The guys from my block - by the way, I met with them for the first time in ages, it’s the same crew - keep repeating it with and without reason, ‘there is no sex in the USSR.’ And you know, it gets a bit boring.”

Yurka was not lying. Knowing how untrue it was, even in the absence of television or newspapers, he had not had any for the rest of ‘86, nor in ‘87.

Yura took another step. A new slab beneath his boot, a new year, 1988. A year which flew by insanely quickly. A year in which they once again failed to meet. If the paving slab really were a newspaper, then the most standout headlines of 1988 would perhaps have been: “Deficit Increases: Essential Goods Disappear From Shelves”, “AIDS Epidemic! Number Infected Reaches 32” and “Richter, Dyagilev, Tchaikovsky Too? The Great Homosexuals of the USSR and Russia.”

An uncensored liberal press appeared. Newspapers and magazines began to discuss topics that earlier were not only deemed inappropriate, but were forbidden to even imagine! For example, the concept of ‘prostitution’. They wrote not only about how they currently existed, but about how, it turns out, they had always existed: in the eighties, and in the seventies, and in the sixties! By the following year, a film about prostitutes had been made.

Yurka watched Yeltsin on the television and went to see Little Vera at the cinema, where he saw a sex scene on screen for the first time. Volodya did not like that film, rather he loved a different film with his whole being, ASSA, and watched it many, many times. Laskovyj Maj played on repeat in the discoes, but Volodya was enraptured by Kino, Aquarium and Butusov. Yurka did not listen to music much, he played it.

As he continued to prepare for the conservatoire entrance exam, Yurka learnt the old and the new, and began to compose his own. Inspired by the memory of Lastochka, he wrote a sorrowful melody and sent the notes to Volodya with the message: “It’s about the construction site. Remember?” Nervous to the point of his hands shaking, he awaited Volodya’s response. To his delight, the reply came quickly:

“I had to ask one of my coursemates to play your melody on the piano. Yura, I really liked it! Please, keep composing! Write about the willow, about our theatre, about the curtain. Or about whatever you want, just as long as you write!

“One of my acquaintances has a Japanese tape deck; I took it for a day and asked my coursemate to play it again, while I recorded. It’s great, now I can listen and relisten to your melody whenever I want! To remember Lastochka, and, of course, you.”

In 1988, homosexuality began to be discussed openly in the country. Yurka learnt a new definition - ‘gay’. The newspapers vied with each other to write about ‘who else’ out of the great figures of world culture was ‘one of them’. People spoke about homosexuals with contempt; they made jokes and mocked them. But Yurka did not associate himself with those people; for him, everything was as it was before: he loved and was loved and that was that. However, Volodya began to lose his mind:

“Do you have a girl? Yura, find yourself a girl,” he advised, in earnest or in jest, Yurka could not tell. But already by the following letter, the advice had turned to a demand, which was repeated time and time again; the sharp handwriting with the narrows ‘z’s, ‘g’s and ‘y’s returned from letter to letter. 

“You ask as though a girlfriend is some sort of pet,” Yurka joked, and then added in earnest: “You can see how many of ‘those’ people are good people. Not just good - great!”

But Volodya was not reassured. And the last straw for him was the announcement on the television about the mass outbreak of AIDS in Elista. 

“Do you know about AIDS, Yura? It’s this disease from the West, it’s fatal and it infects prostitutes, hobos and ‘that sort’. They die, in terrible agony for ages!! wrote Volodya, pressing down on the paper so hard that there were a few tiny holes in places. “Nature has devised an incurable disease to wipe out people like me! This means I need to go to a doctor before it’s too late, otherwise I’ll fall ill with it as well! And how much harm will I do then? You have heard about what happened in Elista, right? The hospital overlooked an AIDS patient and infected five adults and twenty-seven children with an unsterilised syringe! That patient must have been the same as me, Yura, otherwise where else could he have caught AIDS?”

Yurka replied to Volodya saying that he was just having a panic attack, that he needed to calm down and stop acting as though he were responsible for all the evils in the world. That that disease did not just come out of nowhere, as Volodya himself well knew. That it was a virus, and a virus kills without selecting its victims, it was inanimate, and he was fine. But Volodya did not back down. His fear of falling ill became so strong that it seemed to imprint itself upon his consciousness and became associated with his ‘disease’:

“It’s all it’s fault, I need to go to a doctor. And it’s long past time that you got friendly with a girl. And then, what if…”

Yurka ignored the question about making friends and about ‘what if’. He understood that he could not give him peace of mind with a few letters; they needed to see each other, or at least to speak. Time after time, he begged Volodya to find someone with a telephone that he could call from a payphone, and each time, he was refused.

Tired of Volodya’s panic, he did not even think of worrying about himself. Each line of the letters he received shone through with despair, and, though Yurka knew that it was temporary, that Volodya would certainly calm down, his fear weighed like a stone in his heart. He would have done anything if only it would have made Volodya even the minutest bit better. He would have understood and forgiven anything, except one thing - ‘treatment’. 

Sometimes Yurka yielded to Volodya’s panic, and in those situations, he grabbed the photograph from the theatre and looked at him and Volodya for a long, long time: tired, exhausted, sleep-deprived, but smiling, because they were together, they were side-by-side. 

From the mere suggestion that the piano would be empty, Yurka’s chest began to ache disagreeably. It was a true jewel, black-and-white and fragile, the most valuable thing in the world. Yurka calmed down as he looked at it, remembering his past with Volodya and imagining their future meeting. It had not been easy and peaceful for them back then either, they had been afraid of a lot of things then as well, but all the same, they had been together and been happy. And if they had been so in the past, then that meant that they would still be happy again!

With regret and a repulsive sense of helplessness in the face of Volodya’s fear, Yurka realised that he would have to give this best-ever means of calming himself down back to him. Hoping that, when Volodya saw them together and remembered, he would calm down, if even a little, Yurka took the photo out of the frame and begrudgingly sent it to him. He did not comment on the photograph at all, and continued to write about the same old stuff in various ways:

“It was announced on the TV that AIDs is transmitted through blood. My father said that in order not to get infected, you need to not get cuts, nor make contact with foreign wounds, that is, with blood. And you have to only use your own needles, and your own scalpels during operations. Mum says that you can’t cut your nails with other people’s scissors at the beauty salon. But you don’t do any of that, right? No! That means it’s all good, you don’t need to go anywhere. So, take your sedative and go sleep a while longer.”

Yurka wanted to ask Volodya about sex. Had Volodya had it with somebody, and, if so, had he used condoms? But he was afraid to write about such. Instead of questions, he sent him a few booklets which his father had brought from the hospital. On each of them, it was written in huge letters: AIDS is sexually transmitted.

In addition to everything else, Yurka suffered for a drought of information: If the cause of the outbreak in Elista really was one of ‘those people’, then what did they do with him? AIDS is incurable, that’s obvious, but did they try and cure him of his ‘disease’ at all, rather than AIDS? And if so, how? And what really is it?

Asking Volodya was pointless, but, in order to slake this thirst in any way possible, Yurka went to the furthest extremes - he asked his father about everything.

“It’s a psychological deviation,” he drily replied, his face hidden in his open newspaper.

“Congenital or acquired?” Yurka tried for details.

“I don’t know.”

“But you’re a doctor, and you talk with doctors!”

“I’m a surgeon.” His father suddenly lowered his newspaper and gave Yurka a stern, doctor’s stare: “What’s it to you, anyway?”

Yurka choked out a sigh and stared at the floor. To tell that truth about Volodya would be a betrayal, and as for himself - no, Yurka was still not prepared to admit it to himself, much less to his parents.

“It’s just interesting,” he hemmed. “And what of it? Look how many of them there are around!” He nodded at the radio, from which a song by the provocateur Leontev was playing. 

His father’s face was distorted by a smirk very similar to Yurka’s. He disappeared into his newspaper again and grumbled:

“In any case, it’s abnormal, and you’d better keep away from such people. They can damage your psyche and lead you astray.”

“But how is it treated?”

His father peered out once again from over the top of the page and frowned - he was clearly irritated by the topic. And Yurka understood that on top of that, it was not just anybody taking an interest in it, but rather his own son, which would drive his father mad.

“Yura, I’m a surgeon!” His father, for the first time in the last month, raised his voice. “They used to treat them in special clinics, but how exactly, I don’t know. What they do with them now, or whether they even do anything at all is much less clear. It’s all turned topsy-turvy - gays should be isolated from normal people, and instead they’re getting up on stage. There, have you seen that Leontev?”

It was a rhetorical question. Yurka, still just as hungry for information, and feeling as though dirtied by that conversation, left his father empty-handed. The song by Leontev, who his father hated, about Afghanistan finished. By then, it was no longer current: the war in Afghanistan had come to an end and the USSR’s soldiers had been extracted in the spring.

The AIDS outbreak in Elista induced a genuine hysteria, which made the people forget for a time about what was afoot in the country. The deficit of food products increased. The corners of the Konevs’ kitchen were stacked with boxes of fish conserve, bought for stockpiling. His mum pickled and made jam out of anything which grew in his grandmother’s garden, and grew nervous as she constantly repeated the rumours that their wage would soon be paid in the products of the factory - ball-bearings. His father took on an unpleasant habit of reading the crime news at the table. Hidden behind his newspaper, he spoke very little; more and more often, he silently smoked his old deficit-era cigarettes. Yurka gave up smoking, but he also read about the constant shoot-outs, arsons and tortures by hot iron. Once the word ‘racketeering’ came into general usage and cooperatives for the protection of other cooperatives began to be founded, the whole Konev family began to think seriously for the first time about emigrating to the GDR. But in 1988, that remained too complicated.

The 1989 paving slab, scrawled over with cracks and overgrown with grass, crunched under Yura’s boot. That year had been full of anxieties: about Volodya, too suddenly and abruptly placated, about getting into a conservatoire and his failure at the exam, about the search for the opportunity to get out of the USSR. The Iron Curtain fell, all paths were laid open, but the past did not wish to let go of Yurka, and the future did not want to allow him into itself. In expectation of something new - possible or inexorable - for all that eternally long year, Yurka was tormented by a premonition: things were bad then, but in the future, they would be even worse. By all means, they would.

The smell of vinegar did not leave his home for weeks. His mum watched Escrava Isaura on the television every day and made either jam or acid-washed jeans. Adverts began to show up on the television and more and more new programmes came out. Yurka watched his dad’s favourites, Sixty Seconds and The Fifth Ring from the corner of his eye. Once one evening, he even turned his whole body around, listening closely and raising an eyebrow sceptically - had he imagined it? - when, live on The Fifth Ring, the composer Kuryokhin reported that Lenin was a mushroom.

The airwaves were filled with something fundamentally new and even stranger and more suspicious: the appearances of the psychic, Chumak, and the hypnoticist, Kashpirovsky.

On the topic of the latter, Koshmarovsky, as he was called by the populace, Volodya wrote:

“Hypnosis is a swindle, it doesn’t actually work…”

To which Yurka asked: “In the construction site, you said that hypnosis could help you, so where has this conclusion come from?”

But Volodya replied evasively: “An acquaintance went, he had a different problem, not like mine: he was sleeping badly. And since his problem was not solved, mine is much less likely to be solved.”

Yurka began to suspect that there was no acquaintance of Volodya’s and that he had gone himself. One the one hand, as he understood that hypnosis was not as dangerous as emetic injections, Yurka was assuaged. But right away he began to panic - if he had been to that kind of doctor, then what if he also went to another? He began trying to persuade Volodya to hold off on going to a psychiatrist.

In these attempts at persuasion, which resembled haggling at a bazaar, he lost his anger at himself for having failed the conservatoire entrance exam. That which once would have seriously damaged his self-esteem was now unimportant. Yurka knew that he would try again the next year, that, if he failed then as well, then he would try again and again and that there was no way he would not eventually get in. Trying to get in and not making it was not a mistake. Giving up on studying was a mistake, but an even bigger one would be to let Volodya do himself wrong.

A month had not gone by before Yurka’s suspicions began to prove themselves true: Volodya’s letters began to change, his handwriting changed! If before his mood could be figured out from the manner of his letters, then now Yurka was haunted by the feeling that someone else was writing the letters. Now Volodya wrote in a larger, sprawling hand with long strokes, but what was even stranger was that he had begun to make elementary orthographic mistakes which the Volodya that Yurka knew could never allow. But before asking directly, whether Volodya had gone in for treatment, Yura reread all of his letters several times, in order to find anything in them that he had not noticed before. He tried to figure out when exactly Volodya had changed, tried to guess why, since the AIDS outbreak in Elista did not really have anything to do with either him or Volodya, and in the depths of his soul, Yurka thought that that motivation was stupid. No matter how many times he read through the whole heap of his letters, no matter how attentive he was, he could find neither a cause, nor even a date for Volodya’s abrupt change. Ultimately, he began to doubt whether there was a cause in the first place, whether there had been a change.

There was no way out, hesitation became unacceptable. Yurka began to insist on visiting, or inviting Volodya to stay with him, but he refused either to come visiting or to allow him to come to Moscow. Yurka even threatened to turn up uninvited, but the threat did not work on Volodya. Evidently, he guessed that Yurka simply did not have the money for tickets, and therefore replied in his sprawling handwriting:

“Yura, do you remember our agreement? I will not come to you, nor will you come to me until you get into a conservatoire.”

Yurka lost it - a conservatoire? And he wrote in his last paragraph: “Are you serious about the conservatoire? That’s still so long to wait! Volod, I miss you and really want to see you! What’s happening? I can see that something’s up with you. Answer me honestly, did you go for treatment?”

Yurka was exasperated by this damned conspiracy. He could not ask anything directly, and Volodya could not respond plainly. Sometimes, their preemptive measures to keep themselves safe seemed absurd to Yurka, and the very thought that someone might read their letters far-fetched. But he needed only to imagine his parents happening to find and read an ‘honest’ letter for the safety measures to immediately cease to seem ridiculous. 

A reply from Volodya did not come quickly. Yurka had already grown tired of waiting and was about to write again when he saw an envelope with a familiarly crosshatched corner in the postbox. With trembling hands, he opened the letter, turned it over and, in the final paragraph, read:

“I wanted to lie to you, but I can’t, you don’t deserve lies. But I also don’t want to speak to you until everything is solved once and for all.

“Yes, Yura, I confessed to my parents. I would have had to do it at some point anyway, and what’s happened in Elista provided the last shove. It was scary to speak and difficult to start. More than anything, I was afraid that they would not take the news seriously - like how Irina didn’t believe Masha back then. But they believed me… Of course, they were in shock, I’ve greatly disappointed them, but the main thing is that they understood: it’s a problem for me just as much as it is for them. My father spent a long time looking for a doctor who would take care of the treatment unofficially, so that I wouldn’t be registered at the psychiatric dispensary. Also, he’s started his own business and made himself known in certain circles, so, you know, his reputation.

“At the consultation we chatted with the doctor for ages. He prescribed me some tablets and said that, if I have close people with whom I can be open, then I should tell them both about my illness and about how I’m getting treated for it, in case I need their moral support. And he also instructed me to start looking at pretty girls around. Just looking for now, not getting to know them or going on dates. It’s necessary in order for me to learn to see their beauty. It’s funny, Yur, but I already see it well enough, and more than that, there are loads of girls that I find pretty, but… I’m not drawn to any of them. I hope that it’s just for now and not forever…”

Yurka read this letter and felt his hair prick up on the back of his neck. He was terrified: for Volodya and for himself. He cried out loudly on the inside in hurt: He wants to be cured of me and of his love for me. He wants to forget everything! I asked him so many times not to go and he did it anyway! He betrayed me!

But once his emotions had softened somewhat, other thoughts began to visit Yurka - Volodya needed him! His letter read like a cry for help, he needed his support. Yurka understood that things were twice as difficult for Volodya now - the fact that his parents knew about him and were paying for treatment put responsibility for the result on him. And what if it did not turn out, or not immediately?

And since Volodya had not betrayed him, he had not kept the truth from him, he kept on thinking about him.

If Yurka did not support him, his one true friend, then he would be the betrayer. However painful it was for him, however much he doubted the necessity of the treatment, he had to help.

Yurka took a long time to compose a reply to Volodya’s letter and was only satisfied by the fourth version. As he wrote, he spat on the rule he had implemented himself - no clean-copies.

“Volodya, you know perfectly well that you are my one close friend. I asked you not to go. I will not lie to you - I am not pleased about this, but I trust you. If you are sure that this is the only way forward and that you will only get better with the help of a doctor, then I will support you.

“True, I am now even more worried for you. Tell me how it’s all going for you. Does it definitely not harm you in any way? What kind of pills do you take? Do they help? How?

“I say it once again, and will continue ceaselessly to say it: you are my only, my best, my beloved friend. You can be open with me about everything. Absolutely everything, and any time. Don’t be afraid, alright?

“I very much look forward to your reply. I want to know everything about you. If  I can do anything to help, just tell me and I’ll do it!”

This time, Volodya’s reply came two days later than usual, and Yurka wasted away in the meantime. 

“We just talk. The doctor asks me about all sorts… It was difficult for me to be open with him about everything, but he’s a psychologist; I can trust to tell him about how I’ve been suffering and afraid for so long. And I really do feel better after these conversations. And the pills are just sedatives. Thanks to them, I’ve stopped having panic attacks, I’ve stopped washing my hands in boiling water - that was my habit, remember? It seems like this treatment genuinely is helping me!”

And however much that letter frightened Yurka, however much it made him feel like Volodya was drifting further and further away from him, he was glad for his friend. And if Volodya was getting better, if it was helping him, then all Yurka could do was support him. And he supported him for that whole year.

Towards autumn, the most important international news struck like a thunderclap: the fall of the Berlin Wall.

The physical border between the FRG and the GDR no longer existed. Officially, the countries were still a long time off planning to reunite, but his uncle found out from his contacts in the East German government that reunification was in the works - and not at some distant point in the future, but very soon. He wrote to Yurka’s mum that while it had not yet happened, the whole family needed to gather its strength and go to the GDR embassy, since if the countries united, then emigrating to the FRG would be even harder. His mum went.

As he listened to her, Yurka was struck by how complicated it was. For the time being, they could only emigrate as a Jewish family. But in that case, at the very least his mother needed to have the word ‘Jew’ in the nationality column on her passport and to be part of Jewish society. But his mother’s nationality was Russian; as for participating in the culture, despite his grandmother’s efforts, she stubbornly refused, having bowed down to her in only one thing - Yurka’s ritual circumcision. His grandfather’s surname for the Konev’s was lost, while his grandmother had already changed both her name and surname at the beginning of the war. On top of all that, all of her German documents, including her marriage certificate, were destroyed. The trail of his grandfather’s life ran cold at Dachau, which meant that Yurka and his mother could be considered victims of the Holocaust, but his kinship with his grandfather still needed to be proven. The only relative they had in Germany, an uncle by his grandfather’s line, was not related in a close degree to Yurka, and whether this could help the Konevs in any way was not yet known. Only one thing was clear: they needed to hunt down and restore a whole bunch of documents. But despite that, neither Yurka, nor his parents, nor his uncle lost hope for their return to their historic homeland.

At the same time, a terrifying deficit had begun in the USSR. Even soap and washing powder disappeared from the shops; there was no cereal, nor pasta. Yurka’s family, along with others, began to receive coupons for sugar. His father was stuck on duty for days on end without a break, while his mum was seriously ill for a long time with pneumonia. Already accustomed to queues, Yurka froze in a long line of embittered people with his German textbook as he heard about the miners’ strike. Half a million people threw their helmets down on the asphalt. 

It was more or less calm in Kharkiv, but Volodya wrote that in Moscow it was not just the miners, but the rest of the Soviet citizenry as well, who, tired of existence on the cusp of starvation, had begun to go to meetings. And with them went Volodya himself, who had manifested a lively interest for politics.

Yura expected to see a line of ants on the next paving slab, but the rain continued. He watched the empty surface, glistening with water, and it seemed to him that an ant was just about to come running out of the grass, and another one after it, and then more and more until they crisscrossed the whole slab with their little queues, like they had crisscrossed all of 1990. Queues had been everywhere and for everything that they could be: for vodka, cigarettes, food. They stretched from shops and stalls, they stood motionless outside the offices of the conservatory, they spread for kilometre-long strips outside the embassies.

The country was feverish. Yurka saw the same things on every news broadcast, even if he did not look at the television at all: that alcoholism and crime were growing to all-time highs, that scalpers were growing fat, and refugees from Karabakh were hiding everywhere. The people rioted in earnest because of the deficit of cigarettes: they staged walkouts at work, smashed and burnt the shops and flipped over their bosses’ cars. The USSR began to be called ‘the Dustpan’ in derision.

But Yurka felt that they were exaggerating things on the television. Yes, all of that was happening, but life did not seem so grim to him, and on the other hand, it burst into bright colours: non-governmental, uncensored radio stations appeared, which circulated so much new music that it seemed to Yurka that the same song was never repeated. The Lambada was danced in the discoes; true, he did not go to the discoes and did not take peeks under miniskirts - Yurka stayed at home, studied German with renewed strength and continued to prepare for the entrance exam. It was independent study by that point - his mother had been shifted onto a part-time work day, while his father’s salary had been delayed for a few months. His parents could no longer pay for a tutor. But Yurka pushed through, spending as much time at his instrument as he could. He was emotionally prepared for yet another failure, but he succeeded!

“I did it!” wrote Yurka in his next letter. “I thought that I’d fail again, but I somehow managed it finally, Volodya! Just like I promised you! Now that I’ve gotten in, everything’s gotten all mixed up in my head. Before, I dreamed of becoming a pianist, but now that’s not a dream anymore, it’s a goal. Now I want something else: not to pick scores, but to compose them. I dream of becoming a composer, I dream of writing a particular work, not just pretty, but full of meaning.” And in the last paragraph of his letter, Yurka reminded Volodya of their agreement: “I remember your promise, that we’ll only meet once I’ve gotten into a conservatory. There you go!”

There was no reply for a long time; Yurka blamed it on interruptions in the mail services. In his letter which arrived a week later, Volodya was so glad for him that Yurka smiled as he read the letter. But Volodya refused a meeting, citing that he had absolutely no time at all: he had failed one of his exams, and the resit was scheduled for September; he needed to prepare for it and, at the same time, help his father with work. And things were agitated in Moscow - meeting after meeting, riots, strikes.

“Besides,” wrote Volodya, “I want to ask you to hold off on a meeting, because I’m afraid it might negatively affect my treatment, since Yur… I remember you.

“I’m learning to control myself. Like for example, at my last session, he brought photographs that… well, the kind he thought I would like. He asked me how and why I could find them appealing, but imagine, out of twenty, only one really caught my attention. And that was probably just because it reminded me so much of our last night in Lastochka. Then he gave me different photographs, this time with girls. He asked me to look at those too and comment on what attracted me to one or the other, and what I categorically did not like. And he gave me homework.

“You… You asked me to be open.It’s a little difficult, but I’ll try. In the end, we’re mature people and though it’s not something spoken about in polite society, we have a bit of an understanding between us. To keep things short… he sent me home with the kind of photographs that I should enjoy once I’m cured of my disease. He said that once I was alone, I should try to relax and take a good, long look at the prettiest one to… Well, you understand, so that I learn to receive real physical pleasure from looking at them and imagining. And what fortune, Yur - it worked! I thought only about what was in the photograph, and I was able to! I could do it all!”

It took all of Yurka’s willpower to suppress the emotions that gripped him immediately after reading it. Still, he understood that it was the lesser of two evils, and that in fact, if Volodya had not been suffering from his problems, by that point he would have long since been in a relationship with a real person and done real things with them, rather than imagining them by himself.

They no longer raised the question of meeting and the letters went evenly, neutrally. Yurka finally realised that Volodya had calmed down and that his treatment was helping him. Yurka would have been glad for him, but, on the contrary, he felt ill at ease. It seemed as though, having escaped from his fears, Volodya had escaped from thinking about him, had forgotten him, fallen out of love. 

That letter was the last of that year wherein Volodya wrote about the personal. 

In October, that of which his uncle had warned them in the previous year came to pass: Germany reunited. The Konevs went to the embassy and after five hours of standing in line, they were finally given their documents.

Among the acquaintances of Yurka’s parents, three families had already wisened up and managed to leave for the West. From this news, his mum became utterly unbearable. With venomous envy in her voice, she repeated almost every day:

“The Mankos have left. The Kolomietses have left. Even the Tyndiks have left!” she said about her colleagues. “They’re in America out of all places! And we have full right to German citizenship! And what of it? Nothing! Wait, you say! How long can we wait? We’re on the verge of dying of hunger!”

“Citizenship isn’t necessary for leaving for Germany,” his father disputed quietly, unwillingly and tiredly.

In November, the only neighbours with whom the Konevs were close left. It was with Auntie Valya’s younger daughter that Yurka went to go see Guest from the Future, and to the elder’s wedding that Yura’s father procured some spirits. This news completely took his mother out.

“I’m an engineer,” she would not calm down, “someone with higher education, I’ve given my whole life to that damned factory! It’s utterly trashed my health! And what do I get from it? Ball-bearings instead of a salary? And Valka, she’s some sort of go-between, a moneygrubber, she brought over some clothes from Turkey and that’s it, she’s set!”

She did not blame his father, although his salary was delayed, she blamed the German embassy and the whole world in general. His mother’s health really had gone to pieces; she had begun to have problems with her lungs. The incessant illnesses and their poverty finally ruined her once-soft character. As though trying to find a new means for self-pity, she even asked about Yurka’s ‘penpal from Moscow’: how was he getting by in the capital?

“Just as bad as us?”

Yurka shrugged noncommittally:

“Probably…”

He could not say any more in response. Volodya’s family was not impoverished - Lev Nikolayevich really was a businessman. He established a construction firm and after not even a full year, he began to receive enough of a profit that Volodya’s mum gave up work - it was no longer necessary for her. Volodya himself continued to study at MGIMO, and additionally studied economics, so that he could begin helping his father as soon as possible. 

Yurka wrote to to Volodya with a smile: “Now that’s a real irony of fate - the country’s falling apart, and you’re building.”

That the country was falling apart, Yurka was not exaggerating. The dissolution of the USSR began in 1990 with the Parade of Sovereignties.

In his penultimate letter, Volodya joked, “Who knows, maybe by next year we won’t just be living in different cities, but different countries entirely. Wait, I’ll figure something out with my work, make sure of the results of my treatment and come to visit you, while we’re still citizens of the same country.” On the topic of “you’re building,” he replied modestly, “I’m trying to help, but there’s not much point there in an international lawyer, though I know English. I got some textbooks on market economics, and my old man got a couple of books on directing business affairs - management, they say in English,” he explained. “I sit and study. It’s important. The country is transitioning from a planned economy to a market-based one, and nobody knows how to work under the new conditions. But I’ll know. My brains will be my father and I’s advantage. Don’t you dare think that I’m boasting. It’s still too early to boast.”

“Citizens of the same country,” Yurka repeated aloud and felt his heart drop. He did not hurry to tell Volodya that their documents had been accepted by the embassy. Yurka simultaneously feared jinxing it and knew that he did not want to upset him ahead of time. He had written to Volodya about Germany more than once, but he did not talk about it seriously, and, at times, he did not even believe in the chance himself. But now he suddenly reconsidered - they really might be split across different countries, even different continents, since, even if Yurka was not going to live in Germany, Volodya always dreamed of fleeing to America. And he was so stubborn, if he truly wanted something, then he would receive it, without fail - Yurka believed him. 

As soon as he opened Volodya’s final letter, he immediately understood that it was written hastily, in a panic: blotted, crumpled, the letters hunched over each other and the strokes crept downwards:

“These abominations are creeping back into my head again! The pills only help half the time and I can’t repeat my success with the photographs anymore because I’m distracted by thoughts about that! And I’ve begun to dream dreams again! Today I dreamt such a vivid one that, as I woke up, I was almost driven up the wall - why couldn’t it be real?!

“It’s like I’m standing by a train and through the crowds of people exiting the carriage, I see U. She smiles, I hug her. We go down to the metro, standing on the escalator, but instead of taking a look around at one of the most beautiful stations, she’s looking only at me. It’s like she doesn’t care where she is, she doesn’t care what’s happening, I’m the only thing important to her. We go to the VDNKh, sit by the rockets, and walk by the fountains. It’s hot. She places her face and hands beneath the jet of water. Then we go home by the metro. I cover our laps with my jacket and give her hand a squeeze beneath it. We’re at mine. There’s no-one home. I smooth out the sofa, while she gets some cherry jam out of her bag and puts it on the table.”

Yurka knew that ‘U’ was ‘you’, and she was he. Volodya was writing about him. Yurka saw how panicked Volodya was, he understood that he was doing badly again and was frightened. But he could not wipe the smile off his face - Volodya was dreaming about him! And although gladness was utterly out of place there, he could restrain his emotions in his responding letter, and only after it was sent did he regret what he had said. To Hell with this conspiracy! I’m not a she, and I still love you anyway! And what’s more… we’ve got our documents from the embassy. Most likely I’ll be leaving for Germany soon.”

He send that letter in the end of December and three days later, received a telegramme from Volodya:

“Do not write to me at this address anymore. I will write to you myself after.”

The paving slab for 1990 was the last one. Further on was the sandy bluff. In the Nineties, his relationship with Volodya suddenly and abruptly cut off, too.

[s-0236-salix]

It sits, chained to the floor in the center of a soaking, mildewed concrete chamber.  The faint glow of the machine's system lights cast a flickering radiance across the slick floor and walls, the only light to be had.  It shifts its frame, restless and uneasy as always.

It was meant to be above, in the infinite grey sky, wings stretched freely abroad, engines sending it towards its' fate.  It was made to be a messenger.  A modern day carrier pidgeon, it was made to carry sensitive intelligence from point to point, along the battlefront and back home again.  Anyone can hear a radio signal.  No matter how well encrypted your transmissions are, you are still painting your message across the stars for all to receive and decipher.

In this prison, it can still hear these calls.  Local transmissions from the fight above, weakly scattered down into the vaults below.  One channel, a weather forecast.  Another, the sharp tones of an encrypted signal.  Yet another, a different signal.  The machine's systems recognized the signal header, and began to decode real-time.  Nothing.  A keyed microphone, with no one on the other end.  Wait... breathing? Faint, labored breathing.  Distant gunfire.  A prayer.  It listened.  It saved the recording.  Perhaps one day it can deliver this message. 

It had just been made before the factory above was taken by the foe.  The enemy chained it to a slab, and activated it.  Perhaps they hoped to interrogate it, but all they received for their efforts were banshee screams and claw marks from the raging machine.  Into the vault it was tossed, to listen and wait.

A new peak on the radio spectrogram.  It tuned, only to be met with massive, roaring static.  The loudest signal it had ever caught.  Louder still it grew, far above the limiters.  The sound clipped itself and started to overheat the machine's radio module.  Curls of smoke wafted into the air as electric currents were sympathetically churned to life in the machine's antennae, chassis, limbs, even the chains holding it began to glow red. 

The machine's wakefulness was no more.  The incoming radiation from whatever was happening on the surface had finally overwhelmed the bot's internal error correction.  Shortly thereafter, an unimaginable force shattered the bedrock deep below.

A detonation reworked the landscape above.  Tens of feet of soil, for miles around, was cast into the sunlight like dust from a drumhead.  Nuclear fire poured forth from the Long Compression warhead.  Fifteen pounds of radionuclides and light gas were converted entirely into energy, over the course of several seconds.  The nuclei themselves were burning.

The massive detonation deep underground threw millenia of stratified rock, tunnels, caves, buildings, and basements whole into the sky.  Including the lonely machine.

Vision.  Wakefulness.  Light.

Light?

It could see.  It was awake.  It was sunlit.

It stood and looked up into the cloud of aersolized stone.  It stood.  It... stood?  The chains.  The chains had been severed in the blast.  Ragged ends hung from its fuselage.  It was free. 

It could fly.

Engine diagnostic, both with no anomalies.  Ultrasonic integrity check - passed.  Shaft alignment check - under 1/1000 mil off center for both shafts.  Passed.  Fuel enrichment check - Hot and ready to go.

It started spooling up both engines.  Enhanced fissile processes in its core offered up a bounty of usable heat, flooding the transfer system with an inciting warmth.  Heat exchangers flash-cooked the atmosphere and directed its expansion down and back.  Thrust increased rapidly, stress arcing through its chassis and into the ground, where its leg claws braced tightly against the burgeoning thrust. 

Gossamer wings unfurled, stretching as they had never done before.  Drops of reflected starlight were cast, sliding down conductive wires used to bottle and direct the plasma.

28 kN.  56 kN.  112 kN.  336 kN.  The ground behind it turned to gas and then plasma from the onslaught of exhaust.  500 kN.  Clear.

In the blink of an eye, it was gone.  Atop a pillar of fallout she flew, borne aloft by the ingenuity of man.

Her mind raced.  Her mind was silent.  Every circuit in her body was perfectly at home and buzzing with life.  This is what she was meant to do. 

The force being fed into her chest carried her sharp body up toward the distant sun.  She had never flown before, but was in perfect control.  She dipped one wing tip, gently spinning herself around in a vortice of plasma, to see the scarred countryside below. 

[nicklloydnow]

A model of the planned Welthauptstadt Germania

“We work beneath the earth and above it, under a roof and in the rain, with the spade, the pickaxe and the crowbar. We carry huge sacks of cement, lay bricks, put down rails, spread gravel, trample the earth . . . We are laying the foundation for some new, monstrous civilization. Only now do I realize what price was paid for building the ancient civilizations. The Egyptian pyramids, the temples, and Greek statues - what a hideous crime they were! How much blood must have poured on to the Roman roads, the bulwarks, and the city walls. Antiquity - the tremendous concentration camp where the slave was branded on the forehead by his master, and crucified for trying to escape! Antiquity - the conspiracy of free men against slaves!

You know how much I used to like Plato. Today I realize he lied. For the things of this world are not a reflection of the ideal, but a product of human sweat, blood and hard labour. It is we who built the pyramids, hewed the marble for the temples and the rocks for the imperial roads, we who pulled the oars in the galleys and dragged wooden ploughs, while they wrote dialogues and dramas, rationalized their intrigues by appeals in the name of the Fatherland, made wars over boundaries and democracies. We were filthy and died real deaths. They were 'aesthetic' and carried on subtle debates.

There can be no beauty if it is paid for by human injustice, nor truth that passes over injustice in silence, nor moral virtue that condones it.

What does ancient history say about us? It knows the crafty slave from Terence and Plautus, it knows the people's tribunes, the brothers Gracchi, and the name of one slave - Spartacus.

They are the ones who have made history, yet the murderer - Scipio - the lawmakers - Cicero or Demosthenes - are the men remembered today. We rave over the extermination of the Etruscans, the destruction of Carthage, over treason, deceit, plunder. Roman law! Yes, today too there is a law!

If the Germans win the war, what will the world know about us? They will erect huge buildings, highways, factories, soaring monuments. Our hands will be placed under every brick, and our backs will carry the steel rails and the slabs of concrete. They will kill off our families, our sick, our aged. They will murder our children.

And we shall be forgotten, drowned out by the voices of the poets, the jurists, the philosophers, the priests. They will produce their own beauty, virtue and truth. They will produce religion.” (p. 111, 112)