#IT WAS IN THE RECYCLE BIN THOUGH!!!

[guard-ener]

literally one person asked for this, so you get to see all the talk sprites i have (so far, i'll make more at some point, maybe tomorrow)

yeah, i made the flowers wild or go up depending on expression

edit: please for the love of... idk... Guardener having a broader spectrum of expressions..? tell me some feelings that she might need... i suck at picking expressions that aren't inherently negative and or neutral, there's only 1 that she's happy in TLDR: tell me some faces that are happy. (it's 1am, i can't think of anything rn)

[epicdogymoment]

ok december ending soon time to look back on the yeawow my year was not good for real life me. good thing that the me in real life is just a projection of my actual body (im living in my mewchuals puters (like a vocaloid))

[spicysucculentz]

not the ra’s coming to do health and safety checks when I was high off my ass last night!! I was trying so hard to act normal

[lydiacatfish]

Ugh I think I accidentally recycled an unopened amazon package while doing my cardboard purge. This happens literally every time! Someone force me to open my amazon packages when they arrive!!!!!

[bacchicly]

You know how I said I am usually the type who throws things in a bag at the last moment? But this time I was going to pack ahead of time?

Not this time.

[rosieblogstuff]

It's true. We ARE here. 😭 So very very here.

[ceilidho]

prompt: it's been a month since you managed to run away from them. your luck had to run out eventually. tags: noncon, darkfic, ghoap x reader, previous kidnapping implied, stalking and hunting down reader. i am begging you to read the tags before reading this, thanks. 4.4k

-

You pay for the motel room in cash. Always cash. Never a paper trail if you can help it. Nothing that could ever tip anyone off if you didn’t want them to be tipped off.

You haven’t been on the run for long. Maybe a month, tops—but after the first week, the days and nights have begun to blend together like watercolours. You don’t do much during the day apart from sit in your room and wait for the night to come. Sometimes you venture out if you’re low on food or if the itch under your skin grows severe enough that you know you need to buy a fresh set of clothes and dump the ones you came into town with. 

Freshly dyed and cut hair. Jackets two sizes too big to make you seem larger than you are from the back. You’ll never be able to change the face god gave you, but you make an effort to obscure it when you can—surgical masks on public transit, heavy sunglasses even indoors, a deep mauve lipstick (purchased, again, in cash at the local pharmacy) to make you seem, from a distance, like someone else. Anyone else.

Sometimes remembering that it’s been a whole month since you escaped, since you got out, leaves you winded. You have to hold onto the wall in your pay-by-the-night, ratty, hole-in-the-wall motel room to keep from toppling over. A month without spotting one of them in pursuit of you feels next to impossible. Almost impossible. You still don’t let yourself think that you’ve fully given them the slip, that you’ve gotten the better of them. There is no getting the better of them. There is no outmanoeuvring the two men that—you’ve learned through painful trial and error—do not let up when there is still the trace of a scent.

And everything leaves a scent. Even you.

You sleep in the bathtub instead of the bed for fear of bedlice; these days, your neck has an ever-present kink that needs to be worked out. It’s bound to get worse though. It’s not like you can stop in this town now and call it home, not when you can feel them hot on your heels. 

You change in gas station bathrooms when you run. You’re learning a kind of awareness of cameras and eyes that you never would’ve developed before. You do not smile at cashiers. Your face becomes blank, unrecognisable. The goal is always that you fade into obscurity the second you step out of the shop, so that no one could ever identify you to the two terrifying men haunting your shadow. Even if they wanted to. 

Paranoid isn’t the half of it. When you hear a car pull up outside your motel room door, your body drops a whole degree and sweats like a night terror has found you in the waking world. You only relax when you hear a door four rooms down slam shut. Then you shake so hard that you swear you can hear your bones rattle.

This isn’t a life. It’s life like the promise of a tomorrow is the only thing getting you through today. 

You get on buses with no idea where you’ll be getting off. Pattern disrupter. In the months that you lived with them, you learned something. If your movements are scattered, they become unpredictable—harder to track down. You force them to stay behind while you skitter off, forcing them to review video footage, question people, even sift through garbage and recycling bins for any sign that you’d been there. 

It doesn’t make you any less nervous. You know they’re like hunting dogs. You’d love to believe that you’ve tried their patience enough for them to abandon the chase, but thinking like that gets you caught. Complacency will get you caught faster than anything.

The money folded and sealed in an envelope in your bag is dwindling though. Even for as frugal as you’ve been, food costs money—clothes cost money. Boxes of hair dye and bus tickets cost money. And you can’t stay anywhere long enough to hold down a job to recuperate what you’ve lost.

It feels hopeless. You trudge back to your motel room after grabbing a bite to eat at the pub down the road and feel like maybe this is purgatory. Maybe you died a long time ago, long before you got away from them, and this long path you’ve been burning across the country is just the long descent into the underworld. You let out a sigh, squeezing your eyes shut for a second by the door before unlocking it to go inside for the night.

You trip over something. It catches you so off guard that you almost break your nose on the carpeted floor, arms almost not swinging out in time to catch you. 

“Whoops. Sorry, kitty—took a lil’ tumble there, huh?” a familiar burr says from somewhere behind you by the door. “Gotta watch where you step.” He chuckles a bit under his breath, pulling back the leg he’d stuck out to trip you. 

Your body goes ice cold on the floor. The door clicks shut behind you; the deadbolt sliding into place is deafening in the silence. The thick knot in your belly expands until you think you might throw up. The only nonsensical thing you can think is that you hope the motel manager won’t be upset that you’ve ruined the carpet. 

You hear the muffled sound of knees hitting the floor and then a hand tangles in your hair, wrenching your head back. “Oh Jesus, look at the state of her, Lt.”

“Looks like she’s seen a ghost.”

The second voice is rough, like logs rolling over water, clattering into each other. It comes from the other end of the room, way into the darkness. They didn’t bother to turn the lights on, perhaps in an effort to make sure your guard was down. Fear grips the inside of your chest. Behind you, Johnny holds your head up high enough that you’re forced to stare at the patch of darkness from which Ghost materialises when he flicks on the bedside lamp. 

On the surface, he sounds almost amused, but as long as it’s been, you’re still attuned to the undercurrent of anger in his voice. His patience has been tried over weeks of chasing after you. He almost looks like he’s put on mass since you last saw him over a month ago, but that could just be the perspective of looking up at him from the floor. His face is still covered in the same half skull mask as always, exposing the shaved blond hair on his head. His eyes are narrowed though, terrifyingly mad.

“Poor baby,” Johnny murmurs, nuzzling into the back of your head. He props himself over you, not leaning his whole weight down onto your prone body, but trying to get as close as possible to you while still forcing you to stare up at Ghost. “Did we give ye a wee fright? Is that why ye ran off? I missed ye so, so bad, baby.”

“She ran off because she’s been spoiled,” Ghost snaps. He sits on the edge of the bed and it creaks under his weight when he shifts a little closer to the edge, leaning closer to where you’re lying on the floor. 

“I ken, I ken, Lt,” Johnny sighs, plastering sloppy, wet kisses into the side of your neck, fitting his mouth briefly into the crook of it, into the meat of your shoulder. “Cannae help myself, she’s just so—ah, kitty, am really sorry but you’ve really pissed Simon off.”

“No—no, please—” you gasp, breath splintered into short hitches. “H-how’d you—how’d you e-even find—”

Johnny shakes you by the hair, a bit rougher than usual. Anger finally leaking out like a drip from a loose spigot. You yip at the pain. “Of course we were gonna find you—Lt, ye hearing this? She thought she could outsmart us.”

“Pet’s don’t know any better,” Ghost says dismissively. It makes you feel queasy to hear him say that like you’re not even in the room. “Needs a lesson in not making us run halfway across the country after her. Get her on the bed, pup.”

“No, no, get OFF—” you try to yell, then gag when Johnny shoves two fingers into your mouth, pushing them almost to the back of your throat. 

When the urge to choke abates, you close your teeth over his fingers, flirting with the idea of just biting all the way down and taking them off. Only the fact that you’ve never done something like that before keeps you from instinctually biting through. Johnny laughs breathlessly when he feels your teeth flirt over his fingers though.

“Bite down,” Johnny dares you, voice quivering with smugness and rage. “Bite down ‘n see what happens to ye. Have nae gotten my cock wet in a fuckin’ month because you’ve been gone and Simon—”

“Quit talking to the pet like she understands,” Ghost snaps, finally standing up, towering over the two of you. You can’t help staring at his mud covered boots still rooted in front of your face. “On the bed. Now.”

You howl when Johnny takes his fingers out of your mouth and wrenches you to your feet, struggling when he coos and frogmarches you to the bed. No matter how hard you struggle though, you can’t break the way he has your arms twisted behind your back. It’s a short walk too, only a few steps, and then Johnny shoves you roughly onto the bed, clambering over you again. His hand forces your face into the mattress, not paying any mind to the way you grunt because your nose bends uncomfortably against it. 

“Always fuckin’ whining,” Johnny growls into your ear, fully pissed off now. His anger is electric, rippling down the length of you. “On and on and on—’n I’ve been so fuckin’ good to ye. Have nae even been a little mean. Being a fuckin’ brat to me and leavin’ me and makin’ us hunt ye down like dogs.” 

You can hear that he’s working himself up to a fever pitch, growing angrier and angrier. It terrifies you to think that you’re trapped under him, nowhere to go. Somehow, it’s a mercy when the bed dips again under Ghost’s weight and he pulls Johnny back by the shoulder, giving his cheek a little tap when Johnny growls and tries to bend back down. 

“You have all the time in the world with her, pup,” Ghost says, giving Johnny a rougher shove. “Get undressed. Can’t fuck her in your civvies.” 

“Yeah…yeah, yer right,” Johnny mumbles to himself, getting off you. 

Your head automatically twists over your shoulder, eyes following him. It’s easy to see in the spare seconds you get before you try to make a break for it again that he looks haggard, beard grown out a bit more than usual. Ghost usually makes him keep it short and tight, but apparently weeks on the road have tempered that military expectation a bit. 

His eyes are wild, electric blue, hardly blinking for how hard he stares at you. You tell yourself that you haven’t, on some small level, missed his pretty face. His arms bulge around the tight shirt that he easily strips off, pulling it off one handed from the back of his neck.

You hear him kick off his boots somewhere in the distance, but when you try to scramble off the bed, Ghost tips you over onto your bed and presses you down with a firm hand on your shoulder. He’s a bit less dressed now—hoodie pulled off and boots and jeans piled on the floor somewhere. Mask off. Familiar scars cut across his face—old burn marks and white spidery lines of fresh skin. Rougher than Johnny, not a pretty man; maybe without the layers of scarring he’d be a proper masculine kind of handsome, but with them, he only seems dangerous. Someone to avoid. 

He doesn’t say anything when he stares down at you. He says enough like that. He looks over his shoulder, away from you. “Johnny?”

“Lt?” Johnny’s at attention now, stripped naked and eager. When you glance down, his cock is already flushed and hard, excitement making him almost vibrate.

“Help me get her naked and then you’ll get her mouth, alright?”

You’re already struggling before the words come out of his mouth, frantically trying to push Ghost off you and opening your mouth to scream—the piercing shrill of it bleats out of you for half a second—before a big hand wraps around your neck and Ghost turns back to you. It shuts you up in a heartbeat. Not once in the months you were with them has Ghost looked half as terrifying; you’ve had a belt taken to your ass until the blood pooling under the skin almost burned, you’ve been manhandled and roughly positioned and been bent into shapes that your body could only just accommodate, but you’ve never, until now, actually worried for your safety somehow. 

“You scream—” he starts, moving his hand up just a little to grab you by the jaw and twist your head to make you stare at the bedside table, where a glock lays flat under the glow of the lamp, “—and I shoot anyone that comes through that fuckin’ door. We clear?”

You nod once. Sweat pouring out of every other gland, but the saliva running dry in your mouth. You lick your lips and swallow, hummingbird heart going wild in your chest. 

“Thank you, thank you, thank you,” Johnny mumbles, coming up behind Ghost to wrap his arms around him as best he can, planting a row of kisses into his shaved head. “Missed it so bad, I need ta—need ta—”

“Her clothes, Johnny. Take ‘em off.”

You only put up a little fight when Ghost works on unzipping and pulling down your jeans. It feels hopeless to try. Johnny almost tears your shirt in two to get it off, only being a bit gentler when you yelp. He can’t help groping at your chest when the shirt is pulled off you and tossed somewhere else in the room, big hands fitting over your breasts and plucking your nipples, twisting them like you’re just a toy for Johnny to play with. He slithers down onto his belly for a second to pop a nipple into his mouth, switching between kissing and sucking at the beaded nub like he can’t tell what he missed more.

Your panties get ripped clean in two. The sob comes out of your chest unbidden, tears finally spilling out. Ghost’s patience seems finally at its end. His eyes are black even in the light, all pupil. Your legs try to close instinctively, but he slots himself between them so you can only clamp your legs around his waist, stuck staring at the way his hand reaches for his boxers only long enough to pull the elastic under his balls. His cock is so heavy with blood that it droops, the tip dewy. 

Your nipples gleam with spit when Johnny finally takes his mouth off them, sitting back on his haunches and spreading his legs. It’s all happening so fast—there isn’t a right place to look. Either the monstrous cock between your legs that already has you feeling twangs of phantom pain knowing that Ghost isn’t going to even bother stretching you on his fingers before fucking you, or the pretty cock that Johnny is already rubbing against your lips, painting with his precome. You flinch when you feel Ghost spit on your sex; he doesn’t try to rub it in.

“Simon” he pants, fingers tangling in your hair again to keep your head still when you try to turn away. “Simon, please, can I—I need ta come so bad. Please, please.”

You almost say something and then Ghost pushes his cock in to the hilt in one brutal plunge. Your mouth opens on a ragged gasp and Johnny keens, fingers clenching so hard in your hair that he almost tears it out by the roots. The tip of his cock stays flush against your lips, even split open on your gasp.

“Please, sir, please,” he begs, tears pooling in the corners of his eyes. Aching and desperate. Holding himself back only because he needs permission to put his cock anywhere in you, just like he did all those weeks ago back in their house out in the countryside. The one you thought you thought you’d escaped. 

Ghost chuckles, groaning at the feel of your tight cunt squeezing his cock. “Go ahead, boy. Give your cock a squeeze.”

That’s all it takes. Johnny pushes past your lips roughly, no finesse or gentleness at all. Maybe the capacity for it is gone after going without you for so long. You choke when the head of his cock hits the back of your throat, tears making your vision blur. Johnny preens and gushes over you, unable to stop babbling about how hot and tight your throat is, how much he missed it. 

“Oh shit, sir, she’s—” Johnny gasps, sinking into your mouth again and again, sweaty hand still clutching your hair. “Oh fuck, oh fuck, oh fuck.”

You feel close to the point of breaking, tight after a month on the lam, too tight for someone Ghost’s size to shove their cock into you without prep. You tell yourself that at least he bothered to spit on you, but lube would help a lot more. Too bad for you. His hands fit over your waist and hold tight, making sure you know that there’s nowhere for you to go. The first few thrusts are rough but slow enough to keep you from tearing—a small mercy, but probably not for your sake.

“I get—I get her pussy after, right, sir?” Johnny asks desperately.

“Dunno, Johnny,” Ghost muses, licking his lip. His thrusts get more brutish, faster; your teeth would be clacking together if Johnny’s cock wasn’t stuck halfway down your throat. “Gonna be a bit sloppy. Might not be tight enough for you after this.”

“S’okay, sir,” he whines, glancing back down at you. Fingers petting your cheek and tracing over your throat, trying to feel himself from the outside. “Jus’ need…oh fuck, please, it’s so good—oh Christ, missed it. I’ll take anythin’, sir, please.”

“Christ, alright, puppy. You can have a turn after. Been a good boy, huh?” 

You can only stare when Ghost lifts a hand from your waist to reel Johnny in by his mohawk, tugging him in for a wet kiss, still thrusting into your pussy all the while. Just a toy between them for their cocks while Ghost licks into Johnny’s mouth and mutters sweet nothings to him. Johnny moans into the kiss, sucking Ghost’s tongue when it’s offered to him and looking dazed, come-drunk. All fucked out and flushed, hips unconsciously pumping forward, just absently rutting. 

“Got our girl back, right?” Ghost murmurs, letting go of Johnny’s hair to smooth down his head and neck, making him preen. “Such a smart puppy.”

“Yeah, I’m good, sir.” He sounds out of his mind, slurring his words. Praise gets him like nothing else; it’s not easily given by Ghost, not handed out for nothing. “Did good…’m a good boy…”

The corners of your lips feel like they might crack. It’s hard to be careful with your teeth when you’re so overwhelmed, but luckily Johnny doesn’t mind it a bit rough. He hiccups when your teeth scrape over his cock a bit. He lips at Ghost’s mouth, dragging his tongue over the scar that bisects the corner of Ghost’s lips. When Ghost finally pulls away from Johnny’s mouth, a thin string of saliva pulls and then bends with the distance, finally snapping off and leaking onto your chest. 

Your flinch and squeak draws Ghost’s attention back down to you. 

You try to think of yourself looking down on the three of you instead of in it, but it’s hard. For as much as it seems like you’re just a toy between them, Ghost makes an effort to get you off, slipping a hand down to jiggle his thumb over your clit, rubbing it just the way you like. It’s sick how well he knows your body by now, how it takes almost nothing to push you to the edge of coming, core tight with the heat of it. 

“Gonna come?” Ghost taunts, scooping a hand under your ass to tilt your hips up, hitting a spot inside you that has you seeing stars, cunt flexing over his cock. You garble around Johnny’s cock as if to say something, but all it does is make Johnny groan and slump over you, holding himself upright with a hand on the mattress. His abs flex every time he fucks into your mouth. “Pussy this close to coming—you must’ve starved it. Good thing you didn’t let someone fuck you while we were looking. Woulda torn them apart.”

You can see the real threat in his eyes at that. There’s no way you would’ve, but the real danger of it crackles in the room. You feel like you’ll slip and touch the third rail if you so much as twitch under his glare. His jealousy at the thought makes him look like an angry god, chest heaving with every breath as he fucks you. 

“My baby wouldnae—” Johnny gasps, sinking his cock all the way into your throat and groaning at the squeeze, “—no, Si, she’s—ah, fuck me, ‘m gonna—fuck, fuck—Si, she wouldnae do that to us. No fuckin’ way.”

“She’d have a lot of making up to do then, huh?”

“She’s a good girl, sir, ‘promise. Oh, jus’ look at her,” Johnny gushes, sweat dripping down onto your face from how he’s curled over you. “So, so pretty. Maybe I dinnae take her…take her on enough walks.”

“Yeah…” You feel your skin crawl when Ghost stares down at you, not convinced. “Of course, pup.”

You know there’s no way he believes that. When they drag you home, you don’t think you’ll see the sunlight for weeks, never mind have Johnny take you on ‘walks’. Ghost’s smothering presence will take on a whole new meaning; he’ll snuff out the sun before he lets you walk in it alone ever again. 

Someone in the room adjacent to yours slams their fist into the wall a couple of times, jolting you out of your thoughts. The headboard must really be knocking against the wall. Ghost and Johnny ignore it though, Johnny so close to coming that he can hardly even form a sentence, solely focused on spearing between your lips. You can feel Ghost reaching his end too, fucking you with a single-minded intensity. Breath snorting out of his nose like a bull. The hair on his chest is matted with sweat, curls whorling around his nipples. 

You almost choke when Johnny comes down your throat without warning, hilting his cock until his balls brush your chin and his hand in your hair tightens painfully. He groans, drawn out and long, pained. It splashes against the back of your throat, almost familiar. You’ve done this before. You can do this without falling down a cliff and never climbing back up. 

He pulls his cock out before he’s finished, striping your face with come, twitching when he has to hold his cock from how sensitive it is. You instinctively close your eyes, grateful when you feel his come tag your eyelid. 

You hope it’s almost over, but Ghost hasn’t come yet and you know it’s going to get worse before it gets better. When Johnny pulls away to collapse onto his back on the bed, trying to catch his breath and dragging his hand over his stomach, Ghost hunches over you. He drags his tongue over your cheek, wet and nasty, and your brain almost switches off when you realise that he’s licking Johnny’s come off your cheek. 

“There we go,” he snarls, feeling you flex around him, the little tell-tale spasm of your approaching orgasm. “Atta girl—gonna come on my cock? A little wet sorry for running away?”

You try to say something, but your throat is raw, voice too hoarse for words. Even your lips feel puffy, swollen. Talking hurts. It doesn’t matter though, Ghost doesn’t wait for your response. He pumps into you like a machine, pulling his cock all the way out before pushing back in again. Your stomach cramps with the worry that he might miss and try pushing into the other hole.

You wish there was a way around it, but you can’t avoid it slamming into you, a white hot wave cresting over you. You come so hard it hurts, milking Ghost’s cock and pushing him over the edge too; he pants harsh, animalistic sounds into your throat, cutting himself off by sinking his teeth into the meat of your shoulder instead, making you howl. There’s no condom to keep his come from pumping into you; just a big, heavy man smelling of gunpowder and salt hovering over you, elbow propped on the mattress beside your head and making you go a bit crazy at the scent of him everywhere around you. 

He peels himself off of you after what feels like an hour, soft cock pulling out of you and making you clench down on nothing. You didn’t remember how much being empty can hurt. You try to roll away from him and onto your side, maybe squeeze yourself into a fetal position, but Ghost collapses down beside you and plants a hand on the centre of your chest, holding you in place. Never any respite. 

You croak a tired little, “Ow.” All it does is make Ghost snort softly.

Your body feels like one livid bruise in the aftermath, limbs loose at your sides. You couldn’t move even if you tried, even if you thought you could make a break for it. It would hardly be worth it. You let your eyes slide shut when Ghost runs a hand up and down your chest, a little comforting gesture. 

“Simon,” Johnny whines from beside you. Your brows scrunch, annoyed at his voice breaking the silence. “Please.”

You hear Ghost sigh. “Now?”

“Cannae wait—please.”

You wait to hear Johnny and Ghost get up. Maybe there’s something they have to do—maybe they drove to the motel and there’s still something in the car. 

A hand grabs you by the hip.

“Turn over, pet,” Ghost instructs, flipping you onto your stomach without waiting for you to acquiesce. “Promised Johnny a turn with your pussy before we leave.”

Your eyes go wide.

[wlntrsldler]

poisoned mercury | everybody talks

a/n: don't love this chapter. definitely a filler, but the next chapter is much more fun!

iii. everybody talks by neon trees

series masterlist | previous | next

tagged chrisr0driguez, travisstoll, and connorstoll.

lukecastell4n: little break but we'll be back so soon poisonedmercury

poisonedmercuryfan: new music????????

castell4nsgf: omg im excited

stollsluvr: ME TOO

chrisr0driguez: we miss you guys already!

lukecastell4n: fr, we miss seeing your beautiful faces on tour :(

travisstoll: working hard

lukecastell4n: hardly working 🥱

connorstoll: give me my guitar back

lukecastell4n: no

--

“mornin’ five star,” luke tossed you one of your probiotic drinks from the fridge as you entered the kitchen. 

you caught it seamlessly, mumbling a quick thank you. it wasn’t even seven am, but the two of you were already awake. it became a routine since it seemed like you both had the same idea. your coach told you that you needed to workout, even though you were on probation, in the off-chance that you’ll be allowed to play again when the season starts. you figured that the campers would be enjoying their vacations and sleeping in so you’d have the community gym to yourself. unfortunately for you, luke castellan was an early bird. 

your gym schedules synced up and you often found yourself having to make small talk with him in the kitchen while you filled up your water bottle before you ditched him to head to the gym. he would trail a respectable distance behind you, giving you your space, as he walked to the gym. the two of you did your separate workouts, sneaking glances at one another because it was a little awkward that you lived together, went to the gym at the same time, but didn’t talk to each other. 

it wasn’t for a lack of trying on luke’s part. he’d tried to talk to you a few times, but it seemed to not be a good idea to start a conversation before you had your morning coffee. it was funny for the first few days, but he was afraid that it would quickly cross the boundary of being quirky and cute to being straight-up annoying. he lived with you and he showed mercy to the rest of your cabinmates by not pushing your buttons. too much. 

he still occasionally indulged in bickering with you, which seemed to be all of your conversations. you always found something new to argue with him about. your dad was right about you being hard-headed and stubborn, but for some reason, luke didn’t mind. his days at camp were fun, at least, as fun as a summer camp could be, and your interactions kept him on his toes. the usual schedule of meals, rehearsals, and attempts to write new songs, became repetitive after a few days, but with you in his face, ready to argue at any moment, it felt like there was something to look forward to. 

you took the foil off your drink, downing it in one go. you tossed it in the recycling bin before turning to him, “do you go to the gym at this hour to spite me?”

luke chuckled, cracking open a red bull, “the word doesn’t revolve around you, you know?” 

“i know that,” you rolled your eyes, “but you can go to the gym any time in the day and you choose to go at the ass crack of dawn. why?” 

“it’s peaceful,” he shrugged, “the machines are empty and i don’t have to wait. it’s nice.” 

“that’s why i go this early.” 

“see,” he smiled, tilting his head. “great minds think alike.” 

you grimaced at his comparison, scrunching your face up. the sun was beginning to rise causing an orange glow to cast on your face. despite waking up so early and sleeping so late– he’d heard you come in with clarisse at 3 am this morning after a late-night smoke session, luke couldn’t see a trace of tiredness on your features. luke envied you. he definitely did not look that good after 3 hours of sleep. 

you fixed the zipper of your sweater, adjusting the bottom of it to better fit your hips. you were wearing a tight-fitting workout outfit, black nike pros, and the usual vans you wore when you worked out. your hair was in a high ponytail keeping it out of your face, which was a good thing. he’d seen how intense your workouts were and you definitely didn’t need to have your hair in your face while you leg pressed 275. 

“i just feel like i see you everywhere,” you commented, “and everyone just wants to talk about you.” 

luke’s eyes twinkled, “what do they say?” 

“luke castellan is so talented, luke castellan is so hot, blah, blah, blah,” you imitated the words you’d heard from other campers, sighing in discontent. “like shut up already. i thought that it would die down after the first day of you guys being here, but it’s been a week and it’s the same thing.” 

luke followed you out the cabin door, walking beside you for the first time since you both started going to the gym at the same time, “well, do you agree with them?” 

you stopped in your tracks, turning to face him. your eyes raked over his face and his body, contemplating. you weren’t blind. you understood why people said what they said about him. luke castellan was attractive with his curls and toned arms and his stupid full lips, which seemed to always be in a smirk, but the hype was too much. and poisoned mercury’s music was good– great even, but you needed to hear something other than how muscular luke castellan was or how his scar made him look rugged or how his voice sounded like angels singing. you were at your breaking point.

luke stood there, rocking back and forth on his toes and the balls of his feet, patiently waiting until you made up your mind. your lips formed a tight line, “i don’t see it.” 

“fuck, five star,” luke scoffed, unable to stop the smile on his face. he shook his head, curls bouncing around, “you sure know how to make a guy feel special.” 

“don’t need to fuel your ego any more than everyone else does,” you replied, continuing your walk to the gym. 

you didn’t seem to mind that luke continued to walk beside you, which was progress, in luke’s mind. his bandmates have been on his ass about trying to be friends with you since the rest of them developed friendships with you and clarisse over the week they’d been here. 

he’d seen you on the couch with chris watching tiktok videos on how to properly take care of his curls a few times. (luke was not stealing some of the curl cream that chris bought per your recommendation. his curls just suddenly became a lot more defined recently.) he watched you play darts with travis at the activities center and argued with him about why he didn’t need to buy a dart set for the cabin. (he agreed with you there. there was an incident in atlanta where connor was sent to the er because travis managed to lodge a dart in connor’s calf after losing a game.) he once saw you, clarisse, and connor return from a swim in the lake in the middle of the night when he stayed up trying to write a song. (the song remains unfinished on his notepad, tucked safely away on his bedside table. he had no inspiration to write any music at the moment.) 

again, it wasn’t for his lack of trying. you just didn’t seem interested in forming a relationship with him outside of being roommates. it was getting to him. just a little bit. he found himself thinking of you a lot. the boys started to comment on how he hadn’t gotten with anyone at camp yet, despite getting numerous offers from older campers and head counselors alike, but luke shrugged it off and said that he didn’t want to start drama so early on in the summer. it wasn’t a lie, per se, but it wasn’t the whole truth. for some reason, he just couldn’t get you out of his head. 

“i can’t control what people say,” luke said after a moment. “i’m sure it must be so annoying to hear about how great i am.” 

“you are so full of yourself,” you groaned, shooting daggers in his direction. this made him laugh. “you know what you can control, though?” 

“what?” 

“the mess you make in the cabin,” you replied, “seriously, you guys have been here a week and the cabin already looks like a fucking frat house.” 

luke thought about the state of the common area. you were right. the cabin was a mess, empty cans everywhere, crumbs on every surface, and wires from the playstation scattered across the living room floor. the boys weren’t the neatest, they were teenagers after all, and luke had to clean up after them more times than he could count. having his mom on tour meant that he often got stuck with clean-up duty. 

“hey, don’t blame me,” he raised his hands up in defense. “i recycle.” 

“aren’t you a model citizen?” you remarked sarcastically, opening the door to the gym. you pursed your lips, staring at luke. “yeah, i still don’t get it.” 

luke snorted, smiling at you, “have a good workout, five star. looking forward to walking home in silence with you.” 

when you didn’t say anything else, but threw up the middle finger as you walked away, luke couldn’t help but stare at your figure before you disappeared from his view. what a way to start his day. 

– 

“hi, luke,” two girls called as they passed by the boys, waving flirtily at the lead singer. 

luke sent them a smile back, tossing a wink to them that made them giggle as they walked away. it was a miracle that there were no news leaks about where they were. luke’s mom was happy that this arrangement was working out. 

travis swung an arm around luke, “c’mon castellan, save some girls for the rest of us.” 

luke pushed his arm off, laughing, “trav, didn’t you literally go home with a girl on our first night here?” 

“ah, yes, stacy,” travis sighed, dreamily, smirking to himself as he recalled his first night at camp. he shook his head, facing luke again, “but seriously, castellan, ten girls have said hi to you since we left dinner and you’re flirting with them but not doing anything about it.” 

“i promised my mom i’d be good this summer,” he shrugged, stuffing his hands in his front pockets as he led the boys into the cabin. “and i told you guys, it’s too early to start shit. we got the whole summer. spread out your escapades, stoll.” 

luke thought that being back at camp half blood would bring back some terrible memories, especially his last summer there. it was the summer right after his dad left and luke was miserable. he was a moody 8-year-old who yelled at everybody who tried to be his friend, which resulted in him being alone all summer. he sat in the back of the room during music lessons, refused to participate in the end-of-summer performance, and on many nights, cried himself to sleep because he missed his dad. he felt pathetic. 

but so far, surprisingly, camp was actually nice. at his core, luke was a music fanatic, so it was energizing for him to get to talk about his music and his journey to stardom. his favorite interaction so far was with two, younger boys, who enthusiastically approached him and said that they were learning how to play guitar and sing because they looked up to the band. it was a little concerning at first, given that the band’s reputation wasn’t necessarily kid-appropriate, but he appreciated the sentiment. grover and percy walked away grinning from ear to ear when luke made them promise that they’d stop by again soon to show him their progress. 

luke sat on the bar chair, watching as connor and chris turned on the playstation, mumbling about a rematch on 2k to prove that one was better than the other. many things changed in all of their lives, but some things stayed the same. they were still just four best friends; the difference was, now, they got to travel the world together doing what they loved. 

chris and luke met in their freshman english class. chris let it slip that he was learning how to play bass because his mom warned him that if he broke another bone trying to skateboard, he’d have to walk to the hospital himself. she was joking, of course, but chris figured that after two years of failed attempts at learning how to skate, he should hang it up. 

he decided to try his hand at music and the bass became his new hyperfixation. they started writing music in luke’s old bedroom in connecticut shortly after. for years, the songs were just for them. they recorded it on shitty equipment and used garageband to fill in the instrumentals until they met the stolls. the stolls, luke’s neighbors who moved into town when luke was 16, heard them trying to figure out a hook for a song they were writing and offered some help. travis, with connor behind him, introduced themselves and the rest is history. 

poisoned mercury was born. travis convinced the other three that their music was good, that they should go out and play at local cafes and bars. at 16, luke became the front man of poisoned mercury. the song the four of them wrote together on their first day as a band, became the lead single of their debut album. kilby girl spent thirteen weeks on billboard top 50 and in less than a year and a half, the boys had a record deal with olympus records and they were heading off to start the north american leg of their world tour. 

you walked into the cabin with clarisse, laughing as she explained the incident that caused her to have glitter all over her face and her hair. one of her campers was having trouble opening the glitter jar and when she came over to help, the top popped off and glitter sprayed all over her. 

“i feel glitter everywhere,” she shuddered, “i need a shower before we help out with concert prep.” 

you looked around the cabin, grimacing, “it smells like boy in here.” 

“it’s our bachelor pad,” travis called out from the kitchen. he walked out into the living room with a fresh hot pocket in his hand, eyes widening at the sight of clarisse, “woah, what happened to you?” 

“arts and crafts day,” clarisse cringed, falling into the couch cushions. “i’m gonna be covered in glitter for days.” 

“hey, watch out,” connor paused the game he was playing with chris, shoving clarisse slightly. “you’re gonna get glitter everywhere.” 

“ah, yes, because having glitter is going to ruin the aesthetic of empty cans and half-eaten chip bags?” clarisse cocked an eyebrow, pointing at the mess the boys made. you and her were engaged in a passionate rant about how much it sucked living with teenage boys before your arrival to the cabin. 

“we’ll clean up,” chris rubbed the back of his neck, sheepishly glancing at clarisse. you had a feeling that cleaning was the last thing on their agenda. 

you sat on the bar stool across from luke, “i didn’t expect to live in the mojo dojo casa house this summer.” 

“the what?” 

“from barbie,” you replied, “when the kens take over barbieland?” 

luke shook his head, “haven’t seen it.” 

of course, he hasn’t seen it. clarisse and the boys fell into a conversation about how she accidentally got glitter bombed. luke watched you as you mindlessly scrolled through your phone, occasionally letting a chuckle leave your lips when you found something funny. he felt a little creepy staring at you like this, but he couldn’t keep his eyes off you. 

the sun was shining behind you, a soft glow framing your face and it made your brown eyes look like pools of honey. your nose piercing was iridescent under the light, which made luke’s eyebrows raise in surprise. he thought it was just plain silver, but when you tilted your head in certain directions, he could see sparkles of purple and pink. your long hair was thrown messily over your shoulders, a few tangles here and there, and the god-awful, orange camp half blood shirt you wore actually suited you. luke was a firm believer that nobody looked good in orange until he saw you in it.

“you’re staring,” you mumbled, looking up at him. “don’t tell me i have glitter on my face now too.” 

luke cleared his throat, playing with the chain around his neck, “yeah, like a tiny speck on your cheek.” 

you groaned, rubbing the right side of your face, “is it gone?” 

you didn’t actually have any glitter on your face, but luke figured it would be less awkward to say that you did instead of telling you that he was staring just to stare. he nodded, “you got it.” 

“thanks, i cannot deal with glitter,” you got up, walking over to the group. “hey, we can use some help with prep for next week’s concert if you guys are free.” 

“we’re not doing anything, right?” connor looked around. travis and chris shook their heads. “what about you, castellan?” 

“nah, i can’t,” luke said, “promised mom i’d try to write at least one song this summer and i’ve been in a rut so i think i’ll try to do that. you guys have fun though.” 

“perfect,” you smiled, “we can leave after clar gets out the shower.” 

they sent you a thumbs-up before you walked into your room. clarisse disappeared into the bathroom shortly after. luke took clarisse’s spot once you both left. he propped his feet up on the small table in front of him, leaning back on his seat. he waited patiently for the sound of the showers to turn on before he spoke, “she’s hot.” 

“yeah, she is,” chris said, hitting play on their game. 

“don’t even think about it, castellan. when i said start a relationship with her, this is not what i meant,” connor remarked, shaking his head, “we are not gonna fuck up our relationship with mr. d because you can’t keep it in your pants.” 

“oh, you’re talking about y/n?” the three boys stared at chris, who sunk into his seat, blushing furiously. luke narrowed his eyes at chris, a playful smile on his lips. he’ll have to ask him about that later. 

travis blinked, bringing his attention to his brother, “s’not like castellan has a chance anyway.”

luke’s head snapped to travis, “what’s that supposed to mean?” 

“i mean she’s out of your league, big guy,” travis shrugged. 

“well, yeah,” luke rubbed his jaw. he wasn’t that dumb to believe that you were in his league. you were lightyears ahead of him. he’d been rejected before, of course he had, but not since poisoned mercury got big– again, really bad for his ego – but he’d never been counted out before he even threw his hat in the ring. 

“i’m with trav on this one, luke. don’t fuck it up.” 

luke stared at his friends in disbelief, “can’t y’all have a little faith in me?” 

“no,” they said in unison. 

“fuck you guys,” luke flipped them off, ignoring their snickers. “i’m going for a smoke.” 

he really needed to get you out of his head.

[erwinsvow]

They call you the clueless pogue. The pretty one. 

You don’t care much either way—that comes from years of being Kiara’s best friend, she’s taught you well on how to ignore what other people think and say about you. Maybe you would care more, you think one day, watching JJ and Pope drive each other crazy while trying to fix something that’s inexplicably gone wrong with the Twinkie. John B is swinging in the hammock, eyes closed, empty beer in his hand that is soon replaced with a fresh one by Kie. She drops the old can into a bin that has the recycling symbol drawn on with a sharpie, her own creation. She walks towards you with a can of fruity seltzer since it’s well known with your new friends that you refuse to drink beer—and it all feels very domestic.

You might care about what other people say if you didn’t love your friends so much.

You are a little clueless though—at least the boys think so. They wouldn’t dare to say anything when your protective best friend was around, but when it’s just you and one of them, or all of them, it comes out a little more. 

You wear the kind of clothes that they wouldn’t let a sister of theirs be caught dead in. They never used to care about stuff like that, not until you started hanging around more often. It was the result of absent parents that were only on the island a few months out of the year. The rest of the time you had free reign, and an unlimited credit card that often funded their adventures—gas for the Twinkie, beer for the night, a new outfit to wear to the party. 

JJ gets into a fist-fight with a guy who keeps offering you a drink from the keg, not listening no matter how many times you refuse and grabbing the short hem of your yellow dress to yank you back. JJ doesn’t mean to knock him out—it’s just like instinct, he explains later that night to John B and Pope while you’re sound asleep on the pull-out with Kiara—the way he feels protective over you.

“Are you okay?” Kie asks, and you smooth out your dress from where that guy had grabbed it.

“Only because JJ saved me,” you say, looking at him with big doe eyes and fluttering eyelashes. He swallows uncomfortably.

“No biggie, princess, I mean you know me, I’m a big damsel-in-stress kinda guy-” Kiara rolls her eyes and brings you inside, and he’s left standing there with pink-tinged ears.

He doesn’t tell them about how you were looking around for someone, anyone to help, how scared you look when he touched you, how your face visibly eased when you locked eyes with JJ, how you held a bag of frozen peas to his black eye and kissed his cheek before going back to find everyone earlier. He decides to keep that for himself.

You don’t keep an eye out for your surroundings when you tag along on their adventures either. That’s pretty much John B’s responsibility now, walking towards the back with you. You often start looking around, head in the clouds, staring at the trees and sky and walking right into a pile of mud or a puddle.

“Wow, the air is so clean out here,” you comment while taking a deep breath. It’s said quiet enough that only he can hear you.

“Yeah, pretty girl, that’s because of all the trees.” You laugh and shove his arm, because duh, but you can’t respond because the others are yelling for you two to catch up.

He doesn’t let you lead—you’ve cried over too many ruined shoes for him to risk it anymore—instead he holds onto your hand firmly, gripping tight when he needs you to slow down and pulling gently when it’s okay to proceed. It’s his job to make sure all the bugs are out of the way, that you’re not walking into a spiderweb or running after a butterfly or pretty bird. The others tease you two and laugh, but you still thank him with a tight hug, the thin material of your sports bra not really hiding much, murmuring something about no signs of mud on your new sneakers.

“Yeah, anytime,” he breathes after you’ve already walked away. You turn back to smile at him, adjusting your ridden-up tennis skirt you’d sported today. “Wouldn’t wanna dirty those shoes.”

You make Pope feel like the smartest guy in the world sometimes, without even trying. It’s not like you’re stupid, because he knows you’re not, but when you bite your cheek and tap his shoulder to ask him another question about whatever you were working on, your words start going to his head. 

“So if I wanna save this and put them all together, I just use this program? And I just use the mouse?” you say thoughtfully, repeating his instructions back to him.

“Yes, sweetheart,” and he tries his best to make sure he sounds patient—he’s learned from experience you don’t react well if you even suspect he’s getting frustrated.

Pope watches you play with the thin straps of your shirt before the string idly falls off your shoulder, exposing a swath of soft, sweet-smelling skin to him. Staring at your bare shoulder, he thinks he could never get frustrated at you even if he tried his hardest.  When you finish making your little vision-board on photoshop, you turn to show him proudly, and he is proud, with how well you followed his instructions and weren’t too shy to keep asking for his help. Later that night at the Chateau, you lean against his shoulder with his arm swung around you on the couch and explain what each of the images mean until you fall asleep. 

They’re all playing a game of chicken—wondering which one will be the first to cross that line and suggest something more than just friendship to you. Through empty cases of beer and boys-only fishing trips they’ve briefly discussed to each other that they’re interested, but of respect—to each other, not really to you—they haven’t made the first move just yet. No matter how difficult you make it.

At the beach you help the boys wax their surfboards, taking turns with each one, floating around a little tipsy already from your fruity drink. They’re all talking, but you don’t really pay attention, eyes staring at something in the distance.

JJ covers his mouth, imitating a walkie noise. 

“Hello, uh, earth to princess, over.” 

You turn back to him and his board, dropping the chunk of wax and leaning in. He blanks for a second—your pretty face getting closer, an eyeful of your tits in the tiny bikini you’re wearing today making his head spin. And you’re infront of everyone, which is definitely not how he’d thought he would win this little competition. 

“Do you see that pretty girl over there? Three o’clock?” 

“I see a pretty girl right in front of me,” he says, and you laugh, pushing his shoulder. He doesn’t realize that you think he’s just joking. 

“Jayj, seriously. See her?” He nods, but still doesn’t turn to look. “She’s been staring at you for, like, ten minutes. You should go over there!” 

You’re smiling big, like the idea of another girl talking to him sounds fun. He pulls back from you, confused.

“I need another beer.” He stalks off, walking to the boys while you turn to Kiara.

“What did I do wrong? I’m trying to get him laid-” Kiara rolls her eyes. You turn and see the boys in deep conversation, occasionally glancing back at you and Kie.

“She just told me to go flirt with some girl, like, right in front of her. I mean is this some kind of test?” He takes a long chug of the beer, sounding about as stressed as Pope and John B have ever seen. “Do I fail if I hook up with some rando? Or do I fail if I don’t hook up? It’s Schindler’s cat, man-”

“That’s not-” Pope starts, before being cut off.

“Sorry, sorry. Schrodinger’s kids.”

“No, JJ-”

“What the hell does she mean? So she wants us to hook up with other people?” John B cuts in, looking back at you, but something else on the beach seems to have caught your attention.

“Woah, I’m not doing that, but you two are more than welcome-” 

“Yeah, nice try, Pope. We get with some girl so you can tell her you stayed loyal and win her over? I don’t think so, genius-”

“Well, you’re the one she’s trying to set up so I think I’m pretty safe right now-”

“It’s not a reality show Pope, you can’t eliminate me.”

“Guys,” John B speaks up.

“If this was a show, I’d clearly be the fan favorite and the winner-”

“Uh, says who? I would so win, let’s do a poll right now and survey this beach-”

“Guys.” Louder this time, they listen to John. He doesn’t say anything, just stares into the distance and soon they join him, to see what he’s looking at.

“Y’gotta be fucking kidding me,” JJ says, watching you run into Rafe’s arms, swinging around before giving him a kiss. Rafe pulls away and looks straight at the three of them, while giving them a wave.

[lovings4turn]

જ⁀➴  𝐋𝐎𝐕𝐄𝐑𝐒 𝐑𝐎𝐂𝐊  . . .  (𝐎. 𝐏.)

— when oscar gets a little too drunk to drive home after a party at your place, you offer him a place to stay for the night

+ part of my 'be my valentine' mixtape series ! this was super fun to write - i have such a soft spot for writing for oscar, so

+ mentions of drinking and alcohol

a collage of empty bottles and sticky countertops were the only remaining pieces of evidence that a party had occurred in your flat. just over an hour ago, the small place had been packed with people, some you were close to, and some you were sure you vaguely knew, somehow.

loud music had been replaced by the soft sound of a vinyl playing from your bedroom as you pottered around with a black bin bag, throwing away as much waste as you could without disturbing some of the fuller bottles of alcohol. anyone who threw away a half-full bottle of gin was a sinner in your eyes. 

it was peaceful, finally having some time alone to breathe, to think. well, almost alone, anyways.

oscar stumbled around your flat with a bag of his own, steadying himself against the counter as he collected the leftover beer bottles for recycling. it was endearing, the way he seemed to trip over his own feet every now and then, the intoxication turning him into bambi taking his first few steps.

his usually pink cheeks were flushed a little darker, hair more messy as a few longer strands fell in front of his eyes. clearly putting all of his focus into his task, oscar didn’t even bother trying to push his hair away, succumbing to slightly obscured vision in his already less-than-stable state.

truth is, oscar wasn’t even meant to be staying over.

when you’d invited him to your place initially, he had claimed he would come for a drink or two, but leave early since he was already feeling pretty tired. that plan had went out of the window twenty minutes after he arrived, thanks to logan supplying him with a shot - or four - before he’d even finished his first beer. 

since he’d driven over and was in no fit state to get behind a wheel right now, you’d instantly offered for him to stay at yours. he could take your bed, the couch, wherever he wanted, as long as he stayed. because he wasn’t an absolute idiot, oscar agreed without complaint. 

another thud alerted you to oscar only just managing to catch himself against your kitchen cabinet, having lost his balance once more. you held back a laugh, not wanting to embarrass him, but he caught your eye with a crooked grin.

“are you sick of me yet?” he asked, accent made even thicker as his mouth worked harder to wrap around the sounds of his speech. 

“not at all,” you replied, the words rolling off of your tongue without a second thought.

you didn’t think you could ever be sick of oscar, especially not like this. here he was, absolutely smashed, yet still making an effort to help you out by cleaning up around the flat a little even though you’d insisted you were fine doing it alone. 

anyways, to be sick of oscar right now would make you a hypocrite: you were far from sober yourself. 

a lull fell over you both, the only sound coming from the lovers rock album playing in the other room and the gentle clink of glass bottles. the padding of your sock clad feet was like percussion in the soundtrack of your simultaneous cleaning, and the whole thing felt somewhat domestic as you worked peacefully.

but, you were only human.

it was only a matter of time before you both gave up on the cleaning, vowing to do it in the morning when you were sober and more alert. the last thing you needed was for someone to drop a bottle and make the process ten times harder.

after fumbling for the kitchen's light switch and bathing the room in a cold darkness, you both moved over to your bedroom, the fatigue of the evening suddenly crashing over you.

making it to the bed seemed like far too much of an effort, yet sitting down right in front of the wooden frame was apparently much more appealing to you both.

oscar let out a soft oof as he collapsed onto the floor next to you, folding his legs up to his chest in a way that didn't look to be too comfortable thanks to his taller frame.

motivated by your own selfish wants, you let your eyes trace over every inch of oscar, taking advantage of his more oblivious state. his already sleepy eyes were lidded, and it seemed like he was fighting his own body just to stay awake for a little longer.

because nothing was ever fair, oscar caught your stare. you expected a teasing remark, maybe even a playful expression, yet nothing came.

instead, coffee coloured eyes met your own, softening reflexively as he caught your gaze. there was no mistaking it. oscar was moving closer to you.

just as your lips brushed against his, barely there like the flap of a butterfly wing, the music stopped. as the vinyl cut out, you and oscar were snapped from the bubble you’d found yourselves in, and you both pulled away with a sheepish laugh.

“fuck. two seconds,” you mumbled, huffing a little as you clambered onto your feet and flipped the record over, placing the needle back down onto the disc to begin playing the second side. 

and if you happened to sit a little closer to him when you returned to your previous position, who was to blame you?

instantly, oscar's hand came to sit on your waist, thumb brushing gently against your hip as he dipped his face closer to your own. there were no interruptions this time, and your lips found his like they'd been searching for them your whole life.

and lucky old you had the whole night to savour this moment.

[sofiareidings]

I Can See You

Summary: You and Spencer are in a relationship but have to keep it a secret from the rest of the team. Spencerxgn!reader Warnings: fluff and swearing

A/N: This story is loosely based off of the song I Can See You by Taylor Swift. If you want a really good fic based off the song you should check our @reiderwriter 's masterlist!

Word Count: 0.8k

Song Suggestions: I Can See You (Taylor's Version) (From The Vault) by Taylor Swift

Three months, six days, four hours, twenty-seven minutes, and five seconds. That's how long you'd been dating. But no one knew about it.

Three months was a long time though. In the first couple weeks it wasn't too bad, looks from across the room and nights together were enough. But as the weeks turned to months it wasn't nearly enough anymore, you two were getting more and more desperate and risky.

It was killing both of you more and more everyday. You just couldn't risk it. The need and want for each other was crippling.

***

The team had been in Austin, Texas for two days now, investigating a string of murders. The station was crowded and hot, recycling bins filled to the brim with plastic water bottles and a dozen fans.

Because of how hot it was and the case you and Spencer had barely even talked. Walking down a somewhat empty hallway of the police station you felt a tug on your arm.

"Hey, come here." Turning your head and smiling when you saw who it was. Moving closer while smiling you squeezed yourselves into the small broom closet he had been hiding in.

"Why are you hiding in a broom closet?" You laughed, "And how long have you been in here?" Smiling he ran his hand through his hair, bumping his elbow off the wall.

Spencer went to try and pull you closer but while doing that he smacked his hand against a shelf making things tumble down. Both of you went out of the closet at different times and back to work. Sneaking off as much as possible.

"Way too long." He smiled before leaning in and kissing you, after a couple seconds you were reminded just how long since you two had been like this and the kiss became more passionate.

***

It was late at night and everyone was back at the hotel getting their rest. The team had presented the profile that evening so you all were feeling pretty comfortable.

There was a knock on your hotel door and you ran over, looking through the peephole you grinned and opened the door. Spencer took a quick peek around the hallway before stepping into the room, immediately cupping your face and kissing it softly.

"I thought you didn't get my text." You whispered, stepping back for a moment.

"I have barely seen you these past two days." He said before hugging you tight, kissing the top of your head. "I wish we weren't hiding like this."

"I know, soon. Only a little longer." You assured him while running your hand up and down his arm.

You continued talking until the words were replaced with kissing. You pulled back and started to unbutton his shirt when there was a loud knock on the door.

"Shit, that's Emily." You mumbled and pushed Spencer into the bathroom. Accidentally pushing too hard and he hit his side against the counter. "Be quiet, I'll talk with her quickly."

Opening the door Emily looked around the room, seemingly a little suspicious. "What took you so long to answer the door?" She walked past you and noticed a knocked over bottle. "Did you fall or something?"

"Uh, yeah…" You trailed off as you eyed Spencer's watch on the ground. Moving closer to Emily while kicking it under the bed. "What did you need, Em?"

"Oh, I was hoping you had some eyeliner. Is it in your bathroom? Can I grab some?" Her hand landed on the handle and you ran in front of the door laughing out of nervousness. "What are you doing?"

"It's just, I have some stuff in there. Private stuff, let me get it for you…" She raised her eyebrows, not believing a word you said.

"No, don't worry about it, I won't look at your things." She smiled and opened the door. "There he is, hi Spencer." He was tucked into a corner or the room, hair dishevelled and shirt half on.

"Uh, hi Emily." He stuttered, "Wait, how'd you know I was in here?" You turned to her too. Realising what he meant.

"I mean, was it a secret?" She laughed and held onto the counter for support. "W-wait, you're telling me you didn't know?"

Met with two confused looks, she had her answer.

"You guys aren't as secretive as you think. We've all known for like a month." She stopped laughing and frowned. "Shit, I owe Morgan twenty bucks now."

"Are we the dumb ones?"

Once Emily had enough teasing she grabbed her eyeliner and left. You turned away from the door shaking your head while laughing.

[shiftythrifting]

Some hard thrift, rescued from the local appliance recycle bin. It's a Mitsubishi clock radio. Only picks up AM and volume doesn't work great, but if I knew more about fixing radios I'm sure it's fine. Needs a new arm for the snooze timer though.

Notable because it has no documentation online anywhere! So i felt it was thrifty enough for here.

[spotsandsocks]

Vampire!Buck munching on cardboard because it feels kinda good

Eddie: Wtf are you doing Buck?

😆😆😆

Well that had just put a big smile on my face thank you - and now beloved anon I hope you read this and enjoy (based in same universe as my recent vamp! Buck fic.

“Can I have this?”

Eddie looks over his shoulder to see Buck holding up the box that Christopher’s new trainers got delivered in.

It’s an innocent enough request Buck must need to post something, so he says yes. Why wouldn’t he, it’s good to recycle after all.

It’s odd though because he spots it the next time he’s at Buck’s loft in the recycling bin. It’s definitely the same one because it has the same logo on it. Except it now has several dozen little puncture marks along the edges. Odd but not anything particularly worrying.

Except he finds the same puncture marks on not one but two boxes in the storage closet at the station the following week and then again in a cereal box in his own recycling bin. That one’s been shoved down to the bottom but the wind caught him as he was carrying it all out to the bins so he ended up collecting cardboard and paper from his front yard and staring at the now familiar marks in his own cereal box that he knew he hadn’t put there. It can’t be mice, the bite marks are too big, and that’s what they are bite marks. It looks like a cat has been chewing along the edge, he doesn’t have a cat though. What he does have is a vampire for a boyfriend. A theory starts to form along with a plan to get to the bottom of this little mystery.

He starts leaving out more boxes at home and at Buck’s, also at work to test the theory.

It’s not untill he’s letting himself into Buck’s loft that he gets to the bottom of it. As he walks in he catches sight of Buck behind his kitchen island, the door opening has his boyfriend jumping half way into the sky and spinning so his back is to the door. He had something in his hand. Eddie just catches the sound of something firm but not heavy hitting the ground as Buck turns back around, the perfect picture of guilt.

Trying not to sound too amused he asks his boyfriend casually“what ya doing?”

“Nothing.”

Eddie is well versed in “Buck” and that nothing was definitely a something.

He wanders over until he’s on the same side of the island and he’s looking down at their feet while Buck is looking anywhere but.

On the floor between them is a cardboard box. Eddie stares at his competition.

“Well I can’t say I’d expected to be replaced by the recycling.”

Buck pushes his shoulder with a roll of his eyes and a quiet “shut up” He’s a delightful shade of pink so he must have fed recently.

“Is this another stupid diet?”

Eddie manages to keep a straight face and is rewarded with the reaction he’d hoped for.

“Fuck off! That was a food plan!”

Eddie gives into the grin. “Sure thing baby, and the cardboard is???”

“I just like it ok. It feels good, fun. I like punching the little holes”

Eddie almost loses it when Buck makes a little biting gesture to demonstrate.

“Do you now?”

“Yeah.” Buck shrugs half a smile on his face, “I like making patterns. “

Eddie nods with an amused pout as he starts to unpack the shopping he’d brought over so they could cook, “ok then, don’t let me stop you, nibble away Picasso. ”

Buck scoops to pick up the box and toses it towards the recycling. “You’re hilarious- really”

“At least I know what to get you for Christmas this year.” Eddie smirks at the response.

“Don’t you dare!”

He does dare and gets his ridiculous adorable vampire boyfriend a range of cardboard boxes of various sizes, types and construction for Christmas. Buck pulls a face and throws a pillow at him when he opens his gift but his eyes light up anyway and he starts a range of experiments that keep him happy for hours as he works through the different textures to find out which ones are his favourite.

Eddie watches with a fond and indulgent smile. Chris shakes his head in despair and Buck with a delighted grin finally declares that a medium weight corrugated cardboard provides the superior biting experience by far; at least in terms of cardboard.

He makes it perfectly clear later that his top favourite thing to bite is still Eddie.

[becausegoodheroesdeservekidneys]

So does Wales voting to ditch the Prince of Wales title automatically mean William ain't Prince of Wales anymore, or is there other BS they have to go through first to make England accept it?

Oh, god no, Wales has done no such thing. One of the councils of Wales, Gwynedd, has internally voted on it, basically to gauge opinion and also to make it official where they stand.

Okay, so, super quick and massively oversimplified political explanation: Wales is split into 22 counties, each of which has a council that does its day to day local governing, like when to put the recycling out and picking what colour to make the bins (recycling is a Big Deal in Wales and we are third in the world for doing it so this is a Very Important part of the job and we're Very Proud.) These councils are separate from electoral constituencies, though. Those are almost the same as the ones used for UK general elections, where we would vote for MPs to represent us in Westminster. However, there are more for Welsh elections, and in those we vote for MSs - Members of the Senedd.

The Senedd is the Welsh Parliament. That's where the laws are made in our devolved areas, aka the stuff Westminster is not allowed to decide for us, like education and cheese and recycling. That, if anywhere, is the place where we'd need politicians to demand an end to the Prince of Wales title if they were going to have a chance, because that's where the First Minister is, and he's like... the leader of Wales. Biggest Dog. The one who told the BBC right to their faces that Wales would base its pandemic response on science rather than creating a smokescreen to cover up our personal birthday party scandals. Mark Drakeford, an underwhelming but competent politician who is reportedly very good about packing his shopping away using the packing shelf in Aldi so he doesn't hold people up; which in Welsh people's books makes him Tidy.

Also, as councils go - as regions of Wales go - Gwynedd is the Most Welsh. The Welshest bit. Wales cubed. Uberwales. The land that England forgot. Come to Cymru. I Welsh, you Welsh, he/she/it Welsh. Very Welsh. Much Welsh. So Wales.

This did not require a vote, is what I'm saying.

So, what's actually happened here is that a local government of a single easily won council have agreed that William shouldn't be Prince of Wales in their opinion, and that's their official position. In terms of meaningful impact it's roughly equivalent to a custard pie dropped off a four foot ladder, except the pie was dragon shaped and sang 'O Gymru' as it fell.

HOWEVER.

It IS notable for being an official governmental body that has had the balls to OFFICIALLY tell the monarchy to do one, just as everyone is being very monarchial and shrieking 'Traitor!' at anyone not tearing their hair and beating their breast at the Queen's demise. And as long as it is an official, voted-on position, it opens up some possibilities both for other councils around the country and for the Senedd. If other councils start doing the same thing... it applies pressure. It's all about awareness. It helps grease the wheels of the actual petitions on the subject that are currently gathering signatures.

It helps establish a mandate, basically.

I suspect the next to vote will be either Anglesey, which copies Gwynedd a lot, or Monmouthshire, which will deliberately vote the other way, because their councillors are English. Alternatively nothing at all will happen. But we'll see!

[max-levchin]

Shamir Secret Sharing

It’s 3am. Paul, the head of PayPal database administration carefully enters his elaborate passphrase at a keyboard in a darkened cubicle of 1840 Embarcadero Road in East Palo Alto, for the fifth time. He hits Return. The green-on-black console window instantly displays one line of text: “Sorry, one or more wrong passphrases. Can’t reconstruct the key. Goodbye.” 

There is nerd pandemonium all around us. James, our recently promoted VP of Engineering, just climbed the desk at a nearby cubicle, screaming: “Guys, if we can’t get this key the right way, we gotta start brute-forcing it ASAP!” It’s gallows humor – he knows very well that brute-forcing such a key will take millions of years, and it’s already 6am on the East Coast – the first of many “Why is PayPal down today?” articles is undoubtedly going to hit CNET shortly. Our single-story cubicle-maze office is buzzing with nervous activity of PayPalians who know they can’t help but want to do something anyway. I poke my head up above the cubicle wall to catch a glimpse of someone trying to stay inside a giant otherwise empty recycling bin on wheels while a couple of Senior Software Engineers are attempting to accelerate the bin up to dangerous speeds in the front lobby. I lower my head and try to stay focused. “Let’s try it again, this time with three different people” is the best idea I can come up with, even though I am quite sure it will not work. 

It doesn’t. 

The key in question decrypts PayPal’s master payment credential table – also known as the giant store of credit card and bank account numbers. Without access to payment credentials, PayPal doesn’t really have a business per se, seeing how we are supposed to facilitate payments, and that’s really hard to do if we no longer have access to the 100+ million credit card numbers our users added over the last year of insane growth. 

This is the story of a catastrophic software bug I briefly introduced into the PayPal codebase that almost cost us the company (or so it seemed, in the moment.) I’ve told this story a handful of times, always swearing the listeners to secrecy, and surprisingly it does not appear to have ever been written down before. 20+ years since the incident, it now appears instructive and a little funny, rather than merely extremely embarrassing. 

Before we get back to that fateful night, we have to go back another decade. In the summer of 1991, my family and I moved to Chicago from Kyiv, Ukraine. While we had just a few hundred dollars between the five of us, we did have one secret advantage: science fiction fans. 

My dad was a highly active member of Zoryaniy Shlyah – Kyiv’s possibly first (and possibly only, at the time) sci-fi fan club – the name means “Star Trek” in Ukrainian, unsurprisingly. He translated some Stansilaw Lem (of Solaris and Futurological Congress fame) from Polish to Russian in the early 80s and was generally considered a coryphaeus at ZSh. 

While USSR was more or less informationally isolated behind the digital Iron Curtain until the late ‘80s, by 1990 or so, things like FidoNet wriggled their way into the Soviet computing world, and some members of ZSh were now exchanging electronic mail with sci-fi fans of the free world.

The vaguely exotic news of two Soviet refugee sci-fi fans arriving in Chicago was transmitted to the local fandom before we had even boarded the PanAm flight that took us across the Atlantic [1]. My dad (and I, by extension) was soon adopted by some kind Chicago science fiction geeks, a few of whom became close friends over the years, though that’s a story for another time. 

A year or so after the move to Chicago, our new sci-fi friends invited my dad to a birthday party for a rising star of the local fandom, one Bruce Schneier. We certainly did not know Bruce or really anyone at the party, but it promised good food, friendly people, and probably filk. My role was to translate, as my dad spoke limited English at the time. 

I had fallen desperately in love with secret codes and cryptography about a year before we left Ukraine. Walking into Bruce’s library during the house tour (this was a couple years before Applied Cryptography was published and he must have been deep in research) felt like walking into Narnia. 

I promptly abandoned my dad to fend for himself as far as small talk and canapés were concerned, and proceeded to make a complete ass out of myself by brazenly asking the host for a few sheets of paper and a pencil. Having been obliged, I pulled a half dozen cryptography books from the shelves and went to work trying to copy down some answers to a few long-held questions on the library floor. After about two hours of scribbling alone like a man possessed, I ran out of paper and decided to temporarily rejoin the party. 

On the living room table, Bruce had stacks of copies of his fanzine Ramblings. Thinking I could use the blank sides of the pages to take more notes, I grabbed a printout and was about to quietly return to copying the original S-box values for DES when my dad spotted me from across the room and demanded I help him socialize. The party wrapped soon, and our friends drove us home. 

The printout I grabbed was not a Ramblings issue. It was a short essay by Bruce titled Sharing Secrets Among Friends, essentially a humorous explanation of Shamir Secret Sharing. 

Say you want to make sure that something really really important and secret (a nuclear weapon launch code, a database encryption key, etc) cannot be known or used by a single (friendly) actor, but becomes available, if at least n people from a group of m choose to do it. Think two on-duty officers (from a cadre of say 5) turning keys together to get ready for a nuke launch. 

The idea (proposed by Adi Shamir – the S of RSA! – in 1979) is as simple as it is beautiful. 

Let’s call the secret we are trying to split among m people K. 

First, create a totally random polynomial that looks like: y(x) = C0 * x^(n-1) + C1 * x^(n-2) + C2 * x^(n-3) ….+ K. “Create” here just means generate random coefficients C. Now, for every person in your trusted group of m, evaluate the polynomial for some randomly chosen Xm and hand them their corresponding (Xm,Ym) each. 

If we have n of these points together, we can use Lagrange interpolating polynomial to reconstruct the coefficients – and evaluate the original polynomial at x=0, which conveniently gives us y(0) = K, the secret. Beautiful. I still had the printout with me, years later, in Palo Alto. 

It should come as no surprise that during my time as CTO PayPal engineering had an absolute obsession with security. No firewall was one too many, no multi-factor authentication scheme too onerous, etc. Anything that was worth anything at all was encrypted at rest. 

To decrypt, a service would get the needed data from its database table, transmit it to a special service named cryptoserv (an original SUN hardware running Solaris sitting on its own, especially tightly locked-down network) and a special service running only there would perform the decryption and send back the result. 

Decryption request rate was monitored externally and on cryptoserv, and if there were too many requests, the whole thing was to shut down and purge any sensitive data and keys from its memory until manually restarted. 

It was this manual restart that gnawed at me. At launch, a bunch of configuration files containing various critical decryption keys were read (decrypted by another key derived from one manually-entered passphrase) and loaded into the memory to perform future cryptographic services.

Four or five of us on the engineering team knew the passphrase and could restart cryptoserv if it crashed or simply had to have an upgrade. What if someone performed a little old-fashioned rubber-hose cryptanalysis and literally beat the passphrase out of one of us? The attacker could theoretically get access to these all-important master keys. Then stealing the encrypted-at-rest database of all our users’ secrets could prove useful – they could decrypt them in the comfort of their underground supervillain lair. 

I needed to eliminate this threat.

Shamir Secret Sharing was the obvious choice – beautiful, simple, perfect (you can in fact prove that if done right, it offers perfect secrecy.) I decided on a 3-of-8 scheme and implemented it in pure POSIX C for portability over a few days, and tested it for several weeks on my Linux desktop with other engineers. 

Step 1: generate the polynomial coefficients for 8 shard-holders.

Step 2: compute the key shards (x0, y0)  through (x7, y7)

Step 3: get each shard-holder to enter a long, secure passphrase to encrypt the shard

Step 4: write out the 8 shard files, encrypted with their respective passphrases.

And to reconstruct: 

Step 1: pick any 3 shard files. 

Step 2: ask each of the respective owners to enter their passphrases. 

Step 3: decrypt the shard files.

Step 4: reconstruct the polynomial, evaluate it for x=0 to get the key.

Step 5: launch cryptoserv with the key. 

One design detail here is that each shard file also stored a message authentication code (a keyed hash) of its passphrase to make sure we could identify when someone mistyped their passphrase. These tests ran hundreds and hundreds of times, on both Linux and Solaris, to make sure I did not screw up some big/little-endianness issue, etc. It all worked perfectly. 

A month or so later, the night of the key splitting party was upon us. We were finally going to close out the last vulnerability and be secure. Feeling as if I was about to turn my fellow shard-holders into cymeks, I gathered them around my desktop as PayPal’s front page began sporting the “We are down for maintenance and will be back soon” message around midnight.

The night before, I solemnly generated the new master key and securely copied it to cryptoserv. Now, while “Push It” by Salt-n-Pepa blared from someone’s desktop speakers, the automated deployment script copied shard files to their destination. 

While each of us took turns carefully entering our elaborate passphrases at a specially selected keyboard, Paul shut down the main database and decrypted the payment credentials table, then ran the script to re-encrypt with the new key. Some minutes later, the database was running smoothly again, with the newly encrypted table, without incident. 

All that was left was to restore the master key from its shards and launch the new, even more secure cryptographic service. 

The three of us entered our passphrases… to be met with the error message I haven’t seen in weeks: “Sorry, one or more wrong passphrases. Can’t reconstruct the key. Goodbye.” Surely one of us screwed up typing, no big deal, we’ll do it again. No dice. No dice – again and again, even after we tried numerous combinations of the three people necessary to decrypt. 

Minutes passed, confusion grew, tension rose rapidly. 

There was nothing to do, except to hit rewind – to grab the master key from the file still sitting on cryptoserv, split it again, generate new shards, choose passphrases, and get it done. Not a great feeling to have your first launch go wrong, but not a huge deal either. It will all be OK in a minute or two.

A cursory look at the master key file date told me that no, it wouldn’t be OK at all. The file sitting on cryptoserv wasn’t from last night, it was created just a few minutes ago. During the Salt-n-Pepa-themed push from stage, we overwrote the master key file with the stage version. Whatever key that was, it wasn’t the one I generated the day before: only one copy existed, the one I copied to cryptoserv from my computer the night before. Zero copies existed now. Not only that, the push script appears to have also wiped out the backup of the old key, so the database backups we have encrypted with the old key are likely useless. 

Sitrep: we have 8 shard files that we apparently cannot use to restore the master key and zero master key backups. The database is running but its secret data cannot be accessed. 

I will leave it to your imagination to conjure up what was going through my head that night as I stared into the black screen willing the shards to work. After half a decade of trying to make something of myself (instead of just going to work for Microsoft or IBM after graduation) I had just destroyed my first successful startup in the most spectacular fashion. 

Still, the idea of “what if we all just continuously screwed up our passphrases” swirled around my brain. It was an easy check to perform, thanks to the included MACs. I added a single printf() debug statement into the shard reconstruction code and instead of printing out a summary error of “one or more…” the code now showed if the passphrase entered matched the authentication code stored in the shard file. 

I compiled the new code directly on cryptoserv in direct contravention of all reasonable security practices – what did I have to lose? Entering my own passphrase, I promptly got “bad passphrase” error I just added to the code. Well, that’s just great – I knew my passphrase was correct, I had it written down on a post-it note I had planned to rip up hours ago. 

Another person, same error. Finally, the last person, JK, entered his passphrase. No error. The key still did not reconstruct correctly, I got the “Goodbye”, but something worked. I turned to the engineer and said, “what did you just type in that worked?”

After a second of embarrassed mumbling, he admitted to choosing “a$$word” as his passphrase. The gall! I asked everyone entrusted with the grave task of relaunching crytposerv to pick really hard to guess passphrases, and this guy…?! Still, this was something -- it worked. But why?!

I sprinted around the half-lit office grabbing the rest of the shard-holders demanding they tell me their passphrases. Everyone else had picked much lengthier passages of text and numbers. I manually tested each and none decrypted correctly. Except for the a$$word. What was it…

A lightning bolt hit me and I sprinted back to my own cubicle in the far corner, unlocked the screen and typed in “man getpass” on the command line, while logging into cryptoserv in another window and doing exactly the same thing there. I saw exactly what I needed to see. 

Today, should you try to read up the programmer’s manual (AKA the man page) on getpass, you will find it has been long declared obsolete and replaced with a more intelligent alternative in nearly all flavors of modern Unix.  

But back then, if you wanted to collect some information from the keyboard without printing what is being typed in onto the screen and remain POSIX-compliant, getpass did the trick. Other than a few standard file manipulation system calls, getpass was the only operating system service call I used, to ensure clean portability between Linux and Solaris. 

Except it wasn’t completely clean. 

Plain as day, there it was: the manual pages were identical, except Solaris had a “special feature”: any passphrase entered that was longer than 8 characters long was automatically reduced to that length anyway. (Who needs long passwords, amiright?!)

I screamed like a wounded animal. We generated the key on my Linux desktop and entered our novel-length passphrases right here. Attempting to restore them on a Solaris machine where they were being clipped down to 8 characters long would never work. Except, of course, for a$$word. That one was fine.

The rest was an exercise in high-speed coding and some entirely off-protocol file moving. We reconstructed the master key on my machine (all of our passphrases worked fine), copied the file to the Solaris-running cryptoserv, re-split it there (with very short passphrases), reconstructed it successfully, and PayPal was up and running again like nothing ever happened. 

By the time our unsuspecting colleagues rolled back into the office I was starting to doze on the floor of my cubicle and that was that. When someone asked me later that day why we took so long to bring the site back up, I’d simply respond with “eh, shoulda RTFM.” 

RTFM indeed. 

P.S. A few hours later, John, our General Counsel, stopped by my cubicle to ask me something. The day before I apparently gave him a sealed envelope and asked him to store it in his safe for 24 hours without explaining myself. He wanted to know what to do with it now that 24 hours have passed. 

Ha. I forgot all about it, but in a bout of “what if it doesn’t work” paranoia, I printed out the base64-encoded master key when we had generated it the night before, stuffed it into an envelope, and gave it to John for safekeeping. We shredded it together without opening and laughed about what would have never actually been a company-ending event. 

P.P.S. If you are thinking of all the ways this whole SSS design is horribly insecure (it had some real flaws for sure) and plan to poke around PayPal to see if it might still be there, don’t. While it served us well for a few years, this was the very first thing eBay required us to turn off after the acquisition. Pretty sure it’s back to a single passphrase now. 

Notes:

1: a member of Chicagoland sci-fi fan community let me know that the original news of our move to the US was delivered to them via a posted letter, snail mail, not FidoNet email! 

[h3artstain]

A list of (realistic) things you can do to be more environmentally friendly

(from an earth-loving horticulture student.)

— COSMETICS

Use bar soap instead of soap bottles

Use old toothbrushes for cleaning surfaces

Try exploring and researching some homemade face/body/lip products

Use ice sleeves, sunglasses, and caps instead of sunscreen (Edit: I’ve seen people say that it is safer and even necessary to wear sunscreen at all times so try to use eco friendly sunscreen instead! In my country it’s pretty uncommon to wear sunscreen often as we usually wear ice sleeves which is why I did not know this oof)

Use coffee grinds or homemade tumeric masks instead of cosmetic products with exfoliator beads

Invest in a metal ear cleanser instead of cotton buds

Try placing more importance on skincare instead of contributing to exploitative beauty companies by buying makeup

Use cosmetic products that do not contain palm oil

— CLOTHING

Try as much as possible to rewear your outfits at least twice before washing them

Actually WEAR your clothes! I know some of y’all just wear them once for your Instagram post and let it rot in your closet forever. Stop doing that!

Thrift, stitch up holes in your clothes, and use second hand clothing instead of supporting fast fashion companies like SHEIN, H&M, Zara, etc.

Cut up your old clothing into yarn and do macramè with it

Cut patches of old clothing to turn into reusable cotton pads

Learn how to knit, crochet or stitch your clothes!

If you use tampons, try menstrual cups or discs instead. If you use pads, try reusable pads or period underwear. (Trust me, it works). Also, use reusable panty liners instead of disposable ones. They may seem expensive but you will end up saving a lot more in the long run

— GARDENING

Plant seeds/cuttings in your old bottles, jars, and containers

Propagate your plants and exchange cuttings with your friends instead of buying new plants

Make your own soil mixes instead of buying soil mixes

Better yet, don’t use soil for your indoor plants and try getting into hydroponics or semihydroponics instead. This saves so much water and doesn’t contribute to mining of soil

Fertilise plants with fruit peels, coffee grinds, and tea leaves. (DO NOT use chemical fertiliser on soil)

Plant more legume plants in your garden instead of using nitrogen fertilisers. (Look up the nitrogen cycle if you need an explanation on this)

Avoid pesticides unless really needed. Try sprinkling cinnamon powder on soil or spraying neem oil on plants and soil to keep away pests.

If you have a lawn, try looking into rain gardens and consider making one

Let the (non invasive) weeds in your lawn/garden grow! They are there for a reason!

Stop killing earthworms and millipedes in your garden. This also applies to snails native to your region. They are there for a reason.

Water used to wash fruits and rice can be used to water plants

— REDUCE, REUSE

Use the caps of jars as soap holders

Use recycled paper/notebooks

Wash and dry your glass/plastic items before throwing them in the recycling bin

Keep any plastic bags for future use

Use eco friendly or reusable dish sponges

Use reusable straws and cups

Invest in a fabric cup holder

Bring a water bottle with you wherever you go

Drink more water and less sugary drinks

Bring reusable bags for buying groceries instead of using plastic ones

Always keep a folded up tote/shopping bag with you in case you spontaneously decide to buy something

— ELECTRICITY

Set a timer on your air conditioning instead of letting it run throughout the night

Better yet, use a fan instead of an air conditioner

Open your windows! Aerate your home!

Allow natural light to enter your home during the daytime, so as to avoid turning on your lights

Switch to LED lightbulbs instead of regular lightbulbs

Turn off any switches in your house when they are not in use

Collect the water from your air conditioner/dehumidifier condenser and use that to water plants, clean surfaces, steam ironing, and flushing toilets. Do not drink it though!

— INTERNET

Delete your all of your unwanted emails

Delete your inactive social media accounts

Try not to post excessively on social media and stop scrolling excessively too. This not only reduces energy usage but also improves your mental health and productivity

Try to keep to one social media app instead of having so many

Reduce your internet usage

Save your eBooks on a thumbdrive instead of on cloud

Use Ecosia instead of Google

Stop being influenced by social media trends that only just contribute to consumerism

Download music instead of streaming

Reduce online shopping

— FOOD

Reduce intake of processed foods

Reduce intake of fish, beef, and dairy

Try eating vegan or vegetarian foods at least once or twice a week

Cook your own meals instead of eating out

Bring your own food containers when taking away food from stores

Beeswax wrap instead of cling wrap!

Buy loose-leaf tea or plastic free tea bags instead of regular tea bags

Eat more mushrooms, vegetables, and fruits and drink more water

Support local farmers

And finally, educate yourself more about ecology and the environment!