#automated phone trees

[laurenkmoody]

[image ID: two tweets from A More Perfect Union @ MorePerfectUS dated August 8, 2024.

First tweet: BREAKING: Banks, credit card companies, and more will be required to let customers talk to a human by pressing a single button under a new Biden administration proposed rule. The @ CFPB rule is part of a campaign to crack down on customer service "doom loops."

Second tweet: The @ FCC is launching an inquiry into considering similar requirements for phone, broadband, and cable companies. And @ HHSGov and @ USDOL are calling on health plan providers to make it easier to talk to a customer service agent, according to the White House. end ID]

I want to point out that this is a PROPOSED rule! So look into where it is in congress etc and then contact your legislators and let them know if you support it!

The CFPB is the Consumer Financial Protection Bureau, they might have something asking for feedback too.

Genuinely solid policy.

[declawedwildcat]

Silly me thinking having a tech problem solved once would mean it is easy for them to solve the exact same thing a second time. I hate living in the app age

[songllama]

my most boomer take is that directly calling places is almost always the most efficient way to get information, and that the move towards long, finicky, automated phone trees that end up telling you to just "go online and do the thing" that you are calling about, as well as the general distaste that people have when called about basic information, is stupid and massively inneffective. when i worked at a park, i would get calls all the time asking what our hours were, when we would be open, and my coworkers would make fun of all these old people who "can't use a website," but we just genuinely didn't update that information! the grounds would be open far past when the buildings closed, and sometimes we would close early for private events and not post about it! so yeah, directly calling was the easiest way to get up to date info. it's stupid!! bring back real people answering calls!

[nanamiskentos]

regular/modern!human x true form sukuna boyfriend headcanons for fun <3 mainly for my pookie @kasukuna bc that's who i think of when i think of bf!sukuna

sees that men get their lovers cute things like flowers and chocolate and thinks its overrated. sukuna realises he needs to up his game with a romantic gesture, and thinks its cool to carve your name into a tree with his claws. you catch him picking bark from out under his dark nails.

saw that you made smoothies in the morning with breakfast and waited till you left the house to try it for himself (he always said he didn't care for them but he just doesn't want to admit). sukuna threw together a ripe banana, a loaf of bread and a whole METAL can of tuna and turned the blender on. you came home to a broken, smoking blender and a gross, banana-covered king of curses who acted like this was your fault.

no table manners, sorry. you think that the happiest you've ever seen sukuna is when you're back with the groceries and there's a raw leg of lamb wrapped up in butcher's paper. delights in the idea of a rare cooked steak, but prefers to eat them bloody.

if you study (say you're in college or university) he claims he doesn't give a flying fuck about what you learn, and doesn't understand the concept of degrees. he wonders why people just aren't allowed to practice their trade, and why they need a piece of paper first. but when you're not around, he reads through your textbooks and quotes them to you afterwards. but sukuna pretends he just already knew all that shit anyway.

absolutely no patience in the morning for lazying around. you figure a big, massive being like himself can sleep through sunrise. but he's got unblinking, freaky eyes and when you crack open your eyelids in the morning, he's already looking down at you, demanding that you get up and not waste your day. at first, you worry that he just doesn't even sleep. you need not worry about that, he can knock himself flat out like an elephant that bathed in nyquil.

you asked him to help with dinner one day. kind of annoying how sukuna's very good at malicious noncompliance. you know that he is an expert in all things sharp and weapon-like, and a kitchen knife is no exception. and yet, he decides to use his long claws to cut the parsnip, slicing through them very slowly in a way that drags and creaks agains the chopping board.

sukuna rages over mario kart and rainbow. has grown oddly obsessed with the leaderboard and claims that he will vanquish the player titled 'sixeyes1989' that keeps calling him rude names online.

thinks siri is mocking him and sulks the entire day at this automated voice that seems to not understand what hes saying. you ask sukuna to gently release the grip he has on your phone before he shatters it. again.

you mentioned something about how sweet it is that your friend's boyfriend leaves her little cute notes with love affirmations on it. the next day, you find sweeping yet scrawled foreign symbols on peeled sticky notes. turns out that his version of cute love notes are ominous, medieval runes that are protection spells against curses.

does NOT play fair in games night. sukuna burned all the monopoly money when you charged him rent for mayfair. invents random words and claim they're from his era in scrabble, and he insists they count. almost set something on fire during go fish and ate the cards. has sat on a chessboard just so you wouldn't win.

[sleepinglionhearts]

And finally!!! 5 hours later!! Home at last!!!!!!!

Tomorrow will be busy. Aaauuuggghhh.

It's all fun and games til you hit something you didn't expect in a construction zone and you pop both passenger side tires in what can only be described as the absolute worst occurence of fuckery you've encountered today

[oneforthemunny]

i'm not entirely sure what prompted this. to be utterly honest, the holidays are rough sometimes, and i've been kind of struggling so here's this bc this is how i cope now :)

tw: mentions of loss, grief, depression.

“...at the tone, please record your message.” 

Beep.

“Uh, hey. It’s-It’s Eddie. I, uh, I was just calling to, uh- I was just wanting to check on ya. I haven’t heard from you in a couple of days, sweetheart, and I know you’ve been busy. I just… Yeah, gimme a call back when you can, alright? I still got those VHS’s. Rentals not due for a couple of days. I’d-I’d really like to see you. Just… call me back when you get this. Even if it’s late. Love you.” 

The lights on your tree started to blur, water-stained with blinding, swirling tears of guilt. Settled on your couch, in the same crumpled position that you fell into as soon as you got off work, waves of exhaustion consuming you, but sleep never came easily. 

The most wonderful time of the year was a stretch, a mockery of a term that felt poisoned and back handed. With every happy, glowy commercial, all smiling families and sing-songy laugh; it made you feel sick at the falseness of it all. 

It had been four days since you last spoke to Eddie, nearing two weeks since you saw him in person. Not out of spite, or a fight like it had been in the past. This time, it was you- all you. 

The message on the receiver played on a loop, you jammed your finger on the button, letting it sound off its automated message before his voice filled the silent space in the room. You missed the sound of his voice, the warmth behind it so comforting in this frigid winter. It might be better to call him, actually hear him and talk to him, but every time you reached for the phone, you couldn’t dial his number. That would mean you’d have to talk, have to say something, tell him why you’d been so MIA, and that required a strength you didn’t have yet. 

Somewhere between the late night talk show coming on, but not before your neighbor’s lights turned off, there was a knock at your door. You figured it was your neighbor across from you, Mrs. Jennings, always bringing you baked treats in festive sweaters, leaving with a hearty “Merry Christmas!” that always had you crumbling inside. 

“Baby?” Your body stilled, breath caught in your lungs at the sound, like he might be able to see you through the door. 

“Hey, I-I know you’re in there.” Eddie’s voice was soft, muffled by the heavy wood of your door. “Not to sound like a total fuckin’ stalker or anything. I just… I wanna make sure you’re ok?” 

Your mind screamed at you to move, to go answer the door, to reply, to do anything. 

The lock jiggled, a squeak and a creak before the door was opening softly- hesitantly, like he was scared of what he might find on the other side. “Babe?” Eddie’s eyes scanned the small kitchen area, your purse slung on the table, shoes kicked off by the door into a pile. 

“You alright? I-I called you a coupla times, actually, and I just wanted to make sure you were ok.” His voice was tight, heavy soled steps on the carpet. 

You knew he saw you by the way he stopped. Halted behind the couch, hovering over a collapsed you on the couch. Tear stained sweatshirt sleeves under your head, an array of photo albums you always kept tucked in the top of the storage closet down the hall, memories sprawled out on the coffee table, creased on the edges from your shaky grasp. 

The one closest to you had his stomach dropping. He’d seen her before, the solemn looks and shaky breaths that you and your family gave when you’d pass the outdated family portrait in your home. Plastered on the wall with matching bright smiles, but looming with a haunting, sickening feeling. Eddie knew the feeling, a little too well. 

“Oh.” Eddie breathed before he could help himself. 

You wanted to sob, felt the burn of it in your throat, curling into yourself. 

“No, no, no, I-I didn’t-” Eddie’s eyes darted frantically, reaching out towards you, but never touching you. He knew what this felt like, knew the embarrassment and vulnerability, the shame and dread. 

He knew what it felt like. 

Silently, he sank next to you on the couch, careful of the delicate photos, placing them out of the way with a gentleness that had you sniffling, swallowing down a whimpering cry. A hand on your back, pulling your body into his, letting the weight of you settle onto his chest. 

Your face moved into the soft cotton of his tee. He’d smoked on the way over here, though it was comforting. Nose rubbing against his chest, clinging to the fabric next to you in a fisted clutch. Eddie’s arms around your frame, holding you firmly yet so softly at the same time. 

Your neighbor’s lights were off by the time you finally spoke. 

“I was in line at Melvald’s getting wrapping paper,” You croaked, voice raspy with emotions, cheek still pressed to Eddie’s chest. You could hear his heartbeat. “And they started playing this song. The Christmas one by The Partridge Family?” 

Eddie nodded slowly, hand still gliding soothingly up and down your spine. He could feel your shaky breath through his fingertips. “She, uh,” You swallowed around the words. “She used to love that song. Would always sing it when we’d put the trimmings on the tree. My mom would have that hanging tinsel you know?” 

“Yeah.” 

“And,” Your tone fell at the thought, at the mention of her again. “She’d always play this song on a loop. Would throw it around, all over the branches just to piss my mom off.” Your lips curled at the memory. You always laughed when she did that. Now you couldn’t because you knew she’d never do it again. 

There was a moment, a beat of silence in the still room. “Anyways, I…I was going to get wrapping paper because I’m so fucking behind on wrapping and-and buying, because I’ve been working-” 

“-You’ve been working a lot.” Eddie’s eyes cut down to you, carefully. 

You sighed, a shudder of a breath in. “Yeah. I know.” It was soft, an apology. You didn’t need to, but Eddie was glad to hear it. Selfishly, he was relieved that his fears that this was somehow his fault, that he’d done something to upset you, weren’t true. 

“I just… I don’t know. I guess I just wanted to be busy? I felt like if I stayed busy, I wouldn’t really get to think about it. Get this holiday over with and then I wouldn’t feel so…” You didn’t really know what to say, how to describe the feeling. 

“No, I… I get it.” Eddie nodded slowly, staring off in the colorful strands of lights glimmering from the tree in the far corner of the room. “My mom used to wear that, uh, that Pond's stuff to bed. The face stuff with the green lid?” You nodded slowly, cheek still smushed against his chest. 

“And right after she passed, I-I was in middle school, right? Seventh grade. And we had a sub and… fuck, she smelled just like that cream.” Eddie shook his head softly at the memory. “She just walked past me to make sure we were reading, and I smelled it and… I just ran out of the classroom because I didn’t want to cry in front of everyone. But, like, running out wasn’t much better.” 

You snorted softly, light enough to have Eddie’s gaze peering back down to you, heart skipping in his chest. “Yeah, I would say that might make it worse.” 

“Wasn’t very smooth.” Eddie nodded. “Just running out of the classroom seemed better than crying.” 

You paused for a moment, lips puckered in a pout. “It’s weird.” You muttered, still looking ahead. “How you’re just out and the smallest things just… send you over the edge.” 

“Yeah.” Eddie sighed. “Grief’s a weird thing.” 

“Really weird.” You mumbled. 

Eddie ducked his chin down, let his nose press into your scalp, breathing in your scent, pressing a kiss to your hair. “I’m here for you, you know?” He muttered, the vibrations from his words tickling your scalp. “For when it gets weird. You don’t… this sounds really fuckin’ cheesy and I’m sorry, but you don’t have to do it by yourself. Don’t have to be alone.” 

You weren’t sure what to say. Not sure you could even speak if you did know what to say, the growing lump in your throat strangling you. Instead, you clung tighter to his shirt, pressed yourself further into the warm, inviting hold that felt familiar and calming. 

Eddie would go and get the wrapping paper for you tomorrow, even help you wrap a few gifts. He’d help you carefully put up the photos with a gentleness that would have your heart fluttering. But for now, he held you, fingers moving down your spine, chin pressed to the top of your head, pulling you closer to him on the tiny couch.

[passivenovember]

thinking about the first time Billy has cherry pie and the lengths he'll travel to have it again.

--

Fresh Cherries (part one)

--

Because it's December, Neil makes concessions.

Billy isn't allowed to do whatever he wants, never that, but his leash isn't vice-like. There's some give as he tests his boundaries when there's snow on the ground. Billy isn't sure why, but he isn't about to ruin a good thing.

But. Steve calls on a Wednesday night and says, "Come over."

Billy has to chew and swallow the automated response he's used to giving. It's a school night, Neil'd kill me, and feels like he just got dusted with sugar and put in the oven. Says, "Sure. Let me ask my dad."

"Just sneak out," Steve tells him.

Billy checks the alarm clock on his bedside table. "It's seven thirty."

"So?"

"So, it's not sneaking out hours."

"You're such a stick in the mud," Steve says.

"I'm not, I just--" don't feel like getting my teeth knocked in. Billy picks at the threads in his duvet cover. Counts to three. "I want to be a good influence on you, Harrington."

Steve squaks. Some bright, quaffed bird. "I'm a year older than you!"

"Only 'cause you got held back in the third grade," Billy says. He flops over onto his belly, bringing the phone with him as he tries not to get wrapped up in the chord when Steve laughs.

"This is what I get for telling you all my deepest darkest shit," Steve rustles on the other end of the line and Billy imagines him in bed, or laying on the couch. Maybe flat on the carpet, near the fireplace, shirtless and eating chocolate covered strawberries--

"C'mon," Steve says gently, "Be a bad influence, come hang out with me."

"My dad--"

"Just sneak out, Malibu."

Billy grunts, not wanting to tell the truth, kind of into how Steve's growing more and more whiny as the scene presses on. "I dunno."

"C'mon, it's not hard. I sneak out all the time. Out of my house and into my car and in through your window--"

"--That's different. Your parents don't give a shit where you are."

"You're right. Who cares, though? I'd still sneak out to see you even if they had a bell permanently installed around my neck."

Billy's heart feels like raw cookie dough, sticking to the ribs around him as he bakes and proves under some bright, shining, plastic feeling. "Are they home this week?"

"Nope," Steve says, and the P explodes over the phone line. Wipes out half the city in his excitement. "Mom bought a ton of shit to get me through 'till the twenty-eighth, so we can--"

"You're spending Christmas alone?"

"I always spend Christmas alone," Steve says. Quiet sits heavy, like a filed of snow, between them. Stretching out in every direction. "It's not a big deal. We celebrate Christmas in November."

"With Thanksgiving?"

"Nah, right at the start of November."

"Alongside Halloween?" Billy spats, sitting upright on the mattress. It jostles underneath him. He feels like a raft lost in some huge, freezing, disorienting sea.

He tries to get his barring's, tries to sink his heel into Steve's answering laugh but its hollow like a dead tree, "One year Santa was my dad, dressed as the Cowardly Lion." Steve says.

Billy tries to imagine it. He puts the hard, chilled seed of Steve's childhood near his molars and chews on it for a while, trying to envision the light refracted from all the ways childhood has to bend and contort to suit a kid's parents.

"I never believed in Santa," He says. An offering. Sadness for sadness, or something, like I see you.

Steve hums, and that horrible field of ice and snow between them melts, just like it always does. "Come over," He says, not as hollow as before. Blooming.

Billy puts his shoes on.

--

The Harringtons live in some demented alternate reality where Christmas in December is all for show. Their house has been decorated since the last time Billy was here in Saturday.

He knocks and stares down at Santa, the looming silver-screen image from his childhood, dressed in a floral button down, board shorts and flip flops. Somehow feels colder. When Steve opens the door, he points at it.

"My mom's theme this year is Blue Hawaii." Steve says.

Billy stumbles over the threshold, teeth chattering to shards in his skull. "That's not a Christmas Movie."

"Yeah, but it turns out, Santa can be anything. He's kinda like a chameleon."

"Santa isn't Elvis."

"He could be," Steve says.

Billy shrugs out of his jacket, handing it off, like always. Steve holds it close to his chest, watching with amusement as Billy takes in the foyer. Toes out of his snow-covered boots. "It's like a tiki bar made of pine trees instead of sweet grass."

Steve nods, still clutching the jacket.

His eyes are red.

Billy squints at him, padding closer. "Are you high?"

Steve giggles, bright like a fresh log in the fire.

Billy scrubs a hand across his face, trying to hide the way it makes him go up in Steve's flame. "You're such a dork."

"What? I thought we could--"

"I only have a few hours," Billy tells him gently, trying not to get lost in the sleepy, apple-red flush across Steve's perfect nose. "My dad'll--"

"Just tell him I'm left on my own for Christmas. Maybe he'll feel sorry for me and let you stay the night."

"How do you think I got him to agree to an 11:30 curfew?"

Steve blinks at him and then explodes into glowing, glaring joy. "Are you shitting me?"

"Nope, I'm all yours 'till 11:30."

Steve flushes again, clutching Billy's jacket closer to his chest. "But it's a school night--"

"Guess my old man took pitty on you. Such a lonely boy in his Elvis-themed mansion on the hill, it's kinda pathetic," Billy says, "In a cute way."

"It's not Elvis," Steve says, still grinning, "It's Blue Hawaii."

"Still cute," Billy shrugs, feeling hot all over. Feeling proud of himself. He nearly combusts when Steve moves into his space, eyes nearly going cross to focus on the bridge of Steve's nose.

Billy holds his breath.

He waits for Steve to say something, feeling that huge filed stretch out between them, but it's not snow-covered now.

It's thawing. It's burning up.

Steve wets his lips.

"Uh," Billy says intelligently, looking down when the sleeve of his jacket tugs at him, still viced in Steve's hold. "You can put that in the closet," Billy tells him, caught on the strech of skin over Steve's knuckles. "If you want."

"I don't," Steve tells him.

Billy looks up, eyes crossing again.

Steve winks. "You're warm," He says but Billy feels it, more than anything else.

--

The smell of marijuana and pine is overwhelming, searing through the air after the first shared joint.

Billy rolls his neck and asks if they can crack a window. Steve blinks at him, sealing the second joint with spit. "You trying to get caught, or something?"

"Caught?" Billy asks, trying to force his shoulders to relax. "But. I thought--"

"--The neighbors are nosy 'round these parts." Steve says. He tucks his rolling tray under the coffee table, and Billy watches with droopy red eyes the way his lips close around the butt of the thing.

Steve's lips are perfect.

If Billy was an artist he'd fill sketchbooks with watercolor renditions of that cupid's bow. His fingers would permanently stain with lapping waves of purple-pink, etching the warmth of breath into his nail beds so that the faucet would never run clear of this boy.

He could get lost in those lips. That hair--

Steve hands him the joint and Billy takes it, focusing on the cherry so he won't get lost in Steve's eyes, too, because he's looking. Always.

Billy tries not to drown in it and fails when Steve says, "Y'know. Your eyes are kinda like Blue Hawaii."

"Again with Elvis?" Billy rolls them, handing the joint back. "You're the one who stole his wig."

"My hair is not a wig, fuck you."

"Coulda fooled me."

Steve holds smoke in his lungs, exhaling it toward the popcorn ceiling as he says, "Your eyes are blue."

Billy snorts, laying with his back on the carpet.

"They're the bluest things I've ever seen," Steve says, ashing the joint. "And I've tried to find something bluer. Around town. I even went to the library to look for something in an atlas when Indiana disappointed me, like maybe the ocean is bluer and clearer in the Caribbean, or something, but no."

Billy's heart thumps, nailing his ribs to the floor underneath.

He counts the joints in the popcorn overhead. He feels Steve looking at him, feels himself burning from the inside.

"You're just the most detailed asshole who's ever lived," Steve says, softly.

Billy could sink into it. "Thanks."

Silence falls, again. It's comfortable. Billy stretches, a little bit, twisting until his spine cracks, until he feels like he could pass out from how relaxed he is.

Steve hands him the joint.

Billy shakes his head.

"Why not?" Steve asks.

"I'm laying down," Billy tells the ceiling, "I feel like if I smoke anymore my lungs will give out, or maybe I'll float through the ceiling and disappear."

Steve exhales more smoke. "And right before Christmas, too."

Billy sits crisscross on the carpet, watching Steve puff, inhale, puff, inhale. "You're really not stressed about being home by yourself for six days?"

Steve shakes his head.

"Why not?"

"I like having the house to myself," Steve tells him, "Besides, I feel like if I have to spend any more time with my parents this year I'm going to sink right through the floor." Teasing. An echo of Billy's childhood fear of ascending into the ozone.

Billy pokes him with his foot, flushed.

Steve finishes the joint and slides closer. Their knees touch. "What kind of Christmases did you have when you were growing up?"

Billy shrugs. "I'm sill growing up."

"You know what I mean."

"Yeah, just. I dunno," Billy gets lost in Steve's eyes, a little. Classic beauty. "It was the Coca-Cola Santa kind?"

Steve laughs at him, and then his palms are warm on Billy's knee caps. "The kind with Bing Crosby and miniature towns on the dining room table?"

Billy's mom loved to collect those goddamn things. Neil smashed them all when she ran away and killed herself.

He nods, relishing the weight of Steve's fingertips.

Steve fiddles with the hole in Billy's jeans. "What kind of food did you have?"

"Pizza," Billy says.

Steve blinks at him, lost. "That's not very Coca-Cola of the Hargrove's."

"My mom didn't like to cook."

"Funny," Steve says, combing through the tussle of hair on Billy's kneecap, "Mine doesn't either."

Billy aches to knit their fingers together until they meld, forming the kind of sweater you dig out from the back of your closet year after year, echoing on the stiff frigid breeze until it's tattered and falling apart.

Steve looks at him, smiling. "Do you want some pie?"

--

Steve guts and skins the freezer until it's empty. A carcass picked clean.

Mrs. Harrington must have spent her entire bonus at Melvalds on Christmas dinner, enough to feed four Steve Harrington's and all the people who are desperately in love with him.

Billy tries not to think about them and watches from the counter face, his sock feet thumping gently against the cabinet as Steve pulls dish after dish from a cloud of white exhaust, plopping containers onto the island. "Green bean casserole," Steve says, "Pumpkin pie, pecan, apple, blueberry--"

"--You're supposed to eat all of this?"

"You're gonna help me."

"I don't like green bean casserole," Billy says, yelping when Steve feigns death and collapses into the counter. "Jesus Christ--"

"I'm midwestern, that's a cardinal sin to me."

"Dope makes you dramatic, pretty boy."

"You hate midwestern people."

"Yeah," Billy says, giggling.

"You hate me."

"Shut up," Billy slips off the counter and onto his feet, examining every frozen item while Steve repacks.

"Which pie sounds good?"

"I dunno," Billy says, eyeing the blueberry with suspicion, "Don't we have to wait for them to thaw before we throw them in the oven?"

"I don't think so," Steve says, "I've already tried the cherry and that baked fine."

"I've never had it before."

Steve blinks at him, shocked. "How have you never had cherry pie?"

"My dad doesn't like cherries," Billy admits.

"Just because your dad doesn't like cherries--"

"--Look, my mom wasn't on great terms with the oven, and nobody else is going to waste time cooking shit my dad won't eat," Billy snaps. Feeling red-hot all of a sudden. Angry in a way he hasn't been in a long time for being reminded that other people's dads are shitty in the normal way.

Not like Neil.

Steve either doesn't notice or chooses not to take it personally.

He opens the refrigerator and pulls out a half-eaten cherry pie, picking at its cling-wrap until Billy can see the cherries where the glitter between layers of perfectly brown crust. Bloody little eyes staring up at him like dead fish.

"You can have the rest."

"The rest?" Billy demands, "But what if I don't like it?"

"Not possible," Steve tells him. He opens the microwave and attempts to shove the pie tray in, yelping when Billy snatches it out of thin air. "What--"

"--Aluminum will catch fire in the microwave." Billy snaps. He tries to find it annoying, but Steve just blinks those big, soft eyes at him and the anger washes away. "Get me a plate, bambi boy," He says.

Steve watches Billy plate the pie, giggling as his nose wrinkles in disgust over its dripping red innards. "This is so gross," Billy says.

"You won't think so, once you try it."

Billy walks it to the microwave, carefully pinching the edges of the plate between his palms. "I can't think of a single other instance where that has been true."

He turns the dial. Forty seconds.

Steve's watching him, face illuminated in the golden hum of the microwave.

"What?" Billy demands.

"Nothing," Steve says, leaning against the counter top, "I just can't believe I'm gonna be here when your life is changed forever."

Billy snorts, stalking to the drawer where the Harringtons keep their silver. "Still dramatic, pretty boy."

"Why do you always say that?" Steve wonders.

Billy freezes in place. Two forks in hand. He peers across the island at Steve, heart thrumming loudly. "Why do I always say what?"

"Pretty boy," Steve clarifies.

It hangs between them. The microwave hums, the longest forty seconds of Billy's life. "I," He says intelligently, "It's just. True."

"What is?"

"You're. Pretty," Billy says. And it's like having teeth pulled.

The microwave beeps.

Steve turns away, yanking the pie from its incubation, "Shit," He says, wiggling his fingers. "Plate's hot as hell."

Billy stands there watching him. Breathing. Dying.

Steve looks at him. "Well, do you wanna try it?" Billy nods. Doesn't move. Steve laughs at him. "Come here."

Billy goes easily, like a lap dog being called to perch. He and his forks stare down at the pie with caution, stomach churning at the congealed mess before him.

Steve grabs one of the forks from Billy and cuts the point off, blowing on it until its warm enough to eat. Steve pops it into his mouth, brown eyes falling closed. "Mmmm," He says, like someone would with a spooked and disgusted baby, "It's good."

Billy shakes his head.

"You're so dramatic," Steve says, cutting another huge chunk for Billy. He holds it in the air between them, eyebrows raised. "Trust me."

Billy stares at it. "Why's mine so big?"

"I want you to get the full range of flavor."

"But--"

Steve shoves the fork into Billy's mouth, swiftly depositing the little cherry eyeballs onto Billy's tongue. He coughs and sputters, lips curling around the fork as Steve yanks it away. "Chew," Steve says.

Billy does.

Like it's the first time he's ever done it, clumsy and a little rushed and very, very distracted by the way Steve's watching him.

"Swallow," Steve says softly, barely there.

Billy does. There's something on his face. On his lips.

"What do you think?" Steve asks, staring at them.

Billy resists the urge to lick it away, "Sucked," He says, expecting Steve to laugh, but.

Something rests between them, not growing or stretching or changing shape, but it's there. It suffocates.

Steve looks at him, somehow closer than he was before. "Sorry, pretty boy," He says.

Billy's heart stops. "Why would you say that?"

"It's true. You're pretty," Steve says, watching the red on Billy's lips burn brighter. "You've got a little something on your face." Billy lifts a hand, mouth falling open when Steve grabs his wrist. "Can I," Steve says, soft as summer rain, "Can I kiss you, Billy?"

Billy doesn't move as Steve licks into his mouth, Cherry washing away under the rough, sweet drag of intention.

--

THIS IS PART ONE!!!! OF A TWO-PARTER!

Please let me know if you'd like to be tagged when I get around to part two <3

[alex51324]

So way back last spring, I consolidated my student loans over to Mohela--I no longer remember exactly why, but it was supposed to benefit me in some way to to this.

They got them transferred over, and the next step was to put them into income-based repayment--which I had been on before, but since they were with this new servicer, I had to do a new application and so on.

They didn't get around to processing it, and they didn't get around to processing it, and then the first federal freeze came in: it was the result of a lawsuit, but the judge, for whatever reason, decided to freeze applications for all income-based repayment.

I've been given to understand that most people caught in this snare simply had their loans put into a processing forbearance, and have been there ever since.

Not me, though! Me, every 3 months, I get a letter from Mohela saying that my payment of about $750 is two weeks overdue, and my next one is coming right up, so if I could please send them $1500 right away, that would be just swell.

So I have to get on the phone, work my way through the phone tree, wait on hold for the next available represenative to be with me shortly, who when I finally get htem looks at the file and says, "Hm, you really should be in forbearance, but you aren't. Let me escalate this to the advanced team." Then I wait again for the next available representative to be with me shortly, and when I finally have them on the line, they ask me about five questions, I say "yes, I understand" or "yes, that's correct" about five times, and it's done for another 3 months. The whole process used to take about an hour and half.

Well, today it was time to make that call again. This time, when I get through the phone tree to where I'm waiting for the next available representative, the automated voice tells me that my wait time is two and a half hours. So I wait about three and a half hours, and that finally gets me to to the first round of speaking to a live human being.

As is the custom, she spends a little time expressing her surprise that I am not on a processing forbearance, reads me the required legalese, and puts me "right through," she says, to the advanced line.

There, the automated voice tells me that my estimated wait time is three hours and five minutes.

So I wait about four hours, and then a voice comes on the line!

But it isn't a representative. It's a drunk-sounding individual who keep saying, "Hello? Hello? I can't hear you." Her voice cuts in and out, and she occasionally can be heard making semi-verbal statements without apparent context, which seem at times to be replies to someone I cannot hear. I try saying that I'm on hold for Mohela and there seems to be something wrong. It is unclear whether she hears me or not; she moans something that sounds like "web socket" and "green." I am reminded of the utterances of Laura Palmer in the Black Lodge.

Eventually she hangs up, or something, and I am back to being on hold. The automated voice comes on and says that my estimated wait time is one hour and twenty-seven minutes.

The security guard at my place of work informs me that he is locking up the place and I need to leave. In the elevator out of the building, I am disconnected.

I want to stress that I am not exaggerating about these times; I was literally on hold with Mohela, the federal student-loan servicing contractor for the United States, for an entire work day, during which I had one normal conversation with someone who was polite and fine but unable to help, and one fever-dream interaction with a person who may or may not have been affiliated with Mohela in any way, and who did not seem to be on the same plane of existence as I was.

Anyway, I'm not doing it again. I wrote a letter saying pretty much what I've just told you--slightly less detail about the weird lady--and uploaded it to their inbox, copied it into their comment form, faxed it using one of those free virtual fax things, and printed out a copy to mail. (Phone is the only way that I have successfully achieved contact with a human being who works at Mohela in the past.) I conclude the letter by offering them numerous ways to reply, and saying, as politely as possible, that if they call and leave a message, they will need to give me some way to get back to them without being on hold for six hours.

We'll see what happens.

[hannibals-favourite-meal]

.⋆｡Call Your Mom｡⋆.

Clark Kent x plus size reader

I'll drive, I'll drive all night I'll call your mom

Stick Season (We'll All Be Here Forever)

Music softly played through the shitty sound system in your car, providing enough noise for you to stay awake but not enough to wake your passenger. Every few minutes, your eyes would flick over to him as if to make sure that he wasn’t just some hallucination that your caffeine addled mind conjured up. But the way that the rare street lamps would cast a yellow glow onto his face and the occasional shift in his sleep meant that he was very real.

Even in the dim light of this back country road, you could see the tear tracks on his cheeks and the dark bags beneath his eyes. He looked so much smaller than you remembered him, weighed down by the world. You wondered briefly about how long he had felt this way, did it start recently or was it always there, just buried beneath a smile and those bright blue eyes that lingered in your dreams.

He drew in a shuddering breath but then settled back to sleep, the wrinkle of worry above his brow slowly disappearing with each mile you drove. You bit back the urge to push back the lone black curl that had fallen onto his forehead. Instead, you gripped the steering wheel even tighter and thought back to a few hours before, when you received a call from someone you thought you would never hear from again.

You were half paying attention to some late night television show, half awake and numb with the lateness of the hour but the relative calmness of your night was interrupted by the ringing of a phone. Without looking, you fished your phone from the side table and pressed it to your ear. “Yeah?”

Expecting a telemarketer or some automated message, you were shocked as the speakers let out a pitiful sob followed by a voice you used to know so well. “I’m sorry, I didn’t know who else to call- I just- Please.” 

The drive to his apartment went by quick as you forced yourself to act upon instinct and not listen to the still hurting part of your soul that told you to let him suffer just the same as he left you to do so. The achingly familiar walk up the stairs to his apartment made that little voice grow louder and louder until you could barely ignore it.

Your knuckles hovered over the painted wood of his front door, your nerves screaming at you to leave but then the door opened and you knew that you couldn’t. 

Clark Kent, Superman- always so well put together, so stupidly perfect in every way- looked like he was crumbling right before your eyes. Like a great tree wilting away, he was bowed forwards, pale and trembling. You let him pull you into a hug and he collapsed into your arms.

It had been months since the last time you had felt his touch, you were out of practice, slightly clumsy as you cradled his head in one hand and stroked his back with the other. But it was muscle memory, your instincts guiding you back to that spot on the left side of his spine halfway down his back that always had a knot in it but when you dug your fingers into the muscle, he melted, pushing his face into the crook of your neck as his sobs began to taper off.

Neither of you said a word, the discussion, the awkward conversation and the inevitable fight could wait- for a while at least. He trailed behind you like a lost puppy as you guided him down to your car. He squished himself into your small passenger seat and leaned his head against the window as soon as the door shut. 

He fell asleep less than 5 minutes after you started driving, this would have normally annoyed you but you knew he needed the rest and you didn’t need to hear the sound of his voice as your mind reminded you what used to be. 

Soon, street lights and paved roads gave way to corn fields and the gentle sway of a well-worn dirt track. The porch light was on, guiding you home through the darkness. As you pulled into the driveway that you had driven onto countless times before, the screen door opened and Martha, still dressed in her dressing gown, stepped out.

“Clark. You’re home.” You placed a gentle hand onto his shoulder, softly waking him. Those gorgeous blue eyes looked up at you, reflecting the full moon perfectly. He glanced past your body to where his mother stood then back to you. “It’s gonna be ok.”

His smile was enough to make you forget the miles driven in the dead of night, to heal the heartbreak caused by his hand, to remind you that all things can be set right once more.

[Verse 1] Oh, you're spiralin' again The moment right before it ends you're most afraid of But don't you cancel any plans 'Cause I won't let you get the chance to never make them [Pre-Chorus] Stayed on the line with you the entire night 'Til you let it out and let it in [Chorus] Don't let this darkness fool you All lights turned off can be turned on I'll drive, I'll drive all night I'll call your mom Oh, dear, don't be discouraged I've been exactly where you are I'll drive, I'll drive all night I'll call your mom I'll call your mom [Verse 2] Waiting room, no placе to stand Just greatest fears and wringing hands and thе loudest silence If you could see yourself like this If you could see yourself like this, you'd've never tried it [Pre-Chorus] Stayed on the line with you the entire night 'Til you told me that you had to go [Chorus] Don't let this darkness fool you All lights turned off can be turned on I'll drive, I'll drive all night I'll call your mom Oh, dear, don't be discouraged I've been exactly where you are I'll drive, I'll drive all night I'll call your mom [Bridge] Medicate, meditate, swear your soul to Jesus Throw a punch, fall in love, give yourself a reason Don't wanna drive another mile wonderin' if you're breathin' So won't you stay, won't you stay, won't you stay with me? Medicate, meditate, save your soul for Jesus Throw a punch, fall in love, give yourself a reason Don't wanna drive another mile without knowin' you're breathin' So won't you stay, won't you stay, won't you stay with me? [Chorus] Don't let this darkness fool you All lights turned off can be turned on I'll drive, I'll drive all night I'll call your mom Oh, dear, don't be discouraged I've been exactly where you are I'll drive, I'll drive all night I'll call your mom I'll call your mom

All works

@im-a-slut-for-fluff @alexxavicry @ravenwings73 @avada-kedavra-bitch-187 @silverfire475 @psychadelichues @mvyalx @faefanatic @evansqueen54 @anamiad00msday @th3slothy @princess76179 @Lanielagenev @luvvvjada @Lucypaulette @midnight-shadow-va @km-ffluv

DC

@snedhdh @kobaltdragon @blackhawkfanatic @8bookishworm8

[big-tiddy-goth-ghoulfriend]

I've had two AI job screenings this week, a phrase that makes my fucking skin crawl and I would not have done if I didn't need a job so fucking bad. Both times, it immediately got tripped up and stuck in a "I'm sorry I didn't understand that" loop as soon as I asked for any clarification on a question.

I'm so fucking sick of this shit being shoved down our throats. If you can't even be bothered to get a real person to do your interviews, why should we fucking bother working for you? Who the hell decided that they should take the automated phone tree system that everyone so notoriously loves and is patient with and turn it into the decision maker for your career path?

Fuck you AngelAI

Fuck you Atrium

Fuck every company that outsources their hiring to Atrium

[gwydionmisha]

Do you trust them not to steal the data, given how at least one of the hackers he hired has a history of working with cyber criminals and another was fired from a company because he leaked information?

Do you think people claiming to be so incompetent at their job that they lied and are still lying that COBOL error messages are somehow proof of massive fraud on a large scale to update a program written in COBOL?

Do you trust them not to completely fuck up the new website either through incompetence or on purpose as a way to steal people's benefits, maybe declare people dead or delete them for "fraud" if they don't like their last names or where they live?

Do you think using AI in code that is vital to the survival of so many Americans is a good Idea?

From the article:

"The DOGE team has already been reportedly running highly sensitive government data through AI, as the Washington Post reported last month, so why not use it to cheat-code your way to a more modern programming language? The reason, of course is the risk of cascading failures during any rush-job that might mean missed payments or beneficiary information getting wiped from the system entirely."

This is utterly terrifying, especially given the fact that they've already completely funked up Social Security phone service. How do I know? Just over a month ago, I called to do the quick phone tree to get a proof of income from them, something I have to do multiple times a year because various programs want them and they need to be very recent. The phone tree had been noticeably improved since last time I'd used it in the fall. When I called today 3/31/25, they had completely removed all the quick phone tree options.

They took a service that was completely automated in the last ten years, and thus super cheap and already in place, for people with a bunch of routine, common, queries and yanked all that out, requiring people to get in line for a live person. Last time I needed live agent service it took about five hours to get back to me.

They are lying that this is about efficiency and saving money. Leaving the automated system in place is dramatically cheaper than paying people to answer, especially at a time they are firing people.

This is meant to break the system and force the people who need their benefits the most out of the system.

Musk has given the goal of stealing Social Security benefits away from people who earned the benefit and actually need it:

"“In fact, what we’re doing will help their benefits,” Musk said. “Legitimate people, as a result of the work of DOGE, will receive more Social Security, not less. I want to emphasize that. As a result of the work of DOGE, legitimate recipients of Social Security will receive more money, not less money.”"

The only way that happens is to take it away from the majority of recipients. You know the people Lutnick claims are fraudsters if they complain at the theft of their rent and electricity bill money recently.

Have something you want to tell your Congress Critters?

If you can't safely contact them in person, here are some other options:

Five Calls to your critters: https://5calls.org/

Here is one that will send your reps a fax: https://resist.bot/

Scream loudest at republican Critters. Those are their voters Musk is trying to kill, but whatever critters you have, stay noisy. We have until 4/14 to stop them.

[twistedwonderlandwriting]

࣪˖⋆⟡˚౨ৎ⋆|Bithday Bouquet|⋆౨ৎ˚⟡˖ ࣪

.................................................

Wordcount:1,101|readerx:Idia Shroud|Style:Oneshot

.......................................

Your quiet footsteps didn't even make little dents in the noise of the crowd if the small crowds of friends were abusing the free food and drinks of the event to the fullest extent they could. Who all was even here? Did any of the people here even know the birthday Glancing around at the fancy expensive and definitely extroverted decorations that didn't match the birthday boy or his interests at all as you made your way through the crowds of Idia”s birthday party that was no doubtedly thrown by someone with little information about him due to the extravagantness of it all.

Is idia even here? I mean this definitely doesn't seem like his sort of ….event ...though a stray blue flame from the corner of the room drew your attention causing your feet to turn towards the out of place light, moving in the direction of the flame. Eventually your eyes moved from the gaudy crystal vases with assorted bouquets of Blaue Blume, forget me not, baby's breath, borage, white clematis, white gladiolus hydrangea and rosemary past the streamers and balloons landed on a hunched over figure decked out in all white as his bright blue hair flowed with each of his subtle movements while his shaky hands gripped the sides of his phone. Swiping and tapping through all the various games to collect his log-in rewards. Being greeted with the basic hello's of the various Otome Characters and sifting through the automated Happy Birthday messages to receive the "Gifts" given by the characters. Graciously receiving whatever form of item used to pull characters as every gacha game had. The gift ultimately useless since with his large wallet he could have easily afforded the pitiful attempt from the game developers as a low effort way of assuring everyone felt “special on their birthday.

His blue and slightly dried out lips began to move, though unfortunately your ears couldn't quite pick up what the gloomy male was saying or rather muttering under his breath as he always did.

.

.

.

Now you knew about how annoying it probably was for him to have to deal with all of these extroverts wishing him happy birthdays or shoving information and gifts into his arms expecting a eager reaction like some over appreciative British orphan just happy with the crumbs of society. You knew Idia, paying so much attention to the blue haired male due to your flaming crush you tried to shove down to no avail. When you spend so much time watching someone you eventually pick up on their habits and preferences. Though unfortunately as much as you knew he wished it you couldn't bring yourself to leave him be without at least giving him his gift. It may have been….selfish to want to gift something to him even if unwanted…but birthdays were supposed to be enjoyed right?

Feet planted on the ground like a akwardly placed and unsure tree hand hovering over his shoulders slightly. Feeling that slight rush and certainess you hand reached a bit further…before eventually pulling back as your lips presses into a firm line....at least more so than this even probably already had. Clearing your throat you watched as he looked up with a scow, the heavy black eye liner not softening his already gloomy look adding to the stabbing affect in your heart while your hands shook. Though his eyes seemed to soften ever so slightly as he made eye contact with you. Though that was just your imagination or a trick of the light right? A low grumble escaping his throat as he hit the power button on his phone making the screen turn to black. Though he didn't put his phone away completely, keeping it in his hands.

Those deep yellow eyes narrowing ever so slightly as hist bangs shifted to the left with a tilt of his head giving you a expectant and slightly impatient look "what?” Who knew that this would be so nerve wracking. Adoring that bunt behavior from the sidelines was certainly not the same as being on the direct end of it. Like watching protagonist train over and over with a sword only to eventually be on the end of it. Imaginary metal pressed against your throat as your hands shook while pulling out a bag containing your gift, a few small small bags of candies, and card with a cheap bouquet of twelve blue roses that you had repackaged to look nicer, now wrapped in white tissue paper and tied with a small blue ribbon instead of the cheep plastic wrapper. It was harr to beleive they were same blue roses that had happened to be marked down in sam”s shop yesterday. I mean they reminded you of his hair so it must have been fate right? Holding out the group of gifts out for Idia to take. Mouth completly dry, opening and shutting your lips, scrambling to find words to the script you had rehearsed over and over in your mind all day yesterday and om the walk over. Only to find they had completely vanished as soon as your eyes met the bright yellow piercing gaze of his own.

“I uh- here” In panicked, shoving the items I to his lap as his hands were full seemed like the best option. Mouth moving before your brain had even caught up As the words kept spilling. “Happy Birthday I uh- I made some candy For you. Sorry if it's kind of shitty or not what you like I promise I really did put in effort. Figured you deserved a gift cause you know it's your day of birth. Gotta receive compensation for having To live and breathe.” That sinking feeling that rested in your chest only getting worse with each and evert word, trying to make that cringy akward spiel better. Oh god that was so stupid. Could someone set a fire so this memory would forever be overshadowed by the incident. But alas there were no flames to save you today, at least not the physical type to be rid of this thing and burn the area to the ground.

You did more than enough damage to whatever your awkward interaction was with idia. Heart pounding in your ears blocking all sound as you quickly turned around. Scurrying away with so quickly without so much as a second glance you didn't even notice how the tips of his hair turned pink or the way his lips turned up into a grin Showing off all his razor sharp shark like teeth. “Whee hee”

Blaue Blume desire, love, and the metaphysical striving for the infinite and unreachable

Forget me not's- remembranceBaby's breath-everlasting love

Borage- bluntness, Directness

Clematis mental beautyGladius flower of the Gladiators, strength ofcharacter, faithfulness, moral integrity, and remembrance

Hydrenga- gratitude for being understood, Frigidity and heartlessness

Rosemary- remembrance

Blue roses unrequited love, yearning for someone out of reach

[chidorrrita]

Hey, I'm not sure if you'll do this one, but like... I was on c.ai and actually made this cute little thing that I want to see with a more cannon L.

Basically, L and Reader are in a relationship, she has no connection to the Kira case, she's just a normal person. One night, L was on his laptop when she entered the room, crying and asking him to give up the case, because she just found out she's pregnant.

It's silly, but the way L comforted my character, I just need to see it with a more human writing 😭

Hello darling! Thank you for sending an ask! It’s not silly at all and I am more than willing to oblige. I hope you don’t mind, but I tweaked the story a little. Hopefully it’s still enjoyable. 

Being in a relationship with L Lawliet was not easy. He was rarely ever with you, off on some business trip or other, and even when he was, his mind would drift off, eyes staring blankly at the wall in front of him as he waited for you to get out of the shower. He would have to leave again, twice as long this time, to Japan. This case was proving to be far more difficult than he expected but you did not need to know the details. As much as you insist, he will never darken your mind with the details of any case he works. 

You spend the night together in each other’s arms praying it lasts a little longer, but it never works. Morning comes too quickly, and you kiss L at the door, never saying goodbye because this isn’t a goodbye. He will return. He must.

Christmas comes and you stay in your flat with colorful shadows of yourself reflected on the walls from tree lights outside your window. You stand hunched over the bathroom sink, unblinking eyes focused on your hands. Shrieks of joy from young children and gossiping mothers can be heard from the park across the street temporarily drawing your attention away. Happy families enjoying the holidays together. It almost makes you want to vomit. You peer down at your hands again, willing the color on the strip to change. No matter how many times you rub your eyes or shake the damn thing, it stays the same. Two pink lines. Christmas carollers start to sing and you are overtaken by a bout of nausea. You really should have used a condom.

After cleaning up the mess in the bathroom, you stumble to your bedroom dropping to your knees and swiping beneath your bed in search of a burner phone. L had given it to you in case you needed to reach him. It was a one use sort of thing, designed to self destruct after a call has been made. Finally you find it, covered in dust bunnies, but still in working condition. You input a code of numbers, accessing the contacts, take a deep breath, and call L. One, two, three rings, then he picks up.

His voice crackles over the speaker. “Hello.”

“Is there anyone with you?”

You hear muffled shuffling and then what sounds like a door locking.

“No.”

“Okay.” A slight pause. “I’m pregnant.” Exhale.

L goes silent trying to process the gravity of your statement, mouth opening and then shutting. He could be a father, if you wanted him to be, but he realizes where he is. In a country hours away from you, stuck in an empty hotel room with only the whir of computers and the thought of you to keep his sanity during this case that will surely take his life.

“I’ll be right there.”

The line goes dead before you can reply. The automated voice saying the phone will self-destruct in five seconds, and you rush to the bathroom, throwing it in the sink before it has the chance to explode in your hand. 

Six-teen hours later, he’s at your door red in the face and puffing with sweat dripping off his forehead. 

“Where-how did you get here so fast?” 

“Ran-” he takes a deep breath “from airport.”

“Why wouldn't you drive?”

Another breath. “Traffic.”

He pushes past your unmoving frame, walking straight to the fridge and chugging a water bottle. Slowly, still in shock of his unorthodox arrival, you lock the front door and follow him to the kitchen where he has downed yet another bottle. 

You stare at him, bewildered, waiting for an explanation for his erratic behavior, and he stares back, slightly shrugging his shoulders as if it was self explanatory. 

Daring to break the silence, you ask, “What do we do?”

“Whatever you want my love.” He answers quickly back. 

You place your hands on your lower belly, imagining the little life just barely starting to grow into an embryo. Physical proof of the love you share. Flashes of a nonexistent Christmas pass your mind, wrapped up in fuzzy blankets as you watch L play with your child, softly cooing when their chubby hands nearly reach a star shaped ornament in his hands.

 “I think I want to keep it.” 

He smiles and places his own hands on top of yours, rubbing small circles with his thumbs. “Then we will.”

Suddenly you look up from your joined hands, worry etched on your brow. “What about your job? Aren’t you on a case?”

L’s voice is low and soothing. “I’ll send someone to take my place.” You open your mouth in protest, but he beats you to it, “I belong here with you” and the words die on your tongue. 

L presses you closer to his chest, arms protectively wrapped around your waist, and his head buried in the crook of your neck. No words are exchanged because no more words are needed. He will stay and create the family he never had with you, and he couldn’t be happier.

[banji-effect]

I simply do not understand people who want or enjoy using commercial AI. To me, every single application in which it's used is like, "Hey, you know those fucking awful automated phone trees with robot 'assistants' that can't understand or help with any of your questions or needs, and it takes a dozen tries to get a human on the line? Now everything in this miserable world is like that! 😄"

[puffein]

DEFLECTED | late spring [vii.]

summary: wanda's quiet life was upended by your abrupt disappearance. pairings: wanda maximoff x fem!reader, wanda maximoff x vision warnings: one swear word word count: 1192 a/n: wanda's pov! : DD i was so excited when i wrote her pov lool

series masterlist playlist!

Westview, New Jersey

Early-February 2024

Something's wrong.

Something is bothering Wanda's mind, her thoughts are whirring like lightning bolts ready to electrocute her at any minute. With every second she spends re-reading the same sentences written in her favorite book is another thought flashing right at her mind. 

She lets out a breath, closing the book she dearly treasures, and like how her brain got accustomed to how she's doing this movement every second, her head turns down to where her phone is quietly seated beside her.

Wanda's eyes burn right through her phone, for the first time in her life, she wants her phone bombarded by a set of texts or if she's lucky enough to receive a single phone call from a certain someone. It has been weeks, nearing a month since she took the courage of texting you, hopeful that her single text triggered another hangout with her best friend but to her dismay, the text was left unread. She thought of different things and distracted herself with new hobbies but her mind always drifted off to you. 

"It's February now.. The text I sent was in December.." she mumbles to herself, the soft cushions of her couch do not help her feel relaxed at all, nibbling the tips of her thumb's nail, she thought, fuck it.

Fast, swift movements, she quickly took her phone without a second thought, fingers hovering above your name. She stops, her mind blank as she stares at the contact photo she set out for her best friend.

A stolen photo she took, months before you and her became truly friends. You had teased her constantly about the story of the stolen photo, teasing her as a stalker and she would always reply with a tinge of red spreading right at her cheeks. 

The corners of her mouth turned up without her control, reminiscing the college days she had with her best friend was the only thing inspiring her to continue whatever she had in mind. She wants you to be with her every step of her life, you're her best friend, the only person that truly matters to her and if it means making her look like an obsessive person, so be it. 

So, she did. Her thumbs pressing firmly on the call button, she breathes out as she places her phone right at her ears. A single ring happens and then it goes straight to something familiar. 

"The person you are calling is busy at the moment." the automated voice declares, she freezes. Her eyes darted across the room, her face falling, the beating of her heart increasing as an uneasy dread settled right at her being. 

Wanda grips her phone, settling it right in front of her face. The phone trembles in her clutch, she opens the messaging app, staring at the last message she sent in the month of December. It says delivered. 

She can't possibly be blocked if she got to send that message, right? 

But today is February. A huge time gap between those two months, and she never sent another message, her courage was limited to only sending you that one message where she stated she was excited to see you again. 

I didn't say anything weird, right? She thought. 

Eyes boring right at the delivered message but never been read. Not wanting to acknowledge the possibility of her best friend blocking her, she types out another message to test out her theory. 

The text bubble turns green. Like the leaves of the trees dancing right outside of her windows, the freshly mowed grass in her yard, the same color but in a different shade like her eyes. A different variation of green but it is still green. A sender's message should never be green. It just meant one thing, she had been blocked. 

The very essence of Wanda's life has cut off any contact with her, all of your accounts are nowhere to be found, and even your precious account on that one app is now gone. She didn't know what happened, her mind was too loud but silent at the same time. The air seems to be useless for her at this moment as her chest constricts with its scream for air. Her sight became blurry, she was suffocating in worry and fright. Something must be wrong with her phone. There's no way she got blocked, right? By her very own best friend, the only person she had, her person. 

"Hey, is something wrong?" a voice snaps her out accompanied by the sound of a door closing, she turns her head to gaze at her husband. A tall lean man standing right in front of their front door, suitcase in hand, necktie loosely hung, and face morphing into confusion. 

Wanda turns her head away, wiping something under her eyes as fast as she could and standing up to greet her husband. With a shaky voice, she musters up a smile, "Nothing is wrong, here let me help you with your coat." 

"How is your day?" she asks, folding his coat neatly in her arms, her gaze flickers right at his eyes for a second then moves on to the phone settled on the couch. 

"The same old routine, my brother wanted me to do something different like investing…" His voice fades out into the background white noise of their suburban two-story house, she feels her breathing gradually increase as time passes by, the gravity beneath her feet seems to be losing its grip and purpose as her knees wobble. 

"How do you know if someone has blocked your number?" she suddenly questions her husband. Her alert voice cut off whatever dialogue her husband was saying. The man in front of her stilled at her question, eyebrows frowning at the sudden uncomfortable tension his wife was emitting. 

"If it rings once then an automated voice answers." he quipped, annoyance bubbling at how his wife cut him off. "Is something wrong?"

"Nothing. I-I just remembered this book club thing.." her voice drifts off as she walks away from him, the door closing behind her as she rummages through her closet to find decent clothes for outside. Briskly walking towards their front door, Wanda was stopped by the tight grip on her arms. 

"Where is this thing?" 

"Just in the neighborhood, you can heat the dinner through a microwave or something. I'll try to be back before dinner, just in case I can't. I, um, emergency meeting. For this club, yes. I'll see you later, honey." Wanda didn't waste time hearing the reply from her husband. She knew the words she spitted out were rushed and definitely weird but she had somewhere to go, somewhere where she knows her questions can be answered. 

Without any lingering doubting thoughts, she pushed away any possible aftermath of her actions as her feet grounds at the gas pedal of her car leading her into the route she never thought she would be taking. But desperation makes a person forget all their prejudices on some things even if the very same thing has caused her the insecurities locked hidden at her soul.

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[lets-roar-babe]

KITCHEN LIGHTS | TOMMY MILLER

Synopsis: In which a kitchen light leads your estranged husband back to you.

a/n: Inspired by the series "Family Matters" found here enjoy!

gif credit found here

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Nothing truly came from the month of October. The trees bore no fruit, nor could they hold on to the withered leaves that hung from their branches. The Redwood would seek comfort in their modesty, shielding themselves like Catholic virgins—refuting the request to lie bare and empty for the world to see. Conversely, The Oak would give themselves freely to the surfacing wind- offering their leaves in a way oddly sacrificial while internally relishing in the metamorphosis of being condensed down to bark. The soil would be turned sour, and farmers would dig up their harvest and inevitably start anew. The mulch would be unsatisfactory to the touch, but necessary to produce the autumn heap. 

A seasonal sacrifice and display of unequal scales, October would remove the equilibrium of nature's course. The chill of the morning would turn lukewarm by the strike of noon, and the crow would flee before nightfall, leaving its flock behind as temperatures would shift at intervals the flock could not prophesy. An orchestra of organized chaos, October altered what was familiar and purged its victims into something anew—a clean slate for even those who were unwilling. And as you sat quiet and meek before the eyes of your stoic husband, you too sensed the season of autumn coming to reap the familiarity that was Tommy Miller.

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The kitchen light blew its fuse at 1:43 PM. Initially reaching out to Joel, a sting of annoyance surfaced as you reached yet another automated tone. You paused as you heard the all too familiar beep, lingering on the phone for a second too long as you shook away your thoughts before hanging up. He was working, and in a way, he would be expecting a baby soon. You had always known Joel to live and die by the grindstone, the drill, the mechanics. He was busy, and that was simply that. You knew you had done nothing to warrant his avoidance and settled for telling him about the light when he came to visit you after hours. You huffed out a gust of air as you looked up at the sparking light, internally going over your shared evening routine to give yourself a sense of comfort. 

The gravel would sound from beyond the pines as the Ford would roll to a creak and stop. You would then open the door with a meek smile and muttered “hello” as he crossed the threshold with his arm tucked beneath your waist. You would sit at the dining table and talk about your days, emitting small talk over Folger’s coffee as you caught the fleeting glances directed towards your swollen belly. You would smile to yourself, wondering if he were even aware of the attentiveness he put into the appearance of your belly, recalling all the times his hands would migrate from your waist to your abdomen to make sure the baby was, in fact, growing and healthy. He would then venture off to the spare room you had both agreed to be the nursery as he would once again ask what you wanted, and you would return with yet another indecisive answer. Then, after all formalities were completed and darkness rolled over the hills, you would occupy the porch swing that sat a tad too low for comfort, in silence. 

Staring out into the forest, you would both search for answers you knew neither of you had… nor deserved. The swing would creak back and forth, serving as adequate white noise as your legs moved in sync to continue the ritual.

Back…. Forth… back… forth…

Silence.

Back… Forth… back… forth

Silence.

Back… Forth…

“So… have you… um- seen him at all?”

Coward, you couldn’t even say his name.

Joel would then turn to you with soft eyes, tracing circles on your lower back to cease the debilitating nerves of not only you but himself. An answer would not come for some time, and you would look over to find him lost within his own world. Analyzing the stars, his subconscious would drift past the Lakeview before you, over yonder, and into the valleys. Then, as if snapped out of a trance, he would turn to you with furrowed brows, embarrassed how he had managed to lose himself in front of you. Silence would continue for quite some time, and then, painstakingly– words would come. 

“Nah, he took a short-term contracting job about 30 miles North. I don’t even see ‘em on the job, although I know the contract ends pretty soon… I call him every day, just no-”

“Answer? Yeah, me too.”

The Cicadas would add to your symphony, blending into the creaks of the hinges as the orchestra would continue on. The band would string together a perfect harmony, almost louder than the silence that would have fallen over you again. You would sit with yourself, your thoughts ricocheting against every orifice of your mind, and after a while, when it all became too much, you would find yourself in a flurry of tears- hot and disheveled. Joel’s arms would then engulf you, easing you into his broad chest as you would waft the scent of him- Cedarwood and Virginia tobacco. You would inhale, loving the fumes of him as your hands would then cling to his arms, holding onto them as if they were the only thing keeping you on an axis. And as you lay wallowing in your tears, you would feel comfort. He was your comfort. 

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You shook your head, repelling the memories; that was then, and this was now. A soft buzz echoed above you, and as you looked up at the sparking light, your lips began to curl thin as the faint smell of sulfur grazed your nostrils. 

Shit.

You picked up your phone and hovered over his name, debating whether the attempt would even be successful. This was not a petty attempt to garner sympathy or apologize, nor was it your 5th attempt to explain your side between choked sobs as you had done in the past when your calls went straight to voicemail. This was possibly an electrical fucking fire, and Tommy, as scorned as he was, would have to understand that. He was not that type of man, right? Gripping your bottom lip between your teeth, you made your way to the living room as you began to text him a brief synopsis of the events.

The kitchen light blew this morning. It’s sparking right now (no big deal) but i'm almost positive I smell sulfur, and that only ever happened with the generator, right?

Read at 1:56 PM

You stared at your screen for a long while, rereading the text repeatedly as you awaited a response. Tommy had withered away from your life over the past 3 months, only returning when you were at work to fetch some necessities for the job, such as important documents or work boots. He never stayed long, fearing that you would return home early from work or, better yet, with Joel. You felt yourself go stir crazy as you smelled his presence within rooms after a long day of work, chasing what you felt was just a phantom of him—silently damning yourself that you had missed the opportunity to cross paths with him. To beg in person the same soliloquies you had virtually. Tapping your foot as tears welled in your eyes, you shot an additional text.

Please Tommy, I don't know what to do. 

  Read at 2:03 PM

Another period of silence graced over you as the grandfather clock ticked to match the noise of the settling house. Tommy loved you, and he wouldn’t ignore a home maintenance request that he knew you had no means of resolving, right? He was your husband… he loved you..  and only you. For fucks sake, his name was still on the deed.

Prepared to send your last attempt at rescue, a soft ping echoed throughout the air as your ears perked, mirroring a dog at attention. 

How had the man who lived to worship you, learn to acknowledge you only in times of distress? 

Your eyes skimmed the screen as you analyzed his response– short, stern, and tinged with subtle annoyance.

The smoke detector still works. Wait on the porch; I’ll fix it. 

You messaged a quick thank you, which you had predicted would be ignored, and settled yourself onto the porch swing where you’d grown to seek solace in Joel. You swung your legs back and forth as you kept your eyes on the trail, this time awaiting a faded Chevy versus a vintage Ford. Your legs would continue to swing, this time alone rather than accompanied by your other lover, and your stomach would twist in knots as you worried about what was to come.

But for now, you were alone.

Back… forth…. back…. forth…

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Tommy had moved out the day after he caught you entangled with Joel. After being captured bare and confessing sweet nothings that only lovers could utter– Tommy simply left. You remember calling his name as you scrambled for the undergarments that were torn and tattered upon the floor by Joel’s aggression. Screeching at his back, he continued to turn away from you, walking towards the threshold of your shared cabin as he refused to spare you a second glance. You remembered Joel sinking his fingers into your bicep, attempting to console you as he instructed you to leave him be in fear that things would become hostile. You had snatched away from him harder than expected, the look on his face sending a pang of guilt directly to the chest. 

You were panicking at this point, tears streaming down your face as you reached for even Joel’s flannel in an attempt to cloak yourself from the shame that crept its way into your subconscious. Joel had reached for you once again, and this time, instead of resisting, you threw yourself into him, wailing into his chest as your knees began to waver. Joel held you steady and safe, another thing you loved about him– as he met you halfway while you collapsed into hysteria. Joel would then rub a hand over his thick scruff, wondering how he was going to face his brother after the series of events. Unbeknownst to him, the image of his brother– slouched over and deflated, would be the last that he’d see of him for several months. Only receiving his back portfolio to serve as the memory of the day he betrayed him.

You had spent that night alone in the cabin, unable to keep Joel there since it was a constant reminder of how horrid things had indeed become. You were torn between two men and selfishly expected both to become subservient. Who even were you at this point?  You had cried yourself to sleep that night, clinging to Tommy’s side of the bed as you inhaled the scent. As the night would go on, you would lay awake and wonder if he would come home. Even opting for the nuclear blowout that you knew followed emotional infidelity– but to your dismay, Tommy’s presence would never come. Work would come and go, and as you returned home, you would notice the absence of Miller Lite within the fridge. Furrowing your brows, you would walk toward the living room in search of a cigarette ashtray only to find it– gone. Frantically, you would make your way to your shared bedroom, opening drawers in a fury as alarm bells rang within your mind. Then, as you folded the accordion doors to your closet, your world would go black– your husband had left you.  

You recalled hiking towards your phone, scrambling over the keypad as you typed his name. 

Tommy- fuck wait, Babe. 

The automated tone sounded again and again, leaving you at a dead end as tears began to well into your eyes and spill. 45 calls– 45 times your husband had ignored you. He loved you, he wouldn't– he couldn’t. Vows were eternal, applicable even through thick and thin. This was not death; therefore, you would not be apart. 

Tommy please, I am your wife.

Read at 5:04 PM

The only indicator that Tommy was even alive were the heaps of groceries left on your doorstep every Thursday afternoon. Still cool to touch, you would appreciate the attentiveness he took into timing his delivery– ensuring that the milk did not spoil nor the eggs cook under the Texan sun. You would sigh as you picked them up, carrying them into a now vacant home that you once shared with the man you loved. Appreciatively, the bills were still set onto autopay as Tommy cleared the transactions every month.

Yes, the mere thought of you and Joel betraying his trust turned him sour– damn near bitter to the taste. But he could not allow himself to not provide for you, especially being privy to your pregnancy. He loathed the sight of you, but not his baby. With every delivery of goods, you would notice boxes of Huggies placed upon the kitchen counter and accompanied by a surplus of wipes. The boxes were heavy, and he did not want you to carry them in such condition. Within three months, almost all toiletries needed for the baby’s milestones were pilled into the spare room’s closet. Filled to a brim and practically overflowing past the accordion doors. Although things were pungent, he still held an attachment to the baby. A baby that you had proclaimed three months ago was, in fact, not his, but Joel’s. Guilt crept its way into the bottom of your stomach and settled as you recalled your words; it had made quite a lovely home there over the months. 

He provided but was yet absent. He spared you no words nor presence, and you slowly shrank into a morsel of yourself as you were left to live with the weight of your decisions…  and it felt awful. Joel had served as an adequate substitute, but as the days drew into weeks and transitioned into months, you sensed the wariness that radiated from him as well. You debated on whether the triangulation had gone too far– if temporary pleasure was worth the lifetime of a broken covenant. He loved you, you would repeat to yourself. He only loved you. 

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Tommy’s car would roll over the hills about twenty-five minutes after your text; ejecting himself from the driver’s seat, you would stiffen as he made his way towards you, then past you, as he proceeded into the home. A feeling of insecurity would follow, and you would tuck your knees to your chin as you held yourself in an upward fetal position. The frogs would croak at the quarry, and you would listen to their symphony as you attempted to block out the fuzzy static that engrossed your ears. You would hear him begin to tinker with the kitchen bulb, metal clanging on metal as tools collided and tore apart. He would cough occasionally, the closest thing to words that would escape his lips, and you would remain outside as he did his work. 

Joel’s words would then surface within your mind.

“Just leave him be darlin’, we have no idea how he feels right now, and dammit it’s too fresh to find out.” 

Forty-five minutes would come to pass, and you would play your role as the coward while your husband continued to work at the nuts and bolts. The frogs sang louder now, and you would silently reminisce in the comfort of Joel and the nights spent occupied upon the porch swing. Inside, Tommy would work in silence, sweat pooling at his temple as he tried his hardest not to think about you. His pride refused to allow him to remain married to you, and he silently counted the days spent apart as viable means of separation before the court.

He would not confront you while you were carrying a child, too concerned with the well-being of the baby to ever jeopardize its health. He also refused to serve you postpartum; he still held a certain amount of decorum and love for you (despite his many attempts to drink them away), and he felt as if he would be less of a man to hit you at your lowest. As far as Joel went, he could go without seeing him for a lifetime. Accepting a full-time contracting job 30 miles south of Austin, Joel would learn soon enough that any petty attempts to reach him at the job would be unsuccessful. He would be a phantom there just as he was within the house he now stood in. 

The bulb would cease to flicker, and the sparks would disperse shortly after Tommy had tightened the last cord. He gathered his supplies quickly, turning towards the door as he made his way back to the porch, past you, and towards the driver’s side of his Chevy pickup. Against his better judgement, he would turn to look at you, breath hitching at the sight. You looked pitiful and disheveled, eyeing him with such longing as your lips parted in attempts to say something meaningful. Tommy would stand closer to the car, fingers grazing the handle as he let out a puff of air. In that moment, he had seen how the months had affected you– and felt somewhat guilty for leaving you all alone in an empty cabin to self-soothe your marital wounds.

But then the grief hit. The moans he heard as he crossed the threshold replayed within his mind. The forbidden words spoken between you and Joel as you denounced him from his role as a father edged their way into the center point of his cerebellum. Slowly– toxicly, the resentment seeped in. Face contorting, you could almost picture what your husband was thinking as you held yourself more tightly into your chest. He would remain lost within his thoughts as he stared at you, this time in anger more than inspection. Slowly, he became lost in his own world, and you thought back to the nights when Joel had done the same– shaking your head in disbelief at how similar the two could be. Then, for the first time in three months, you would hear your husband’s voice.

“It’s fixed. Let me know if anything else happens.” 

And with that, he settled into his car– seat belt clipped, and mirror adjusted. You closed your eyes to stop yet another set of tears from falling for the fifth time today. You knew that there was no coming back from that. The quick dismissal and complete avoidance served as verification of what you had feared the most. Tommy had checked out, and it was only a matter of time before the title of his wife would be of past tense. You knew it, and so did he. 

You watched as he reversed across the gravel– lip quivering and heart aching. His taillights disappeared within the trees shortly after as you silently wondered where they would end. Silently praying that they were not headed towards the home of another. The frogs had stopped now, and the cicadas had taken over the wind.

He was gone, and you were left here.

Time would continue to pass as you slowly lifted yourself from the porch swing, preparing to meet with Joel within the next hour. It was almost time for your nightly routine, and you desperately needed the aura of his comfort. With that, you carried yourself into the kitchen, chasing the scent of a man you knew would be stripped bare from this place by winter. October was made for altering things into anew, and you had become a victim of its oldest trick.