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macfrog · 10 months

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jet

🎉 thank u guys so much for 1k followers 🎉 i don’t know how we got here but i love you all endlessly and can’t thank you enough for all the love n support. here’s some smutty joel to celebrate 🤩 this might become something, it might not. i dunno. wanted to try it out tho. lmk your thoughts ✨

pairing: joel miller x fem!reader

summary: you and joel have an agreement: follow his movements, follow his orders, stay alive. what happens when, one night, he asks you to break the deal?

warnings: 18+ (minors dni!!!) post-outbreak!joel, pining i guess?? when don't i pine for this man, praise kink, light bondage, fingering, unprotected p in v sex (don't u dare), creampie, dom!joel, soft!joel, age gap (late 20s reader, late 40s joel), cursing, cute horsies

word count: 6.9k

main masterlist

Somewhere between Missouri and Illinois, last time you checked. Joel has the map, and you don’t bother asking him to see it much. You’ve been following the Mississippi north, on his orders, looking to hit St. Louis sometime tomorrow. Provided you don’t run into any trouble, that is.

It’s been three days with no safe refuge. Camping out in deserted houses with wood for windowpanes, stores infested with rats, office buildings with infected roaming. Joel figures the outskirts of the city are a good spot to stop for a couple nights, regain your strength, find supplies.

You’re a few paces ahead of him, only turning your head slightly when you notice an offramp, and looking back ahead when he doesn’t give any direction. You weave in and out of abandoned cars, hips swaying with the clipping of your horse’s hooves on broken asphalt, Joel’s horse in time at your heels.

You’d untethered the pair of them on a farm back in Nebraska. Joel had told you to stay put while he cleared the house, but you’d wandered over to the field when you spotted them. Timid, skittish, starving.

Five minutes hooked over the fence and they were both eating grass you’d pulled from the earth, right out of your hand. Joel’s heavy footsteps approaching had spooked them back a few steps, but you’d petted their muzzles and when he did the same, they soon warmed to him, too.

He’d jerked his head in a nod and muttered, “Good job,” before finding two saddles, strapping them on, and helping you onto the chestnut brown one – who you’d named Jet.

Joel had found tins of food in the farmhouse, and a switchblade for you to carry. He had a new stain on his shirt.

“Infected?” you asked.

He grunted in reply. Then rolled the tins into his backpack and hoisted himself onto his own horse, giving her reins a tug.

You knew that meant that yeah, there’d been infected inside. And recent, too, going by how well-kept the horses looked. It can’t have been longer than a week.

Joel’s silence as you both wandered down the farm track probably meant that there weren’t just adults in the house, either.

You’d glanced over to him, giving him a small smile. Bent over and reached for his horse’s ears, scratching where her soft black coat met her mane. The reins lay loose around Joel’s knuckles.

Protecting and providing for you was more important than some infected kids in a farmhouse. Joel had made that more than clear over the time you’d been with him. But somewhere, buried deep underneath years of fighting and killing, tucked away under a dusty flannel shirt, you knew his heart was hurting.

That was two weeks ago. Joel hasn’t talked about it, and you’re not interested in bringing it back up. Y’all got to the farm, took everything it had to offer, and you left.

Jet clicks her way along the highway somewhere south of the city. It’s still bright out; Joel reckons probably a few more hours of sunlight, so you know he’ll be scouting for places to camp out soon.

You lean back to stretch your spine, hand steadying yourself on Jet’s rump, her tail swishing as she walks. Her head bobs, looking from left to right, from the trucks with smashed windows sprouting moss, over to the trees losing leaves in the fall breeze.

It’s peaceful. Not much is, these days.

It’s quiet enough that Joel can listen for any sound of oncoming threat, and quiet enough that you can shut your eyes and pretend like you’re on some trail in the Texas country, on a warm summer evening; not exhausted, covered in dirt, weeks since you washed, days since you slept.

You’re humming gently to yourself, imagination taking you down by a creek where Joel pulls you by hand off the horse and you sit down to a picnic or something. He’d bring a basket. Maybe a bottle of wine, or a cheese board. Maybe he lays you back and kisses you on the blanket. Maybe his hand starts to wander up your thigh, skirt ruffling as he goes…

“Not much out here, is there?”

His voice startles you, bursting the seams of your daydream. He isn’t much of a talker, not unless you start it. You sit up straight and give your head a shake, as if dislodging the fantasy from your mind.

You twist around to look at his face; squinting under the bright white sky. Tired, same as you, lined, flecked with years and sun and survival.

“Hm?” he asks when you still don’t reply.

“Not a lot,” you finally say, clearing your throat and turning back to the road.

Finding the horses isn’t the only thing that’d happened two weeks ago.

Joel hadn’t wanted to camp in the farmhouse, hadn’t wanted to have to shift the bodies. Too much effort, or too much for you to see, maybe. You’d protested, heart set on a night’s sleep in an actual bed, but he hadn’t budged.

And you knew not to push him.

The sun was setting, though, so Joel led you down a dirt track toward a barn and burst the padlock. He tied the horses up just inside the door, used bundled up hay as a makeshift mattress upon which he laid out a blanket for you.

He barricaded the door as you lay back, did a walkaround of the place just in case any infected – or worse – were waiting to surprise y’all, and then sat down next to you.

Your head by his thigh, you put a hand on his knee.

“You can lie down, too, y’know.”

He grunted in response, breathing deep and steady.

“Joel.”

You took his shoulder and tried to pull him down to you, but the man is stronger than anyone you’ve ever met, even in his late forties, and you were convinced he’d only pretended to be yanked toward you so as not to hurt your feelings too much.

He remained upright. “Just want to keep watch for a while.”

Joel’s like this when you’re on the road. He’s cautious. On high alert. Always watching ahead, always listening out for whatever he thinks he might hear in the distance. Sometimes you can say something to him and have to give his leg a kick for him to answer you.

You’d sighed and pushed yourself up to lean your bicep against his. He furrowed his brows and scanned you from your jeans to your jaw.

“If you’re up, I’m up,” you told him.

“You need sleep,” he replied flatly.

You shrugged. “So do you.”

“What good is both of us tired?”

You sighed again and shook your head. You weren’t gonna argue with him.

Good thing he didn’t feel much like arguing, either. Ten minutes later he was on top of you, jeans loose on his thighs, head buried in your shoulder, fucking you senseless. Grunting and groaning into your skin.

You’d scored marks into his shoulder blades with your nails that you’re sure, if you peeled back his shirt right now, would still be there.

It’d tired you both out enough that Joel settled with your head on his chest, his hand in your hair, eyes trained on the barn doors. You don’t know if he slept a wink. You never know if he sleeps these days.

Joel hears the hoarseness of your voice and knows that you’re tired, ‘cause he clicks to his horse and she trots up alongside you and Jet. He pulls the map from his backpack. You tilt your head to take a look.

“Keep ridin’ for another hour,” he mumbles. “’m sure we’ll find somewhere soon. Looks like we’re still a little way out of St. Louis.”

You nod, rolling your head back. The cloudy sky burns your corneas as you watch a bird fly overhead. Joel slips the map back into his bag and you feel his hand on your thigh.

“You okay?”

“Mhm. Tired,” you whisper.

“Only a little while longer.” He gives your leg a small squeeze and his hand returns to the reins. He doesn’t fall back, instead, stays ambling along by your side. It feels like company. Feels nice. Feels…normal.

Two weeks is a long fucking time. Especially when your adrenaline peaks on the regular, sometimes multiple times in one day, and you’re alone with Joel all day and all night. Trusting each other, relying on each other. Saving each other time and time again. It was only natural that you began to rely on each other for…more than just survival.

You can’t remember when you found him. It was in the QZ, back when you believed in stability and structure. When you believed in people. Now, the only thing you believed in was Joel. Broken, hurt, shut-off Joel, who’d grumbled an apology when his shoulder brushed yours in the hallway and changed everything.

You like to think you were something new to him, something different. A challenge, maybe. Something worth holding onto, anyway, for reasons he was yet to let you in on.

He had an apartment of his own, with a bed of his own, which was something you weren’t used to. You shared a cramped apartment with Luce, a single mom with a two-year-old. Joel’s was where you went when the tantrums, the screaming in the middle of the night, the ration cards being destroyed either by ripping, by eating, or else by other means, became too suffocating.

Joel didn’t believe in anything or anyone, either. That’s what kept you coming back.

He’d just open his door and step aside to let you in. Barely a word. He’d ask if you’d eaten, and share his plate with you either way. Wordlessly picking away at the same food, making sure you got the last spoonful of soup, the last strip of jerky.

Most nights he’d fuck you until your mind went blank, nothing but the smell of him, feel of him, sound of him. No talking, no kissing, no touching. Just the sound of the bed springs, Joel’s soft groans as he bottomed out inside you. The feel of his hot skin, hips rubbing against the inside of your thighs. The bare, cracked brick walls of his apartment would fade away with each thrust, and then slowly seep back in when your orgasm began to wash away.

You knew it was time-wasting, for both of you. Scratching an itch. But some nights, it felt like more. The nights when he’d be so caught up in what he was doing, so caught up in you, that he’d forget to pull out. The nights his hips would snap messily and suddenly he was spilling inside of you, a deep groan humming against your skin between his teeth.

He wouldn’t care to ask, and you wouldn’t offer the information for free, but you remember every fucking time he did it. Where it’d happened, the position he had you in, how long it took for him to finally peel his body off of yours.

And afterwards, he’d let you sleep with your head on his chest. Let you play with his fingers. Let you talk to him; let you ask questions.

Didn’t mean he answered all of them. Didn’t even mean he answered much. Some, he’d give away more openly than others, but you soon got used to clocking when he was keeping a secret. Make a mental note of it, remember to chip away at it.

He trusted you, though; you knew that. Knew it by the way his fingers knotted safely in your hair, the way he’d lie naked with you until the sun came up. The way his breathing would slow, the way he’d mumble in his sleep.

You never talked to him about the incoherent words he’d breathe – but you could piece them together well enough to understand him better than his waken self would ever reveal.

When you brought up leaving, one rainy night weeks ago, he thought about it maybe twice over. Asked how he was supposed to keep you safe.

You do that already, you told him.

‘s different outside. You don’t understand.

It can’t be any worse than in here.

You’d taken a step forward, and he’d flinched, but allowed you to take his strong jaw in your hands. You tried to form a sentence, and when your throat closed up, eyes flitting between his, he took your wrists and lowered them. The shadow of a rain-spattered window doused in a sickly amber glow across his face.

You’d wanted to kiss him. And had he left your hands where they were just a few seconds longer, you think you might’ve. Joel saw it in your eyes, and stopped it.

Whatever. It had still convinced him. He packed his bag and you snuck down the fire escape the following night. Joel’s fingers were hooked around your belt loop the entire time, keeping your hip in stride with his all the way until you were at least a hundred feet away from the QZ wall.

His other concern was his age. Why someone like you would want to run away with someone like him. Forty-something, graying, past his peak. He has, like, twenty years on you. Once he made some reference about Bruce Springsteen and, when your face blanked, he sighed and took the bridge of his nose between his fingers.

I know who Bruce Springsteen is, asshole, you’d said, just didn’t get that reference.

He’d shaken his head and given you a sly, twisted smirk, then pushed you out the door of the apartment block you guys were searching.

Still, despite the years between you, you have one major thing in common.

You’re both good at getting each other…there.

Joel knows exactly what to do to make you tick. You know exactly how to push him until he does it. It’s in the way you look at him, the way you touch him. Things you say that make his stony eyes flit once down your body, and then you know you’re in.

It’s a little harder to do while on horseback, you gotta admit. The best you can do is look at him, say a sentence or two laced with want and need. Hope that he reads through the lines.

It’s worked a few times, when Joel’s suddenly found a shed or basement you can camp out in and then made it difficult for you to walk for the next couple days.

Right now, you feel too tired to even bat your eyelashes at him, never mind coming up with lines to turn him on. You’ve been on the highway for a few hours by this point, little sign of shelter anywhere nearby. Joel holds his hand out and you bring your horses to a stop in view of a hospital a couple miles ahead.

“That’s gotta be teemin’ with them,” you say, looking over to study his expression.

“Hm,” Joel agrees, and glances to the right.

“What you thinkin’? Sun’s getting lower.��

He takes a deep breath, pulls on the reins. “Know somewhere nearby.”

He heads off the highway with a click of his teeth, and you follow. You shut your eyes, chin burying beneath the collar of your shirt. You’d kinda hoped that he’d offer to clear even a small part of the hospital for you to rest up, maybe more, but you trust him enough to lead you somewhere safer, somewhere quieter.

That trust begins to wear thin, though, when the sun disappears behind the trees, drowning you guys in a low dusk, and the temperature begins to fall. Joel’s using what’s left of the gray light to guide him, slowing down to take a hold of Jet’s reins and line her up with his own horse.

“I thought you said an hour,” you mumble, grip becoming slack on the leather.

“Changed my mind,” he replies. “Almost there.”

Your eyes start to roll with exhaustion, hips aching from the position you’ve been sat in for hours now. It’s not until you notice the silhouette of a tall sign in the clearing, black against the fading purple sky, that you blink yourself awake.

Joel pulls you and Jet off the road to a deserted parking lot, shadowed by a motel. He slows the horses down, listening for any signs of life, leading them to the side of the building.

“Easy,” he whispers, pulling on the reins. Both animals come to a halt.

He slides off the saddle, hitting the ground with a thud. He takes your hands, pulling you down to him, and you glance around.

“Stay here,” he tells you, and you don’t have the energy to argue back.

He makes off, pulling his gun from his holster. You stand with a hand on each horse’s muzzle, gently petting. Joel’s gone for a decent amount of time, his silhouette slowly sneaking in and out of every room, spending a couple minutes in each before he clears it.

He returns with a box of pills, some gauze, and a bottle of water, which he hands to you. You take a long swig and pass it back, and he does the same.

“What will we do with Jet ‘n…?”

“Huh?” he asks, replacing the cap on the half-empty bottle.

“What’s your horse called?”

“She ain’t got a name.”

You tsk. “Bad owner.”

“We ain’t their owners.”

“Mine’s is Jet. Pick a name.”

Joel sighs and shakes his head, but you know he’s gonna spend all night thinking up some name to go with yours. “We’ll tie ‘em up out here.”

“What if something happens to them?”

“Well,” he says, leading them toward the shelter, “if somethin’ happens to them, it only means it’s about thirty seconds away from happenin’ to us.”

He jerks his head toward the first room as he ties them up, and you know the conversation is over.

You wander into the small, dingy room, pulling your jacket from your shoulders. It smells of damp, the wallpaper’s peeling off the wall above the bed. The sheets are in disarray, a little dusty, but they look clean enough. The bathroom walls are covered in grime. Drawers empty, closet doors missing, entire place ransacked.

It’s as good as you get, these days. At least it has a solid roof.

Joel settles the horses and closes the door gently behind himself. You’re already tugging your boots off, sat at the foot of the bed.

He rests his gun on the nightstand and straightens up, stretching his back with a quiet groan.

“’s cozy,” you offer, and he nods.

“Better ‘n risking that hospital.”

The bedsprings creak when you shimmy up the mattress, resting your back against the hardwood headboard. It ain’t the most comfortable, but then it’s not meant to be, is it? It’s only meant to be safe, which Joel’s made sure of.

He stands at the bottom of the bed, watching you as you bounce up and down a couple times, laughing quietly at the sound of the springs beneath you. His expression clouds over under low brows.

“Y’okay?” you ask, tilting your head.

He nods again. Eyes flitting up and down, from your face to your neck, back up, and then lower still. Your chest. Your stomach. Your legs. You feel your heartbeat quicken when he takes a step forward.

“Just had to find somewhere better.”

“Better?” You smile. “Have you seen the world, Miller?”

He leans his knee against the foot of the bed. His brown eyes darken even more, and his jaw tenses.

“Had to find somewhere better,” he mutters, “so I could fuck you in peace.”

Your breath catches. You stare from his lips back up to his eyes. His fists are balled tight. His chest heaves with steady panting. There’s something flickering in the depths of those warm eyes; an ember, drawing you in. Tantalizing you.

You sit forward, pushing onto all fours, and crawl down the groaning bed to him, rising onto your knees when your hands meet his shirt. Your chest against his stomach, you look up into his eyes.

His rough hands knot in your hair and he pulls down, yanking your head back and your chin up to him. He studies your face, outlined in the moonlight seeping through the window. Then he lowers his jaw and lines his lips against yours.

“That what you want?” he hums against your mouth. You swallow his words – they claw at your throat as they go.

“Uhuh,” you breathe back, trying to connect your lips. He doesn’t allow you; steadily dodges your jaw like you’re a pair of negative magnets, repelling off one another. You moan.

“Needy girl,” Joel whispers. “Two weeks too long for you?”

“Mhm.”

You’re not tired anymore. You’re fucking desperate. You feel your cunt dripping, seeping through your underwear, worsened when Joel’s hand reaches down between your legs and cups you through your jeans.

You gasp and grab his arms to steady yourself.

“Tell me what you want,” he says, hand tensing around your core.

Your lip trembles as you watch the way his mouth moves, how he shapes the words. His teeth locked between soft lips, dappled with brown hair, ends singed gray. The way he almost spits the words.

Your chest meets his torso when you breathe in, a deep, shaky breath. Joel notices; the corners of his mouth twitch, holding back a smile.

“Want you to…want you…”

He doesn’t wait for you to finish your sentence. He pushes you back and falls on top of you, strong body pinning you against the mattress, hand still clamped to your crotch.

His head dips to your neck where he bites, scratches and sucks, mumbling against your hot skin, “Tell me, baby. Use your words.”

Your head begins to swim, body starts pulsing with electricity. Baby. Joel’s pet names are limited to one thing. One activity.

“Want you to f– fuck, Joel – fuck me.” Fuck me fuck me fuck me.

His hand begins wrestling with the button of your jeans. Thick fingers fumbling with your zipper, taking your waistband with both hands and hauling it down. The force of it pulls you down the mattress too, squealing as Joel rips the denim from your legs. You lower your hands to help him, but once they’re tossed to the floor, he bats you away.

He’s shaking his head, tsking, then takes both your wrists in one of his huge hands. Fingers twisted around your delicate skin, pinning them above your head. The bed sighs around you when he pushes your hands into the mattress. Your back arches, your chest rising to meet his.

Your legs part, knees settling either side of his waist. Of course they do. It’s what you know now. It’s basic fucking instinct at this point.

His free hand returns to cup your sex, feeling how wet you are through your now soaked underwear.

“Baby,” he coos, “this all for me?”

You nod a little too eagerly, not that you’re present enough to care. But it beckons a smug smile from Joel, who begins sliding your panties down your thighs.

Your hips lift to let him drag the fabric down, biting your lip, not willing to wait another fucking second for him. Lace meets denim on the torn-up floor, and you sigh, settling back against the rusty bedsprings and mottled sheets.

Joel’s free hand ghosts from your wrist down to your elbow, teetering along the sleeve of your t-shirt over to the collar, where he pulls it so far down into the valley between your breasts that a small noise passes your lips.

“Hm?” he asks, fingers pausing against your breastbone.

“’s my only shirt. Don’t…”

He kisses his teeth. His gaze never lifts from your heaving chest, skin damp with sweat right underneath his fingers. You can see him tossing it over in his head. What he wants to do, versus what he probably shouldn’t.

He blinks. Decision made.

“Give you one of mine,” he growls, and hooks his fingers, dragging the fabric of your shirt lower and lower until the collar tears open and it’s another scrap lost to the motel room floor.

And then there you are, naked and writhing underneath him. He’s still in his dusty flannel. There’s sweat lining his forehead. He holds himself over you, hovering, taking every inch of you in and storing it behind his eyes.

You jerk your hands, trying to break free just to touch him, feel him, but he pulls away again, tutting.

“No, pretty girl,” Joel coos, “gonna take my time with ya.”

You moan in protest, still wriggling under his body. His grip on your wrists doesn’t loosen, not even when his free hand dips to undo his belt. The cold metal kisses your naked thighs when he pulls it through his jeans; the leather drags up your torso and across your face as he lifts it.

He takes your hands individually, careful and yet rough, urgent, and slots them between the slats of the headboard. Your head turns up to watch what he’s doing. The silver of his belt buckle knocks against the wood as he slips it under your wrists, feeding it between your skin and the mattress, wrapping it around the slat between your hands.

Then he slips the belt through the buckle, and pulls. Tight. Your hands come together, wrists kissing, the leather burning your skin the tighter he pulls. You whine, head rolling back to meet his gaze, fixed on yours.

“Since you don’t wanna listen.”

The drip in his voice, sweet like honey, smooth as whiskey, forces your legs open wider. Joel smirks, pushing himself down the mattress and out of your view.

Staring up at the gray ceiling, you’re left just to feel him. Feel him as his palms splay out on your knees, pushing them into the bed. Feel his stubble graze the inside of your thigh as he drags his tongue up, leaving a trail of wet behind.

Feel when he breathes a whisper across your aching cunt, something you can’t hear over the ruffling of sheets around your head as you toss around. And feel when his fingers part your lips, opening you up wide for him to really fucking see.

“Fuck, baby,” he says, and you find the strength to lift your head to watch. He’s leant over you, one arm hooked around your left thigh, holding it open, the other fucking…playing with you. Like you’re some fancy gadget. Like you’re brand new to him.

“So,” he runs two fingers from your clit through your folds, “fuckin’,” lines them up at your entrance, “pretty – for me.”

He pushes up into you, and your head hits the pillow with a stifled groan. You’re panting through your teeth, back arching the deeper he goes, stretching you out and rocking waves of sparkling heat through you. Waves that hit the other end of your stomach and come rippling back, throbbing around his thick fingers.

His arm bears down on your thigh, forcing your legs wide open for him. His hand cups your clit and you buck your hips, rutting against the base of his palm. Joel laughs softly.

“Patience, darlin’. Don’t want it to be over ‘fore it’s even started.”

Your head rocks back and forth, eyes tight shut. It’s all you can fucking do, tied tight to the bed. Joel pumps his fingers in and out of you, adding a third when you’re wet enough, thumb never leaving your clit.

You can feel your orgasm brewing in your stomach. Feel the tension between your hips. You’re chasing it, eyes shut, focusing only on Joel’s hand fucking in and out, in and out. You’re coming close, body pushing into the mattress, legs widening even more to let him slip a fourth finger inside you.

“Feel good?” he asks, almost with a laugh. There’s a smirk painted across his lips, you know it, even though you can’t find the energy to open your eyes.

You whimper in response, some small, muffled sound roughly shaped like yeah.

“Yeah,” Joel agrees, and his wrist flicks harder.

You moan every time his fingertips kiss the edge of your cunt, pushing against the soft walls. You moan when he drags them out, leaving you empty. Again, when he pushes them back in, rough and fast. And then when he lowers his lips to your ear and tells you how good you’re being, how pretty you look, how hard he’s gonna…

It’s like he changes his mind in an instant.

Withdraws his hand, slick-covered and still hooked. Pulls it away as quickly as he pulls your orgasm from your body. It drains from you; reduces back to an ache you can’t reach.

Joel slips his fingers between his lips as he readjusts himself, repositioning on the squealing mattress. Sucks them clean as casually as he would at a cookout or something, then takes your hips in both hands and straightens you up.

His jeans are tugged down barely past his ass. He’s not prepared to waste any time ripping his own clothes off like he did yours. Just leans forward, pulls his solid cock from his boxershorts, and spits into his hand.

You watch through eyes glazed with lust as he strokes himself a couple times, eyes always on your swollen cunt, groaning as his spit coats his shaft. Then he lowers himself to you and does the same, only running his length through your folds.

You whine, feeling that familiar thickness separate you so close to where you need him, and yet so fucking far.

“Joel…” you whisper, but he’s not listening.

Transfixed on the sight of his cock moving against your soaked cunt. Listening to the sweet, wet sounds the pair of you make. His tip catches on your entrance a couple times and you gasp. Just fucking do it already.

“Fuck,” Joel growls under his breath, and then…

It’s been months. Might even be years. But the feeling of him pushing inside you for the first time is still the same. Every. Fucking. Time. He’s bigger, thicker than anyone you’ve ever slept with before. And he knows it, because every single time, he glides into you without hesitation. No time for you to adjust. Just fills you up straight away, lets you deal with it later.

He’s cocky like that. Too careful when you’re on the road, and too careless when you’re between the sheets. Not that you’re fuckin’ complaining.

Your mouth falls open in a choked moan. Your lungs are gasping for air. Joel’s all you can feel.

Your elbows lift into the air, arms desperate to break free just to grab onto him, ground yourself, feel him close against you. Your wrists lock against the hardwood, leather digging into your skin as punishment for trying to break free. You’re stuck; nothing but the overwhelming feeling of him between your legs, filling you up and leaving you empty over and over again.

“Good girl,” he’s panting, still watching where his cock lines up with your cunt, and then disappears inside.

He leans down and his lips find home on your shoulder, sucking sweet marks into the skin like he always does. His tip bumps against your cervix, jolts of sensitivity pushing through you each time he bottoms out causing you to whine into his flannel.

“Fuck, Joel.”

“I know, I know. I got you. I’ll get you there again, baby.”

You had a routine. Follow his movements, follow his orders, stay alive. Deviate slightly from that routine, even for a minute, and you threw the whole agreement into jeopardy. One misstep on a crowded street dotted with cars once had a sniper open firing at you both for nearly two hours until Joel found him and put a bullet between his eyes. That time your curiosity got the better of you and Joel almost lost a hand stopping you from walking down an alleyway and straight into a wire trap.

Repeat it, Joel had said that night. Crouched by his apartment window, rain battering off the glass. Hands on the frame, ready to hoist it up and let you slip out any second. Repeat. It.

Do as you say, you whispered back. And only then did he pull the sash.

This is not the fucking routine. This is not the agreement. You fucked, of course you did. But that’s all it ever was. Hungry, touch-starved, desperate sex. Bored sex. We-almost-died-today sex. Not this.

Not: clear an entire motel just so nothing within a two-mile radius gets to hear you fuck me senseless. Strip me down, tie me up, push me to the edge with your hands, but don’t let me go without you. Curl your lips around my ear while you’re buried inside me and whisper praises. Whisper baby. Whisper…anything you like. Anything you wouldn’t say when the sun’s up.

This feels like it means something. To both of you. Feels like Joel’s looking for something in you, asking something of you. And you want to give it to him, whatever it is.

And maybe that’s the point.

He’s proving that he could make you do fucking anything. Let him tie you to a bedframe, push you close enough to the edge that you can feel the pressure of release beckoning you forward like the wind circling your ankles.

And you’re proving that you’ll do it. You’ll do what he says. Follow him to the edge, refuse to jump. Pull his body into yours, make it feel like home for a night.

He’s proving that he’ll take care of you, and you’re proving that you’ll let him.

Your wrists are burning. Leather digging marks, searing skin, then rubbing over it again and again to cut it deeper. It’s starting to hurt, if you’re honest with yourself. Your face probably gives it away.

Probably, possibly. Definitely.

Joel notices you quieten and lifts his head from the crook of your neck. Studies your face for a fraction of a second and knows.

“Hey,” he says, reaching up. He loosens the belt with one hand whilst still deep inside you, hips thrusting slowly just as a place marker.

When your hands slip free, Joel’s clasp gently around your wrist, fingers delicate over the sensitive, reddened skin. His eyes almost glisten at the sight.

“Baby…” he whispers.

“’s okay,” you reassure him, loosening his grasp on you and settling your shaky hands on his jaw. “I’m okay. Liked it.”

Joel lowers his forehead against yours and picks his pace up again, and you moan into the space between your lips. Your legs lift higher, knees bumping against his shoulders. His hips snap into yours, his jeans rutting against the inside of your thighs, the bed creaking with each messy thrust.

“Close, baby,” his voice vibrates against your lips.

“Yeah,” you whine, chest pushing against his. “Fuck. Right there. Fuck.”

Your arm drapes over his shoulder blades, nails dig into the rough cotton of his shirt. Your left hand is still at his jaw, fingers caressing his cheek. Joined together at your hips and your brows, gaze never really meeting for longer than a second, but still. You’re right there. Joel – he’s right there.

It’s new, it’s intimate. It’s almost…sweet.

“Gonna cum with me?” he asks, sincerely. He’s not trying to coax it out of you. He’s checking that you want to fall over the edge. Not for him, not because of him, but with him.

You nod and he returns it, sweat sticking his dark hair to his forehead.

With his eyes on you, flitting between your parted lips and your batting eyelashes, too scared to settle on either place for too long, he lifts your hips and fucks into you fast. Deep. Fucking – hard. Skin slapping against yours, breath hot and tangling with yours between your lips.

The pressure between your hips begins to build again, rapidly, Joel adding to it with every movement. Every push of his thick cock against your walls only draws them in tighter, closing around him, holding him closer to you with each moan escaping both your lips.

“Darlin’…” he murmurs in a broken voice, and you know. He’s starting to falter. Thrusts weakening.

“’m there too,” you reply, gasping for breath.

“Let me – feel you,” he says, “pretty girl.”

Maybe it’s the fact you don’t normally talk. Maybe the fact he never touches you the way he has tonight. Maybe it’s him wanting you to cum first, before he will.

Or maybe it’s pretty girl, that finally sends you over.

You look so good to him. You’re being so good for him. ‘n he can’t help it, has to let you know. Has to let every thought that passes through his head slip out past his tongue.

Pulling his chest flat against yours, you throw your head back to the pillow with a moan so filthy, so guttural that you’d be surprised if you don’t have company in five minutes.

Joel’s at your heels, face buried between your breasts, groaning into your chest as his cock twitches deep inside you and you feel him fill you up.

Your orgasm’s still knocking you senseless, every nerve in your body electrified. You’re holding Joel tight to your body, his ear flat to your chest, and you know he can hear your heartbeat. Know he’s listening to it throwing punches from behind your ribcage.

He’s still groaning through his breaths, heavy and thick with his release. Cock still deep inside you, still, softening. You lay like that for…well, you’ve no idea how long. But after a bit, Joel pulls himself up off of you and wanders into the bathroom.

You sit up on your elbows, taking deep, steady breaths, and let the stars in your vision dissipate. Joel emerges a couple minutes later and finally tugs his jeans down. He lifts both his shirt and the tee underneath off in one motion, tossing them onto the sideboard, then slips back under the covers, wordlessly hooking a hand around your upper arm and pulling you down onto his chest.

Your legs intertwine with his. There’s cum seeping out of you onto his thigh. Both of you, mixed up as one. His fingers sift through your hair, doing little to untangle it but trying all the same. His breathing in time with yours, his lips pressed safely to the crown of your head.

Before you know it, you’re sleeping.

Dawn breaks early. Too early. You’re still tangled up in Joel, feeling his chest rise and fall. Listening to his heartbeat – slow, calm. The drapes – not that there’s much left of them – are too thin to stop any light from flooding in. It’s only a matter of time before he wakes up.

The rough sheets sting against your wrists – red marks scoring them where Joel’s belt had been. You wince, running light fingers over the grazes, hissing at your fingertips as they go.

It hurts way less than it thrills you. This little reminder of what you did last night. What Joel did. The pain subsides the longer you touch the scars, knitted brows melting into a smile.

You slowly lift your head, propping yourself up on your elbow. Just watching him. The dust in the room frames him in a sea of white glitter, the slow-emerging sun lights across his face and dips where the scar on his nose sits.

His arms are still around your waist, cradling you. Holding you to him. You know he’s stirring when they tighten, and then fall loose. Façade back up. Walls slowly rebuilding.

You dress yourselves in silence. Run out of words to say. There ain’t nothing to say – nothing that wasn’t said last night. Joel sinks into the mattress beside you to tie his laces, and your arms brush against one another a couple times. It’s like fire on ice.

He’s first to leave the room. Just pulls his jeans over his boots and stands, unlocks the door and lets the light flood in. You check once over for anything left behind, and slip out. The air is cool, twilight still slowly washing away. You sling your jacket over Jet’s back and pull yourself up.

Joel’s t-shirt is loose over your shoulders. He gave you a fresh one from his bag. It smells like him, but you don’t let him see when you bury your nose into it to breathe him in. The hem bunches up over the top of your thighs once you’re sat on the horse.

His eyes scan down you once, surveying you in hisshirt. Then he swerves off back toward the road, silhouette cutting between the rays of sun streaming between the pine trees.

“Ghost,” he tosses over his shoulder.

“Huh?” You click to Jet to follow.

“Horse’s name. Ghost.”

“How come?” you ask when you’re side by side with him.

He shrugs, upper lip turning. “When it’s dark, you can’t hardly see her. She’s like a ghost.”

Joel’s hand surfs gently across Ghost’s mane, fingers scratching her shining coat. Your bodies rock in time with the sway of the horses’ walking. The echo of their hooves on the asphalt masks the silence for a few moments.

“Alright,” you eventually accept, turning away to watch the sun lift above the prickly treetops.

And to hide the smile tugging on your lips.

----------

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astroboots · 6 months

Text

Heatwave

CO-WRITTEN WITH @THIRSTWORLDPROBLEMSS

Summary: Santiago and you try to occupy yourselves during another heatwave in Florida.

Rating: Explicit, edging, bratty-ass behavior from one Santiago.

Pairing: Santiago x female reader (you)

Word Count: 4,000

Homecoming Universe | Astroboot’s Masterlist | Thirstworldproblemss' masterlist

At what point does a spiking high temperature no longer count as a heatwave and just becomes the new average temperature for the local area. Is it after the third or sixth heatwave in a month? And for that matter, how many record breaking high temperatures can one summer have in store for a state that is already known for its hot climate?

Fuck! Why did he move back here again?

Santiago is melting. Lying slumped against the cool flooring of the bedroom where the breeze reaches. He's stripped off his clothes, wearing nothing but his boxers and staying far away from any walls because they are fucking radiating heat. At one point he's pretty sure he saw the edges of the walls wobble from the inferno temperature raging outside... either that or his vision is blurring out on him.

It must be what? 150 degrees, 200?? He doesn't care what the weatherman is reporting, there's no fucking way it's only 110 out there.

Leaning his head back down on the cold wooden flooring for reprieve, he can't remember the last time Florida got so hot. (If it has, he hasn't been here to see it).

Shit, it must be even hotter than that time you drove him down to the airport, what was it now, ten or twelve years ago? It got so fucking hot that the radio was warning about staying away from the highway because the tarmac was at risk of melting.

No one in their right mind would've gone out on the road that day. Except you of course. In your shitty little Volvo, with a broken A/C and a clutch that creaked with every change of gear. It's lucky the old piece of junk made it to the airport at all, and nothing short of a miracle that you made it there in time.

He can still see it in his mind's eye. The way your hair was matted with sweat as you pulled up to the drop off point. Still remembers how his old t-shirt was glued to every inch of his sweaty back as he peeled himself off the passenger seat. How, even as disgusting as the two of you felt, drenched in sweat and smelling like two dumpster diving raccoons, having been trapped on the highway for over an hour in that heat, you had held onto his torso as if you were never going to let him go. Your pinkie wrapped around his, so tightly, he was sure the blood circulation was entirely cut off as you told him in no uncertain terms: "You better fucking come back home in one piece, Santiago."

A smile breaks out across his face at the memory. From a distance he can hear the familiar sound of your footfall from the hallway, followed by your voice echoing all the way upstairs as you call out for him.

"Santiagoooo!"

If it wasn't for the heat, he'd call back in response to you. But all the strength is zapped out of him. Plus, he suspects that the reason you're calling for him is to rope him into helping Frankie with the latest crazy home project the man's set on finishing this weekend (and in this heat Santiago's not going anywhere near that).

"Honey." The endearing nickname has him smiling even wider. His mouth parts, just about to respond to you when he hears the rest of your sentence.

"Frankie needs help sanding down the fence."

Bingo.

No way in hell he's responding now.

He can hear you opening and closing doors all over the house in search of him. You'll find him eventually, but it doesn't mean he's not going to take his time enjoying the last few moments of being in the safe shelter out of the sun.

There's a soft click as the door to the bedroom opens. From his limited view on the floor, he sees glimpses of your feet from the corner of his eyes as you march in front of him until you're standing above, looming over his form.

"Santiago. I was looking for you everywhere."

He lets the hand resting on his thigh slide down to the front of his boxers without thought and that catches your immediate attention.

There's a sharp and sudden inhale from you, as if the air is spiked. You look like you've forgotten how to breathe properly.

You liked that huh? The corner of his lips curl into a smile as he holds eye contact with you.

"Sorry, must've dozed off."

"Har, har. Stop lounging around half naked and acting like a thirst trap. Frankie needs help with the fence."

"It's 200 fucking degrees. I'm not going to do that. Frankie can finish his home improvement project when Armageddon isn't happening outside."

You shoot him a small frown. Arms crossing in front of your chest.

He pats the space on the floor right next to himself, as he continues. “Come lay down with me for a second to cool down. You look like you might be overheating. Don’t wanna get heatstroke or anything. Frankie can wait a few minutes.”

You don't move from the spot, making no move to join him. "Poor Frankie is doing all the work."

Santiago's itching to retort that there's nothing "poor" about Frankie's situation. Man is having the time of his life out there. He loves doing these projects.

But Santiago keeps his mouth shut. Because he knows if he doesn't, he'll inevitable set you two up for a back and forth of who's right and wrong, who wins and who's losing the argument, trying to one-up each other the rest of the afternoon. And it's not that Santiago doesn't absolutely love doing that with you but...

Peering up at you, the way your lips are swollen with heat and parted as you look at him, Santiago has a much better idea of how he wants to spend the rest of the afternoon with you.

"Just a little bit, sweetheart," he says, doing his best to sweet talk you as he pats his free hand over the same spot on the floor in invitation. "Come sit with me for one minute, and I promise I'll go help Frankie okay?"

Glancing over your shoulder, you throw a quick glance over the window, probably to check in on Frankie.

"Just a minute, okay?"

"Mhmm. Just one."

It doesn't take more persuasion from him than that. Next thing he knows, you're walking over to him. Soft steps and an even softer gaze in your eyes. Then you sink down on the floor and sit down on the spot right where he patted.

That was... surprisingly easy.

He'd expected more resistance from you. Was fully prepared to do a filibuster marathon to try to convince you to join him. Hadn't quite expected you to just... give into him the way you just did. He blinks up in surprise, at your face mere inches away from him. He's not fully sure what just happened. You've never turned down an opportunity to put up a fight with him before.

You stare down at his chest and bare stomach, lingering there. You swallow down reflexively as you take him in with heated eyes.

Huh...

Santiago knows the effect he has on women. He just never knew he had that effect on you.

As arrogant as it sounds, he knows he's a good looking man. Knows that he's charming to boot. But the relationship between the two of you, for all the love that you had held for each other, had always remained platonic back in the day. You don't look at him the way other women do. And Santiago doesn't flirt with you the way he does with other women. Those were the unspoken rules you two had set for each other from the start and it's all you two have ever known.

And while things have changed now. While Santiago's seen the heated looks you give him when he's in bed with you, your relationship has remained largely unchanged outside of it.

You still pull him up on his bullshit when he's earned it. Never hesitate to square up with him in a competition for anything.

This... This is new.

He taps his bare thigh, almost experimentally to test his theory. He doesn't miss the way your pupils dilate with interest, and as always he can't resist the urge to goad you.

Not when you're eyeing him so appreciatively, in a way that you've never done in the past in all your years of friendships until recently. He figures he's earned the right after all this time to be a little bit obnoxious and revel and preen in the attention from you.

"Cariño," he calls out, until your eyes pulls back up to his face. "Eyes up here," he teases.

You roll your eyes, smacking him in the chest. It's supposedly a playful gesture, but you do it with enough strength that it knocks the breath out of him.

"I know," you retort, but your eyes drift back to his chest and then continue downwards and the attention has heat spearing through his limbs.

"You're still looking," he teases, and his hand snakes down over the plane of his thighs, reveling in your attentive gaze. "Didn't know you were such a perv."

By now you'd usually retaliate or cuss him out, but you don't.

Instead, you continue to stare, eyes blown wide as if you've been cast under a spell, mesmerized.

He palms himself through the front of his boxers, and he can feel the rush of blood rushing down and away from his head as his cock stirs to hardness. If Santiago was considered full of himself before this, it's nothing compared to how he feels in this moment with the way you're looking at him. Your expression blank, like the sight of him has made you lose your ability to speak. Mouth parted, the glistening pink of your tongue peeking out, as if you would devour him if he'd let you.

"Should I give you a show then?" he asks.

After all, if you want to look, he's more than happy to give you something proper to look at.

You nod with an eagerness that has your head bouncing up and down like the bopping bobble head toy Frankie keeps on the dashboard. Santiago lets out a laugh that's more breathless than he had expected from himself. He blames it on the heat.

Dragging down the edge of his boxers, he keeps his eyes on yours as his fingers wrap around the base of himself and his cock jumps in response to the touch.

Shit, that's good. A sweet spike of pleasure runs through him at the languid touch, and he feels breathless with it. His cock is slick with precome that drips down the length with each slide of his hand.

Running his hand up the rigid length, the calloused skin graze against the sensitive skin. Pleasure ooze and drips inside his chest and down his limbs, until his legs tremble with it. Santiago's touched himself countless times before but it's never felt like this before.

Maybe it's the heat that's getting to him. Or maybe it's the way you're inching closer with each passing second until you're practically straddling him on his lap. You and your soft and perfect thighs pressing down on his own, keeping him pinned onto the floor as he tries to keep going. The heat he can feel from between your legs, through the thin layer of cotton that's pressed onto his bare skin. Yeah... maybe it's that.

Santiago goes slow and languid as he touches himself for your benefit. And as ridiculous as it sounds it is for you. Because if it wasn't for you, there's no chance in hell he'd be going this slowly. He'd be fast and almost sloppy, squeezing down on his cock until the desperate need that's riding his spine lets go with his climax. If you weren't here, gorgeous eyes all focused on him, with a look that he wouldn't even let himself dream of in the past, he wouldn't want to prolong it the way he is.

Even now, with the strained effort of taking it as slow as he can possibly stand, he's not entirely sure how long he'll last. He feels like he's on a precarious edge, his climax taunting him, swelling up and simmering with a slow burn in his stomach.

Your torso tilts forward, squirming in his lap, with the tiniest movement every time his hand moves upwards, in time with his strokes.

You're practically riding his thigh, and Jesus fucking christ, that isn't helping Santiago's situation right now. At this point you're both going to come dry humping each other like horny clueless Mormons on their wedding night.

"Sweetheart, wait--" he tries, but you press yourself down on his thigh all the same, and he can feel your sweet slick drip down on his thigh and coat him with it. All he's capable of is a deep and shameless moan.

His cock twitches in his hand, and for several alarming seconds, Santiago thinks that's it. That it's already too late and he's going to come right then and there, spilling himself all over his hand and stomach.

Santiago squeezes down hard around the base of his cock to stave off the needy sensation.

"Shit," he hisses. "Fuck. fuck. Sweetheart, gonna need you to--" he doesn't finish his sentence. Can't spare the seconds it would take to properly think. One hand is already reaching out under your dress (thank god you're wearing a dress) wedging your panties to the side, his other pulling you closer by your waist until your pussy is lined up with the swollen head of his cock.

He doesn't even have time to move his hand in place to grip at his cock before you push down on him. Heat streaks through his insides until his lungs feels like they're burning. Your perfect pussy envelops all of him, every single throbbing aching inch with slick warmth and perfect pressure until his vision whites out.

Fuck, why is he so fucking sensitive.

He can't... fuck, he can't hold on. A desperate groan tears out of his throat and he buries his face into your neck to hide from the sensation that has him surrounded.

He thrusts upwards, canting his hips until you're taking all of him.

Pleasure singes his entire spine, and it burns him alive with it. The heat is unbearable, sweat is plastered to his back, but it doesn't matter. Santiago's skin is damp and sticky, but he's still pressing you closer. Wants every inch of you, warm and gorgeous and so fucking soft, pressed against him in every way he can have you, and he's still not sure if that'd be enough.

Wants to make up for every year, hour, minute and second that he'd wasted of his life, being away from you. Wants all of that even if it kills him.

Planting his feet on the wooden floor for leverage, he grabs your hips to force you down as far as you can take him. Until your head throws back with a high-pitched whine, palms pushing down on his chest as if it's too much for you to handle, and he lets go, sinking down his hips back towards the floor, until only the tip of him rests inside you.

He gives you a handful of seconds to catch your breath. Then he grabs your waist and push you down on his cock. Again, and again. To the gorgeous sounds of your keen moans and whines all blended into one, as you're sobbing out his name.

Forceful, deep thrusts that has tears pushing in the corner of your eyes. He keeps going as the sweet aching heat has him drunk and euphoric on you, with each and every rise and cant of his hips.

He's not going to last. Shit, shit, he's not going to last like this.

But that's okay. Because judging from the way you're grinding against him. Needy and desperate. Your cunt squeezing so tight around his cock it makes it hard to breathe, you're not going to last either.

His hand strays down below your stomach, sliding between your legs until his thumb catches at your clit, slippery and wet, and absolutely dripping for him. You sob at the contact, wracked in shivers as he continues to rub smooth little circles over it, and he can feel just how close you are.

You're perfect. Eyes squeezed shut, head tilted back in surrender, a high-pitched whine escaping your throat and oh fuck Santiago was not prepared for this.

His brain stalls out, hand stopping as his movements comes to a still to take in the sight before him because...You are so fucking beautiful like this.

"Santiago, what the fuck, make me—" you're slapping his shoulder, voice high pitched and desperate that makes his spine tingle as you grind on him. "Fuck make me cum, don't be an ass."

Fuck what is he doing?

Santiago's not sure. Not sure why he's stopped, even as every nerve and muscle in him is screaming for him to chase after the pleasure until both of you are coming.

Not sure why he's just sitting there dumbfounded. Except, this is everything he's wanted for so long that he's denied himself and he realizes that right now— it's here, landed in his very lap. You're the woman he's loved for so long, no matter how much he's denied it to himself, and he just wants to make this moment last.

All he knows is that he doesn't want this to end.

"Wait, sweetheart," he murmurs, even as you squirm from his grip pinning you in place. "Just give me a second. Want to remember this," and he means it with more sincerity than he ever thought he had left in him as he stares up at you in complete awe.

He wants it to last.

Not just out of a ill-placed sense of pride. Not just because he knows you're going to give him shit for coming too fast.

He just wants this to last. Wants you in his arms like this. Wants you to look at him, just like this, like you need him to survive, more than your next breath. This. This. This. He wants it to last forever.

You don't listen to him though. Of course you don't, because you never make it that easy for him. Your hips roll against him, grinding with desperation until his cock nudges something devastatingly perfect that has him convinced his brain is melting.

Shit, he has to stop. Oh fuck oh fuck, he's too close—

"Stop stop," he warns, hand gripping down on your hips to stop you "Boa, Stop— fuck you're gonna make me—"

But it's too late. It's already happening. He can feel his cock pulse and throb as he spills himself inside of you, shuddering through his orgasm— and fuck this was not how it was supposed to go down.

Everything slows. It's everywhere, rushing through him with a chaotic frenzy as it wrings him dry. The euphoric sensation overcrowding everything else, and his head feels like he is going to split with it. He can't think. Can't breathe.

But even in his post-cum haze he knows you still haven't come and he can't have that.

Santiago grits through it. Biting down and clenching on his jaw to ride through the over-brimming sensation that threatens to burst out of his skin as he continues to thrust into you.

Oversensitive and overstimulated. Every slick slide of your perfect pussy has him gasping for air. It's too much. Like live wires are running through his skin and every cant of your hips against him sets every receptor in his brain on overdrive. His cock is so sensitive, he can feel every fraction of you wrapped around him.

And it's perfect and it's good. And it's just so fucking much.

You're burning hot. He feels feverish and on the brink of delirium from the heat. Like he's inside a live furnace, but he doesn't want to stop. Can't stop. Not until he's seen your eyes roll into the back of your head. Not until you've come apart for him.

Locking his arm over the small of your back, he flips you over, onto your back. Pushing his free hand between your bodies until his thumb is rubbing rough little circles on your clit again.

He keeps going, pushing inside even as every nerve at him is screaming for respite. Santiago doesn't stop though. You're so close, and he just has to hold on even as each flutter and squeeze of your cunt is pushing him over the edge of too much.

Doesn't stop even as your gorgeous eyelashes flutter dramatically, your eyes rolling back as you kick your leg out and finally, finally comes on his cock.

The sensation of your climax punches the last breath out of him. He can hear himself whine pathetically into your neck.

The overwhelming tightness of you, your pussy squeezing and clenching down over and over, as if you're trying to wring and empty him out of anything he has left him. It brings him to his knees and collapses into you.

Everything feels sticky and clammy. Both of you drenched, as he's pinning you down with his weight. He feels weightless and heavy all at the same time. It doesn't make sense and shouldn't even be possible. But it certainly didn't help him in his efforts to move

To the protest of his exhausted limbs, Santiago rolls over to lay on his back next to you there on the floor. Both of you sweaty and panting.

God this might have been a bad idea.

It was too fucking hot even before all the physical exertion, now it's like an inferno. He's seconds from passing out. But at least the floor is marginally cooler against his back than the surrounding air, while you're laying there catching their breath.

Every inch of him thrums with pleasure, and his body practically tingles with the afterglow of his climax. But he can't help the scowl on his face. He's mentally cringing.

He came too fast.

Shot his load like some overeager virgin.

And there's no fucking way you wouldn't have noticed that he came before you. It's only a matter of you catching your breath, before you start giving him shit about it.

He lies there, staring up at the ceiling, preemptively trying to come up with some kind of defense or comeback but nothing comes to him. The only thing that fills his head is the image of your eyes from seconds ago, gazing down on him, looking at him the way that deep down, through all those years of platonic friendship, for all the way he's tried to repressed it, he's always wanted you to look at him.

It's so fucking stupid, but his stomach flutters pleasantly at the memory.

"Hey, Santiago...?"

He closes his eyes and runs a hand over his face trying desperately to pull himself together. Because even though he knows it's coming. Right now he feels too naked and raw, without protection to brace himself at whatever joke you're sure to make next at his expense.

Feels a little bit too exposed after that perfect moment of having everything he never let himself acknowledge that he wanted right there in his arms.

He swallows, bracing himself for the witty remark, as he responds to you with a weak, "Yeah?"

You don't say anything.

Instead, he feels just the barest touch against his hand, and he looks down. Your fingers slides against the heel of his hand, searching for his hand before you find his pinkie and curl around it. He drags his eyes back towards your face and you have the softest smile on your sweaty, gorgeous face.

"I'm glad you're here," you say, there's no sarcasm there. Your voice is soft and quiet, and so sincere.

He doesn't know what is happening to him but his chest constricts and is drawn so tight it's painful. And suddenly he's blinking back tears. Call him dramatic, but for a brief moment Santiago swears the chest pains are a sign of cardiac arrest, until you grip his pinkie tighter and the pain eases.

"Yeah...." Santiago nods. Has to clear his throat before he can get the rest of the words out from the lump that is lodged in his throat. "Yeah, me too. Sweetheart. Me too."

Sweat sticks to his back, and the heat is unbearable. But he doesn't want to move. Doesn't ever want to leave this spot with you lying next to him.

He'll never admit it out loud. But he knows why even though he hates Florida with every inch of his soul, he'll always find his way back here. Why no matter how far away he goes, a part of him will always be left behind here. A long long time ago in the drop off zone of Miami International, on a disgusting hot and sweaty day just like today, he made a promise. He promised that he'll always came back home to you.

Dedication & Credits: To my dearest @thirstworldproiblemss who came up with that DEVASTATING concept of the pinkie holding post-sex.

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#oscar isaac #triple frontier #triple frontier fic #triple frontier fanfic #triple frontier fanfiction #santiago garcia #santiago garcia x reader #santiago x reader x frankie morales #frankie morales #pedro pascal

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dilemmaontwolegs · 1 year

Text

Already Gone || MV1 {4}

Pairing: Max Verstappen x spy!fem!reader Summary: Try as you might, you can’t stay away from Max for too long. Warnings: criminal activities, implied smut WC: 2.8k

F1 Masterlist || One || Two || Three || Four || Five

It was official, you were insane. That had to be the reason why you found your way back to Monaco.

The last month had seemed more like a year and every single day had dragged out as you tried to keep yourself distracted by moving from place to place. But nothing worked. Max consumed your waking thoughts and invaded your dreams.

Your freefall through Europe had started in Norway since it had been the first flight leaving the country after you finally retrieved your go bag from the safe house in Camden Town. You tried not to look back as you searched for a place to start over, forcing yourself to move forward even though your legs felt like lead.

Sweden came next, then Denmark, but neither country had what you were looking for either so you crossed into Germany. The luxury apartment in Cologne had everything you needed to have a fresh start as a nobody and you should have been comfortable, but it too didn’t feel like home. So you had locked it up and got back in your car, hitting the highway and letting fate decide where you ended up.

You mindlessly walked with your head down to shelter your phone from the rain that drizzled upon the cobbled streets, your thumb swiping through the hundred of pictures you had taken with Max. You had only stopped in the random city because you could no longer ignore your rumbling stomach but when you saw the country flag hanging from a war memorial statue you froze.

You looked around, paying more attention to your surroundings and not the memories the photos held, as you struggled to remember even passing through the Netherlands before reaching Belgium. Everywhere you turned you saw signs you had missed, the city name surrounding you: Hasselt.

How did you end up here?

Max was the answer. You were a victim of your own mind and it had been leading you back to him this entire time. But this still wouldn’t be enough. You didn’t want to be where he was born, you wanted to be where he was.

You wanted to make things right. You needed to make things right.

So there you were, walking along the private street lined with perfectly trimmed hedges towards a wrought iron gate that would never stop you from reaching his door. But the man stationed in front of it might.

“Shit,” you cursed as you turned down the driveway of his neighbour. You hadn’t factored in that he may have been given a protective detail as a result of your actions. It didn’t change your end goal though, merely the plans of getting there.

It had been a few years since you last scaled a fence but you managed to pull yourself up the one on the back boundary and not break a leg when you jumped down the other side. It would have been much easier to sneak around at night but you weren’t patient enough to wait that long but you did keep to the shadows as you reached the house and tested the backdoor.

You hardly breathed when the latch clicked and the handle turned. The sound seemed too loud in the quiet suburb and you froze as you waited to hear the shouts of alarm, but they never came. All you heard was the loud purring of Achilles as he padded across the kitchen floor to brush against your legs.

“Look at you, you’ve gotten so big,” you whispered as you picked him up and snuggled him to your chest, a weight lifting from your conscience knowing Max had kept his promise. “I missed you too.”

You placed him back on the floor with one last scratch behind his ears before silently rounding the corner and ducking past the front window and tiptoeing up the stairs. You had spent too many nights in this house to count, made too many memories, to just walk through it without feeling the ache that came from missing it.

You skipped the stair that always creaked and stepped to straighten the picture of him and his mom on the wall. It was your fault it was on a lean, your shoulder had knocked it one night when you fell asleep on the couch and Max had carried you up to bed.

The only thing that had changed in the house was the door to the storage room that now had a gaping hole in it. Questions flooded your head at the possibilities ranging from Max lashing out in a fit of rage and putting his fist through it to a more worrying thought of someone else doing the damage. Was that why he had security? Did someone attack him?

Your hands shook at the thought and you clenched them into fists as you swore you would find out what happened, and make sure they paid.

The anger that had quickly filled you evaporated the instant you heard his voice and your feet carried you towards the sound you had missed dearly.

You watched him for a minute from the side door to the corner office, taking in the exhaustion that saturated him from his wild hair and dark bags under his eyes to the unkempt beard he was sporting.

“I’m fine,” he grumbled to one of the Red Line racers and the lifeless tone cut through the excitement you had felt when you spotted him in his simulator, his eyes focused on the screens in front of him.

“When did you become the liar?”

Max’s hands tore his headset off as he spun to find you, an apparition he could hardly believe was standing in his home. Time slowed as you stared at each other and the very air seemed to freeze as you connected with those blue eyes that had haunted your nights. No photo could ever quite capture the true shade of azure they were, you had relied upon your memory but even that did not do them justice.

“Hi.” You broke the silence and the moment in time was shattered, sense coming back to Max as he pulled the power plug from his simulator to cut the live stream before jumping to his feet.

“How did you get in here, Y/N?” he asked, looking out the window that overlooked the front yard to see the security guard still stationed at the gate.

You shrugged and looked down at your feet. “The backdoor was unlocked.”

“I have so many questions.”

You had expected as much as you went to the adjoining room and took a seat on the edge of his bed while he leaned against the set of drawers.

“I can’t promise answers to everything, but I won’t lie to you, Max,” you swore as you buried your hands in your pockets.

“That’s more than I thought I would get,” he muttered before taking a deep breath and crossing his arms over his broad chest. “Fine, an easy one to start with. Would a locked door have stopped you?”

Your shoulders bounced with a laugh. Reaching the back of your head, you pulled a long hair pin out and eyed the curved hook that you held out to him. “Not a standard one at least.”

He shook his head but didn’t seem surprised by the answer. “How did you learn that? How did you become…whatever you are?”

“That’s not as easy to answer,” you admitted as you pushed the pin back into your hair. “There was this foster mum, a particularly nasty woman. She liked the money the state gave her but not so much the kids. She would lock us in the attic and as the oldest it was up to me to sneak out and steal food, clothes, money. Turns out I was pretty good at it.”

“Fucking hell,” Max said quietly as his hands fell at his sides and you saw the pity in his eyes. You didn’t want pity.

“It is what it is. My turn for a question,” you said as you pointed to the hallway. “What the fuck happened to the door?”

“What? Oh, that,” he said as a small smile appeared on his face, instantly making your heart feel lighter. “Achilles got trapped in there and I had to break him out, poor little guy must have been terrified.” The smile disappeared as he realised that had probably been how you felt as a child and he swallowed deeply before crossing the room and sitting beside you on the bed.

“I haven’t been able to stop thinking about you,” he confessed as he rested his elbows on his knees and dropped his head in his hands. “Why did you come back?”

“Because I couldn’t stop thinking about you too.” You reached into your pocket and pulled out the small thumb drive you had prepared on your journey to Monaco. “This is everything you need to destroy Ferrari,” you said as you placed it into his hand and closed his fingers around it.

“What is this?” he asked as you spotted a dress between the almost closed doors to the wardrobe. You rose to your feet and opened it wider to see your clothes that had been left at his place on numerous occasions hung neatly beside his. “Y/N, what is this?”

You trailed your fingers over the thick motorcycle jacket he would wear, the one you would rest our helmet on as you tucked in behind him to shelter from the wind on a ride. “Correspondence, payments, data reports, everything to prove what they hired me for,” your voice almost failed as emotion thickened your throat, “and my testimony.”

The air shifter as Max stood up and you turned to see his brows pinched together. “But that would mean…”

“I’m done running, Max.”

“So that’s it? You’re done?” he shouted as he raked his hands through his hair. “You’re giving up and happy to spend the rest of your life in prison?”

“I’m not happy about any of this,” you shot back as you took a step closer and tipped your head back to look him in the eyes. “But I can’t live with the guilt of knowing I ruined your dream.”

“My dream was to be world champion, and I already won that twice,” he stated as he opened his hand, letting the thumb drive clatter on the floor. “I don’t care if I lose every race this year, liefje, I’m not going to lose you again.”

The drive crunched under his heel as he destroyed the evidence his team needed before he pulled you into his arms. Your head fell forward as relief crashed into you and your fingers desperately clung to the back of his shirt as you held him close.

“I thought you would hate me,” you whispered as your tears wet his shirt.

“I wanted to. I tried to, but,” he breathed into your hair as his arms encircled your wait. “Ik hou van jou.”

You had lost all hope of hearing those words on his lips again so it took a moment to process that had really said them to you, but the instant your brain caught up so did your body. You were already rising on your toes as you threw your arms around his neck and crashed your lips with a sound of delight.

“I love you too,” you promised between the gasping breaths you took as his kiss trailed down your neck and he guided you backwards.

Your legs hit the bed as he pulled your shirt off and it fell from his hands as his eyes darkened while they drank in the sight before him. The dutch you had learned from him was limited but you recognised the word for beautiful before his lips were on your skin where they belonged once again.

“What happens now?”

Your head was resting on Max’s chest, one leg draped over his as you listened to his heartbeat. You had been lost to the sensation of his fingers running up and down your spine that you didn’t comprehend the question until his touch disappeared.

“I suppose I should have a chat with your boss.” His eyebrows lifted at your suggestion and you chuckled as you trailed your fingertips over the soft curls below his navel, the blond hair catching the afternoon sun that spilled into the room. “I’m out of a job and a girl needs to eat, maybe I can put my skills to some good use?”

“No,” he shook his head adamantly. “No more secret agent spy shit. You don’t have to do that anymore, I’ll take care of you.”

You smiled against his warm skin as you pressed a kiss to the centre of his chest and peered up at him. “I was thinking more along the lines of security work, keeping the secrets safe instead of stealing them. Atonement for my sins.”

“Yeah, I’m not sure Christian will want you in a mile radius of the factory, or England,” he laughed and the sound only fed your smile.

“I can be pretty convincing.” You slipped out of his embrace and grabbed your clothes from the floor as he sat up and made to follow. “Wait here, I’ll be back in a minute.”

“Where are you going?” He frowned as you pulled your jeans on and threw your shirt on next as you left the room.

“To talk to the moron at the gate!”

“Woah, hold on,” Max called as he rushed out of the bed, a heavy thud and a curse telling you he caught himself up in the tangle of bedsheets. “Y/N!”

“He had one job, Max, one job.” You skipped down the stairs and his feet hit the landing at the top. “Anyone bastard could have snuck past and gotten into your house.”

You threw the door open and broke into a sprint as Max raced to catch up, his shout alerting the guard to your presence.

“You!” you growled as you pointed a finger at the man.

“You!” he shouted in alarm at the same time, his hand reaching for the phone on his hip.

“Stop, both of you!” Max demanded as he caught you around the waist and planted you behind at his still shirtless back. “Paolo, she’s not a threat.”

“Debatable,” you muttered as you crossed your arms. “I’m not a threat to you, but he clearly isn’t doing a great job at protecting you. Here, give me that,” you didn’t wait for an answer as you swiped the phone off Paolo, Christian’s number already on speed dial and connecting.

“Paolo, everything alright?” Christian answered.

“I’ve gone by many names, but Paolo isn’t one,” you said with a smile before you heard a door shut loudly in the background and the sound of leather creaking as he sat down on his office chair.

“What is it you want?”

“This isn’t just about me, the question is what do we both want?” You looked at Max as he stood stoically between you and the angry security guard, the dominance in his stance making you hot and bothered all over again. “I’m looking right at him, Mr Horner. So I suggest you pick up the beautiful fountain pen your lovely wife gave you for your anniversary, walk over to the planner on the wall behind you and find the time to meet with me.”

“Put Max on the phone,” Christian demanded quietly.

An offended scoff escaped your throat at the request. “I haven’t hurt him, I’m trying to help you keep him safe. I’ve already proven that the people you hire to protect him aren’t up to par.”

“Put him on the phone.”

“Fine. Tell him when and where you want to meet.”

You tossed the phone to Max and walked back inside the house, climbing straight back into the sheets that were still warm and smelled like him. It was the feeling of being wrapped in a cocoon of safety and the sense of home you had been searching for since you were a child. It had been right here.

It was the soft sigh that had you blinking your sleepy eyes open to see him leaning in the doorway, a playful smile on his lips. “You’re insane.” He pushed off the door jamb and pulled back the sheets to join you under the blankets, your bodies moulding together like two puzzle pieces.

“Says the man that goes 200 mph in a tin can.”

“We must both be insane,” he chuckled as he kissed your temple, “because we’re heading to the UK in the morning.”

You smiled and looked up at him, seeing your reflection in his eyes like glancing into a perfectly serene lake, endless depths hidden within them. You took his hand and traced the life line that slashed across his palm before following the love line that branched off it. You had danced your way over moral lines your entire life but now you had found the lines you wouldn’t cross.

“I told you I could be convincing.”

Click here for post five.

Tagging: @octaviareina @omgsuperstarg @mvclff1 @alwaysclassyeagle @icantcomeupwithamusicalname-blog @laneyspaulding19

#max verstappen imagine #max verstappen x reader #max verstappen x you #max verstappen fanfic #f1 rpf #f1 fanfic #f1 imagine #formula one imagine #formula 1 fanfic

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seat-safety-switch · 1 year

Text

When I heard that California was experiencing a huge dump of weather, I didn’t delay. I didn’t sit around, tut-tutting about those poor dears. No. I took action. I got a flight right to Los Angeles, walked past the huddled, terrified masses, and walked right to the rental counter. And I got something with full insurance.

You see, I grew up driving in the snow. Because I’m too poor or maybe too stupid to move away, I still do now. It sucks, and it holds up traffic, and you have to shovel a lot. You get used to it, though, especially after a winter of bullshit white stuff falling from the sky all the time and covering your perfectly good crapcan cars. You also get very good at driving in it, unless you’re everybody else on my commute.

We all think we live in a world of rules and mores, but when something like this happens, everything changes. The people who can wield power – the people who can seize power – become as gods. Knowing that I need to slow down a little bit before trying to turn the steering wheel on the highway would make me unstoppable, a singular silver beam of pure id through the crippled cityscape. Capable of anything.

The cops were powerless to stop me. What were they gonna do, chase me in their patrol cars? They’d never seen snow, either. Their pilot had never flown a helicopter in the snow before. I tested this theory immediately by finding the nearest Krispy Kreme and repeatedly ripping handbrake turns in the parking lot until the cops came running out, then fell and ate shit in the snow. And then, not for the last time in my life, I outran the cops in a 2021 Kia Optima.

I laughed maniacally as I merged onto the highway and barked out a couple front-drive fishtails. The traction control light blinked, screaming at me that what I was doing was Highly Unorthodox and may actually be Injurious To My Person. I punched the traction-control defeat button and laughed harder as the low-speed skids continued. On the side of the highway, I saw a garbage truck crashed, split in two, spilling its contents across a rich man’s lawn.

Then I was hit by a ‘01 Alero driven by some asshole doing ninety miles an hour in a Walmart parking lot on bald tires while smoking crystal meth out of some kind of homemade contraption involving two semi-truck turbochargers. I watched in awe as he continued through the parking lot, over a small hill, through a fence, and directly onto the highway upside down. I felt small. In that moment, only he was truly free.

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matttgirlies · 5 days

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Matt & Me🎀

1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9

a story heavily based on Priscilla Presley’s Book “Elvis & Me” based in the 1950’s - 1970’s.

fem! reader x singer! matt

disclaimer!! - in no way am i saying matt would ever support or do these kind of things, for the sake of the book certain unethical things do happen at times.

heavy warnings - SA!!, vague mention of drug use - if any of these topics make you uncomfortable the scene involving SA will be outlined and please don’t feel the need to read it, please take care of yourself🩷

y/nn = your nickname for anyone confused

Chapter 3

Time had become my enemy. Matt was due to return to the States on March 1, 1960. I had only a few months left to spend as much time with him as I could.

Every minute I wasn’t with him, I thought of him. My life was now dominated by him and yet there were times when I would be disappointed by him. One evening he told me he would call and didn’t. When I finally heard from him the next day, he said, “Hi, Baby. Do you think you can come over tonight?”

“What happened last night? You were supposed to call.”

“I was? Oh shit.” He had been concentrating on his karate lesson and had forgotten.

I had to learn not to take his words to heart. It was disappointing, but it was just his way.

Matt’s calls usually came after seven to let me know that I’d be picked up around eight. I had to dress quickly, trying to find some way to appear older than my age. His father was concerned about Matt being with a minor. My clothes were all young and unsophisticated skirts and sweaters. At times I’d borrow my mother’s clothes and hope everyone would assume that I was at least sixteen.

As I got to know Matt, I learned that when he wasn’t at the base, he stayed at home all of the time. He had little choice. The moment he stepped out of the door there was a giant mob scene around him. Even going to see a local movie required elaborate planning. Someone would drive Matt’s car in front of the house. He would then run out, hurdle the fence, and duck into the car before any of his fans could start begging him for autographs. There were always crowds after him, calling, standing outside the house, literally charging at him when he entered any public place. Many evenings when Matt had early morning calls it was either David Jones, a friend who Matt had brought over from the States, or James Sturniolo who drove me to and from 18 Hauptstrasse.

One particular evening when neither David nor James was able to drive me home, Matt had a “friend” who was called Pete take me.

THIS SCENE INCLUDES SA!!

if this topic makes you uncomfortable please skip.

Pete was driving me from Matt’s home back to Wiesbaden. I was tired and dozing off. All of a sudden, I felt the road get bumpy. I opened my eyes.

“What’s wrong?” I asked.

“You’ll find out,” he said, turning his head away.

We had driven off the highway onto a dirt road. I could see the lights of one distant house, and the rest was all blackness. I began to get frightened. “What’s going on?” I inquired, confused. By then Pete had stopped the car and shut off the ignition.

I repeated my question, but Pete didn’t answer. Instead, he turned and grabbed me, trying to kiss me. I pushed him away, struggling. He threw me down on the seat.

Panicked, I begged, “Don’t! Leave me alone!” I started fighting. I kicked one door open and opened the driver’s door with my hand while simultaneously banging the horn, hitting the lights, and scratching at his face. Out of frustration and fear of being caught, he finally gave up.

The rest of the way home, he never said a word. I just sat there sobbing, disbelieving, praying that I would get home safely.

END OF SCENE

Three days passed from that night before I heard from Matt. My parents knew something was wrong; however, I couldn’t tell them Pete tried to attack me because I would never be allowed to ride with him again. If I didn’t, how would I get to and from Matt’s if David and James weren’t available? My imagination ran wild. I was afraid to tell Matt because I thought Pete was his friend. I began to think that perhaps Matt knew what Pete had attempted. Maybe I was just a plaything to Matt, someone to pass around to Pete, or anyone else who wanted me. I was tortured by my thoughts.

Finally, Pete called and said Matt wanted to see me. I had no choice but to go with him.

During the drive to Bad Nauheim, Pete made no mention of what had transpired between us, and neither did I. I said nothing. I was very apprehensive being with him. I didn’t know, when he removed his hand from the steering wheel, if he was going to try to touch me, or just what was on his mind. I had no choice but to tell Matt.

That evening, when we were alone in his room, Matt asked me if anything was wrong.

My voice was trembling. I could hardly get the words out.

When I finally did tell him, Matt went crazy. “I’m going to kill him,” he shouted. He paced the floor, cursing Pete. I was his little girl, Matt said, and he had never gone all the way with me. Now this other guy, this so-called friend of his, had tried to rape me. I listened as he shouted, secretly relieved at his response. How could I ever have doubted Matt?

Matt was so angry, it took me the whole evening to calm him down. I finally convinced him that we had to keep Pete’s attack secret from my parents, or I’d never be allowed to come back. Matt held me tightly, as if trying to take the painful memory away. He felt guilty for having put me in such a dangerous position.

From that time on, Pete was fully excluded from Matt’s life. I don’t think Matt ever told him why, but Pete must have known. He rarely came around after that.

I began to realize that Matt expected total loyalty from his friends. If he was betrayed, he would just cut that person out of his life.

James was now sporting a neatly trimmed mustache that, according to Matt, Angela Stanley had encouraged him to grow. Mine and James’s conversations in the car were somewhat boring, and I always sensed he’d just as soon be doing something else, like spending the time with Angela, who sometimes accompanied him.

These days when I arrived at 18 Hauptstrasse I’d often find Matt upstairs studying the ancient art of karate with his instructor or downstairs in the living room proudly demonstrating new moves to his entourage, who stood about interested at his mastery of this newly popularized art form.

Matt also spent hours with a half-mad German masseur who had him convinced he could rejuvenate facial skin with his secret treatments, Matt having always been self conscious about some large pores on his face started to see him. Nate Doe ribbed Matt, saying, “What the hell’s he doing that’s so special? You look the same to me.” Defensively, Matt shot back, “Well damn! He says it’ll take some time before you see the results.” James interjected: “Time? Yeah, probably enough time to bankrupt us all by what he’s charging. I wouldn’t trust him farther than I could throw him.”

Always a center of activity at the house was Matt’s grandmother, who he nicknamed Dodger. Matt had come up with the name when he was a small boy of five and, during a temper tantrum, had thrown a baseball, missing her head by inches. Matt jokingly said, “She dodged out of the way so fast.” He started calling her Dodger from that moment.

Grandma took care of the household, did the cooking, kept everyone and everything under control. She had the air of a person with a firm purpose in life, which, in Matt’s case, was to make sure he was very well cared for. When I sought quiet while Matt practiced karate, Dodger’s room was a place to escape to. We’d sit for hours and she would tell me about the old days, about Mary Lou and her boundless love for Matt, about the grim struggle the Sturniolos had waged for survival. She had been with James and Mary Lou from the time of Matt’s birth, helping out when Mary Lou took jobs to contribute to the family’s support. A strong woman, Grandma had prevailed when her husband had walked out on her, leaving her with five children. She wanted you to believe she held a grudge against J. D. Sturniolo, but Dodger was a forgiving heart and I believe she still cared for him.

She helped raise Matt as if he were her own son, somewhat spoiling him as grandmothers do. She always rushed to his defence when she felt Mary Lou was too stern. Dodger said to me, “Mary Lou always called me Mrs. Sturniolo from the time I first met her until she breathed her last breath. One day Matt came running in and said, ‘Hi, Minnie!’ I felt so sorry for that young’un. Mary Lou rose up, took her hand to that boy, and said, ‘Don’t you ever call her by her first name. That’s disrespectful. She’s your grandma.’ He cried for an hour. I went in and said, ‘Son, it’ll be all right. She was just doing what she thought was right. Now you go in and apologize to her.’ Poor little boy looked at me with those blue eyes. So pitiful. Oh, she could be hard on him. He was a good boy, though. Never really got into any trouble, always came right home from school and did his chores. Yes, and Mary Lou would watch over him like a hawk, so scared he’d be hurt. He wanted so bad to play football at school.”

Grandma rocked back and forth in her chair, seeing something in the past that made her start picking at the bobby pins in her hair. She reached for her little box of snuff, took a dip, situated it just right, and then continued to reminisce. “Yes, he loved sports.”

“Then why didn’t he go out for any, Grandma?”

“Oh no. Mary Lou wouldn’t have that. She’d tell me, ‘Oh, Mrs. Sturniolo, I couldn’t stand it if Matt got hurt. It would kill me. I’ve watched how they play out there in those fields. They get real rough. I think they enjoy hurtin’ each other. Matt isn’t like that. He’d get out there and he’d be like a wounded bird in a pack of wild dogs. Not my young’un.’” Mary Lou’s constant effort to protect Matt, I learned, was the result of her anguish over the death of Matt’s twin brother Joseph Aaron Sturniolo.

I came to love Dodger and what she represented, compassion and total devotion to her family.

My biggest problem in those days was that Matt and I never seemed to have enough time alone. People were always dropping by, standing around the living room talking and laughing, until Matt came down from his room. As soon as he appeared, the room would become silent until he revealed his mood. No one, including myself, dared joke around unless he laughed and then we all laughed.

Because I had to share the little time I had with Matt with so many others, I began to feel jealous and possessive. It was only late in the evening, when we were in his bedroom, that I was truly happy.

We had a nightly ritual. At about ten or eleven, Matt would glance at me and look toward the stairs. Then, naively assuming that nobody knew where I was headed, I’d casually proceed to his bedroom, where I’d lie on his bed, impatiently waiting for him to appear. When he joined me, he’d lie as close to me as he could. “I love you,” I whispered. “Shhh,” he said as he put his fingers to my lips. “I don’t really understand what it is I’m feeling. I’ve grown to love you, y/nn. Dad keeps reminding me of your age and that it can’t be possible . . . When I go home . . . Only time will tell.”

Each night that I was with him he entrusted a little more of himself—his doubts, his secrets, and his frustrations. It was a lot to expect an impressionable fourteen year old to understand, but I tried. I felt his pain over his mother’s death. I ached over his desire to become a great actor like his idols Marlon Brando, James Dean, Karl Malden, and Rod Steiger. I was concerned about his fears that he might not regain the popularity he felt he’d lost by serving in the Army. And I reveled in his laughter when he asked, “What if one day I end up back driving a Crown Electric truck? Wouldn’t that be something?”

I was there for him, to listen, to hold his hand, or to make a funny face that would turn his frown into a smile.

Sometimes Matt would enter his bedroom in high spirits. I longed for those nights when he’d shut off the lights and lie close beside me.

“Sweetness,” he would say, putting his arms around me. “You’re so pretty, Honey.” And then we’d kiss long, deep, passionate kisses, and his caresses would leave me weak with desire.

Nights when his mood was calm and peaceful, he would describe his ideal woman and tell me how perfectly I fit this image.

He liked soft-spoken y/hc with y/ec eyes. He wanted to mold me to his opinions and preferences. Despite his reputation for being a rebel, he held the traditional view of relationships. A woman had her place, and it was the man who took the initiative.

Loyalty was very important to him, especially on the woman’s part. He constantly reminded me that his girl had to be completely constant. He admitted that he was concerned about Nicole. She was a Boston beauty queen and television personality. Matt said that lately her letters had become very impersonal, and he suspected she had been with another man.

Despite his moralizing, I feared Matt wasn’t always faithful to me. His bantering with some of the other girls at his house made me think that he might be intimately familiar with them.

One evening he was playing the piano for the regular group, plus a couple of English girls. When he picked up his guitar, he looked around, but couldn’t seem to find his pick.

“Anybody seen my guitar pick?” he asked.

One of the English girls looked up and smiled. “It’s upstairs on the night table next to your bed. I’ll get it.”

All eyes, including mine, zeroed in on her as she made her way up the stairs, aware that she was now the center of attention.

Furious at his obvious betrayal, I turned to him, but he was avoiding my gaze by looking down at his guitar, plucking it as if it needed tuning. Then he burst into “Lawdy, Miss Clawdy.”

Without a pick, his fingers must have hurt badly, but no matter what, he wasn’t about to put that guitar down. He knew he was in trouble.

After he’d finished a medley of songs, Matt excused himself and retreated into the kitchen, with me right behind him.

“Have you been with her?” I demanded.

“No,” Matt insisted.

“Then how did she know where your guitar pick and room were?”

“She was over one night, and I mentioned how dirty the place was,” he answered, a boyish grin on his face. “She offered to clean it, simple as that.”

Despite his declaration of innocence, I was not reassured. He was the sexual idol of millions and could choose whomever he wanted, whenever he wanted. I quickly learned, for my own survival, not to ask too many questions.

As the weeks passed, school became an unbearable chore. After getting to bed so late, I found it difficult to rise at seven and almost impossible to concentrate. But I knew that if I ever complained about being too tired, or was late for school, my parents would use the fact to put a stop to my seeing Matt.

My study habits became worse. I was failing algebra and German, and barely passing history and English. At the end of the fall semester, I altered the D-minus grade on my report card to a B-plus, praying my father would never consult the teacher. I kept telling myself that I would do better, that I’d catch up, but my concentration was totally on Matt.

One night when I went to see him, I fell asleep while waiting for him to finish his karate class. When he came downstairs and saw how exhausted I was, he asked, “y/n, how many hours of sleep are you getting?”

After a second, I said, “About four or five hours a night. But I’ll be fine,” I added quickly. “I’m just a little extra tired tonight because we had some tests at school today.”

Matt looked thoughtful, and then said, “Come upstairs a minute. I have something for you.” He led me up to his room, where he placed a handful of small white pills in the palm of my hand. “I want you to take these; they’ll help you stay awake during the day. Just take one when you feel a little drowsy, no more than one, though, or you’ll be doing handstands down the hallway.”

“What are they?” I asked.

“You don’t need to know what they are; they give them to us when we go on maneuvers. If I didn’t have them, I’d never make it through the day myself. But it’s okay, they’re safe,” he told me. “Put them away and don’t tell anyone you have them, and don’t take them every day. Just when you need a little more energy.”

Matt honestly thought he was doing me a favor by giving me the pills, and I’m sure the thought never entered his mind that they could be harmful to him or me.

I didn’t take the pills. I put them in a small box with various items I had started to collect, such as cigar holders and little personal notes he had given me, and hid the box in a drawer.

Later I learned that the pills were Dexedrine, which Matt had first discovered in the Army. A sergeant had given several men pills to help them stay awake while on guard duty. Matt, who was accustomed to living the life of an entertainer and who despised rising at dawn, began taking the pills to get him through the long dreary hours of Army life. He told me he’d begun taking sleeping pills shortly before he’d been drafted. He dreaded insomnia and feared sleepwalking, which had plagued him periodically since childhood.

In fact, as a boy, he’d once sleepwalked straight out of his apartment, dressed only in his underwear. A neighbor woke him, and, embarrassed, he ran back into the house. Another time, he nearly fell out of a window. Consequently, to avoid accidents, he slept with his parents until he was grown, and he feared his sleepwalking habit for the rest of his life. It was one of the reasons he usually had someone sleeping with him.

Years later, I learned that someone had been employed in Germany to watch over him throughout the night.

Excerpt from: "Elvis and Me" by Priscilla Beaulieu Presley. Scribd.

This material may be protected by copyright.

a/n - i know this was a deeper chapter so for anyone who skipped it i promise its not very important to the story however Priscilla included this in her book so i thought i should share that too. 🎀

#chris sturniolo #matt stuniolo fanfic #christopher sturniolo #matt sturniolo #sturniolo edit #sturniolo fanfic #sturniolo imagine #sturniolo smut #sturniolo triplets #sturniolo x reader #nick sturniolo #matthew sturn #matthew sturniolo #Spotify

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starrydixon · 1 year

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Winter Serenity

Era: Pre-Prison Pairing: Daryl Dixon x Reader Pronouns: She/Her Word Count: 2k Warnings: grief, description of losing a loved one, mild angst, but mostly comfort-fluff!

Summary: After the farm fell and you had lost your sibling during the fallout, Daryl helps you through your grief one winter morning by a creek in the woods.

A/N: Hello! So, if you feel like you are seeing this fic again, you are not crazy! I had previously posted this fic on my old blog, but want to move it here on my new one so all my works are in one place! Plus, I love this one a lot and just want an excuse to bring it back. Please enjoy!! (ps- I found this gif on Pinterest, so it’s NOT mine! Credit goes to owner!!)

The morning sun rays shone down through the barren tree branches, causing the three day old snow fall that covered the forest floor to glisten, almost as if someone had dumped buckets of glitter onto the ice. The snow crunched under your snow boots that seemed one-size too small while puffs of air fanned out in front of your face with each breath you took. You had found yourself needing some space away from your group, as the stress of living on the road and the endless thoughts that raced through your head was becoming too overwhelming. You hoped that an early morning walk in the woods would help clear your head.

Ever since the farm fell three months ago, living on the road hadn’t been the easiest, especially now that winter had arrived. Before the first snowfall, Rick had warned everyone that he presumed it wouldn’t be an easy winter this season, and he wasn’t wrong. One week later, a snow storm that spanned over two days delivered almost 10 inches of snow. This caused your group to have to take shelter in a nearby barn that, by some miracle, wasn’t infested with walkers.

If having to deal with the winter snow and relearning how to live on the road without the security of food, water, or protection wasn’t enough, you were also dealing with the loss of your sibling. The fall of the barn was chaotic and fast as the herd of walkers broke past the fence and swept through the Greene’s family land, taking over and claiming the space as theirs. You had spent the majority of the time stuck with Rick and Carl, since you caught the young boy trying to sneak out of the farm house to find his father and refused to let him go out in the dark alone.

You had found yourself searching for your sibling's face as everyone began to regroup at the highway. As the Greene family and the Grimes’ reunited, and Daryl and Carol got off of the motorcycle together, your heart sank when your sibling was nowhere to be seen. In a panic, you asked the group if anyone had seen your sibling during the fallout, either escaping in a different direction or being taken by walkers. You hated to even think of the fact that your sibling could have been torn to bits by the mindless, flesh-eating corpses, but you preferred to want to know and have closure than be left wondering if your sibling was still out there somewhere, either alive or turned as a walker.

Unfortunately, it turned out it was the latter, as no one had spotted your sibling during the fall. Against your better judgment, you were adamant on going back to the Greene’s farm and searching for your sibling; Daryl had even offered to take you there on his bike. Rick and the others deemed it a bad idea, as the farm was still dangerously overrun with walkers and they were running low on fuel. After much argument, a compromise was made and the group agreed to stay on the highway for another thirty minutes so you could wait to see if your sibling showed up. This time also allowed the group to strategize on what to do next. To no avail, you tearfully left a note and a map for your sibling to follow if they did end up showing up on the highway before reluctantly leaving the site with the group.

Sighing, you stopped walking through the barren woods and lifted your chin up to the sky. Letting your eyes flutter shut, the warm sun rays hit your cold face, warming up the tip of your nose and the apples of your cheeks. The only sounds that filled the woods were the chirping of birds and the trickling of water that cascaded down a nearby creek (that surprisingly hadn’t frozen over yet). Opening your eyes and blinking away the brightness, you found yourself gravitating towards the creek in curiosity.

A gentle stream of water flowed over small rocks and sticks that sat in the shallow creek. Spotting a large oak tree that was barren of leaves on its branches resigning beside the creek, you sat down on the snow covered ground and leaned your back against the sturdy trunk. Bringing your jean-clad legs up to your chest, you placed your arms on your knees and watched the water current flow down the creek.

Despite all of the bad that infected the world you were currently living in, this small space in the woods was nothing but peaceful. For a quick moment, you had forgotten that the woods you were currently sitting in had walkers roaming in it, or that the weight of sorrow that sat heavily on your chest was due to the disappearance of your sibling.

That moment of peace was short-lived due to the sudden sound of a twig snapping in half coming from somewhere behind you.

Quickly pulling out the hunting knife from the sheath you kept on your hip, you twisted your body around and was ready to jump to your feet to face the possible threat, but stopped when you noticed Daryl Dixon standing a few feet away from you with his trusted crossbow thrown over one of his shoulders and his red poncho protecting him from the cold winter air.

“Are you trying to give me a heart-attack?” You asked the archer before slumping back against the tree trunk, letting out a puff of air you hadn’t realized you were holding.

“Just makin’ sure your instincts are still sharp.” Daryl shrugged his shoulders loosely before carefully approaching you, unsure if you wanted his presence or not. When you didn’t give any indication that you found his company unwanted, Daryl took his crossbow off his shoulder and set it down against the tree before sitting beside you.

“Why are you really here?” You inquired while turning your head to face Daryl, who had one leg pulled up to his chest while his elbow rested on his knee. In response, Daryl just shrugged his shoulders. Rolling your eyes, you nudged his arm with your elbow, silently urging him to answer.

“Just wanted to make sure you're alright.” Daryl mumbled reluctantly while ducking his head, avoiding your kind eyes.

Nodding your head in acknowledgement, you didn’t extend the conversation further, not wanting to make Daryl even more uncomfortable then he already was. Besides, you didn’t really need any other explanation; you knew that he and the others in the group were worried about how you were handling your grief.

The two of you sat in a comfortable silence for a while, looking out and appreciating the winter landscape that was laid out in front of you. The scenery looked picturesque, almost as if it was a still for a painting. It had everything needed for a perfect picture: an abundance of barren trees whose branches had a light layer of snow coating over the wood, a creek that streamed directly down the middle of the forest, and the glow of the morning sun that illuminated off of the snow covered ground.

Being in the woods during winter made you think of all the winter days you’d spend with your sibling, running through the woods in your backyard and throwing snowballs at each other, or chasing each other with icicles you had snapped off of the porch railings. This memory caused that wave of grief to come crashing over you again, drowning you in an abundance of sadness, denial, anger, and guilt.

“You think they’re out there somewhere? Still alive?” You whispered into the still air before nervously chewing on your lower lip. Daryl stayed silent for a few moments as he pondered over his thoughts.

“M’not sure…don’t know if being out here in this weather alone gives ‘em much of a chance, but they could be.” Daryl replied honestly, not wanting to sugar-coat his opinion like the others in the group have been doing.

Nodding your head, you processed Daryl’s response. You hated the reality of his words, but you couldn’t help but appreciate his truthfulness. After a few more moments of silence fell between the two of you, you turned your head to look at Daryl once again. “Do you think about your brother being out here in this winter, presumably alone with a stump of an arm that probably hasn't healed properly?” You asked cautiously, attentive to Daryl’s sensitivity about the subject of his brother Merle.

“I try not to…but he's one tough sumbitch. Growin’ up we had to survive tons of winters like these.” Daryl admitted before casting you an almost shy look, not used to being so open to someone before. “They both are…tough sumbitches.” Daryl quickly added before ducking his head and gaze away from you.

“Yeah…you’re not wrong.” You felt the corner of your mouth quirk upwards momentarily as Daryl and you fell in a comfortable silence again.

Instinctually, you found yourself leaning your head against Daryl’s shoulder as the sounds of the creek’s running water was the only sound that filled the silence. For a few moments, Daryl’s body had gone rigged due to the feeling of your head resting against his shoulder. You were worried you had crossed a line, and that the closed-off archer would push you away, but you were relieved when you felt Daryl's body slowly relax against your touch.

Oblivious to you, as your attention was primarily focused on the serenity of the woods, a deer and its fawn had silently emerged from the treeline on the other side of the forest, intent on drinking some of the crisp water that flowed down the creek. Noticing that you hadn’t yet seen the deers, Daryl gently shook the shoulder that you were currently resting your head on to get your attention. Fearing that the archer had changed his mind about having you leaning on him, you began to remove your head away from him, but stopped when Daryl pointed his finger towards the deer.

Pausing to take in the sight of the wildlife, a ghost of a smile began to form on your lips as the deer and it’s fawn drank from the creek; their long necks craned downwards while their small white tails fluttered from side to side, indicating that they felt non-threatened by the human presence that sat on the opposite side of the creek. Relaxing back against Daryl’s shoulder, the two of you observed the deer from afar.

“I’m surprised you haven’t grabbed your bow and taken a shot yet.” You whispered towards Daryl while shooting him a playful smirk. Rolling his eyes, Daryl shook his head and readjusted his back against the tree trunk.

“Ain’t a monster, Y/N. Not gonna make that little one a bambi.” Daryl defended himself as he watched the fawn duck under its mother’s belly, seeking warmth and protection from the cold air.

“Aww, Daryl Dixon does have a heart after all.” You teased in a hushed tone, fearful that if you spoke any louder, you’d scare off the wildlife. Scoffing, Daryl lightly shoved you with his shoulder.

“Stop.” Daryl grumbled to you just as the deer and the fawn began to retreat back into the treeline as they had their fill of hydration.

Before completely disappearing from view, the mother deer looked back and stared directly at you and Daryl, one of its ears twitching backwards. You liked to think the deer was thanking you (more directly Daryl) for not harming her or her fawn and letting them roam the forest in peace.

“We should head back and warm up by the fire at camp…it's gettin’ cold.” Daryl advised once the deer had disappeared from behind the treeline.

“Just five more minutes?” You asked while staring up at the archer with gentle eyes. Glancing down at you, Daryl couldn’t find it in him to say no.

“Fine…five minutes.” Daryl agreed as he relaxed against the tree trunk once again. Grinning, you readjusted your head on Daryl’s shoulder until you got comfortable.

With Daryl by your side in the small section of the woods, where no walkers threatened your survival, at the spot under the oak tree where there was water cascading down a creek, it was easy to momentarily forget about the crushing weight of grief that you carried with you and get lost in the winter serenity.

#daryl dixon #daryl dixon x reader #daryl dixon x you #daryl dixon x y/n #daryl dixon fanfiction #the walking dead #twd #the walking dead fanfiction #twd fanfiction

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sirfrogsworth · 1 year

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Looking Forward

If I trust my brother... and he did my dad's will properly... and set up my trust correctly... then I should be able to stay in the house for roughly 2 years.

If I trust my brother.

Then I can either sell the house and use that money for a small apartment or try to find a roommate situation to help me stay in the house a little longer. The nice thing about paying the mortgage is I can get most of that money back if I ever do sell the house. It's almost like a savings account with all my stuff inside.

Let's just hope the property value doesn't plummet for some reason. Though it has been around the same amount for many years.

I like living in my house. It's what I've known for 30 years. But being alone in the house is going to be a hard adjustment. After two years (or sooner) I may want to move near Katrina or Delling so I am closer to a support system. I wish we could all live next door to each other. Or live on a farm/ranch situation. And instead of chickens it is just a bunch of free range corgis.

I tried convincing Katrina to build a pool house, but she has a small backyard and no pool. HOWEVER... Apparently Florida has a lot of "mother-in-law suites." I had no idea that had a name, but I could be Katrina's mother-in-law. I have the skill set to guilt trip, make passive-aggressive comments, and judge how she raises her future kids. (And any other outdated stereotypes I've learned from 80s comedians.)

But I also like the idea of having a roommate. I could accommodate a single person or a small family. And I'd love to have an animal of some kind around. We have a huge fenced-in area left over from Otis.

I think I could offer someone a pretty sweet living situation. I have a full basement apartment that I reside in and so the entire upstairs is available for people to live in. I could charge cheaper rent than a cheap apartment in exchange for helping with chores that I struggle to do.

There is plenty of furniture and appliances ready to use. Full laundry room. I've got a really nice home theater in the living room so they can watch movies in style. I also have a few hundred TV series and several thousand movies on Plex. They get a full kitchen and bathroom to themselves. Plenty of garage space and a long driveway to park vehicles. They can have up to 5 rooms to do whatever in. They could do 3 bedrooms, a living room, a kitchen, and a small den area. My mom liked the den because she could watch her Judge Judy shows while my dad watched JAG in the living room.

If they don't have a family, they could convert 2 of the bedrooms into office space or craft rooms or S&M dungeons. They can decorate any way they'd like. But they have to keep the sex swing clean so I can use it. Not for sex--I just enjoy centripetal forces. And they'll have great privacy as I will be in the downstairs apartment. They'd only see me if I exit the house or if they invite me to dinner or movie night.

All they would have to pay is whatever I can't cover. I'd estimate in the $600-$800 range once the trust fund runs out. Plus the chores like cleaning and yard duty. That's a good deal, right?

The only downside is the house is in a deteriorating neighborhood. Businesses are closing and people are moving away. Our street is pretty isolated so there isn't much danger or crime. But we are adjacent to a dangerous neighborhood and the schools aren't great. That said, while there isn't much around here, in St. Louis you are always ~25 minutes from anything you need. The highway is literally down the street so driving to anywhere is fairly hassle free.

Also, I'd be happy to lend out the car for transport to a job. I'll only need it to get groceries every few weeks. They'd have to get added to my insurance and help with gas and maintenance.

Soooo... yeah, I think I have a lot to offer with my house.

They do have to be okay with my big subwoofer rattling things. The sound doesn't really travel through the floor, but the vibrations can. I can tone it down if they are sleeping though.

Oh! We also have a huge workshop on the property too. It could be used for working on cars or woodworking or an art space. It has electricity, lighting, heating and is perfect for anything that requires getting dirty. If that makes sense.

One idea I have been considering is seeking out an unhoused queer individual who was kicked out or is struggling to afford a decent place. If their parents don't want them, maybe I could provide a safe place. Things are so scary for LGBTQ+ folks right now. Especially in Missouri. St. Louis is a pretty blue city, but Missouri is a blood red state. If I could do something small for someone like that, I would be happy to help. Could be mutually beneficial.

So those are all of my thoughts and ideas as of now.

Again, if I trust my brother, I should have a decent amount of time to figure things out.

If things go sideways, I might be screwed.

So far he seems to be doing all the things he should be doing to get me sorted.

I'm going to choose to trust him.

With my life.

Oof.

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grogusmum · 1 month

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WIP Wednesday

Thanks for tagging me @wildemaven @katareyoudrilling @nerdieforpedro @ladamedusoif @connectioneverywhere 💚💚💚

I've posted 4 fics last month, which was very exciting since I've been in a terrible rut for MONTHS. When I felt like I was getting on the other side of it, I prioritized updates like IRL, Mourning Moon for Wheel of the Year, and Class of 74. Only one was a new one-shot.

The next ones I am focusing on are two I've talked about A Kind Hearted Woman, my depression era Ezra fic and A Dark and Stormy Night, my lighthouse keeper Frankie fic, an update for A Galaxy Far Far Away, and one new idea that came to me just recently.

I'm not sure what I've shared already about these two but here are some excerpts (I apologize if anything is a repeat)

From A Kind Hearted Woman-

The pair of travelers arrived at your back gate. Cee traces finger on the small cat carving on the fence post. “It's here, it's really here,” Cee whispers. “As stipulated by our Georgian box car companion,” Ezra assured as he opened the gate. “Yes, but did you really believe him?” Ezra winks and walks the back path to the kitchen porch, he takes off his hat before wrapping on the screen door. Cee waits and a cat comes from the detaching garage and attaches itself to her legs leaning and circling. She laughs at the creaky little meow. After a sharper, though nevertheless polite, knock - “Well, little bird, it seems the lady of the house is not at home,” he concludes. “We should not be caught loitering about. Let's see what this seaside hamlet has to offer a pair of adventurers such as ourselves.”

From a Dark and Stormy Night-

In the middle of the night, you feel a weight on your chest, soft and warm. Your eyes flutter open and blocking the light coming from the woodstove as an enormous shape that presses on you, as your eyes focus, it huffs a breath, and you recognize it as a sleeping dog sound. It was huge, with pointed ears. How did you not see or hear it, when you came in, whether a watchdog or no, wouldn’t it have come to investigate? You continued to asses, its chest full weight is on you as well, its muzzle at your collarbone, a front leg on either side of you, fully caging you in. Your hand came up, fingers sinking into its plush fur, like a husky’s or a wolf’s… you shook your head, not a wolf, of course, but those dogs that look like them. Its steady heartbeat and relaxed breathing lull you back to sleep before you can think, maybe it’s an elkhound you drifted under again.

A Galaxy Far Far Away A Weekend Without You

Din's arms wrapped tightly around you as he stood behind you, chest pressed to your back, his chin on your shoulder, listening, as you went over your list- "... I'll be back Sunday night," you looked at your phone, "my Uber will be here soon." "Still don't know why I couldn't drive you to the airport." "Because you get a lead foot on the highway, Din. Local roads." You turned in his arms," Until we can figure out how to get you a license - Local. Roads. Djarin. Remember what I said about New Hampshire cops..." "They suck?" Din smirked. "Yep, especially the Staties."

This one is the new one His Voice and it's Frankie as a paramedic

“C-can I have an ice pack for my face? It feels like it's on fire.” You heard a sigh, not an exasperated one, it sounds empathic but also about to give you bad news. The paramedic said your name as his gloved hand took yours, warm and wide. Comforting despite the medical gloves. “I promise you I would if I could. But the damaged skin will get too cold and it will die. Benny here's gonna get you to the hospital as fast as humanly possible. And I’m right here. Inthat right Ben?” “You bet,” called the driver you assumed was Benny. Your hand tightened around his with every wave of pain. “Breathe, just keep breathing slow and deep.”

I have a handful still on the back burners because they are being difficult, I don't have snippets to share but happy to talk about them if anyone is interested-

A second chance fic with Joel

A return to hometown to get your life back together fic with Dieter

Welp that's all the Plot Bunnies wrought thus far...

No pressure tags go out to @oonajaeadira @insomniamamma @prolix-yuy @ezrasbirdie @firstofficerwiggles @thewayofthemandalorian @mandoblowmybackout

AND YOU!

#wip wednesday

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griseldabanks · 2 months

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Let Me Count the Ways ask game

Requested by @sergeanttomycaptain

Fandom: Captain America Relationship: BrooklynBros Prompts: "I can't imagine how I lived without you. I mean, I can remember it, but I can't imagine how I considered that living." AND "Leave you? You know how hard it was for me to TRAIN YOU to deal with me?"

Please note that this takes place after Avengers: Endgame, but specifically with my fix-it ending where Steve stays. If you're interested in learning more, please check out my fic "Let This One Remain."

“I'm telling you, it's really not that interesting,” Steve said.

“I'll be the judge of that.” Bucky clutched the steering wheel with both hands, not taking his eyes off the road.

Steve eyed his best friend warily, wishing once again he'd just kept his mouth shut. But when he'd noticed the name on the highway sign, he'd blurted out that S.H.I.E.L.D. had sent him to a retreat not far from there right after he'd gotten out of the ice. And then Bucky had inexplicably made an illegal U-turn and demanded further directions.

With a sigh, Steve pointed out the turn he still remembered from all those years ago. How many had it been? Eleven? Twelve?

As they crunched along a gravel road overgrown with weeds and filled with watery potholes, Bucky said, “They'll be gone, right? S.H.I.E.L.D.?”

“Probably. I can't imagine anyone would still be using it after all these years.”

“Good.”

“It really wasn't that bad,” Steve said for the fifth time. “I just sat around for a couple weeks and read up on what happened with the war and everything. Look, you can see the pond now. It was like being on vacation.”

“How many vacation spots do you know that have barbed-wire fences?” Bucky stopped with a jerk in front of the gate blocking the drive—and sure enough, the fence that stretched in either direction was topped with barbed wire.

When he looked through the gaps in the fence, Steve spotted the cabin right away. The trees on either side were taller than he remembered, and the grass and weeds along the path grew wild and untrimmed. Steve found his gaze locking immediately on the window through which he'd watched the sun rise every morning after each restless, sleepless night.

The hairs on the back of his neck rose, for some reason. Even though it was the hottest part of the day.

“Come on,” Steve said, opening his door to the rasping chorus of hundreds of cicadas. “If we're going to do this, we'll need to make sure the fence isn't electrified anymore.”

Bucky shot him a look of sheer outrage, but Steve ignored him and walked over to the fence.

There was no hum of electricity like he remembered from before, and sure enough, when he reached out to touch it, he felt nothing but sun-warmed metal. Just as he'd expected—no one would have been around to keep the power on. But the lock still looked solid. Steve looked over his shoulder at Bucky, who was still glowering at the fence. “Here, want to give me a hand?”

“That joke still hasn't gotten old yet, huh?” Bucky gave him a flat look as he casually reached out with his vibranium hand and yanked the gate open with one smooth motion, the lock falling uselessly into the dust.

Steve winked and led the way into the Retreat.

The door to the cabin was locked too, but it was even easier to break that lock and get inside. Everything looked more or less the way Steve remembered, albeit covered with a thin layer of dust. A living room with a couple couches and a fireplace, a kitchen, a bedroom...everything a newly-defrosted supersoldier could need.

“They were watching you?” Bucky jabbed a finger up at one corner of the ceiling, where a small black camera sat collecting dust.

“Yeah. Security, I guess.”

Steve gazed up at the camera, remembering when he'd first looked up and realized what it was. The way the whole cabin had seemed to shrink around him, like there were secret agents hiding in the walls, watching for the slightest sign he was about to crack. They'd told him he would stay there until he was 'ready,' and Steve had realized they would be watching him to decide when that was. If he wanted to leave, he would need to prove that he was still capable of being Captain America for them.

It was like being on stage again, wearing a costume and dancing for a crowd. Only this time, there would be no ducking behind the curtain and taking a breather backstage.

Remembering that made Steve's skin crawl.

Bucky wandered farther into the cabin, glaring around at everything like it had personally offended him. Sam would have laughed at him. Not for the first time, Steve wished they could have invited him on their cross-country road trip too, but he was Captain America now. He had a lot of hands to shake and babies to kiss, and hopefully no more world-ending catastrophes for a little while.

Steve strolled into the bedroom, thinking back to the last time he'd been in here. When he had been Captain America, and had to somehow come to grips with the knowledge that, despite everything he'd done and everything he'd sacrificed, the fight still wasn't over.

The same plaid blanket lay on the neatly made bed. Steve sank onto the side of the bed, kicking up a small cloud of dust. Even the dust smelled the same.

If he closed his eyes, he could almost imagine he was back here to stay. That everything that had happened in the past decade had all been a dream. Maybe none of that had really happened—no Avengers, no Thanos. No Sharon. No Sam. No Bucky. Nothing but days upon days stretching out before him, his whole future nothing but a huge question mark. Nothing to do but reflect on the past, dwell on his mistakes, learn all the things that had happened without him and realize just how powerless he was.

How small. How weak. How alone.

“Steve?”

With a breath that caught in his throat, Steve opened his eyes again and found himself looking at Bucky, standing in the doorway and watching him with a furrow in his brow. He tried to smile, but that only made Bucky look more concerned than ever.

Bucky crossed the room and sat down next to Steve, reaching up and brushing the knuckles of his right hand across Steve's cheek. Only when his fingers came away wet did Steve realize he was crying.

“I don't....” Steve wasn't sure what he was trying to say, but it didn't matter, because his voice died in his throat.

“Here.” Bucky scooted a little closer, wrapping an arm around his waist.

Steve turned in to the embrace with a desperation that surprised even him, throwing his arms around Bucky and crushing him against his chest. He needed to feel Bucky there—alive, real, present. Not a dream, not a memory. Not flakes of snow or ash slipping through his fingers. A warm, solid man right there at his side, like it was supposed to be.

They stayed like that for long minutes that stretched out endlessly. Time seemed meaningless here, just like when they'd brought him here the first time. He could have been here for a day. He could have been here for centuries. But for once, Steve didn't mind. He could feel Bucky's arms around him—one soft and warm, one hard and cold. Both of them strong enough to support him, no matter what he faced.

“You okay?” Bucky finally murmured.

Steve sniffled. “I wanted to see Niagara Falls. Would've been more fun than here.”

Bucky pulled back, but let his hand fall easily into Steve's. “Sorry,” he said softly. “I just...wanted to see what it was like. How you lived...while I wasn't there.”

Steve let out a mirthless chuckle, running a hand across his eyes. “I can't imagine how I lived without you. I mean, I can remember it, but I can't imagine how I considered that living.”

No...it really wasn't living. Not in this cabin. Not for the past five years.

“I was just...existing. Carrying on...almost out of habit. Trying to remember why.” He let out a shaky breath, tightening his grip around Bucky's hand. “It's a lot easier when you're here.”

“Sorry it took me so long to come back.”

All Steve could do was nod. They'd had this conversation before, multiple times. They'd probably have it again. And again. As many times as it took before Steve's brain finally caught up to the reality that they were together again.

They sat there for a few more minutes, Steve settling against Bucky's side, the two of them breathing together. Steve focused on the simple sensations that grounded him in the present, reassuring him that he hadn't just woken up from the ice. So much had happened since then, both good and bad.

The days he'd spent in this cabin hadn't been the end of the story.

Eventually, they got up and meandered back outside, still holding hands. Standing at the edge of the pond, looking out at the water and the overgrown bank, Steve listened to the chirring of cicadas and smelled the hot, dusty summer evening air. He felt Bucky's hand in his, slightly sweaty but comfortably familiar. He felt the weight of his phone in his pocket, a comforting reminder that he would be calling Sharon tonight when they found a motel. Maybe in the morning he would call Sam.

He had roots here now, in the 21st century. A home, a place where he belonged. Or people he belonged with, rather. Daily reminders that he had something to live for.

“What are you thinking about?” Bucky asked, breaking into his thoughts.

Steve looked over at him, at the setting sun turning the edges of his dark hair to gold. That face he knew so well, looking at him expectantly, his keen eyes full of sympathy. Steve had to swallow a lump in his throat before he could say, “Can I...ask something selfish?”

“Please do.”

“Don't leave me. Don't...Don't ever leave me again.”

Bucky's eyebrows pinched together for a moment, but then his mouth slid into an easy smile. “Leave you? You know how hard it was for me to train you to deal with me?”

Steve smiled back. The golden sunlight seemed to seep into his skin and sink all the way down to his bones, thawing out any last traces of ice that remained. “Not that hard.”

“Keep telling yourself that, punk,” Bucky said, turning and leading the way back to the car. “After decades of investment, you really think I'd let you walk away now?”

Steve didn't let go of his hand. Together, they stepped through the gate and left the Retreat behind. Within minutes, it was nothing but a dusty smudge on the horizon.

#btw i've never seen any of agents of shield so i don't actually have any firsthand knowledge of the retreat #so i probably got it all wrong but oh well - i did my best! XP #ari asked for this specific scenario and to use BOTH prompts so that's what i did!#ask games #let me count the ways #captain america #avengers #avengers: endgame #steve rogers #bucky barnes #brooklynbros

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hollybee8917 · 2 months

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Crabapple Harvest

Well, it's finally here! Thank you all for your patience and a special thank you to @joannaliceevans-fanficblog for proofing this for me!

Plot: Steve and Bucky try their hand at farming after all the fighting.

Warnings: Language

Word count: 3382

“What’s on your mind, Steve? You’ve been pretty quiet lately.” Bucky Barnes stirred the milk into his coffee.

At the table, his husband, Steve Barnes, formerly Steve Rogers, looked up, “I just have been thinking about retiring. I want a life. This whole ordeal with Thanos made me realize how I just want to stop. I mean, I have been fighting for so long…”

Bucky smiled, “It’s time to stop. I want to retire too. But I don’t know if I want to stay in the city.”

Steve scoffed, “Me neither. I kind of want to leave the city and go off the grid. But enough about my desires. I would love to know what you have been up to the last three months.”

His husband downed the rest of his coffee, “Hey, you wanna take a ride? Maybe we could look at possibly moving out of here.”

Steve rose and Bucky grabbed his keys, “Yeah, that sounds good.”

Bucky had been driving about an hour and a half when he turned off the highway and down a small country road. Steve knitted his brows together, “Where are you going?”

A smirk twitched on Bucky’s lips, “You’ll see.”

He made two left turns and a right before he reached a small driveway on the left. A white fence ran down either side of the long driveway. A sold sign was posted next to the mailbox. As they passed the pastures and parked in front of the old white farmhouse, Steve looked at Bucky, “Buck, why are we here? Whose farmhouse is this?”

Bucky scratched the back of his neck, “Yeah, about that. I bought it and closed it a month ago. I’ve been looking at farms for the last three months. I wanted to surprise you. Surprise…”

“Really? A farm?”

“What? I like the quiet. Anyway, I’ve been coming up here to do some upkeep on the house. I wanted to bring you up here so you could see it.”

Sighing, Steve looked up at Bucky, “Why would you buy a farm without talking to me first? I thought we were over the secrets and lies.”

Bucky shook his head, “I may have hidden it from you but with good intentions. Come on, just give the old place a try. You may love it here.”

“Fine,” Steve stepped out of the car and surveyed the farmhouse, “I can’t believe you talked me into this.”

With a sigh, Bucky waved him forward, “Come on in.”

The couple entered the home and Steve was stunned. The entrance was small but modest. Straight ahead was den. To the left was a dining room and to the right was a bright living room. Off of the living room was the comfortable country kitchen. Attached to the kitchen was a small breakfast area with doors on two sides and windows on the third. Steve wandered around the house and found the library, the stairs to the second floor and the master bedroom and bath. He also discovered a further three bedrooms and three baths. Steve smiled to himself. Bucky did good. This place is incredible.

The super soldier found his way to the back yard where he found a guest house and three barns. A series of pastures surrounded the house. Steve wrinkled his nose, “What the hell is that smell?”

“Cows.”

Steve turned to find Bucky standing behind him and the blonde cocked an eyebrow, “I’m sorry. What?”

A sly smile crossed the brunette’s face, “Cows. They came with the property. The former owners died and the kids wanted to sell everything including the cows and horses. I think there are some chickens here too. All of the livestock was included in the cost of the house.”

“B-but,” Steve stammered, “Neither of us knows anything about keeping livestock. Hell, neither of us has ever had a dog, much less livestock.”

Bucky feigned hurt, “I had goats.”

“Yeah, in Wakanda but you didn’t really raise them. They were village goats.”

Again, Bucky feigned hurt, “I see how it is. You’re just jealous that the goats liked me better. Anyway, I’m pretty sure there are a couple of tractors in that big barn. I don’t know if they run or not. I just know the kids sold the entire property and only cleared out the house. I think someone from the neighboring farms has been taking care of the animals. Wanna go check out the guest house?”

“Sure.”

As the husbands entered the little guesthouse, Steve grabbed Bucky’s hand, “Come here.”

Bucky stepped toward Steve, “What’s wrong?”

Instead of answering, Steve pulled Bucky toward him. The former Captain America pressed his lips against the former Winter Soldier’s mouth. Reflexively, Bucky’s eyes fluttered closed and he sunk into the kiss with a small moan.

Steve smiled through the kiss and pulled slightly back. Ha spoke softly, “Thank you for this new adventure.”

Bucky matched his energy, “You’re welcome.”

The couple wandered around the empty guesthouse plotting what rooms would be furnished first. Inside the small building were two bedrooms, two bathrooms a comfortable open living room and dining room with a small kitchen. “What if,” Steve paused, “we paint the rooms?”

Bucky snorted, “What’s wrong with the current colors? I like them.”

“Well nothing,” said Steve, “but it would make this place our own.”

His husband nodded in agreement, “That’s a valid want, Steve, but we can make it our own by arranging our furniture and some new stuff here. We don’t need to paint unless you absolutely hate the current colors.”

For a moment, Steve considered his surroundings. Then he replied, “I think the houses are perfect the way they are. You’re right. It will just take some decorating to make it our home.”

“See? I told you. You just need to listen, Punk.”

Steve scoffed, “Jerk.”

“You love me, though.”

“I really do. Now, you said something about horses.”

Bucky smiled, “They’re in that paddock. C’mon.”

A low laugh escaped Steve’s lips and Bucky’s face fell, “What?”

“Oh,” replied Steve, “you sound like a farmer already. Do you know how many horses there are?”

Bucky scratched his jaw, “I think five.”

Steve let his eyes wander towards the field. In the paddock, he saw three horses further away and two closer to him. How do I tell Bucky that I don’t know how to care for these animals?

Barnes could see the confusion and conflict is Steve’s eyes. Putting his hand on Steve’s shoulder, he stepped closer, “Hey. I know this is new. I’ve never cared for farm animals either. We can learn this together.”

“Hey, you see that?”

“See what?,” asked Bucky as he looked in the direction of Steve’s gaze, “I don’t see anything but trees.”

This time Steve walked away silently instead of responding. Bucky’s guard rose and he reached for the knife in his pocket. He followed Steve step by step through the tall grass.

An audible gasp escaped the blonde’s lips, “It can’t be. It is! Bucky! Look!”

With a shrug, Bucky answered, “It’s a bunch of trees, Steve.”

The former superhero adamantly shook his head, “No. Look up at them, Buck. They’re apple trees. We have an apple orchard. Do you know what this means?”

Still not feeling the excitement, Bucky tilted his head, “It means we have apples.”

Steve cocked a smile, “It means that we can make extra money or we can open the orchard or the public for picking during the season.”

Both men made their way to the trees. Upon reaching the orchard, Steve counted the trees to himself then exclaimed, “We have about forty apple trees! Bucky, this is amazing!”

He reached up to one of the limbs and plucked a fruit from it completely missing the look on Bucky’s face. Biting into the apple, Steve sputtered and spat it back out, “That’s disgusting.”

A sly smile fluttered across his husband’s face, “Those are crabapples, Steve.”

“What?”

Bucky repeated himself, “Those are crabapples. They are not meant for eating by themselves. People usually cook them.”

“Then why did you let me eat one if you knew they weren’t for eating?”

“Because I did that three days ago and it’s funny.”

“You’re a jerk.”

“Punk.”

Low music filled the apartment as Bucky and Steve loaded up boxes with their meager belongings.

“Don’t forget to wrap up that picture frame, Steve.”

The blonde shot his husband an annoyed glare, “I know, James.”

Bucky threw a piece of bubble wrap at Steve and stuck out his tongue, “You know how I feel about being called James.”

“You know how feel about being told what to do.” Steve bit back, matching Bucky’s energy, “You know this would go much faster if you helped me.”

The former assassin shook his head, “Can’t, pal. I’m a bit busy wrapping up these dishes.”

He looked around the room, “Ya know, Stevie? I don’t think we have enough furniture. I mean, we only have one bedroom suite, a dining room table, a sofa, a coffee table and a tv stand with a tv. That covers three rooms. We may need to buy more.”

Steve looked around the room, “Yeah, I think you’re right, Buck. Where would we get furniture, though?”

“Oh, I’m sure there are furniture stores near the farm.”

Rogers scratched the back of his neck, “What do you say we load some of this stuff and then head to the farm?”

Bucky placed a wrapped bowl in the box, “Sure. After we unload the boxes, we can go to the furniture store and see what we like.”

A smile crossed his husband’s face and Steve picked up a box then headed out the door. Bucky picked up the tape gun and ran it over the top. He moved it over by the front door so that Steve could take it down to their SUV. Sitting back on his knees, Bucky sighed as he looked about the bare room.

As Steve held the paint roller and moved it back and forth on the barn door, he felt something brush his leg. He ignored it at first then the thing began to climb. Steve screamed, dropped the paint roller and looked down to find a calico kitten clinging to his pant leg.

Bucky came flying onto the back porch with a gun in hand, “What is it?”

Steve reached down and grabbed the kitten by the scruff of its neck. He held the meowing kitten up, “So you know that barn cat we have? Apparently it had kittens.”

Bucky lowered the gun, “Oh yeah. I found those guys yesterday.”

Steve made a face, “Seriously, Buck? How many are there?”

“I counted five.”

Bucky’s husband looked around his feet, “Well, damn. I was going to suggest we get a dog but I don’t know if we can now. Where are they hiding?”

The former assassin replied, “I think they are living in the barn or in the garden shed. This one is pretty cute.”

He stroked the kitten who was now lying in Steve’s arms, “They would be good mousers. You remember the old Hungarian man who had the laundromat down on Joralemon Street? What was his name?”

Steve chuckled, “Mr. Szilágy. He had a twenty-two year old twin granddaughters name Csilla and Szonja.”

Bucky tilted his head, “Do you remember the cat he had at the Laundromat? It was a mean cat.”

A laugh erupted from Steve, “Yeah it was. You know, I always wonder what happened to that laundromat. I imagine it’s gone now. You think the twins ever got married?”

The brunette shrugged, “Maybe. I remember that Szonja had a thing for you.”

“Csilla,” Steve corrected his husband, “It was Csilla. I think Szonja had another guy interested in her. But back to the topic at hand, what are we going to do with the cats?”

His husband sighed, “I mean, I kind of want to keep them. We just have to catch them and get them fixed.”

“WHY WON’T YOU START?!!”

Bucky chuckled, “You okay there, Stevie?”

Steve looked down at his husband, “No! The stupid tractor won’t fucking start.”

“Hop down. Let me give it a try.”

Steve got off the tractor and Bucky climbed up into the seat. With deft fingers, the man turned the key, hit the throttle and pumped the gas pedal. Instantly, the tractor purred to life.

Throwing his hands in the air, Steve shot Bucky a glare, “I hate you. Fuck this. I’m done. HOW are you better at everything?”

Then Steve stormed out of the barn. As he made his way to the house, he started to tug at his shirt. What am I doing?

He opened the door only to find a basket of eggs on the kitchen counter. These must be from the chickens. Damn, I forget to get those? I must have. Why can’t I seem to get the hang of farm life?

Sitting down at the kitchen table he and Bucky had bought together, Steve pulled his boots off and leaned on the table. The chair next to him squeaked and the former Captain America raised his head. Bucky was sitting next to him, “You okay, Punk?”

“Not really. I just feel like I can’t do this.”

Bucky leaned back on his chair, “Hey, hey, take a breath. You’re doing fine, Steve. You are picking this up faster than you think you are. This is new for me too. We’ve only been here three weeks. We’ll be old hands at this soon. Just give it time.”

The former Winter Soldier brushed his finger against his husband’s cheek and leaned in for a quick peck on the lips. Steve smiled, “Thanks, Buck. I feel a little better now.”

“Good.”

Steve shrugged the rainwater off his jacket as he slipped his shoes from his feet. In his arms he held a box of puppies. He was excited about them. These puppies will make a great addition to the farm.

The super soldier placed the box of three pups on the ground of the mudroom before taking his jacket off. Little yips from the puppies made Steve pick the box. He made his way to the back of the house where Bucky sat on the sun porch. As he approached, Steve called out, “Hey, Buck, I’m back.”

Bucky looked up from his laptop, “Hey, Stevie.”

His mouth twitched in an unamused movement, “Steve, What. Are. Those?”

The blond looked down, “Oh, I found some German Shepherd puppies. Aren’t they cute?”

Taking a deep breath, Bucky braced himself for his next words, “Steve, those are not German Shepherds.”

“What?”

“Steve, those are Wolf pups.”

The former superhero shook his head, “They can’t be. We don’t have wolves around here.”

Bucky shrugged, “I don’t know what to tell you, Stevie. Those are definitely not German shepherds. You’ve been to Germany and you know what those dogs look like. How do you even imagine that those are German Shepherd puppies?”

Steve looked down at the box in his hands then back to Bucky, “Well, what do we do with them?”

“They’re wolves, Steve. We shoot them. We don’t want them getting after our animals.”

Steve huffed, “You were in Wakanda for like a month where they named you White wolf and you suddenly know everything about animals?”

“No, just wolves,” Bucky replied with a smirk, “and it was three years not a month.”

A sad sniff from Steve made Bucky pause then he sighed, “Steve, I know that you don’t want to kill the wolves. I don’t either but the only other option is to take them to a wildlife rescue.”

“Do we have to?”

Bucky nodded, “They’re wild animals, Steve. They don’t belong here.”

Finally understanding, Steve sighed, “I know. Do you know of any rescues around here?”

“No, but I can look. In the meantime, they can be put in the mudroom.”

Steve could do nothing but smile.

Bucky wiped his brow then pulled the chain link closed against the post. Taking the nail gun, he pressed it against the pose and fired the staples into the post to keep the chain link in place. It had been four weeks since Steve had found the wolf pups and they were too big for the house. For the moment, they were in a room in one of the barns, away from the chickens. They had already tried to dig into the coop causing Bucky to yell at them and shoo them away.

He hadn’t told Steve that he was building such a large enclosure. Bucky had noticed how attached Steve was getting to the wolf pups. In all honesty, Bucky was getting attached to them too but he knew they were wild animals and illegal to own privately in the United States. That’s why Bucky had been dragging his feet on calling giving them to the rescue. Instead, they had gotten a license to be rehabilitators. He was waiting on Steve to make the move to turn them over. It had to be done soon before they got too big.

Bucky’s phone rang and he stopped, “Hey Stevie.”

“Bucky, you need to get to the house now!”

“What’s going on?”

Steve’s voice broke, “The DEC is here about the pups.”

“I’ll be right there.”

Three minutes later, Bucky walked up to the house to find Steve standing toe to toe with a DEC officer. The mayor of the little town stood behind him, smirking. Bucky stood behind his husband, “What seems to be the problem?”

The officer addressed him, “We got report of illegal wolf puppies on this property.”

Bucky shook his head, “I don’t know what you were told but we don’t have any illegal wolf pups here.”

With a scoff, the man replied, “We need to search your property.”

A gun materialized into Bucky’s hand out of nowhere, “Not without a warrant.”

Both men backed up and Bucky snarled, “You wanna search here, you can come back with a warrant. In the meantime, I suggest answering your phone.”

On cue, the DEC officer’s phone began to ring and he answered it, “Hello? Yes, this is him. What? When? They have a permit? That’s not- Yes sir. Yes sir. I understand sir. Yes sir. I’ll be there.”

He hung up the phone and looked sheepishly at the two men, “Well, I guess there’s no reason for me to be here. Have a nice day, gentlemen.”

Then he walked toward his truck, leaving the fat mayor sputtering, “What? Wha-? How?”

Bucky smirked and motioned to the vehicles, “I think you should be getting a phone call as well. Good luck.”

The fat old mayor turned around and stormed off without a word. From where he stood, Steve was confused, “Who just called that officer? What was said?”

His husband shrugged, “I called in a favor from the higherups while I was making my way to you. They shouldn’t bother us anymore. Come on, I have something to show you.”

~~~

Steve sat on the front porch of the old farmhouse, a glass of lemonade in his hand. From the distance, he heard the howls of the wolves. The cool crisp fall air made him shiver. The whinnies of the horses made him smile. He and Bucky had been living here for a few months and things were going well.

He saw Bucky pull up in the old farm truck. Bucky slammed the door, “Hey, Stevie?”

“Yeah?”

“Do you still want kids?”

Steve rubbed the back of his neck, “I mean, yeah. In case you haven’t noticed, we’re both men. We can’t have kids unless we do surrogacy or adopt.”

“I know. About that,” Bucky opened the truck door and pulled out a folder. Handing it to his husband, he scratched the back of his neck, “I did a little digging on surrogacy and I think that would be our best bet. What do you say?”

“You’re really okay with this? I mean, being a parent is going to be hard. Especially for two men who’ve seen as much war as we have.”

Bucky looked his husband in the eyes, “I’m more than okay with this. Let’s have a kid.”

A grin spread across Steve’s face, “Let’s have a kid.”

#marvel #stucky #stevebucky #steve rogers #bucky barnes

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zenosanalytic · 1 year

Text

Road Rage

Ok so here's the thing: people will say "driving the speed limit is unsafe", but why do they say that?

Because everyone around you is driving faster.

And why is everyone around you driving faster?

Because people will drive at the speed which feels "natural" for a road, and the lanes are wide and smooth and straight, with no obstructions to either side and open sky above("for safety"), all of which encourages fast driving. So why isn't that "Natural" speed the speed-limit instead?

For two main reasons:

in the US we use an absolutely moronic method for determining the "proper" speed for a road

because in the US we build fast(I mean 50+mph here but REALLY I should mean 30+mph) roads right through neighborhoods and commercial districts, which means entry/exits right onto that road from them and frequent traffic lights and the necessity of making allowances for ppl not in cars(ie peds and cyclists), and the official speed can only be so high through such areas and still meet US legal(note: NOT ACTUAL) standards for "safety".

So in the US we have a situation where the posted speed for EVERY ROAD(and Im just using the term generally in this post for all driving surfaces; streets, parkways, drives, highways, whathaveyou) is far lower than the road is built for, and people are just supposed to KNOW this even though no driving instructor teaches it, Know to ignore speed limits and match their speed to everyone else, but also if you drive like this and a cop sees you they can totally pull you over whether it's creating a safety issue or not(Im sure that doesn't lead to any sort of systemic abuse of authority or anything).

So the answer's simple and right at the top of the post; you drive "the speed of traffic" and you're safe, right?

WRONG! WRONG WRONG WRONGWRONGWRONG!!!!!!

But why wrong?

Remember the road features which determine "natural speed"? The wider, smoother, straighter and more open a road is, the faster people will drive on it. But it also makes them pay less attention cuz it's so "safe" and drive more recklessly cuz it's so "safe". THIS is how unsafe roads make "unsafe" drivers.

You can do everything "right". You can drive with traffic, signal early, attempt visual communication with other drivers, keep your eyes open and always concede the lane to those CLEARLY driving dangerously; do EVERYTHING they teach you in defensive driving... And you will STILL get rear-ended by someone looking at their phone too long behind you who didn't notice the light had turned red(on a road that never should have had even ONE traffic light on it in the first place, and which residential never should have been allowed to abut in the first place). You will STILL get t-boned by the guy who "always" blazes through that intersection because "nobody ever uses it". You will STILL find yourself on the business end of one of thousands of different potentially life-ending scenarios like this.

And it won't be because these people are "unsafe drivers" anymore than it will be because YOU Were going 50 in a 50 zone. It will be because we have a 50mph-rated road, built like a 75mph highway, right up against businesses and people's homes rather than being separated from them by frontage roads like it should be(not that US frontages are any safer), with no obstructions between them and ppl's backyard fences "for safety"(who cares if it makes it less safe for everyone not in a car), and not so much as partial turnoff lanes for entry and exit onto said highway-pretending-not-to-be-one. It will be because our roads are dangerous, our signage is wrong, and our laws are DESIGNED to be discriminatory and unsafe. It will be because our roads are dangerous on purpose.

If you are driving on US roads, you are in danger. Do what you feel is best to mitigate it, certainly educate yourself about that subject, but know that you will NEVER reduce that danger to a reasonable level. I belabor this because it's important that everyone understand the danger of US roads is not something anyone can fix or mitigate with their personal driving behavior. It is a political problem, and it must be fixed with political behavior.

So: Get involved. Educate Yourself on This Issue. Learn about candidates, what they have to say about road design, whose money is backing them, and then distribute your support accordingly. Meet people in your community and band together to go to city council meetings and have those of you who can speak in front of others complain about this at least once a week. "Road Safety" is one of the biggest public safety issues in the United States today. Carcentric civic design is LITERALLY KILLING US, in about half a dozen ways, and the Republican Party, as Fucking always, is not only dedicated to preventing us from fixing it, but dedicated to actively making it worse. I haven't even touched on increasing vehicle-size in all this. The idea of road deaths as anyone's personal failing, as someone's fault, distracts us into prisons and punishment and blaming victims, and away from doing what we need to do to actually stop road deaths from happening, which is Politics. The laws need to change or people will keep dying.

tl;dr: Roads should be narrower, rougher, built to be MUCH slower, crowded by trees, and much less common.

#zA Posts #zA Rants #Roads #Carcentric Design #Civic Infrastructure #Politics #US Politics #Road Discourse #Car Discourse #Rhetoric #cantankerous posts #zA's Inveterate Politicism

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metamorphosisff · 1 year

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|Seven| Breaking Patterns

“Wait!”

I’m running, knees to chest down fourth ave, towards the van on the corner. Xavier was just stepping inside when he heard my voice frantically yell ‘wait’ over and over again. It’s not my fault that I am late but in this situation it won’t matter. Courts don’t care about obnoxious bosses that didn’t let you go until a replacement arrived. There is no way I can miss even one day of community service or else my misdemeanor will go on record and my plea deal out of the window. My lungs are burning when I make it to the van and I can see the members of our group staring from the windows. I flash my middle finger which makes a few of them avert their gazes.

“Take a breath, we weren’t going to leave you. Jazz threatened to pretend to stroke out if we did,” Xavier said, causing me to chuckle as I hoisted myself inside. He climbs in behind me and soon we’re off. Today we’re back on the side of some highway picking up trash.

“Thanks for looking out Jazz,” I say, plopping down next to her in the front. Her hair is back in its usual braids and the marvelous nails from last Thursday gone. I wouldn’t waste a good look on community service either.

“I got you Birdie, drink some water before you pass out,” Jazz says, slipping my water bottle out from my bag and pushing it into my hands.

We’re in the middle of a heat wave, my shirt, and pants are clinging to me in the worst of ways. I take several gulps as the van joins midday traffic. Xavier flashes an amused look in my direction but the squint I send back has him focusing back on the attendance sheet on the top of his clipboard. Since we hung out last week we’ve spoken at least once everyday whether through texts or phone calls. Our silent exchange doesn’t go unnoticed by Jazz but she waits until we are armed with pokers and trash bags before her inquisition begins.

“Spill it lil girl,” Jazz says once we find our piece of the side of the road to call our own. We are out of earshot from any elephant ears.

“It’s not that deep, I agreed to let him try to be my friend,” I said, with a shrug. That might be an oversimplification but it’s the gist of the situation thus far.

“Good, don’t let him just try, let him be. You saw him again after the meeting?” Jazz asked, having sensed our growing closeness.

“Yeah, last weekend. We went to this food festival at Bryant Park. It was nice, he’s not so bad. We talk on the phone sometimes,” I replied.

“See what happens when you give folks a chance?” Jazz says.

“Ehh not too much on me Jazz. I’m a work in progress,” I chuckled as I tied the garbage bag around a belt loop. It’s easier than trying to fight with it in my hand as I move around.

“As long as you're progressing, that’s all that matters, trust me. I got a good feeling about Mr. Clipboard,” Jazz says, before she starts humming a Donna Summer song.

That’s my cue to take what she’s said and to go on about my business. This is one of those days where we work side by side in comfortable silence and I don’t mind. It allows me to slow down for the first time today. I lose myself in random mental checklists and by the time I’m done so are we. We’re back in the van and are being dumped off in midtown once more. Tonight Xavier teaches, so he doesn’t linger like normal to watch us all get off of the van. He manages to toss me a smile and head nod before heading into his office to grab his stuff. Jazz and I take the trek to the train station on 49th and part ways with a promise to speak later.

By the time I make it back to my neck of the woods I’m exhausted but not too tired to yell at Papi through the park fence two blocks from our building. “PAPI! Let’s go!”

It’s already close to seven, the basketball court is growing with older kids, and adults which means he no longer needs to be around. He doesn’t question me or plead for more time, simply daps up his friends, and scoops up his bag from a pile on the ground. In less than a minute, he’s jogging by my side, and enveloping me in a sweaty hug.

“Auntie, I'm hungry and Ma’ forgot to leave something. I don’t want cereal,” Papi says, scrunching up his face at the thought.

“I’m making pasta tonight. After you take a shower, come over, and I got you. I’ll leave the door unlocked,” I said.

“Okay, thanks. I thought I was about to be down bad,” he jokes, flashing me a grin.

“Boy please.”

He laughs because he knows I would not let him eat cereal for dinner but being dramatic comes second nature with Mari as his mother. We make quick work of the rest of our short walk before heading into our respective apartments. I take a fast shower, setting the water for the pasta to boil while I wash the grim of the day away. When I finish, I dress in some biker shorts and an oversized Yankees t-shirt I’m pretty sure used to be my father’s. I’m in the middle of placing ground meat into a sauté pan when I hear the front door open and close.

“Papi go in the living room and watch TV. Dinner will be done in like thirty,” I say, adding seasoning to the pan.

“Y’all having dinner without me?” a raspy voice asks, causing me to whip around.

Standing on the other side of the kitchenette counter is my ex Trevor. I frown instantly as I take in the sight of the person I thought I loved. What he and I had was volatile for a lack of better words. We were a season that lasted way too long but his passion is what kept me near. It’s also what ultimately drove me away. He was too possessive and I didn’t like that shit. Case and point, this unwelcomed pop up.

“What the fuck are you doing in here?” I say, moving closer to the knife block.

“Why did you have the door unlocked?” he chuckles, leaning across the counter. He’s dressed in basketball shorts and a graphic t-shirt. Clothes that will let him move stealthily. I eye the knives once again.

“Trevor. I’m about to treat you like an intruder. The fuck do you want?” I asked.

“Jamila chill out, I didn’t even come to argue with you. I wanted to see how you were doing,” he said, drumming his tan fingers against the counter. His knuckles were bruised which is of no surprise. He is always in a fight, with others and with himself.

“I was doing fine until you got here and I will do better when you leave. I don’t want to talk to you. Make this the last time you come here,” I said.

“Damn, it’s like that? I know we go through our little squabbles but-

“Nah call it what it is, you hit me,” I said, causing him to flinch which incenses me further. How dare he act like a victim.

“I didn’t mean to do that for real, you were just doing a lot, and it was a reflex. An accident for real baby,” Trevor said, taking a step closer causing me to take a step back. The heat from the stove causes me to move up slightly and I can see him calculating how he’ll close the space between us.

“Do not call me that! It wasn’t an accident, you were sober, and it only needs to happen one time for me to know it’ll happen again. I’m not interested. So you need to leave, if you have any respect for me at all.”

Shaking my head I couldn’t even believe I have to say this but I do because Trevor walks through life thinking everyone should bend to his will. If they didn’t do it of their own volition, he became forceful. Whatever bullshit is about to be spewed from his lips is interrupted by Papi and one of the older boys from downstairs coming in armed with bats.

“Aye Ms. Jamila, you aight?” Carlos asks, as he eyes Trevor. For a fifteen year old, he’s built like a D-1 college football player. Trevor’s lanky frame is no match for this kid’s and he knows it, raising his hands in retreat.

“I’m good love, please escort this nigga off the premises. He seems to be lost,” I said, as Papi goes to hold the door wide open.

“Fine Jamila, I see how it is,” Trevor huffs, marching through the door with Carlos trailing behind him. “Don’t know what I was thinking about coming back to your crazy ass anyway.”

“Me either, good riddance. C, come get a plate in like twenty minutes,” I said, following them until I hit my doorway.

It’s the least I can do for him having to play bodyguard for me. Carlos nods his head but doesn’t take his eyes off of Trevor as they walk down the stairs.

“Auntie, you good? Do I need to call Ma’?” Papi asks, hugging me tightly.

“No my love, let’s not bother her. I’m okay really, you did me proud. Earned my last icee in the fridge for being brave and calling for help,” I said, running my fingers through his dense curls in an effort to soothe him and myself.

“I never liked that guy Auntie,” he sighed, releasing me so that he could step back inside my apartment. “I hope that’s the last we see of him.”

“Me too Papi, me too.”

His words haunt me, so eerily similar to Xavier’s that day he told me about Sabrina. I’m more like his cousin than he knows. I don’t want her ending. I make a mental note to be more on guard for a while in case Trevor tries to come back a second time. Hopefully he has finally accepted that I am no longer interested.

His visit makes Papi extra clingy tonight as the ten year old insists on sleeping in my living room with the bat by his side instead of in his own bed across the hall. I let Marissa know in a voice note what’s happened before her son can beat me to it. This is one thing I don’t need him exaggerating. When that’s done, I lock up, clean the kitchen, and finally head back into my bedroom. I leave the door cracked like I always do when Papi is over. It’s late but my mind is restless. After a brief debate, I call the one person I know who is awake at this hour.

“‘It must be pigs flying somewhere if you called me first,” is how Xavier picks up the line, chuckling to himself.

“Don’t make me hang up on you,” I said, leaning back into my pillows.

“I kid, I kid. What’s on your mind Jamila?” he asks, with what sounds like the wind blowing in the background.

“Are you still outside?” I reply instead.

“Yeah, I stayed late to walk some students through a few errors made on their last test. Got off the train not too long ago,” he said.

“Ahh okay, I can hear the wind but uh to answer your question, Sabrina is on my mind. The story you told me,” I replied.

I hear his breath catch but he recovers quickly and says, “Expound on that a bit please.”

“Let’s say I have an ex like her boyfriend. He only hit me once and I ended it right after it happened. He popped up in my apartment today. Papi and one of his friends had to save me, and he echoed your words ‘I never liked him’ and it scared the shit out of me. Because deep down, I didn’t even like that man, not for real. He was fun and convenient until he was neither. I could have died because I wanted to be special to someone. How fucked up is that?” I breathe out in one shot.

Each sentence had been tossed over and over again in my mind for the duration of the evening. I may not be on drugs like my parents but I sure as hell have the same self-destructive tendencies coded in my DNA. It left me blind to bad decisions until it was too late.

“It’s not fucked up, it’s human. Wanting human interaction is as normal as sensing a predator. You’ve identified where you went wrong and made the corrections needed, don’t be hard on yourself because he’s stuck in the same pattern,” he said.

His words like his voice are soothing but they don’t sink in at the same rate. While his tone makes me settle more underneath my sheets, his words are working hard to make a chink in my armor.

“That is easier said than done. I have a kid sleeping in my living room because he wants to protect me. It should be the other way around,” I sighed.

“You both protect each other in different ways and that’s beautiful,” he says. I hear keys jingling which means he has finally made it home. “How are you doing now though? I know facing him in your space like that was probably scary. Do you think you should call the police?”

“No, I think he got the hint for real today that it’s over between us but how do I feel?,” I shrugged, as if he could see me. “I was scared at first but I’m annoyed more than anything now that it’s all over. The last few months of my life have been a mess and I don’t want that anymore. I want different, even though I don’t know what that looks like for me yet.”

“Just having the intention to want that for yourself will lead you in the right direction. Keep listening to your gut,” he said.

“I will try my hardest,” I said.

“And let me know if he pops up again. I mean it, Jamila,” he said, making sure to emphasize his words with the following, “You hear me?”

“Yes I hear you, I will let you know,” deciding to let him have the last say on that round. I’ve learned there is no point going back and forth with him when he sounds this determined. So I switched the subject instead. “Sounds like you just got in.”

“Yeah but I won’t sleep for another hour or so. I’m starving,” he chuckles as he moves around, shuffling through his home as he gets settled.

“You’re like a bottomless pit. Where does it all go?” I asked.

“Ha! I workout a lot, it’s how I deal with stress which in turn has my metabolism through the roof,” he explains.

“Hence the bottomless pit,” I say.

“Hence the bottomless pit,” he repeats, as I hear a water faucet turn on. It sounds as if he’s washing his hands because his voice sounds closer like he’s cradling the phone between his shoulder and ear. “Is it cool if we talk a little more or are you tired?”

Ever since the first night we talked on the phone and I fell asleep, he was always sure to ask me if I was up to staying up. He was considerate in small ways that made me wonder about the large ways in which he could be mindful.

“Yeah, that’s cool, I’m not tired yet.”

I can practically hear his smile through the phone but don’t call him out on it. Instead, I listen to him launch into a spiel about why I should be watching the Marvel shows on Disney Plus. My shoulders drop for the first time in hours as the tension from earlier melts away. Having another friend isn’t so bad after all.

I underestimated precisely how annoying it was to have more than one friend. They noticed things about you in ways that did not make sense. Xavier had been watching me like a hawk this afternoon and in turn, Jazz had been watching him watch me. Tucking a loose braid behind my ear I squinted my eyes at him but all that earned me was an unbothered smirk. The gesture let me know that he wasn’t going to stop.

“Look at y’all with your own silent language and everything,” Jazz said, pretending to dab at tears.

“Pleaseee. He’s acting like a helicopter parent. Just because I threatened to shove this paint brush up Damon’s– or whatever the fuck that weirdo’s name is– ass, doesn’t mean I’m going to do it,” I said.

Waving her hand in the air, Jazz shook her head. “He gave that ashy boy his walking papers right after you did. That’s not why he’s got his eyes all on you.”

“Probably just being annoying and it’s working because he’s getting on my nerves,” I huff, taking a moment to wipe at my brow.

We were outside painting over walls of graffiti on a commercial block that Chelsea’s gentrified residents had been complaining about. All of this work was in vain. The wall would be tagged again the moment we were out of sight.

Amused Jazz pauses painting to look over at me, “And pray tell why Mr. Clipboard merely looking at you has you in a tizzy?”

I rolled my eyes. Jazz thought we were both lying to ourselves about having a friendship only. Citing some notion about there being too much chemistry between us. Whatever she was seeing, I had yet to see for myself as Xavier has done a great job at respecting my boundaries. I was growing to appreciate his friendship so a part of me didn’t want to see whatever she was seeing. So I’m going to chalk it up as Jazz reading into things way too much.

“He’s being aggravating,” I said loudly, which I heard him chuckle at from a distance.

“Mmhm sure that’s it,” Jazz says, stepping closer to bump her hip with mine. “Listen here Birdie, that man is looking at you like you’re a rare jewel. You’re uncomfortable because no one ever told you that you were precious but you are. You deserve to be admired and you also deserve to enjoy it.”

My chest thumps when her words settle between my ears and start to churn in my mind. She’s speaking on thoughts I haven’t had the time to analyze for myself. They were in me, buried deep, where no light shined because I didn’t have time for those thoughts. I did not have time to think why I was constantly alone or why I became accustomed to being so. I did not have the time now either but I was not as quick to dismiss the ever elusive thoughts of ‘what if’.

“Maybe,” I murmured, bumping her hip with mine. “For now, let’s agree that he’s getting on my nerves.”

“I shall not but I will go back to my podcast while you let what I said simmer,” Jazz chuckles.

It’s just as well because I would not have been paying full attention to anything else in the conversation. She had dropped a bomb on me that took over my thoughts for the remainder of the time we were outside. I still wasn’t quite convinced that Xavier was doing what Jazz claimed. When I dropped my supplies in the back of the van, I pulled him to the side to ask.

“Alright, what’s with the staring,” I said.

He snickered, “Besides getting on your nerves?”

Rolling my eyes, I shook my head. “I knew it.”

“Nah, that was an added bonus,” he smirked, as he readjusted his clipboard underneath his arm. “I was staring because though you said you were okay after ol’ boy popped up, I wanted to make sure you weren’t covering up any aches or pains that aren’t in plain sight.”

His amended answer stills me. The ghost of a stranger looms over my shoulders foreshadowing a future I don’t have to have. I just had to keep choosing myself.

“Like Sabrina?” I asked softly.

Turning his eyes from the van, they landed on mine as he nodded his head, expression growing serious. “Yeah. I promised myself I’d never let another woman go through something like that on my watch especially if I could see the signs.”

In his gaze I saw the gravity of the vow he took and knew by his tone that he considered me as a woman on his watch. As caveman as that sounded, I appreciate the sentiment because I can’t remember if there ever was a time a man protected me from anything. They normally only caused harm in my world. In his eyes I saw the lengths he would be willing to go and I never wanted him to take them. Not after him sharing a bit of his troubled past with me.

“Very Prince Charming of you,” I said, over sharing my observations.

“I’ll be your knight in shining armor anytime Jamila ,” he said with a wink.

“Anddd there the corniness goes. You never leave home without it do you?” I chuckled, causing him to laugh as he walked closer to the van to close the back doors now that all of the supplies were returned.

“Never,” he said, as we walked towards the front. “Speaking of home, is it cool if I escort you?”

My chest did that thumping thing again and I made a mental note to see a doctor as soon as I got good health insurance. Rubbing at the area, I chewed on my bottom lip as I contemplated his offer.

Pausing my stride I said, “You live in the city and I live all the way in East New York. I can’t ask you to do that.”

“You didn’t ask, I offered,” he countered.

“You aren’t going to take no for an answer are you?” I asked, noting the glint he got in his eyes when he was adamant about something.

“As he shouldn’t!” Jazz says from a cracked window, causing us to whip our heads to the left. “Now come on. We don’t have all day and rush hour traffic is not for the faint of heart.”

We chuckle but board the van knowing that she’s right on both fronts.

“What’s he doing here?”

Papi walks into my apartment with sun kissed skin that glistens with sweat. His book bag half haphazardly hangs off of his shoulder as he eyes Xavier who is sitting at the counter with my laptop. I turn my attention from the stove towards him.

“First off, hello Papi, my day was good. Thanks for asking,” I said, propping my hand on my hip.

“Sorry Auntie,” he says, entering the kitchen to place a kiss on my cheek. “Now, why is he here?”

“Because he’s helping me fix my resume. Stop being rude and say hello,” I said, tapping his shoulder.

“Hi friend,” Papi said, causing Xavier to chuckle.

“What’s up lil man?” Xavier asked.

“You tell me. Why couldn’t you fix the resume on your laptop?” Papi asked him.

Xavier’s eyes darted to mine because he hadn’t expected to be put on the spot. Using my fingertips, I tip his chin so that his gaze is aligned with mine.

“You want to go to that fancy basketball camp right?” I asked.

We had found a camp to send him to that ran all day but wasn’t free. It’d cost two thousand dollars for seven weeks of camp. I told Mari I would be able to go half. We put down the five hundred deposit to hold his spot but would need the rest for him to start.

“Yeah,” he said.

“Okay, so that costs money. I have to get the best paying job possible and can’t do that with a jacked up application. He’s helping me on my computer because it’s my resume. Got it?” I said.

“Got it. Help us get the bag and then go somewhere. Preferably to your house,” Papi said as he exited the kitchen. “I’m going to take a shower. I’ll be back for dinner.”

“It’ll be done in thirty,” I replied.

Papi gives Xavier one last glare before stomping Vans clad feet across the hall. We listen as he slams his door shut and I sigh while pinching the bridge of my nose.

“Sorry about that,” I said after a beat.

“Aye,” Xavier says, the gentleness in his tone causing me to look up. “He’s a kid who literally had to protect you from another man the other day. He is allowed to be cautious, in fact it’s normal, and healthy that he is.”

I take a few steps closer to the counter that separates us and drum my fingers on top. “I know. I wish he didn’t have to do that. He deserves to just be the kid we weren’t able to be. Feel like I stripped some of his innocence away.”

“Talk to him about it. Kids are more resilient than we think and open communication will help preserve the innocence that remains. You don’t want his knucklehead friends giving him advice on what relationships between men and women are supposed to look like,” he says.

I’m reaching for a braid to twirl when he leans across and intercepts. Using his finger to wrap the strand around. I side eye him but he is unmoved as he continues, “It won’t be as nerve wracking as you're making it out to be but if you want, I can send you one of my old lectures that touches on the subject, and gives some pointers to start from.”

“Thank you, I’d appreciate that. Now unhand me so I can go check on dinner,” I said, shifting my eyes to his finger once more.

He chuckles but releases my hair as effortlessly as he grabbed it before shifting his focus back to the laptop. We fall into a companionable silence, neither us feeling the need to fill the space with words. The soft clicks of the keyboard, the popping of grease, and the Quiet Storm from 107.5 serve as all the ambiance we need. Moving around each other in this space feels natural as a freshly showered Papi joins us. He sits right next to Xavier and eventually thaws enough to start asking questions about resumés as curiosity gets the best of him. When we eat, it’s in the living room while watching a Lakers game, and after Xavier takes it upon himself to wash the dishes as I get Papi settled across the hall. Now we’re standing out front as we wait for his Uber that’s ten minutes away. It’s too late to play with the trains and he has work waiting for him when he gets in.

“When you see me…what do you see?” I ask, causing him to look up from his phone. He’s one of those people that thinks watching the rideshare app screen will make the car come faster. Normally, I’d leave him to it but this question had been plaguing me all day.

“Like in general?” he replied, angling his body towards me, instantly giving me his undivided attention.

“Yeah, like what’s your perception of me. I have been thinking about how I come off to other people. Wondering if I’m really as cold as I seem, as I feel, if I’m being honest. I know how I got this way but I’m not sure how to reverse it. So I’m hoping there’s more to the eye than the frost I emit. Some part of who I used to be,” I say in a rush.

I don’t know how he does it but when I’m around Xavier words spill out of my mouth like a waterfall. An overflow of thoughts that I now have a human soundboard for.

“The frost is there but it is not all encompassing. I see a lot of things when I look at you. I see a wisdom forged in years that were meant for mistakes, I see fear of the unknown, I see the distrust you have in people which occurs when your only experience has been one betrayal after the other, I see the resilience you passed onto that young man upstairs, I see the strength from carrying your burden and others, I see generations of beauty on both sides, I see eyes that are curious, I see a mind sharper than any sword that probably belongs in somebody’s boardroom,I see sarcastic comments waiting to be unleashed, I see…you Jamila. You,” he says, while looking me in the eyes.

There is something in his gaze that makes me believe him. That makes me visualize the puzzle of my personality that he has pieced together. His description is not far off, in fact, it’s pretty spot on. I don’t acknowledge that though, choosing to ask another question instead.

“You’ve only known me for a little over two months and you see all of that?” I asked.

“I’m good at reading people, especially those I find interesting, so yeah, I see all of that. What do you see when you look at me?” he questioned, flipping the tables.

“I see…compassion. The real kind, you don’t perform it, you are it. I see knowledge that I learn from. I see…,” I said, pausing to collect my thoughts. I’m not as eloquent as him so I know I need to get to the point fast. As I muse, he uses the opportunity to inch closer as if he doesn’t want to risk losing any of my words.

“I see what second chances look like, I see someone who makes things happen for himself, I see the answers to all the questions I have and the patience to hear them all, I see sadness, raw to touch but it’s a scar not a wound. I see the need to find a purpose bigger than yourself.”

He nods his head before saying, “The duration of time doesn’t matter when you’re paying attention to what’s right in front of you. That’s what I have learned over these last few months and you have reminded me of that again.”

“That doesn’t freak you out?” I said.

“Nah, life is about meeting and connecting with as many people as possible. This is how we grow into who we’re meant to be. One conversation at a time,” he said, nudging his shoulder with mine.

“I don’t know about meeting a ton of people but I’m learning that conversations aren’t so terrible,” I say.

“I told your ass,” he chuckles as I look out towards the street. The neighborhood is still alive even at ten in the evening. It’s second nature for me to look around and take in who’s also outside. The same suspects as usual crowd the same corners and front steps. None of them pay us any mind. “What are you doing Saturday?”

I turn my gaze back towards him. “After doing laundry and shopping with Mari, nothing why?”

“Cause I’ma be back this way. I have to run an errand downtown, want to keep me company?” he asks, his look hopeful. The rest of his body language is calm, with his shoulder relaxed and forearms resting on his lap. It’s those eyes that are alive with the possibility of my answer.

“Sure as long as you feed me,” I say. For some reason I want to see the rest of him light up with the energy in his eyes and he does. Smiling big as he laughs at my sole stipulation. My eyes swing back towards the street having seen enough.

“Yes, I’ll feed you and you talk about me being greedy,” he says right as I spot a gray Toyota Camry turning onto the end of the block. “That’s me. Thanks for dinner.”

“No thank you for fixing my resume and my cover letters. I appreciate that and for making sure that I was okay,” I said, as we both stood up.

“It’s nothing-

“No, it’s something. People don’t move like you do most of the time,” I said with a shrug, my personal experience has proved otherwise so it was worth noting a positive one. “I might be asleep when you do but text me when you get in.”

“I got you. If I try to hug you, will you punch me?” he asks with a grin.

“Annoying ass,” I said.

“That wasn’t a no!” he snickers.

I roll my eyes again before wrapping him in a side hug. He squeezes me briefly, giving me a waft of his cologne. It’s five seconds at max but when we part he looks like he’s just won the lottery. He wears a silly smile as he walks backwards towards the car. “Goodnight, go inside.”

“I’m going,” I said, as I ease up the steps backwards. “Goodnight.”

We wave at each other one last time before I disappear inside.

I’m home.

Okay, good.

…I kind of want to bother you now that I know you’re still awake.

Go for it.

Within seconds my phone is flashing with an incoming Facetime call which I answer. Xavier is seated on a deep blue couch with a thick stack of papers in his lap, a red pen in hand, and a pair of black glasses resting on the edge of his nose. He’s dressed down in a Boyz N Tha Hood t-shirt and a pair of basketball shorts. His outfit is similar to mine because I’m also in a graphic tee but mine is oversized so it can double as a nightgown.

“What has you still awake?” he asks.

“I can’t turn my brain off so I was reading trying to tire myself out,” I reply.

“That makes sense, what book is it?” he asks next.

I hold up my copy of Sarah J. Maas’ House of Earth and Blood. It has taken me the last month to get even halfway through but it’s a great story.

“Let me find out you into reading fairy sex the booktok girls be talking about,” he chuckles, causing me to laugh because I wasn’t expecting that to come out of his mouth.

“One, they are fae in this story and two, how do you even know what booktok is?” I question, as I plop the heavy book back down onto my bed.

“I try to keep up with my sister's interest but I had to draw the line once I found out that booktok is just a bunch of magical sex. There’s no way I’m discussing any of that shit with her young ass,” he says with a dramatic shudder as he jots down a note on what looks like a test as he flips the page.

“That’s fair but it’s nice that you even tried. My brother talks at me, not to me,” I said, causing him to look up.

“Is he older or younger? And do you have more siblings?” he asks.

“Nah, it’s just us, and he is technically older by seven months but we’re the same age so no,” I said, which he snickers at.

“I take it y’all don’t get along,” he says.

“Not really, when things got bad here, his mother took back full custody of him, and they moved down to Virginia. He went on to continue having a normal childhood and I was stuck here. He doesn’t understand my choices and I don’t understand his. We live in two different worlds,” I said with a shrug.

“There’s always a chance to fix that if you want to, that is. My sister is my only sibling but I have a gang of cousins who are like siblings. We don’t always get along or understand each other but we try. Sometimes it’s easy and sometimes…,” he trails off but he doesn’t have to finish. I know where his thoughts are going and I want to keep him in the moment.

“Sometimes you have to accept the differences are too great to ignore. It’s what I have had to do but getting back to the subject at hand, all I meant was, I know your sister appreciates you taking an interest in her life,” I said.

“I hope so man, I hope so. I know she regards me as a third parent but I really want to be her sibling too and not just another authority figure,” he said.

“Well it sounds like you’re doing a great job. Keep being consistent with her, that's important,” I said, as I sink further down into my bed. I lay my face on my pillow and prop the phone up against another pillow so that I don’t have to hold it.

The sound of my movement draws his attention as he looks up at me. He pauses, as his eyes rove over my face. Even through a screen I can see thoughts swirling in them but I don’t ask for particulars.

“Getting tired?” he asks.

“A little but it’s okay, I’m still very much alert.”

He nods his head, giving me one last glance before returning to his work. I go back and forth between watching him work and getting lost in my thoughts. Eventually I fall asleep with the sound of his pen swishing across tests serving as much needed white noise.

#metamorphasisff #black fiction #black romance #slow burn romance #zendaya x mjb

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skelly-words · 2 months

Text

Help me with the title-

Sorry sorry sorry, ik 99% of my followers are here for my smut and i have a few asks to do, but... i'm not in the mood to write porn, so have my favorite OC work ever that's deeply personal and revealing instead.

wc-4.6k

I didn’t know why my Mom picked for us to move to the country when I was little, but there wasn’t much I could do to prevent it. It wasn’t farm country or ranch country, just the red dirt of the California desert. The house we lived in simmered on the hot rock. Then, when fall started, the Santa Ana winds would kick up dust and wildfires all over the place. My mom and I conceded to the cacti, coyotes, and wildfires for the low rent (only comparatively when living in California). I fell for the land as quickly as I adjusted to wearing shoes. The backyard could’ve been as small as my mom’s garden or as large as the sparse woods that stretched up and down the road for miles. The neighbors were few and far between, and they fenced off anything they wanted to keep to themselves. It was expansive, so I felt free.

We moved away from the suffocation of the big city, almost running from the snow and smog that the clogged highways always seemed to be blanketed in. I had to leave school halfway through the second grade and the cross-country trek was inconvenient, but anything was an improvement from Chicago. Mom missed the city but substituted with LA, making the three-hour drive with a few friends whenever they could get time off work or had a weekend free. She never tended to me much, not as a second-grader, and not when I got older either. I’d been able to read since before I could remember and my mom figured I could take care of myself if I could sound out the instructions on the back of a frozen pizza box or the fire extinguisher.

Mom would kiss my forehead before she left and mumble something like, “Don’t let anybody in while I’m gone.” She’d always be back to get ready for work on Monday, even if that meant coming home at two in the morning. I don’t know how she expected me to know the difference between her opening the front door in the middle of the night and a murderer doing the same. I missed having her kiss me goodnight too, but I mostly stayed up to listen for her footsteps, making sure it was the sound of her heels that echoed through the quiet house.

Her plans always varied, sometimes coming home late on Saturday or rolling in as I made absurdly chocolatey milk to put in my cereal while watching Sunday morning cartoons. She’d sleep whatever was leftover of the weekend, making up for both of us.

On other weekends, we’d run errands together. I liked to loiter around the perfume counter at Macy’s while she tried on pants. Errands weren’t always clothes shopping, it was also groceries, gas, car wash, toiletries, cleaning products, a book for me from the library, and a new screen for the kitchen window. When I wasn’t in school, this was the only time I would come into town. I spent most of my time at home in the backyard or reading if the weather was particularly bad. The local library was still twelve miles away, but they also sold lightly damaged or old books for a quarter. Mom let me pick up new reading material whenever I ran out; something Nancy Drew, Encyclopedia Brown (if I could find any), and an almanac with lots of illustrations about whatever looked the most interesting. I cut myself off at three books so I could leave something good for the next kid.

Everybody read in the summer. Schools, libraries, parents, youth clubs, and ice cream parlors all offered incentives to get kids to read over the break. The library bookstore would be picked clean of anything worth reading and I’d spend more time outside that week.

Directly behind my house were live oak trees, gopher snakes, native foliage that mom called weeds, and a creek. The creek was sunken into a valley and spanned a little over five feet in width. Down in the gully, on my side of the stream, a headstone pretended it wasn’t out of place. It was tilted casually against a tree, but anyone could tell it didn’t fit in. There wasn’t even a name on it. For a few years, I went down to visit and place dandelions that popped up in my mom’s garden at the base of the cross. I suspected the family before us had planted a dead cat or dog there. The grave wasn’t new, but it wasn’t that old either. The ground dipped a little and that’s how I knew something was really under there. Leaves would collect in the basin, and I’d try to push them out without getting thorns in my fingers. In the winter, I’d fill them back in like they’d keep the guest warm. The awkward, blocky headstone and hastily dug ditch felt too innocuous for a final resting place, so I treated the grave as any gracious host would.

I cleaned the headstone too, to add to the ritual. It felt nice to care for the marble with a bit of dish soap and water after the rain flooded the creek. It widened a little each year whenever the tropical storms finally blew us a little rain at the beginning of fall. The warm equator water was always a little more than the parched soil could handle, and the banks would inch out.

My mom and I had neighbors behind us. The waterway is what drew the separation between the two properties. I spent most of my free time at that junction, especially when the four walls started to feel more like a solar oven than home. Cool air tended to fill up around the water; most of which trickled down from the mountains as snow melted in spring. Wiry oak trees popped up around the swampy banks, building little dams and bridges with fallen twigs. The summer before middle school, I met the neighbors’ daughter. By then, I didn’t care about the headstone. Things died, probably someone’s pet a decade ago.

But the neighbors’ daughter was my first friend. She was a year younger than me, so I got to feel like I knew a lot more than she did. I’d show her how to cross the creek without falling in and she’d just stare like I was Jesus; walking on water. She was sweet and simple-minded, and I liked having the company and someone to share the woods with. Since that summer was my first time meeting her, I figured she didn’t get out much. Her skittish temperament reminded me of the squirrels that watched us play from between tree branches. It made me want to hold her close and push her out of the nest at the same time. We quickly became close. It happens that way when there’s nobody else your age within a twelve-mile radius.

Around mid-June, she started taking off her shoes to wade into the creek with me and we talked while watching the minnows navigate around our legs. She thought I knew everything, so I acted like I did. She asked me once about dying, so I offered to show her the headstone. It wasn’t hidden, but the dusty marble blended better into nature when I didn’t bother to clean it up.

“Who did you bury here?” She asked.

“Dad,” I answered her without thinking. “Uh, some of his ashes anyway.” That was the truth. But my dad practiced family law and lived back in Chicago. Mom prayed every night that he would become part of that city’s startling crime statistics. I figured he was just as well off buried in the backyard.

“I’m sorry for your loss,” she said.

“Thank you.” This was my first time having a family member die. I didn’t know what to do, so I let my eyes water until it looked like I was crying. She helped me pick sourgrass and buckwheat flowers to decorate the grave. Whenever my dad did die, I knew I’d need her then too.

The house was way outside of town. It was fifteen minutes to the nearest gas station, which is what got her in trouble the most. As far as I could tell, that was the only reason to resent the distance. I met the neighbors’ daughter in the valley almost every day of summer. We’d walk down the creek until our feet were sweaty, then carry our shoes and shuffle back against the weak current. The path got tired and overbeaten, but it didn’t matter when every day felt fresh.

On the longest day of the year, we stayed out later than usual. The sun had set and it was nearing nine. The sky still had a bit of light in it, from the stars, moon, and summertime sun that never seemed to fade completely. Chicago skies weren’t cut out for stargazing. Holes would have to be punched through the layers of dense air and light pollution before anything besides the largest suns was visible. I could see the smallest points of light from here, stars that were lifetimes away or beginning to dim and burn out. They were beautiful.

July nights were so hot I couldn’t sleep with the sheets on. Even outside, when we were lying on the prickly leaves, I could feel the residual warmth radiating off the ground. The mosquitos drove us insane, but she stayed out to watch me point out imaginary constellations. I knew Orion and the Big Dipper, but after that, they were just lights to me.

“I’m scared to walk home alone,” she said. I think she only admitted that because I couldn’t see her face. By then, I could tell when she was scared, which was almost always, but she didn’t want to seem like a crybaby. I’d see her brow furrow whenever I’d hand her the knife to gut a fish or push her to climb the tallest tree in the woods with me, and that meant she was afraid. If I had felt meaner, I might’ve made her stumble home in the dark by herself. But it was warm and I was so fond of July that the extra walk felt worth it.

We tripped out of the gully, and I kept her hand safe in mine until we got on flat ground. The back porch light was left on for her. I could tell that they were the cozy type. My feelings were almost hurt by the homemade wind chimes that hung lackadaisically along with the solar-powered fairy lights. She toed her sneakers onto the shoe rack and waved goodbye to me from the sunflower doormat. I brushed her off with a nod as I disappeared into the woods to go back home.

I could recognize the smell of a dead animal by now. Every time a bloated fish washed downstream or a rabbit carcass was left shredded by coyotes, the smell of death became a little more familiar. It was sweet and acidic like rotten fruit but flat and earthy like fresh mud. Dead skunk was worse because the signature odor accompanied the putrification. I went down to the creek earlier than usual. The sunrise woke me up early, and the morning mist had already cooked off of the water. I followed the smell downstream to a freshly dead skunk, partially covered by dried foxtails. I was fascinated by the carcass; both the specimen itself and the process of decomposition. The maggots were eating at it now, stirring up the fur and guts. From a distance, the shifting skin made the animal look like it was still alive, twitching and squirming on the ground.

The smell was bad, almost as hard to breathe around as it was to look at. I picked up a sturdy stick from the ground and crouched to level with the animal. My eyes watered from the smell, so I lifted my t-shirt neckline over the bridge of my nose.

“How can you do that?” She was referring to how I gingerly nudged the bloated belly with a forked stick. She took a step back when the skunk’s writhing face rolled in her direction.

“It’s the circle of life. The skunk dies and serves as food for fly larvae and scavengers.”

“But why do you have to poke at it?” She stepped back further as I kept nudging the skunk further along.

“This’ll be us one day.” I figured flies couldn’t lay eggs on my body if I was buried, but some larvae or another would be breaking me back to carbon.

“Is it because of your dad?”

“What?”

“Are you like this because your dad died?” she asked. I had forgotten this small fact and realized she wasn’t insinuating my father skipped out on the family because of me. I didn’t know if that was any better and considered if my feelings should still be hurt.

“Yeah, it made me all spooky.”

“No.” She shook her head, more so at the way I pushed the skunk again. “I meant about how you’re so obsessed with death.”

“So, what? It’s interesting and spooky.” I vaguely reminded myself that I didn’t have any reason to be defending myself, but I had a point to finish. “What do you remember from before you were born?” I had to stop shoving the skunk because she would’ve ended up in the water with another step back.

She thought about it for a while until she knew the answer and then longer so she could find a way to avoid saying it. She saw my point without me having to say it.

“And that’s exactly what it’ll be like after we die,” I finished. “The decomposition is just getting rid of what’s left behind. This is just some meat that the maggots are munching on.” I shoved the skunk a little more and she didn’t back away. This was the part where she got my point and picked up a stick to poke at it too. I lifted a long, slender switch and handed it to her.

“If you’re sure.” She said it in a sing-songy way that let me know I was wrong. At least she took the stick from me and nudged the skunk back. “But my parents had me baptized, so I’ll go to heaven when I die.”

I didn’t really care if she thought she was going to heaven or not as we shoved the skunk onto an anthill. It left a little snail trail in some parts of the ground and the smell got a lot worse, but the ants would help uncover the skeleton quicker.

“Skunks don’t do baptism,” I said.

“So it’s just meat and maggots.” She still grimaced at the grossness as she said this, not totally convinced. Some of the ants had already started to crawl around to survey the skunk.

“And when it’s just bones, we’ll have something interesting to do.”

It was two weeks until summer ended, not in the fall equinox sense, but school would be starting. Pencils and notebooks had begun populating malls and outlets midway through break, but the need to complete summer felt more frantic. For me, it was the last year before a milestone. My coming of age, which if I didn’t fulfill, would make me subject to be rumored as a late bloomer. The skunk skeleton had been worth looking forward to, but something picked it up after a couple of nights. I didn’t think anything other than bugs would go for something that rotten, but the skunk was gone.

“I think I saw a dead rat a quarter mile down, yesterday.” I was consoling myself while the neighbors’ daughter precariously crossed over to my side of the creek.

“It’s a good thing the skunk’s gone.” I shot her a glare, so she corrected. “I don’t think the bones would’ve been clean by the rainy season.” She spat in the water to finish her point and made a final leap to solid ground.

“I wonder if we went to the same elementary together this whole time?” I sat in the dirt to dig through my backpack and she followed me to do the same. We were fishing today, even though there was never anything to catch. Most of the fun was in make-believing that a goblin shark could snag our line at any moment. Our backpacks matched, a coincidence, and we packed sandwiches and cold lemonade so we could stay out all day.

“I go to West Lake,” she said.

“Nah I went to South Oak, but you should come to Washington Middle next year with me.” I kept my tackle in a small travel jewelry box. It was leather-wrapped and about the size of my palm with a few pillowy slots for rings and small compartments to keep the other pieces from tangling together. I kept hooks and lures where the rings were meant to go and filled the compartments with an assortment of vibrantly colored trout bait. It fit perfectly in my back pocket with my fishing rod in the other.

She got her fishing rod out too. We’d made them by tying a line around the middle of a stick. A five-minute walk upstream took us to our favorite lagoon. The waterway widened and deepened to be the only place with decent-sized fish. A tree was tipped over for us, knocked into the mud. We sat on the bridge, letting the fishing line run downstream through our middle fingers; current pulling our flashy lures until it ran out. The line stayed taught from the pull of the current and I could catch flashes of the lure as it spun beneath the surface. The water made my mind go limp. I stared ahead with my hands in my lap. I’d lost one of my makeshift fishing rods that way. It caught on something and I let it pull from between my fingers.

“Do you really want me to come to middle school with you?” she asked. It was a while since we talked, but it was easy to resume our conversation.

“I think it would be fun. And we’re in different grades, so it’s not like we’ll get sick of each other.” I wound my line back up around the stick and let it go again. We fished together almost every day and had only caught two fish all summer, one each. She’d caught the first fish, a little trout, and I’d gutted it as a messy experiment. By the time I’d caught one, she was able to wash all the innards out easily with a cleaner version of my demonstration.

“We could eat lunch together, and carpool.” She said it wistfully like it was a far-off dream.

I was waiting for the neighbor girl to look for live bait with me, but it had started to rain. The end of summer turned into a torrent of tropical storms that wandered up the coast from warmer climates. She didn’t like the rain, so we scrambled down the embankment each time it let up. The frequent downpours gave us the perfect conditions for catching bugs as they all collected under leaves and rocks. It was Sunday though, and sometimes her parents dragged her to church. I was digging up the foliage to find grubs until I noticed that it was sprinkling again. If she wasn’t in church already, she definitely wasn’t coming down now.

She hated to get her hair wet. Her mom pressed it on Sunday mornings and she liked to keep it smooth for as long as possible. I couldn’t empathize with the experience, but I knew the only glance I would get from her would be through a kitchen window. I crossed the stones to the left side of the creek. The water was higher than usual from the rain, and algae slipped over the surface of the rocks we were meant to cross on.

I didn’t mind the weather. The earthworms would reveal themselves and I’d collect them to use as bait or toss on my mom’s compost pile. I left my shoes and socks in the soggy leaves and climbed on my hands and feet up the slippery incline to her house. I’d hardly ever been up to her side of the creek before. There wasn’t really any point to it when we spent most of the time wandering as far from home as possible.

Some of the lights in her house were on. The French doors grinned at me, but I didn’t see anybody inside. I walked around to the front door– listening for life and thinking about knocking– and it was apparent nobody was home.

The butt of my pants got dirty when I slid back down to my shoes. I’d see her tomorrow if the rain ever stopped, but not until school was out at 3:30. When I picked up my shoes to put them back on, I saw some beetles and pill bugs hiding beneath my soles. It seemed right to leave them be, so I sat in the mud and let my feet hang into the filling stream.

The bank was squishy beneath me, softened and sliding. Across from me, a slab of mud sloughed off the right bank. The chunk broke into smaller parts as it fell away. I thought his hair was roots, brown and wispy with soil clinging to the ends. The wild grasses were what held the hillside together when it got wet, but sometimes the grass sprouts can’t do much to keep the soaked ground together. The brittle ends of the man’s hair stuck straight out from the bank, too sharp of an angle and wiry of a texture. The roots looked wrong, so I stared and squinted through the drizzle until I caught a glimpse of his messed-up face. It was a man because I’d never seen a woman that looked so ugly. From my spot, I could watch the water uncover him. He seemed to be swaddled in transparent plastic, wrapped with the smothering care I gave my dolls as a toddler. The top half of his face protruded from the open end. More of the earth melted into the creek as the bank continued to erode. The creek washed further out until the headstone was threatened too. I could see his face through the dirty plastic. Who knows how long he’d been buried there, but I’d guess that the plastic was the only thing keeping him together. The top half of the corpse leaned out into the water like a gigantic pupae. He was a slurry inside, waiting for form and metamorphosis. He wriggled free of the ground, aided by the current, and sloshed into the rushing water.

“Some ashes.” A low whistle passed between my teeth. The banks overflowed from the ripples, staining my pants more. The body bumped back and forth against slimy rocks as it shoved off to much busier things. I could tell school would be easy tomorrow, and then I’d rush down into the gully to tell the neighbors’ daughter what I saw. It was getting dark and raining harder and harder. Mom was probably going to have dinner ready and I needed to shower. I left my shoes behind for the beetles and crossed the creek back home.

I didn’t think middle school would amount to much. By the end of the day, I was tired from icebreakers and it took Mom twenty minutes to pick me up. Considering we lived fifteen minutes away and she drove like the cops were chasing her, it had taken her a while to realize she had a daughter to pick up from school. It was a quiet drive. The house was hushed by that same awful silence. The kind where it wasn’t quiet at all, but all her talking turned into a high ringing in my ears. I let her keep circling around and around whatever she really wanted to say, hoping she’d get there eventually. She kept repeating a beat on the steering wheel, and when we got settled at home, sitting side-by-side on the couch, she was playing the same pattern on a throw pillow.

“The neighbors’ little girl, Cam, passed away.”

Mom must’ve been waiting all day to say that to me with the same nervous excitement she had about conflict overseas; any news was light if it didn’t involve her. Now, I was more curious about why she hadn’t said anything sooner, maybe it was a special treat for making it through the front door or designated mother-daughter-gossip time on the couch. Mom didn’t know I had been friends with Cam. That was the first time I’d heard her name.

“In the creek?” I couldn’t help but wonder if I’d be stuck indoors next summer due to an unfortunate drowning accident. The feeling was right for me to cry, but I hadn’t even known her name.

“What creek- Oh, no. I don’t know what happened to her. Car accident I think, Californians don’t know how to drive in this rain.” Mom stopped the nervousness and walked into the kitchen and I was left on the couch, scolding myself for not gossiping right. We were done conversing because she didn’t find middle school interesting and I didn’t have the appropriate reaction to the local tragedy. It was probably better that she got distracted by the pantry instead of talking to me because I might’ve let it slip that I knew the girl.

Mom didn’t cook on Monday nights. She’d have a glass of wine and fall asleep while watching the news or Grey’s Anatomy. I’d done it with her once and didn’t understand the appeal. Wine is bitter and the heavy makeup on the Anchorwoman’s face made her look too beautiful and perfect. I made mac n’ cheese for myself and switched to the Cartoon Network after Mom fell asleep. My bedtime was nine PM. It said so on the organizational whiteboard that kept track of my chores and allowance. But I strongly believed that rules were only as strong as their enforcers. I turned the volume on the TV low and I tucked myself into my mom’s side.

At some point I drifted off with my fork still in-hand.

I felt guilty later. Mom woke up and put me to bed. It was a school night, but I couldn’t sleep. While counting the dim glow-in-the-dark stars on the ceiling, I could hear my heart beating in my ears. I went completely still and began to count the beats. My heartbeat would keep me up at night sometimes. If I was feeling anxious and my heart was wailing against my ribs, the sound was enough to stave of sleep. The rhythm would beat in my ears, my chest, beneath my collarbone, my fingertips, behind my eyes, and sometimes in my throat if my tongue was dry. So my heartbeat was all I heard as I played a bad rendition of that afternoon over and over again. That’s when I felt guilty. She really did love me like a sister. The stars were sickly and the night sky was stucco and I was never all that good to her.

I cried, thinking of how I’d miss her and how terrifying she’d look after she’d decomposed like the dead man in the river. That was how I pictured her while I grieved. I was unsure how well I’d known her, so all I had was what she left behind.

a/n- i promise i'll write something good soon, but idk, i'm feeling uninspired and bland so i revisited some stuff i wrote for creative writing class

#my ocs #oc writing #short story #short fiction

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neopronouns-in-action · 5 months

Text

Neopronouns in Action #074: The Hitchhiker

(This is #074 despite #073 not being posted yet because #073 is done being written, but not done being proofread yet.)

Neopronouns:

zig/zag/zog/(zogs)/zagself,

that one/that one's/that one's own,

ae/aeth/aetherself

"He is going to adopt a new puppy soon, as soon as he gets a fence set up around his yard so the puppy can go outside without him having to walk it. His uncle is going to help set up the fence, since he has a set of power tools he's letting him use, since he lost his. He's going to buy toys and train the puppy himself."

becomes:

"Zig is going to adopt a new puppy soon, as soon as zig gets a fence set up around zog yard so the puppy can go outside without zag having to walk it. Zog uncle is going to help set up the fence, since he has a set of power tools he's letting zag use, since zig lost zogs. Zig's going to buy toys and train the puppy zagself."

"That one is going to adopt a new puppy soon, as soon as that one gets a fence set up around that one's yard so the puppy can go outside without that one having to walk it. That one's uncle is going to help set up the fence, since he has a set of power tools he's letting that one use, since that one lost that one's. That one's going to buy toys and train the puppy by that one's self."

"Ae is going to adopt a new puppy soon, as soon as ae gets a fence set up around aeth yard so the puppy can go outside without ae having to walk it. Aeth uncle is going to help set up the fence, since he has a set of power tools he's letting ae use, since ae lost aeth. Ae's going to buy toys and train the puppy aetherself."

= = =

“Will you promise me that you’ll be careful, Aemil? I want you to promise me, seriously, that you won’t take any risks.” Grandy’s voice was serious, and their concern came through the videocall loud and clear, even if the picture itself wasn’t cooperating. Aemil could hear Grandy’s black and white zanda parrot familiar, Zanifrayd, clucking worriedly to herself in the background.

Rather than being able to see either of zog grandparent’s faces, all there was to be seen on the phone screen was blank grey, with the blue and yellow dog mascot for the videocall app sadly blinking up at zag.

Grandy’s concern was touching, but entirely misplaced. “I promise.” Zig said, grinning reassuringly just in case the video part of the call decided to start working again, “You know how I am, Grandy, I’m always careful, and you know I really am, I’m not just saying that like Brandie does.”

Grandy and Zanifrayd’s combined exasperated sighs were audible over the phone, but they held back any further comments on Brandie’s driving habits The two of them had already had that conversation more times than could be counted.

Fortunately, just last week Brandie had voluntarily given up its driver’s license, since even it admitted it wasn’t safe behind the wheel anymore.

Aemil was now going to be driving cross-country to pick Brandie and Drayden up and help them move back home. They needed help packing things up and moving them to the truck, and hadn’t wanted to risk the twelve hour drive.

“Did you pack blankets? Water, snacks? A phone charger and battery?” Grandy’s voice came again, and Zanifrayd interjected in her higher voice, “Do you still have the hand-crank radio and candles I got you last year?”

Zog Grandparent-One had once gotten stuck on the highway in a snowstorm, and had never let anyone drive anywhere without being prepared for the worst since.

This time, Aemil let Sky, zog raccoon familiar, answer, as they hopped up onto zog shoulder, leaning down to put their mouth level with the phone’s speaker: “Yes, yes, we’ve got them all, and I made sure to get some matches and a lighter. I’ll send you a picture when we get out to the car so you can see for yourself, and I’ll send you pictures every time we stop for a break. I’ve got the navigation set up for the whole trip, with rest stops and gas stations already added to the list so we’re not driving for too long at a time.” They chattered happily to show how confidant they were in their plans.

“Oh!” Aemil said suddenly, almost forgetting to ask, “Do you want any actual post cards, or souvenirs? I’m sure at least one of the rest stops will have something interesting.”

“I always need more mugs! Big ones I can use for soup if they have any.” came Grandy’s cheerful reply.

This was immediately followed by Zanifrayd calling, “And make sure you remember to get my popcorn!”

Sky laughed, still balancing on Aemil’s shoulder, “I plan to buy every bag I see, just for you!” They chirped.

“It’s a crime they don’t sell it here!” Grandy exclaimed, “A crime, I tell you! Well--I don’t want to keep you too long, I’ve got to go and record Doctor Omega, it’s almost time for the new episode to air! So I’ll talk to you later.”

Aemil didn’t need to be told twice. Zig had checked and triple checked that zog DVR was going to record the new episode for zag. It sucked that zig wouldn’t be able to watch it live with zog friends like zig usually did, but sacrifices had to be made. They were going to be throwing a belated sleepover in celebration once zig got back with Brandie, who was sworn not to reveal anything on the drive over, since it would be able to watch the show tonight.

“Alright, I’ll talk to you later when I get to the first rest stop, cya, Grandy!” Zig called, waving zog free hand at the camera just for the sake of it.

“Drive safe!” Grandy commanded, and then the call ended.

“Let’s go!” Sky said, jumping down off zog shoulder.

Aemil packed the rest of what zig was bringing into the car, sent a picture of the emergency supplies to Grandy, and started out, putting on the first of the many old, radio plays zig’d downloaded from the Web Archive to pass the time. To actually listen to a radio play when you had ADHD, you needed to be doing something else, otherwise you’d just get bored out of your mind and stop being able to listen. Aemil and Sky had found that driving was a great time to listen.

The ominous, familiar bells of CBS’ “Suspense” series tolled, and the time flew by for Aemil and zog familiar.

Zig followed the navigation’s instructions, and made perfect time getting to the first rest stop where zig had decided to take a break, two hours after starting what would be the very long drive.

Zig used the restroom, Sky used the grooming station, they got hot dogs, fries, and slushies, bought the first of many mugs for Grandy, and sat for a while at a nice covered table outside to eat at a leisurely pace, heads tilted back to watch the various birds flying far overhead.

It was a little more than half an hour after zig had gotten back on the road that zig noticed the hitchhiker on the road in front of zag.

They were standing on the side of the bridge that crossed over part of the river, leaning back against the railing, a green and white baseball cap pulled down over their eyes, a black and white dufflebag on the ground at their feet. They wore a grey sweatshirt and formerly white, (now conspicuously stained with dirt at the ankles and knees) pants, and their shoulders and part of their chest were darkened with the sprinkling rain that had passed by a few minutes earlier.

Their familiar was presumably the turkey vulture perched on the same railing just a few feet away, wings spread open to catch the sun and let the feathers dry. Either that was their familiar, or it was a very brave, or very foolish bird.

This was far away from any city or town, out in the middle of nowhere if you were going by foot. The easy half an hour Aemil’d just driven to get to this point from the rest stop would take this poor stranger almost half a day of non-stop trudging.

Zig slowed down, and let the car come to a gentle stop a few feet past the hitch-hiker so if they felt threatened, they’d see that Aemil would have to back up before zig could get to them again. Zig rolled down zog window, then leaned out the side to look back, calling invitingly, “Can I offer you a ride?”

If they were trying to get back the way Aemil’d come, zig would be more than willing to backtrack for them. There was no way zig was leaving someone out here to trek 35 miles at best without even stopping to ask if they wanted a ride. And if they were going the same way as zag, well, all the better!

The road was long and empty, so the hitch hiker approached the driver’s side door without fear of being hit. The vulture stayed where they were at first, but had turned their bright pink head to watch in curiosity. Sky rolled down the passenger window to wave one little raccoon hand at them, and called out in a friendly voice, “Heya!”. The vulture bowed their head in return, then hopped down from the railing with a noise flutter, and hop-walked over to talk to them.

By that point the hitch hiker had reached the driver’s side window, and Aemil smiled up at them, trying to appear friendly and not like a serial killer. “Need a ride?” Zig repeated the same question from before in case they hadn’t heard.

The hitch hiker glanced up the road, the way zig had been going, frowning a little below their cap. Their skin was light brown, paler than Aemil’s, and below the sunglasses they wore that reflected Aemil’s twinned face back at zag in a disconcerting way, zig couldn’t see much of their face.

“Well, I think you’re going the wrong way for me.” The hitch hiker said, sounding disappointed. “I don’t want to be a bother, but I was hoping to go that way. I’m trying to get to Port Freehaven.” They gestured back the way Aemil had come. “Thanks anyways, though.” They started to back away, like that was the end of it, but Aemil held up a hand to forestall them.

“Hey, wait, I don’t mind a little backtracking,” Zig reassured them, “It’d take you the whole rest of the day to reach the nearest gas station, I can’t let you walk that far on your own. Hop on in and at least let me give you a ride to the gas station about forty miles back – I’m not in any hurry, I mean it, I’ve got all the time in the world.”

Aemil had specifically given zagself two days of leeway for the way to Brandie’s old appartment, and two more on the way back, just in case anything went wrong. There was no point in planning down to the wire if a single problem would ruin everything.

This situation wasn’t a problem, but it just proved that zig had been right to plan for extra time.

On the passenger side of the car, Sky seemed to have become best friends with the vulture, and the two were chatting away like they’d known eachother for years. Sky tended to have that affect on people. Aemil usually had less success.

But it was apparently very hard to turn down an offer of a ride when your only alternative was walking for the next half a day, because the hitch hiker asked, clearly relieved but trying to be polite, “Are you sure you don’t mind? It’s not too far out of the way?”

“It’s not problem at all,” Aemil assured, “Hop on in!”As the words were leaving zog mouth, Sky was already opening the passenger door to let the vulture in.

Zig turned back in to look at the back seat to double check that nothing had suddenly gotten in the way since zig’d started the car as zig hit the button to unlock the back doors.

Fortunately, everything was organized just as zig had sorted it before zig left. Both The driver’s side and center seats were clear, the passenger side had the bin of snacks on it, with the blankets, pillows, and sunshield stuffed into the footspace.

“This car came with automatic child-safety locks,” Zig warned as the hitch-hiker climbed in, “So the back doors lock automatically once we start moving, but you’ll be able to unlock them manually once we stop.” Zig just really did not want them to think the doors locking was some ominous thing like a horror movie.

It was only after the hitch hiker shut the door, fastened their seat belt, and sat their bag on their knees that Aemil realized zig hadn’t introduced zagself.

“I’m Aemil,” zig said, “My pronouns are zig/zag/zog/zogs/zagself.” Zig gestured towards Sky, where they were sitting with the vulture in the passenger seat like they’d been best friends forever. “And my better half is Sky, they use they/them/their/themself.”

The vulture, sitting by the window, said happily, “I’m Calaris, my pronouns are ae/aeth/aetherself.” Ae gestured with aeth beak back towards aeth other half, “That one doesn’t have a name, and uses that one/that one’s/that one’s own pronouns.” Ae ruffled aeth wings in a way that was unmistakably happy if you’d grown up in a household with no less than three familiars who’d settled as birds. “Thank you for stopping to pick us up! I can glide for a long time on the thermals without a problem, but they’re really high up, and that one’s feet were getting tired.”

“I’m happy to help.” Aemil said, double checking again that the road was clear before zig did a U-turn to start heading back to the rest stop. “I’d want someone to stop if it was me, so it’s only fair I return the favor.”

“Hey, you want something to drink?” Sky asked invitingly while Aemil kept zog eyes on the road, “We have a cooler in the back with cold off-brand cola and water.”

“A soda would be awesome.” That one said. “Me too!” Calaris added. Sky expertly clambered into the back seat and leaned over the trunk area so they could pry open the lid of the cooler, visible in the rear-view mirror when Aemil instinctively glanced up to make sure they didn’t hurt themselves somehow.

Zig heard the clink and whir of the partly melted ice cubes being shoved around as zog familiar fished out two glass bottles of soda, then snapped the lid of the cooler shut again with a puffing click. “Here you go!” They said. Aemil didn’t check the mirror, and assumed they were handing one of the bottles to that one.

“Thanks.” That one replied, proving the guess correct.

On the road ahead, recognizable more by gut feeling than anything else, Aemil was dismayed to see a dead raccoon on the side of the road. It was bad enough to see roadkill, let alone roadkill that looked like it could have been the other half of your soul.

“We’ve got snacks too, in the bin there.” Aemil said to distract zagself as Sky climbed, three-legged, back into the front seat, holding another bottle of soda in one of their front paws. “Twizzlers, a bag of grapes, some apples, cookies, pretzels, and other stuff. Help yourself to anything you like! I made sure to bring extra to share.”

“Oh, I couldn’t.” That one said from the back seat, “You’ve been too kind already, I don’t want to trouble you further.”

“It’s no trouble at all,” Aemil said, trying to sound as sincere as possible. Out of the corner of zog eye, zig could see that Sky had opened the bottle of soda, poured some into the pop-up bowl, and was holding it so Calaris could dip aeth beak in to drink.

“Oh, eat something won’t you? I’m starving.” Calaris said when ae’d tilted aeth head back to swallow the soda. That one just grunted wordlessly in response. Somehow the noise sounded reproachful, like that one thought that one’s familiar was being rude by accepting what zig was offering.

“Seriously, we’ve got plenty.” Zig said again, just to reinforce that zig wasn’t just trying to be polite.

Zig sent Sky a mental nudge to politely but firmly go back, pull open the snack bin, and offer that one some snacks once they were done holding the bowl for the vulture familiar. Zig got back a wordlessly amused agreement nudge in return.

For a minute or two there was quiet in the car, with the only sounds the wind going past, the tires on the pavement, and the fizzle of incarnation.

Not wanting things to get awkwardly silent, zig hovered one hand over the play dial, and asked, “So, hey, you wanna listen to a radio play?”

“Oh, I love those!” That one said, in probably the first enthusiastic tone zig’d heard.

Smiling, Aemil pressed play, and the next audio story in the playlist began, once more tolling out the iconic, ominous bells of Suspense.

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the-actual-literal-worst · 16 hours

Text

Originally, I didn't wanna say anything, but I'm filled with more and more anger the longer I have to see the replies and reblogs to this post.

Now, no hate to this as a concept. I've intentionally covered the username and profile because I don't want to invite the OP to come try and start shit on my blog, nor do I want people to go to them and try and start shit either. In fact, I've seen some good points brought up retaining to the safety and comfort of the animal, as well as the difficulties this brings for people with allergies. Is this pretty aggressive? Sure, but it's the internet- and I doubt this person preaches like this in their day-to-day life, so who cares?

No. My problem is with this addition from the OP:

As someone who has spent the majority of my life homeless, I think this is a perfect example of people invoking us in an argument where they truly don't give a shit about us.

This argument had nothing to do with homeless people. We are the seasoning you threw onto your food last second to make you feel like you hold some moral high ground to your dissenters. Not only do you kneecap your original argument with this (it seems like you care a lot less about "dogs in public" than you do "the general attitudes and cultural norms of the people and communities in metropolitan areas") but you also used us in an argument that we are DISPROPORTIONATELY AFFECTED BY.

I could go on and on about how insulting this feels, and how often it happens, but instead I'd like to use this moment to speak with any homeless people who cross this post.

The blog in these pictures is not wrong about one thing- one thing they go on to prove fairly well in this thread: That the punishment for the crime of "annoyance" is tenfold for homeless people, and that people will not hesitate to go out of their way to hurt us, have our things destroyed, bar us from public spaces, or any number of horrible treatments if they believe it will remove us from the forefront of their minds: all for the social crime of being deemed "unsightly" or "a nuisance".

This being said: IF YOU HAVE ANIMALS, PLEASE DO NOT LEAVE THEM AT YOUR CAMPSITE.

For many of us, pets can serve as guards (especially in unsafe environments), but at the very least they are functionally one of the few comforts in our lives, and one of the few tethers to "normal" that we are able to retain.

People do not believe we deserve that little grace, and the number of times I have seen someone's pet hurt or killed, intentionally set loose, had animal control called on them for being left unattended, or even straight up kidnapped- by everyday people who who took it upon themselves to play enforcer because they didn't like that the highway overpass looks dirty now, or by the same type of people who will preach about how the things that annoy them shouldn't be allowed in public spaces- is far too many.

So, since you won't have the privilege of just "leaving them at home" here are some tips from someone who's been in your shoes, and has been lucky enough to get to stand on the other side of the fence more recently.

(This goes just as much for objects as much as it does for animals- unfortunately when living like this, you can't guarantee the safety and ownership of anything left behind, and it's always safer to just keep your things with you.)

Make sure you have proper equipment for keeping your pet in public

Not only should you try and get a good, sturdy (non retractable) leash, but harnesses are harder to slip than collars, and make it easier to control your pets movement. Also, as much as you may not want to, a muzzle will keep a dog from barking, as well as negate the chance of someone claiming they have bit/ are a bite risk- behaviors which could have you removed from the premises at best, or have your pet taken or put down at worst. As much as you think "my dog would never" "they're too well behaved" or anything that makes you hesitant- a grocery store, a diner, or any other place you make need to take your pet will be filled with many smells, people, foods, other animals, and as much as you believe you can control your dog, you cannot control the world around you- and I promise you'd rather be safe than sorry.

If you are strapped for cash and can't go buy these items, then go talk to your local animal shelters, Petco/PetSmart's, community centers, and even outreach resources (shelters, assistance buildings, sometimes even free clinics). Many of these facilities will have donation bins specifically for the homeless or for people in financial crisis, or will be able to point you towards programs that can help set you up with equipment, food, and anything else your pet might need.

Please have your pet spayed/neutered

Not only do you not wanna risk having puppies or kittens on your hands, but animals are often more likely to be aggressive when not fixed. Your super sweet dog may attack another one for being in heat. Your cat will be more aggressive to humans because the hormones it's running with will make it more territorial.

Having a pet that loses it over people or other animals not only puts the animals in danger, but it also puts people in danger, and either way it's a sure fire way to get kicked out of the grocery store.

Talk with your local shelters (especially the ASPCA) about reduced fee fixings, many of them have programs specifically for people on the streets (and many will have free spay and neuter programs for cats specifically to reduce the number of ferals).

Make sure your pet is up to date on its shots

This one goes without saying: you don't want to hurt someone else's animal, or let yours get hurt. And you certainly don't want the vet bills from treating a sick pet

Again, talk with local shelters,any have assistance programs, or can point you in the right direction.

Ask whether or not the place you are going will allow pets in the first place

Many stores, restaurants, etc have no problem allowing animals, or will even pride themselves as being pet friendly, but if a place say no dogs/cats/ whatever other animal you may have (unless it's a place where there won't be other people, I really couldn't care less about what you're sneaking into your motel room)- don't argue or try and fight about it: calmly apologize and leave quietly and quickly. You don't want to draw attention to the situation or you risk having the cops called- and you are much more susceptible to mistreatment, harassment, and being locked up than whatever yuppie in the grocery store felt they were defending the public space. These are just spaces you've gotta accept that you won't be able to go (at least not with your pet)

Finally

Do not buy fake vests or certifications and claim that your untrained pet is a service animal, esa, or anything of the sort

Not only will it be big trouble if you're caught lying, but no matter how well behaved your pet is, or how much you feel they do a service, they are not trained working animals. They never be as well behaved as a properly trained service animal; and when pets (usually dogs) that misbehave, are reactive, or are generally just not actually working are claimed as service animals, it makes it harder for people with the need to bring their real service animals with them to do so. It emboldens business owners (who already have no qualms against discriminating against the disabled) to ban required service animals from their stores (and while this is against the law it rarely stops them). You don't want to do anything that makes survival harder for a group of people who are already treated like dirt for the crime of existing, the same way you would not like someone to make your life harder.

Obviously, the best option you have would be to leave your pets with a safe friend or family member for the day, but not everyone will have this option- and at the end of the day you should worry about your comfort, safety and survival, not about pandering to people trying to virtue signal to you on the internet while they spit in your face irl.

Stay safe out there

(and if anyone who sees this has links to resources for transient pet owners, or just for homeless people in general- please feel free to leave them in the reblogs, sharing is caring!)

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