#Misty Windshield

[malfnction-54]

mmm good weather

[sageivyreads]

cornered dogs

Ghoap/street kitty hybrid!fem!reader

introduction: hello! ok i lied i have no idea when the smut is happening because i can’t figure out how to integrate it into the story yet so this might just become a slow burn if i decide to continue it. also i have no idea how to write scottish accents please spare me!! part one and masterlist

contains/warnings: 4.4k words, brief description of a dog attack, reader is drugged, morally gray ghoap, mention of wounds, slightest of angst and mildest of comforts(ghost is a little mean), kinda unreliable narrator reader, r is forced into a bath but it’s for her own good, r is nicknamed ‘Kitty’ since they don’t know her name, 18+, no smut.

reader description: reader is an adult woman. no mention of race or size. her hair is briefly mentioned as ‘messy’ and fur ‘matted’. no mention of hair color or length. she also has scars. able bodied and doesn’t talk, but she will eventually.

It’s misty and wet when the boys (only Soap, Ghost never went to bed) wake in the morning. Furniture is strewn across porches, newspaper soggy on driveways, windshield wipers are propped up in piles of snow atop the car. The storm last night was not even near the calmest. It seemed to have a goal to ruin everyone’s day.

Ghost and Soap have their separate thoughts of worry about you. Soap, when he saw the harsh wind out the bathroom window when he was brushing his teeth. Ghost, when he stepped out of his apartment building for his morning jog and saw the mess the storm had left. It rains and snows frequently where they live, you should be fine, they try to reason with themselves.

And you were doing fine. You’d found sheets of metal in the trash to place over your temporary home for protection from the rain. Which was a few old cardboard boxes smushed together with ripped blankets and tattered rags. You had a full belly for the first time in months the night before, so you’d be okay without food for a bit.

But it’s not like you had someone telling you the weather, and you were underprepared. The wind is so harsh it causes the metal sheets to entirely crush your little home. You just narrowly throw yourself out when it comes crashing down, your knees scraping against the pavement.

You’re heartbroken. Devastated, as you stare at everything you once had been destroyed. But you can’t even feel it, can you? Not when the frost is biting at your nose, warning you of the need for shelter immediately.

You stand from the gravelly road on shaky legs, hugging your arms tight to your chest. The black hoodie is your thickest layer, and you put it on top while hoping it’d absorb some of the rain. Hail is beating at your face as you start to wander, looking for anything you might be able to use for shelter.

Boxes, piles of garbage, trash bags, anything. You come across a dumpster and you think you could slip in the gap between it and the concrete wall. You’ll still be cold, but it’ll protect you from the wind and rain. It fucking stinks. Hopefully you’ll be able to stand the smell.

You proceed, crouching to shift some trash bags stacked against the wall to hopefully slip between. The sound of a low rumble, different from the thunder, makes you stand once more. You turn, and your heart turns cold at the sight you’re met with.

There’s a snarling dog in front of you, hackles raised and legs bent low to the ground as it takes slow steps toward you. Saliva drips from its mouth and mixes with the rain and oil on the street.

The footsteps of the mutt mix with the tip taps of the rain, but your screams don’t.

Your escape is not swift nor scarless. It’s messy, but even after being attacked, you understand the animal. When cornered, everyone is an enemy. You think yourself more alike a pathetic dog than whatever part of you is hybrid.

There’s a nasty chunk taken out of your upper arm, but it’s not too deep. You’ll live.

This whole situation has left you unbelievably startled. You’re soaking wet and shaking, but not from the cold. Your tears are warm against the skin of your cheeks. You can feel scrapes and smears of warm blood on various spots of your body, but you can’t see any injuries other than the bite on your bicep you were currently pressing on with your opposite hand.

Your teeth dig into the split on your lower lip, nose bridge scrunched up from the pain. You’re tired. So tired. Now that the life-saving adrenaline has worn off, and you’re cold, alone, and wet, you only think of one place to go. The only familiar place you have left, really.

It’s a struggle up the stairs of the fire escape with how severely your legs are shaking. You’re worried it’s too late to be wandering so close to people. The storm had started around three in the morning, and after losing your home, searching for a new one, and being attacked, you’d now guess it was around five.

The men in the apartment woke up early, you knew that. But you couldn’t think too hard right now, not when you were so scared.

Your hands shake and slip on the slick surface of the window ledge. On the fourth try, you finally pry it open. You climb inside as quietly as possible, closing it behind you and sinking straight to the floor.

You leave smears of bloody fingertips on the edges of the window and drywall. Your back is against the wall, head slumped on your knees where you hug them to your chest. You wish your mind allowed you to sleep.

It’s only maybe an hour later when you see a light turn on in the other room. But you don’t- can’t fucking move. You’re paralyzed. Even as footsteps approach, even as the kitchen light turns on.

One of the men, the one you hadn’t had encounters with yet, sleepily steps into the kitchen. He’s tanner than the other one, shorter too. He’s got a funky, overgrown hairstyle. Maybe a mohawk in desperate need of a haircut?

He reminds you of the sun. If it were a rowdy, messy guy who had a guilty pleasure in reality TV.

He makes it to the cabinets, the coffee machine, and the fridge before he notices you. Or, the fingerprints. There’s a mug currently being filled by an automatic machine by the time he catches red on his window. His feet stutter to a stop, a frown starting as his lips before his eyes lower to you.

His expression softens, eyebrows raising in surprise at the sight of you. Bloody, clutching your injured bicep, shaking, and soaking wet. Your eyes are wet and surrounded by puffy, pink skin. Your hair clings to your face, the way your clothes do with your body.

“Hi there, sweet thing.” he coos, stepping a few feet away to pull his coffee out of the beeping machine. “Looks like someone’s had a rough night, huh?” He places the mug on the counter before he slowly sinks to sit against the cabinet across from you.

You stare. He’s got weird hair and an even weirder accent. He’s weird. It takes so much energy to even blink, you can’t believe you’re still conscious. You’re terrified, your heart pounding in your chest and ears, but all you can do is stare.

He slowly nods, “Yeah, figured. You must be cold. Mind if I grab ya a blanket? ‘ah can turn the heat up, too.”

All he gets is a blink in response. He stands, slow and measured even as his knees click. “Sit tight,” he urges. You don’t move. He walks out of your sight for a few moments, coming back with a blue wool blanket.

He approaches until he’s a few feet away, spreading out the blanket like wings and tossing it over you as best he can with the distance. It lands on your knees, not nearly high enough for your liking. Your icy fingers twitch. You slowly grip the end of the fabric to pull up to your collarbones.

His lips twitch into a frown at the sight. He wants to swaddle you, surround you in soft blankets and shiny things like a crow would with its mate. Wants to run you a warm bath, and give you another meal. Hot, this time.

But he can be patient. He doesn’t want to scare you off.

“Do ye want somethin’ to eat? Are you here because you’re hungry?” he asks, crouching to sit on the floor against the opposite counter once more. He sighs as he gets nothing in response besides a twitch of your eyebrow and the movement of your throat swallowing.

“Maybe I could get ya something for that arm? If y’let me see, I can help.” he tries to assure you the best he can, but he doesn’t exactly want to be attacked for trying to help. This is his first interaction with you, and it’s already not going great. He gives you a sad smile, and you notice a muscle twitch near his forehead. The crinkle in his skin leads to a star-shaped scar on his temple. You wonder where it’s from.

Soap’s head turns as he hears a clinking noise from the apartment hallway before the door opens. It’s the man you’ve seen before, dressed in joggers and a dark black hoodie, which you think might’ve been grey before it got soaked from the rain.

He locks the door behind him, slips off his shoes, and steps further into the home. He doesn’t notice you immediately either, but much quicker than Soap did. His steps slow once he reaches the kitchen counter, eyes flickering over Soap on the floor, to the bloody window, to you.

His eyes scan you, flicking up to the fingerprints on the window, and the bloody hand clutching your upper arm. Your wet skin and clothes. The way you tremble, the blanket Soap must’ve placed over you.

Soap stands to join him where he’s staring at you. “I found her like this when I came out for coffee this morning. She hasnae moved or talked.” Soap informs, giving you a concerned glance before refocusing on the other man.

All you do is observe as they talk about you. It feels like the cold has settled into your bones at this point, and you have a permanent brain freeze. You haven’t moved in so long, that you think you might actually turn into a statue if you don’t die from infection.

It’s quiet for a moment.

“She can’t stay like tha’. Gonna get hypothermia if she stays wet for any longer.” He digs into the pocket of his hoodie to drop his keys in some weird, wicker woven bowl before he starts towards you. You stiffen, fingers turning into fists against the blankets.

“Woah, woah, what’re ye doin’?” Soap quickly steps up with him, a hand on his arm and expression concerned.

Ghost’s face is blank as Soap stops him, but you notice a twitch on his lip. “I’m going to help her. What, you think she’s got fleas or somethin’?”

Soap scoffs, “How? ‘Cause she’s just gonna let ya touch her? She’s never even let any o’ us willingly see her, much less talk or touch.”

Ghost gives him a long look you can’t decipher, and huffs before he shrugs his hand off his arm and walks up to you. “What d’you think she came ‘ere for? She wants help and that’s wha’ she’s gonna get.”

He reaches down to grab you by your uninjured bicep and elbow, pulling you up to stand. He’s not the most gentle, but he’s not too rough. You stumble, legs shaky and stiff. You feel like rigor mortis is already settling into your muscles, even if you’re still alive.

“Simon,” Soap hisses, and you learn one of the men’s names. You try to step back toward the window, feet fumbling, but Simon nabs you back with a hand on your nape.

He doesn’t respond to Soap, one hand on your shoulder and another on the back of your neck as he guides you to walk in front of him.

The steps are forced and heavy like you’re some newborn calf who was learning how to walk. He guides you to the bathroom where he opens the door and walks you inside. You think your brain might’ve turned offline briefly, and came back on once you realized you were in danger (you aren’t). You don’t know what’s going on, and don’t remember how exactly you got here. What are you missing?

“You’ll be alright, love. We’ll take good care of you.” Soap tries to soothe, keeping up with the hulking man holding you. You glance at him, expression a little pinched. You’re still by the door and can see the living room through the hallway. You could still run. You’re faster than they are. Why are you trying to leave, again?

“Over ‘ere, Kitty.” the man you now know as Simon, says. He leans over the tub to start the faucet. Your eyes flick back to him but you barely blink. He sighs heavily and stands back to his full height. He takes a step and you take two backward, but he just grabs you by the arm and yanks you towards the bath.

His hand goes to the back of your neck again, forcibly shifting your gaze to look up at him. “Did ya freeze up there in tha’ little head of yours, too?” he huffs, lightly flicking your forehead with his free hand. You scrunch your nose, trying to pull away from him.

“No. You need a bath. You’re filthy and freezing.” he grumbled, pulling you to stand at the edge of the tub.

“Do y’need me to undress you?” he asks, keeping his face level with yours. You don’t know what’s wrong with you. Why you aren’t running when they are practically in your face and telling you they’re going to strip your clothes off.

“Si, fuckin’ ease up a bit, alright? She’s clearly startled. Let’s leave her to get undressed.” Soap butts in, stepping further into the bathroom and crossing his arms across his chest.

“Is tha’ what you want? Do y’need me to leave? I’ll leave if I know you’re going to get in.”

You sniffle, the only noise you’d made during this entire time. Your lower lip wobbles. You refuse to make eye contact. The blood on your arm has mostly dried at this point but your hand is still clutching it. Your other hand is fisting the blanket around your shoulders, feet like stone on the ground. If they both left, you think you probably would’ve looked for the nearest window so you don’t have a response to that.

“Alright,” he huffs, straightening next to you. He grabs your cold hands, pressing them to his shoulders and shaping them into a grip. The blanket falls and you shiver. “I’m going to undress you. You can squeeze if I touch somethin’ you don’t like, or I hurt ya. Understand? Squeeze if you understand me.”

Your gaze flicks up to him momentarily, but you can’t read anything behind his eyes. Your fingers flex to the best of your ability, and you think you’re squeezing, but your hand is too numb for you to be sure.

The blood on your hands transfers to the black fabric of his hoodie, but doesn’t show.

“Good,” he nods, kicking the blanket out of the way from where it gathered at your feet. His fingers slip under the hem of your layers, bringing your- his, ripped hoodie above your head, as well as your thinner layers, gaze only briefly wandering over your body. He seems to focus more on the scars than your chest.

He only shifts your grip briefly to let the articles of clothing fall to the floor before putting them back. He continues with your shirt, pants, and undergarments until you’re bare. Your eyes have fixed themselves on a wet patch on his shoulders, afraid that if you move he might go further than you’d like.

“In the bath now,” he confirms, and Soap reenters the conversation to help when Simon gestures for it. They move you like a doll. Simon moves your grip to the side of the tub, Soap moving one leg at a time into the bath. He guides you to sit, and you shiver violently at the temperature change.

Your teeth start clattering. Or maybe they had always been. Your hands hug your arms, crossed across your chest to give you some kind of modesty. It’s not much.

“Johnny. The door.”

Johnny, you learn, stands from his crouched position to close the bathroom door. Something he’d forgotten to in his rush to help. There’s something wet dripping down your face, and it takes you a moment to differentiate whether it’s tears or water dripping from your hair. You think it’s both.

You can vaguely hear some sort of conversation, but your mind seems to blur it out. When Johnny reenters your sight, he’s only in his boxers. You’d probably be taken aback by the amount of skin discoloration- scars, that were on his body if you didn’t have more important things to focus on. Like why he’s nearly naked and getting into the bath with you.

Whatever train of thought you had started conjuring immediately splutters to a stop. He steps into the bath behind you, and you cringe slightly at the thought of your previous wet clothes sticking to your skin.

One of your hands grips the side of the tub, looking to prepare for an easy escape. Johnny’s arm comes around you to grab your wrist and slip it from the edge, gathering both of them to press against your diaphragm in one of his larger ones.

You start to squirm, feet slipping against the tub in your search for momentum as he pulls you back against him. “Easy, lovely. You’re alright.” he coaxes into your ear, wrapping his free forearm around your collarbones and holding you in a loose chokehold as he leans against the back of the tub and takes you with him.

You don’t necessarily fight it, but by the way, your fingers curl into your palms and your breath hitches and stutters, you know they know you’re uncomfortable. Your throat chokes around a whimper as Simon steps around the tub back into your sight.

“Shhhh,” Johnny hushes, settling his chin in the crook of your shoulder. Simon had abandoned his hoodie, now in a black, athletic, tight-fitting shirt. The long sleeves were pushed up to his biceps, a wet clicking noise drawing your attention to his hands.

He was rubbing a plain bar of soap between his palms, slicking his hands before his attention turned towards you. He sets the bar on the side of the tub, reaching for your left foot first. He lifts it out of the water and holds it steady as his hands rub the filth off of you.

You’re already warming up by the time he finishes one leg and starts on the other, only wincing every once in a while when he brushes a scrape. The problem is, you think the cold was numbing your pain. Your temperature is rising and with it your pain.

Your bicep burns now, and tingles in some weird way. The only time you’re adjusted is for Simon to have a better angle to wash you. Johnny keeps you still, mumbling sweet things to you every once in a while. You think you’ve blocked him out at this point.

You’d winced and squirmed a little when he rinsed your wound with water. You didn’t have much of a choice. Your shoulders relax slightly as he finishes and steps away. He hasn’t touched your hair, tail, or ears yet, which only made you worried more for what’s to come. After a moment he returns with a black plastic bottle you can’t catch a good enough look to read.

You watch, wary as he uncaps the lid and holds your upper with his free hand. His hand tilts, spilling the clear liquid over your wound where it bubbles and turns white. You scream, throwing your head back and feeling Johnny flinch as your skull knocks against his chin.

“Fuckin’- easy, easy. We’re not trying to hurt you, calm down.” Johnny tries to soothe you while your squirming increases tenfold.

Johnny never releases you, only tightens his grip and throws a hairy, muscled leg over your hips when your kicking becomes a problem. You squeeze your eyes shut, fresh tears slipping down your newly clean cheeks as your lips part on a sob. It stings, it fucking stings. Why did they do that? What’s wrong with them?

You think you get lost in the white, tight pressure of your eyelids for a moment because when you come back, there’s white gauze and bandages wrapped around your upper arm. You’ve stopped moving. Your lips are parted to let out panicked pants and the whites of your eyes feel irritated.

“Kitty,” Simon speaks so suddenly that your eyes flick up to meet his. A few strands of hair fall in front of your face and you flinch when he smoothes them back. “Relax. We’re not tryin’ to hurt you. You need to cooperate. You hear me? Don’t bite.”

He uses a rough thumb to wipe the tears from your cheeks before he uses that same hand to pry your jaw open, watching as your eyelashes flutter rapidly. He holds your mouth open and uses his free hand to drip a few drops of water into your mouth from a glass cup you have no idea where or when he got.

You stiffen, confused, watery eyes locked on his. He then puts the cup on the bathroom counter and places two small pills on your tongue. You have ample time to bite him. You don’t, reason unknown to you.

He then closes your mouth and watches you closely as he tells you, “Swallow.” You do and can see the way he stares to see if your throat bobs. “Open,” he urges, and this time you do it on your own. When he finds nothing, he praises you with a quiet “good girl.”

“Pain meds. They’ll help ya feel better,” he adds before you even think to ask. You think your brain has been put on a backtrack or something since you stepped into their house. Maybe it was the cold, maybe it was the pain. But now all you can think about is how they could help you every day. Maybe not. They’re too overbearing. Right.

Simon leans over to reach for a bottle labeled ‘shampoo’, but stops when Johnny speaks up. “Si, maybe let’s leave that for another day. Today has already been a lot.” He pauses, and stares, which he seems to do a lot. He grunts in response, leaning over to unplug the tub.

‘Another day’ completely goes over your head.

Your hair is.. well, it’s a mess. You’ve tried to keep it somewhat short so it doesn’t have so much upkeep, but it’s not like there’s a free barber at every corner. the matted fur on your tail and ears you… don’t even want to talk about it.

“I’m gonna let go now, alright?” Johnny says next to your ear, tone soft enough it doesn’t make you jump this time. You nod hesitantly, the first type of communication you’ve ever given to them. He slowly releases you and Simon reaches his hands out for you to grab. You do, slowly, letting him help you stand and step out of the tub.

Johnny lugs himself out of the tub, grabs a towel, and excuses himself from the room. Simon wraps you up in a fluffy, gray towel, rubbing and patting at your face and shoulders until you’re mostly dry. And you kind of just.. stand there. Johnny comes back a few moments later, clothed and dry now, holding a few articles of clothing in his hands.

“Got some clothes for ya,”

Your gaze turns towards him, and you shiver and cross your arms across your breasts once Simon lets the towel drop. He holds a few things up to your body to see what fits best. He dresses you in boxers, one layers of pants, a short-sleeved shirt, a long-sleeved shirt, and a long-sleeved shirt.

You almost wish they had something warmer. Or a raincoat, maybe? But beggars can’t be choosers, can they? At least the socks they tug onto your feet are warm and fuzzy.

You let them move you around like a puppet on strings. One man slipping your arms into the sleeves, one man pulling boxers up your hips. Once they finish, Simon heads over to your clothes.

You watch as Simon picks them from the floor, Johnny adjusting your new outfit to fit you more comfortably, and shoves them right in the bathroom trash.

Johnny watches the way your expression drops as you look at him and shoots Simon a look. “Sorry, lovely. These clothes are yours now.” He tries to placate, his eyes soft as he looks at you. You frown.

“Right,” Simon grunts, “Hoodie got all ripped up. The rest are beyond saving. You’ll wear this now.”

Johnny places a hand on your shoulder, guiding you out to the connected living room and kitchen. You’re disappointed, but you don’t think you can be mad when they’ve done all this for you. You have nothing from before. Maybe that’s okay.

“Ye ready to leave?” he asks, riffling through a cabinet in the kitchen. It takes a moment before you nod. “Think the storm is dying down. You can stay until it’s over, f’you want.”

You shake your head, subtly, instinctively, stepping towards the window. “That’s alrigh’, won’t make ya.” he smiles, showing you his palms up before he takes a step back.

They don’t say anything. They seem to go back to whatever they were doing before you. Soap grabs his cold coffee off the counter and pops it in the microwave, a few beeps sounding out as it turns on. Simon has carried his hoodie back out from the bathroom and placed it on the coat rack by the door.

It almost seems too natural. Practiced.

Your feet feel cold and heavy when you take another step towards the window. You swear they were warm just a moment ago.

While you blink away some blurriness from your vision, you’re hyper-aware of the excess saliva gathering in your mouth. Fuck, please don’t throw up, you urge.

When your gaze refocuses on the window, the rain looks like a watercolor painting. The muscles behind your eyes ache. Your foot is taking another step before you permit it.

Your newly socked feet cause you to slip slightly, one hand snapping out and you just barely have enough time to grip the cedge of the kitchen counter. Your head pounds.

“Och, easy, Kitty.” Johnny gentles, coming up behind you and placing his now cold hands on your shoulders. You don’t know when you got so hot. Feverish.

“Let’s go sit ya down with Simon, yeah?” he asks, but it’s not really a question as he already starts to guide you towards the couch where Simon is sat. You don’t remember seeing him walk that way.

Johnny sits you on the couch next to him, who lifts an arm to coax your head into his lap. He pets his hand over your head, his fingertips feeling the heat of your skin as he brushes against your cheeks.

He pushes your hair back from your face and you let your eyes fall shut solely because of the intense nausea taking over you. Your lips part to let out slow, harsh breaths.

“I don’t feel so good,” you moan, voice slurring, fingers curling into a fist against the fabric of Simon’s pants. The room feels like it’s spinning.

“I know, love.”

notes: sorry for the abrupt ending! also i don’t mind tagging people so go ahead and ask if u want!

tag: @pagesfalling

[strang3lov3]

Rescue Mission

“You take him beautifully, birdie. Beautifully,” Ezra says, now drawing in and out of you at a faster pace. “Look how happy he is inside a’ ya. You’re soakin’ the fella.”

Tags - smut, dubcon, dbf/dad’s weed guy/uncle!ezra (he’s not your biological uncle. I promise), pussy job, unprotected piv, creampie, cock pronouns in excess, cock nicknames (fella, bastard), Ezra’s cock has a titan’s girth (thank @beefrobeefcal), fire hazards, somno ish, plumber’s crack, smoking weed, a tasteful amount of pussy pronouns, me writing Ezra comes with its own warning, surprise surprise Ezra is morally bankrupt, Beefro contributed so I’m not all to blame, Ezra has a lot more jizz than the average man. i don't know how to summarize this. Fic Help - thank you @beefrobeefcal for being my guiding light. Without you this fic would be nothing! thank you @endlessthxxghts and @noxturnalnymph for your eyeballs! A/N - heddo! I finished my research paper but I still have a few things to do as far as school goes, but the end of the semester is right around the corner!! Thank you all for being so patient with me this month. I love you. Mwah!

This is my submission for @sp00kymulderr’s cock pronoun event. I had so much fun with this!! Thank you for hosting, Gideon!!

After packing your old Vera Bradley weekender duffel bag with the last of your clothes for the long weekend ahead of you, you open up your phone one last time to check the weather. It’s not supposed to snow until later in the afternoon, but you’ll make it to your dad’s before then. 

You haul your duffel into the backseat of your car, then carefully place two 9x13 Pyrex pans covered in tin foil next to it. Your dad asked that you prepare a couple of Thanksgiving sides - sweet potatoes and broccoli cheese casserole. Your dad is taking care of the turkey, with other extended family members taking care of everything else. 

You do one last quick check to make sure everything is in order, taking care to give your cat an extra scoop of food.

Fuck - the litter box. You almost forgot! You thoroughly clean it so your neighbor doesn’t have as much work to do when they’re caring for your cat in your absence, but you realize you forgot to buy a new tub of litter at the store the other day. Not to worry, your dad left you some in the trunk of your car for some reason or another. You’ll just leave that for your neighbor to use. 

You get into the driver’s seat after turning off all the lights and pull up directions to your dad’s on your phone and put on Father John Misty’s newest album, then you’re on your merry way. 

About a quarter way through your drive, you have to turn your windshield wipers on. It’s not bad, but there’s the tiniest sprinkle of snow coming down. It’s probably nothing. People are driving like morons under just the threat of snow, but it’s nothing. It’ll be fine. At a stoplight, you change the music. This time, you listen to Love Deluxe by Sadé, one of your Uncle Ezra’s favorite albums. You wonder if you’ll see him at Thanksgiving. 

Quickly, the snow becomes not-nothing. The further you drive, the worse it gets. The snowflakes are getting bigger and coming down heavier, and the road ahead of you is becoming so covered that you can hardly make out the white and yellow lines painted on the road. You’ve slowed to driving at about twenty miles an hour, and you’re growing nervous. It seems like you’re headed deeper into the storm. 

Forty-five minutes pass, though you’ve not driven more than ten miles. It’s coming down now, and the roads are so thick with snow that you’re driving at what feels slower than a glacial pace. This is getting dangerous. The good news, however, is that you did see plow trucks driving down the opposite side of the median. Not confident in your ability to safely drive through what is now probably three inches of snow on the ground, plus the added slush and ice, you decide to pull over and wait for a truck to salt and plow the roads before continuing on your way. You turn on your hazards and watch the traffic move slowly ahead of you; it seems that nobody else has the same idea as you. 

You text your dad first just to let him know that you’ll be a bit late, that you’re pulling over to wait out the storm and wait for the roads to be plowed. 

Ok. Stay safe. - Dad.

Things could be worse, right? You’re safe and warm in your car, you have plenty of gas in the tank. It’s probably another 45 minutes of just waiting, but finally, it happens: plow trucks drive by, salting the roads in their wake. Halle-fucking-lujah. You adjust your mirrors, put your seatbelt back on, and throw the gear shift into drive. Aaand…

You’re stuck. 

You press the gas again, and you’re still stuck. It doesn’t take long for you to start to panic. But your dad will know what to do, right? You call your dad and explain the situation to him. 

“Try rocking the car,” your dad tells you.

“I don’t know what that means.”

“Forward, reverse. Forward, reverse.”

With your dad on speakerphone, you try just that, but it’s a difficult maneuver. “It’s not working, Dad.”

“Okay, okay. Can you dig yourself out?”

“No!” you whine. “I am not doing that.”

Your dad’s eye roll is audible. “Alright. Cat litter. I left you cat litter in your trunk last time you came up, remember? Sprinkle that around your tires, it should give you enough traction to get out.”

“Cat litter…cat litter…”

“Yes, the cat litter. That I left in your trunk.”

You laugh awkwardly, “Yes. About that.” 

Your dad groans on the other end of the phone, “You have to be kidding. Okay. Hang on, where are you again?”

“Just past…I don’t know. I’ll drop you a pin.” You text your dad your location. The text takes some time to go through, but it does. 

“Alright. Uncle Ezra’s not far from you. I’ll give him a call, see if he can’t pick you up. Hang tight.”

“Isn’t he with you?”

“No,” your dad replies. “Why would he be with me?”

“I just figured he’d be up for Thanksgiving too.”

“I invited him, but I never heard back. Dude probably forgot. Okay, call you back.”

Sounds like Ezra. Ezra always was an…odd duck. You remember him visiting from time to time when you were a kid, and he and your dad would spend a lot of time locked in the garage together. It wasn’t until much later that you realized they were smoking weed. 

Ezra’s not your uncle, not really. It’s just what he calls himself. He’s your dad’s old coworker turned weed dealer turned buddy. Probably still sells your dad weed, though. Ezra also used to sell your dad quarter sticks of dynamite for the Fourth of July, and both of them made you promise not to tell anyone about that.

  Ezra was always a comforting, if somewhat peculiar, presence in your life. He called himself your guardian angel and texted you from an unknown number - he never has the same phone number whenever he texts you - on your twenty-first birthday, promising that one day soon he’d take you out for a beer. 

Your dad calls you back. “Hey.”

“Hey,” you greet him back. 

Your dad cuts right to the chase. He tells you that Uncle Ezra is on his way, that he has your location and he’ll come pick you up in thirty minutes. Worry about towing your car later, et cetera. 

“Okay. Love you. I’ll see you when I see you.”

“Love you too, honey. Be safe.”

-

‘On his way’ your ass. True to Uncle Ezra’s style, he doesn’t show up until nearly two and a half hours later. It’s just like that time he told you he’d pick you up from something at eleven and didn’t show up until the clock said 11:47. ‘Yeah,” he said, ‘Clock still says eleven, don’t it?’  He pulls up next to your car in a beat up old Kia van, the same Kia he’s been driving for years. 

Ezra hops out of his car, clad in snow boots, plaid pajama bottoms, a Carhartt jacket, and a fleece trapper hat. He stomps through the snow and opens your door, then ushers you into his van. “I apologize for the delay. Wasn’t expectin’ to be assigned a rescue mission,” he shouts at you. You’re not sure why he’s yelling. 

You watch Ezra grab your prepared food and the duffel from the back of your car, his ass crack visible through his falling pants. Ezra tosses it all haphazardly in his before getting back into the driver’s seat. He’s covered in snow, stomping off the flakes before looking over at you. With his dark brown eyes narrowed in your direction, he scans you up and down. “What on God’s green earth is the matter with you? You intended to traverse without the proper coverage?” 

“Excuse me?”

It takes your brain double the time to process Ezra’s words. You forgot about the unique way he speaks, his very particular vocabulary. You wonder where he picked up that way of speaking.

Ezra gestures to your torso. Oh, you think. Right. You’re just wearing a hoodie. You suppose it could have been a problem, had your car’s heat gone out.  

“Jacket,” he chastises you. 

“Yeah, no. I got it.”

“Then where is it?”

“No- like, I understood what you-” Ezra stares at you expectantly, with raised eyebrows. “Never mind.”

Ezra shakes his head in disappointment, then puts his foot on the brake of his Kia and pulls it into drive. “My domicile will have to do for you tonight, birdie. If you are amenable to it, of course.” 

“Mhm,” you hum. “Works for me.”

-

It takes Ezra about forty-five minutes to drive back to his house, which is located behind a water tower and a church off of a highway exit. It’s in a secluded area, thick with trees, the snow much heavier on the unplowed roads over here. Ezra pulls into his driveway, then opens the garage via a remote control attached to his sun visor. He gets out of his seat first, then rounds the front of his van and opens your door. “Hold onto me,” he tells you, holding out his arm. “You’re liable to slip and fall on these slick grounds.” 

You take hold of Ezra’s sleeve, and he carefully helps you out of the van and ushers you inside his house. “Get settled in. I shall retrieve your belongings and return to you post haste.”

You toe off your shoes and leave them on Ezra’s doormat, then begin strolling through his home, perusing through his belongings. His home is cluttered yet clean; lava lamps left on, paintings of St. Francis and St. Gertrude on the walls in his game room, which has floor to ceiling bookshelves full of board games and Dungeons & Dragons paraphernalia. A Halloween bucket full of month-old candy on the table. The house smells strongly of incense, and when you turn the corner and enter the living room you see that Ezra’s left his fireplace lit. 

“Awh shit, must’ve slipped my mind,” Ezra says, noticing the same thing you do. He’s got your duffel bag on his back and the Pyrex pans in his arms. He sets all items down, then goes back into his garage without a word. A few minutes pass and you’re left confused by his absence, so you follow him. 

“Uncle Ezra?”

Ezra’s at his workbench, the warm flicker of a flame illuminating his handsome features as he lights a joint. He blows out the smoke, then smiles at you. “Joinin’ me?”

“Uhhh…”

“C’mon,” he urges. “It’s the holidays.” 

You join Ezra at his workbench, still unsure if you want to partake yet. While Ezra smokes, you study his workbench. There’s not one tool in sight, but there’s lucky bingo trolls, little Buddha statues, snow globes, and other little tchotchkes sitting on the bench. It’s lit by old, dim, rainbow Christmas lights, and little ornaments hang from the wire. You touch an ornament depicting John McClane from Die Hard in when he’s in the air vent, turning it side to side as you inspect it. 

“Yippee ki-yay, motherfucker,” Ezra croaks out with a smile then coughs. He offers you his joint. “Let’s have ourselves a merry little Christmas, now.” 

“It’s Thanksgiving, Ez.” 

Ezra’s brows knit together, “What’d I say?”

“Christmas.”

“Oh.”

Ezra’s still confused as he puts the pieces together, and then he realizes you’re correct. “I suppose you’re right, little bird. In any case, s’a reason to celebrate with a little green, no?”

“I’m not sure Thanksgiving is the weed-smoking holiday.” 

“Oh, but it is indeed, little bird. C’mere.” Ezra takes a pull from the joint held between his middle and forefingers, then, still holding the joint, puts both hands on your cheeks and pulls you close, pressing his lips against yours. He blows the smoke into your mouth, “Attagirl,” he says, his lips curled in a wry smile that makes your stomach churn and your heart flutter. You cough a bit, turning away from him to hide your flustered expression. Ezra pats you on the back. “You’re alright. You got it.” 

He pulls off his trapper hat then, setting it on the workbench. His black hair all messy, and he’s gotten grayer since you’ve seen him last, but that little white streak is still prominent as ever. “Let’s get you somethin’ to eat. Betcha need somethin’ in ya,” he says. 

Ezra ushers you inside, then sits you down on a barstool at the kitchen counter window. He opens his once white but yellowing-with-age refrigerator, scratching the back of his head as he examines his lack of contents in it. “I got…uh…” he trails off, bending his upper half to look through condiments and cans of ginger ale. “Wasn’t expectin’ company.” He opens a box of take-out, takes a whiff, and recoils. “Christ almighty,” he exclaims, “Don’t even wanna know what that most unholy concoction is.” then throws the box away. 

You have to laugh. Ezra is as Ezra as ever. Charming, bizarre, endearing, confusing. He’s never had his shit together, not once. You slide out of your barstool, then head into the kitchen to join him. You nudge him to the side, then pull out your Pyrex pans of Thanksgiving sides from his refrigerator. He’s got an R2-D2 magnet holding up a paper full of logins and passwords on it. ‘ezralikesballs’ is his WiFi password, apparently. 

Ezra smirks at you, tapping his index finger against his temple. “Smart girl,” he says, watching as you start pressing buttons on his oven. “Hold it right there–” Ezra pushes you out of the way and opens the oven door, pulling out various Halloween decorations, all of them plastic, before allowing you to preheat his oven. “Didn’t have a proper place to store ‘em.” 

Jesus fucking Christ. How this man made it past forty years is beyond you. You preheat Ezra’s oven, then sit back down at the barstool as you wait for it to heat up. Ezra pours you a glass of ginger ale, and you spend the time until your food is warmed talking. 

Ezra doesn’t have oven mitts or potholders, so you have to pull your pans out with kitchen towels. You carefully pull off the foil, and Ezra’s standing beside you with plates and forks, ready to serve you both. 

“Goddamn,” he marvels, salivating at the sight of the food you prepared. “You made all of this?”

“I did, yeah,” you reply, smiling shyly. 

“Beautiful. Jus’ beautiful.” Ezra serves himself first, a generous helping of both the sweet potatoes and broccoli casserole. He opens a cabinet and pulls out a can of Ocean Spray jellied cranberry sauce, “Knew this’d come in handy. Never hurts to have a can of this stuff for emergencies,” Ezra tells you, waving the can in your direction. He serves you next, then opens the cranberry sauce and puts a bit of it on both of your plates. You avert your eyes from the expiration date on the can. You don’t wanna know.

With a nod of his head, Ezra tells you to go sit in his living room. He pushes an ottoman in your direction with his foot, then sits down on his sofa. He pats the spot next to himself, “C’mere, sweetheart. Uncle Ezra missed his birdie.” You sit next to Ezra, who then turns on his TV. He puts on the Thanksgiving classic, Planes, Trains, and Automobiles, which is also one of his favorite movies. “‘Tis the season.” 

-

Ezra nudges you and leans down to whisper in your ear, “Wake up, sleepyhead. The hour’s come for us to adjourn to my quarters,” he drawls. 

“Hm?”

You hadn’t even realized you were asleep, and asleep on Ezra’s shoulder at that. In your head, you thought you could still hear the movie, that you were following along to it. You’re surprised to see Steve Martin cursing out the airport attendant on Ezra’s TV. 

“Bedtime,” he says. “Upstairs.” 

“Oh. That’s okay, Uncle Ezra. I’m fine right here.” 

“On the sofa?”

“Yeah.” 

“No.”

You turn your head to face Ezra better, stunned. “No?”

“This couch is Hans’ domain. Best not to provoke the fella. Don’t feel like settin’ him off tonight.” 

Hans is Ezra’s cat that you’ve rarely ever seen, but have often felt when his feather-duster tail brushes your foot, heard him when he hisses at you before skittering off into a dark corner. He has to be in his twenties at this point, an Eldritch creature. Hans was ancient when Ezra found him palling around with a raccoon by his garbage, and that was years ago. Ezra’s always spoken about him like Hans is an abusive husband, that one wrong move could result in a reckoning most unpleasant. You’re glad to know the beast is well. 

Ezra stands up first, then stretches backward, exposing his soft, pillowy tummy and happy trail to you. He smirks when he catches you looking. “Your turn, birdie. Up you go.” Ezra bends forward and takes hold of both of your hands, then guides you upstairs and into his bedroom. 

You enter the dark room first, Ezra right behind you with his hand on the small of your back. He turns the lights on and his bed is neatly made with the scratchiest flannel sheets that have to be well over decades old, knit afghans that are even older and have absolutely seen better days. Ezra peels off his clothes, tossing them into a laundry basket on the floor. Clad in nothing but boxers, Ezra gets into his bed. 

God, it is sweltering. Ezra’s house is warm to begin with, but does not heat efficiently at all. You excuse yourself to go to the bathroom and change, pulling out from your duffel only an oversized t-shirt. You’ll just be strategic, so as not to flash Ezra. 

You return to Ezra’s bedroom, and he looks halfway asleep already. “Do Uncle Ezra a kindness, darlin’, and hit the lights for me.” Ezra makes a lazy gesture toward the light switch by the door. 

You turn off the light, and darkness consumes the small bedroom until Ezra turns on his small CRT-TV, Die Hard playing and already halfway through. Another one of Ezra’s favorite films, as evidenced by the name he gave his cat and the little ornament in the garage. You’re not much of a sleep-with-the-TV-on person, but Ezra’s blackout blinds kind of freak you out so it’s nice to have that light. Plus, the volume is low enough. It’s been a long, long day. It weirds you out a little to sleep next to Ezra, but you know that while he’s a strange and bizarre man, he’s ultimately harmless. You slide into bed, exhausted to the point that you’re not even bothered by Ezra’s rock-hard mattress or the scratchiness of his sheets and blankets. The minute your head hits the pillow, you’re asleep. 

-

You wake up in Ezra’s bedroom to that suffocating, smothering heat, the hot air so thick that it burns your nose and your throat. God, how does he sleep this way? His flannel sheets under your body are also warm, and Ezra’s insulating all that heat with his own body. Ezra’s cuddling you tightly, and you’re not sure when that happened, not sure whether he initiated it or if you did. Despite the heat, you don’t entirely mind when he snuggles you closer, curling himself around your body. Nuzzling the back of your neck, strong arms wrapped tightly around you. 

Until you do mind. 

He groans when he presses himself tightly against your frame, his hard cock against your ass as he ruts his hips into you. 

“Uncle Ezra,” you whisper, scooting your body in the opposite direction. In Ezra’s unconscious state, he pulls you back against his body, now fully grinding his hard bulge into your backside with a rhythmic tilting of his hips. “Ezra,” you hiss, voice firmer.

“Wha…” he mumbles, voice thick with sleep, his words slow and slurred. His brow pinched together and his eyes are squeezed shut to block out bluish light from his TV. “What’s ‘a matter?”

“You- your-” You swallow, trying to summon the words. 

“What’s that? You’re havin’ a nightmare of sorts? C’mere, sweet birdie. Go back to sleep. I gotcha.” Ezra presses a kiss against the back of your head.

“N-no, fuck. Ezra-” You wiggle out from Ezra’s hold, then flip over onto your back. 

The loss of your warm body against his cock, that’s when it all clicks for Ezra. “Ohhhh, I get it,” he murmurs, chuckling. “I understand perfectly well.”

“Yeah…”

“I do apologize, little bird,” Ezra says in a raspy, low voice. He reaches for your cheek and drags his pointer finger up and down the soft skin there. “The bastard’s got a mind of his own, doesn’t he?”

Jesus Christ, he’s so fucking weird. He? Ezra’s given his cock pronouns?

“S’alright, go on back to sleep, now.” 

This has to be a nightmare. Or something in between a nightmare and a wet dream. You’ve had those before, anyway. You drift off to sleep once more, then awake again to Ezra’s bulge against you. This time, you feel more of him. His underwear is off, and he’s rubbing the head of his cock against your pussy. “Ezra!”

“What’s troublin’ ya now, birdie, tell me.” 

“You…fuck.”

Fuck, it’s wrong. It’s so wrong and you know it. But goddamn, if his cock isn’t thick. Ezra keeps rocking his hips, grunting softly in your ear as he rubs his hard length against your pussy, arousal dampening the cotton of your underwear. 

“I do apologize for wakin’ ya with my member, but he’s got a titan’s girth, birdie. What’s a man to do?”

Titan’s girth…what the fuck. You don’t even know where to begin deciphering that statement. Right now, the only thing on your mind is fighting the growing heat, that sticky feeling building deep in your belly as Ezra continues to grind against you. His little noises of pleasure aren’t helping in the slightest. 

“Let’s get you outta these,” Ezra huffs rather impatiently, hooking his fingers into the waistband of your panties, then pulls them down with a practiced ease. He tilts your ass, “Yeah, lay like that. You won’t even know he’s there,” he whispers, then slots his length between your lips, coating himself in your arousal as he moves his hips. “Don’t pay him any mind, birdie.”

“Ez- oh, fuck–” you gasp when the thick head of his cock catches against your clit, sparking a pleasure even more intense. “We - you can’t.”

“Oh, I know, angel. He just needs to feel ya a bit, that’s all. Not gonna feel any sort ‘a - fuck–” Ezra notches his tip inside you, only temporarily as he continues rutting, “Any intrusion of any sort.” 

“O-okay.” 

Ezra snakes a hand under your shirt and paws at your breasts, squeezing the soft flesh in such a manner so as not to be too harsh, but god, he could tear you apart. Ever the gentleman, he holds back, teasing your nipples with his fingers instead. You moan a little louder, a little more sweetly when he does that to you. 

It’s an excruciating tease - long, arduous, excruciating. Ezra needs more from you. He could get himself off just like this, fucking your slick folds and no more, but Ezra’s really not one to deprive himself. He’s always been a bit of a libertine in that regard, believing that pleasure’s good for the heart, good for the soul, too. He can’t stave off his hedonistic tendencies much longer, “Ohh, Christ. You feel how fuckin’ hard he is? He needs ya somethin’ fierce, birdie. Needs to be inside that sweet cunt of yours.”

“Ezra…”

“Why don’t you let him in, sweetheart? You need it too, I know you do.”

“We really shouldn’t, Ezra.”

“Says who, sweetheart? Ah–” Ezra notches his tip inside you fully, inching inside you little by little, “You cure what ails him, little bird. Be a lamb, now.” Ezra pushes inside you in one full thrust, burying himself down to the hilt. Ezra did get you sufficiently wet, but it’s still, still such a stretch. You wince in pain, and Ezra covers your mouth to quiet your cry. “You’ll get used to him. Relax, angel. M’gonna have him take good care of ya.” 

With that, Ezra builds a slow pace at first. Just steadily moving in and out of you, his short term goal only to get you used to the thickness of his member. “Ezra,” you sigh. 

“You take him beautifully, birdie. Beautifully,” Ezra says, now drawing in and out of you at a faster pace. “Look how happy he is inside a’ ya. You’re soakin’ the fella.”

Ezra moves fluidly, thrusting in and out of you as he breathes heavily in your ear, whispering swears you’ve only rarely heard him speak. This angle in particular has Ezra hitting that most special place inside of you as that hot, fiery pleasure inside you intensifies tenfold. 

He’s sweaty and warm against you, his body slick with sweat. You clutch his forearm as he fucks you, rocking your hips to match his thrusts. He feels so fucking good, good enough to scramble every thought in your brain. His cock is so long and thick and curved at just the perfect angle. 

Ezra wriggles his arm down the front of you, fingers immediately finding your clit. You gasp when he touches it, rubbing perfect, practiced circles into the sensitive bud. “Oh fuck, Ezra.” 

“Yeah, she likes that, doesn't she, birdie? Don’t take much at all.” Ezra smiles behind you, then presses a kiss against your cheek. He breathes you in as he fucks you, rubbing your clit with precision to bring you to the edge. Within seconds, you’re whimpering, thighs twitching against his large, masculine hand. “Let go,” he grunts. “Come all over him.” 

With his ministrations, his cock fucking you perfectly, you come with a loud symphony of moans, a mixture of swears and Ezra’s own name. Your pulsing cunt coaxes Ezra’s own orgasm along, walls squeezing around him as he paints your insides with so, so much come. A truly astounding amount of come. 

“Ohhh, he needed that,” Ezra groans, pulling out of you with no regard for his spend that spills out of you and onto his flannel sheets. “Thanks for humorin’ him, birdie. Go on and get some sleep now.”

If you enjoyed, please please please reblog with some kind thoughts or send me an ask!! Your feedback means the world to me and keeps me motivated to write, and goes so far in making this blog feel like a community 🩷

[norapetals]

bittersweet reunions

pairing: vanessa “van” palmer x reader

word count: 1.7k

contains: implied female reader, second person, no use of y/n, adult timeline (reader and van are both in their early 40s), mention of death but it’s just adam so it’s fine, mentions of cancer, mentions of homophobia and conversion therapy, second chance romance, no beta reader

You didn’t miss Van Palmer.

Sure, you hadn’t seen her in years, but you had moved on. You had a life now. Not really a love life, but a life nonetheless.

Van was your only real experience of love, and it had been over two decades since then. She was probably married to a nice, beautiful woman, maybe even with kids. You always thought you would be the woman at Van’s side.

“Hey.” Shauna said, plucking you out of your thoughts. “We’re almost there.”

It took you a moment to remember where you were. It was always like this when you thought of Van. She took up every spot in your mind when it was on her. Right now, you were with Shauna on the way to Lottie’s place because Shauna had killed that guy and you didn’t want to be the only Yellowjacket left in Wiskayok.

You didn’t know Van was going until about halfway into the car ride, when Shauna explained that her and Tai had called her, and that’s how she even knew about the place.

You turned away from the car window to face the brunette. “How many minutes?”

“Five.” She answered, eyes on the road in front of her.

You nodded, though you weren’t sure if she could even see you from her point of view. In five minutes, you would be face to face with the same girl you spent 19 months in love with in the wilderness.

You weren’t sure why you had been avoiding her. After you had all gotten rescued, your parents were obsessing over you and making sure you were alright. You weren’t allowed to use the phone to call your friends for 3 weeks. You didn’t leave the house for another two months.

Even when you proved to be as okay as you could be, they were still hesitant to let you see the same girls you spent so long with. They thought it would bring back bad memories. Truth is, without Van, they were worse.

Once you could finally call Van, you were scared too. You told your parents in hopes they would comfort you, but all they heard was that their daughter was in love with a girl.

They sent you to a conversion therapy center, which you eventually faked your way out of. But it still affected you to where you were too scared to talk to Van. Too scared your parents would find out and send you back.

So you never called. You tried to date guys, but you never really liked any enough to lie to about loving them. You were always thinking about Van. Even years after. Even now.

“We’re here.” Shauna announced, putting the car in park.

You both unbuckled your seatbelts and left the vehicle, walking over to the gate. Just as you found yourself in front of it, another car pulled up. You didn’t recognize it, but you did recognize the people inside when you looked up at the windshield.

There was Taissa in the passenger seat, but it was who was driving the car that made the air exit your lungs. Van Palmer sat there looking as beautiful as ever. She hadn’t noticed you, she was talking to Tai about something and gathering her belongings as she got ready to leave.

You looked at Shauna, who gave you a sympathetic gaze. “You knew you were going to have to talk to her.”

You didn’t have to ask who ‘her’ was. “I know. I just… didn’t expect it to happen so soon.”

“…but Misty should at least be happy to see us.” Tai was saying as she shut the door.

“That’s true.” Even the sound of her voice made your heart race.

Tai saw you first. She had been expecting Shauna, but she was worried what even the sight of you would do to Van. She opened her mouth as if she wanted to call out to you both, but focused back on the girl had ridden here with.

“What’s wrong?” Van asked, quirking a brow.

Tai pressed her lips together, glancing back at you and Shauna. “See for yourself.”

You saw the exact moment Van processed you were there. Her eyes went wide and she didn’t move a muscle. From where you stood, it didn’t seem like she was breathing. She then turned completely away from the two of you and towards the stretch of road behind her.

“Van,” Tai said, coming around the front of the car, “we promised Misty we’d go—“

“I know what we promised her, Tai!” Van whipped her head around, breathing heavily. Over Tai’s head, her eyes met yours. “I can’t do this.”

“Don't say that." Tai pleaded.

Van inhaled sharply. "I'm doing this for Nat. Not Misty, not Lottie. And most certainly not her."

“Yes.” Tai agreed simply.

“Then let’s go.” Van walked quickly towards the gate, opening it, and slipping through, all without making anymore eye contact with you.

Tai followed, although stopping in front of you. “Don’t hurt her anymore than you already have.”

You watched her go the same way Van had gone. You wanted to leave, to run back to your home and stay as far away from her as possible. But you weren’t going to make the same mistake twice.

“You heard what Van said. At least, I think you did. Let’s go.” Shauna said, leading the way.

You spent the next forty minutes reuniting with Misty, Nat, and Lottie. Soon enough, you found yourself alone with Van. You were supposed to be doing one of the therapies on Lottie’s list, but she had encouraged you to ‘find your true self’, which in her opinion, was you with Van.

She was in her truck, looking through her things. You walked over, silently watching her for a moment before she acknowledged your presence. “What do you want?”

“To talk.” You replied.

She scoffed, retreating from her form of treatment to look at you. “Now you want to talk?”

“I’m sorry for everything. Truly, Van.” You tried.

“How am I supposed to believe you? After you abandoned me?” She asked.

“I didn’t abandon you! Well, at least not at first. My parents sent me to a conversion camp after they found out about us. I’m sorry for not calling after that, but it really messed me up. It made me think the opposite of what I felt and it made me do the opposite of what I wanted to do. Which was to be with you.” You explained, watching her hopefully.

“I knew you went somewhere, but that was like two months after the crash. Why didn’t you call before?” Van countered.

“My parents didn’t let me use the phone for a while, and that let the thought get into my head that you didn’t want to see m. That I would bring back the pain of the wilderness.” You said, fighting back tears.

Van paused, staring at you carefully. “You were what made the wilderness bearable. You stopped the pain, you didn’t cause it, or bring it back or whatever. I just wish you had known that.”

“Well I know it know.” You commented. “If you ever feel comfortable giving me another chance, whether it’s friendship or more, I’m going to try harder this time. I promise you that.”

She looked at you thoughtfully before going back to her task. “You’re still the same, you know.”

“What do you mean?” You tilted your head slightly in confusion.

“Well for starters, you look great.” She responded.

You let out a relieved chuckle. “Not too bad yourself, Palmer.”

“Secondly, you’re still the girl I was in love with.” Van said.

“Same goes for you. Actually, you’re an even better version of her, from what I’ve seen so far.” You replied.

You can tell it takes a lot in her not to let out a snarky comment. “Thanks.”

“‘Course.” You smiled slightly as she glanced back at you.

“You married?” She asked as if it was a casual question.

You took a breath in. “Nope. Never have been. You?”

“Same here.” This surprised you. She was one of the most beautiful women you had ever seen, if not the most. The scars just added to it.

“What do you for work?” You questioned, trying to break the remaining tension.

“I own a video store.” She told you.

“That’s a Van Palmer job if I know anything.” You laughed, leaning against the truck.

She gave a small smile in return. “How ‘bout you?”

“Boring office stuff. I couldn’t even tell you what I do.” You answered.

“You?” She sent you a suprised grin.

You shot her back a confused look. “What?”

“It just doesn’t seem like a you job to me.” She shrugged.

“What’s a me job?” You watched her go through her glove compartment.

“I don’t know.” She rolled her eyes playfully. “Something special. Not rotting in the corporate world.”

“Do I look rotted to you?” You gestured to your own body.

She looked you up and down. “Just a little.”

“Wow,” You giggled, “still mean, I see.”

“I am not mean.” She declared. “Just candid.”

“Sur.” You nodded, crossing your arms.

“I need to tell you something.” Van said suddenly.

You knotted your brows together in confusion. “Yeah?”

“Well I don’t really have to, but I just need to tell someone. I was gonna tell Tai, but couldn’t. I need you to know.” She said worriedly.

“Van, what is it? You can tell me anything.” You responded with.

“This isn’t easy to say, so I don’t know why I’m saying it, but… I have cancer.” She looked up at you with an unreadable expression on her face.

Well maybe you could’ve read it better if you weren’t so taken aback. “What?”

“Really bad cancer.” She added as if it was supposed to help.

“Oh my God. Are you okay?” You asked like you weren’t internally beating yourself up at staying away for so long. You shouldn’t have stayed away anyway, but this just made it worse.

“I don’t wanna talk about it, I just can’t keep it everyone. I need someone to know in case I straight up die randomly.” She looked away.

“This isn’t funny.” You replied.

“I’m sorry, it’s just a good way to get my mind off things. Being my extraordinarily funny self, I mean.” She said quietly. “Thank you, for listening.”

“Of course.” You smiled softly.

The silence after was comfortable, just you watching as Van went through her truck. You weren’t at the place you wanted to be with her, but you were hopefully getting there.

Maybe you missed her a little.

[breezybangtanbebe]

Rain Rain Rain..You cant fake it : JJK 💋

Tags: JungkookXFemaleReader, raw car sex in the rain, bossy handsy Jungkook, freaky eager reader🥴😌

(Photo is totally AI, I take no credit for it.)

1.7k words

His sweat tasted like honey on your tongue and it mixed with the flavor of the rain that scored his skin on your mad dash across the empty parking lot.

It came out of nowhere.

Well, thats what you would say considering you rarely checked the weather app. Your skimpy outfit being a clear indicator.

Jungkook gave up on warning you ages ago because you never listened. The only times when you did were at times like now, when he demanded that you straddled him the back seat of his Benz.

Your little skirt rides up your thighs and exposed the roundness of your cheeks to everyone if they could be seen through the misty windshield. Luckily for you, no one would be stopping to check in on a parked car at the vacant rest stop off the highway. Not on a dark rainy night like this.

Jungkook groans as your lips latch just under his jaw, suckling one of his many weak spots. He squirmed beneath you, panting in need when your teeth grazed his skin. As you worked on branding him, his hands spread over the expanses of your plump ass cheeks. He squeezes them greedily and grinds you over his lap.

The friction is delicious against your paper thin panties, and you moan against his throat when your clit swelled. You pull away from Jungkook’s throat with wet lips, only from him to yank you back into him by the back of your neck.

"Take them off.." his lips command over yours, his tongue slipping into your mouth seamlessly. You sighed contently at the taste of him as you lifted your ass to peal your panties from your wet pussy.

Your skin was slick from the rain but deeper between your thighs, theres a moisture there that couldnt be blamed on the weather alone. Jungkook explored it with his fingers, his large hand curling under your ass to stroke your entrance. All the while he drowns out your breathy whines with his tongue, kissing you drunkenly as he played with your pussy.

You could feel just how ready he was beneath you, the curve of his erection bumping against your heat as you ground against him.

“Pull it out..Fuck me baby.." he says into your mouth and waste no time in reaching under his waistband.

His dick springs from his sweats and its as if he'd been allowed to breathe after holding it the way he exhales in relief. His swollen tip shined in the muted light that cut through the rain speckled glass, pre-cum leaking shamelessly from the hole.

You stared at it with lustful eyes and Jungkook smiled sexily with pride before pulling you in for another open mouth kiss.

He held you at your hips to lift you and your fingers dug into the leather upholstery for support as you lowered herself onto his length, both of you moaning in harmony as you sink onto him.

Jungkook's teeth dig into his lip as he buried himself as deep as your body would allow, spearing you hard against your sensitive cervix.

"Fuck.." you cried out, placing a hand on the roof of the car as your eyes drop to watch your pussy spread around Jungkook's girth.

Your clit bulged and begged to be touched as you rode him and Jungkook reads your body like a book. One of the hands that held your waist rushes to his mouth where his wet tongue waited for his thumb to press against it.

He uses it to rub messy circles over your sensitive button, causing a shock wave of sensation to shake your body.

“Oh fuck yesss…” you whimper, bouncing more frantically on Jungkook’s hardening dick.

You bears down on him hard and Jungkook takes advantage by rutting his hips upward, pinning you to the seat behind you with his other hand secured at your throat.

“Right fucking there..” he grits, tightening his grip on your airway as he fucked into you faster.

The messy wetness crescendos as Jungkook hit your spot over and over, your release drenching his lap and everything below him. Your voice breaks the moment your reach your peak, tapering off to a mumble of praises and his name.

“There you go..thats it..” Jungkook bites his lip as he guided your hips over his length, coaxing out every last bit of your high and allowing you to ride it out.

"Yes..There you go..thats it baby....shit.." he repeats, shuddering as his dick thumped inside of you. He hadn’t cum just yet, but he was close. It wouldnt take much either and he knew it.

Pulling out, Jungkook taps the side of your face gently to get your attention.

"C'mere...turn around."

Following his lead, you dazedly move your body to slot it between the front two seats. Your tummy rests on the middle console and Jungkook scoots over to the center backseat, his hands on your hips.

Before either of you could get cold from being apart, Jungkook re-enters you from behind.

He immediately begins to snap into you fast and hard with zero regard for how sensitive you were. Not that you cared since you met him thrust for thrust, bouncing back against him with a chorus of unbridled moans.

“Oh God…yes yes yes…Jungkook!” You sobbed, already feeling as if you were about to explode all over him again.

This position was always the killer.

Jungkook’s damp fringe swayed in spikes as he watched his dick disappear and reappear inside you, complimented by the way the your ass bounced and jiggled with every blow.

This was it. Thats all it would take for him to lose himself.

"Gonna cum..fuck Im gonna..." Jungkook rasps, his brows crinkling the closer he hurdled himself over the edge.

A second later, Jungkook pulls you back and buries his dick deep inside of your pussy before pulling out at the last possible second. Ropes of hot cum splattered all over your weeping hole and ass cheeks, his veiny tattooed hand jerking it fast to ensure he didnt waste a drop.

With something similar in mind, your thoughtlessly reach under your belly to catch his dripping nut that mixed woth your cum as it ran down your thighs, scooping a generous amount from your skin to taste.

Jungkook watched you with parted lips, his pulsing and sensitive dick still in hand as you used your fingers to clean yourself up. You toss him a naughty look over your shoulder, smiling evilly as you ran your tongue between your wet fingers.

"Youre fucking filthy..." he chuckles and you giggle around your cum coated digits.

"You love it." You exhale before sucking your fingers clean. Jungkook shakes his head, still in awe of you as he moved.

"Mmmh.." he hums as he sat back to pull his shirt over his head, most likely to use as a cum rag to finish cleaning you both up.

[shybluebirdninja]

FADED DAYS: PART 3

Summary: In a bleak world where Logan has lost his purpose, an unexpected connection with his nurse brings a spark of humanity back into his fading life as an Uber driver.

Pairing            : Uber-Driver!Logan Howlett x Nurse!Fem-reader

Genre              : Heavy Angst

It’s raining tonight. Not just the light drizzle that softly pings off car roofs but a full-on downpour, the kind that soaks you the moment you step outside. You rush from the hospital doors, pulling your jacket tighter around you.

The shift was brutal. A patient you’d been caring for all week—someone you’d started to bond with—didn’t make it. You tell yourself it’s part of the job. You tell yourself you’ve done this before, handled it before. But it doesn’t get easier, not really.

Your phone buzzes.

Your driver: Logan. Estimated arrival: 3 minutes.

Of course, it’s him again.

You step under the awning, watching the rain pour down. Logan pulls up, headlights cutting through the misty air. The old, beat-up car looks even worse in the rain, the wipers swiping furiously at the windshield.

You climb in, already drenched. Logan doesn’t even look at you, but you can feel his mood, the tension in the car. Maybe it’s the weather, maybe it’s something else. His knuckles are white on the steering wheel, his jaw set hard.

“Rough night?” he grumbles, his voice low, barely audible over the rain slapping the windows.

“You could say that,” you reply, your own voice tired. You lean back, exhaling slowly, watching the rain streak down the glass. The silence that follows isn’t as awkward as it used to be. There’s something strangely comforting in it now.

“You?” you ask after a moment.

He doesn’t respond right away. Just the sound of the tires sloshing through the wet streets fills the space. Then, quietly, “Rain hurts.”

It takes a second for it to sink in. You glance at him, and he doesn’t meet your eyes, staring straight ahead. But there’s something in his voice that wasn’t there before—vulnerability. The same rough edges, sure, but now with cracks wide enough for you to see through.

He keeps driving, and you don’t press him. But you wonder, quietly, what kind of pain he means. Physical? Emotional? Both?

You clear your throat, trying to distract yourself. “So…are you going to tell me what your deal is? Or should I keep guessing?”

He chuckles, but it’s a sad sound. “No deal. Just an old guy with too many miles on him.”

You smirk. “Yeah, right. I’m pretty sure you’ve got more going on than that.”

“Don’t we all?” he mutters.

The rain gets heavier, drumming on the roof. You watch the city blur outside, streetlights casting long reflections across the wet pavement. Something in you aches—not just from tonight, not just from the loss of your patient. Something deeper. You’ve felt it before, but sitting here, next to this grizzled old man who looks like he’s been carrying a mountain on his back for years, it feels even heavier.

“Why do you keep driving?” you ask quietly. “You don’t seem like the kind of guy who needs the money. Or…any of this.”

For a long moment, there’s only the sound of rain and the low growl of the engine. Then, finally, Logan speaks.

“It keeps me moving.”

You frown, confused. “Moving?”

He sighs, long and deep, like he’s trying to push away something that’s been sitting heavy on his chest. “If I stop…I think I’d just disappear. You know what I mean?”

You do. Far more than you’d like to admit.

You both sit in that strange, shared understanding, not saying a word but knowing that whatever invisible weight you’re carrying, it’s something he knows well. Maybe too well.

The car slows as he pulls up to a red light. You’re not far from home now, but something makes you hesitate. You don’t want the ride to end just yet.

“How do you deal with it?” you ask softly.

He glances at you, finally, and the look in his eyes takes you off guard. It’s raw, like he’s peeling back layers of himself, just for a moment. “You don’t. You just…get through it. One day at a time. And hope it hurts less tomorrow.”

You swallow, hard. There’s something almost heartbreaking about the way he says it. Like someone who’s been hurt too many times and has stopped expecting the pain to ever end.

You don’t know what to say to that. So you don’t say anything.

The light turns green, and Logan drives in silence again.

Later...

When he pulls up to your building, you hesitate before getting out. The rain is lighter now, but you still feel the heaviness in the air. You turn to him, something you’ve been wanting to ask hovering on your lips.

“Logan…” You pause, unsure how to even phrase it. “Does it ever get better?”

He doesn’t answer right away. His eyes, now dark with something deeper than you can understand, flicker toward you, and then away again.

“It can,” he says finally, his voice rough. “If you let it.”

You sit there, the words hanging between you like the rain still lingering in the air. Then, with a nod, you open the door and step out into the night.

As you close the door behind you, Logan doesn’t immediately drive off. You stand there for a moment, watching his car idle in front of the building. You half expect him to roll the window down, say something else. Maybe even crack a joke. But he doesn’t.

Instead, the car slowly pulls away, leaving you standing alone in the soft drizzle. You watch the taillights fade into the distance, a strange ache in your chest.

As you walk inside, your thoughts stay with him. His tired eyes, his quiet pain. The scars you saw, not just on his hands, but all over him. Scars that run so deep, you wonder if they’ll ever truly heal. And, somehow, you realize you want to know more.

[formosusiniquis]

have your cake

So way back in August 2023 the steddiemicrofic challenge was Cake and 311 words, my head empty brain came up with one thought and it was Steve Munson having a bakery called Mun's Buns and so many months later I finally got around to finishing my vision

Ships: Steve Harrington/Eddie Munson; Tommy Hagan/Carol Perkins; implied/past Tommy Hagan/Steve Harrington/Carol Perkins WC: 6408 | T | tags: Future Fic, the lightest of post homoerotic friendship breakup angst, fluff, Tommy POV AO3

The bakery has a stupid name, is the first thing Tommy thinks when Carol tells him where he's supposed to meet her on his lunch break. He’s still thinking that, when he sees the place for the first time through his rain speckled windshield. It's a modest storefront, small for what Carol says is a booming business, tucked in next to a used bookstore and a music shop. There's a baby yellow awning hanging from the front just underneath a sign lettered in soft blue that reads Mun's Buns.

He's late, is the second thing he thinks after pulling up. Caught up in some stupid bullshit for his dad he hadn't managed to slip away until 12:30. Even then it had only been because Tommy had told him he was going to be late for their cake tasting. He'd rolled his eyes when his father and Greg, a guy that Tommy only considers a co-worker in the sense that they are technically on the same payroll since Greg in every other aspect is incompetent and an idiot, had winced. Shooing him away like a kid who'd just admitted that he's already twenty minutes past curfew. But catching sight of the way Carol has her arms crossed, tapping her foot fast enough to kickstart a motor, while her hair hangs limp in a way that it hadn’t this morning a third thought crosses his mind: maybe he should have been a little more worried.

Waiting isn’t going to make things any better. So he steps out of the car, let’s the misty damp cling to him in a way that makes his dress pants and button down feel like a poorly tailored second skin, and takes his licks like a man. "Late, thirty minutes late. Christ, it's the only thing I've asked from you Tommy." Her right hook stings just as badly as it did sophomore year when she punched him for asking out Erin Murphy instead of her.

Shit like that is probably why no one expected them to make it this long or this far.

When they went away to college; different schools, hours apart. His parents had been gleeful as they'd warned him that high school relationships didn't always last. That he should keep his options open, he didn't want to miss out on the love of his life just because of comfort. He didn't get offered the family ring when he decided to propose right after graduation. Carol has always been particular. Wanted the house to come back to before the wedding could happen, wanted a long honeymoon. That meant saving, a lot of it. Tommy knew and Carol did too, they'd overheard his mother and aunt gossiping in too loud voices after too much wine that they hoped the long engagement meant they were both trying to figure out a good way to break it off with one another. 

Still, over the course of their now five year engagement no one's asked once if they wanted to trade for it.

Carol thought it was horrendous anyway. She’d had her ring picked out since ‘85, styled her class ring so it would look like the oval cut diamond she wanted. Had him slide it on her finger the second it came in.

Cause in the politest of terms, Carol could be a raging bitch. She was Tommy's favorite person in the entire world.

There’s going to be a bruise on his shoulder tomorrow, even if she’s guiltily smoothing a hand down his arm now. Thrust toward the door first in offering, Carol is sorry she hit him but she’s not apologetic. “I’m serious, Tom, if we lose this appointment and have to go with Sweet Treats for our cake I'll- I'll-"

Whatever threat she was preparing is drowned out and then cut off by the echoing TONG of the door chime. A light in the back shifts color for a second, out of place enough that he wonders if he even really saw it. Head tilting toward Carol, his question catches in his throat when he notices her pinched off appraising. Better not to add to the ammunition she might already be building.

And if Carol is looking he better do it too. She'll want to debrief when they're having dinner tonight, just like they did with the florist, the caterer, the three wedding planners they'd met with, and each of the venues that they'd visited. And it wasnt because she was demanding, fuck you Greg. It wasn't because she was being nitpick-y, alright it was a little bit because she was but he liked being particular with her. He liked being involved in his wedding.

So he looked around.

The way they utilized their space -- a building that big and there's barely enough room to stand, we want someone who knows how to work with limited space for the venues we're looking at -- was the reason their first wedding planner hadn't gotten hired. Small, but not cramped. There are a handful of tables scattered in the open space in front of the counter. It’s the kind of small town cozy that Hawkins had tried for and he doesn’t see very often anymore now that they’ve moved out to Indianapolis.

It’s lunchtime, still too early for people to be seeking out the rows of deserts in their neat glass counter and too late for the breakfast crowd. But one of the tables is occupied by a teenager with long, black braids scribbling in a notebook while a slice of ice cream cake melts on a plate by her elbow. 

Everything was neat, organized, and compliant with health code regulations -- they hadn’t even made it in the door of the first caterer���s when she noticed a trail of ants and roaches marching into the open kitchen door.

Carol had always been quick when she was making up her mind about something. Like those Sherlock Holmes stories they’d had to read in school, in a couple of seconds she could spot everything she needed to make a decision. After a decade Tommy still couldn’t keep up; but he was always best at following someone else’s lead.

The smile she’s got frosted across her face is as sugary and fake as the roses on the cupcakes he can see behind the low topped counters as she approaches the only visible staff member. A girl, young in the way that nebulous way anyone younger than him was now, with thick squared glasses that magnified two distressingly blue eyes. The counters looked like they were designed to sit low enough that she could easily see over the top while in her wheelchair.

“Welcome to,” her customer service tone borders on bored. Two words into a clear script and she sighs, as if saying the name physically pains her, “Mun’s Buns. We’ve got a special series of summer flavors: Strawberry Lemonade, Lavender Mint, Chocolate Fudgsicle, and,” she sighs again, “for the grownups a boozy Blue Moon with orange zest.”

“How about a wedding cake.” He’s impressed. Carol made it through the speech without interrupting.

“Do you have an appointment?” the girl raises her voice, enough to make them both flinch back. Customer service isn’t a requirement for this part of the job necessarily, but Carol had bailed on two venues because the staff hadn’t been polite enough.

Her smile doesn’t crack though, “Yes.”

Even though he’s pretty sure this girl has to be basically blind with the inch thick frames, she levels Carol with a lethal stare. “Not you.”

From the open entryway behind her Tommy had been able to make out what sounded like the highlights of yesterday’s game. He assumed that space had to be the kitchen where these rows of deserts were made. He’s still surprised when a guy’s voice is shouting back, “I don't know, Max, do I? Why don't you check?”

“How am I supposed to do that?” Max shouts back, glowering at then in stand in for her mystery boss.

“With your finger, asshole. It's in braille. When I gave you this job you said you were actually gonna work.”

“Douchebag." Her eyes never leave them, while her hands rummage around in a space beneath the counter where the cash register sits. Max offers no explanation or apology for her shouting or for her boss. A large red appointment book gets slammed down on the nearest counter, making Carol jump but the neat two by twos of chocolate frosted cupcakes don't budge. He watches, a little fascinated by the way her finger scans the page before slowing. "Did you write this or did Dustin?"

Carol has always valued gossip over professionalism, he thinks that’s why she’s done so well as a hairdresser even though she was always awful at chemistry. It’s also why he’s held off from pointing out that they could solve this a lot faster if this guy would come out from the back. "Why?" 

“Cause one of you can't spell and one of you is trying to invent braille shorthand. So I'm not really sure what to do with TomGan Wed.”

“It might be Thomas and Wedding.” Carol leans over the appointment book as she says it, using a tone of voice he has never once heard her use in the entire time he’s known her. He thinks it’s supposed to be helpful.

“Wedding sampler.” The girl calls toward the back, “It's getting late.”

“I’ve got it,” the voice from the back shouts back.There’s an effortless assurance Tommy can hear from where he’s standing. It hits him with a wave of nostalgia so strong he grabs Carol’s arm on instinct.

“Really,” she says, cutting her gaze over to him. He’s not sure what she sees. “If we could hurry this along, it's just we've only got an hour.”

“You're late.” The glare she gets shuts Carol down faster than he’s ever seen.

“Right.”

“Okay I've got it.” The voice from the back is now the voice in the doorway. Hidden for a second by a serving tray loaded with samples of rich looking cake, it’s the first time since arriving that Tommy has actually wanted to be here. Not just because he can make out strong shoulders and a body of a man that’s still very fit but clearly enjoys his work too; the hint of love handles above strong thighs. Only then that tray dips, and for the first time since 1985 Tommy finds himself looking at the shocked hazel eyes of Steve Harrington. “Oh.”

Carol reacts for him, taking in a breath sharp enough she might puncture a lung. They’ll both wind up suffocated on the floor of this stupid bakery with an awful name, because Tommy can’t manage to breathe at all looking at Steve. Still unfairly handsome, faintly pink at the shock of seeing them too he imagined.

His hair is long, is the first real thought his half fried brain manages to put together. Soft looking even where it’s damp at the temples where sweat has pooled. He has it pulled back with a couple of the same butterfly clips that Carol likes to use.

His second, somehow more hysterical thought: this wasn’t how Steve Harrington was supposed to be included in his wedding.

Tommy was six years old and knew he wanted to marry Steve. When he’d told his mom -- to ask for her ring, Steve thought it was romantic like princes and princesses that they had a special ring that they got married with -- she’d grabbed by his arm so hard it’d left finger shaped bruises. So he’d held that certainty quiet in his heart until he was ten, and suddenly it was okay to want to play with girls on the playground -- he thinks it’s because Steve got tired of there never being an even number when they tried to play kickball, he had a way of making everyone want to do the thing he was. Carol wasn’t afraid to tell Tommy C. that he was dumb or to tell Mark L. that he hadn’t actually made it to the base, Steve liked her fast. Too fast, and Tommy had to tell her that one day he was going to be able to keep Steve all to himself. But he knew that it wasn’t right to say that now, even if he wasn’t all the way sure why it wasn’t. He was ten, but he would be eleven soon, and he took this part of him that he’d kept secret for so long and he whispered it to Carol under the slide while Steve tried to convince Brad P. that he could too pick two people for his kickball team first.

He was ten and Carol said they could share. Boys can’t marry boys, but girls can. So they could both marry her and live together forever.

It became a joke when they finally shared it with Steve, thirteen and boys going out with girls wasn’t funny the way it used to be. Sarah Jane asked Carol if she had a chance at going steady with Steve. She told Tommy about it later and they both told Steve that he was too good to date any of the girls in their grade. “Well I’ve got you guys,” his voice cracked when he said it, throwing an arm around both of them. Carol didn’t care as much, but even she’d noticed the way Steve was changing from boyish to handsome.

They were sixteen and disaster was just around the corner, not that he knew that. Steve dated around but he always came back to them. The head, the heart, the body. They don’t feel complete without each other -- at least Tommy doesn’t. Mr. Kripke, who was hungover more often than he wasn't, passed out ten minutes into study hall. Carol didn’t even wait to see if he’d wake back up before she left her assigned table for theirs. She smoothed out a lined piece of notebook paper for them, and Tommy scoffed like he was supposed to. “Aren’t we a little old to be playing MASH?”

“It’s dirty MASH, and I thought you’d think it was funny.”

“I think it’s funny,” Steve had said, “that you’re getting eiffel towered on your wedding night. Who else is joining in, Carrie?”

“We couldn’t agree on who got you for their side of the aisle. So we’re taking you to bed instead.”

He was sixteen and the way that the two of them looked when they shared a joke was the hottest thing in the world. The way their smiles mirror when they turned to him, sharp and ready to flay open the softest parts of him.

Tommy’s two days older when Steve lets him kiss the taste of Carol out of his mouth.

It was three days after he turned seventeen and he had to pretend he didn't want to die when he saw how Steve looked at Nancy Wheeler. Like he didn’t want to rip his hair out because Steve was fucking infatuated with this mousy little teacher’s pet and wouldn’t even look at him anymore.

He still doesn’t like to think about the breakup. He pokes it like a fresh bruise. Less often now, but when he does he digs his fingers in. Baits Carol into fights he doesn’t mean just so he can pretend like he hasn’t lost something that hurts like a limb.

Steve Harrington turns twenty-eight next week, and he’s standing in front of them both holding pieces of what might turn into their wedding cake.

“Wow I can’t believe you’re in Indy!” False excitement grates, but at least Carol has gotten herself together enough to speak. He thought he’d have at least another few months to prepare for the thought of seeing Steve, by their ten year reunion he was going to be married and happy and over it.

“Yeah, this is- Married, wow! I kinda can’t believe you haven’t already.” He says it to Carol, his platitudes had always been for Carol, but his eyes find Tommy. 

While Carol chatters at them and for them both, nervous, he knows she’s nervous. The situation is sudden and strange and fraught. But Tommy just looks at Steve, who looks at him. He’s getting married in three months, one week, and two days from now and for the first time in eleven years Steve is looking at him.

"Takes a while to save up for when you want the best of everything. Dad's still the skinflint he always was, I think he'd pay me less than minimum wage if he could get away with it."

And those soft brown eyes look so sad, looking at him. Sometimes he thinks no one will ever understand him the way that Steve did.

"There's nothing wrong with wanting the best, or having a long engagement." Carol defends. It's the same line she's been giving everyone. Defensive of him and herself and the choices they've been making. He can't believe Steve is someone she thinks they have to defend against.

“I really hope you're happy, man," he says, and the sincerity is a balm on the sting of this conversation. He pushes his hair back from his face, the way he always has when he's uncomfortable and trying not to make it obvious. And there's a fresh new hurt when Tommy catches sight of a plain gold band on Steve's finger, shining bright between the golden highlights of his hair.

“I’m happy about this,” he can say honestly. Carol is one of the only things he’s ever been sure about. She held him steady as she could when his other sure thing left him with a cracked foundation in a convenience store parking lot. “What about you? How long after meeting the future Mrs. Harrington did you wait to put a ring on her finger?”

“Tommy,” Carol chides as the teen in the corner snorts. To anyone else it would sound like a reprimand for being nosy, he, and he suspects Steve, knows she’s telling him to stop worrying a scab that has no hope of healing right.

Married and they didn’t know. Wouldn’t have found out until the reunion. It’s not like he expected an invitation, maybe an engagement announcement sent to their parents’ houses. They’d sent one to Loch Nora when the real ring had finally made it to Carrie’s finger. It was equal parts olive branch and offering. They’d gotten it back return to sender with no forwarding address.

The bell above the door tongs again, loud enough to make Carol jump. The platter of cakes doesn't shift at all in Steve’s hand. His arm shows no sign of fatigue. It’s almost distracting enough that he misses the obvious. The bell signals someone is coming into the store.

“Sorry, Sweetheart. I know I said I wasn't gonna be late but Mike…” There just inside the door is the Freak. Undeniable even with his head down as he digs through his shoulder bag. From the riot of poorly maintained tangles that still hang around his shoulders to the expanded mess of tacky ink on his arms. The only thing that’s changed is the age in his face and the band on his shirt.

“Munson?” Carol has the reflexes and the personal grace to address him first. Shock more than the disgust it might have been when they were still kids.

Tommy feels like a kid still. Looks to Steve in an instinct he’d thought he’d stamped out years ago, only to be met with wide eyes and teeth grit tight enough to draw out the square line of his jaw.

“Christ, I still get nightmares that start like this.” Munson says, eye darting between the three of them. “Max, am I naked?”

“Don't know, don't wanna know.”

“I thought you'd be able to tell by the energy in the room.” He wiggles his fingers, still bedecked in silver, like they can divine the vibrations or some witchy shit.

That’s enough to make Steve break just a little. A soft, exhaling scoff before he finally starts to move out from the counter. Tommy catches, and he doubts Carol misses it either, how Steve passes the closer tables to set his tray down between them and Munson.

“I can tell I don't want to be here for this.” Their redheaded audience member says, “I'm taking my 15.”

“Don't go harass Mike, he's finally working,” Munson says.

“Will and El are on shift on the other side,” Steve calls out, not looking at any of them as he moves cakes from his tray to the table. A deliberate selection he seems to be making.

“Whatever, I’m gonna call Lucas and break up with him so he can play better or whatever.”

“Don’t be too harsh,” Munson calls out, “I’ve only got him on a five point spread.”

If Carol’s nails break from how hard they’re digging into his arm, somehow it’ll be Tommy’s fault. Not the fact that they’ve advanced the worst part of their ten year reunion by months, and also Munson is here and knows shit about basketball.

“Sorry, think my hearing’s going, sounded like you said you want him to lose and he’s getting kicked from the next one shot. I’ll let him know.”

“She gets that from you,” Steve and Munson say in sync. Glaring playfully at one another the way Steve used to with Carol.

“I’ll tell Robin you were-”

“Do not sick Buckley on me, Max made the deaf joke not me.”

“Weird, that’s not what I heard.” Steve has always claimed his hair as his best feature. It isn’t -- Carrie liked his eyes, Tommy his hands -- but it’s hard to deny that it doesn’t look good, flipping over his shoulder. His smile is private, just for Munson, soft the way he got whenever he picked up a new girl. Carrie taps the back of his hand, two sharp smacks, their signal for years that he needed to pay attention and notice something she had. Wide, nervous eyes dart to Steve -- like he hadn’t already been looking at Steve -- so he does his best to assess the way Carol would.

Jealous, viciously, Steve had been theirs in every way that mattered since they were ten years old and Carol had never liked sharing her toys with anyone but them. She watched his face for any sign of unhappiness anytime a new girlfriend came along, and when she found one she passed it along to him. So he could pick and joke until Steve was all theirs again.

So he checked the face. Tried to ignore the way Steve was lit up from the inside out with a joy he could barely remember, and then he saw the hearing aid.

He tapped back, three times. O.M.G.

“The 1985 Homecoming court here to reveal that this has all been a long con, Stevie?”

“Yeah I faked the name change paperwork and picked up a fake ID, sorry I took my business somewhere else.” Steve says it with the sincerity he’s always made those kind of jokes with, his strange sense of humor never coming across when he always sounded so serious. 

Munson gets it though, snorts loud and ugly, before a smile pulls wide across half his face the otherside taught with a gnarly scar. “Now I know why my fake ID business went belly up when we got to the city, not like I only sold three in high school.”  He gestures to the three of them in a wide arc.

Sophomores, they had decided it was time to throw their first real party now that Steve’s parents had moved out of Hawkins in all but name. Steve was a latchkey kid of new proportions and took to self sufficiency in a way that had seemed adult to him then; and in hindsight looked more like a child fighting for his life. Steve bragged how he’d been saving up the weekly checks they’d sent to ‘sustain him’ while they worked in the city during the week. His contribution to Tommy and Carol’s vague plan to throw a kegger by the pool. When they’d floundered, immediately, with the hows, Steve had been the one to suggest going to Munson.

“Love this preview of the reunion,” Carol cuts in, there’s no bite but Munson bristles anyway like she’s being rude for reminding them that there are customers present. “Steve?”

It’s funny, Tommy thinks, the way Steve still straightens his back at Carol’s tone. All this time and he can’t fight the old ingrained instincts either.

“Dustin made the appointment,” Steve apologizes, even as he’s posture perfect and preparing his pastries. The unsaid, ‘I definitely wouldn’t have’ doesn’t go unheard and it doesn’t sting any less even this far from their last interaction.

“Munson could join us,” Tommy offers, a new olive branch since their last one was never seen. Even if it does raise three sets of brows and makes Carrie’s nervous smile tighten even more in the corner of her mouth.

“Well at least one of us has to,” Munson, Eddie, says. Just says, tone like it was meant to be something said under his breath.

He's grown up a lot since high school, they both have. Still, he's only got twenty minutes left on his lunch break and it's been a long day. "God, is that why it's called that?" Growth, he doesn't say that Steve Munson sounds a lot dumber than Steve Harrington.

"It's charming," Carol and Steve both say. Though Carrie is definitely lying and Steve barely gets it out from between his gritted teeth, a sore spot. He's always been good at finding Steve's bruises.

"It's charming," Tommy agrees, like he always did when he was out voted.

Eddie has a smirk spread across his face and a ‘too proud of himself’ look in his eyes. Mouth open to make some quip that Tommy is going to pretend is funny, for Steve’s sake. Now that they’re here, he’s going to do something to show that they could talk to one another again. Steve clicks his tongue, taps his index and middle finger down to his thumb two quick times before he can.

He turns to the girl in the corner, "Erica, scram, go help Robin and the kids with the new donation that just came in."

The teen continues to scribble in the notebook in front of her, bulky headphones over her ears, she makes no sign that Tommy can see that she's heard Steve speak. "Erica, go, or I'll tell your mother you moved out of the dorms. You're 20, it's not child labor, and you've got a timecard."

She sighs and wordlessly packs up her things, she gives Steve a scathing look that takes Tommy back to high school. The withering eyebrow and rolled eyes would have been just at home on Steve’s own face in 1985, but she marches behind the counter, the sound of her dish rattling in the sink before she disappears out the same door that the redhead had gone out.

Now that the room has been cleared, an awkward silence has found the space to squeeze in. Munson, the original, still standing in the doorway and Steve standing between his unlawfully wedded husband and the two people who had lost their chance at him years ago.

The wedding and the reunion both on the horizon had dredged up a nostalgia that Tommy and Carol had been dealing with in their own ways. Dredging up old yearbooks, Carol had found a shoebox of old notes that she’d kept. Conversations written in three different inks by three different hands, nonsensical after all this time. Tommy woke up from dreams that he hadn’t had in years. Always of Steve and Carol, a study in opposites, but similar where it mattered.

“Well,” Steve says, taking charge of the situation like he always would when the other two faltered, “you’re here for a reason. We might as well get started on it.”

Steve’s fingerprints are still on them, just like he’d noticed theirs on him, molded as they were together. They’ve always bowed to his expectations, and his whims. When he ushers them to the table with a spread hand, Tommy and Carol go where they’re beckoned.

And so does Munson.

They keep an empty chair between them, an artificial divide for Tommy’s sanity, but with the sprawl of Munson’s legs their knees still occasionally brush together. Carol had taken the spot closest to Steve, who has stayed standing. He is their gracious host, marking the head of the round table.

“I pulled out the full sampler before I realized it was you,” Steve says. Even with as off balance as the interaction has felt, Tommy doesn’t feel his hackles raising. While it’s possible he’s gotten more subtle with his digs, Steve’s vicious tongue was usually unmistakable. “I can tell you about as many of them as you want though if you want to pretend like we don’t already know what I’ll be making you. I’m sure neither of you have eaten lunch yet.”

“You are going to take us on?” Carol asks. Shock always gives her tone an extra edge, defensive and catty, even if she’s really just waiting to see if another shoe will drop.

“Obviously,” Steve says, placing a faintly orange square of cake in front of her. He slaps Eddie’s hand away from another piece without looking away from either of them. “That’s as far as I’ll be going in participation though.”

He doesn’t miss the way Steve’s mouth twitches up with the joke, a filthy smirk that leaves Tommy flushing hot. Too warm to not be a bright and obvious red at the acknowledgment of that old private in-joke.

It doesn’t get better when Carol moans, “Oh my god, Steve!” Even if it is about the cake.

He laughs, and Tommy suspects the two are actually trying to kill him. He chances a glance over at Munson who looks like he doesn’t care at all that his husband has made Tommy’s fiance moan. He is watching Tommy though, an inquisitive look like the one Carol gets when she happens to catch a nature documentary.

“Yeah,” Steve agrees with Carol, “I’ll do something small with that citrus cake for you and Tom so you’ve got something you’ll actually eat on your wedding, maybe a pineapple buttercream on top like that nasty Juicy Fruit gum you like so much.”

“I mean it’s really crazy how you’re so good at this when you’ve never had any taste,” Carol compliments, she never did learn how to be nice.

He could probably count Steve’s teeth in the answering smile. Tommy can feel it like an ache in his chest how much he missed this. He snatches another cube of cake off the tray just so has something else to focus on.

“That’s the fancy one for the people who hate their guests,” Munson says as the cake has settled on the flat of Tommy’s tongue.

“It’s lavender,” Steve corrects, and the floral flavor is lodged in the back of his throat at least gives him a reason now to feel so choked up. “And it is for a particular sort of bride.”

“Are you saying I’m not fancy and particular, Munson?” Carol asks. 

She’s obviously talking to Eddie Munson, who lifts his hands up in answer. But it’s Steve who says, “If you tried to feed that to Gail she would leave the reception bitching the whole time.”

“Well go on,” Tommy finds himself goading now that he’s swallowed, “finish calling your shot, Stevie. You said you knew what we were walking out of here with.”

Carol reaches across the table, locking eyes with Eddie as she snags the piece closest to him. The one his fingers had been inching toward like he thought Steve wouldn’t notice him trying to take it.

“I’ll make a small citrus cake for you, Carrie, we’ll hide it in the back of the larger cake so you can get the pictures of you cutting it and smashing into each other's faces-”

“We will not be doing that,” she interrupts, the warning for him and also unnecessary. He already knows how she feels about being embarrassed in public.

“Then the big cake for your guests will be a chocolate cake, I can cover it in a buttercream or a fondant icing also chocolate, because it’s the only kind of cake the Hagan family will eat. Even though I’m sure John hasn’t given you a dime for the wedding, he’ll complain until Hannah gets married if he doesn’t like the cake.”

“Really,” Steve continues, “the only thing up in the air is how many people you were able to get away with not inviting, Care.”

The two of them start talking actual wedding logistics, and as Tommy grabs another bite of cake -- this one looks like it might be a normal flavor -- he figures the real show of good faith would be talking to the only other person at the table while he eats what Steve correctly dubbed his lunch.

“Y’know he never actually answered me,” he says in an undertone.

Munson seems surprised at being spoken to, only widens his eyes in response to Tommy’s unasked question.

“I asked Steve how soon after the first date he proposed, he never actually answered.”

Eddie softens at the edges before he can even say anything. Steve had a way of doing that, bringing out the romantic in a person. He loved with a passion that demanded it be matched. “Technically I proposed to him, but he says it doesn’t count because we weren’t together and I was high on morphine after a major surgery and thought he was Apollo, come to whisk me away.” The smile on Munson’s face looks dopey and drugged up now, like the very memory of whatever hospital stay is so ingrained in his mind he can feel the high now.

“But,” he goes on, “he told me we were getting married whether it was legal or not about three months after he got legally married to another woman.”

“Stop,” Steve has always been able to sense when he’s about to be the butt of the joke. He has a finger pointed at Eddie like a teacher delivering a lecture. “You can’t tell people that. It was for tax reasons, I’m not cheating on my wife.”

“You say tomato, I say whichever one of us is your least favorite has to be the extramarital affair.”

“I say, you’re the most obnoxious person I’ve ever met.” Tommy can hear the warm affection behind the insult, the way their picking is a safer way to express their passion for one another.

He thought he would be jealous of whoever finally managed to reel in Steve Harrington for good, and he is. The emotion is there, present in the snarling tangle of emotions that this encounter has left in him. One that he and Carol will have to slowly tease and pick out tonight when they’re home in bed. Trying to make sense of what each thread is and what it means for them. But the one bright pulsing thread he can make sense of is happiness. He’s happy for Steve, happy that he gets to see an old friend so at ease and obviously cared for.

And he’s sad that his time is up, his lunch hour so close to an end he’ll be late getting back to the office. Something he can already hear his Dad and fucking Greg giving him shit for. Which means they have to end their time here.

Steve walks them to the door, flips the sign to mark them closed for lunch.

“Congratulations again, you two,” he says, “I really am happy I can get to be a part of this with you all. Even if it’s a little different than we used to imagine.”

Carol reaches out for the both of them, puts her hand on his arm. Tommy finds that he’s the one who actually says, “We’re glad you found someone who makes you this happy, dude. You deserve it.”

“Yeah, he’s alright most of the time.” It's said with such fondness it becomes a declaration. It’s hard to imagine how they thought they could ever be the something that could make Steve this happy. But maybe in a different life, under different circumstances it could have been.

There’s a minute where they all stand in the doorway. He wonders if they’re all afraid that this might be the last time they see each other, speak to one another, until Steve is delivering the cake on the day of the wedding. Maybe it’s just him, he was the one who pushed back the hardest after things ended.

Someone finally gives in and pushes the door open. It’s TONG a death toll for their current conversation. But it also sends a jolt through Steve, he straightens to his full height like a shock has gone through him. “Here,” he says, “here, um.” He digs around in his apron until he finds a pen and a receipt pad. Jots down something before tearing it off and putting it in Tommy’s hands, “It's our home number, in case you have any cake emergencies or something.”

They really can’t stay any longer.

Carol takes the note, better at keeping track of these things than Tommy is. It’s hard to know if they’ll actually use it, maybe after they talk about it, but if they do she’ll be the one to do it. She’s always been braver than him.

There’s no way of guaranteeing anything but the fact that they’ll have a cake on the table on their wedding day. But he hopes that Steve might stay for the ceremony once he brings it, he can even bring Eddie if that’s what gets him there. 

Alone in his car, Tommy lets himself take a minute to think about Steve Harrington one last time. He isn’t going to get what he wanted as a kid. Doubts that he’ll ever be as close to Steve as he’d been in childhood, too much time has passed and too much has changed.

But there’s an opportunity to get to know Steve Munson, and he isn't going to pass it up. Even if he doesn’t know how to name a bakery.

[castlebyersafterdark]

So I hear you love Car Guy Mike TM, and I have to say I've had a sort of vague vignette HC for a long time (based on a song) where it's autumn, or maybe winter, and Will is waiting all day and all afternoon and all evening for his first date with Mike. The daylight fades, and he's waiting waiting waiting, and finally the moment arrives, the time blinking a little red glow on the alarm clock, and he pulls back his bedroom curtains and sees two headlights in the distance as the car swings around the corner and into the driveway. Lights through the rain or mist, wet reflections shining, and Will feels so bubbly with nerves, the strangeness of knowing Mike so well and yet feeling like getting into the warmth of Mike's car that night is going to be like stepping into the total unknown, a whole new frontier.

‼️‼️‼️Love this!!! Oh, this is really evocative and a whole vision.

Car Guy Mike! I miss Car Guy Mike. One of the first ideas I played around with on this blog and I kinda left him in the dust. We should bring him back. And you have!!! This is such atmospheric vision.

The autumn vibes. Seasons changing, just like their relationship. Kind of together, but it's so new. Their first date will define it. And there's Will pining again. He's like a prince waiting in his locked tower for his knight to come charging down the castle grounds on horseback to whisk him away. His vivid imagination. Escaping into fantasy to calm his nerves. They hang out all the time - but it's going to be different from now on. This is a legitimate date. A date with Mike Wheeler, dreamy siiiigh. How his heart rate picks up at the sight of the lights in his driveway, lighting up his darkened bedroom, shadows casting lined patterns on the walls through the slats in the blinds.

Wanting to rush outside to meet him, but also eager for the novelty of Mike knocking on his door. Will he knock? Pick him up at the front door like a real date? It was a real date. The slam of the car door. Mike stepping out into the light rain, running a hand through his hair as the misty air clings to it. Headlights through the rain like solid beams, and Mike steps through them in silhouette. Will watched it all through a gap in the blinds. Darts away as Mike approaches the house. Knock at the door. Will is greeted with the shyest kiss ever. He all but melts, though the anxious energy sparks under his skin. Hand at his lower back as he's led to the car. Door opened for him as he gently sits down. He might swoon. Mike's never done that before.

The car is warm, the radio low. Windshield wipers back and forth as Mike does a cute little awkward jog around the front of the car before getting in the drivers seat. He's grinning wide, over-eager, also a little nervous. Will's sitting in his seat, fussing with his hands. Until Mike takes one of them, lifts it to press a kiss to the back, then holds them together on top of the center console.

They're nervous. Excited. But the road is theirs and a private little world exists inside metals walls and on two sets of wheels. Dry and safe from the rain, and everything else. Just them. Mike turns to back out and head down the driveway. Will squeezes Mike's hand tighter and lets himself breathe, ready to face this next step with the boy he's loved forever.

[superm4ks]

1. Brazil. 1992. By Ercole Colombo. 2. Giovanna Amati and Niki Lauda watch as a Ferrari passes in Circuito Estoril, Portugal. 1992. By Ercole Colombo.

Giovanna Amati bought her first motorbike in 1975. A 500cc Honda, powerful, loud, clearly too big for a 15-year-old Italian kid without a driver’s license.

Her parents never found out, not how she got the money, not where she found the bike, not even the identity of the salesperson desperate enough to accept a child’s money. A bike like that, to a kid like her. But not just any kid. Giovanna’s father owned movie theaters; her mother acted in said movies. All Giovanna wanted to do was play the role of racing driver. For two years, Giovanna kept her Honda hidden behind her friends’ garage, and only took it out for little spins during the late hours of the night, when Roma pretended to sleep and the sleek, narrow streets grew even more austere. Monsters in silk shirts mumbled low in the shadows, watched the kid ride over stone and grime, turn into dark gardens and across the Tevere river, far beyond the reach of the misty moonlight. Up and down, left and right, zigzagging past the Vespas and the yellow bicycles left unattended in the piazzas. A curt glimpse towards the Vatican, a recognition of Spirit, a nod of respect. Total darkness. Giovanna rode through the night like a black horse. Hair like broken hay sticking out of her helmet; sunken eyes the color of whiskey peering through a red visor. Straight, thin lips sucking on rolling paper and blowing out smoke too strong to be tobacco. This was Giovanna Amati in the dark. La principessa veloce de Roma.

3 years later, in 1978, Giovanna Amati was kidnapped in broad daylight. Caught between the considerable wealth of her surname and the diabolical politics of the time, the girl never really stood a chance. She was sitting in her car, parked in front of the Amati villa, perhaps waiting for someone to come join her, perhaps only taking a moment to breathe, listening to some music. We’ll never know. 3 masked men broke through the windshield like hammers and dragged her kicking and screaming into a van nearby. Giovanna was then taken to an apartment just a few blocks away, where she was undressed, assaulted, humiliated, broken and tortured, wrapped in a thick plastic sheet and shoved inside a wooden box. For 74 days, she was kept inside that box. The box only opened for food, for water, for hands, for mouths, for pain, for horrors. 2 months later, the box opened one last time. Against explicit court orders from the Italian government, Giovanni Amati and Anna Maria Pancanni paid for their daughter’s ransom using leftover box-office receipts from George Lucas’ ‘Star Wars’, old family jewelry and some of their servants’ life-savings.

The full cost hit 800 million-lira (almost 3 million US dollars). Soon after her release, Giovanna started receiving flowers and love letters from one her captors, Jean Daniel Nieto, which prompted some to speculate about the nature of their relationship. Giovanna was kept in a box for two months. ‘The box made me stronger.’ She’d tell the BBC, years later. After a few days of radio silence and even more flowers, she phoned Jean Daniel Nieto, and informed him she could no longer live without him, and they should run away together. Jean Daniel Nieto was ecstatic. He showed up to the meeting point right on time, in his best two-piece suit. Giovanna showed up on the back of her Honda. She did not stop for Jean Daniel Nieto. The police cars who’d been following close behind, however, did.

Giovanna Amati began racing cars professionally at the age of 21. Despite successful campaigns in Formula Abarth, Italian F3 and Formula 3000, Giovanna had close to no open-wheel experience, no real backing, no sponsors, and no hopes of a successful F1 stint. Still. She wanted to ride F1 cars the way she rode her bike alone in the streets of Rome. She wanted to play the role. She was an Amati, after all. Her final option was still in the box. Money. A doomed team wobbling on its last leg let her pay for its ’92 seat, and so, with no actual pump and uncomfortable circumstance, Giovanna Amati became the last woman on earth to ever drive for the F1 world championship, and the first and only woman to do so 14 years after being kidnapped. She attempted to qualify for Brabham 3 times: Brazil, Mexico, South Africa. All failed. Brabham kicked her out, obviously, and in came male savior Damon Hill, who then, phew, failed to qualify five times.

In my dreams, la principessa veloce de Roma still rides her Honda at night. Her eyes are red behind the visor, and she doesn’t stop at the Vatican. They’ll never catch her again.

Text by supermaks

Sources: 1, 2, 3, 4

3. South Africa. By Ercole Colombo.

4. Gangster-story all’italiana. Source unknown.

[dan-the-womans-blog]

Title: Home with You

(Charlie x Reader)

Forks was quieter than usual, the persistent drizzle turning the town into a serene, misty landscape. You stood by the kitchen window, watching the raindrops race each other down the glass. The comforting smell of fresh coffee filled the room, mingling with the faint scent of pine that always seemed to linger in the air here.

Charlie had been out all morning, handling a minor incident involving a deer and an unfortunate driver's windshield. You smiled to yourself, imagining his calm demeanor and steady hand as he reassured the frazzled driver.

The front door creaked open, and Charlie stepped inside, shaking off the rain from his jacket. His eyes lit up when he saw you, and he offered a tired but genuine smile.

"Hey," he said, his voice warm and comforting.

"Hey yourself," you replied, handing him a steaming mug of coffee. He took it gratefully, wrapping his hands around the cup and savoring the warmth.

"Busy day?" you asked, leaning against the counter as he took a seat at the kitchen table.

"Same old, same old," he replied with a chuckle. "But it’s always nice to come home to you."

You moved behind him, wrapping your arms around his shoulders and planting a kiss on his cheek. "I’m glad you’re home, Charlie."

He reached up, placing a hand over yours. "Me too."

The simplicity of life with Charlie was something you cherished. He wasn’t a man of many words, but his actions spoke volumes. The way he’d get up early to clear the driveway of snow, the quiet moments spent together over dinner, and the soft, reassuring touch of his hand in yours. It was these small things that made your life together so special.

Later that evening, as you both settled on the couch, the sound of rain still pattering against the windows, you rested your head on Charlie's shoulder. He wrapped an arm around you, pulling you close.

"Do you ever regret moving to Forks?" he asked suddenly, his voice soft and hesitant.

You lifted your head, looking into his earnest brown eyes. "Not for a second," you replied firmly. "This is where my heart is."

Charlie smiled, the kind of smile that made his eyes crinkle at the corners. "I love you," he said, his voice barely above a whisper.

"I love you too," you replied, leaning in to kiss him gently.

In that moment, with the rain outside and the warmth of Charlie’s embrace, everything felt right. Forks might be a small, rainy town, but it was filled with love, and it was your home.

And as long as you had Charlie, it always would be.

---

I hope you enjoyed this short fanfic!

[chubcheckers]

Midnight Revelations

I’d always thought of myself as a reserved type—someone better suited to the quiet comfort of novels and late-night tea than any sort of nighttime adventure. So, finding myself driving down empty streets around 2 a.m., with the rain blurring everything into a misty mess, was already out of character. I could barely see through the slick windshield as my wipers swished frantically, and I was…

[theotherwesley]

So I'm visiting my folks in Idaho and I need you all to understand what the drive through Washington -> Idaho -> Montana -> Idaho Again was like because it was surreal.

First, you have to understand that we hit a truly Kafkaesque amount of roadwork across three separate states. This is important context because you need to imagine everything else that happened happening while driving 30mph through a construction zone.

This is a picture-heavy tale. Bear with me, you will want to see the end.

We start off-- gorgeous day in WA state, we're lookin green, we're lookin hydrated, and ooooh looks like we might hit some Weather up ahead haha! (This is called 'foreshadowing'.)

The rabbits express their extreme displeasure with the situation by wishing death upon me with their eyes.

We go through the ID panhandle and it's a beautiful drive-- roadwork, every step of the way. (I neglected to take pictures of this part because I was Sleepy.) There was a huge amount of wildlife running and flying around; saw lots of antelope and deer (including the one that jumped RIGHT in front of the car as soon as it got dark), a blue heron, a crane, definitely saw a bald eagle just sitting in the middle of a field looking confused.

THEN: Montana. First thing we see, in the middle of Nowhereville Mountain Farmington is a big rolling field with a tractor flying THE BIGGEST PRIDE FLAG YOU CAN IMAGINE. The fact that I didn't catch a photo of it is going to haunt me til the end of days. Rural America is not all bad; you must consider the Mountain Lesbians.

Big Rocks, Big Weather:

The landscape remains impressive and we seem to be driving into every storm in the country, with the sun at our back the whole time. We had rainbows on our tractors, and rainbows pretty much continuously for the whole journey. It was a Gay Odyssey.

We had everything from barely visible misty rainbows to electric neon rainbows to full rainbow arches to Double Rainbows Going All Across The Sky (on THREE separate occasions) to little chode rainbows, doing their best.

The Chode Rainbows:

Bonus Wesley Dad Cameo under the full rainbow bridge:

MEANWHILE, THE WEATHER:

Increasingly beautiful, increasingly ominous. Golden hour has lasted for like 20 hours? Is this normal? I'm calling the doctor. (Note the construction cones.)

Oh.

And are we stuck in a 30mph construction zone? HABsolutely!

Rainbows happening at the same time as the lightning and the road construction, naturally.

Okay wait nevermind, THIS is golden hour:

The sky has some kind of dragon in it, so that's cool.

Like, what is this. Like what kind of mystic portent shit is this. This is some kind of Sky Phoenix. Lightning has been striking on either side of the car for half an hour. There's a thing in the distance that might be a tornado. I am worried for my life. We might get raptured. We've seen twenty different kinds of rainbow. I'm trying to take photos of what seems to be the Götterdämmerung taking place a hundred miles from my home town through a bug-spattered windshield.

Anyway, we got home and I get to see this idiot again:

We did not get raptured or devoured by the world serpent, The End.

[highfunctioningflailgirl]

Damage Control: 1x02 Wendigo

Dean would never admit to it, but it’s a good thing that Sam’s driving. In truth, the Wendigo had done a number on him, and now that he no longer has to keep up his Winchester trademark bravado for the girl, the cops and the EMTs, he turns his face away from Sam and leans his forehead against the Impala’s passenger window, pretending to fall asleep. 

The rain-streaked glass is blessedly cool against the bruise creeping up his cheekbone to his eye and soothes his headache. Maybe he has a concussion after all. Although he’d told the EMTs his head was fine and his pupils had done him the favor of being equal-sized when they’d shone their flashlights into Dean’s eyes, he feels queasy now, and a little dizzy.

Everything feels sore. His cheek is swollen, his neck itches under the bandage. His shoulders hurt from being strung up by his wrists for hours. His skin is chafed from the rope. His back aches from being dragged across the forest ground, over roots and rocks, to the cave. Although his sturdy canvas jacket had literally saved his skin, he still feels like he’s been road-hauled. 

Without Sam, he would’ve parked the Impala somewhere off-road and curled up in the backseat to sleep off the worst of it before dragging himself back behind the wheel and onto the road. He would’ve popped a few pills and chased them with whiskey to drown out the pain. The next morning, he would’ve caffeinated at a drive-in to avoid curious looks and stayed away from mirrors for a few days. 

But Sam is here, a reassuring presence beside him, driving him through the night, and the familiar squeaking of the Impala’s chassis and the sloshing rain on the windshield are comfortably lulling Dean to sleep. 

xxx

“Dean. Dean!”

Sam is shaking him by the shoulder, and Dean peels his eyes open, disoriented. 

“What?”

“Jesus, Dean!” Sam is shaking his shaggy head. “I thought you’d fallen into a coma or something!” 

Stiffly, Dean sits up and scrubs a hand across his face. It hurts.

“Why? No. I’m fine.”

“You sure?” Sam arches dubious eyebrows. “Dude, I could barely wake you up.”

Dean waves him off. “Yeah. I’m good. I was just exhausted. Relax! I’m fine.”

“You don’t look fine.”

“Then don’t look at me.”

“Hah! Funny.” Sam isn’t laughing. 

Dean ignores him and tries to gather his bearings. “Where are we?”

“Motel parking lot”, Sam replies, still frowning at Dean. “You’re beat, and I could use some shut-eye, too. Something to eat. And a shower.” He sniffs at his jacket and wrinkles his nose. “We both smell like roadkill. You look like it, too.”

Dean blinks blurry surroundings into focus - a mostly empty parking lot ringed by the peeling outline of a cheap motel complex, a “vacancies” sign flashing orange in the misty dawn. Then he looks down at himself, at his dirty clothes and hands, and takes a whiff.

“You’re not wrong,” he admits. He stinks, and it’s not exactly helping with his lingering nausea.

Sam pulls the keys out of the ignition and reaches for the door handle. “I’ll get us a room. Stay here! We don’t want to scare the locals.”

When he’s out of sight, Dean angles the rearview mirror so he can look at his face. He does look terrible. His right eye has blackened, and his cheek is swollen and tender around the cut. The bandage on his neck is a rusty brown. He‘s pale, the freckles on his face competing with dried specks of mud and dirt. His hair is plastered to his temple where he’s been leaning against the window.

“Ughh…” he comments and repositions the mirror, away from his face.

It only takes a few minutes for Sam to return, motel keys jingling in his hand, but it’s about time. Dean is already drowsy again, and only his full bladder is keeping him awake. 

While his brother grabs their overnight duffels from the trunk, Dean hoists himself out of the passenger seat, and, for a hopefully inconspicuous moment, hangs on to the passenger door while a dizzy spell passes.

“Dude. You’re on concussion protocol for the next twenty-four hours!”

Shit.

“I’m f-”

“Shut up.” The sudden authority in Sam’s voice surprises Dean. He almost sounds like their dad. “You’re swaying, and you look like Casper after six rounds of mud wrestling. I don’t care what lies you told the EMTs, but I am going to wake you up every hour to make sure you’re not bleeding into your stupid brain!”

The fact that Dean can’t even come up with a return has Sam nod in confirmation. 

“Right. Now let’s get your ass into the shower and then into bed.”

There’s no further discussion. Sam carries their bags to their room while keeping a close eye on Dean who crosses the parking lot like his own friggin’ grandfather. As he shuffles along, Dean wonders about the sudden role reversal. He‘s the one who‘s always taken care of Sammy, and it’s odd to experience it the other way around. Odd, but not entirely unpleasant. 

Inside, the garish interior of their lodgings bites into Dean’s aching eyes - tasteless combinations of orange and green that would put even the ‘70s to shame. Longingly eyeing one of the two beds, Dean staggers past it, into the bathroom. Once he lies down, he knows he won’t be able to get back up.

„Wait!“ 

Sam prevents him from shutting the door, then he reaches inside Dean‘s duffel bag and, rummaging around, retrieves his toiletry kit including shampoo and shower gel.

„Here, you’ll need this.“ He hands it to Dean. „And don’t lock the door!“

„Sammy, you don‘t have to take care-„

„Well, yes!“ Sam glowers at him in a mixture of worry and annoyance. „Because someone has to if you’re not taking care of yourself. I know you Dean, and some things… they don’t change.“

The brothers lock eyes and, for a moment, memories bounce between them. Memories of hunts with their father when one of them had gotten hurt and Dean in particular had quickly adopted John Winchester‘s way of unwavering stoicism. It hadn’t just been about copying the behavior of his father, whom Dean admired. Nor had it been about heroism or masculinity, as Sam had often claimed. No. Dean had simply never deemed his pain important. Saving people was important. Protecting Sammy was important. The world was full of monsters hurting innocents. They were important. Not Dean’s occasional sprained ankle, a cracked rib or a conk to the head.

His attitude had driven Sam crazy. Even Dad had torn him a new one once, for ignoring an injury that had brought him close to sepsis and forced them to abort the hunt for a shapeshifter. Dean had learned from that. A little.

“Thanks, Sammy,” he says and disappears into the bathroom.

The massaging heat of the shower trumps the stinging of his wounds, and Dean spends so much time under the hot spray that Sam gets nervous outside and knocks on the door, threatening to come in. 

“I’m fine!” Dean yells, and he wonders how many times he’s said those two words in his life when, truly, he’d been anything but. 

When he emerges from the bathroom, wrapped in a towel, he’s weary to the bone and grateful for the fresh set of clothes Sam has already laid out for him. He nods at his brother and briefly returns to the bathroom to slip into the soft, clean jogging pants, t-shirt and hoodie, his shoulders groaning in protest at the movement. 

“You want something to eat before turning in?” Sam calls from the main room. “I was thinking about ordering take out. D’you want a burger?”

Dean’s stomach does a little flip at the thought of greasy food - more proof that he’s indeed concussed - but he can’t quite shed the pretense. It’s too ingrained in him.

“Cheeseburger and fries, but only if you order something, too,” he calls back. “And do we have beer?”

He shuffles back into the main room and sits down on the nearest bed, gingerly leaning back against the headboard.

“Alcohol and a concussion don’t mix,” Sam tells him sternly, one ear pressed to his cell phone. “But you know that, and I guess you’re not going to- Yes, hi, can I place an order, please?”

Whatever burger joint is on the other end of the line, Dean’s grateful for the distraction. One good thing about hunting alone had been that no one had lectured him about his lifestyle. Not that his father had cared about Dean’s preference for junk food or his drinking. If anything, he’d set an even worse example, living on whatever food was left after his sons had eaten and regular swigs from his hip flask. But hunting had been John Winchester’s number one priority, and he would’ve taken Dean’s head off for aggravating an injury through drink and compromising his hunting skills even further. 

“… you should really change those.”

“Huh?”

Dean looks at Sam, forcing his eyes to focus. Jeez, he’d really zoned out for a moment there. 

Sam’s standing by the bed, his own toiletry kit and fresh clothes in his arms. His brows are knitted in annoyed concern, forming a swirly set of wrinkles on his forehead that Dean thinks is going to stay if his little brother doesn’t stop this mother-henning anytime soon. 

“I said food is ordered, I’m gonna hit the shower, and you should change those bandages. They’re wet.”

Dean sighs in surrender. “Yes, ma’am!” He lifts his hand to peel the sodden bandage from his neck. “Go shower!”

“First aid kit is on the table.”

“Go shower!”

Finally, Sam leaves him alone. Reluctantly, Dean gets up again and fetches the first aid kit. It needs restocking, but he finds some gauze, and, in front of a dusty mirror by the door, tapes it over the wound on his neck. He doesn’t bother with the cut on his cheek; it’s already scabbing over. Same goes for the abrasion on his forehead. 

The shower’s still running when he’s done and he sinks back down onto the bed. Sam seems to be enjoying the hot water as much as Dean, and although he managed to escape the Wendigo nearly unscathed, Dean is sure he’s feeling the long hike through the woods in his muscles, too. 

Dean himself feels leaden now. His head’s still hurting, and he leans back, closing his eyes. There’s a soothing comfort in the sounds emanating from the bathroom - water running, an audible sigh from Sammy and muffled banging as his 6’5 brother navigates the too-small shower stall. 

Before Sam had joined him in his search for their father, Dean had only had silence for company, filled with a looming, leering sense of danger. It’s not that he wasn’t used to being on his own. His father and Dean had been splitting up and gone on solo hunts ever since he’d turned twenty-five. In fact, Dean quite enjoyed those times. His father’s tough love approach wasn’t always easy to bear, and his presence always diminished Dean. He was more confident and a better hunter on his own. As a bonus, solo hunts meant he could pick up girls more easily.

But it had been different this time. His father was missing. John Winchester was in trouble; Dean could feel it in his bones. And suddenly the motel room he’d been staying in on his own hadn’t felt like freedom; it had felt stifling and too quiet, with evil lurking in the corners. For the first time in a long time Dean had felt alone, and scared, and he still doesn’t know what he would’ve done if Sam hadn’t come with him to go looking for Dad. 

That fear isn’t entirely gone. Dean still worries that something happened to their father, that he– No. He’s not going there. He’s got Sam now - who’s apparently going through a whole bathroom routine with his fancy shampoo and expensive shower gel - not like the cheap no-name soap Dean uses - and will later sleep in the other bed the way he always does, on his belly, his long  lanky body sprawled on the mattress like a starfish. If Sam isn’t haunted by nightmares about Jessica, he will sleep like a log, his deep, even breaths reassuringly filling the darkness. 

And it is with that comforting thought that Dean himself drops into slumber now, concussion be damned, and he doesn’t wake up until Sam, like clockwork, raises him exactly one hour later, for a warmed-up burger and fries. 

Find the whole series on AO3 here:

[commander-rahrah]

Cyberpunk: Twin Flames - Ch 5

A SilverV fic

Linked psyches. That was Alt's solution for them. Two bodies -- their own bodies. But souls and minds still intertwined -- feeling each other's pain and emotions. Never too far away, never far behind.

There could never be one without the other.

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I just posted my fifth chapter of my Johnny Silverhand/Fem!V fic over on my AO3. If you are interested in reading, I have put a snippet below. You can also read the rest of my fic over on AO3!

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“You nervous?”

V flashed Johnny a look. He knew exactly how she felt — not like she was trying to hide it anyways. Her fingers were twitching on the steering wheel as she followed behind Teddy’s dirty van the next morning. The suspension on her truck groaning with the desert hills. She squinted from the sun beating down through her windshield, keeping her eyes on the dirt road. “Just trying to figure out what I’m going to say to Panam.

“She’s a smart girl. She’ll figure it out pretty fast once she sees me.”

Her mouth twitched. “I guess.”

“At least she already knew about me, right?” The Rockerboy shrugged.

“Yeah…” V was grateful when the cat was out of the bag with Panam. It was pretty hard to hide it after she’d almost got zeroed by the relic in front of her. But it was a weight off her shoulder regardless, having to not hide it — to be able to speak about Johnny to someone who didn’t know him from before like Rogue and Kerry. “You never told me how Misty and Vik reacted to you.”

His dark brows furrowed as he thought back, “I mean — they just accepted it.”

“Really?”

“You were flatlining in my arms V,” He said gruffly, his mood souring as he recalled that night just a month ago.

She grimaced, “Right.”

“I mean — Vik definitely fuckin’ hates me." He sucked his teeth, "Not sure if it’s ‘cause he has such a hard on for you or because he’s old enough to actually remember what a bastard I was—“

She cut him off, taking her eyes off of the road to flash him a look, “Vik doesn’t have a hard on for me.”

He arched his brow, scoffing at her. “The innocent act is getting old V,”

“It’s not a fuckin’ act," Her nostrils flared, "You thinking every single person who I talk to wants to get in my pants — that’s getting old.”

He scoffed again, staring out the the window and avoiding V’s eyes, “Sure,”

“Vik is family — he’s saved my ass more then anyone else I know.”

He rolled his dark eyes as he looked back over at her, “And why do you think he does that V? Out of the goodness of his heart?”

“At first, yeah. But now—“

Johnny finally looked back at her, shaking his head. “Nobody’s that good, princess. Everyone’s got a reason for doing something.”

Her back molars clicked together, her mouth forming a hard line. “Way to see the silver lining in everything, Silverhand.”

She felt a flash of heat, anger course through her — his anger. “Just drop it, V.”

“Can’t just order me to stop talkin’ about it—“

“I don’t want to anymore.”

“Well I do!" V raised her voice, tired of him controlling the conversation. "What’s your deal with him? Vik’s my family Johnny, I owe him a fuckin’ lot. And now the most important person in my life, is fuckin’ huffing and puffing because apparently the only possible way anyone could want anything to do with me is to get into my goddamn pants.”

“Fine." He spat, "You wanna know why am I’m mad?”

“Yes.”

He twisted in the passenger seat, moving his body so it was completely facing her. Both his metal and 'ganic hand flinging in the air as he spoke animatedly. “I’m fucking mad because how well he knows you. I hate him and Misty and Panam, all of your stupid fucking friends. Because they know you.”

Her blue eyes were darting between him and the dirt road ahead, “What are you talking about, Johnny? No one knows me better than you.”

“Yeah because of the fuckin’ chip, V.” His voice turned quiet, soft. Uncertainty waving off of him.

Her eyebrows met in the middle, a hard line forming between them. “That’s not true.”

“The chip’s what gave me access to your head.”

“Johnny… I’ve told you things I’ve never told anyone." She blindly reached across, grabbing onto his leg for a moment. "Not even Jack. Tell that green monkey on your back to fuck off, kay?”

He stayed silent, processing, before nodding at her.

Her face turned serious, a flicker of anger shimmering in her eyes before it disappeared again. “And even if someone does want to get in my fucking pants, doesn’t mean I’m gonna let them.”

Johnny’s face softened, “Right.” He looked out through the side window for a moment before turning back to her, “Most important person in your life hey?”

“Oh shut up,” She smirked, before turning her eyes back to the road — searching for Teddy's van again.

“Jackie knew you pretty well. And fast.” He said simply, eyes studying her.

Her bottom lip quivered at the mention of his name, “You spend every waking moment with someone bound to happen. Chip or not.”

They both knew it was a sensitive thing to bring up. Something that they never touched on, hadn't ever really got near. She'd never gotten anytime to really think on it. To grieve Jackie, to miss him. It was a hole that they'd both watched get bigger and bigger in her for some time. So big now, neither of them really knew how to approach it.

“Sorry I’ll never get to meet him.”

Instant tears welled in her eyes, but she kept them glued to the windshield, “Me too.” She croaked, her voice breaking and a couple tears snuck out, rolling down her checks.

“Hey—“ His dark eyes were crinkled with guilt, as he felt a crack of pain in his chest — just an echo of what was happening in her. He reached out and pressed soothing fingers on her wrist. “Picked the wrong topics today. I’m sorry.”

“S’okay.” She whispered back.

He intertwined his fingers through hers, before pulling them towards him. He placed a soft kiss on her knuckles.

V wasn’t sure she’d ever seen him touch so softly.

You can finish the rest of this chapter, or read my whole fic on AO3!

[voltronisanobsession]

The Unknown Bus

An original story I wrote more than a year ago. It was inspired by all the nights I myself had to wait for my bus after getting off at work😔

GUYS I KNOW MY ACC HAS BEEN DEAD FOR A WHILE IVE BEEN BUSY💔 pls enjoy this pookie, I’ll make a comeback soon😔😔

As the girl was leaving the mall, she noticed that not a single soul was present. Not bothered at first, she made her way to the exit only to see no one lingering outside like she usually would see everyday after work.

Walking out the mall, the world was bare from any life, no cars parked sparsely, and no people loitering around waiting for their ride. It was foggy and dark, a light mist in the air from the previous rainfall. Despite the empty lot and mall, the lights from the theatre nearby shun brightly, along with the light posts scattered in the area. It offered the girl the slightest bit of comfort.

In the distance, she saw a vehicle at the bus stop she usually waited at, the bright glowing orange lights the only color in the misty darkness. Slowly walking towards this bus, she wondered if she had stepped into a different world.

She felt chills run down her arms, the coat she wore doing nothing against the phantom cold.

Nearing the unknown bus, she read its headlights. Sparrows Lane. Finally standing at the bus stop, the girl tried to avoid contact with the driver, but he never turned in her direction to acknowledge her. The doors suddenly opened, the lights flooding out and a warm breeze hitting her as she stared at the driver.

The Bus Driver sat still, eyes never straying from the windshield in front of him. He wore a navy blue vest and navy trousers. The crisp white button up he wore gave his outfit a sharp, yet fashionable look. The hat on his head was a shiny black, the light reflecting off of it clearly.

Yet despite how fancy he looked, the hat casted an ominous shadow over his face, the bottom half only visible in the light.

Unsure of what to do, she shifted uncomfortably. After a moment of hesitation, she asked, “Are you heading towards Gaven Street’s main road?”

The Bus Driver gave no reply.

Unsettled by his lack of response, she slightly backed away from the entrance of the bus, letting the driver know she was not going to enter the strange bus.

The Bus Driver waited a few seconds more until he finally closed the door. The bus let out a hiss, the exhaust pipe blowing out black smoke. The bus slowly drove away, turning the corner and traveling down the road, disappearing from the girls view.

Shuddering, she slowly sat down on the curb of the sidewalk, putting down her bag, while staring off into the foggy distance.

Taking out her phone, she noticed that none of her apps would fully load. It was then that she realized there was no service available.

“That’s so weird, I literally just had service a few minutes ago…”, eyebrows furrowed, she suspiciously looked around her. Something wasn’t right.

Settling her phone down in her bag, the girl sat in silence thinking of how strange her night had become since leaving her job. Checking the time quickly, five minutes exactly had gone by when she heard the sound of a car approaching her. More like a large truck in fact.

Glancing behind her with hope, the girls eyes widen as the familiar bus drove around the lot, heading straight towards the bus stop. Abruptly standing up, she yanked her bag from the ground and took a few steps back as the bus stopped right in front of her. The light from the bus did little to comfort her in the darkness as it once did before.

The door opened, revealing the Bus Driver once again, the same sharp clothing and the same shiny hat on top of his head, patiently waiting for her to board the bus. Huffing slightly, the girl had no choice but to speak.

“What do you want? I won’t get on, it’s not going where I need to go.” Despite speaking with confidence, it slowly diminished as the Bus Driver paid her no attention again, simply offering her his silence.

She stood there for what felt like hours, which was only a few minutes, contemplating if it was worth taking this strange bus to somewhere she didn’t know. She had to be reasonable though, the bus was the only thing that seemed to be coming and going from this place, which meant if she continued refusing passage, who knows how long she would be stuck here for.

Sighing in defeat, the girl went to step on the bus until the Bus Driver stopped her with his hand held up.

Looking at him with surprise, she followed where his hand was pointing to. A small sign with fancy lettering which read ‘1 Paper Cash Per Person.’ seemed to appear out of nowhere.

“I don’t carry cash on me, I use an online ticket for all my buses.” Going to step off the bus feeling slightly relieved, she was once again stopped by the Bus Driver.

His hand slowly traveled towards the side of his vests pocket, patting it twice and then pointing towards the girls jacket pockets.

With confusion written in her eyes, she went to search her pockets like a fool, exclaiming, “Sir, I told you I don’t carry cash with-“

She felt her heart drop as her voice died down, her hand coming into contact with a thick piece of paper. Slowly pulling it out from her pocket, she eyes made contact with the dollar like paper, the color an off blue with the number 1 written on the top two corners. One Paper Dollar. In amazement and horror she held the paper dollar with both of her hands, asking if this was her payment. The Bus Driver sat in silence.

Gripping the paper, she slipped it into the machine, in which the Bus Driver gave the girl a single bus ticket which said One Way - SPARROWS LANE. Slowly making her way to the middle of the bus, the girl sat down on a seat, a little frightened of the event that had just happened. Settling her bag down on the seat next to her, she waited for the mysterious driver to finally leave the familiar place she had grown attached to.

The bus hissed as the man started the bus, slowly turning it at the corner and driving away from the mall and the theatre.

The girl had no idea where she was going, if she was even safe on the bus that seemed to appear from nowhere. Accepting her fate, the girl looked out the window next to her, watching as the fog covered the trees she passed by, extremely weary of where the Bus Driver was taking her.

Wherever this Sparrows Lane was, the girl was sure she would have to find a way back home as it was apparent to her that she was no longer in her world.

Despite the unsettling feeing this unknown bus gave her, she found that she wasn’t as scared as she thought she would be.

[pbandjesse]

We just left the movies. That was a bizarre film. I had fun though! And when we left I got a text that we get the day off tomorrow! Special day off for opening day. That's so nice.

I slept a little better last night but I was up to late so waking up was still tough. James apparently almost cried they were so tired. My poor husband.

It was going to be a very rainy day. But it didn't start until half way to work. When I woke up it was just grey. I got dressed and felt good. My hair was a little more dirty then I wanted but I knew I would wash it tonight so it was fine.

James and me left work at the same time. And there was a lot of traffic struggling to turn off our street so I went down the alley to get to the light. Which is a little silly but makes it so much less stressful so it's worth it.

It wasn't a bad drive. When the rain started I was not thrilled mostly be she it made me feel tired. But I got to work in one piece.

I would have breakfast and work on my lesson plans. I worked quietly by myself for an hour or so. Until Sarah came in and we chatted about stuff that needed to be done. And came up with a few things for her to do. And I got back to work. Everyone but Alexi would slowly come in. Even saw Lou today who is back to Florida.

Around 10 Heather was going over to the hacienda to give a talk to the group from yesterday about the YLP program. I offered to drive us in the gator so I could pick up the trash from them.

So we headed over. And it was misty raining. And it made my face all wet because the gator has no windshield. But it was fine.

I was shocked by how much trash there was. The boys helped load up the gator and then tried to convince me to let them drive with me to the dumpster. I told them to go ask an adult, because I knew they would say no but eventually one of their adults joined me and it would be two trips to the other side of camp and we were both soaked by the end. But I was glad to help, even if I was very very wet.

I drove the chaperone back to the hacienda. And then went to park at the office. Heather had walked herself back. I would have to spend some time drying off and vaguely complaint about how wet I was. Thankfully the rain has not come through my fleece so it was mostly just my hair that was wet.

I would spend the next hour working and having lunch. Eventually Ceila came in and we were able to talk about doing the lessons for nature. She would make them very detailed which was great. And I kept working on mine, which are less detailed right now but I can always add more.

Eventually I needed a break from the computer.

And would get my umbrella and take a walk around camp. Elizabeth wanted me to check on the cleaning supplies at the cabins so I did that and was surprised that there were tents set up near stockade? I knew that the other group was using the cabins but I didn't know they were sleeping outside.

But that was fine. I would have a conversation with one person from that group when I went to the lodge to drop something off. And helped them get a mop to clean up a spill downstairs. Happy to help.

I came back to the office and would work for a while. Celia was leaving as I was coming in again. And I would spend some time just playing on Pinterest and reading stuff but mostly I was working.

I did have some funny moments. Like when googles ai tried to give me directions to create tin can lanterns without filling them with solid ice. It's solution said "you don't need ice to create a ton can lantern! Just fill it with water and freeze it!" And it's like. Okay Google you tried.

But I worked pretty diligently until 330. Elizabeth and Sarah had just gotten back from the hacienda where they let me know I could have 3 gallons of ice cream that the group left. Sweet. I would stop and grab that on the way out.

I got two full gallons and three pints. The rain was still strong. But it was time to go home.

It wasn't a terrible drive but it was a little hard to keep my eyes open. I was very excited to go home and lay down.

Right before my exit I saw a single car accident. Someone took the turn to quick and smashed into the barrier. But the guy was now standing in the road. And like yes you should move away from your car but also you are in a blind curve and someone is going to hit you. Hopefully that didn't happen.

I got home at 430 and after putting some stuff away (and trying on the dyed dress which came out so beautifully) I got into bed. And waited for James. And once they were home and had put some stuff away they joined me. And we hung out in bed being sleepy until it was time to go meet their parents for dinner and a movie.

We went to a food court. Similar to R house and Mt Vernon marketplace. And it was good! I got pizza because I'm not sick of it yet. James got pad thai. Tucker got a BLT with crab and Anne got a fancy chicken pesto flatbread. And it was nice hanging out.

Soon we would walk to The Senator theater. Which is a historic theater and was super pretty. They had some of the original murals exposed and we got to sit in the main theater which was beautiful.

And the movie was. Fun? Weird? Honestly it wasn't good. It was Hitchcock' "Marnie" and it felt like a lot of scenes that were loosely tied together. It's based on a book and I hope the book was better. There were so absolutely hilarious moments. Like one Marnie's honeymoon where she is wear a high neck long sleeve fully buttoned nightgown and her husband says shes never been sexier and we all lost it. But there was also marital rape? And grand larceny? And just really terrible haircuts. The sister in law was adorable. Lill. Loved her whole look. It was fun though and I'm glad we went.

At the end of the film Tucker realized he lost his phone so we took a moment to look for it. I also apparently lost my wrist brace, which I had taken off half way through the movie. Disappointing but I'll replace it tomorrow. As we were looking for the phone I got the text that Alexi has given us all the day off tomorrow so I was pretty excited. And we all went to the concessions desk to see if they had the phone and they did!

Tucker wanted to give the guy a tip but none of us had money. So Tucker gave this kid a container of THC gummies. Which is hilarious. Like me and James were laughing so hard once we got back to the car. That is one to remember for sure.

We just got home a little bit ago. And I'm going to go wash my hair before we go to sleep. And now I don't have to wake up early! I hope tomorrow I can do some baking and go get a new wrist brace and maybe work on some sewing or at least cutting out my new pattern design. But regardless of all of that I hope it's just a really good day.

Sleep well everyone. And pray that the rain stops. Goodnight everyone!!