#Push Mower New

[angryisokay]

Cub Cadet mowers look like Silverados.

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

the girl next door 1

Warnings: this fic will include elements, some dark, such as age gap, manipulation, chronic illness, noncon/dubcon, coercion, and other untagged triggers. Please take this into account before proceeding. It is up to curate your online consumption safely.

Summary: A new neighbour moves in and upends your already disarrayed life.

Author’s Note: Please feel free to leave some feedback, reblog, and jump into my asks. I’m always happy to discuss with you and riff on idea. As always, you are cherished and adored! Stay safe, be kind, and treat yourself.

This lewk but silverfox

“Mom, we should get going,” you say as you check your bag.

Your mother sits at the table. It’s cluttered as always. You can see her inhaler amid the mess. Wait, there’s another one. You cross the kitchen, only two steps, and grab both inhalers. You feel the subtle difference between them.

You take both, putting the full one back in the medicine cabinet and the other in the disposal bin. The doctor said the inhalent would help with your mother’s dopamine levels, balances her out a little, but the new treatment only seems to be another symptom of her disease. She hates doing it, she hates all of it, but you can’t blame her for that.

“We can’t be late for the consultation. We’ll be waiting another six months,” you come back to the kitchen.

She looks at you as she wobbles slightly. The tremor is more prominent than before. Each day you notice it more. All the little things changing about her. She’s a bit slower, her words don’t come easy or always clearly, and her mood grows grimmer and grimmer. So does yours.

You grab your purse and the keys. You’ll clean up when you get home. It doesn’t take very long for living to pile up though. Especially when you’re the only one to keep it in order.

Your mother grips the table and stands up. Getting her dressed was a battle already won. Her posture is slightly crooked as she shuffles around the table, “I’m moving.”

You step back, waiting patiently for her to round the table. She grumbles. Your mother was never bright and bubbly but ever since her diagnosis, she’s lost any glimmer of warmth. It’s like she’s living in a fog, just slowly wading through.

You walk down the hall ahead of her and pick out your shoes from the rack. As you kneel to tie your sneakers, she leans on the wall and slides her feet into the orthotic flats. She’s not very old yet. Neither of you expected her to decline so quickly.

You stand and open the door. You back up though the screen door and hold it for her. Her steps get a bit smoother the more she moves around. The permanent scowl sinks into the lines of her face as she comes out onto the porch. You lock the door behind her as she grunts and leans on the railing, stamping down each step to the walkway.

You follow behind her. That’s another problem. The lawn. The old mower broke. You haven’t been able to replace it.

As you trail your mother to the car, she swats you away. Sometimes you try too much for her. You know she must feel helpless. You back up as she sits heavily in the passenger seat and your eyes skim around the neighbourhood. The white sign on the lawn next to yours catches your eye.

You remember the finely dressed woman, her very image on the sign, and how she grimaced at the weeds and grass. If she’s going to sell the property, the neighbours shouldn’t be living in a jungle. You heard her say as much over the phone as she paced back and forth on the porch.

You mother pulls the door shut but it doesn’t click. You give it an extra push to secure it and round the hood. You get in the car and turn the key, rolling down the windows as the early summer morning crowds the tight space. Your mother mutters and wipes her forehead with a shaky hand.

“Let’s just go,” she sneers, “waste of my time...” she bends her arm over the open window, her fingers quivering, “damn doctors said it enough. Nothing they can do. Charlatans.”

“Mom,” you chide gently, “the surgery could help. If you qualify--”

“I heard ya last night,” she snaps. “Just drive.”

You nod and snap your mouth shut. You shift into reverse and back out of the drive. You know better than to talk too much. Your mother never liked hearing anything she didn’t want to hear. Facts are just an attack on her.

You steer down the street slowly, following the curve of the suburban street. The green lawns and white picket fences are palatial at first glance. It’s a 1950s fever dream implanted in the twenty-first century.

Your house is the black stain on an otherwise pristine canvas. The HOA must curse your grandmother for her leaving a perfectly nice home to a pair of beatnicks. You don’t blame them. You’re the puzzle piece that doesn’t fit, leaving a gaping hole in the picture.

The radio crackles on and you wince. Your mother struggles to turn the knob and the volume pendulums up and down. You reach to help her and she smacks your hand, only softly as she has little strength behind it. You retract and grip the wheel, listening to buzzing struggle of her unsteady. You just hope the appointment goes well.

🏠

Your mother hasn’t said much since the appointment. That worries you. What should be good news is just another dark cloud over her.

She sits as she often does; half-reclined in the chair by the window, watching the neighbourhood just outside the pane. She’s just a resentful of the picture-perfect neighbours as she if of everything else. As she is of you.

You tidy the kitchen table as the unsaid dangles in the air. You know better than to bring it up. She barely acknowledged it when the doctor said it. She’s a good candidate for surgery but it isn’t a cure. It will help with the symptoms but not stop them altogether. It’s not good enough for her but it might just be her only hope of relief, even if temporary.

“Bring me a coke,” your mother calls through and you hear the hollow tin clatter of an empty can.

You bring the dirty dishes to the sink and set them beside it. You go to the fridge to grab a red branded can and let the door shut on its own. As you enter the living room, your mother sits forward, the recliner snapping forward with her weight. She leans on and elbow as she squints through the window and cranes over the armrest.

You pick up the old can and put the new one on the small table by the chair. She sits back and takes the Coke, trembling as she struggles to crack the tab. You know better than to help her. The curl in her lip warns you better.

“Someone’s looking at the place next door,” she says.

“Oh?” You move behind her chair and try to the next house. You can only really see the edge of the porch from here. You could open the side window but that would give more than a view of the siding and might be too obvious. “New neighbours.”

“Eh, if it sells. Could do better without these stuck-up prissy bitches running around measuring grass,” she growls of the Home Owners’ Association.

You nod. She’s right. You’ve had to deal with that nosy blonde too many times.

“We’ll see,” she mutters as she finally gets the can open and slurps. “Just hope it’s not another bitch.”

You cross your arms and step closer to the window. You sense movement just beyond your vision and the realtor in her pantsuit comes down the front steps of the neighbouring house. She turns back to face someone you can’t see and speaks to him. Their words are garbled by the barrier of window and wall.

The woman smiles and spins to strut down to the sidewalk. A man follows after, a slow stroll in his long legs. He turns to face the house again and puts his hands in his pockets as he looks up at the facade. His eyes narrow as he considers it.

His gray hair is streaked with remnants of its former blond. If it wasn’t for the colour of his locks, you might not have guessed his age. He’s tall and his shoulders are broad. He’s built finely for any era.

Your mother leans forward again, “heh, lookie there,” she slurs.

She leers through the window as you stare blankly out. A new neighbour just means another person to complain about the lawn; or another person for your mother to complain about. The man pivots on his sole and pauses, his gaze set in your direction. You don’t think he can see you, not with how the sun reflects off the square panes. He stalls for just a moment before he turns complete, striding up towards the realtor.

You back up and retreat toward the kitchen. You mother hums as she continues to snoop through the window. The recliner squeaks beneath her as she shifts in the seat.

“Bit old for a family man,” she tuts.

[loliwrites]

Yard Work | The One You Need

pairing: neighbor!joel miller x f!reader  summary: drabble from the “The One You Need” universe warnings/tags: au, neighbor joel, age gap [reader is late 20s/early 30s, Joel is late 40s], hyper-independent reader, fluff, allusions to a blowjob, body worship [arms], terms of endearment [sweetheart], female reader, reader wears a bikini, no physical description, protective!joel, soft!joel, dare i say ei!joel, no use of y/n. word count: 1.5k series masterlist a/n: for @joelmillerisapunk’s ppcu body worship writing challenge. all about joel miller and them delicious arms

Summer in Austin wasn’t so bad when there was a chaise lounge chair to sprawl out on, on the deck with the sun beating its rays down upon you. It also wasn’t too bad when you had a hot neighbor who, on a fairly regular basis, gave you the best sex of your life, and who also coincidentally did all the manual labor around the house for you. Because while you were sprawled out in a bikini on a less than hotel style chaise, nursing a beer which was quickly losing its cool and condensating on the glass, Joel was out in your backyard, mowing the lawn.

✿ ✿ ✿ ✿ ✿ ✿ ✿ ✿ ✿

“Your fuckin’ grass is gettin’ so long, it’s bringing down the value of my house,” Joel pointed out while in bed that morning. All he had to do was look out your window and see the jungle being created by your lack of a gardener.

“Whoever should I get to tidy it up?” You only smirked, leaning over and straddling his body with yours. Surely, soft kisses down his chest would do the trick.

“A gardener,”

Your pouted, lips pressed to his sternum, and continued your way down to his stomach, adding your tongue to the mix for safe measure. If he was going to play hard to get, you could play a little harder. By the time you reached the waistband of his boxer-briefs, you could see the outline of his shaft, now half-hard. “What kind of payment would you like, Mr. Gardener?” You batted your eyelashes up at him while your fingertips coyly tucked beneath his waistband and pulled back just enough for his length to spring out and fall back against his waist.

“You’re gonna be the death of me.” He grinned and set his hand on the back of your head, adding just a hint of pressure, “get to work.”

✿ ✿ ✿ ✿ ✿ ✿ ✿ ✿ ✿

His old, gasoline push mower was capable enough for handling the size of your suburban backyard. A riding lawn mower might’ve been more efficient – or at least one of those new-fangled electric mowers that self-propelled. But this old Toro lawn mower, surely from the 90s, was reliable. Just like the man using it.

You paid for it first but now seeing him work, it definitely felt like you’d short changed him. He was putting on quite the show without even knowing it. Midway through your rather unkempt backyard, Joel let the gas lawn mower come to a stop. You’d paid him extra attention when the grumbling of the machine quieted, and found that he was reaching for the hem of his t-shirt. Hands tucked beneath it, he raised the lower half up and dragged it across his forehead, wiping away the sweat. The softness of his belly on partial display. And then as if realizing he was insane for keeping the shirt on in this heat in the first place, pulled the garment over his head. He tucked a corner of it into the back pocket of his jeans, letting the rest of it fly and whip behind him like a flag.

Then, nudging sunglasses down the bridge of your nose, you ogled at the way he bent over and hooked his fingers around the plastic grip of the pull cord. His long arm stretched fully, and then with a quick yank back, he tugged the cord upward. His bicep and tricep flexed simultaneously, the cuts of the muscles showing in his skin. That glorious machine. You could’ve kissed it on the spot. Old. Reliable. But temperamental. It didn’t roar to life with the first pull. His arm outstretched again. The sinewy tendons in his forearm became visible as he grabbed for the cord again. Then another pull back. Every muscle in his arm seemed to work in tandem, from his forearm right up to his shoulder. 

Now the mower roared to life. And the man behind it, ready to get the job done, put some force behind it and got the machine moving again. Cutting down the grass you weren’t sure you’d let get out of control just so you could have this very moment. You pushed your sunglasses up the bridge of your nose and laid back in your chaise, satisfied to revert to the mental image you had of him in your fantasies while the noise of the mower continued on. It wasn’t just that idea of being in the arms of a man. In your experience, there weren’t too many men worth being in the arms of. Though on the surface, the ogling of his arms – those beautiful, strong arms – was nothing but a bit of objectification, the truth dug so much deeper. 

Because it was the time you stopped at a job site after Joel had left his lunch at home. Surely he could’ve bought something, but he’d worked so hard on prepping a full lunch for it to go to waste in the insulated lunchbox forgotten on the kitchen counter. And at the job site, you spotted him with a long two by four propped on his shoulder, arm flexed to keep it steady as he walked it into the framed house. And the way you reached forward and set your free hand on his upper arm; fingers grazing along the cut of his bicep. How he pivoted his head and looked back at you. An instant smile spread across his face. The wrinkles by his eyes accentuated. 

It was also the time you’d had that terrible date. The one that ended on your front porch, hoping this guy would leave without incident despite him being a little more forward than you would’ve liked. How when he tried to push his way in, Joel materialized there. Only finding out later that night that he’d tucked his handgun into the back of his waistband. Just incase. But before that, when the boy, having grown disenchanted with the idea of bedding you walked off, how Joel used his frame to block you. His arms hung almost comfortably at his sides. Big. Muscular. Even later that night, when you followed behind him with your hand in his back pocket as he cleared your house of any potential burglars. How his arms felt like the ultimate protection. As if nothing would be able to touch you as long as you stayed behind them. Behind him. 

His arms were a great source of power. But they were also capable of such gentleness. More than you’d ever known. The same arms that were capable of carrying two by fours upon them were equally capable of wrapping around your waist and pulling you back into the cradle of his chest. The arms that had offered their formidable protection were the same ones that you often linked your hand around as you walked through the neighborhood in the evenings.

Then somewhere between the mental image of you curled up against him on the couch watching tv, and being caged beneath his arms in bed, you felt a weight settle over you and came to the awareness that the lawn mower had quieted down. You blinked a couple times to get your eyes used to the new brightness despite your sunglasses, and found Joel on top of you – hips nestled between your legs; his back pressed against your abdomen, and his head rested against your sternum. 

With a smile, you pressed your lips to the top of his head and trailed your hands down from his shoulders to his biceps. “I don’t pay hourly,” you smiled again and tucked your hands around his torso. 

“You’re a bad employer,” he smirked and took a deep breath. “Jus’ needed a break and you looked comfortable,”

You nodded, practically to yourself and gently dragged your fingernails over his skin. Then, because they just looked so tempting, you trailed your fingers back to his arms. Starting as far down as you could reach since his hands were curled around your legs and hooked over your shins, you settled with the crook of his elbow. The vein there protruded from beneath the thin skin, and you followed up back into his bicep, where the muscle flexed beneath your touch.

Joel tilted his head back with a deep inhale. On the exhale, he released a moan that made you think he might just leave your lawn half-completed. And while you definitely would want to see his muscles flexing as he jostled you around in bed, and then again when he’d surely curl his hand around your throat, you also wanted your backyard to look semi respectable – at least the HOA would want you to.

“That lawn’s not gonna mow itself,”

“Five minutes,” he mumbled. The sound of that made you think his eyes were long closed, “restin’ my eyelids.”

“We both know if you wait five minutes, you’re never gonna get back to it. And if you don’t get back to it, how are you gonna get your next blowjob for completion?”

He started to rile almost immediately. Enough that his arms now jostled you in trying to sit up and get away as quickly as possible. Then with speed you were sure his joints fought against, he ran across the grass, back to the mower, and bent forward for the pull cord again.

That wonderful, glorious, pull cord.

[dandelionsresilience]

Good News - August 15-21

Like these weekly compilations? Tip me at $kaybarr1735 or check out my new(ly repurposed) Patreon!

1. Smart hives and dancing robot bees could boost sustainable beekeeping

“[Researchers] developed a digital comb—a thin circuit board equipped with various sensors around which bees build their combs. Several of these in each hive can then transmit data to researchers, providing real-time monitoring. [… Digital comb] can [also] be activated to heat up certain parts of a beehive […] to keep the bees warm during the winter[…. N]ot only have [honeybee] colonies reacted positively, but swarm intelligence responds to the temperature changes by reducing the bees' own heat production, helping them save energy.”

2. Babirusa pigs born at London Zoo for first time

“Thanks to their gnarly tusks […] and hairless bodies, the pigs are often called "rat pigs" or "demon pigs” in their native Indonesia[….] “[The piglets] are already looking really strong and have so much energy - scampering around their home and chasing each other - it’s a joy to watch. They’re quite easy to tell apart thanks to their individual hair styles - one has a head of fuzzy red hair, while its sibling has a tuft of dark brown hair.””

3. 6,000 sheep will soon be grazing on 10,000 acres of Texas solar fields

“The animals are more efficient than lawn mowers, since they can get into the nooks and crannies under panel arrays[….] Mowing is also more likely to kick up rocks or other debris, damaging panels that then must be repaired, adding to costs. Agrivoltaics projects involving sheep have been shown to improve the quality of the soil, since their manure is a natural fertilizer. […] Using sheep instead of mowers also cuts down on fossil fuel use, while allowing native plants to mature and bloom.”

4. Florida is building the world's largest environmental restoration project

“Florida is embarking on an ambitious ecological restoration project in the Everglades: building a reservoir large enough to secure the state's water supply. […] As well as protecting the drinking water of South Floridians, the reservoir is also intended to dramatically reduce the algae-causing discharges that have previously shut down beaches and caused mass fish die-offs.”

5. The Right to Repair Movement Continues to Accelerate

“Consumers can now demand that manufacturers repair products [including mobile phones….] The liability period for product defects is extended by 12 months after repair, incentivising repairs over replacements. [… M]anufacturers may need to redesign products for easier disassembly, repair, and durability. This could include adopting modular designs, standardizing parts, and developing diagnostic tools for assessing the health of a particular product. In the long run, this could ultimately bring down both manufacturing and repair costs.”

6. Federal Judge Rules Trans Teen Can Play Soccer Just In Time For Her To Attend First Practice

“Today, standing in front of a courtroom, attorneys for Parker Tirrell and Iris Turmelle, two transgender girls, won an emergency temporary restraining order allowing Tirrell to continue playing soccer with her friends. […] Tirrell joined her soccer team last year and received full support from her teammates, who, according to the filing, are her biggest source of emotional support and acceptance.”

7. Pilot study uses recycled glass to grow plants for salsa ingredients

“"We're trying to reduce landfill waste at the same time as growing edible vegetables," says Andrea Quezada, a chemistry graduate student[….] Early results suggest that the plants grown in recyclable glass have faster growth rates and retain more water compared to those grown in 100% traditional soil. [… T]he pots that included any amount of recyclable glass [also] didn't have any fungal growth.”

8. Feds announce funding push for ropeless fishing gear that spares rare whales

“Federal fishing managers are promoting the use of ropeless gear in the lobster and crab fishing industries because of the plight of North Atlantic right whales. […] Lobster fishing is typically performed with traps on the ocean bottom that are connected to the surface via a vertical line. In ropeless fishing methods, fishermen use systems such an inflatable lift bag that brings the trap to the surface.”

9. Solar farms can benefit nature and boost biodiversity. Here’s how

“[… M]anaging solar farms as wildflower meadows can benefit bumblebee foraging and nesting, while larger solar farms can increase pollinator densities in surrounding landscapes[….] Solar farms have been found to boost the diversity and abundance of certain plants, invertebrates and birds, compared to that on farmland, if solar panels are integrated with vegetation, even in urban areas.”

10. National Wildlife Federation Forms Tribal Advisory Council to Guide Conservation Initiatives, Partnerships

“The council will provide expertise and consultation related to respecting Indigenous Knowledges; wildlife and natural resources; Indian law and policy; Free, Prior and Informed Consent[… as well as] help ensure the Federation’s actions honor and respect the experiences and sovereignty of Indigenous partners.”

August 8-14 news here | (all credit for images and written material can be found at the source linked; I don’t claim credit for anything but curating.)

[circle-with-me]

sunshine in my eyes

pairing: nicholas ruffilo x reader

tags/cw: domestic nicky, lots of fluff, very mild nsfw conversation, swimming

word count: 1k

tag list: @malice-ov-mercy @baddestomens @sitkowski @somebodyels3 @broken0mens @tearfallpixie @cookiesupplier @meekahy @lacktoesandtoddlerants @sammyjoeee @collective-heartbreak @agravemisstake @catharsis-in-darkness @to-be-written @collapsedglasshouses @itsafullmoon @lma1986

author’s note: after i posted my cute beachy Will blurb yesterday it got my wheels turning. i’ve been wanting to write something fluffy for my beloved @deathblacksmoke so i thought why not continue the summer trend? also, the cringe is intentional bc they’re cute and in love thx 🫶🏻

The lawn mower roars outside while you get a large glass of ice ready. You look outside the kitchen window and see Nick hard at work in the yard. Sighing, you grab the pitcher of lemonade from the counter and pour some in the glass. He had been working outside all day in the heat while all of your chores were inside and air conditioned. You figured the least you could do was bring him something cold to drink.

It wasn’t all for nothing, at least. This is the first summer in your new house. You had brazenly planned a get together with the guys and a few others later that evening. Both of you wanted to make sure the house looked perfect for your guests.

You fill your own glass and push your way onto the back porch, carefully sitting them on the table. Yelling at Nick, you realize it’s useless as the mower is far too loud. You wave your arms around and finally he looks up. He gives you a confused smile and turns off the machine.

“What is this?!” He yells, waving his arms around in a mocking manner. You roll your eyes at him as he laughs.

“Come get your lemonade, jerk!” You yell back playfully.

Nick accepts the drink with a smile and a kiss on your cheek. He doesn’t need to say much about the taste—the smacking of his lips and soft mmm’s as he drinks serve as a positive review. It’s impossible to say no to him when he asks for another glass… not that you would ever say no to him in the first place.

“How much more do you have left, Nicky?”

He sits his drink down, scanning the yard and considering your question. If you said you thought the boy you met seven years ago in a cramped venue in Richmond would be sitting on a porch with you now gauging how much yard work he had left, you would definitely be lying. Domestic bliss wasn’t even on your radar then, but now, you can’t imagine life without it.

“I’m almost done with the back. I just have to do some shaping around those trees over there,” He says, pointing. “I gotta make sure I didn’t miss anything in the front. I should be good after that.”

“God, you’re so hot when you talk about yard work.” You tease, fanning yourself. Nick whips his head to face you, smirking.

“You think so?”

“Mmhmm… It gets me all hot and bothered.” You lean across the table, touching his arm and winking.

“What are you going to do about it?” Nick responds teasingly.

“Probably go take a cold shower. All by myself.” You dramatically drag out the last few words and stand up to head for the patio door. The chair screeches behind you as Nick scrambles out of it to catch up to you. He grabs you by the arm and turns you around, pushing you against the door. All attempts at being serious are gone now as you can’t stop giggling at him.

Nick pins your arms above your head, planting quick pecks all over your face. His face is slimy and covered in sweat. You try to squirm away from him but he holds you tight—committed to making you miserable. He whispers filthy comments in your ears as his hands roam and you quickly realize you’re losing control of the situation. You manage to sneak out of his grasp, opening the door behind you and slamming it shut.

“Don’t you dare take a shower without me!” He groans.

“Sounds like you better hurry up and finish that yard work then.” You giggle.

The party goes off without a hitch. The guys took it upon themselves to handle the grill so you didn’t have to. You sat and listened to them argue over whose technique was best for what seemed like an eternity before you announced your famous jalapeño poppers were ready. They all swarmed the table, picking the plate clean and thanking you in their individual ways. Nick stayed at the grill mouthing a silent thank you. You winked at him and brought him a special plate you had saved just for him.

Later on, everyone decides to go swimming once their stomachs have settled. You lose count of how many times Noah throws you in the pool, but you get your revenge in a heated game of chicken and a devastating pool noodle attack. Looking around to share in your victory, you catch Nick laid out on a pool chair. His head is lulled against the top of the chair. He’s chuckling at all of the chaos—the arm lazily draped across his bare stomach jumping as his soft belly shakes. The happiness radiating from him makes your heart flutter.

He’s alone though, and you can’t have that.

Nick keeps his eyes on you as you step out of the water and pad over to him. You grab the towel placed over the other chair and dry off with it. When you’re done he coaxes you into his lap and you happily oblige, curling into his arms with your head on his chest.

“You okay, Nicky?”

All he does is hum in response and the vibration you feel through his chest is bliss. His entire body is warm from laying in the sun and he wraps the towel around you tighter, kissing the top of your head.

“Then what are you doing over here all by yourself?”

You feel him take a deep breath but it’s not from anxiety or discontent. His heart beats next to your ear calmly. You know there’s nothing to worry about.

“When we first met,” He starts, dragging his hand up and down your arm. “Did you ever think we’d have all of this?” He waves his arm and you look around. You see a backyard you’ve both worked so hard for full of friends that you would trust with your life. Memories of younger versions of the people you love so much creep into your mind. It’s all a little overwhelming how far you’ve all come.

Seven years. Seven summers. This one might just be your favorite of them all.

[atarathegreat]

You're Lucky You're Pretty. Kyle "Gaz" Garrick.

"There you are, luv!" Gaz dropped his bag to scoop you up, "Been waitin' for ya'."

You hugged him tightly, smiling and giggling in your joy that he was finally home, "Sorry, my car took forever to start."

The noise of the airport faded away as you told him all about the issues your car was giving you the last few weeks. Between funny sounds and overheating, you had no idea what the main problem was, and you were too anxious to take it to a shop. Nothing new, really. Besides, Gaz wouldn't trust any of the nearby shops with a plastic tricycle. So, he decided he would look at it the minute he got a chance to. After getting home and having a decent meal and a nice nap. He was damn tired of MRE's.

You explained a little more about the car as you drove it, pointing out the sounds and smells that the car was giving off. It was all a little concerning, and Gaz didn't relax at all as you drove.

"It's great to be home." Gaz stretched as he stepped out of the car. He glanced around the yard. It was well kept since he taught you to use the push mower, and you got better every time. On the far end lied the bird feeders where the two of you spent most of the time outdoors, if you were lucky then Gaz would let you try and feed the birds from your hands instead of going on about diseases. "It's great to have you home. Everything gets a lot lonelier when you're deployed. Even Max gets sadder."

Max, a name you expected to be accompanied by some slobbery mutt running into the room, not a sugar glider that dive bombed them both from the ceiling fans. Gaz groaned inwardly, "Goodness. Should I protect my ears?"

"Yes."

The fat sugar glider that you had adopted made a bad habit of biting ears when he was angry at anyone. The spoiled rat with wings tortured Gaz all because he had to be absent for his job. You tried to find the little creature, arm raised as you walked around the ceiling fans and high spots. It was ridiculous that he had to walk around with his hands over his ears, reminiscent of a child not wanting to hear their siblings.

You giggled and snatched something from the air, "There you are, silly boy." Narrowly. You narrowly kept Gaz from being jump scared by a flying hamster. He hated that damn thing, but he loved it, too. It was adorable and, in his humble opinion, you coddled it too bloody much, but he loved it. Max perched on your fingers and chittered angrily at Gaz as if to complain of his absence. It wasn't a huge issue, Gaz couldn't understand the creature anyway.

The quant little house was perfectly enough for the two of you and Max. One bedroom, one bathroom, an office, and the basement where the laundry room was stationed. Neither of you felt the need to spend more money than needed, and you didn't exactly need a lot. By his current rank in the military, Gaz could've had a penthouse and two tesla cars, but it wasn't something he needed.

That's what he thought anyway.

"What the fuck?" Greasy hands twisted at caps and pulled on wires. Why was your car sounding funny? Everything he'd witnessed had a cause, but nothing seemed wrong. Not even the battery was rusty.

Oh...

Of course...

Gaz walked into your shared bedroom, cleaning his hands off with a cloth. He took a moment to look at your lips and nose, your hair, and the way you did your makeup. "Luv?" Gaz sat at your feet, careful not to get dirt or grease on the bed from his hands, "When was the last time you changed your oil?"

From the look you gave him, he had his answer.

"Did you even know you had to change the oil?"

"... no..."

[icarusredwings]

It's quiet uptown.

(Wrote this at like 2 in the morning. Had to spell check the hell out of it to even understand what my incoherent ass was trying to say. Give a hand to my 2 am. self because this is beautiful.)

Thinking about Logan doing small side jobs to make extra money for the house like mowing lawns and helping old ladies move their antique furniture to or from the attic, etc.

You heard me right. The Wolverine has started mowing grandma's yards for extra dough. Kinda weird right? Well. Wade didn't think so. Infact Wade joined along for the extra money, yeahhh… extra money.. That's right.

Definitely not to see Logan all hot, toned and sweaty, wiping his brow and grumbling when the mower wouldn't start, cursing when fixing it and then almost content while pushing it, simply making lines as he watched.

That loud agonizing roar of the mower having nothing on the grunts that Logan was making in his head. Day dreaming of what those strong shoulders could do to him. It was hard work really.

The restraint alone took him quite a bit of mental gymnastics as he “Helped” by trimming the bushes only to end up somehow slicing it clean off. Lets just say Miss Jackson was pissed that her rose bush was just destroyed but it was worth it.

After gathering up enough for whatever he seemed to be saving for, Logan says they're going out of town for a day or two. Blind al says not to be long or else she might be dead before they get back.

“We won't Miss Anderson.”

“Who the fuck is Miss Anderson?”

“...She is..?”

“You have a last name?”

“She didn't tell you?”

“Why didn't you tell me?!”

“Because you're annoying”

“But you told him!?”

“Logan is a gentleman. I don't know how he hasn't tried to kill you by now.”

“I have.”

“Try harder.”

“Hey!! I'm right here!”

“I know”

(For those who didn't know, Blind Al's real name is Althea Winifred Anderson. And she's a savage and her main job is to humble him.)

Also thinking about Wade reading X-men comics in his suit kicking his feet on his bed. The suit makes him feel safe. Outside of it felt scary. People make fun of his skin. He didn't like when people made fun of him. No one really did.

If Logan defends him, Wade would get down on his knee right then and there. Right in the middle of new york city like the Proposal style. Heels and all.

Meanwhile, for Logan it's the opposite. Being inside his suit felt scary. Too much pressure. Too loud. Outside? In the country? With horses and fences to be fixed? Wind and trees and fields for miles? That? That felt like home. He's content in the country and because of that he takes them upstate for the weekend.

Showing him the old mansion (which was a massive mistake but Wade wouldn't stop begging, turns out that was a bad idea because the people from this timeline started sobbing and accused him of being an imposter- which he sort of was- in a sense)

Took him to stay at a little crappy inn upstate with trees and grass, fields, and just sat on the porch for hours. Staring at the clear sky, deep in thought. Wades never saw him this relaxed before, this… at home in a place before. “Whatcha thinking about?”

“Nothing.”

“Come on, really?”

“No. I'm serious.. For once in my life I'm thinking about nothing.”

“And?”

“It's great..”

“Oh..can I?”

“It's a free country, bub.”

Then they sit on the porch together, just sitting for a while until Wade gets bored and starts pointing out clouds and asks if they can pet the horses. “Sure if you want kicked in the skull.”

On the last day of their trip, he takes him to Niagara Falls for their last stop on their tiny little get away.

“There she is. Niagara River.”

He wanted to say ‘Wolvie she's beautiful! That's gonna be me tonight after my left hand is done with me.’ Or some nonsense like that. But.. that didn't feel right. Instead, he only smiled, looking at him while the glitters from the rushing falls reflected in his eyes.

“Oh, Logan.. it's beautiful.”

At that moment something in Logan's stomach felt… funny.. oh god not this again. Really? Now? His chest was warm and he could feel his ears following. “Uhm… Yeah. This is. Isn't it?”

And for a while.. The two just stand here in silence. Watching Millions of pounds of water gush over the side of a cliff. Just themselves.

In a way… it was poetic really. Like the wave of relief that both of them felt when standing so close to each other. Just them. Just Logan James Howlett and Wade Winston Wilson. No costumes, no super hero shit, just them.

(And a shitty novelty hat that said “I 🍁 Niagara Falls” except the heart was replaced with a canadian maple leaf.)

But that's besides the point. It felt right to be just them. Two guys. Content in each other's company. Well.. and their ugly dog staring at the two of them as if she knew something that they didn't..

This has to be the gayest shit i've ever written and i've written this- (NSFW warning)

“Turn around.”

“Pft what are you gonna do, peanut? Suction Cup a plunger to my hea-” he gasps, both in surprise, delighted by the bit of pain, seeing as without warning, he was mounted and there now were, quite literally, claws in his hips.

“Oooh fun! But you don’t have to tell me to hold still tw- Aah good fucking gravy, queen marys head on a stick!!” He more of moaned rather than whined, a large chunk of his neck taken between his teeth, and hard. If he bit any harder he'd start bleeding. Whatever science was behind this must have worked because he went still and stiff yet limp and relaxed all at the same time- well- not all of him was limp. No, some of him was the exact opposite. Hm... perhaps it didn't get the memo?

(AYO 2 am me is a freak Ig)

[christinesficrecs]

Hell beautiful person! I’m looking for Sterek Fics set in High School where Stiles and Derek are the same age! Always a happy sterek ending, all fluff, angst is okay to as long as they are together at the end. No cheating please! Thank you so much!

High School fics are so fun!! 😍

The Lawn Ranger by Snowjob | 47.8K | Mature

In which Derek is an adolescent werewolf with a penchant for chocolate bunnies, and instead of the dream summer of lazing around the house playing video games and nibbling on his hoarded supply of easter candy his mother makes him get a job.

In which Stiles is a showoff jock with a broken arm and an embarrassing crush who can no longer push the lawn mower around the yard.

When You’re Close I Feel the Sparks by  Leslie_Knope | 39.6K

The guy is hot as hell, sure—leather jacket and glasses, Jesus, be still Stiles’ poor, bisexual, beating heart—but more importantly, it must really suck being new on the first day of senior year.

“We’re adopting him,” he decides, tugging Scott and Kira by the elbow in that direction. “Let’s go.”

Strut on a Line, its Discord and Rhyme by xiaq | 61.8K

“Carry me,” Stiles says.

“No.”

“But I’m injured.”

“You have a rash,” Derek says. “On your arm. Your feet work just fine.”

“Please?”

“No. You weigh almost as much as I do. And you ate a pound of chicken at lunch.”

Kingdom By The Sea by kilaem | 4K

Lydia grabs his arm and pulls him down in the seat next to her. “When the hell did you find time to bag a guy like Hale?”

“We’re friends,” Stiles feels his face heat up, and then the team are running out and Derek sees him and smiles. His blush gets worse.

“Oh really?”

“Our moms were friends, okay? We’ve been in diapers together.”

“I thought you two hated each other.”

What Good Are Rules (If You Can’t Break Them) by wishingonalightningbolt | 9.5K | Explicit

In which Derek and Stiles engage in no-strings-attached sex. It works out about as well as you might imagine.

Option C) Some Bad Guys are Werewolves, but Not All Werewolves are Bad Guys by  calrissian18 | 9K

Derek Hale—the Incredible Meat that Thinks—needs a math tutor. Stiles Stilinski needs something that will look better on his college applications than ‘passable D&D Dungeon Master.’

It’s a match made in heaven. Er, right?

Let Me Be Yours by EvanesDust, isthatbloodonhisshirt (wasterella) | 30.3K

What if Stiles did end up believing one day and he got a soulmark and it... wasn’t Derek’s? What if it was a completely different design? Derek would hate the other person on principle because they would’ve gotten what he wanted.

Hadn’t he earned Stiles? He’d been there for him for years, and they were both such good friends, and had stuck by one another regardless of their differences. He was sitting in a fucking movie theatre to watch a movie he wasn’t at all interested in instead of playing ultimate frisbee with Boyd and some other friends, for fuck’s sake. He loved ultimate frisbee! Much more than superhero movies!

But not more than Stiles.

He couldn’t possibly love anything more than Stiles.

i wanna dance with somebody (who loves me) by bleepobleep | 10.5K

Derek gets in an accident and loses a few years of his memory; suddenly everything is different— he’s not a freshman loser anymore, but a popular senior, captain of the basketball team, a shoo-in for prom king, too, and he should have everything he’s ever wanted— except he doesn’t seem to be friends with Stiles anymore.

John Hughes Did Not Direct My Life by nascentgalaxies | 48.6K | Explicit

Stiles and Derek are childhood friends who drifted apart. When Stiles joins the lacrosse team against his will, the universe (with a little help from Laura and Lydia) chooses to push them back together.

Chocolate & Pomegranates by Dexterous_Sinistrous | 9.6K

Derek has been an Omega for what feels like centuries. He is constantly hounded by Alphas and Betas who can't control their hormones. He's thankful for Laura defending his honor, but there is one person he's always dreamed of giving himself to.

Too bad Derek is certain Stiles doesn't know he exists.

It’s Always Been You, Dumbass by stilinskisparkles | 11K

“Alright, cool, we should go,” Stiles says breezily, dusting off his hands as he stands.

“We should?”

“Yeah!”

“But… Do you even care about photography?”

“Not as much as I should,” Stiles plants both his hands on the table, bracketing Derek in, “You’ll have to correct my miscreant ways.”

This Might Be Irony by thepsychicclam | 38.3K | Mature

Stiles and Derek have been close friends since the Hale siblings moved in next door after their parents’ death. But Derek’s in the popular group, he’s a star baseball player, and he dates popular Pep Squad captain Jennifer Blake. Stiles doesn’t have any of that, just his skateboard and a hopeless crush on Derek (oh yeah, and his Vote Lydia Martin Prom Queen button). As prom and the baseball state championship grow closer, Stiles and Derek start rekindling their friendship.

And it all begins with two white boards.

A Cunning Plan by yodasyoyo | 32.7K

Stiles has a plan to get Lydia Martin to notice him. Derek is not impressed.

But Then What… by Stoney | 24.3K | Explicit

Senior year is almost over, and all Stiles needs to do is keep his head down to survive. A teacher calls in a favor, leaving him stuck tutoring Derek Hale, one of the most popular jocks in school and a member of a group of douchecanoes who have bullied Stiles for years. He’s someone Stiles totally hates. Totally. Like, doesn’t like him even a little bit. DEFINITELY isn’t attracted to him.

Except that is a total lie. Fuck his life, seriously.

[sissylittlefeather]

Introducing...

A Very Quiet Life

A/N: this is an AU in which Elvis is your next door neighbor in the suburbs in the mid-late '60s. I have three parts completed and more in the works, so hang on for some chapters!

I hope you enjoy it!

Warnings: The reader is a widow. That's about it. It's pretty fluffy, but don't worry. The smut is coming 😈

Song inspo:

Gif inspo (this is how I picture him in this one)

The little house is perfect for your family of 3. You stand and look at it from where you've just gotten out of your car. The white siding and blue shutters are exactly what you wanted. You'll have to get a lawnmower, though, because the yard is already a little wild.

"Mama, can we get out and see?" Your 7-year-old daughter, Jane, calls from her place on the backseat. Your 5-year-old son, Michael, is knocking on the window. The sound of the kids pulls you out of your daydream about how many wonderful memories you'll make there together. You turn around and let them both out of the car. They run up to the front door and you decide to unload the car later. The movers have already gotten all the furniture and big boxes into the house. When you open the front door, you have a soft pang in your heart as you think of how your husband had carried you across the threshold at your old apartment. Now that he's gone, you'll have to carry yourself. You walk in and go to the kitchen to start unpacking. You're excited to make this into a home. This little house is your pride and joy. Between your husband's army death benefits and your part time job typing in an office, you were finally able to save up for the house. Now it's yours and you can't wait to live here and have a real future. Since your husband died, you feel like you've been in a holding pattern. However, it's been almost 4 years, and you're ready to live again.

As you unpack glasses into the cabinet, something catches your eye out the window over the sink. The window looks into your neighbor's front yard. It's beautifully manicured and you can see why. There's a man out there cutting the grass. A very attractive man, you think to yourself. His dark hair is wet with sweat and his white t-shirt sticks to his broad chest, revealing a manly and strong physique. When he pushes the mower, his muscles flex and the veins in his forearm are visible. His skin is tanned from working outside, probably on the lawn. You don't even notice you're biting your lower lip until he looks up in the direction of your window. You gasp and drop the glass you were holding in the sink.

Can he see you?

Thankfully, the glass doesn't break and you're able to pick it up quickly and go back to what you were doing. When you take a chance and look back out the window, you see that he's shaking his head and smiling, looking down at the mower. His smile almost takes your breath away. You wonder if he's smiling because he saw you or because of something else. Deciding it must be something else, you turn and go back to unpacking boxes in the kitchen. Your neighbor is a lucky woman.

******

You smooth Michael's hair and brush some crumbs off of his front. Then, you straighten Jane's hair ribbon.

"Now, remember to smile. We want our neighbors to like us." You coo to the children just before you knock on the front door of your neighbor's house. You've been in your new home for three days, so it seems like the right time to get to know the people around you. On your right is Mrs. Pottsboro, an older lady with several cats. She was very kind and appreciative of the cookies you brought. She also volunteered to watch the children if you need her to, which is an offer you won't forget. Directly across the street are the Walters, a family of five with kids around the same ages as yours. You enjoyed a nice conversation with them while the kids munched on cookies and ran around the yard. Now, you are at the house to your left. As you knock, you briefly remember the man you saw mowing the lawn. You've seen him a couple of times since then, getting the paper and watering the grass. You really need to meet his wife and put a stop to the things you've been thinking about him.

The door opens and it feels like a ton of bricks has landed in your stomach. It's him. After a few seconds of standing there smiling like an idiot, him trying to suppress a smirk, you clear your throat and speak.

"Hi! I'm y/f/n y/l/n and this is Jane and Michael." You touch the kids on their heads as you say their names. "We just moved in next door, so we wanted to stop by and say hello and give you these." You hold out a plate of chocolate chip cookies.

"Thank you. Why don't you all come on in?" His voice is warm and the southern accent makes it sound honey-smooth. You start to sweat a little, standing on the porch. He takes the plate of cookies and gestures for you all to come in. When you pass him, you catch a wave of his scent and it's warm and masculine, like his body seems to be. A part of you longs to smell it closer, but then reality slams into you like a freight train when his wife rounds the corner.

"Oh, hello!" She's petite and blonde, with her hair twisted into a tight bun.

"Beth, our new neighbors are here. They brought us cookies." He smiles warmly at you and holds the cookies up for her to see.

"That's so sweet! Unfortunately, we don't eat sugar." She grabs the plate and tries to hand it back to you. He intercepts it.

"She doesn't eat sugar. I do." She makes a tight-lipped smile, her eyes overly bright.

"Right. Well, thank you." She walks out of the room, leaving you and your kids with him. He bends down to be face-level with your kids.

"You guys want to help me eat these?" They both smile and nod their heads, taking a cookie from the plate that he holds out to them. He seems to be enlivened by their presence, asking them questions about the new house and their new school. They respond to him easily, comfortable with him instantly.

"Does your daddy like the new house?" He asks innocently, looking up at you.

"Oh--" you try to cut in, but Jane beats you to it.

"--our daddy is gone. He died a while back. It's just us now." His face changes to a look of deep sympathy.

"I'm so sorry to hear that, Jane." He looks up at you but keeps talking like he's talking to her. "If you or your mama ever need a man to do anything around the house, you just let me know. I'm right next door." Michael jumps in.

"Mister, I'm the man of the house now. I can take care of mama and Jane."

"Of course!" He smiles. "I bet you do a great job, too. If you ever need a bigger man, you come get me, okay?" He does a little fake punch on Michael's chin. Michael nods in agreement.

"Yes sir, Mr...?"

"Presley. Elvis Presley. Pleased to meet you." He shakes Michael's hand and kisses Jane's lightly. You have to shake yourself a bit to remember that you should leave.

"Alright, kiddos, we've bothered Mr. Presley long enough. Let's go back home." You try to usher the kids toward the door. As you walk out, he turns to you.

"It's really no problem at all, ma'am. I like kids. And I'm serious, if you need anything, let me know." He winks and you almost melt into a puddle on his front porch.

"Thank you, Mr. Presley."

"Elvis, please."

"Thank you, Elvis." It feels strange to call him by his first name, but since he insists, you oblige. He closes the door behind you and you take the hands of both kids and walk back to your own house.

******

You're doing dishes a few days later, looking out at your crazy yard compared to your neighbors' perfect one. For a second, you consider asking Mr. Presley to come mow it for you. But you don't want to inconvenience him. He was so kind to you and the children when you were there. His wife wasn't much to smile at, being almost cold in her refusal to talk to them. To be honest, you've thought of inviting him over several times. You've even considered breaking something just to have him come fix it, but you also know how bizarre and wrong that would be. You finish the dishes, get the kids ready for school and head to your job at the office.

******

After work, you drive up to the house, excited for the hour of free time you have before you have to pick up the kids. To your surprise, most of the yard is mowed. You're trying to figure out how that happened when you spot him. It's Elvis. He's out there mowing your yard without even being asked. As you walk up to the door, he turns and waves to you. You mouth "thank you" and walk inside the front door. You need to do something to show him that you're thankful for what he's doing. In the kitchen, you whip up some sweet tea and pour two glasses. By the time you get them on a tray and to the front porch, he's finished mowing the lawn. He's sweating again, T-shirt tight on his shoulders.

"Would you like some tea?" You ask shyly.

"I would, ma'am, thank you." He walks up on the porch and takes the glass from the tray.

"You don't have to call me ma'am. You can call me y/n."

"Oh, well, thank you y/n." He smiles and you feel yourself tense up. He's standing close enough to you that you catch the earthy smell of his sweat mixed with deodorant or aftershave or something manly. It's intoxicating. He's intoxicating. He takes a deep swig of his tea and then looks at you.

"Do you mind if I use your bathroom?" It seems like a strange request, since his house is so close, but you don't seem to be capable of telling him no. You lead him into the house to the small guest bath. When he comes out, he walks over to where you're standing in the kitchen, trying not to be too obvious about waiting for him.

"You didn't have to do that." You gesture to the yard.

"I know. But I wanted to. I was serious about you letting me know if you need any help." He smiles warmly.

"Kids still at school?" He looks around the house, seeming almost disappointed that they aren't there.

"Yes. I'll pick them up soon. I just come home a bit early to have an hour of quiet before I go get them." He nods and you suddenly realize that you're alone with him in your house. Your mind goes wild with daydreams of him laying you down on the couch and having his way with you.

"Well, thank you for the tea. I should be getting back." You nod and head for the door.

Before you can get there though, you feel a hand on your wrist. You look up into his face for half a second before he presses his lips against yours. You should pull away. You should stop him. But you don't. Instead you go limp and let him wrap his arms around your waist. The kiss is a sweet one, with no tongue or anything. He just holds you there with his mouth pushed into yours. When he finally pulls back, you feel like a rag doll in his arms. You desperately want him to keep kissing you, but he doesn't. Instead, he unravels his arms from around you and heads for the door. He mumbles a quick apology and disappears before you can say anything else.

You haven't felt this alive in years.

******

Chapter 2 coming soon!

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Taglist: @itlover8000 @deniseinmn @elvisalltheway101

Want to be added to the Taglist? Let me know!

[bcolfanfic]

yard work 🌱🌻💛

everett blakely / helen. young veterans au

new to the au? this takes place post afghanistan war. nash was killed overseas, leaving behind helen and their little son wyatt. helen lives in west virginia and post war ev got stationed at a base in the area doing flight instruction.

Blakely wiped the sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand. It was the fourth time he’d come over to cut her grass since Croz had sent him the address. And the third time Helen had wound up coming outside to watch him midway through, the loose hair falling out of how she'd tied it back catching the light shining onto her porch. Wyatt was perched in her arms, saying something to her that he couldn't make out over the noise.

Wyatt who looked just like Nash, right down to the ears.

Trying to focus on the lawnmower, Blakely willed himself not to get caught up in his own head about either one of them.

Better things to think about while pushing on a lawnmower- things that didn't stand and end with someone you watched die in front of you a little over a year ago to the day.

But when he glanced up at her again a few minutes later, catching her smile as Wyatt pointed at him, the truth of the matter made his throat feel tight.

Helen had a way of making it hard not to think about her.

When he'd made the last pass of the lawn and killed the mower’s engine, he could feel her eyes on him. Brushing his hands at the grass clippings that had stuck to his clothes, he tried to put on a smile that felt normal as he approached the porch.

“Well, that’s done,” He said, clearing his throat and rubbing the back of his neck. “Probably shoulda' come by sooner though, sorry about that."

Helen chuckled softly, and he found his teeth grazing his bottom lip nervously as he looked up at her. “Honestly, you’re a lifesaver. If it wasn’t for you, Wyatt and I would be living in a jungle by now.”

Wyatt reached out in his direction as she talked, opening and closing his hands, squirming a little in her arms.

“I uh, He said awkwardly, talking a small step closer at his commanding but finding himself motioning aimlessly as opposed to taking the two-year-old right off of her. “I can hold him if you-"

"Oh, he's been dying to get to you since we came out," Helen said, pushing some of Wyatt's hair out of his eyes. “Kept pointing at the lawnmower every time it moved."

She went to pass him off then, Blakely feeling clumsier than he had in some time as he took the toddler into his arms. Somehow, he didn't drop him, Wyatt fitting against him so well it made his chest tight.

He looked even more like his daddy this close, big familiar eyes looking into his.

"Can't wait to see my baby again, sir." Nash said as they walked in lock step through the sand, the dust being kicked up by their boots following them like a cloud. He had his hands shoved in his pockets, helmet straps he hadn't bothered to buckle swinging as he walked. "Hel had him up to say hi when we Skyped last night, feel like he's gotten a lil' bigger for every day I've been gone. She was sayin' he's been crawling so fast she can barely keep up with him!"

Swaying slowly where he stood, Blakely tried to focus on what was right in front of him.

“I could use an assistant y'know, you wanna pull weeds bud?" He said lightly, tickling the back of Wyatt's knee.

Helen laughed again. “Oh, I’m sure he’d love that." She said, pausing for a beat- swiping her tongue over her bottom lip before she kept talking. "I bet you're a good teacher.”

Clearing his throat again, he faltered.

“Yeah, maybe. I, uh” He paused, looking down at Wyatt and then back at her. “You know, if you ever needed more help. Around here. With stuff other than the yard... I mean, not that you need it, know you're a real capable woman, think you've been managing everything really well but-"

Helen raised an eyebrow as he rambled, her smile shifting into something a little more playful.

“Are you offering to be my handyman now?”

“I mean, I’m just," Blakely started, feeling heat crawling up the back of his neck and into his cheeks. "if you need someon- needthehelpImean.”

Helen stepped closer, her smile softening into something that made him feel soft. She reached forward to swipe something off of Wyatt's face with her thumb, fingers grazing just briefly against Blakely's shirt as her hand dropped back down.

“You're real sweet, Everett. I mean that.”

Blakely swallowed hard. “I uh- I try.”

They stood there for a moment, the space between them feeling smaller than before. Blakely looked away quickly to avoid the staring contest it felt like they were starting, trying to shake the heat working its way up the back of his neck. Heat that wasn't from the work he'd been doing in the yard.

“Well, if you ever get tired of cutting grass,” Helen said after a beat, her voice dropping just a little. “You could always join us for dinner sometime. Wyatt’s picky, but I promise I won’t make anything too scary.”

Blakely blinked, surprised, and smiled.

“Yeah, yeah, I’d love that. I’m not picky at all."

Helen laughed again, and he felt a flush in his cheeks when he realized what he'd said, alongside how ridiculous it must've sounded.

Somehow, she didn't seem deterred. “I’ll keep that in mind."

---

As he settled into the driver’s seat of his truck, he reached for his phone, scrolling through his contacts until he found who he was looking for.

Crosby picked up halfway through the second ring. And as Ev had expected was demanding a run-down of every word him and Helen exchanged before he could even get a breath in.

“She invited you for dinner? Look at you, yard boy.” He crooned down the line, and Ev groaned.

“'s not, 's not like that,” He insisted, tapping his fingers against the steering wheel. “Think she’s just being nice.”

“Yeah, and you went over there for the fourth time ’cause you have a passion for yard work.”

Ev rubbed the back of his neck with the hand that wasn't occupied with driving. He could imagine the grin Croz probably had on his face prodding him, and hated that as much as it irked him, there was another- less annoyed feeling coursing through him about it. One he wasn't sure he wanted to unpack right this second.

“You’re the one who said I should,” he countered, trying to regain control of the conversation. “Think it would be weirder if I went over to help once and just disappeared.”

“Yeah, well, I think if she’s inviting you over for dinner, she wants you to do more than pull weeds.”

“Croz, Jesus.” Ev grimaced, feeling a pang of guilt settle in his chest at the insinuation. His fingers tightened on the steering wheel. "Nash didn’t die that long ago. Don’t be fuckin' weird bud.”

“I'm just saying, you never know.” Croz replied, not letting up. “You could always ditch the shirt next time you're doing yard work and just go from there."

Ev huffed, wishing he could reach through the phone and thwack his friend right about now.

“I’m not doing that,” he shot back, though the visualization creeped into his head anyhow. Of himself, of Helen's eyes raking over his ches-

It felt like a betrayal to even entertain.

“You’re reading way too much into this,” Ev finally said when he'd shook the thought, his voice quieter now, "I'm helping her out cause it's what he'd want. Not tryin' to make the guy roll over in his grave."

“Yeah, yeah,” Croz said, his tone softened some. “No one’s asking you to square it all right this second. But you ask me, I wouldn't write it off either.”

xxx

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

Crash and Burn 2

My warnings are not exhaustive but be aware this is a dark fic and may include potentially triggering topics. Please use your common sense when consuming content. I am not responsible for your decisions.

Character: Tony Stark

Summary: a powerful man comes crashing into your life. Literally.

As usual, I would appreciate any and all feedback. I’m happy to once more go on this adventure with all of you! Thank you in advance for your comments and for reblogging ❤️

“Darlene, you never did have sense!” Your grandmother yawls.  

Your eyes roll to the ceiling and settle on the wall. Your mother snarls back, “it wasn’t my fault!” 

“It never is your fault, is it? But it’s always my mess to clean up.” The old woman barks. 

You sigh and turn off the lamp. Despite the devastation of your home, the rest of your life remains in place. You have a shift at the deli and you can’t afford to miss a single minute now. You know your grandma won’t put up with you for long. You don’t think you can stand her either. 

The venomous back and forth continues as you pull a pillow over your head. It’s impossible to drown out. When it stops, your mom crashes through the door and stomps around. Your adrenaline spikes again. You haven’t really calmed down since the trailer folded into dust. 

She flops onto the bed and scrolls through her phone. The brightness seeps in below the edge of the pillow. The double futon isn’t very spacious. 

The speaker crackles and she cackles at some shitty video. The noise has you rolling to face the wall. She’s so oblivious. Or maybe she doesn’t give the shit. It’s not so different than the trailer. She never did try to keep it down. 

You get no peace even as she falls asleep. She snores like a broken lawn mower. You toss and turn as your grandmother’s cigarette smoke tickles your throat. 

Your life wasn’t grand before. The double-wide was no palace but it was better than this. You huff and give in to insomnia. You stare at the ceiling as frustration boils to rage. 

You can still hear his laughter. Tony Stark is in his fancy robotic suit with his overpriced haircut and blatant nonchalance. He didn’t give a shit that he just destroyed a home. To him, the idea of living in that is laughable. And laugh he did. 

The echo of his amusement irks you until you can no longer lay still. You shimmy to the bottom of the bed and climb off. You snatch your phone from the charger and pace around. The floor creaks under your feet. 

Didn’t he say he’d replace it? Maybe some things can’t be bought but you still own the lot, at least for another month. You just need something to put there. He said so. He owes you. 

So, where the heck is your trailer? 

You push your thumb down without thinking. You type, letting the vitriol stream out of your thumbs.  

‘Tony Stark destroyed my home and my life.  

Right now, I’m at my grandma’s house. Again. Me and my mom have been forced to seek refuge in her guest room. The smell of tobacco and cat piss is so pungent I could choke. I can’t sleep on the futon shared between the both of us and in the morning, I’ll turn in for a minimum-wage job and when I get my check, I still won’t be able to replace what he ruined. 

Four walls. That’s all we had and now we have nothing. Because that playboy, billionaire, douchebag didn’t look where he was flying. He may have saved New York but he has burnt our life to the ground. Literally.’ 

You attach one of the photos you snagged of the wreck. You took as many as you could hoping that the park might be able to use it for an insurance claim. Your heart thumps as you hit post. The little blue line fills up and the check mark flashes. 

You feel better. It’s always nice to be able to vent your problems and you can’t do so with your mom. She’ll just pick apart your words until it’s your fault. And your grandma can’t be bothered to listen either. She would only rant about how she’s stuck with a bunch of losers. 

You plug your phone back in and crawl back onto the futon, fitting in between your mom and the wall. You can get a few hours in before you have to drag yourself to the deli. Tony Stark can take whatever he wants but he won’t steal any more of your sleep. 

After another bout of restlessness, you sink into a shallow haze. You awake with a stone behind your forehead. You take some Advil as you climb out of bed. Your mom continues to snore as you dress in the musty clothes borrowed from your grandma. She’ll begrudge you those along with that the water you use to shower and brush your teeth. 

You leave the house in silence. You yawn and light up your phone on the way to the bus stop. You have to transfer from this route to your usual.  

Huh. That can’t be right. 50k? That’s absurd. You press down on the notification and it brings up your post. 

Oh. It’s real. Your post has blown up. Fifty-thousand. That’s pretty good but it’s hardly viral. If anything, the fanfiction girlies probably think it’s a fic preview. 

You put your phone away as the bus approaches. You dumb a handful of change in the machine as you board and find a seat near the front. Your head bobbles as your eyes droop. Now you can sleep. Huh. 

You open the deli as usual. You set to slicing the days orders and get the breads in the oven. The doors unlock just after eight and the usual customers mill in. When John gets there after ten, you step aside to check your phone. 

No way. A million. It’s impossible. 

It doesn’t matter anyway. A post on the internet isn’t going to get you your trailer back. It will die out soon enough. Maybe you should just delete it. No, that feels wrong. A shitty thing happened and you have a right to be unhappy about it. So, you will and you’ll scream it at your phone screen. 

You put your phone back in your apron and go back to work. The virtual world doesn’t matter. Esther wants her turkey breast. 

[enjoy-the-small-thingsxx]

THE POEM THAT ONCE WAS US

A little house with three bedrooms,

One bathroom and one car on the street;

A mower that you had to push

To make the grass look neat.

In the kitchen on the wall

We only had one phone,

And no need for recording things,

Someone was always home.

We only had a living room

Where we would congregate;

Unless it was at mealtime

In the kitchen where we ate.

We had no need for family rooms

Or extra rooms to dine.

When meeting as a family

Those two rooms worked out just fine.

We only had one TV set

And channels, maybe two,

But always there was one of them

With something worth the view

For snacks we had potato chips

That tasted like a chip.

And if you wanted flavor

There was Lipton's onion dip.

Store-bought snacks were rare because

My mother liked to cook,

And nothing can compare to snacks

In Betty Crocker's book

Weekends were for family trips

Or staying home to play.

We all did things together,

Even go to church to pray.

When we did our weekend trips

Depending on the weather,

No one stayed at home because

We liked to be together.

Sometimes we would separate

To do things on our own,

But we knew where the others were

Without our own cell phone.

Then there were the movies

With your favorite movie star,

And nothing can compare

To watching movies in your car

Then there were the picnics

At the peak of summer season,

Pack a lunch and find some trees

And never need a reason.

Get a baseball game together

With all the friends you know,

Have real action playing ball

And no game video.

Remember when the doctor

Used to be the family friend,

And didn't need insurance

Or a lawyer to defend?

The way that he took care of you

Or what he had to do,

Because he took an oath and strived

To do the best for you.

Remember going to the store

And shopping casually,

And when you went to pay for it

You used your own money?

Nothing that you had to swipe

Or punch in some amount,

And remember when the cashier person

Had to really count?

The milkman used to drive a truck

And go from door to door,

And it was just a few cents more

Than going to the store.

There was a time when mailed letters

Came right to your door,

Without a lot of junk mail ads

Sent out by every store.

The mailman knew each house by name

And knew where it was sent;

There were not loads of mail addressed

To "present occupant”

There was a time when just one glance

Was all that it would take,

And you would know the kind of car,

The model and the make

They didn't look like turtles

Trying to squeeze out every mile;

They were streamlined, white walls, fins and “skirts”,

And really had some style

One time the music that you played

Whenever you would jive,

Was from a vinyl, big-holed record

Called a forty-five

The record player had a post

To keep them all in line,

And then the records would drop down

And play one at a time.

Oh sure, we had our problems then,

Just like we do today

And always we were striving,

To find a better way.

Oh, the simple life we lived,

Still seems like so much fun.

How can you explain the game,

“Just kick the can and run?”

And all us boys put baseball cards

Between our bicycle spokes;

And for a nickel, red machines

Had little bottled Cokes?

This life seemed so much easier;

Slower in some ways.

I love the new technology,

But I sure do miss those days.

So time moves on and so do we,

And nothing stays the same;

But I sure love to reminisce

And walk down memory lane.

With all today's technology

We grant that it's a plus!

But it's fun to look way back and say,

Hey look, guys, THAT WAS US!

by

Jacqueline Penbe

[ashintheairlikesnow]

now i’m craving streetkid chris waaaaa

if you have some time and energy, could you be persuaded to perhaps write some streetkid chris with jake and the safehouse? i’ve never stopped needing comfort for him

CW: Heavily internalized ableism, referenced past dubcon and noncon, some internal dehumanization, referenced drug use

(Street kid Chris au pieces here and here)

-

He sobers up, more or less, on the bus ride out of the center of the city, his forehead resting against the cool glass window. It's all a blur that moves through and around him, steel and concrete shifting to grass and trees and little houses placed next to each other like a child's toys.

Baldur hides a smile, imagining a giant toddler hand lining the houses up one by one by one by one, picking doll families to live in the little doll houses. Giant baby god giving this family a dog and this family a goldfish and that one a pretty boy like Baldur to do everything they say-

A laugh catches in his throat, dies there with the chill of sudden grief. What is his Sir doing? Is he at home with some new pet, playing games? Was Baldur replaced that quickly?

Of course he was. He was never special, never really very good even. Pretty, until he got too old. Stupid statue-boy trying and trying to hold still and never winning any of Sir's games. Sir would've ordered someone else right away.

He's probably forgotten about Baldur by now.

His throat tightens even more, heat stinging his eyes, but Baldur fights it back. The only thing worse than his wrong words and his wrong hands is when he cries, of course. Sir always says-

But Sir doesn't want him any longer, isn't there to tell him never to cry and then play games and hurt him until he does it anyway.

"Hey." Kauri, sitting next to him, must catch something in the shift of movement in his throat when he swallows or the stare of his glassy green eyes. "What's up, buttercup? You need some water? I know coming down always makes me so thirsty I could scream."

Baldur shakes his head, curling up as best he can, pulling his knees to his chin with his heels pressed against the edge of the seat, pushing the dirty soles of his shoes against the cushioned fabric. "No thank you," He whispers. "I... I'm fine."

"Yeah, yeah. I've heard that before - or I guess I should say that I've said that before. And you know what, Chris? Never once was I actually fine. So. Here." Kauri holds a bottle of water out, shaking it a little as if trying to lure a stray cat with a can of tuna. "Come on, have a drink. It'll help hold off the headache, I swear."

Baldur's fingers are shaking when he takes the bottle, and it takes three tries to get the cap open, but the water is cool and clean on his tongue and down his throat, and before he realizes it the bottle is half empty, his chest feels cold on the inside as the water trickles through him, and he's gasping for breath.

Kauri's smile is soft, gentle, only a little sad. "There we go. Keep working on it, okay? Hydration is the best defense against hangovers, not that I ever take my own advice. But it is still excellent advice."

By the bus reaches a stop that Kauri declares is theirs, he's had all the water and it's an empty bottle he stashes in his backpack. He can refill it at the first sink he sees, have something he doesn't have to beg for or fuck for to drink later on.

Baldur steps off the bus and into a neighborhood right out of TV.

Houses line the street on either side, and Baldur stares at old trees that rise over his head, dappling the ground with shade that blocks some of the heat of the sun. The air smells like grass, and there's a drone from somewhere nearby that he realizes must be a lawn mower, a sound he's only heard from Sir's windows while watching the landscapers work far, far below.

There's a fence around the yard next to them - a white fence, even, with chips of peeling paint. Baldur moves to it, reaching out and letting his fingertips brush the rough wood, one nail scratching at a bit of paint coming free. He doesn't hear himself humming, low and tuneless, repeating over and over, until Kauri pops back into view in the corner of his eye.

"You never seen a fence before?" Kauri teases, but then Baldur flinches back and away and watches Kauri's smile falter, briefly, before it determinedly returns. "Sorry. I scared you, huh?"

"I'm fine," Baldur says too fast, realizing too late that he isn't answering the question Kauri asked - either of them. The blush heats his cheeks and he turns away, jamming his hands in his pockets as hard as he can, hunching his shoulders. "Fine. I'm... I'm fine."

The word sounds good in his mouth. Soothes his mind. He opens his mouth to say it again, fine fine fine - but Baldur catches himself this time. He can't repeat words he hears, that's wrong. Can't stammer, that's wrong. Can't move, or sway, or use his hands - wrong.

All wrong.

"Right. Well, come on. The house is this way." Kauri walks a little ways away, then looks back over his shoulder. Baldur hurries to catch up, keeping himself hunched. The weight of his backpack is familiar and comforting, all his things in there. The usual headache when the pills wear off teases around the edge of his mind, but it doesn't take hold. Maybe Kauri was right about the water.

Kauri talks, chatting brightly. His hands move constantly, in gestures and emphasis, and Baldur keeps staring at it. Sir would have slapped his hands if he moved them so much, but Kauri doesn't even notice he does it.

The house has people there like them, Kauri explains, although not like them like them, just - other pets. Domestics, mostly. The woman who runs the house, like the shelters Baldur has stayed at but they won't make him pray.

"Trust me," Kauri reassures, "I wouldn't stay there if they did. I've traded a bed and some food for having to go to their church and let them tell me what a bad boy I am enough for one lifetime, thank you. Sinners have more fun, anyway." He winks, and Baldur blinks back at him. "The last time I stayed at one, the pastor hit on me. The very, very married pastor. Which goes to show you - when you are as good in bed as I am, even God doesn't measure up."

Baldur swallows. He should say something - something witty. Kauri seems to have things to say about everything, all of the time, but Baldur's mind is still slow from the pills, even though he's sobering up. He can't think of anything except to say, "Really?"

"Really." Kauri's smile is bright, flash of sun off the hood of a car blinding but with something about it that seems cracked, too. "Once we get there, I'll make introductions. But I promise, everybody is nice."

"... Nice," Baldur murmurs. Nobody is, not really, in his experience. Everybody takes something in return for every bit of nice they offer. Everybody sees his barcode and knows they can do whatever they want to him, and then they do. And if he's lucky it's only to make him eat food that makes him feel sick, or talk to him about how he's walking a dark path, as if there has ever been a lighter one. Or sometimes they tell him to go lay down on the bed-

"We're here!" Kauri's voice cuts into Baldur's thoughts, and he looks up.

In front of him there's a two-story house with white siding, flat-faced with windows that look down on him like eyes. There's a porch with chairs on it, and sitting in one of them is a tall, thin man with a mess of dark hair and sharp, dark almost-feline eyes. He's fiddling with something in his hands, but when he sees them he shoves whatever it was into his pocket and quickly stands.

Baldur hesitates - but Kauri moves right up the overgrown path, flat stones half-covered by grass and weeds. "Hey, Ant! I brought someone."

"I see this," The man says, in a smooth, accented voice. He sounds like velvet. Baldur looks at him, trying to think. Just a blowjob, probably. Easy. Baldur has traded those for lots of things. He barely has to do anything, once they grab his head. "Kauri-"

"Oh, wipe that worry off your face, Antoni, he's one of us." Kauri waves a hand back at Baldur, then grabs at his arm to pull him forward. "I brought him to meet Nat and Jake. Chris, this is Antoni. Antoni, this is Chris."

Antoni looks at him, then turns and silently heads back into the house.

Baldur swallows, shifting to half-hide himself behind Kauri. "... he doesn't... like me."

"Nah, Antoni's just kind of a mood killer professionally. He's a softie once you get to know him, I promise." Kauri half-drags him up the steps and through the front door, into an entryway that has a pile of coats abandoned on a coat rack, shoes on a mat. The house smells like something cooking, and Baldur's mouth waters, his stomach twisting as it remembers how to feel hungry and not just emptied-out and light. "Jake! Hey, Jake!"

"Jake's out," A woman's voice says. Baldur stares as an older woman pops her head in. She has brown hair with bits of gray in it in a braid that lays over one shoulder, a flannel shirt over a t-shirt and ancient jeans, and a soft smile ringed in laugh lines that crinkles at the corners and near her eyes.

She's beautiful.

"Who's this?" The woman looks from him to Kauri, with curiosity - not trepidation, not worry, and not anger. "You brought someone by?"

"Yeah. This is, uh, this is Chris. He's one of us. Chris, this is Nat. She feeds me sometimes."

"Love that description." Nat's voice is wry with good humor, and she steps forward, holding out her hand. "I have hobbies, too, you know. Hello, Chris. I'm Nat, and this is my house. I help runaways from WRU start over."

He stares at her outstretched hand, then back at her, before hesitantly shaking. His grip is limp compared to hers, but she doesn't say anything about it. "I-... I thought... you were... a man."

"No, that's Jake," Kauri corrects him. "He insists on having a life outside of waiting for my beautiful ass to show back up, so we'll see him later."

"... Okay." Baldur studies the woman - Nat - thoughtfully. Then he offers, "I can... do women, too."

Nat's expression changes - so subtly he can't tell what the change is. But he sees it. Baldur knows how to tell when the mood of a room goes sour, to try to protect himself. "Romantic," She murmurs. "I see. Kauri-"

"Don't say he can't come here," Kauri interrupts, bristling, and Baldur stares at him in open terror as his heart drops to his knees. He's angry at one of them. Baldur didn't know you could do that. "He's got as much a right as anybody else does, and you let me come here, and he could use the help, Nat, so don't you dare-"

"Kauri. Hey." Nat puts her hands up, as if surrendering in a fight. "That's not what I was gonna say. I was going to say, Kauri, how about you set him a place at the table for dinner. Okay?"

Kauri's jaw is set, and it takes him a moment to stop looking ready to keep up the argument that isn't even happening. "I-... yeah. Okay. Yeah, I'll do that. Just-... Nat, you know that a lot of places won't-"

"I know. It's okay, honey. It really is okay. Just go get him set up. And you." Nat smiles at Baldur, and he tries to see the mean she's hiding, but it isn't there. Too buried underneath a kind face, maybe. Baldur can't imagine there just isn't any cruelty there at all. "We take all kinds here, and you're welcome. No one touches you here, and I'd prefer if you kept your hands to yourself at first."

Those words don't mean anything. The shelters say that a lot, too, but Baldur still wakes up to a hand over his mouth and a voice whispering to him to be quiet sometimes when he sleeps in one. He'll find out the real cost of staying here at some point.

But he'll find out with food in his stomach, and that's worth something.

"Yes, ma'am," He murmurs, looking up and around at the high ceiling in the entryway, carpet-covered stairs that curve up and disappear around an angle. Bookshelves, and off to one side the corner of a living room with a TV playing.

"Just Nat is fine. Kauri?"

"Got it." Kauri gives a mocking, if still friendly, salute. It makes Baldur smile - but he hides it behind his serious face when he sees Nat look at him. "I'll get him settled in. Maybe we'll stay over tonight? If that seems like a good idea, if not-"

"It sounds great."

Baldur watches her go, heading up the stairs - that creak as she walks, giving away the house's age. Wondering what she'll want him to do later on, to pay for the food, to earn the bed he'll sleep in.

He has more pills in his pocket. He can take some, and drift through whatever staying here costs, let his body and training do all the work. He's done it before, over and over again.

He'll always have to do it again, sooner or later.

When Kauri takes his hand again, he lets himself be led.

He doesn't notice the dark-haired man, Antoni, watching him from a doorway as Baldur digs out two small pills and swallows them dry while following Kauri into the kitchen.

[oldedo]

Hard Working Folk. The Satisfaction of Manual Labor, Skilled Work, and Builders of Things that Last.

I have no illusions that manual labor is not hard, tough work. I grew up doing it. Summer vacations were fun-filled trips to Disneyland or far away places. The best we could do was to hope for a 2-3 day trip to an aunt's farm in Oho. Otherwise, it was us working on dad's "projects": digging a hole for a new septic tank; digging a hole to move our outhouse to, plus all the planting, hoeing, harvesting. Then there was the acres of grass to be mowed with a push mower---there was no safe place to use a riding mower on the side of the hill where we lived. Normal for Appalachia. We often were lucky enough to put off house painting and roofing to early fall. You don't wanna do much roofing in the heat of the summer, even the pre-climate change heat.

Later, just out of high school, I started as an auto-body repair apprentice. All the veteran body men had big arms for a reason. But I decided to go into the military for training and ultimately college. The military was great (except for the prohibition on gay sex. You could be gay, but you could not have sex.)

Then I went to university and started a career that required NO physical strength or conditioning unless it waste get my butt used to sitting all day. Any physical stuff was relegated to my own motivation on my time off. While in the States, that was no problem as I still have plenty of heavy chores and labor to do. Plus, I could weight lift and go on long bike rides and races. Then to Japan. Any physical labor in Tokyo I do had been limited to a suitcase or two, or when moving apartments carrying some of the things movers need not bother with. All my physical "labor" is now weight lifting and running. Had to give up cycling because of the danger---real danger---on crowded streets. But the thing I miss most about physical work the lack of something tangible to show from my job. Tens years from now, the results of weeks or months of hard work will likely be invisible to everyone. Things I made or things I built or helped with from all those years ago back home are still there. I can see them. They'll still be there as long as our old place stands. I have the satisfaction of knowing I did that. My brothers and I and my mother can all see it and share in the memories. There seems to be a newfound respect for people in skilled trades in the US, well among some folks, mainly those who never lost it to begin with. The talent, intelligence required, the physical and mental skills are obvious. The talent, intelligence required, the physical and mental skills for planning some nonsense about embarking on a new paradigm is not obvious. One could argue that baffling people with bullsh*t is the most obvious skill required for that.

[bluecollarmcandtf]

The Cop I Own part 1

I pulled into my driveway after a long day. I jumped at the sight of an intimidating figure waiting on my porch in a blue uniform . Why were the police at my house?

Then, I recognized him.

The dense body, the handsome beard, and that same prideful smirk: it was officer De Luca, the cop that had pulled me over this morning.

I had been hungover and late when demanded my license and registration, and I didn't keep myself from snapping at him.

The poor cop was gravely outmatched. Using my mind control abilities, I had him agreeing with me about everything I said in a matter of seconds.

He now knew he was in the wrong here. He was an idiot for pulling me over, and he was more than happy to do anything to make up for it. That's when I gave him my address, telling him to be there in uniform after his shift ended.

I sped off without another thought and honestly forgot about the guy until this moment.

The cop eagerly stepped up to me on the driveway, a hopeful smile on his face and an excited palm outstretched.

"Hello sir. I want to say again how sorry I am for pulling you over this morning," he promised, "I tore up that ticket right after you left. If there's anything I could do to make up for the inconvenience..."

"Oh I think I could find something for you to do," I replied, already excited to put a policeman to work.

My lawn and garden have become an overgrown mess ever since I moved in, and I hated doing yard work. That's why I made him do it.

Officer De Luca trimmed the bushes first, grabbing some gloves and clippers from my garage. He said he wanted to change into something more casual, but I assured him that he was willing to do the labor in his full uniform.

He came to agree with me. What a surprise there.

Before long, the cop was building up a sweat in his police outfit, while I sat on the porch and sipped a drink. I really enjoyed watching the cop clean up my garden. I had a lot of work he could do and all night to make him do it.

"Go ahead and mow the lawn next!" I called to him.

"You got it, sir," he grunted back, picking up the pace with the clippers.

He had to refill the gas in the lawn mower before it would run. I hardly ever touched the thing, but he eventually kicked it into action.

I told the officer to finish up the rest of the yardwork, before heading inside for the night. Occasionally I would go out and check on him, finding the guy weeding the mulch beds and watering the flowers. He was so engrossed in my yardwork, he hardly seemed to notice me staring at him toiling away.

Eventually he knocked on my door and explained that he had finished. I went out and inspected his work, while he shuffled nervously behind me.

"It looks good..."

His face relaxed.

"...so you'll be here the same time tomorrow? I've got plenty more you can do."

"Oh," Officer De Luca wiped his sweaty brow and sighed, "I guess I thought this was it."

"It isn't," I explained, "But you liked helping me out with my house chores didn't you?"

"Yeah, I guess I did."

"So lets make this a daily thing, man. Get here after work each night and find me. I'll give you something to do. There is plenty to get done around here."

I smiled as the cop ultimately agreed. He would spend his evenings here, working for me. From now on, the chores in my house could be pushed onto my new work pig.

I was already thinking about all the annoying work I could leave for him tomorrow...

[mysticalspiders]

“What is it, what nameless, inscrutable, unearthly thing is it; what cozening, hidden lord and master, and cruel, remorseless emperor commands me; that against all natural lovings and longings, I so keep pushing, and crowding, and jamming myself on all the time; recklessly making me ready to do what in my own proper, natural heart, I durst not so much as dare? Is Ahab, Ahab? Is it I, God, or who, that lifts this arm? But if the great sun move not of himself; but is as an errand-boy in heaven; nor one single star can revolve, but by some invisible power; how then can this one small heart beat; this one small brain think thoughts; unless God does that beating, does that thinking, does that living, and not I. By heaven, man, we are turned round and round in this world, like yonder windlass, and Fate is the handspike. And all the time, lo! that smiling sky, and this unsounded sea! Look! see yon Albicore! who put it into him to chase and fang that flying-fish? Where do murderers go, man! Who’s to doom, when the judge himself is dragged to the bar? But it is a mild, mild wind, and a mild looking sky; and the air smells now, as if it blew from a far-away meadow; they have been making hay somewhere under the slopes of the Andes, Starbuck, and the mowers are sleeping among the new-mown hay. Sleeping? Aye, toil we how we may, we all sleep at last on the field. Sleep? Aye, and rust amid greenness; as last year’s scythes flung down, and left in the half-cut swaths—Starbuck!”

I love everything about this passage but line about the judge – God – being dragged to the bar