#breadtruck

[theonemeathead]

Spy x Reader, "Lovers Rock"

angsty songfic because i lauve tv girl so much. sorry for the lack of posts btw! tws for throw up, drinking. reader is gender neutral, enjoy! :3

Awkward, is how you would describe the circumstance.

Another victory, celebrated at a local bar full of cheap booze and loud music. And, normally, you would be there too, laughing and dancing the night away with the rest of your rowdy, drunken friends. Yet, you craved the quietness of an isolated night, and what better opportunity than to have the whole base to yourself until the return of the rising sun when the morning, unfortunately, returns?

Are you sick of me?

And just as you were beginning to get settled in for the night, the ringing of a wall-phone echoed through the empty halls. Sighing, you stare, contemplating for a second. Against your better judgement, you answer it, the bustling atmosphere immediately overwhelming your senses as you reluctantly raised the phone to your ear.

"Hello?"

"Yo, it's Scout. Listen, ya need'a get here ASAP. If Spy stays any longer, it's not gonna be pretty, I can guarantee ya that."

Would you like to be?

The clicking of his line ended with a low beep, leaving you with no choice but to give up your chance at a peaceful night to, yet again, babysit a grown man. You hung up, frustrated, quickly throwing on some clothes and grabbing the keys to a spare breadtruck.

Which leads you to your current situation.

It had been a pain in the ass, getting Spy into the vehicle. He repeated that he was fine, that he was 'an adult' and could 'make his own decisions'. Yet, the slurring of his speech, the way his pupils dilated, it was apparent he was one drink away from ruining his suit.

"I promise you, I am... okay?" he sounded unsure, as if he couldn't remember the correct words to piece together. Spy hardly ever got tipsy, let alone where he's at now. It was concerning.

I'm trying to tell you something.

"No, we're going back to base," you insisted, pressing your foot on the brake as you slowed to a stop. You looked over, observing how he had taken his overcoat off and folded it over his leg, his tie messily hanging undone around the collar of his dress shirt, a few of the buttons undone revealing greying chest hair. He looked so handsome in the illuminating redness of the stoplight.

"I don't need you to take care of me, I am able to do it myself." He shifted in the uncomfortable leather of the truck, bracing as the car started moving when the light flickered green.

Something that I already said.

"Spy, you're very clearly far from sober. You couldn't walk in a straight line, let alone stand up on your own—" You started, punctuating your words with a tone of agitation. "—What's the matter? Nobody's ever.... Well, I've never seen you like this."

The air hung heavy. He stayed silent, opting to try and force the conversation to end. You shook your head. One night, alone, and now you were stuck in a car with the most arrogant asshole on the team. You took a deep breathe, speaking up again.

You like a pretty boy.

"I just— I want you to know I worry about you, Spy, okay? I don't care how naïve that sounds, but if you needed me to ever pick you up and take you home again, I would," your voice was small, almost meek. You glanced over, noticing how his steel eyes scanned you for insincerity, as if he was deciphering if you were lying or not. Your eyes briefly locked, causing you to avert your attention back to the road, encased by the darkness of the night.

"Je ne comprends pas—"

"In English, please."

"Ah, forgive me. I am afraid I don't understand you, mon chér." His accent was heavy, almost indecipherable. The roughness of his voice was therapeutic, in a way. There was an almost hoarsness to it, even though he sounded oh so sweet. One of the many things that you couldn't seem to get out of your head.

With a pretty voice.

"I don't understand you either. I wish I did." You and Spy had been close, the closest he had been to someone since his last wife, over two decades ago. Yet, one day, after sharing a glass of wine, he flinched away. Something changed. He shrouded himself in a cloak of mystery, once again. Except, this time, it wasn't alluring or intriguing, it was frustrating and so very painful. He had convinced you that there could be something more, a burning spark of something gentle and fleeting. Yet, he refused. "You really hurt me that one night, Spy. I'm sure you know that, too."

"I've hurt a lot of people, chér. That's what I do."

"But it doesn't have to be that way. We could've—" you stopped yourself, feeling a familiar sting beginning to form in your throat. The last thing you needed was to cry. You stopped talking altogether, opting to turn the radio up instead. Old love songs looped on the radio in an endless, hellish loop that seemed to be designed to torment you and only you.

Who's trying to sell you something.

Veering left, you drove slowly through the blanket of fake landscape, pulling into makeshift garage. You turned the car off, the engine coughing as it finally keeled, the damn thing wasn't worth a crap anyways. You slid out, walking over to the passenger side. Spy had already gotten out and had upchucked in the nearest trashcan. Good thing he had leaned forward. You saddled up beside the older man, wrapping one of his long, skinny arms around your neck and supporting him with a firm hand around his waist.

Something that you already have.

You pushed open the heavy, steel doors, the coldness of the metal searing at the soft and warmth of your flesh. Spy had almost fallen over twice now and you had barely walked 5 feet altogether. You sat him on the couch of the living room, watching as he seemed dazed about his whereabouts.

"Stay here, I'm going to grab you a glass of water," you gently told him. He seemed to get it, nodding his head slowly to answer you. You took a glass from the cupboards. The material felt heavy in your hands, as if no other cup had held as much weight as this one. The reality of the situation hit you. You would pick him up, bring him home, take care of him, make sure he was okay... but would he do the same for you? Would Spy, a trained assassin with over 20 years of experience, be able to get over himself to be tender with you—for you?

But if you're too drunk to drive.

You returned, handing him the glass. You watched as he clumsily brought it to his lips, getting more liquid on himself, rather than drinking it properly. Sighing, you opt to hold his head back, using a steady hand to aid him in drinking. It was almost silly, the sight. He was in his late 40s, struggling to do something as simple as take a sip of water.

And the music is right.

You hooked yourself around him again, this time escorting him to his quarters. You had to venture through his smoking room, a place you had come to resent since that night he pushed you out and away. You felt a painful ache as you watched the lone record player in the corner; The record player you would both listen to Paul Anka and Frank Sinatra on. You had reached the large, mahogany door that led to his sleeping arrangement, along with a personal bathroom that he had paid Miss Pauling under the table to implement.

She might let you stay.

You sat him on the silken linen of his bed, watching as he seemed to embrace the soft fabric of the sheets. You kneeled, taking his shoes off. And slowly but surely, you had gotten him down to just a pair of briefs. He seemed too buzzed to care, or, perhaps, this was an act of trueting you, otherwise you were sure this act would be filled with French protest and various other quips. You had folded his suit and put it away, sitting the dirty clothes on a near-by chair. You, gingerly, took a white wifebeater and a pair of red-striped pants and slid them over his thin body. You traced every scar the Respawn machine never seemed to fully mend, taking the time to admire how he turned and twisted beneath the tenderness of your hand.

But just for the night.

Lastly, you pulled at his mask. He seemed to have sobered up in milliseconds, a hand flying to grab your wrist. He didn't have a furrowed brow or anything scornful, but something that threw you off completely; Fear. He had been sober enough this whole time to realize what you were doing, sober enough to stop you if he wanted to, yet he didn't. You pawed at it, yet again, his grip loosening slightly. Spy lifted his head up, allowing you to pull it off with more ease. You gently tucked the fabric into the bedside table, where he kept a spare revolver just in case; 'The Ambassador', he called it.

And if she grabs for your hand.

You sat on the edge of the bed as he laid behind you. You turned slightly, your body facing him now. Reaching a hand up to place it against the bristles of his clean shaven face, you stroked at the aged skin. His cheek bones, high and defined, sat nicely against his long face. You gently trailed your fingers up to his forehead, subconsciously counting the wrinkles that had formed over the years. Your hands traced down the hook of his nose, sloping down fully until your fingers rested against his chapped lips, which were normally soft. You had both been uncharacteristically silent through this whole ordeal and it was apparent the reason why; You both knew what would happen. That dwindling spark that lasted for even months after was still there. You felt it and you know he did too.

And drags you along.

"Mon cœur—" he broke the silence, gaining your attention. "Every night, I regret it. I miss our talks, our secrets."

Immediately, you felt a wave of nausea and anxiety. He looked up at you, taking your hand from his face and holding it in his own boney one. He rubbed gentle circles across the back of your hand, squeezing your fingers slightly as if he were going to lose you if he let go.

She might want a kiss.

"What did I do wrong?" The way you said it broke his heart. Your voice shook with so much emotion, it could've rattled the Earth to its core. The way your eyes had grown glossy from approaching tears, your lip quivering slightly to hold back a waterfall of sobs.

"Nothing, ma petit chou. I was..." He hesitated. Still under the influence, he marched forward, vulnerable and, for the first time in years, nervous. "I was afraid."

Before the end of this song.

"I loved you, Spy. I love you, still." You blinked, a couple of tears spilling down your warm cheeks. He clicked his tongue, taking his free hand and wiping them away as he sat up to face you. He brought you closer, pulling you forward and resting your head upon his chest. His heart was beating fast and erratic, from nerves or liquor you couldn't tell.

Because love can burn like a cigarette.

"I... I love you too. Please, stay with me tonight." It sounded pathetic coming from him. But, yet, you slid your shoes off and you turned the lamp off. You laid against him, hearts thrumming in rythm as he finally drifted off into what was some of the heaviest sleep he'd ever had. You had gotten past those walls, once again. Thankful was an understatement for how you felt. You knew Spy was complicated, someone who couldn't allow slip-ups or complications, it could cost him as much as his life.

And when he awoke the next morning, groggy with a pounding headache, with you clutching onto him as if he would leave in the middle of the night, Spy knew he had done at least one thing right in his drunken stupor. All he hoped for, now, was your forgiveness.

And leave you alone with nothing,

And leave you alone with nothing.

[birchbritches]

Clear Skies

Augur asks too much of a creature already hot with August, whose heart already races to beat out gravity, who heard all its siblings and anyone else it knows flown off to tell a tale but getting out of earshot and some lookieloo stops them, asks directions, lets the signals get out of range and strand a straggler, may as well have slung and felled them and sung of it ad hoc not even working out the words ahead. A breadtruck rumbles by, drowns out last echolocatables, shuns the augur shy by perception and the bird worthless. The sky fills with emptiness, the bird works its last leg to mortar-gristle, can hear nothing to fly for.

[amoralcrackpot]

"We're still looking for the driver of that breadtruck that fell on him," one detective said.

[chevelle38]

@sthlmbreadtruck 1956 Chevy Stepvan looks pretty cool out in the snow😎! #foodtruck #foodtrucks #bread #breadtruck #truck #stepvan #chevy#chevrolet #chevyvan#1956chevy#oldschool #restored #custombuilt #custombuild #bageritrucken #bageri #stockholm #sverige #sweden #nakab #nåkab (på/i Stockholm, Sweden) https://www.instagram.com/p/BtEOq-GBLls/?utm_source=ig_tumblr_share&igshid=1qwljctidoa7

[hammondcast]

Hammond Report April 15 2021 From Pandemic Quarantino Jon Hammond

#WATCHMOVIE HERE: Hammond Report April 15 2021 From Pandemic Quarantino Jon Hammond

Jon's archive https://archive.org/details/hammond-report-april-15-2021-from-pandemic-quarantino-jon-hammond 

Youtube https://youtu.be/FKvBedIpdwc 

FB https://www.facebook.com/jonhammondband/videos/209173743940963 

Hammond Report April 15 2021 From Pandemic Quarantino Jon Hammond

by

 Jon Hammond 

Hammond Report April 15 2021 From Pandemic Quarantino Jon Hammond - Daily Music and Stories from the organist & accordionist Jon Hammond, today's story about playing my old '62 Hammond A-100 and story about band I had traveling in an old bread truck stepvan that we had spray painted on the side "Th-th-th-that's all folks!" - and that's all for today! Come back tomorrow for another Hammond Report,

Jon Hammond

#Ththththatsallfolks

#hammonda100

#breadtruck

#stepvan

#musicians

#stories

#JonHammond

#byebyenow 

Publication date

 2021-04-15

Usage

 Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivs 4.0 International

Topics

 Hammond Report, 15 April 2021, Musician, Stories, Hammond A-100, Tonewheel Organ, Stepvan, Bread Truck, The Organist, Jon Hammond, bye bye now

Language

 English 

Addeddate

 2021-04-15 18:40:31

Identifier

 hammond-report-april-15-2021-from-pandemic-quarantino-jon-hammond 

Hammond Report, 15 April 2021, Musician, Stories, Hammond A-100, Tonewheel Organ, Stepvan, Bread Truck, The Organist, Jon Hammond, bye bye now

[bitwsports]

Time to climb on board the #BreadTruck. The WORKFLOW with BROWN is on PhillyGoFlow.com RIGHT NOW. Follow @PhillyGoFlow Listen Live: https://loom.ly/-JlWuKs Google Play: https://loom.ly/Ce8xtJ8 TuneIn: https://loom.ly/roSDOao TEXT REQUESTS TO: 856.556.5272 #TheGrownFolksGroove #nowlistening #NowPlaying #PlayingNow #whatimlisteningto #HipHop #RandB #ThrowbackHipHop #PhillyGoFlow #rythmandblues #RnB #rnbmusic #randbmusic #HipHopMusic #PhillyGoFlowRadio #90srnb #90shiphop #90srap #oldschoolrap #oldschoolrandb #radiojar #90srandb #classichiphop #phillyradio #internetradio #classicrap #DaPhillyGoFlow (at Philadelphia, Pennsylvania) https://www.instagram.com/p/B-FGNbiDINV/?igshid=u8fk5fyer8js

[pgnola]

When we are given full creative freedom! 😎👑 #pgnola, #mastersofbranding, #dubwrapstars, #killingitdaily, #layednotsprayed, #excelblades, #bladecage, #yellotools, #luxelightwrap, #authorizedinstaller, #autoskinsllc, #wrapglove, #bayouboyz, #neworleansbest, #louisianasbest, #nolasbest, #nissangtr, #nissangtrwrap, #breadtruck, #shoptruck, #likestogofast, #gtr, #gtrwrap, #avery, #averyWLK (at PG NOLA) https://www.instagram.com/p/B7T1pZ4nGCY/?igshid=1c2nqw4s3zlew

[alchemymotorcycles-blog]

Street sweeper #AlchemyMotorcycles #InternationalHarvester #IH #Metro #BreadTruck #Bagged #RaymondLoewy #Design Rendering By none other than @sketchy_jaime (at 2060 Logan Ave.)

[abigdumbanimal]

What'll You Have?

[for-forever21]

What

It’s just a truck

Filled with loaves of bread

What

[absentlyabbie]

Also 're the shitty dad thing, they always, always have them contrasted with someone whose dad (or mum for the full shitty parent thing) is dead for the guilt trip of "at least you still have a dad, if my dad was around I'd give anything to be able to talk to him again" like yeah, cause your dad was a good dad??? Don't guilt your friend out of being justifiably mad at their shitty dad because you lost yours

YES THEY DO, YOU ARE EXACTLY RIGHT. a Shitty Dad/Parent is not, in fact, better than no parent at all, and it’s grossly manipulative and damaging to push that idea.

that, and they like to parallel the shitty dad with some other dad, usually a one-off cameo character, whose kid is frustrated or hurt or whatever because of some strain between them and Cameo Dad and the situations are not remotely similar, but they’ll use that parallel to resolve the arc in a “aw shucks dads really are great after all” way that’s about as subtle as a breadtruck through a brick wall, all to make central/main character A with Actual Shitty Dad reevaluate their own situation based on this false equivalence.

like, Actual Shitty Dad is abusive, or was, or neglectful, or abandoned Kid, or manipulated and lied, etc etc. but Narrative Tool Comparison Dad like... travels a lot for work and isn’t home much, or misunderstands Narrative Tool Comparison Kid’s hobbies, or some bullshit like that.

it’s infuriating.

[chevelle38]

Maintenance work on a couple of our old Foodtrucks builds! #stepvan #stepvans#chevy#chevrolet#chevystepvan #chevyvan #van #vanlife#foodtruck#foodtrucks#streetfood#bestfoodtruck #breadtruck #brödbil #mattruck#matbil#foodtruckbuilder#lsswap #grumman #nakab#nåkab (på/i Stockholm, Sweden) https://www.instagram.com/p/B9XSMb3lsMu/?igshid=1dnewauqjthbt

[chelseapetrakis]

NE Portland, June 2015 Holga 120S, Agfa APX 100 . . . #holga #holgaweek #mediumformat #agfaapx100 #filmphotographic #thefilmcommunity #heyfsc #analoguephotography #lomography #analoguepeople #analogforever #analogvibes #filmisalive #onfilmdiary #back2thebase #istillshootfilm #sheshootsfilm #womenphotographers #thefemaleframe #blancetnoir #blackandwhite #blackandwhitefilm #everybodystreet #streetfeat #streetphotography #pdxstreetvibe #neportland #fences #wonderbread #breadtruck (at Boise/Elliot Neighborhood)

[bitwsports]

Back in Old City for another Friday evening on the #BreadTruck. https://www.instagram.com/p/B3x_JOqnAyQ/?igshid=6ap34uvqzkr

[pgnola]

BIG BIRD has been SOLD!!! It's a bitter sweet moment for us as BB has been an icon of @pgnola for over a decade & we've had plenty of great times "The Bread Sled" . But we know the new owner @bnice26 will not only treat her right, but probably pimp her more than we can imagine. I personally couldn't think of a better person she could have went too, as Bruce is a car guy, an audio/video guy, a lifted & lowered guy & most importantly a true car scene enthusiasts! The new wrap is a custom seamless pattern printed using CMYK BLACK w/ K-Black printed onto @adgraphics_na matte black film (no lam) and also @hexisusa satin titanium chrome front bumper, side rails & accents. Thank you to everyone that has helped make this truck the icon it is and always will be. 🙏🏻 #pgnola, #mastersofbranding, #dubwrapstars, #killingitdaily, #layednotsprayed, #excelblades, #bladecage, #yellotools, #luxelightwrap, #authorizedinstaller, #autoskinsllc, #wrapglove, #bayouboyz, #bigbird, #thebreadsled, #og, #bagged, #lowered, #breadtruck, #shoptruck, #lowlow, #slammed, #airzenith, #slamspecialties, #shoptruck, #icecreamtruck, #shesgone, #sold, #offtoanewhome (at PG NOLA) https://www.instagram.com/p/BzGCaZ2HM0U/?igshid=37jfvr3mm2wu

[illustrationimprov]

A long time ago, deep in the Tehachapi mountains, I found this abandoned International Harvester bread truck. It’s still one of the most beautiful things I’ve ever seen. ❤️ #internationalharvester #abandoned #tehachapi #oldtruck #IHtruck #breadtruck