#historic hardware store

[postcard-from-the-past]

Hardware store in Japan

Japanese vintage postcard

[spockvarietyhour]

Blyth and Watt Hardware Store, 289 Bank Street, Ottawa, Ontario. 1901 [Library and Archives Canada]

[baseballmomlesbiandad]

growing up in a midsized town is so fucking weird, everything is connected even if you've been away from that hometown for over a decade

[cirilla-fiona-riannon]

Chapter 1 Part 2 Preview

Translations may not always capture the exact nuances or tone of the original text. Expect grammatical errors and inaccuracies. Not a full translation.

Mitsuhide: "Oh? It seems we have a guest."

Sasuke: "Pardon the intrusion. Lord Kenshin."

(Sasuke!)

While everyone's attention shifted, Sasuke casually walked in from the hallway.

Kenshin: "You're late. You finally caught up."

Sasuke: "Please don't go ahead on your own. Stalling the guards was pretty tricky."

Kenshin: "Struggling against just a few opponents? Pathetic."

Sasuke: "Being a ninja in this chaotic era is one of the worst jobs ever."

Sasuke: "But at least I got to meet my idol, Tokugawa Ieyasu, so I guess it's all good."

Ieyasu: "Huh? I think I just heard my name."

Sasuke: "Yes, can I shake your hand?"

Ieyasu: "Why are you holding out your hand so seriously? There's no way that's happening."

(Oh yeah, Sasuke's a history buff and a huge fan of Ieyasu.)

Kenshin gave Sasuke a piercing glare.

Kenshin: "Sasuke, stop wasting time. Where's Kanetsugu?"

Sasuke: "Kanetsugu is..."

Sasuke glanced towards the hallway, and someone gracefully entered the room.

Kanetsugu: "Where's Lord Kenshin?"

Kanetsugu: "Hm? The sliding doors are broken. Was there an attack?"

(This is my first time seeing Kanetsugu.)

Kanetsugu looked down at the broken sliding door as Ieyasu let out a sigh.

Ieyasu: "That's the work of your lord, you know?"

Kanetsugu: "I see. The blade technique is impressive."

Mitsunari: "Yes, it looks like the sharpness has been improved even more since the last time I saw it on the battlefield."

Ieyasu: "Don't start analyzing the door."

Sasuke: "This is serious. This is a valuable sliding door and a historical artifact."

Sasuke: "To the members of the Oda army, I'm really sorry."

Nobunaga: "You're the one apologizing?"

Sasuke: "Well, my boss would never apologize even if the world turned upside down, so I might as well apologize on his behalf."

Nobunaga: "That's an unusual statement. Interesting."

Nobunaga: "How about you join the Oda army as a ninja?"

Kenshin: "Oh? If you're trying to pick a fight, I'll gladly accept."

Sasuke: "Headhunting, huh? I'm honored. But first, let's use this for now."

Sasuke pulled out of his pocket a round, brown-shaped thing.

(Is that the kind of packing tape that's always found at hardware stores!?)

Hideyoshi: "Hey, what on earth are you planning to do in someone else's castle?"

Sasuke: "Don't worry. I'm just going to repair it."

Kanetsugu: "How exactly are you going to use that tool?"

Kanetsugu curiously crowded around Sasuke.

Sasuke: "This is something I recently developed, the Sticks-to-Anything Tape."

Sasuke: "It's a strong adhesive applied to a sturdy strip of paper."

(He's saying this so casually.)

Mai: "You can even make things like that? As expected from you, Sasuke!"

Sasuke: "Thank you; I have my background in astrophysics to thank."

Sasuke: "By the way, I originally came up with this at Yukimura's request to keep Lord Shingen from stealing sweets. Though that plan ended up being scrapped."

(Better not to wonder how he planned to stop Shingen with it.)

Sasuke: "Lord Hideyoshi, could you hold this for me?"

Hideyoshi: "Hmm? Like this?"

Sasuke: "Thanks. Kanetsugu, you hold that side."

Kanetsugu: "Why me? Hey, isn't it a bit off? Measure it precisely."

Sasuke: "Understood. Trying to minimize the area to avoid damaging a national treasure painting is tricky."

Kanetsugu: "Then, Keiji, you lend a hand too."

Keiji: "Alrighty!"

Masamune: "Need my help as well?"

Kanetsugu: "One-Eyed Dragon, I didn't say you could step into my view."

Masamune: "No need to be so wary."

Kanetsugu: "Don't speak to me so casually."

(I'm definitely not imagining Kanetsugu giving Masamune that glare.)

Hideyoshi: "Mitsuhide, stop grinning over there and help."

Mitsuhide: "Sorry, but I'm far too busy cheering you on."

Hideyoshi: "You're obviously just relaxing."

Mitsunari: "Then I'll help. I just need to put the adhesive here, right?"

Ieyasu: "Great, now I've got that thing on my sleeve. Don't touch me, and don't come near me!"

(Oh no! Ieyasu's kimono is all messed up.)

Still, the work somehow progressed, and Sasuke wiped the sweat from his forehead when he finished applying the tape.

Sasuke: "Phew, I managed to fix it somehow, thanks to everyone's help."

Kanetsugu: "The strength looks sufficient."

(I'd heard Kanetsugu's name many times as Kenshin's brilliant retainer, but…)

This was my first time meeting him in person.

(He looks so unapproachable, but since I finally got to meet him, I should introduce myself.)

Mai: "Kanetsugu, nice to meet you. My name's Mai."

As I stepped closer and extended my hand, Kanetsugu coldly avoided it.

Kanetsugu: "I haven't yet acknowledged you."

Mai: "W-What?"

(Hasn't acknowledged me?)

Startled by his harsh words, I returned his gaze, looking into his purple eyes.

Mai: "Could you tell me why? If I've made a mistake, I'll correct it."

Kanetsugu: "Hmph."

Kanetsugu: "I have no intention of accepting that you've become the lover of Lord Kenshin."

(That's the reason?)

(Wait, no, that's really unreasonable!)

Kenshin: "Kanetsugu."

Kanetsugu: "I apologize. Please forgive my immaturity in questioning my lord's thoughts."

Kanetsugu bowed his head quietly under Kenshin's low reprimanding voice.

Nobunaga: "Oh, so the strategist of Uesugi isn't fond of Mai?"

Hideyoshi: "What's wrong with our Mai? Go on, say it!"

Masamune: "We can't just let someone like him be around Mai, can we?"

Ieyasu: "Masamune, you're enjoying this, aren't you?"

Mitsuhide: "If you don't find this amusing, there's something wrong with you."

The warlords exchanged light banter, but their gazes were intimidating, creating a tense atmosphere.

Mitsunari: "Lord Kanetsugu, Lady Mai is a wonderful person."

Keiji: "I just met her, but I think so too."

Sasuke: "Everyone in the Oda army, you're all being overly protective; ahem, I mean, please calm down."

(He said overly protective.)

Sasuke: "To put it simply, Kanetsugu worships Lord Kenshin, so it doesn't matter who becomes his lover."

Sasuke: "He doesn't particularly dislike Mai, so please understand that."

(I've heard rumors about his devotion.)

(Apparently, Kanetsugu's loyalty is absolute; he's been completely devoted to Kenshin since he was young.)

Kanetsugu: "You're saying unnecessary things."

Facing the disgruntled Kanetsugu, Sasuke nonchalantly pushed up the bridge of his glasses.

Sasuke: "Kanetsugu is just being Kanetsugu."

Sasuke: "He's not a mother-in-law who refuses to accept a bride based on personal feelings."

Kenshin: "Bride, huh? That has a nice ring to it. Say it again."

Kenshin pulled me close and wrapped his arms around me from behind.

Kenshin: "You think so too, don't you, Mai?"

[idiopathicsmile]

Ten future scenarios you can project onto a pair of infants other than “this girl baby and this boy baby will grow up to date,” in case that is ever useful—

Aww, she’s totally gonna run a heist with him, then at the last second betray him in exchange for her own private island and a helicopter full of caviar!

Someday those two will work for the same private detective agency; she’ll be the bruised idealist on a mission to find her spouse’s real killer and he’ll be the hired muscle who ultimately grows tired of her constant backhanded digs and self-sabotage.

Ohh, look at them! They are absolutely gonna be roommates in clown college.

In 28 years, she’s gonna show up at her high school reunion feeling unstoppable until she learns that his catering company has put shrimp in everything.

You can just tell that when they grow up, he’ll be on his way to an important meeting and she’ll be the TSA agent who makes him late because she’s high at work and convinced his C-Pap machine is trying to communicate.

They’re cooing at each other! Many years from now, they are gonna collaborate on a lush musical adaptation of Moby Dick, and it will be a flop.

She’s gonna grow up to be a historical re-enactor and he’s gonna become her nemesis, a man who shows up at every event pretending to be a time traveler, but not in a cute way, in a really obnoxious way.

They are totally gonna get married! As part of a complicated insurance scam. And then go their separate ways and never interact again.

See her looking around, you can already tell she’s so smart. She’s gonna work in communications for her city's public transit system, yes she is! And he’s gonna be the reason she has to pull an all-nighter to throw together a sign to hang inside every bus that says “no penny farthings allowed.”

On the night when she goes to the nearest big box hardware store and—bleary-eyed—buys only a saw, a shovel, and a bottle of bleach, he will be the guy who rings her up and blessedly asks no questions. (PAUSE) Look at those chubby little cheeks!

[biscuit-qu33n]

here is why I'm more annoyed with stolas than with blitz after the last few episodes:

because stolas went to the hardware store and got mad when it didn't stock bread.

and here's the thing: the hardware store never claimed to stock bread. the hardware store claimed to stock hammers and nails, and not even that consistently either. but the hardware store figured that was fine because it was up front about only selling hardware and not even great hardware at that. the hardware store didn't pretend to be a grocery store (at least, not in a way that was shown to us, the audience.) so imagine the hardware store's surprise when its best customer who historically wanted hammers and nails shows up, irate that the hardware store doesn't stock bread.

basically, don't shop for bread at the hardware store and you won't be disappointed. don't fault the hardware store for doing what it advertises itself to do.

[transmutationisms]

i keep getting so disoriented here bc all the streets look exactly the fucking same and i realised (this is obvious in retrospect) it's literally just bc essentially 100% of the built environment that exists now is less than 200 years old like it's just the homogeneity of extremely recent settler colonialism. even older colonial cities have more distinctive areas inside them like montreal and quebec city are both examples where you can clearly see some of the historical progression (though ofc some of this is now restored/redone/etc). and then there are cities like paris where what a lot of ppl think of as its 'classic' look is p much just a product of haussmannisation so it's kind of in general less 'historical' than often perceived. but still the point is there are like, distinct styles in different areas whereas like, places with a recent 'land rush' have so much more of this uniformity even if they were built by nominally different corporations/states. right now the big local fight here is the city wants to put a better bike lane on [large ugly wealthy street pretending to be styled like a parisian boulevard but not even succeeding at that] but the residents are putting up a stink bc it would detract from the 'historic' character of the street which is a foolish position regardless, but esp when you're talking about shit that was built in like 1890 at the earliest. and it's not even homogenous in like an interesting way, it's the same pseudo victorian brownstones you can see anywhere anglo and moneyed, and then dotted with like neoclassical churches... dc also has that confluence but it's more expected there bc in dc it's all about projecting soft power which is why there's that split between gov't buildings where they're either greco-roman nonsense or straight up concrete box brutalism. but who cares about doing that here is my question like why does it have to look manicured in this specific way, no one actually important even lives here it's not like some kind of power nexus lol. im always literally so lost thinking like, have i seen that hardware store before? and then im on a street called like edgecum lane with three fresh roadkills in the middle of it

[so-many-ocs]

Let's Talk: Worldbuilding Small Towns & Cities

this is a request from instagram!

Research!

pick a couple of real-life small towns or non-major cities and look into them!

how, when, and why did they form? some towns or cities form around bodies of water, are created for a specific industry (such as mining or lumber), or grow in close proximity to more major cities. what is the population makeup and density? how do people make a living there?

Essentials!

there are a couple of things that your town or city will need in order to function:

housing, shop(s) for food/clothing, some kind of food source such as a farm or garden, some kind of nearby water source such as a well or river, and a place for medical supplies or treatment.

depending on how modern the setting or how small the settlement, some of these may be located outside of your town/city.

Time Period!

more modern settings may have additional locations: laundromats, auto repair shops, restaurants and cafes, libraries, hardware stores, city halls, post offices, emergency services, waste management services, etc.

a lot of it depends on how big and how current your town or city is. less essential spots may be cut or merged based on these factors. for instance, a very small town might have furniture, groceries, convenience, and a pharmacy all in one building or “store.”

Naming!

for small town/city names, keep it simple! a lot of these places are named after relevant people/cultures, geography, or descriptors; think “Littletown,” “Fairhill,” “Fresh Springs,” or “Jefferson.” some small towns or cities are named after larger towns or cities, like any one of the half dozen places called “Ithaca” in the U.S.

if you’ve built or are using another language, the same naming conventions usually apply.

Questions!

what era is this setting in? agricultural, pre-industrial, industrial, post-industrial, etc? what level of technological advancement does this setting have?

what does trade look like there? what do they import and export? how close are they to major trade routes?

what major cultures, political affiliations, and religions influence this setting? how and when did these influences come about?

what is the geographical location? island, mountain, plains, etc?

what is stopping this location from growing into a major town or city?

Stealing!

when in doubt, steal like an artist!

find an existing (or historical) small city or cities that fit the rough vibe you’re going for and swap out necessary details.

if you use multiple inspiration sources, try and keep it consistent! most things are the way they are for a reason. take climate, geography, and general location into account!

-----------------

that's all! happy writing :)

buy me a ko-fi || what's radio apocalypse?

[hometoursandotherstuff]

This is such an unusual historic property. Built in 1820 in Albion, New York, the house has been restored with the original charm in mind, but I'm in love with the barn. The house has 2bds, 1ba and the both buildings on 7.15 acres is only $230K.

Let's look at the house first. They put in beams and lots of wood, but it somehow looks "off" to me. I don't like where they hung the flatscreen.

They put a piece of tin ceiling here, I guess for interest.

The dining room has some beams. I think what happens is that when they put up brand new dry wall in an historic home, it just doesn't look right, especially if they paint it modern colors.

Oh, there's the rest of that panel, it's on the kitchen ceiling. I'm not feelin' the 70s oak cabinets w/o a nice backsplash.

New gray bath.

Bright blue bedroom #1.

Don't know what's going on with bedroom #2. Are those the stairs?

The house is sort of cute, but I would rent it out.

Adorable little shed in the garden needs some love.

I would live in the barn.

This is character. It's so unique.

So unique. Looks like architectural salvage.

I looks like the current owners are using it as a jewelry store.

I love the open mezzanine on the 2nd level.

Under all the stuff is a bar here in the corner. Look at the little niche in the wall. How cute this could be.

Love the kitchen. Look at the barn wood cabinet.

This cabinet is old, judging by the hardware.

Not sure what this nook is, but it's adorable. Look at the old blades on the fan.

Cleaned up, this would be a beautiful room with the bookshelves and the French doors.

The barn has the most potential.

The 7.15 acres include a stream.

[extasiswings]

Time to play the game of “in an episode full of deranged writing choices, what is making my brain go brrrrrr the most” and this week we have landed on: Christopher’s Mission Building Project.  

Now, for those of you who have never gone to school in California, this may require a bit of explanation.  Basically, anywhere from around 5th-8th grade or so, it used to be traditional to have a social studies/state history section on the California missions/Spanish colonialism which would involve picking one of the missions and building a model.  If you’re wondering at all if these lessons have historically involved very little critical reflection and a lot of glossing over of the treatment of indigenous peoples, you would be right, and that’s partly why at least from my understanding, that practice had fallen out of style a bit in more recent years (or at least in certain areas).

In sum: of all the school projects that they could have given Christopher to send Eddie to the hardware store, of any subjects, they chose to make it a history project, and one that is very traditional and at least arguably outdated at best.  But it doesn’t stop there.  Because again, what exactly is this project?  It’s building a model.  A replica.  Recreating a massive, towering, monumental piece of history in a way that, frankly, will never match or live up to the real thing (and could not be expected to).  Because it’s a fake.  A pale imitation.  How could it ever measure up?

That’s exactly what Eddie is doing in his love life though.  He says so.  He’s trying to recreate and recapture what he had with Shannon.  And Bobby even tells him that he can’t.  It’s impossible.  You have to build something new, you can’t go back, you can’t make something lasting and real if all you’re doing is trying to imitate what came before.  

And see, Eddie has learned a little bit.  He and Christopher aren’t using the premade models that you just buy and stick together.  He’s not going down the same “readymade family” path he did with Ana.  At least he’s trying to build something from scratch.  But it’s still a replica.  He’s still stuck in the past in his own way, still stuck in this narrow box of what’s traditional even if it’s outdated, even if he’s evolved as a person to a place where that’s no longer what he actually wants or needs.  

Eddie had a great love.  A real love, a young love, a complicated love, a love that died.  That love is part of his history, his past, and has shaped him as a person.  But the next great love, the love that’s meant to define his future, that’s not going to come from looking back at the past.  He can’t build a model, he has to build a whole new structure.  And the last little loud tweak of Christopher being an engineer...the implication that even in following his heart, not Christopher’s, Christopher is fundamental to helping him figure out what that new structure (for life, for family, for love) looks like?  Yeah...yeah...I’m OBSESSED.    

[trulybetty]

oct x 11 - pumpkin spice

Prompt: pumpkin spice Pairing: marcus pike x f!Reader Word Count: 3,366 Warnings: this is somewhat au? I don't know how to describe it - but honestly, outside the mentions of food, just introductions to our characters 💕 Summary: maplewood, a small town nestled in northern bc where people flock to see the changing blossom trees and celebrate the fall season. after losing your job you find yourself a part of the community which includes the towns baker who left a less than stellar impression on you. AO3: Linked

A/N: this is a departure for me, this is going to be all sickly sweet and sticky sweetness - made a teeny tiny dash of angst? This will be told in three parts through the month, no promise on when the next part will be posted - but keep an eye out. Please let me know what you think, I'd love to hear it!

x. masterlist

Something Sweet, This Way Comes Part I | Pumpkin Spice

Maplewood was a small town nestled deep in the heart of British Columbia Canada, the crisp autumn air brought a sense of enchantment. The maple leaves painted the streets with vibrant shades of red and orange, and the town buzzed with anticipation for Halloween.

At the hub of it all was Maple Delights, a mainstay of the small town that had changed owners only three years ago. Before that Marcus Pike had left the FBI’s art division on the heels of lost love and disillusions for the career he once loved. Everyone always assumed he was a dab hand with creative pursuits when he would tell them he worked in the bureaus art department. And while he had studied art at college, it had been in art history. Truth was he couldn’t paint anything worth posting further than the front of the fridge, but baking on the other hand, was a hidden talent he’d always exceeded in.

So when a late night social media scroll after handing in his notice brought him to an article on the small town of Maplewood being a hidden gem in the Northern Canadian mountains. Over the following days he’d drifted back to the article several times before a Google search brought him to the small town’s website.

Then it wasn’t too much of a stretch to click on the link for the modest page of properties both for sale and rent, curiosity baiting him, only to find the town’s historic bakery up for sale.

Dashing any thoughts out of his head he’d closed his laptop with a shake of his head, it was an absurd idea. He was an early retiree of the Federal Bureau of Investigation, he had no business entertaining the idea of purchasing a bakery, let alone one in seemingly the middle of nowhere Canada.

But between the calls from friends and family checking in on him with the news of his departure from the job he once dearly loved and the end of the whirlwind romance that he’d thought was the one, he found himself late each night scrolling mindlessly, glass of wine in one hand, phone in the other, back looking at the town of Maplewood.

He did have a sizable nest egg, he owned his apartment which was now in what was considered a trendy part of town and worth a lot more than when he first purchased it.

He wasn’t entirely sure what possessed him two nights later to email the town's realtor, but within the month he was the proud owner of Maple Delights and all its contents and was packing up the contents of his modest apartment and heading north.

The previous owner had passed, with adult grandchildren who lived far away in various places across the country, and who had no interest in a historic bakery in the middle of nowhere; it had been left with no choice to go up for sale by the estate.

It had taken some modernization, not so easy a feat in the far north of BC where the local hardware store was a mom and pops situation and the nearest Home Depot was three hours away, but Marcus had made it work with help from a local contractor who’d enjoyed the challenge.

The facade had undergone a drastic change too, much to the chagrin of some locals. But when it was revealed to be a homage to its original exterior, when it was first opened, there had been actual tears at the results.

The front of the store was made up of a large window and wooden framing. In cursive the bakeries name was painted across the glass. At the front were planters at the wooden windowsill, filled with roses of various shades of pinks and whites. The climbing ivy had been stripped away to allow the brick underneath to stand out, making the white frames pop all the more.

It truly was a delight to see.

Surprisingly it didn’t take long after that for Marcus to win over the town. With his natural ability for baking and his charm, he won over any naysayers to the outsider in their town quite quickly and was soon a beloved member of the community.

Your journey to Maplewood however, was nearly not as charming.

It was a gloomy Tuesday morning when you received the email that would change the course of your life. As you sipped your coffee and stared at the screen, disbelief washed over you. The subject line was blunt and to the point: ‘Termination of Employment.’

You opened the email and read the cold, corporate language that informed you of the company's decision to downsize. Your position had been eliminated, effective immediately. There was no room for negotiation, no farewell party, just a stark message informing you that your services were no longer required.

You had worked at the job for who knows how long, because it felt like forever.

In the days that followed, you wrestled with the uncertainty of your future. You tried reaching out to your network, searching for new job opportunities in Toronto, but the job market was tough, and the competition was fierce. The bills kept piling up, and you felt the weight of financial insecurity pressing down on you.

It was one of those nights where you were texting with your friend Libby, a long time resident of Maplewood after she gave up the rat race to open a bookstore in the small town years ago. That she extended an offer that was too sweet to refuse. End your rental agreement and come up north and spend some time in the great outdoors and figure out what you want to do next.

With no other choices coming your way, you did just that.

That was three months ago.

As the days passed, you found yourself slowly adjusting to the laid-back lifestyle of Maplewood. Gone were the stresses of city life and the constant pressure to perform at your job. Instead, you spent your mornings sipping coffee in Libby's apartment above the bookstore and spent the rest of your day either helping out in the store or taking a stroll around town to take in all the unique sights that Maplewood had to offer.

Black Cat Books was wall to ceiling bookshelves and every manageable space was filled with books. It was a labyrinth, but Libby could stride through it like she was born into its midst. But ask Libby where any particular title resided? You'd find that she knew exactly how many steps it took to get there.  

Libby placed another book on the shelf behind her, “He’s really not all that bad.”

You sneered, “I don’t know why this whole town is obsessed with him.”

“Says the woman who is watching him from across the street and has been for the last hour.” Libby remarked, punctuated by a disbelieving look over the top of her glasses.

“I can’t help if the bakery is straight across the street,” she raised an equally disbelieving eyebrow at you, she didn't believe a word you were saying “and it’s his bakery, of course he’d be there.” you finished, crossing your arms across your chest refusing to make eye contact.

“Sure,” she dragged out her response, “whatever you say.”

You had been in Maplewood for a week when you'd run into Marcus, quite literally run into him. Crossing the main square, you may not have been paying attention, focusing on refreshing your email for leads on work as he had been stepping up onto the sidewalk, his arms full of bakery boxes obscuring his view.

“Watch where you're going much?!” You'd exclaimed, hands on your hips and glaring at him.

He'd looked up from the ground, his hands filled with ruined boxes, eyes narrowed. “Me? How could you miss me?”

“Well if you had been watching where you were going.” You countered.

He was about to launch into another tirade when he glanced at his watch. Stifling a curse he ran a hand through his hair before speaking, his voice low and gruff. “I haven't got time for this.”

With that he quickly gathered the last of the boxes and stomped off in the direction of the bakery. Your first encounter with the town's beloved baker had left nothing but a sour taste in your mouth.

Since then, you'd avoided any and all interactions with the man and fought rolling your eyes when people would speak so highly of the American who had made Maplewood his home. After all, he was the one responsible for bringing more business to Maplewood through word-of-mouth of his creations.

“Look,” Libby pointed at the sandwich board propped outside the shop, “today’s special is pumpkin spice scones, how about you go get us some and a couple of coffees?” she suggested as she pulled some money from her purse she kept under the counter.

You rolled your eyes but still took the money, guy was questionable, but his scones were to die for. Not that you would admit it to anyone.

A quick look both ways you dashed across the street. It was the start of October, a busy month for the town. Tourists would flock in to see the changing colours of the cherry blossom trees that lined both sides of the main street that led up to the town's main square outside city hall.

The weather was getting colder, and even though it was literally steps from Black Cat Books, you'd wished you'd grabbed your toque and scarf. But before you could think more about it you were outside the bakery.

The window took up most of the front of the store, vintage lettering spelling out the bakery's name Maple Delights painted across the pane. The roses that usually filled the planter boxes outside were filled with an abundance of pumpkins of various colours and sizes. Halloween decorations filled the spaces between cake stands and trays of seasonal goods punctuated by decadent cakes decorated with tiny ghosts and ghouls.

The shop bell rang as you opened the door, the bakery was cozy and inviting with its high ceilings and hardwood floors. The smell of freshly baked bread and sugar, mingled with the spiciness of cinnamon and pumpkin spice – classic scents of fall that permeated the air making your mouth water.

A bright eyed Sarah, with a book open in front of her behind the counter called out your name, “Hey there! What can I get for you today?”

You smiled and made your way to the counter eyeing the vintage blackboard that took up most of the wall behind it. The chalk sketch confirmed that today's special was pumpkin scones, “I'll take two pumpkin spice scones and two lattes, extra hot please.”

Sarah nodded as she began preparing the order. She had been working at the bakery after school and the weekends since she turned sixteen at the start of the summer. You knew this because she got paid every Friday and would dart straight across to Black Cat Books to pick a new book bringing with her treats from the bakery.

“You should try the apple cider doughnuts!” she exclaimed as she boxed up two large scones.

“That so?” You raised an eyebrow, intrigued by her recommendation.

“Uh huh,” Sarah replied with a grin, “Marcus dipped them in a cinnamon maple glaze this time,” she added with a little groan of appreciation, “they're so good, and there's only just a few left.” Her eyes sparkled mischievously as if she were tempting you.

You couldn't help but smile at her infectious enthusiasm. “Well, with that kind of endorsement, why not. Throw a couple in too.”

As you waited for your order and made small talk with Sarah, you took a moment to look around the store. It was late afternoon, and the warm, soft glow of the autumn sun streamed through the window, casting a gentle light on the displays. The shelves, while not as full as they might be in the morning, still held an array of intricate desserts. More decorations of fake cobwebs, pumpkins, and ghosts adorned the shelves and countertops, adding to the bakery's seasonal charm.

In the background, the back of the bakery was open to the kitchen out back. The stainless steel counters gleamed in the soft light, and the usual cacophony of mixers that lined the back wall was silent for the moment. It was a rare sight, given the bakery's reputation for bustling activity, especially in the weeks leading up to Halloween.

Just then, a door swung open at the back, and Marcus emerged, his presence commanding attention. He was dressed in a deep orange flannel shirt, which seemed to accentuate the rich colors of the fall season. His tousled curled hair always gave the impression that he had just woken up from a nap, yet it added an effortlessly charming quality to his appearance. His patchy facial hair, seemingly ever-present, only added to his rugged charm.

You couldn't help but curse silently under your breath. Despite having no time for the man, there was no denying he was just as attractive as the sweet treats he created. It seemed as though every time you crossed paths, he had a knack for appearing more alluring.

“Hey Sarah,” he greeted the teen, “I can finish this up for you, I don't want you to miss the committee meeting for the trick or treat parade.” he said, referencing the penultimate celebration of the town's October celebrations.

Sarah's face lit up as she started to untie her apron, “Thanks, Marcus. You're a lifesaver.”

As Marcus took over your order, Sarah excused herself, heading towards the exit. Her parting words were aimed at both you and Marcus. “See you later!”

With Sarah's departure, an awkward silence settled between you and Marcus. The air seemed to crackle with the unspoken tension that had been building for weeks.

“Looks like you're stuck with me for a while,” Marcus remarked, breaking the silence with a wry smile. His tone was light, but there was a flicker of something in his eyes, an undercurrent of amusement at the situation.

You nodded in reluctant agreement, realizing that there was no escape from this moment. “Seems that way,” you replied.

Marcus busied himself with finishing up your order, his hands deftly manoeuvring around cups and saucers. He poured the lattes into to-go cups before adding the last dollop of whipped cream to a pumpkin spice latte. The warm, spicy scent filled the air, mixing with the sweet aroma of freshly baked goods.

As he reached out to pass you the tray of drinks and the bag filled with baked treats, your hands brushed against each other. Time seemed to slow, the atmosphere tingling with a spark that neither of you had felt before. It was a fleeting touch, but it was enough to send a shiver down your spine, making you suddenly aware of the space between you.

Marcus cleared his throat. “I, uh, put a cranberry muffin in there. For Libby. I know they're her favourite.”

You blinked, a little thrown off by the unexpected kindness. “That's very thoughtful of you.” You reached for your purse, ready to pay for the order, “How much is it?” you asked, but Marcus waved you off.

Marcus shook his head, grinning slightly. “It's on the house. Consider it a thank-you to Libby for watching the store the other week.”

“Thank you,” you finally said, struggling to find the right words. “That's... that's very kind of you.”

Marcus shrugged, his gaze meeting yours for just a second longer than necessary. “It's what neighbours do, right?”

“Yeah,” you nodded, “I suppose it is.”

The bell above the door jingled, breaking the moment as more customers entered the bakery, kids trailing behind their parents, all excited for Halloween goodies. You picked up the tray and bag, suddenly aware that you had to leave, but not quite ready to break the newfound connection.

“I'll see you around?” Marcus asked, with maybe a note of hopeful uncertainty in his voice, you weren’t sure.

You smiled despite yourself, “Maybe,” you replied as you raised your now full hands in an attempt at a wave.

Marcus was about to answer when the bakery's new patrons diverted his attention and you took the opportunity to leave, your head suddenly full of conflicting feelings for the man.

Exiting out onto the street, you couldn't help but inhale deeply, letting the crisp, early October air fill your lungs in hope it would clear your head. The town's signature cherry blossom trees that lined each side of the street had traded their springtime pinks for shades of orange and yellow, a change of costume in tune with the season.

Libby looked up from the book she was reading when you stepped back into the store, “You were longer than I expected.”

You felt an unexpected heat spread up your chest to your cheeks, “Sarah was working,” you quickly threw out, “she was telling me about the book she got last week.”

Libby accepted the coffees and paper bag so you could shrug off your coat, “Ooo, cranberry muffin! My favourite!”

“Yeah, Marcus threw it in there for you.”

“So you spoke to Marcus?” she asked, an eyebrow raised in curiosity, an unmissable smirk on her face.

You narrowed your eyes in response, “Briefly.”

Libby took a bite of her scone, the noises she made boarded on the line of scandalous, “God, this is good.”

“Should I leave you and your scone alone?”

Libby grinned, crumbs of scone still clinging to the corners of her mouth. “If you leave me now, I'll name my first-born after this scone. It'll have a weird life, but at least it'll be delicious.”

You chuckled at her melodrama as you took your coffee out of its tray.

Libby grinned, “I swear to god, if I was remotely interested in men I'd be climbing him like a tree. Heck, I might just do it for the baked goods.”

You rolled your eyes, “Easy there tiger.”

“I really don't know how he's single, three years in this town and it's not like the women haven't been throwing themselves at him.”

“Well, maybe he is really too good to be true.” You countered, taking up your apparently one woman stance of your dislike of the man again as you took a sip of your coffee - biting your lip at your own groan at how a simple latte could taste so good.

Libby chuckled, “Or maybe you're too stubborn to see what's right in front of you.”

You sighed, unwilling to admit, even to Libby, that your stance on Marcus might be softening just a touch. “Let's agree to disagree, shall we?”

“Fine, fine,” Libby conceded, taking another heavenly bite of her scone. “But one day you'll see. Good things, and good people, might just come in unexpected packages.”

Your phone buzzed with a notification about a new job posting in Toronto. You glanced at it, suddenly feeling less of that earlier urgency to return to the hustle and bustle of city life. The idea of stepping back into the rat race seemed so detached from where you were now—surrounded by the rustic charm of Maplewood and its genuine, warm-hearted inhabitants.

You took another sip of your latte and stole one last look through the bookstore's window, back towards the bakery. Marcus was crouching down to hand a sugar cookie shaped like a pumpkin to one of the small kids in the bakery. The child's face lit up with joy, a mirror of the light that seemed to emanate from Marcus himself.

Maybe Libby had a point. Maybe good things did come in unexpected packages.

You put your phone down, screen facing the table, and looked back at Libby, who was now back engrossed in her book. But your thoughts weren't on job postings or the life you had in Toronto. They were here, on this little corner of Maplewood.

For the first time, in a long time, you weren’t thinking of ways to run back to your old life.

[thatbanditqueen]

No One Walks Out Ch 6

My boy my boy... it's been a long time, Becky. This is a response to the writing game prompt "You will love it." "I will hate it." "Nah, you won't."

Thanks to @whositmcwhatsit and @be-my-ally and @vintageshanny and @ellie-24 and @missmaywemeetagain and @from-memphis-with-love and @arrolyn1114 and for playing this game and supporting me as I write, thanks too to @ab4eva for just being an all around mensch....

Summary: Elvis calls Becky, or rather, watches as Charlie calls and asks her to come on tour. She doesn't realize this tour is not going well. But once she is there, she decides to just roll up her sleeves and jump right in. Because Elvis.

WC: 7.3K

Warnings: Swearing, implied drug use, oral sex. This could have been very angsty but it is actually a big ball of unpolished, fantastical, indulgent fluff. I wrote this today and didn't have anyone read it. So beyond typos, expect historical inaccuracies and probably mischaracterization of everyone, including my OC.....

If you need to catch up.... Chapter 5: Salty Lips

Chapter 6: Out of the Frying Pan and into the Fire

6 pm Sunday, July 20, 1975

Geiler’s Hardware Store, Jackson, MS

Harriet’s key clicked into the back lock of her parent’s hardware store, and she pulled the handle to double-check that the door was, indeed, locked, before turning to look at her cousin. Becky’s mind was elsewhere and she stared down at her Chuck Taylor sneakers, raising her head only after Harriet coughed, and the two women made their way to Harriet’s small, yellow AMC Pacer. Becky looked out the window, playing with her hair, purposefully avoiding Harriet’s curious stare.

Keep reading

“Earth to Becky, where are you? You haven’t said anything about the date Ida set you up on Thursday.”

Becky pulled on the ring she wore on her right hand, a band of platinum with a diamond flower at the center. It was the ring Elvis had given her, and she could still almost feel the caress of his hand as he slid it on her and told her how beautiful she was, how she deserved beautiful things. That had been a month ago, but it could have been yesterday when Charlie, Billy and Jo had all been rounded up to drive her home to Jackson after a whirlwind week at Graceland.

Becky tilted the ring back and forth, then looked up to watch the businesses in the Fondren go by as Harriet drove her home. Why did it feel like cheating on Elvis to go one blind date. An innocent blind date. An innocent blind date that had fizzled out and ended with a very platonic hug.

“Ugh, he was nice enough. I don’t know.”

Harriet looked over, then back at road.  “It’s Elvis. Ida says he calls you every few days.”

“Yeah, he does. He asked me to come with him for his show in New York. Then well, when I said no I guess he went down the list.”

Becky sighed, thinking of the photos in the newspaper of Elvis with a very thin, very blonde woman who definitely was not Linda. The thought made her frown, and Harriet looked at Becky with sympathy as she turned the car on to her parent’s street.

“I thought you said that you left things on good terms, and that he wanted you to move up there? I can’t believe you would rather be here in Jackson than in Memphis.”

“Yeah. I mean no. I like, him, I mean, I cannot help it. I used to day dream of dating this man. But look at me, Harriet.”

Becky grabbed her purse and got out of the car,  sweeping her hand over her body to showcase her tee shirt and jeans as she stood.

“I’m not groupie material. And I can’t up root my kid and move to a new city just so I can join Elvis’ harem for a few months. We left things on good terms, but I don’t even know if I am cut out to be a harem member.”

“You are a knock out, Becky. You are totally groupie material. No, wait. You're better than groupie. You are at least favorite girlfriend number two or three material. I cannot believe you aren’t on your way to Memphis. Or New York. You only live once!”

Harriet grinned as Becky shook her head and sent her off with a bang to the yellow hood, before turning to walk into the house.

She was a greeted with a yell from Ruth, who was coloring with Ida at the dining room table. Becky could smell Saul’s pot roast wafting from the kitchen as she crossed the room and kissed Ruth on head, checking out her drawing of what looked like a dressed up mushroom in a pile of rocks standing next to Father Christmas.

“What do you think?”

She looked at Ida, whispering as she tried to decipher the words her aunt was mouthing.

“The mob-bit? The Hobbit! Yes, of course, it's The Hobbit. There’s Bilbo. Wow, Ruth, you really captured what I thought he looks like.”

“I’ve been practicing my hobbit form. And see, he’s talking to Gandalf.”

“Ah, yes, I can tell from the beard.” She had to stop herself from giggling at Ida’s wink. “SO amazing, you have become a very talented artiste!”

“Well, she learned from the best.”

Becky smiled at her aunt as she went to grab a beer. “I think the student has surpassed the teacher, I can’t wait to hang this one the fridge.”

 The phone rang while Becky was at the fridge, and she watched Ruth run to get it as she slumped into the chair next to Ida, who reached over to rub her forearm.

“Oy, Rebecca, was the restocking that bad today? You should have stopped Saulie from leaving. He is only 60, he could have helped finish -”

“Oh, no, Ida. Unless Saul has an in-depth knowledge of waterbed installation, his presence wouldn’t have made a difference.”

 “Why do people want to sleep in those things? What if they leak. Or break? I get sea sick just thinking about it.”

“I’ve heard they can be really relaxing. I don’t know, but there is a new waterbed store two doors down. The owner spent an hour trying to figure out what materials he needs us to order, so I guess business is keeping him pretty busy.”

“Can you imagine getting busy in a water bed?”

“Ida!”

Ida grinned, fluffing up her short, silver bob. ”I’m just saying, I couldn’t make whoopee on top of a big bag of water, oy vey, I’d be so nervous, what with the sound of the sloshing - “

“Wait, hold that thought, although you know I love hearing about your sex life.” Becky held up her finger for her aunt to stop talking, pausing to hear what Ruth was saying on the phone.

“How do I know you are really a friend of Elvis’? Well can you ask him to come over again? The  kids next door don’t believe he is my mom’s boy friend. And he promised to take me for ice cream again.”

Becky strode over to the phone. “Ruthie, who is it?”

Ruth covered the receiver with her hand, a mischievous look crept up her little face. “He says his name is Charlie, and when I asked how he knew you, he said -”

Becky held out her hand, taking the phone from her daughter. “Uh huh, ok, that’s enough from you , chatty Kathy, go help Ida clear up the art studio and set the table for dinner.” She paused, smoothing her hair, as if Charlie could see her from the other side of the phone.

“Hi Charlie. What’s up?”

She heard a single nervous “ha” on the other side of the phone, and took a deep breath. “Well, a, heya there Becky.”

It seemed to Becky like there was a more anxious desperation behind Charlie’s perfunctory niceties.

“Hiiiii? What’s up?”

“Look, um, Elvis asked me to call and see if you might reconsider coming out on tour? You know he misses ya somethin’ awful, ain’t stopped talking bout that cute chick back in Jackson.”

Becky took a deep breath, thinking of the photos in the paper of Elvis and that model.

“Hmmm. I’m sure. You know I want to, but I have a kid, Charlie - and it’s her  last little bit of summer, I don’t wanna leave her  twiddling her thumbs while I go traipsing around the country-”

“So bring her. Priscilla brings Lisa all the time, you know, they make it work,  Elvis is a family man, hon- I mean Becky, tour is not some wild orgy. You’ve been there. The guys, the band, were all like a big happy family.”

“One big happy family, huh? I don’t know.”

“I can hear it in your voice, Becky girl, I can tell ya wanna come.”

Becky sighed, looking as Ruth paused her place setting to look up and grin at her mother. Ida was behind her, eye brow arched up as Becky motioned her over, whispering with her hand over the mouth piece if it would be ok to take off for a few days. It was disconcerting how much Ida nodded and how quickly an excited gleam grew in her eyes. Becky shoed her off and carried the phone to wonder down the hallway so no one could hear her.

“Maybe. You really think I could bring Ruthie? How long would it be for ?”

She heard Charlie breathe a sigh of relief, and then there was a kerfuffle and the bang of the phone handle dropping on the floor.

“Hey Becky Butt.” Elvis’ deep voice filled Becky’s ears and she realized he must have been sitting there watching Charlie ask her. “Honey, I ain’t stopped thinkin' bout you since you left me. I need you, need you bad."

Becky started to blush, just at the needy, low tenor of his voice. "I have been thinking about you to."

"That's good baby, real good. Let's get you out here, see if I'm still the same as you remember. Can’t wait to see you, baby. Tonight ain’t soon enough.”

“Tonight? Uh - Elvis, I - Charlie said I should bring Ruth? Is that really ok? Is it safe?”

“Honey, I’m a black belt with a gun. Ain’t no safer place on earth. Hell, probably the safest place for your baby. You know how crime is getting in our cities. Bring her along. Charlie can babysit too, he’s basically a child himself. Got the brains a one, any how.”

Becky stood there, tapping her toe as her mind raced. Every bit of sense screamed at her not to meet Elvis on tour. She had just told Ida last week she was ready for her aunt fix her up with any nice single guys her age, in a conscious effort to try and get Elvis out of her system. Be a normal, responsible adult. Having, normal, responsible relationships. But now, talking to Elvis, all she wanted to do was give in and rush to be near him.

“Ok.” She whispered out.

“Good, good girl. I’m having Charlie run get Joe, fly ya out tonight. Go get ya self packed up.”

********************************

The Norfolk airport was pitch black when they landed, and if it weren’t for the lights along the landing strip, Becky may not have been able to make out Jerry’s scowl from across the tarmac.

“You shouldn’t have come.” His voice was clipped and terse as he grabbed her traveling bag, looking her up and down as she wobbled behind him in the high heel suede boots Elvis had bought her.

“Hello to you, too.”

“He said you were bringing your daughter, so at least you have some sense.”

Becky gulped as Jerry opened her door, and she flipped the sun visor down to fix her make up.

“Yeah, I guess… I um, changed my mind. I thought she would have a good time, but then, I don’t know,  I thought the schedule would throw her off. And I guess I don’t want her to get too attached to him. Or the idea of me and him. This is all just a little fun.”

Jerry looked over at her, his shoulders seemed to clench with his jaw as he drove

 “Fun. Ha. Well get ready, I think you’re in for more fun than you bargained for.”

Then Jerry pulled over, and his voice went from sarcastic to earnest as he turned off the car. “Or you can just say the word right now, and I’ll turn around, take you back, and you can catch a flight home. I’ll tell him you never showed.”

Jerry’s hopeful expression gave Becky a strange sense of foreboding and all the excited, giddy anticipation drained from her body.

“But Jerry - there are no direct flights to Jackson, and it’s midnight.” Her lip quivered as she pushed her lipstick back into its case.

“And I - I can’t afford to pay for a hotel and then all the connections I would have to make to get back home. Why are you acting like this? What happened?”

The drove under a streetlight, and Becky saw the bags under Jerry’s eyes more fully as he gripped the steering wheel tighter.

“Elvis has been getting into it with the band all week. Kathy and two of the Sweet Inspirations stormed off the stage mid-show tonight cuz he was talking shit at them sideways.” Jerry looked over at Becky. “The big man can dish it out, but he cain’t take it. No sireee.”

He drew out his “sireeee” as he pulled the white Lincoln into a parking spot at the back of a hotel. Becky shifted back and forth during the elevator ride up, arms crossed in front of the white floral dress she had excitedly wiggled into with glee three hours ago, as Ida kissed her good luck, and Ruth had glowered,  asking again why she couldn’t come. Now she felt ridiculous. Ugh, why couldn’t she ever listen to the voice of reason in her head that told her something was a bad idea. Leaning against the cool metal of the elevator, Becky kicked Jerry’s shin and tried to keep her voice light, positive.

“Ok, so level with me. Why is he fighting with the band, he seemed fine when he called me earlier.”

Jerry stepped away, grimacing at her familiarity. “That is because he is the master manipulator, and he wants you to come keep him company. But the last few days he has been stoned out of his gourd. More than usual. Cuz he’s in pain from all the performances, cuz he’s tired, cuz he’s bored. And he does not want to be on tour.”

“Then why is he?”

Jerry sucked in his breath and held up his hand, and a look of sharp contempt framed his smile as he rubbed his thumb and his forefinger together.

“Money money money, Becky! Linda needs a bigger apartment in LA! Dr. Nick needs a new house! Joe’s swindled him into starting a racquetball club! And of course he needs a different, gold plated plane.”

Becky swiveled in front of Jerry, looking him square in the eye as they hit the twenty first floor and she stepped backwards into the hallway.

“And what about you, Jerry, are your needs being taken care of?”

Jerry shook his head, and a sharp chuckle escaped his lips while he hung back and threw Becky’s blue travel case at her feet.

“Hmmm. I reckon you gotta from here, Becky. He’s in the Presidential Suite. Just down the hall.” He looked away, stating in a matter of fact tone. “Have fun.”

Becky’s mouth dropped as she watched Jerry tilt his head to the side through the closing doors, his eyebrows arched in a challenge. The elevator clanged shut, and Becky steadied herself, then opened her purse, as if all of life's problems could be solved with a tissue or some lipstick. There was the paperback copy of The Hobbit at the bottom, the one she’d been reading to Ruth. The one Ruth had shoved in her hands at the last minute, demanding that she call home and read to her while she was away. Becky smiled, thinking of Ruth’s big brown eyes as her small, stubborn mouth announced that she would be telling the neighbor kids all about how her mom was going to meet Elvis at his concert, even as Becky begged her not to.

“I guess if one good thing comes out of this, it should be Ruthie one upping those Ledbetter brats.”

Becky dug around in her purse, and decided to pop a tic tac in her mouth, the mint was refreshing, it washed away the bad taste her conversation with Jerry had left in her mouth. Then Becky took a moment to look herself over in the mirror. Ida had helped her pin her hair half up in the front, and her floral, cotton dress hung down in a flattering way from the embroidered empire chest to hang loosely over her hips before stopping at her knees. The suede boots gave her some height, and she liked the fringe along the side, she liked the way she could feel it dangle as she walked. She just had to keep her balance and everything would be fine. Looking at herself in the mirror, she blew herself a kiss and took a deep breath. In a moment of inspiration, she broken off one of the yellow roses from the vase on the table, and pinned it into the side of her hair, then strode down the hall.

She pulled on the ring Elvis had given her, once more finding reassurance from rubbing the metal over her finger again and again. But her confidence faltered for a moment outside the suite when she heard the smash of something being flung and breaking against the wall, followed by stomping and shouting. Elvis-like shouting.

“Fired, they’re all FUCKING fired. ‘Cept Myrna, she’s the only one with any sense a loyalty or professionalism. I don’ care if them other bitches come back here, begging, BEGGING, on their knees for their jobs back. They revealed their true colors here tonight. It’ll be a cold day in HELL before I take ‘em back.”

The shouting paused, and Becky leaned into the door to try and hear what the chorus of male voices muttering indecipherably were saying, before a loud voice, deeper than the Mississippi delta, bellowed back.

“Nah. Nope. I ain’t apologizing for shit. They need to ‘apologize to me, Felton, for not bein’ able to take a  GODDAMN joke. There’s a hundred back up singers out there  starving fo’ work. Who’d slit their momma’s throats for a chance to sing with us. Why don’t you do YA job and go find me some a them? What the hell I pay ya for? ‘Sposed to be producin’ this show, go produce some back up singers.”

Becky’s excitement at seeing Elvis again had now been replaced by a tense ball of nerves shifting in her stomach. Suddenly the sound of footsteps came towards her, and she jumped back from the door just in time before three or four men pushed by where she stood back, sucking in her stomach and gripping the wall as she watched them trudge down the hallway. Then she turned to find Charlie at the door, looking at her as his face scrunched from unease into a wide grin.

“Why if it isn’t Becky from Birmingham. Whatcha doin’ hugging  the wall out here, Becky? Git in here, girl.”

Charlie stood back, and Becky braced herself as she entered the hotel room.

It was a mess, plates of half eaten food lined the table and bar, several of which had been flung against the wall, where mashed potatoes and gravy now dripped down the wallpaper onto pieces of broken porcelain on the carpet. Becky shivered, and then tried to compose herself as she looked around. There was Joe, smoking and pacing on the other side of the room, he turned when he saw her, unable to hide the disdain that grew on his face. She recognized Red and Lamar on the couch, Sonny hunched against the wall, but didn’t know the younger, skinnier guy with long brown hair.

Becky suddenly felt very awkward and out of place and brought her blue, vinyl travel bag up to her stomach where she could hug it for comfort. She smiled at Lamar as Charlie patted her back.

“You know the fellas, aintcha Becky?” She nodded, her walk stilted as she came further into the pent house. “The big guy just went to his room, but man are you a sight for sore eyes, he sure is gonna be glad to see you.”

Sonny let out a laugh, then stood up and walked towards her.

“I thought Jerry was picking you up?”

“He was, I mean he did, but I guess he - um - had other stuff to go do.”

“Yeah, I’ll bet. By now I bet he’s kissed Myrna’s ass so hard his lips are glued to it.” Sonny rubbed his hands together, looking Becky up and down, and she hugged her bag harder at the resentment in his eyes as he went to pour himself a drink.

“Don’t pay him no mind, Becky, he woked up on the wrong side of the bed is all. For the last ten years.” Charlie laughed loudly at his own joke, as he guided Becky through the tense, silence of the living room towards the master bed room, where he knocked on the door to the old “Shave and a hair cut, two bits” pattern.

“I said to FUCK OFF.” Was the response, and Becky looked at Charlie imploringly.

“He seems - out of sorts. Maybe I shouldn't be here.”

Red snorted behind them, muttering under his breath that was one way to put it.  But Charlie shook his head, whispering.

“Nah, it’s jus been a rough night with some a the personnel.” This elicited another snort from Red, but Charlie continued, undeterred. “He wanted to know the second you got here, trust me.” Then Charlie cleared his throat, calling out.

“Hey boss, guess who is here? It’s lil ol Becky! Just in from Miss’ppi.”

“Well why the didn’t ya say that in the first place.”

The door flung open with a bang to reveal Elvis, still wearing the blue jumpsuit with the silver zebra pattern rising on either side of his chest. A matching zebra patterned belt was at his waist and his hands held an old fashioned looking quilt in patriotic red, white and blue around his shoulders, like the comfort blanky Ruth still slept with sometimes.

 Becky immediately dropped her bag and went to him, cupping his face with her hands as she looked up into his eyes. In spite of all the shouting, the gruff stance, he looked like a wounded puppy. She would whatever she could to take all the pain out of his eyes and hold him until he knew that everything was alright.

The side of her pinky crested against a taut choker, as she shook her head at the dark make-up smudged around his eyes. His lips pursed together at the center as he looked down sheepishly, like a little boy, biting his lip as his hands let the quilt drop to the floor and found her waist.

“Are you cold, Elvis?” She asked, looking at the quilt.

“What, oh that? Nah honey, someone gave it to me at the show and I like." He exhaled slowly through his nose. "Aww Becky, is it good to see you.”

Elvis picked her up and swung her around, bouncing her against his slight belly. His face lit up, and Becky could almost swear he wiped a tear from his eye as he placed her down and drew her into his side, walking her out to the living room.

“Now, this is what a good gal looks like, a loyal gal. Drop ev’ry thin when her man needs her. Man ‘o man, baby. You look like an angel, sent from heaven. How’d I get so lucky, have an angel come visit me, huh?” He grinned, looked at the others before kissing the top of her hair with gusto, so much so that his chin knocked the rose out of it, and then he accidentally stepped on it when he moved to pick it up. Elvis bent at his knees, wobbling as he tried to gathered up all the petals, his voice was high and babyish.

“Aw, no no no no. I’m sorry baby, I trampled all ova ya pretty flower.”

Then he dropped it an octave yelling forcefully.

“Charlie - boy, where’d that dumb ass go.” Before he had even finished uttering the words dumb ass, Charlie was there, chuckling as if Elvis and he were two frat boys yanking each other’s chain. Instead of master and trained dog, Becky mused, then pushed the thought from her mind.

“Charlie, run out and get Becky some fresh roses -”

Becky bent down next to Elvis on the carpet and stilled his hand to pull him back up, notching herself under Elvis shoulder as she turned to Charlie.

“Don’t you dare, Charlie. I just stole it on my way in, I can always go get another one.” Then she leaned up on her tippy toes and kissed Elvis’ cheek. “It’s a sweet thought, though. You’re sweet a sweet boy. Thanks for inviting me to join you, wished I hadn’t missed the show.”

Then she ran her fingers through the sweaty matted hair at his temple, stroked out the sticky hairspray that had kept his coiffed, high pompadour in place. Elvis’ blue eyes locked with hers and his whole body softened.

“S’ok, honey, probably all for the best. Was a sorry ass excuse for a show anyway.”

Becky trailed her fingers lower, over his chin and down along his chest hair.

“Impossible.” She whispered into the crease at his armpit, nuzzling her nose against the edge of his shoulder.

He didn’t even break eye contact as she looked back into his face as he lifted his right hand out and waved the guys off.

“Alright, boys, dismissed.”

Becky smooshed her face back into his armpit, rather than watch the parade of angry, middle aged men depart. Just before he left, she heard Charlie start to say good night and how nice it was to see her, when Elvis yelled for him to stop making eyes at Becky and go find his own gal.

Then they were alone. In a sea of dirty dishes, broken plates, rose petals and one coffee table that looked like it had been turned upside down. Unless it was some sort of new modern design, where you placed your coffee on the marble slab face down on ground.

Looking back up at Elvis, Becky didn’t know what  to say.  The screaming she had heard through the door had terrified her., yet looking at him now it seemed so clear how tired and how much pressure he felt. Jerry’s words rang in her ears, and they summoned all of Becky’s stupid, nurturing instincts. She began to pull off his scarf, peppering his chest with a few soft kisses to sooth the heart beat she heard, running as fast as a loose rail car thundering down a mountain.

Looking back up at his face, she licked her thumb, without consciously realizing what she was doing, and started to clean up his eye make-up, and he started to babble about the whole world going to hell. But he quieted as she shook her head, and gripped her hand tightly, shakily. Feeling him tremble, she remembered how exhausted he must be. So she paused and led him through the master suite and into bathroom, when she sat him on the toilet, stopped him again from protesting that he was fine, with a finger to his lips. Then she took a wet washcloth, and straddled his lap to clean his face.

Elvis grinned up at her, and when was done, he clasped both her hands in his and brought them forward to kiss her knuckles, his eyes level with her breasts. She let out a gasp at the way he sucked at her knuckles, before she shook herself free so she could reclaim her hand and undo his choker.

“What’s the matter, baby boy, hmmm? What’s all the fuss bout tonight, huh?”

She soothed his forehead with her fingers, cracking her neck as she steadied herself on his lap. The texture of his blue, gaberdine suit was soft underneath her bare thighs.

“Ah, nothing honey, jus the doggone back up singers can’t take a joke. Walked off in the middle of the set, make me look like a damn clown.”

Becky steadied herself.

“I find that hard to believe. Don’t look like a clown to me. If anything,” she begun to unzip his jumpsuit, her hands smoothing over the cool sweaty, hair she found there as she pushed against his belly. “If anything, they’re the ones who look foolish. Walking off like that.”

Elvis' lip hung down, just the slight hint of a double chin grew there, before they widened into a smile, pushing the apples of his cheeks up towards her.

“Ya sweet honey, ya know that? Wait, whatcha doin’ woman?”

Becky giggled as she pulled off his belt, and leaned into smell his chest.

“I am undressing you, Elvis Presley. Shower time.”

He tried to dismiss this idea with a wave of his hand.

“Honey, I don’t need a shower.”

“Oh yes you do.” Becky rubbed her hands under Elvis’ jumpsuit, trying to push it off his shoulders. “When was the last time you took a shower, you stinky boy.”

He pursed his lips, shaking his head. “Uh, uh, uh -”

“Ha, if it is taking that long to answer, it has been tooo long.” She jumped up, and went to start the water. Elvis stood, bringing her back against the bathroom wall.

“Think you can come in here, and order me around, huh?” He smirked. “I like how I smell. Smell like a man. S'natural, s'way God made me.”

“Good little boys.” Becky worked her hands back under his suit. “Who take good little showers.” She got the fabric off the side of his shoulders. “Get good little rewards.”

He stilled her hands, enveloping her with his scent, a staunch mix of sweaty musk doused with a bottle or two of brut. Becky wrinkled her nose.

“And what about bad little boys who do what they want, huh?”

She threw her arms around his neck. “They get loved on until they learn to behave.” And she began to kiss his chest and neck with a swift barrage of pecks.

“Alright, alright crazy woman. What’s my reward, then, huh?”

Becky pulled her dress off with a speed that made Elvis' head spin, but before he could make a snarky remark, she bent over to take off her boots, and all he could do was stare at her bottom as she motioned for him to unclasp her bra.

“Your reward is me. In the shower. Washing you.”

Becky giggled self consciously as she took Elvis’ hands and drew him into the shower. She didn’t know where her chutzpah had come from, all she knew was that when she was with him, she was a woman transformed. Her walls came down, and she wanted to be as close as possible to him, do whatever she could to put him at ease. Being around Elvis had warped her entire way of thinking.

The way his smirk rippled across his cheeks as he watched her lather up a wash cloth and start scrubbing over his hair chest made her tummy feel funny. Like she was about to jump off a diving board. She watched the soap drizzled down over his waist and down his happy trail. Becky swallowed hard, unable to stop herself from rubbing over it with her hand and wiping the soap into different shapes around his belly button. A triangle, a circle, a heart.

Elvis chuckled as he squeezed his eyes shut under the water, letting it rinse everything off as he muttered that she was a weirdo. Then he took the wash cloth from her hands and spread the lather over the top of her breasts. Back and forth, as if mesmerized. His attentive gaze made her vibrate, and Becky’s nipples became hard nubs. She pushed his hand aside, stepping close to rub the soap from her bosom against him, playfully.

“I think they’re clean.”

“Never can be too sure.” He pulled her closer, nudging his nose over hers as he took the washcloth back and began to caress her butt. “Just bein’ thorough. Wanna a get all my reward.”

“Your reward was me washing you, not the other way around.”

Elvis winked. “I’m renegotiatin’.” And he carefully turned Becky around so that she was leaning into the shower wall, while he slowly moved the washcloth over her shoulder blades, the small of her back, her bottom cheeks and the backs of her legs. His movements were so soft and tender, that they made all the thoughts drain from Becky’s head with the water. Her knees turned into jelly.  And all she knew was the warm sensation vibrating up her spine and tingling between her legs.

It was 3:45 am when they finally collapsed into the master suite’s large, king bed in matching pajamas. Becky could rest assured that every part of her body was clean, and while she hadn’t scrubbed him behind his ears, she had done her best with Elvis.

He had taken the cute, sexy pink fluffy negligee she had brought to sleep in from her hands, and thrown it in the trash, reiterating that just because they were on the road, they were never safe from commie drug dealers. Arsonists. Assassins. Any number of dangerous threats that could result in an instant need to evacuate the hotel.

“Trust me, Becky, you’ll be greatful ya wearing something decent if that happens.”

Becky rolled her eyes, saying to herself that Elvis was worse than her grandmother. But she obliged and reasoned that Elvis’ pajamas were probably more comfortable than the gauzy peignoir she had brought. The she settled back, watching him take his medication from the black, doctor’s bag, before folding her arms around him when he snuggled up and lay his head on her breasts,  murmuring to her in a low, babying tone.

“Aw Becky, don’t know what I’d do if you hadn’t come.”

She stroked his soft, dyed hair, shhhing him as she smiled to her self at the hint of grey she saw at the peak of his right side burn.

“You’d be fine, you always are.”

“Nah, honey, none a these fools love me for who I really am. None of them would be here if it weren’t for the money.”

“That’s not true, your friends love you. They’ve known you all your life.”

“Nah uh, they don’t, baby. No one loves me. You might be the only one in the whole world who doesn’t want anything from me. Won’t take my goddamn money, even when I mean it as a gift. Because I do love givin’ gifts.”

Becky trailed her fingers across Elvis’ forehead, enjoying the way his warm skin felt under her knuckles. “I know you do. You really do.”

“But no one appreciates it, they just want more. Won’t be happy til they suck me dry. Ugh, I don’t know if I can even sleep, so keyed up about the band.”

Becky kissed his forehead, as an idea percolated, and she rose from the bed to grab The Hobbit from her purse.

“Here, why don’t I read to you, take your mind off things?”

Elvis’ took the book ins hand. “This the book Spock was singing about?”

Becky giggled, thinking of Leonard Nimoy’s record few years back. “I believe the song you are referring to is ‘The Ballad of Bilbo Baggins.’ And yes, it was inspired by this book. But I know you've heard of The Hobbit, Elvis. Have you ever read it?”

Elvis shook his head, but before he could protest that he didn’t read children's books, she brought his head back to her bosom and began reading it, doing the voices the same way she did with Ruth. They passed out at some point in the “Roast Mutton” chapter,  after pausing from time to time debating what their hobbit names would be.

“I think you are probably too tall to be a hobbit, Elvis, probably more an elf. Your name is practically the same as their language.”

“Well, that don’t make sense, no one names their kid after a language. English. Spanish. This is ma son, German. So then, what do you ’spose my elf name would be?”

Becky yawned. “I guess that will be our proooooject over the next few days, figure out what our hobbit and elf names are.”

“Guesss sooooooo.” Elvis yawned back.

**********************************************************

Becky found her paperback copy of The Hobbit open and smashed between them where Elvis had fallen asleep with his head on top of her chest. Several pages were bent back, and she tried to get them straight by bending them the other way, before deciding to put the lamp on top of it with the hope it would weigh them back into place. The room was still so dark, it surprised her to see that the clock read one p.m. It had been five or six when they passed out, and Becky could hardly believe how quickly she adapted back to Elvis’ schedule.

Looking down at him, she returned to cuddle into him, thinking how sweet he looked with his mouth wide open, asleep, completely unperturbed about the weight of the world that he carried on his shoulders. Then, as she shimmied her legs next to his, she felt the distinct, outline of an erect penis. I guess he slept well, she thought, and suddenly felt an aching tingle light up between her legs and a naughty thought enter her mind. Becky bit her lip, wondering how to wake him up without making it obvious. She began to nestle her knee into his cock, then blow air over his eyelids, faintly at first as she watched his long eyelashes flutter and waited to see if it woke him. When he remained asleep, she blew harder, emptying her lungs, until she saw his eyelids move and he opened one eye, with a blank, confused, slightly drugged out stare. This prompted her to plop back, not so stealthily, and pretend to be asleep herself. She also stopped moving her knee over his penis. Sleeping people don’t do that.

“Ha, now watcha think ya doin, Becky Butt?”

Elvis narrowed his eyes and pursed his lips. A chuckled escaped Becky’s mouth, and her hand replaced her knee to slowly sweep over the outline of Elvis’ length, teasing his tip with the swirl of her thumb. Elvis seemed to instinctively move back up against the pillows, while also trying half-heartedly to swat away her hands from his pajama bottoms as she moved her head to his crotch.

“Now, honey, you’re a good girl, good girls don’t do that.”

Becky pulled at his waist, leaning down to nuzzle against the silk over his thigh, looking up and batting her lashes.

“Baby, you’ve been so stressed out, this tour got you all worked up. I’m just trying to help you relax and clear your head, so you can figure out what you want to do about your band.”

Elvis released her hands from where he had stopped them at his pants, and flopped back against the head board, resigned and moaning as her hand feathered over him. He closed his eyes as he looked up at the ceiling and muttered, “Lord have mercy. What am I gonna do with you, huh?”

Becky did a wiggly, little triumphant dance as Elvis shook his head, grinning as she pulled his pants down and very slowly and reverently bent down to kiss the tip, savoring the way his breath became heavier as she did. He bit his lip watching her look at him as she swirled her tongue around his foreskin where it now crested back above the head. In a leisurely, affectionate way, she moved her tongue hesitantly around him, using one hand to loosely palm up and down his shaft as she sucked the tip once more. Kissing it delicately, relishing how sensitive he was, how even just moving her mouth down an inch made his leg jolt. She laughed onto his cock when his knee knocked her head, and she looked up to see a warm, boyish smile beaming back down at her.

“Hey now, be gentle with him. He's, uh, he's, ughhhh, he's shy.”

Becky smiled as best she could up at him with a penis in her mouth, and worked to just move along the end of the foreskin to the top of the head, waiting as he moved her hair to guide her forward. His gasps sent a sharp ping to her core and Becky realized that the sound of Elvis’ hushed pleasure was like an aphrodisiac that she wanted to chase. And chase it she did, hollowing her cheeks to bob further down, seeing how far she could go with out gagging, seeing what happened when his tip hit the back of her throat, savoring the feeling of how it almost choked her.

His mouth now hung open, and he let out a loud moan as she delved deeper with the next thrust. Looking, she saw that his eyes were squeezed shut  and his mouth hung open, the bottom lip shaking tremulously as she began to speed up her tempo, following her mouth with her hand and breathing through her nose as she tried not to gag when she plunged downward. Then she felt Elvis grip her hair with a tight fist.

“Ah honey, oh Becky, oh honey, Imma about to burst!”

She watched his face contort as she nodded her acquiescence and continued to move her mouth over him, possessing him and at the same time giving herself to him as he arched his back up into her and came with a loud, breathy, high pitched cry. He was tangy, and salty, and she looked at him with a seductive wink as she flipped her hair and tried to swallow it all, before gagging and coughing most of it out of the side of her mouth and onto the duvet. This performance was followed by loud belly laughs from both parties as Becky rolled over in a fit of giggles at her clumsy attempt to be sexy. She hid under the pillows and blushed when Elvis moved over, threw the pillow away, and pulled her onto him with a goofy smile.

“Ya sure are sumpthin', Becky Butt. Man ‘o’ man." He sighed, stroking her shoulder. "Haven’t done anything like that in a while. Prolly since last time I saw you.”

“Elvis, you don’t have to lie to me, I see the photos of you with your other girlfriends on tour.”

He sucked in a deep breath, taking her chin to look up at him.

“You mean that girl I invited on tour after you turned me down? Honey, she don’t mean a thing, just someone to keep the bed warm. Wasn’t getting busy with her, tell you that.”

Becky arched her eye. “Really?”

“Mmmmhmmm. She is pretty, but she don't turn me on, not like you, baby. You’re my little snake charmer, member? And man, honey, every time too. Something special bout you. Gonna need you to come on the rest of the tour with me." His arm dropped, and his eyebrows furrowed and Becky realized he must be thinking about the tour. "Fuck, man, gotta figure out what to do bout these singers, goddammit. I don really wanna train new gals to sing, with only a few nights left.”

Becky patted his arm. “So don’t. Just apologize.”

A nervous squeak escaped her throat when she saw his lips purse and his eyes narrow in disbelief at her suggestion.

“You don’t have to mean it! I believe you were right, they are being bitches. Baby, trust me, you know how singers can be, premadonnas. And they are women. You can’t win with us. But you can know in your heart that you were joking, and also do what needs to be done to keep the show going by mending fences. S’easier to catch more flies with honey, E.”

Becky felt like a traitor to her fellow womankind, as she felt fairly certain that whatever had happened, the back up singers probably had every right to be upset. But the end justified the means, right? Her reasoning seemed to have some effect, as Elvis' pinched lips released and he grunted.

She watched as he looked at her, and repeated "easier to catch more flies with honey" in a high, mocking voice, while he rolled over and picked up the phone, asking the operator for Joe’s room. “Get Lowell on a plane, tell him to bring everything in the store. I don’t care, jack, do you work for my daddy? No, that’s what I thought, huh. Yeah, Imma have Felton take it all over to the girls, to everyone, tell them I know things got outta hand this week, let’s leave it in the past. Oh, and I wanna get Myrna a new Caddy, so she knows what loyalty means to me.”

Elvis was patting Becky’s thigh as he did this, his fingers playing a rhythm only he knew. But it made Becky feel special, needed, close to him, and she found a strange contentment just being there, receiving the song his body was tapping out. After he hung up, he called room service and asked them to send two of everything from the breakfast menu, explaining he didn’t care if it was 2 o’clock in the afternoon.

“Ever been Asheville, ha, honey?”

“MMmhmmm. No, can't say I have. Guess we'll have a few days there to figure out what our hobbitses names are.”

“Already know what your’s is. Becky Bobbit.” He grinned wide at her quizzical face. “Cuz you bobbit so good on my nobbit.”

Becky hit him as he burst into a fit of giggles. “Dirty, nasty, mean man.”

“Awww, honey, s’compliment. Wanna keep you round with me always, my lil bobbit hobbit.”

“Ha.”

“Comin’ to Memphis after the tour?”

“Elvis - I -”

“I thought we were talkin’ bout getting you moved up there. You will love it."           

“I will hate it.”

“Nah, you won’t.”

“Hmmm, you might be sick of me after the next few days.”

Elvis squeezed his arm around her tighter, looking down at the stain on the duvet, and then back at her with a silly smile.

“Nah, I won’t.”

***************************************************

For fun...

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[impala-dreamer]

21 Summer

A Supernatural Story

~ Remembering Dean Winchester...~

Sam Winchester, Reader, Dean x Reader

1,243 Words

Warnings: Bittersweet Angst

Impala-Dreamer’s Masterlist  ~  Patreon  ~ Published Works

Sam rolled down the window, let the cool breeze chill his sweaty forehead and brush the hair from his eyes. His knuckles blanched on the wheel, nails digging into the soft leather, nearly tearing as he pushed the Impala to eighty, ignoring the limits and exit signs in favor of mindlessly rushing through the miles. No thoughts, no worries; pushing past the tears and the pain in his chest, the heavy grief on his heart.

As the sun began to set over Richmond, he pulled off the highway and slowed the engine, crawling through a small town that seemed familiar but wasn’t. They all looked the same now anyway. Trees lining Main Street, historical signs hanging from lampposts boasting about how long it’d been since the town was founded. There was the post office at the corner, and a hardware store nearby. Maybe a bar or two fighting across the way from each other, and a few mom and pop boutiques.

He saw the neon before he knew he was looking for it and pulled up to the diner just as dusk took over the sky, shooting shades of pink and orange across the horizon.

~

Y/N freshened the coffees at the counter and wiped a spot of cream from Mr. Hasting’s spot. He always missed his cup on the first try.

The big clock was ticking behind her and she counted the seconds until another patron waved at her, butchered her name even though she’d grown up in the small town and everyone knew each other. It was as if they did it on purpose to shame her for being in the same job since she was a teenager.

There was a comfort in routine. Nothing ever changed in that town. Nothing exciting ever happened. Not since that summer anyway.

Y/N heard the engine and memory slapped her across the face like an open palm. She startled, nearly pouring decaf on the floor. The rattle, the roar, it was too familiar, too perfectly the same. It couldn’t be, but- it had to be.

She looked out of the big window and watched as a long black hood appeared, sliding into the space in front of the diner. Her heart leapt and her breath caught as she tried to peer inside.

The driver’s door opened and a tall man got out. He was just a little too tall, his hair a little too long.

Her heart sank.

~

Sam grimaced as he walked into the diner. The lights were bright and his head was aching. He wouldn’t have stopped at all except that he knew by the throbbing at his temples that he was dehydrated and starving. He couldn’t remember how long it had been since he’d eaten anything. Days, maybe. A week, more likely.

He stepped up to the hostess station and smiled politely at the woman behind it. She stared at him, wide-eyed and vacant; a pot of coffee clutched in her left hand.

“Hello?” He laughed because it was awkward but the joy never made it to his heart. He wondered if he’d ever laugh again for real.

Y/N cocked her head as if confused by his greeting. Her mind was elsewhere, stuck in a memory of that car, that gorgeous, ridiculously sexy car.

Sam waved a hand in front of her and Y/N snapped back to life. She shivered and cleared her throat.

“Sorry. Hi.” Her eyes moved finally from the car and locked onto Sam. “H-how many?”

His stomach dropped. “One. Just… just me.”

Y/N nodded towards the empty booth by the window. “I’ll be right over with a menu.”

“Thanks.”

Sam scooted into the booth and closed his eyes, hating the empty space across from him. He jumped when Y/N appeared with a menu.

“Sorry,” she said meekly. “Seems like we’re both somewhere else tonight, huh?”

Sam gave her a half smile and nodded. “Seems like it.”

Y/N bit her lip as her eyes flew back to the car. “I heard the engine and I- it was like deja vu or something.”

He nodded, wondering just how many people knew the car, how many over the years equated it with help, freedom, safety. It felt like a coffin to him now. His gaze followed hers.

Red neon danced across the roof and their faces reflected on the window.

“It’s like…”

Sam turned, but Y/N’s voice died away.

“Like what?” he asked, curious and tired.

“This is going to sound crazy,” she said, chewing her bottom lip like a child, “but is that- that’s… That’s Dean Winchester’s car.”

It wasn’t a question anymore, it was a fact. Truer than anything Sam had heard in weeks. The only thing he’d heard in days.

He dropped his chin and looked up at her. “It was, yeah.”

If she caught his tone, she had no reaction to it. Her mind reeled with hope and pictures of him, flashes of his lips, his startling green eyes, the freckles that chased each other down his smooth chest and back.

Y/N took a deep breath and stared down at him, face flooding with recognition. “You’re… Scott?”

“Sam,” he corrected softly.

“Sam! That’s it! You were… off in college I think. Yeah, Dean’s little brother.”

Tightness wrapped around his heart. “Yeah, that’s me.”

“My God. It’s been like twenty years. How- how are you? How’s Dean? What’s-”

Hazel eyes dropped away and Sam’s jaw clenched tight. Y/N’s heart sank with him and she sat, perching on the edge of the seat across from him.

“When?”

Sam cleared his throat and pushed back the tears. “Three weeks ago.”

Y/N pulled in a heavy breath. “God, I’m- I’m so sorry. Did- I mean… I know what… What got him?”

He looked up and saw the pain in her eyes, knew she knew the truth. “We were…” His voice cracked and he cleared away the lump. “We were on a hunt. Some… vampires. It uh… He…” Sam lost his voice completely and slumped forward in the seat, hands resting on the table.

Y/N reached for him and lay a hand over his. He flinched but didn’t pull away, savoring the first human touch he’d felt since laying Dean’s body on the pyre.

“I’m so sorry, Sam. He was…” She smiled as her mind drifted again, back to that summer when she was twenty-one and the Impala rolled through town.

Dean had sat at the counter, pounding coffee after coffee and complaining about the lack of pie. He’d smiled at her then and winked, and that’s all it took to send her rushing into his arms.

For four days they did nothing but cruise around in that big old car, spending the days on the road and the nights in each other’s arms. She grew to love that bouncy backseat, the smell of oil and leather haunted her forever.

“He was a really great guy.”

Sam turned his hand and pressed his palm up against hers. “Yeah. He was.”

The chef called her name and Y/N jumped up, leaving Sam’s fingers reaching at the air. She shook herself and fixed her apron, righting her uniform.

“Be right there!” She looked down at Sam, tears still visible in her eyes. “Can I get you some coffee or-”

“Pie,” he said softly. “Any kind is fine.”

Y/N smiled and nodded, heartache easing a tiny bit. “You got it, Sam…”

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[handeaux]

Memories From Half A Century Ago; The Cincinnati Tornadoes of April 1974

On the evening of April 3, 1974, your narrator interviewed a woman who found a perfectly new, pristinely crisp, twenty-dollar bill in her front yard. This random occurrence of good luck became newsworthy because her miraculous benefit had floated down into her yard from a passing cloud that had recently spawned an F5 tornado.

At the time, I was not a reporter exactly but everyone that evening became either a reporter or a source. The memory of that day remains so fresh and clear it seems impossible that it transpired exactly fifty years ago.

In the fading afternoon, a heavy storm blew in as I drove a clunky Ford Econoline van from the Hopple Street Viaduct onto Westwood-Northern Boulevard. I was, at that time, a senior at the University of Cincinnati desperately yearning to graduate and move on to the next chapter in my life. To cover tuition, I worked as a printer for the Western Hills Publishing Company. Our offices were on Davis Avenue in Cheviot and our printing presses occupied a floor in the historic Crosley Building on Arlington Street in Camp Washington. My duties as the junior member of the printing crew involved shuttling copy and page flats from the editorial offices to the typesetting and composing staff.

As I climbed out of the valley toward the English Woods housing development, hail scattered across the road. Hailstones rattled on the van’s roof, then pounded, then stomped. It sounded like some gremlin with a baseball bat hammering on the roof as ice balls the size of oranges smashed into the asphalt all around. Tree branches cracked and split and thatched the roadway.

Somehow, I made it to Cheviot and pulled into the Press parking lot. It was full of people, just standing around. I got out and looked at the van. The roof looked like a moonscape, there were so many dents in it.

“Hey! Look at this,” I shouted. No one turned or said a word. And then I saw why.

Stretching from the horizon halfway to zenith was the tornado. It was impossible to comprehend the scale. More than two miles away, we heard no sound except endless sirens calling to one another from every direction. Where we stood transfixed it did not rain. There was no wind. There was only the tornado.

“Look at all that paper swirling around,” someone said.

“Those are garage doors,” another answered.

We watched as the horrendous vision scraped its way northward, the finger of God plowing a furrow along South Road out in Mack. We watched as it withered and lifted and twisted into nothingness against a pallid sky, waving it seemed in farewell at last as it vanished. We stared at each other, silent, unable to find any words.

Gradually, we realized that all the lights were out. There was no power in the offices. The publisher sent me around the corner to a hardware store to buy all the candles they had in stock. It was going to be a long night.

At this point, for the benefit of readers younger than I, it is necessary to explain a few details. The cash register at the hardware store was mechanical. It did not require electricity, much less Wi-Fi, to operate. The editorial offices were stocked with manual typewriters. The telephones were landlines, on a separate network, and functioned even when the power was out. Everyone had a battery-powered radio.

Anyone with the ability to write a coherent sentence became a reporter. I was sent out, still wearing my printshop uniform, in the divotted Econoline, to gather eye-witness reports. I found a small crowd at the Western Hills Country Club who had been herded into a downstairs bar while the sirens howled. They queued up for every available telephone to check in with their families. I found people in shock, wandering through piles of rubble that had been their homes, clutching any random possessions they recovered. I saw ambulances backed up in a line, waiting for utility poles and power lines to be moved. I saw people wrapped in blankets, standing in the middle of nothing left, sobbing on each other’s shoulders.

There were people who swore they saw two funnel clouds and people who claimed there were four, twisting like snakes in the sky. There were people who confessed to being so transfixed by the surreal wonder of the twister that they stood paralyzed as it swooped down on their houses.

And, in the curious way the universe laughs at we mere humans, I found humor.

There was the guy who, in a dispute with his insurance company, was photographing damage to his roof when the warning sirens erupted. He saw the funnel approaching and dove into his basement. When he emerged, his roof was gone, and so was the rest of his house, but he bragged that he had the photos to press his prior claim.

I talked to one of the rescue workers who told me about a kid, maybe 15 or 16 years old, who approached him and begged him to hide a bottle of vodka. The kid didn’t want his mother to know he had the bottle hidden in his bedroom – the bedroom that was now nothing more than a debris field.

Meanwhile, at the University of Chicago, Dr. Theodore Fujita drafted a questionnaire to be sent to almost every newspaper, every radio station, every television station in the country. Dr. Fujita asked a lot of questions about the duration and intensity of the 148 confirmed tornadoes reported that day. He and Allen Pearson of the National Severe Storms Forecast Center hoped to refine the tornado classification system they had created just three years previously. Someone at the Press filled out the questionnaire and sent it back.

A year later, having graduated from the university and transferred to the newsroom, I found a largish cardboard tube lying amid the usual pile of news releases and complaint letters that constituted our daily mail. On opening the tube – it was addressed to no one in particular – I found a map of the eastern United States titled “Superoutbreak Tornadoes of April 3-4, 1974.” Dr. Fujita, compiling all those questionnaires, had mapped and labeled every one of those 148 tornadoes.

In the center of the map, there was my tornado, the only tornado I have seen with my own eyes, officially designated as an F5 monster.

[springw6ter]

Hi (nyfw thoughts)

Ok so first I just want to say that this fashion week was so boring and really sums up the kind of good idea drought we’re living in. BUT there was a fair share of discussion over some things so! instead of trying to fit my thoughts about everything on the app formerly known as twitter, I’m just gonna tell y’all here.

Shows talked about in this post; Proenza Schouler, Eckhaus Latta, AREA, Luar, Helmut Lang, Elena Velez and Tory Burch

Proenza Schouler

There’s no way Proenza was going to ruffle any feathers this season. They have a loyal following (which I’m sure has nothing to do with the celebrity affiliations of the brand) and a consistent history of people pleasing so they’ll always get their praise from Vogue. They dropped a new monogram which is the only “newness” they wanted to introduce. Jack McCollough said they wanted to continue last seasons narrative and they sure did! (Only thing different was no Sevigny). The clothes are obviously well made and evoke wealth in that special kind of iykyk way. Many people said this looked more like Helmut Lang than Helmut lang did (I’ll get to that later) and they’re not entirely wrong. Not gonna act like I wouldn’t wear this collection but definitely nothing groundbreaking.

Eckhaus Latta

Eckhaus latta is a brand that has always had a special place in my heart (maybe because I’m from the city that the two designers met and started the brand together in)(maybe). My style has definitely evolved since I first became aware of the brand but I’m always interested in what they’re doing. This season they got experimental! They worked with a 3D printing company named “Unspun” where they came up with jeans made from all different materials like hardware store twine and ikea plastic bags. The way they combined tech innovation and sustainability is not just commendable, it’s very forward thinking, which is a staple in the brands identity. With that being said some of the collection felt directionless in comparison to all of the innovation. The sheer (which dawned their new EL monogram) was very MNZ store to me but not in a bad way. I like that they’re not trying to be trendy and come up with new things however a-lot of brands were doing that so it makes me wonder if that’s a good thing or not.

AREA

I loved their modern Stone Age ladies. I think it was one of the only luxury focused shows where I was like wow! This is different. The fur printed coats were so gaudy and held its shape in the way good ol’ fur coats used to. I think this collection was really cohesive, adventurous, new. Everyone saw Saweetie wear it at the VMAs and even the unfashionable general public could see the yabba dabba reference. The prehistoric influence was chosen because as Piotrek Panscyzk said “pelts and bones were the first things humans had to build an identity around”. There’s definitely a case for a narrative about how much luxury (the hunger, the status) mirrors pre historic, pre civilized behaviors.

Luar

Raul Lopez is a diamond. This collection kind of came of as a continuation of last season as well but I like this brand so much that it feels good to me. I feel like Raul is constantly playing with this really restrictive, God-fearing way of being and an inhibition-less eternality. Padded shoulders, the top draped from the eyewear, perfect collared shirts, jeans and leather, it had all the perfect Luar moments for me. No notes.

Ok.. now on to the “controversial” shows

Helmut Lang

When Peter Do was announced as the new creative director of Helmut Lang, everyone rejoiced. Why? His strengths as a designer seemed like a natural fit for the brand. Expert tailoring, black and white as a main color palette, maybe a little overlap in philosophy.. but as the outfits came out people’s reactions… were… unfavorable to say the least. People saw the reference to key Lang moments like seat belt bondage, the use of Ocean Vuongs poetry (which I felt was terribly misunderstood), the classic button up and jeans as disappointing instead of nostalgic. For me, personally, I think everyone’s expectations were rooted in something that Peter Do could not have delivered. That expectation being Helmut Lang himself. People saw Do as the second-coming and that’s just the truth but where do we draw the line with our expectations on reliving the past and how do we honor the kind of openness necessary to evolution? I myself had to sit with the collection and came to the conclusion that maybe Peter is just defining a clear end to the Helmut era of yesterday and the start of his own journey now. After closely looking at the collection and it’s details you can see how wonderful the clothes really are. It is everyone’s responsibility to question and examine the things they “care” about and I think this fashion public is not patient enough for that. It wasn’t the greatest debut but it also wasn’t the worst. Anyway we’ll see what comes next.

Elena Velez

Mud gate ss24! Since her NYT article last year, people have been really fed up with Elena (I learned only after the mud fight started to circulate) and she doesn’t really seem to mind, she seems to like it actually. She argues online, she argues IN lines, she doesn’t pay people adequately and the list apparently goes on and on. This collection is called “the longhouse” and in her press release she says a lot of things about the commercialization, sanitization, condemning and control of womanhood, she talks about anti-heroines and contemporary female evil (which she loves to embody I guess) and she says that this show was ritualistic catharsis from oversocialization. I think it’s pretentious when someone has to use so many complex, institutionalized words to convey their message. She’s speaking in code. To be honest I like her clothes but I don’t think her designs are that original. I really want to raise the question who does her message benefit? We should all be allowed our multiplicity in this life, that’s true, but being a bad person in practice is something I’m personally not attracted to. I’m a little confused but it is what it is.

SPECIAL SHOUT OUT TO TORY BURCH!!!!

Who I think should be receiving a cease and desist from Miuccia Prada any moment now. This collection is such a departure from the Tory Burch we all grew up with. This must be that post divorce clarity. I like it! It’s 60s. It’s Prada. It’s miu miu. It’s Tory Burch now too!

If you made it this far I really appreciate you ♡ this was just for ki’s sake. It’s not my most critical thinking to date but there was discussion and I loved that. I wanted to contribute and this was the best way I could think of. Lmk if I should do this again with lfw!!

[queer-ecopunk]

I've been lurking for a while and I gotta ask:

are you familiar with basil and hacks to properly transplant it? I followed the turtorials I found but my [store-bought] basil plants always struggle to take hold of new earth and pots :-(

Despite the much bigger space they always struggle to survive.

Ngl basil is a plant I have historically had problems with, so I don't have hacks specifically for it. If anyone has specific basil tips, get in the comments.

I do have some general transplanting tips though.

- Handle the roots as gently as possible, especially if you need to seperate tangled plants. Additionally, keep them moist while transplanting

- Water the plant right away after transplanting and keep a close eye on moisture, since transferring can cause root damage which makes it harder for plants to stay hydrated. A little bit of wilting is expected because of this

- If moving them outside / to a new location, check that temperatures are warm enough and harden off the plants as needed (help them gradually adjust to new temps)

- Thin the seedlings as needed, since cutting out some of the weakest / smallest plants can allow the others get more nutrients and space to grow stronger

- Be cautious of wind, if moving them outside

Side note: grocery and hardware store plants are unfortunately not always well cared for before you buy them (looking at you Home Depot). They have a higher risk of carrying common diseases and pests, as well as an increased risk of nutrient deficiencies, dehydration, and rootbound issues. Sadly, sometimes these plants are very hard to keep alive even with your best interventions. I would recommend you:

- Check for signs of disease / pests / deficiencies before buying. Yellowing, spotty, or crispy leaves can indicate unhealthy plants

- Transplant immediately after purchasing, so your plant has access to good soil and adequate space right away

Hope this helps! Happy gardening 🌱