#walked from there to the fabric store to pickup a few things and then back west down queen

[loverboybitch]

pictures from my day off today.//.

[skzbinniebang]

Welcome Home

Y/n brings home a stray kitten without telling Minho

not proofread oops

word count: 712

Minho checks his phone for the time or any replies from you, seeing as it’s been a while since you were off to the store for a quick pickup of snacks and cat food, nothing heard from you since you left.

Worry started settling in his skin, rambling on to the cats about how he should have joined you to the store, or gone himself altogether. They stared at him with blank stares, almost seeming bored with his ramblings.

All while Minho was worrying about your unexpectedly long store trip and lack of phone usage, you had already left the store, having come across a stray kitten. You stopped to greet it as you would any other time, only this time you notice the poor little thing unable to even walk. Mewling painfully and shivering from the cold weather.

You set your bags on the ground and crouch down, taking your sweater off you carefully wrap the small kitten up in the soft fabric, being extra attentive to not hurt its leg anymore. You stand and grab your bags with one hand while keeping the kitten close to your chest, walking home.

The moment you walked into the apartment you were bombarded with almost frantic complaints and questions from Minho, you tilt your head confused for a second before it dawns on you, he probably spammed your phone when you started taking so long.

“Y/n, you scared me, you weren’t answering! From now on I’ll go with you or myself – yah, what are you holding?” Minho deadpans once noticing how odd it was that you held your sweater to your chest. Your finally let out a laugh and puts the bags of snacks on the kitchen counter, leaning against the counter you face Minho with the cutest pout and big begging eyes you could muster up.

“I was walking home and seen a stray kitten...”

“Y/n! You can’t bring home strays; you don’t know how the other cats will react to it.” Minho says as it’s an obvious thing.

“You would have done the same thing if you seen the state of the baby Min. She was crying out in pain and couldn’t even stand or move, and its cold out there, she would die out there.” You say, as you watch him clear off the counter and point to the countertop, “Put her on there, let’s see then.”

Without anything else from you, you carefully set the now sleeping kitten on the counter, waking her in the process as you’re peeling back your bundled sweater, the temperature change and comforting pressure moving off causes the painful mewling to come out of the small animal all over again. You look at Minho, seeing how the small, dirty kitten had already tugged on his heart the same way she did to you.

“Alright, we can bathe her, and put found posters out through the neighborhood to see if she belongs to anyone. If we don’t get any calls from anyone, we can keep her if the others get along with her. Okay?” He tells you gently, bringing an arm around your waist, tugging you close to him while his other hand was held out to keep the kitten safe.

A few days have passed by already, your guys’ other cats got on well with the kitten, seeming to be taking turns parenting her. Minho and you had taken her to the vet the very next day to make sure she was clean and to get her leg checked. You had also put-up posters all around town, quite reluctantly at that. Days later and you still haven’t heard anything about the kitten. True to his words, Minho had agreed to help take the posters down and keep the baby.

Once you walked into the apartment from the long day of tracking down the posters, the new addition to the family waddled up to you the best she could manage what with her small leg cast, you smile, picking her up and gives the space between her ears a small scratch and sits on the couch, letting her grow comfortable on your chest, purring into your neck. “Welcome home kitty.” You tell her quietly and relax.

[miekasa]

do you have any cute (or h-word) bf headcanons for the Aot boys mie?

Of course I do, I have an ever-expanding list of headcanons for all of them, from how they react to you sitting in the backseat when they pick you up, down to whether or not they would rip your bandages off after your get a shot (spoiler: Eren, Porco, and Levi fucking would)

EREN sfw

He really likes holding hands, though it’s more of a calming habit for him. Holding hands keeps him grounded, and acts as an anchor for his anxiety; so he’ll grab and/or fidget with yours periodically.

He’ll steal your skincare if he’s over at your place, but honestly he just starts… copying it lmfao. Like, he’ll take notice of your face wash when he’s over he’s like “Oh, this is nice” and then a week later, he buys a bottle for himself. Then he buys your toner, and your moisturizer, and you stay over at his place and gotta do a double take bc he’s got damn near the same of everything at this point.

He doesn’t know if he believes that classical music actually helps him to concentrate, but he does know that he’s grown to like it, so it’s become his studying music of choice. He’s got favorite composers and everything.

He’d be upset if you didn’t steal his hoodies. That’s what they’re there for. He’ll make you steal them if he has to.

He hates standing in line. For anything. If he likes a restaurant that gets super busy at lunch, he’ll order ahead for pickup (and he feels special skipping the line). At amusement parks, he pays for the fast passes. If it’s shopping, then he’d rather just do it online.

On that note, he sucks at returning things that don’t fit/he doesn’t like when he shops online, so he honestly just keeps them, or gives them to his friends—it’s much easier than going through the hassle of printing a return label, according to him.

nsfw

He likes the idea of recording you guys during sex, but he’s honestly a little too nervous to do it—nervous about being recorded himself, and about it potentially getting out somewhere.

Likes it when you look him in the eyes when you cum. In fact, he somewhat demands it.

Similarly, he’s always watching you during sex. Mostly your face, for indications of how he’s making you feel and when you’re close to your orgasm (which is why he’s got a thing for you looking at him).

He used to hate masturbating, until he tried masturbating to the idea of you, and now he fucking loves that. He takes his time with it too—if he’s gonna jack off, he’s gonna make a moment of it: sit on his bed, turn the lights off, make sure he’s all alone and can go for as long as he wants.

Threesomes are fine with him, and he doesn’t even have to be the sole one in charge, depending on who’s joining you.

ARMIN sfw

He air-dries the majority of his clothes because he doesn’t want his sweaters and knitwear to shrink. Also, he likes the smell of his fabric softener permeating the room while the clothes dry.

On a similar note, he’s got sensitive skin—not to the point where a shirt less than 75% cotton irritates him; but he is conscious of fabrics and products he uses. Because of this, he takes extra care with his laundry, his pillowcases and bedsheets are satin as are the majority of his pajama shirts, and he never ever walks around without house slippers or he’ll irritate the bottom of his feet.

He’s scared of bugs, but he doesn’t like to kill them either. Honestly, he just kinda hopes spiders and stuff will crawl away without him intervening 😭😭

He likes board games, and has a thing for The Game of Life. He cannot play chess, even though most people would guess that he could, and he’s begun to practice by playing online versions against computers to learn.

He knows everyone’s gossip because everyone comes to him to gossip. And if he’s the therapist friend, then you’re the person who receives the summary of all the tea from him at the end of the week. And man can this boy throw a bitch fest when he’s in the right mood.

nsfw

He’s got a bit of an oral fixation, so he really likes having your mouth occupied; with his fingers, with your panties, with his dick—he’s not really picky.

Likes sex with the lights on. Claims it’s because he wants to “see all of you” (it’s really because he’s nervous he’ll fuck something up if he can’t see properly 😭😭)

He really likes making out. Like, a lot. Though it’s not something that happens often—so he builds up a lot of frustrating thinking about it, and it all comes crashing down, and ends up with you guys damn near dry humping each other on the couch for two hours.

That’s something that applies to him generally, too—he tends to let himself get very frustrated and worked up, whether he means to or not. He also thinks about sex quite frequently, and it only fuels his frustration; so when he snaps, he snaps hard.

He’d let you choke him back if you asked. Just ask nicely.

JEAN sfw

Loves studying in cafés and adores when you study with him; peeps up at you periodically when you sit across from him. He always pays for your drink, but sometimes you guys share, and he likes making a game out of reaching for the cup at the same time as you.

He’s very chivalrous, but he hates when you call him out for it, or make any kind of deal of it. He knows it’s chivalry, but he also knows it’s the bare minimum, plus he’s easily embarrassed—especially in public.

Loves having his hair played with, absolutely adores it. If you’re just holding his face, or resting your hand on his cheek, he’ll move himself further into your touch to maneuver your palm closer to his hair.

He really really really likes back hugs—giving and receiving them. If he’s standing behind you, he’ll most likely reach for a hug at some point (sometimes he won’t let go and you’ve gotta waddle with him on you). His ears get red when you give him a back hug but he always uses a hand to rest over your arms to tell you that he doesn’t want you to let go.

He can play the piano, but he doesn’t tell a soul about it. The only reason you found out it through his mom. He’s got stage fright, so he gave up on performing, but he’s really talented, and can almost play any song by ear.

nsfw

He loves the feeling of your hands on him, particularly if you’ve got long nails. Please scrape your nails against his back, or even just dig them into his biceps while he’s fucking you, it’ll drive him insane.

Along with liking having his hair played with, he adores having it pulled on—the attention and desperation in your actions goes straight to his ego and his dick.

One of his biggest fantasies is getting a lap dance from you. He’d never ever fucking say it out loud or dream of asking for it, but the idea of you stripping in front of him, down to lingerie he’d picked out for you, and teasing him until he can’t take it anymore and jumps you is something he thinks about… far more often than he should.

If you’re wearing his clothes (especially one of his t-shirts to bed, or around his apartment), he’s gonna fuck you in it. Jean has a lot of self control, but that’s one thing that’ll make him snap in an instant. And if you wear his shirt or hoodie out, he’s fucking you when you get home, it’s as simple as that.

CONNIE sfw

He studies with children’s shows playing the background. He doesn’t remember how he discovered that his method works for him, all he knows is that something about Paw Patrol makes for excellent background noise for writing his research papers.

He’s quite touchy with PDA, but if you guys are in a crowd then forget about it—because Connie might forget about you. He’s definitely left you at the grocery store before.

He eats cereal for breakfast every morning, and he’s kind of got a collection of them in his kitchen. He claims there are upscale cereals that he doesn’t just let anybody eat or even touch; so, if he offers you a midnight snack consisting of a bowl of his favorite (and very rare) cereal, then be honored.

He almost always pays with cash, but he hates change. If he gets back coins, he either tells the cashier to keep them, puts them in a tip jar if there’s one in sight, or just pours them into your coat pocket. He understands that its money, but he’ll be damned if he’s just got a sack full of nickels clanging around in his bag.

nsfw

He claims he doesn’t have a thing for exhibitionism, but with the way he’s down to fuck damn near anywhere, he might be a bold faced liar. Changing rooms, music festivals, airport bathrooms, the little corner of the multilevel parking lot that he’s oh-so-certain is in the blindspot of the security cameras... there are so few things off-limits with him.

Car sex on his bucket list… just not in his car lmfao (because trust and believe that’s something that already happens pretty regularly). Maybe his real kink is vandalism and destruction of property.

He is not above begging you to sit on his face. He will get on his knees and pant like a fucking dog for you to do it, he’s so serious. He’ll do it laying down, he’ll do it with you standing up/against a wall, he’ll do it on the couch. Break his neck please he’s fucking asking for it.

He doesn’t mind sharing and he definitely doesn’t mind watching. Honestly, he’d egg you on to kiss someone else at a party, or go as far as to seduce you into seducing someone else just so he can watch it go down.

PORCO sfw

He sends you iMessage games but only the ones he’s good at because he doesn’t like to lose. But also, if he is losing, he doesn’t want you to be supportive about it and tell him “it’s okay uwu” lmfao he wants to either cream you, or have you kick his ass; competition is the name of the game, don’t be soft on him.

He’s a morning person, and he likes going on runs or even just early-morning walks when the weather is nice. He will wake you up occasionally to join him—and if you’re a homebody, you will be joining him. He won’t be responsible for watching you decompose on the couch.

Very picky about his pizza. It’s not a calorie or grease or health thing—he just really fucking likes pizza, and he won’t excuse a bad slice.

Always pulls you closer to him in a crowd or when a group of people are walking by. He doesn’t have to, but he likes to. Tease him about it and he’ll push you right back tho, probably into a shrub if there’s one near by.

nsfw

He’s such a “No, no—answer the call” kind of mf; a sadist, if you will. He lives for torturing and embarrassing you, and that applies to sex, too.

Loves the way his hands look on you, particularly splaying his hand over your stomach when he’s fucking you. Likes the heat of your body against his, when he positions himself just right to feel the outline of his dick against you, and squeezing the sides of your tummy when he gets lost in it.

Loves blowjobs, and loves to cum on you or over your face. His favorite thing tho is pulling away just before he’s about to orgasm, and jacking himself off with your tongue sticking out, ready to swallow.

Okay with threesomes, too; but he wouldn’t like to do much to or with the third person. It’s okay if they touch you—maybe even fuck you, depending on who it is—but he’s not there to get them off.

LEVI

sfw

When he cooks dinner, he always makes sure to make enough for you to have leftovers to take with you for lunch the following day. Especially if it’s a dish you’ve been wanting or try, or specifically asked him to cook.

He’s got a specific tote bag he brings with him to the grocery store/farmer’s market, and separate one for when he’s running other light errands.

He hates soda, not even just because it’s not the healthiest thing to drink—he just doesn’t like the feel of carbonated drinks; the only exception being when they’re mixed with liquor, but even then, it’s not his preference.

After a while, he just starts lying and says you’re married at places where it benefits you both, or to curb a longer conversation about the status of your relationship to people who are inquiring. He thinks it’s fucking weird that marriage is what shuts people up, but if it works, it works; less people prying in your guys’ business.

He likes giving you forehead kisses, and if you do it back, he’ll learn that he doesn’t mind receiving them either.

He’s such a sucker for you rubbing your thumb against the back of his hand when you guys hold hands. He might not act like he notices, but he always does; and somewhat craves little touches like that the longer you guys are together.

nsfw

He would never admit it to anyone, but birthday sex is up there for his favorite kind of sex. He never cared much about his birthday… until he realized he could get that as a gift. He knows it’s not different, but he likes it, nonetheless; one the few times he doesn’t mind having all the attention on him.

King of aftercare, though some of his methods usually lead to another round—in which he teases you for cancelling out his work, when you know he was just as willing and eager.

He likes edging himself and overstimulating you; and with his self-control, that makes for a pretty dangerous combination.

He’s strong and he knows how to use it to his advantage: maneuvering you with a single arm, holding both your wrists above your head with one hand, pushing your head down into the sheets when he’s fucking you from behind.

Sex is one of the few times Levi doesn’t mind making a mess—and in fact, he likes it messy; watching you drip onto the sheets, making you spit on his dick and fucking your face until you drool. He always goes on about how sloppy you are, how you can’t keep anything clean, but he fucking loves it.

[queenoftheworldisdead]

Lane close

Note: Inspired by @sapphirescrolls​ https://sapphirescrolls.tumblr.com/post/633710107595767808/i-had-an-obnoxious-encounter-whilst-driving-so-ya

Summary: Going home there is always traffic.

Warning: bondage, forced sex, non consent, kidnapping

Dark Thor x reader

It felt like you had been stuck in the car for over an hour. It was so infuriating that one lane could clog up traffic so badly.Throwing your head back on the seat you start to stare aimlessly at the taillights in front of you.

Incoming traffic rushed by, but out going was yet again a drag. You could've sworn the construction workers were just fucking about instead of working. If there were any other options as a home route you would have taken it, but unfortunately there wasn't one.

Since the weather had been unusually fair you decide to roll the windows down.  

"Hey Siri, play my rush hour playlist" you call out to your cell.

The robotic voice came alive on your command, changing from the radio to your music. Tapping your finger on the steering wheel in time with the beat you sing to yourself while sitting through this slow torture.

"HEY!" Someone called out. Checking your rear-view you scanned to see if someone behind you was trying to get your attention. From what you saw the driver behind you seemed to be on his phone so maybe you were just hearing things.

"HEY!" Even with the music blaring that voice pierced through.

Scanning all around this time your eyes land on a giant of a man in an orange safety vest and hard hat. One of the road workers was waving his hands in the air trying to signal you. Scrunching your brow you look at him curiously. His bright smile was certainly infectious as he began dancing when your attention was focused on him. He was surprisingly on beat, but the sight of it was so goofy you had to laugh and the more you watched goaded him to do more.

*HONK HONK HONK

"Okay, okay" you say to the car behind you even though they couldn't hear you. Turning your focus back on the road and get in gear. He had distracted you so much that you hadn't noticed traffic move on a bit. Without giving him another glance you drive onward to home.

The construction on the road had been going on for over a month and you truly couldn't tell what they were working on out there. At least it never hindered you going into work. As you passed the closed lane in the morning you would glance over at the abandoned equipment while you wait at the light to change colors again.

When you were in the office your days were filled with meeting after meeting. The first one was just about to start and you were the only one in the conference room. Walking over to the window you watched the construction workers start their day along the outstretched roadway.

"Hey Y/N, you coming to lunch with us tomorrow?" Cathy's voice broke you from your trance at the window.

"What's going on tomorrow?"

"Tiffany is having a going away lunch. It's going to be at Zoe's kitchen since it's just right across the street"

"Ugh I hate that place, but I will go."

Moving from the window you take the seat next to her at the conference table. "Do you take Woodway avenue to go home?" You ask the curly haired accountant as she opens her laptop.

"I used to, but the traffic has been so bad." She answered. "I normally go over to Sam's since it's the other way. By the time I leave there traffic is normally cleared out."

"Oh, wow. How long has this been going on?" You integrate her.  

"I had been dropping hints to him for a while, then one late night a few weeks ago"Cathy's mysterious grin spread on her lip.

"Cathy! In the office" you try and lower your voice after the shock. She only shrugs while you shake your head in disapproval. "Any who I was sitting in traffic yesterday and heard someone shouting. I look over to see this road worker shouting at me then he starts dancing like a fool."

"Was he cute though?"

"That’s besides the point"

"So he was cute then...Next time take a picture I wanna see this construction hottie" she jokingly asked as more people started to file into the conference room.

When you got into your car at the end of the day you were happy to leave, but not excited about what lay ahead. Your gas indicator was dangerously low today and you cursed yourself for not filling up your tank last night. You knew it was enough to get home, but the gas at the station a few blocks from here was cheaper than the one by your apartment.

As the dead lock breaks to allow you to drive more than a few inches you signal so that you can get over in time to reach the station.

Pulling in you parked in front of the pump. The tank was on the passenger side so you walked around, popped the cap and grabbed the hose.

The bell on the gas station door chimed behind you. Spilling from the doors a group of road workers presumably on break or grabbing snacks for their journey home. Your head reflexively turned towards the noise then your eyes locked with the golden haired goofball from yesterday. When he saw you his face lit up like a Christmas tree.

"Hey!" he shouted and waved at you excitedly dancing his dance making you snort. When your hear the click from the hose you turn away. Pulling out the nozzil you put it away and walk to get back into your car. Glancing up you spot him looking back at you, waving goodbye as he and his group walk over to a large  red pickup truck. You wave back then startup reluctantly ready to sit through this traffic jam again.

In the rear-view you spot the massive truck he got into. It trailed a few cars behind, but it wasn't hard to miss.

Even after you broke free of the jam it seemed to be heading in the same direction as you. To ease your mind you drive into McDonald just before your turn off point. It was another late night of coming home and cooking for yourself wasn't going to happen.

After you placed your order through the speaker you see his car pull in too.

You are just being paranoid. He is probably hungry. You're overthinking things.

Paying for your food you then leave and speed on toward your street. Peeking at your rear-view you spot his truck again in the far distance.

Calm down. This is a popular road a lot of people take this route.

Shaking off the paranoia as you spot your street sign. Signaling you pull into the turning lane. As you waited at the light you watch as the truck gets closer, but the light turns green before you can see if he gets into the same lane. Turning on your street you breathe a sigh of relief when you saw it kept going straight instead of turning down your road.

The next day lunch came around before you knew it. Leaving your desk you go and grab Cathy. When you do she's shamelessly flirting with her new office bae, Sam.

"You ready to go or..." You ask leaving enough space for innuendo as you poke your head in through Sam's office.

"Yes, yes" Cathy turns to you pouting. "I'll see you tonight" she pecked him on the cheek before heading to the elevator with you.

Exiting the office you two head out toward Zoe's, chatting about the usual office gossip. The bustling sound of the road work buzzed around your office building. The walk to Zoe's would be brief, but noise and the smell of tar had you regretting the choice to go out for lunch.

"Oh my gawd there he is" you point in the direction of the statuesque blonde currently jack hammering the road. In his bright orange vest you could see pools of sweat seep through. His sleeves clung to his toned arms, his muscles flexed as the machine pounded and you wondered what the rest of him looked like underneath.

"Oh damn" Cathy exclaimed practically drooling at the sight of him. You had to nudge her ribs to stop her from staring.

The pedestrian light turned green as you two approached allowing your little group to cross the street. As your pumps hit pavement you heard his distinct call. Cathy turned her head to look before you did. When your eyes landed on him, he did his little dance this time adding in a crotch grab then blowing you a kiss. The shock of the lewd gesture had you both scrunching your faces in disgust before turning away and continuing on. He shouted at you more but you refused to give him anymore attention.

You checked your traffic app to see if there was anyway to avoid Woodway, but all the road lines were colored red. Signaling that they would be just as bad as going around.

Instead of sitting in traffic again you decided to stay in the office later. Spending an hour in the office sounded better than an hour in traffic.

You passed the time shooting off a few emails, scheduling a few client meetings and reading through some paper work you had put off earlier in the day. Checking your watch after all that done you were satisfied that enough time had passed so you pack up to leave.

Pulling out of the parking garage you were relieved that traffic had indeed cleared up. Though it was late you were tired of fast food. With all the road work you found it easier to get drive through than cook. Breaking from routine you head to the grocery store.

Walking down the various aisles while you load up your cart. The smell of fabric softener wafted through the air. The fragrant smell reminding you that you were running low on detergent.

Going down the aisle you find your favorite brand and smell the clean scent of the box.

"Hey!" The familiar voice of the construction worker startled you causing you to drop the box of detergent on the floor. "Oh sorry" his accent caught you off guard as well, he had only ever said one word to you before this point. Walking up closer as you bent to pickup the box.

"It's OK." As you rose to straighten. Your eyes roamed his stature you noticed he held a case of beer in one hand and his cell in the other. From the distance in your car you had thought he was tall, but now as he stood so close you had to crane your neck to meet his gaze.

"I just want to say sorry for the other day...I was trying to do that Michael Jackson dance and well..." He trailed off.

"That's what that was?" You cocked a brow at him. "Michael would probably roll over in his grave if he knew." You playfully kid him. He erupted with such laughter you were slightly embarrassed at the volume.

Clutching the detergent close to your chest you take one step back while he took one step forward. He stopped laughing and just smiled down at you.

"My name's Thor"

"I'm Y/N"

There was a thick silence that fell before you spoke again. "Well, I should go" you move your cart and start to push it away.

"You're checking out right me too" his smile was so infectious, but you couldn’t match his energy.

He followed beside you as you made your way to the checkout line. His presence almost suffocating as he walked quietly next  to you.

He waited behind you in line and you thanked your lucky stars there wasn't anything embarrassing in your cart this time around. When the cashier finished you waved him goodbye and walked off as fast as you could, but he caught up to you before you could exit the automatic doors.

In the dim light of the parking lot his pickup truck stuck out like a sore thumb in the distance. Luckily it was on the opposite aisle from yours.

"Sooo news on when that road might be fixed?" You try and break the awkward silence.

"Oh I don't know. I just do the work they don't tell me anything" he answered rubbing the back of his neck.

"Well, I guess I will see you tomorrow" you say as you approach your car. Waving goodbye you separate and push your cart to the back of your car. He looked like he wanted to say something more, but you had already started on your jaunt to the trunk.

Loading the car you peer over to see Thor in his truck lit by the light of his cellphone through his windshield. After closing the trunk you hop in the car. Starting the car you ready yourself to back out.

*POP

"What the fuck?" You exclaimed as your car gyrated in a peculiar manner. A worried crinkle rested on your forehead as you contemplated the obvious.

Putting the car back in park you take your phone and get out to examine the tires. The front driver side was fine, but when you walked to the rear the back was tattered and flat. Bending down you look for what could have caused such damage.

"You okay?” Thor boomed from behind you. His branch of an arm resting on his open window as he watches you bent over examining the flattened wheel. His truck now parked beside yours.

"Yeah, just a flat." You reassured him. You unlock your phone and lookup triple A while Thor hops out of his truck. "I have someone coming it's fine Thor" you try and wave him off, but he doesn't leave. Thor's arm wraps around your waist pulling you flush to his chest. Your phone drops from the surprise embrace. "What the hell are you doing?" You shout at him while digging your nails into his arm as you try and pry free.

He didn't answer you and the more you struggled the tighter his hold seemed to be as he inched closer to his vehicle. Thor opened the back door of his truck with one hand as you fought to get out of his other. Your feet lifted from the ground as he brought you up and tossed you in. When your back hit the leather of the seat you rise on your elbow and scurry backwards until your back hit the opposite window. Turning to open that door Thor yanks your ankle so hard that your entire body lays flat along the cushion again.

You somehow free your ankle and kick over a tool box behind the passenger seat in the process. The contents spilling in and out of the truck. The next kick landed in the center of his chest, but he catches it right before its impact.

"This isn't funny Thor let me go!" You demand. Thor ignored you and proceeded to pull off your shoe. Once removed he then tosses it over his shoulder.

His eyes stayed laser focused on you while he placed kisses on the top of your foot then trailed them gently down your leg. You try freeing yourself from his clutches again until Thor stopped. You watched on as he opened his mouth wide on your thigh then sinking his teeth into your meaty flesh. You whale loudly from the pain then shoot forward to grab a fist full of hair. Pulling it as hard as you can until his hands encircle your wrist. Pushing them together he holds them with one hand while the other digs through the mess of tools on the floor.

"You know you were always the highlight of my day?"

Your eyes grew wide at the sight of the thick white plastic strips. Twisting and thrashing under him he only scoffs at your attempts. Looping the zip tie around your wrists then around the handle of the back door. The tightness of the restraints only increased as you struggled, your fingers starting to tingle at the loss of circulation.

"Construction was actually supposed to be finished a long time ago, but I made sure to get the project delayed."

Hovering over you once he locked you in place his once infectious smile turned sinister. Lowering himself back down his meaty palm glided up and down your exposed thigh. Pushing your skirt past your waist he starts to pull your panties down as your legs continue to flail. Catching your knees with his hands he forces your knees to bend so that he could comfortably wedge himself in-between.

"You don't have to do this. You don't have to do this" your words were filled with panic and fear. There was nowhere to move as his head lowered down.

"Wait, wait. I have money. Just in my purse" you sob. "Thor your a nice guy please, donnnnnnnnnnn't" your whiny sobs did nothing to stop his assault.

He flung your panties out of the door and stared at your folds before lowering himself further. His hot breath sending shivers up your spine.

He hummed as he flattened his tongue on your folds. Your hips bucked involuntarily when he sunk his tongue inside you.

Dipping it in and out causing a moan to spring from your lips. No matter how hard you begged he did not relent it was as if your protests urged him on. Holding your legs apart you felt his fingers dig into you. The pain of his grasp and the overwhelming sensation of his tongue drove you mad.

"Oh sweetheart you taste so sweet." He said pulling back from your panting form.

Your shirt was still tucked in your skirt so Thor haphazardly pushed it up and out. Moving the fabric halfway up your neck to expose your breast. When he pulled down on your bra a strap broke.

"Sorry about that" Thor chuckled as he took both breast in his hand, pushing them together then began kneading them like dough. He hissed as he played with you as your protest fell on deaf ear.

Moving his head down to your chest Thor rubbed his course beard harshly over your breast. Inhaling each deeply before trailing kisses all around the top. His hands released your breast and you watched on in horror as he tossed his shirt, pushed his pants down his waist along with his boxers.

"No no no" you cry out as Thor pushed up almost level with you. The weight of him almost crushing your chest. His hand clasped your chin and forced your head forward to face him when you tried looking away.

"I am going to make you so happy Sweetheart"

The back door remained open as he pressed the head of his cock into your mound. Feeling the pressure of him pushing into you Thor devoured your lips before you could let out another cry for help.

Thor took his time as he eased into you. His tongue invading your mouth as you felt him stretch you. He smelled of sweat and tar. His hair cascaded over you while his hands roamed your body. Squeezing and pinching on your fatty flesh so hard that your body jerked and jolted.

Thor's speed increased as time went on and you felt your pussy grip and hold him. Betraying you to take pleasure from his forceful violation. His cock plunged deeper and deeper as your cries turned to heavy mewls. He pulled away from your lips with a deep groan.

"That's it Sweetheart" he praised as your cunt gripped his cock repeatedly. "Mmmmmmm Fuck shit!"  You came around his cock unwantedly while he continued to praise you for being such a good girl for him.

Your pussy grew wetter as you stayed at the mercy of his control. Thor moved to plant one hand on the window and snuck the other under your ass. When he gripped your cheek hard your back arched and the move allowed him to sink deeper into you. The truck rocked as he fucked harder into you. "Hear how wet you are for me." His cock ravished you, stretching you beyond your limits.

"MMMm shit!" You exclaimed as you came again around his pounding cock. As your cunt squeezed his dick you felt his cock begin to twitch inside of you. Then a warmth overflowed inside your convulsing pussy. Thor's hold would surely leave bruises as he dug into you. As a warmness bloomed in your core he stilled himself and as it leaked out he plopped down on top of you, crushing you under his weight, you felt his seed seep out of you.

After another few minutes he got up and off you. Putting on his discarded shirt and pulling up his pants. He slid out of the back seat closing the door leaving you still bound.

You heard him pop the trunk of your car and the familiar sound of plastic bags. It took a while before he reappeared at the drivers door and got in.

"All right I moved your groceries! Let's go home we both have work tomorrow." He said then started the trucks engine and set off out of the parking lot.

[builder051]

Let's get lit

Nat on fire

____________

At the end of the day, Nat goes to put her folded uniform in her locker and retrieve her purse and coat. She's just opened the slatted metal door in front of her when a shadow appears behind her back, and she practically jumps out of her skin. She doesn't have a weapon on her at the moment, so she drops the pile of fabric and leather and spins on her heel to prepare to melee.

"Whoa, hey." Steve puts up his hands and takes a step back. "It's just me."

The just is a little much. SHIELD went liberally modern about 18 months ago and did away with men's and women's separate facilities. Now the locker rooms are shared, and every toilet and shower has a full European style floor-to-ceiling door. Clint likes it; he can locker beside her, talk her ear off, and elbow her in the face as he puts on deodorant. Maria likes it too, but for different reasons. Nat's feelings are generally ambiguous. She likes team togetherness. Hates making out in shower stalls. And definitely dislikes being snuck up on when her bag, and therefore her weapon, is still locked up.

"Hey," Nat forces out, dropping her raised fists and turning, trying to remember where she was in the locker's combination code. She can't recall, so she spins it once and starts over. "What do you want?"

It's probably overly gruff, but Nat wants to go home. Well, that's not true. Her tiny, grungy apartment does nothing for her, but there is vodka in the fridge. She'd prefer heroin, but it's June, and the "random" biannual staff physical and drug test is coming up. Nat's worked here long enough to expect it. Come to think of it, she should probably buy a box of doughnuts and start drinking the recommended amount of water every day, just to be sure she weighs enough to be deemed "healthy" for her age and height.

"Well, I," Steve falters. "You're the last one here. I just wanted to be sure you felt comfortable alone in the parking garage."

Nat walks alone into the parking garage practically every day. She squints at Steve. Waits a moment. He doesn't budge, but Nat still says, "Gotta get a better story than that, Rogers. If you want to get me alone--"

"No, no, that's not what I meant." Steve's face goes red.

It wouldn't be the first time she fucked a coworker. She and Clint are over and done with. She and Maria... probably ought to be.

"Then throw it down, Steve." Nat pulls her keys from her bag. "I'm..." She shrugs and flattens her mouth into a hard line.

"Honestly?" Steve knits his brows a little, looking worried that he'll offend her, and maybe worried about something else, too.

"Sure." Nat starts for the door, Steve on her heels.

"I, uh..." Steve starts. "You don't seem like you should be alone right now."

"Huh?" Nat blinks at him. Alone? That's exactly where she ought to be. Drinking. Maybe eating. Maybe barfing it all back up. Testing which instincts are too strong for her to control.

"You're not feeling good," Steve says in a rush. "Are you?"

"We just had a mission. I'm tired." Nat feels her forehead crease; she can't wipe off her look of confusion.

"Like, I mean..." Steve seems to be struggling for words. Finally he sighs and says, "I've read the pamphlets, and they do a really bad job of describing what it looks like, or what to do, or how to help, but I want you to...be ok."

Nat gapes at him for a second. Then she can't keep from blurting out, "Oh my god." She almost laughs, but manages to keep it in. "You think I'm going to kill myself or something? Because you took the equivalent of a junior high health class?"

"It was taught by a SHIELD agent," Steve informs her, as if this makes it more legitimate. "And they talked about self-harm, and drug abuse, and--"

"Ok, ok," Nat cuts him off. They've reached the end of the hall, and the parking garage stretches on the other side of the storm door. "You've... refreshed my education." She forces a smile. "Thank you."

"Nat, I." Steve shakes his head. "I didn't want to make you feel bad. Let me buy you dinner. Let me... make tonight better, if you've been having a hard time."

"Nope." Nat pushes open the heavy door. She beeps her keys, and the lights on her black sedan flash to welcome her.

"Hey, I'm sorry--"

"I'll see you tomorrow."

Nat gets into her car, turns the key, and slowly backs out of her spot. Steve still stands there, watching her, looking concerned and maybe a little sad himself.

Nat shakes her head. Not because it was a close call, which it was, but because she needs the cravings to go away long enough to work through satisfying them. The last few moments of talking to Steve, when he'd mentioned drug abuse, her veins had practically ached with the desire for the needle. Her throat stings for alcohol, and what's in the fridge will never be enough.

Nat exits the garage and drives down one of the spokes that takes her out of the wheel of DC proper and into a smaller neighborhood. It's not exactly near her apartment, but that's not the point. She pulls up to the curb, gets out her phone, and scrolls through her contacts until she finds the one she's looking for.

Nat places the phone to her ear, then gets out and hikes through the overgrown landscaping to the corner mart half a block down. They won't sell the good stuff, but they will sell the stuff. Beer, at least.

The person on the other end of Nat's phone call picks up, but doesn't speak. Not that she expects him to. Their relationship is not one of cordiality. "A number one, please," Nat murmurs, speaking quickly and quietly, even though the message is bland and fairly indecipherable. "No sides."

"Pickup or delivery?"

"Pickup." Nat always picks up. She can't imagine the fallout of having someone seen popping in and out of her apartment, and then having to explain their relationship to whomever has her under surveillance. Because god knows someone does.

The voice on the other end of the line provides the address. Nat memorizes it, says "thanks," and hangs up. Then she puts the street name and house number into her GPS app and proceeds into the store to pick out a bottle of low-quality whiskey. She pays cash, then returns to the car, clutching the paper bag tightly in her hand.

Nat winds through the streets, taking a roundabout route to throw off anyone who might be tailing her. She takes specific care to look for Steve's bike, but that thing would be impossible to disguise. It takes her almost an hour of using her good judgement and best behavior not to tear open the paper bag in the passenger seat and start gulping, egging on the fuzzy lightness she knows she'll get if she carries on.

The house the GPS leads her to looks deserted. The lights are off, but once Nat's headlights bounce off the front porch, she sees a white plastic bag wrapped around the flat cube shape of a standard takeout box. Nat doesn't even turn off the car. She just opens the door and hurries up to grab the loot.

Nat focuses on getting the fuck out of there, so she doesn't rip open the bag and pop the lid on the container until she's at the red light at the end of the street. Inside is a baggie of white powder, a handful of clean needles, and a handwritten bill for what she owes.

Nat will wire the money later, after she's had her night of blissful high. She'll have to do a lot of things later, like tip off Maria that she should probably use last time's blood sample, which they both know is clean, in place of whatever they pull this time. She'll owe there, too, but Nat knows how to pay.

Then there's Steve. Nat doesn't know what to do about him. She'll sure as fuck have a hangover tomorrow, so she hopes they don't get called for a mission. Nat supposes the best she can hope for is to have her fun tonight, then give it a few days to slowly come back to her regular, normal, unquestionable self.

Whatever that means.

[malebodyinvasion]

Another Favor from Him (Alvin's POV)

Disclaimer:  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner.

This is a sequel to Babysitter for A Day.

I suggest reading Another Favor from Him (Ryan's POV) first before proceeding to this one.

Last night I asked Ryan a favor if he and I could swap bodies. I told him I need to pickup an order from a store next city but I have a special meeting tomorrow. That meeting is not really that important so I decided to get the package myself in Ryan's body. I haven't told him that the order was a collector's edition of a vintage vinyl record I am interested as of late. If I told him he may not agree. Forgive me Ryan.

After my opening speech, I swapped our consciousness right away. When I opened my new eyes, I was in front of the dining table having breakfast. As expected, he will get up late. I cannot blame him since he rarely got sleep before his licensure exam.

"This is the second time I'm eating the food I prepared this morning." I told myself. Ryan's voice is really a music to my ear, or rather, his ear.

I stood up to place the plates on the sink. "Woah." I said adjusting to my new balance. Being a few inches shorter and less muscular reminds me of the days I was new to workout.

May be I should take a bath before leaving home? While walking, I noticed that Ryan have no underwear under his tight shorts and his morning wood is caressing between the cloth and his legs. This reminds me of that one time he mentioned that if he kept his morning wood untouched, he will be bothered for the whole day. And I'm starting to feel that. I hope he doesn't mind me dealing with it.

Thinking about it, makes it harder. I have a crush on Ryan and being in his body makes me excited. Ever since I met him, I always keep my cool so he would respect me. I realized my feelings for him after that one time I taught him to dance. I always think how's he doing whenever I'm at work and he's at the campus. I'm so worried about him I joined him every time he take a walk at night. And I'm enjoying it.

I pick some clothes from his closet. Is it just me or he had few pairs of underwear? It's not even enough for a week. Wait... Don't tell me he enjoys going commando?! Not that I'm against it, but the fabric of these shorts I'm currently wearing, or Ryan's body is wearing, is not good for the skin, plus the fact it's fitted in a sensitive area! I'll grab some garments for him after I got my order.

After deciding what to wear, I went to bath. I removed his shirt revealing his quite lean body. As I thought, he's really a twink, or a twunk? Then I removed his tight shorts revealing an enormous member. I can't believe what I'm seeing. The length, the girth, the popping veins -- it's impressive. It's bigger than mine! His balls is the same size as mine and he is younger than me. It makes me wonder how he could manage to hide it from me, err... to keep it unnoticed from the eyes of others. He might be a grower.

I have no time for this. I need to hurry before the store got busy. I groped his member with his left hand and pumped it, as his right hand caressed the soap over his body. The perks of being ambidextrous. I shot the cum towards my current legs and quickly wash everything from there to the feet. Then, I dried myself and wore the clothes I picked.

Since I used my car going to the resort this morning, I rode a bus going to the next city. I'm never this bored, or maybe I'm just always busy with work so I never feel empty. I checked Ryan's phone for games but he doesn't have any. I opened some of his applications and scroll for something interesting -- except I saw those e-books, some are paid and some are pirated. I should have expect that from a former examinee. I tried to take a peek from his diary app but it's password protected. I'm kind of curious. Then, I checked his pictures and I was surprised with how many stolen shots of me he had. Could it be... that it's more than respect? That he likes me too somehow? No, no. I should not jump to weird conclusions. I continuously explored his phone and saw some pictures of us together. I cannot help but smile. I'm going to miss him if ever he leave my unit. Such a nice guy.

Few minutes later, I arrived to my destination. I hurriedly walk towards the store. I almost forgot that I'm not in my body so I presented the manager a sort of authorization letter. While waiting for the manager, I walked around the shop to look for other items that may pick my interest. But at the end, I left the shop with only my order.

"I should look for some clothes," I mumbled. I entered one of the popular clothing boutique and pick some tops and bottoms that may suit Ryan's body. I also grabbed three pairs of underwear for him. I decided to try out some of the clothes to get a better judgment. With his cute and handsome face, any combination of clothes fit his appearance well. I cannot stop myself from getting amazed of his body everytime I removed and put on some of the clothes, and found myself getting hard. I grope his hands over his bulge. No, no. It's not the right time or place. Besides, I'm not supposed to do anything that may result me releasing pleasure.

Furthermore, I took some photos while inside the fitting room. Ryan sure will love it. It gives me an idea to change my current attire to some of the clothes I just bought.

"The weather is great. Maybe I should look around until afternoon. I'm sure Ryan won't mind." I told myself while typing a text message for Ryan. "I hope he had my phone with him."

During my stroll, there was this guy who keeps on checking on me. When I accidentally looked at him in the eye, he gave me a wink and started caressing his pectorals over his tank top. This dude is obviously flirting and trying to get into Ryan's pants. But there's no way in Earth, he could have Ryan. I'm the one in control and I'm sure you’re not Ryan's type.

Suddenly, this dude grabbed my arms and pulled me. Now that his near me, I could say he has the same build as my body with only an inch or two shorter. He looks familiar but I can’t put my finger where I see this guy. I tried to resist and shout for help but there are no other people here and his grip is too strong I can't run away. We entered an isolated public restroom and locked the door.

"I know you want this too," the guy told me in the ear. His voice is kind of sexy and Ryan's penis twitches one after another. He pressed me against a wall and started kissing my borrowed neck. I don't know if I'm enjoying it but I can tell that Ryan's body is getting excited on what is happening. He raised his head and gave Ryan's lip a passionate kiss. My current body is like acting on its own when I answered his tongue with my current tongue. It seems this dude really knows what is he doing. Then he placed his right hand over my hardening wood. He freed my mouth from the kiss. "It’s Kevin. I always want to do this ever since I saw you in the gym.” That’s it! This guy is one of the gym patrons. I rarely see him but it seems he knew Ryan.  Do Ryan have a thing for this guy? But I’m sure I am better in looks.

“I think you have mistaken.” I retorted.

“Doubt it. You’re big fellow down here is telling me the opposite.” He answered back as he started unbuckling my pants. He knelt down and pulled it down and he is surprised by how huge Ryan’s bulge is. He is probably as amazed as I am. No, no. it’s not a time for this. I need to get out of here.

But before I could take any action, he quickly stands up and kisses me again. He continuously caressed his hands over my bulge. “Aghhh,” I let out a huge moan. He then removed his tank top revealing his eight-pack abs. My body is more defined but Ryan’s excitement and my currently weak resistance somehow makes things harder for me to fight back. I’m afraid that I’m giving in.

Kevin

I moved my hands over his pectorals and start pinching his nipples. “Oh, that’s great!!” He shouted erotically. “Please lick it, Ryan.” Then I placed Ryan’s lip over his pecs swallowing its entirety. I used my borrowed tongue to play its tip. Then my tongue ventured to the other side doing the same thing, then I followed the curves of his abs. I licked every angle of Kevin’s abdomen. I could smell his sweat and taste the salty skin. Then I level myself for another erotic kiss. We crossed our tongues likes sword clashing. “Suck me, Ryan.”

I followed as what he instructed. I got on my knees and pulled down his shorts. A four-inch pecker appeared, which is quite shorter to what I’m expecting. In size, mine is longer and larger. But it doesn’t matter in this moment, I teased him by swallowing his balls and my hands massaging his rod. I slowly move towards his dick’s tip until suddenly he pushed his entire length inside my mouth, choking me.

“I’m sorry.” He apologized as he quickly pulled it off my mouth. “I got too exci…” Before he could finish, I swallow it back. This is my first time giving someone a blowjob and I’m not even in my own body. I swirled my tongue around his rod. He placed his hands behind my hand. ‘I’ll be gentle.” Then he moved his hips back and forth. It feels great and I’m getting addicted to it. Seconds later, he released hot stream of cum inside my mouth. I have no choice but to swallow them as he pushed his hands harder than before. It’s kind of slimy but the bitter taste got mixed with his sweaty rod, resulting to a weird flavor. He pulled me up for another kiss.

“It’s my turn.” He whispered to my ear. He wildly removed my underwear and I could already see precum on the tip of my borrowed dick. I watched him choke himself trying to devour Ryan’s entire length. He played his tongue around the impressive rod and massages my balls with his hands. This is also my first time getting a blowjob, and possibly Ryan’s too. Losing control, I started pinching my own nipples. I moan louder and louder. His hands moved towards my butt cheeks and pressed it pushing my super hard dick down his throat. I imitated how he moved his hips before. I could feel it… But I can’t! It will lock me and Ryan in each other’s body. He may hate me for it. I tried my best to prevent releasing but Kevin took my dick off his mouth and licked the small hole.

“Aahhhh!” Streams of cum rocketed to his chiseled body as I shout in ecstasy and worry. He then cleaned off my cock by slurping the remains of cum in my rod down to my legs.

“That was hot, Ryan.” He announced as he stood up. When he is about to kiss me again, his phone rang. I cannot hear what they’re talking about properly as I’m still dumbfounded of what I’ve done. I realized my mistake. Ryan would hate and despise me now. He might lose his respect for me.

“I need to go Ryan. My girlfriend is waiting for me. Let’s do this again next time.” Kevin said as he wore his clothes then run off like a fireman.

“Yeah.” It was only my response. This dude just gave me a blowjob and he had a girlfriend. What kind of boyfriend he is?! No, no. That’s not my problem. My problem is how could I explain this Ryan. This is bad. I put my pants back and left the place as fast as I can.

While on the bus way home, I cannot think of a proper explanation. I cannot just tell him, “I got so horny in your body and decided to go with the flow.” Even if it is the reason. I tried searching on the internet for some leeway but what caught my attention is the weather news regarding a storm tonight. My worry heart overcomes my self-loathing, and impulsively dial my phone number. Ryan answered my call.

"I'm so sorry Ryan. I didn't mean to." Wha… what did I just say?! I’m supposed to tell him about the storm. This is bad. I haven’t think off a good explanation.

"Huh, what happened? Did you get into an accident?!" He’s now raising his voice. He might be on a bad mood.

"Sort of..." No…

"Sort of?"

"You see... I cum three times while in your body!" I ended up confessing. But I’m still not ready to tell him about my blowjob with Kevin.

"Eh?!" I knew it. His respect… his trust on me… shattering…

"I'm really sorry, Ryan. I cannot control my urges."

"How did that happen? What happened to your usual cool?!" His voice is getting louder. He’s mad now. He’s probably judging me now.

"Well..." I explained him ‘what’ happened but it’s all lies. I want to save our friendship at least. I tell him the truth once he got home.

"So we're stuck for a day?" Ryan asked. Hearing that with my voice is like a boss disappointed of what just happened. But his voice is quite calm now. Did he buy my lies?

"Seems... like it. I'm so sorry Ryan. I let my horniness got ahead of me." I apologized again… hoping for the best…

"I should apologize as well...” Ryan paused. “Since I also masturbated this afternoon..."

I gasped. Does that mean he touched my penis? Does that mean he caressed my body? Does that mean he likes me too? Or… does that mean he simply enjoy being me? I’m one to talk.

"I know it's not the right time Alvin, but I actually like you.” He continued talking. ‘I appreciate everything you did for me... I tried my best to resist my dirty thoughts but I failed." Is that a confession?

I took a deep breath. "I also... like you Ryan.” I ended up confessing my crush on him. “It's probably one of the reason I ended up trapping us both. But don't worry, it will be automatically undone in a day. Let's talk about our feelings when you got home." I talked calmly so he won’t notice I’m really nervous.

"Then wait for me. I'll dress up now and be on my way. I'll use GPS if I need to..." I could feel his excitement.

"Wait!" I interrupted him. "Stay there."

"But why?"

"It's dangerous. There will be a storm tonight according to the news. The roads there are kind of dangerous when raining."

"You should have said that first."

"Well... I feel like… apologizing first… so you could avoid panicking." I messed things up and I’m actually the one who is having a panic. I let a loud sigh. "But it seems you panic either way. Anyway, stay there for the night."

"Alright, I'll do that."

"Then it's settled. Let's talk again later..." I’m saved for now.

"Wait." Or not. "It's about Michael." Michael is there? I thought he wasn’t going.

Ryan explained everything. I felt unfair to him. He was able to tell me this but I couldn’t. I’m really going to tell him everything when he got home.

"I see... Michael… is always like that." I reacted. "I already turn him down even before I have you living with me, but he never stops." This sounds trouble.

"Do you like him by any chance? A little?" He asked. Oh no! Did he misunderstand my reply?

"As a friend, yes. Why did you ask?"

He then told me that my body twitches whenever Michael is flirting.

"He's my type of… guy… but not exactly him. He reminds me of you. Or in this case, he reminds 'my body' of you." It’s the truth. They share some similarities but I hate Michael’s ego. Ryan, on the other hand, is easier to approach and interact. Michael and I were once roommates but he never listed to what I say even if it’s for our own good. Thinking about it makes Ryan’s dick hard a little. "This is kind of embarrassing... and weird. We're in each other's body and it's like confessing to myself. Ha…Haha…Hahaha." I tried to laugh it off. I think my face is red now.

Then he followed, "Are you sure it's not the other way around?"

"Nope." I responded. "I'm sure." You’re far better than him.

"Thank you, Alvin. Sorry if I doubted you."

"It's fine. I had an idea you would noticed." I’m kind of glad you didn’t notice my lies about the body swap lock.

"So... What should I do about him?"

"Just try to keep your distance from him." If Michael is being flirtatious to that level, it’s kind of dangerous. He might do something unwanted. I can’t do anything for now except hoping for the best. 

I wish the storm could pass sooner, I want to see Ryan now and settle everything.

[flowerfan2]

To The Lovers

Patrick/David, 1900 words, A03

Summary:  Patrick’s hopes for a romantic reunion when David returns from Elm Valley don’t go exactly as planned.  S05e04 coda.

******

Patrick taps his fingers on his phone and tries to make himself wait a little bit longer before texting David.  He doesn’t want David to know how weird the past twenty-four hours have been for him.

It’s not as if he doesn’t have anyone else he could hang out with.  It’s just that he’d rather be with David.

After work yesterday he tried to keep busy getting ready for his move, but packing his clothes into two suitcases didn’t take long, and most of his stuff was already in boxes in the back of his car or Ray’s basement.  He didn’t bring a lot with him when he took off for Schitt’s Creek, and the most important part of what he found isn’t something that needs to be packed.

Finally he caves, and sends a text to David.  He composes it carefully, for full effect.  

I got some furniture for the new place.  He attaches a photo of a futon with a mustard yellow and bright orange patterned cover.

It doesn’t take long for David to respond.

I thought we agreed I was responsible for the creative side of things?  And where did you find that hideous monstrosity?

Jocelyn’s neighbor had a yard sale.  I got a dining set, too. He attaches another photo.  He’s particularly proud of this one, he spent a long time searching online to find an image of chairs this rickety.

I am 80% sure that you’re kidding, but on the off chance that you’re not, I just googled the town’s policy on disposing of large items and I can schedule a pickup for Thursday.  Any other unfortunate purchases I should add to the list?

Patrick bites his lip.  It’s not even noon, but he can’t bring himself to care.  He just wants to see David. Why don’t you come over and find out?

Now?

Patrick expected a little more enthusiasm, but texting is weird that way. It’s probably nothing.  David just drove back from Elm Valley this morning, maybe he’s not in the mood to hang out. Yeah.  You can help me organize my new step-in closet.

While ordinarily I would jump at the chance, I’m not sure I’m up for it.

The flutter in Patrick’s stomach is growing.  What’s wrong?

I wouldn’t be very good company.  I drank a rather unfortunate amount last night.

Patrick lets out a long breath and forces himself to unclench his jaw.  It’s nothing to get worried about.  David hasn’t thrown him over for someone he met at karaoke the night before.  Patrick just needs to reset his expectations.

Okay, I totally get it.  But if you change your mind and want to escape your family and spend the afternoon in a quiet, drama-free and practically empty apartment, let me know.

David’s almost instantaneous reply makes him the tiniest bit giddy.  I changed my mind.

An hour later, after Patrick runs a few quick errands, he picks David up at the motel and drives him back to the new apartment.  David looks cozy in his thick black sweatshirt and boots, although the way he grimaces at every loud noise indicates just how unhappy he is with the state of the world.

David walks into the apartment and stops in his tracks, spinning around to look at Patrick.  “You have furniture,” he says, waving his hands.

“Yup.”  Patrick hadn’t wanted to wait to get some essentials, primarily a bed and a sofa.

“And it’s not awful.”

“Glad you approve.  You actually picked out the sofa.”

David walks around it.  “I did?”

Patrick laughs.  “More or less.  About a month ago, when we were watching one of those home shows, you said you liked it.  It’s not exactly the same, but-”

David sits down on the couch, running his fingers over the textured gray fabric.  “How did you remember that?”

Patrick shrugs.  “I just did.”

“We need a throw, maybe a brighter color block to work off the neutral of the sofa.  And a narrow coffee table, and at least one more chair.”

“And I thought maybe an area rug by the bed?”  Patrick sits down next to David.  “It’s going to be nice, right?”

David frowns at Patrick, as if Patrick couldn’t possibly be questioning David’s ability to turn this bland space into an aesthetically pleasing environment.  “Of course it’s going to be nice.”

Patrick is glad one of them is sure about it.  He wants David to like this place, especially after the whole mix-up about whether they were going to move in together.  He had actually been thinking they might christen it today, so to speak, but given David’s hangover, that’s probably not going to happen.  Instead, it’s time to put plan B into action.

“How are you feeling?  I’ve got ibuprofen, and apple juice.”

David’s face does that surprised/embarrassed thing, where his dimples sort of pop in and out as if they’re afraid to commit either way.  “I love apple juice.”

“I know.”  Patrick gets up and moves to the kitchen to unpack the groceries.  He pours David a glass of juice and brings it over, together with the bottle of ibuprofen.

David dutifully takes the pills and drinks down the juice.

“Why don’t you get into bed?”  Patrick asks.  “Close your eyes for a while.”

David bites his lip.  “That’s not very sociable.”

“I’ll come with you.  I’ll bring my laptop and go over some work.”

“You sure?”

In response, Patrick stands up and holds out his hand.  David smiles at him, lips pressed together, and follows him to the bed.

“This headboard is nice,” David says, looking it over.  “But we should really paint the wall.  A soft green to go with the gray.  Fern, or willow.”

“Is willow green?”

David glares at him.  “Some willows are green.”

“Okay.”

David sits on the bed and takes off his boots, and then pulls off his black sweatshirt.  He’s got a plain white t-shirt underneath, and Patrick can’t hide the smile that crosses his face when he sees it – it’s one of his own, just a pedestrian Hanes from a three-pack he bought at a department store.

Patrick climbs up on the bed and slings his arms around David.  “I missed you.”

David freezes just for a moment, as if he’s afraid he’s being teased.  “Really?” he asks softly.

“Yeah.  Silly, right?”  

Patrick feels exposed, but David just looks right into his eyes and shakes his head, giving him a softly twisted smile.  “No.  It’s not silly.”  They share a besotted moment, and then David sighs.   “The whole trip was ridiculous.  I didn’t even get to see the cherry blossoms.”

“You told me,” Patrick says.  He’s got a string of texts a mile long from David, all about how Stevie kidnapped him just so she could see Emir again.  “I checked, and they should still be blooming next weekend, if you want to go.  We could get Stevie to work the store for a few hours.”

“You’d come with me?”  David asks, pulling back to look at him.

“Of course.  Looking at the cherry blossoms by yourself would be creepy.”  Patrick smirks at David, who rolls his eyes, and then offers his face to Patrick for a kiss.  Patrick holds David’s jaw with his hands as he kisses him, rubbing his thumb over his stubble.  But they’ve hardly even gotten into it when David groans and flops back on the bed.

“I’m sorry, I feel like crap,” David says, throwing his arm over his eyes.  “Did I mention I had fourteen polar bear shots?”

“You did.  And apparently there was quite a bit of karaoke.  Stevie was impressed.”

“Ugh, she was not.  She didn’t even stay when I offered to sing to her and her loverboy.”

“Huh, how strange.”

David moves his arm off of his face and squints at Patrick.  “I don’t suppose your recent shopping spree included blackout curtains?”  David sounds truly miserable, and Patrick’s heart goes out to him.

“No, I’m afraid not.  I figured I needed your input on textiles.”  Patrick lies down next to David and gently sets his hand on his stomach, rubbing gently.

“Ugh,” David moans.  “This is awful.  I’m never drinking again.”

“I know, baby,” Patrick soothes.  “Just sleep for a while, you’ll feel better.”  He sits up and tugs at the duvet until it’s covering them both, and then lies down next to David, tentatively holding out his arm.  “Come here?”

“Mmm, yes.”  David nestles up against him, his face pressed into the space between Patrick’s neck and shoulder, arm around Patrick’s waist and knee curled up over his thigh.  Instant octopus.

Patrick pets David’s head, and tentatively massages his temples.  “That feels good,” David breathes out. “Keep going.” David doesn’t seem in the least concerned about how Patrick is messing up his hair, just melting against his body and sighing in relief.  

Apparently a hungover David is a cuddly David.  Patrick doesn’t mind in the least.  He likes taking care of David.  He’s not sure many people have bothered to look out for him.  And as Patrick sits there watching David’s face relax and his eyelashes flutter against his cheeks, he tries not to think too hard about concepts like in sickness and in health.

When David drifts off to sleep, Patrick realizes the flaw in his plan to get some work done, since he neglected to bring his laptop to bed.  He digs his phone out of his pocket, careful not to jostle David, and pages through emails one-handed for a few minutes.  But David is a warm, inviting weight next to him, and suddenly a mid-afternoon nap sounds like the perfect thing.

He slides down next to his boyfriend, wishing he had thought to take off his sweater, and snuggles in close. His body molds itself to David’s, and David sighs in his sleep, shifting to let Patrick rest his head on David’s shoulder.  

They haven’t spent that many nights together, all told, but it doesn’t seem to matter.  Even from the beginning, Patrick has felt safe in David’s arms.  It’s like nothing he’s ever experienced before; they fit together perfectly.  It feels right. Patrick brushes his lips across David’s collarbone and closes his eyes.

He blinks into awareness, coming slowly out of a dream about kissing David under the cherry blossoms. David is still conked out.  Patrick shifts, freeing his arm which has fallen asleep, trapped underneath David’s head.  David snuffles and flops over, tucking himself against Patrick’s side.

In a little while Patrick will get up and start thinking about dinner, but for now he’s more than content to snuggle with David in his new bed, in his new life, one that is more perfect than he could ever have imagined.  Later he’ll give David the little brown envelope that’s sitting on his kitchen counter.  It’s just a key, but he hopes David will understand that it’s more than that.  Patrick thinks he will.  

[missmalice202]

Designing Your Melody: Chapter 09 - Letters

Chapter 01 - Chapter 08

With less than three weeks to go until Paris’s Fall Fashion Week, Marinette was surprisingly relaxed. After her initial fittings with both Adrien and Juleka, she had been sewing non-stop in preparation for her first major fashion show of her career. A select few of her pieces had been featured in shows and competitions before, but this was to be her official debut of “Designs by Marinette” and she couldn’t be more excited… or more terrified.

So far, she had been making amazing progress completing her collection. Most of Adrien’s looks were finished. It had been a big help that his measurements over the years hadn’t changed much, so a lot of the clothing she had made hadn’t needed much altering to fit the slender model to perfection. She really was fortunate to have such a good friend in Adrien. The advice and behind the scenes knowledge of Fashion Week he had shared with her made her confident that she was mentally prepared for her show. Admittedly, she still had had a panic attack or two due to the immense pressure she was putting on herself, but for her, that was significant progress from the absolute mess she used to be in high school. Yay for maturity! She giggled as she thought that maybe her online screen name may have rubbed some of its good luck onto her.

Carefully hanging up a meticulously packed garment bag on the portable clothing rack she had purchased for the show, she looked at her tablet once more and checked off another item on her “Fashion Week Collection Pieces” checklist.

Setting her tablet down on her sewing table, she heard the alarm on her phone begin to chime. Brow furrowed, she walked over to where it lay next to her computer, still attached to the charger. Why had she set an alarm? She couldn’t remember if she had to do anything today. Later in the morning she was expecting a delivery from the fabric store that she had ordered the lining for Juleka’s final look from, but she wouldn’t have set an alarm to remind her of that.

Upon reading the text on screen accompanying the alarm, Marinette gasped. How could she possibly forget? She had an appointment to meet with the producer of her fashion show to go over music and a few last-minute details at 11:00am. She had thirty minutes to get to the venue on time and no time to call and reschedule the delivery of her material.

Shoving her feet into her pink ballet flats, she hastily tugged the pencil she had used to hold her midnight locks in a messy bun out of her hair and raced over to her vanity mirror. After a quick finger comb to smooth out any obvious kinks, she hastily tied her hair back into her signature pigtails. She grabbed her purse, stuffed her phone inside, and was down the trap door.

She stopped at the counter where her mother was taking care of customers to ask her mother to tell the delivery boy to take her package up to her room when he arrived to drop it off. She wanted to be extra careful with the expensive material she had ordered to be the showpiece of her collection. And frankly, she didn’t want a trace of flour to mar the beautiful deep purple satin she had chosen for her masterpiece.

With a kiss blown to her mom over her shoulder and a shouted “Au revoir” to her papa, Marinette was out the door, disappearing down the street in a blur before the door closed behind her.

-xXx-xXx-xXx-xXx-xXx-xXx-xXx-

Pedaling down the street with his guitar safely stowed away on his bike, Luka once again checked the GPS on his phone to make sure he was going to the right address.

A few minutes ago, while he had been sitting in the park, noodling on his guitar, he had gotten a text from the courier service he worked for, VeloPostal, asking him to make a pickup and delivery. He’d sent a reply text that he accepted the job, packed up his guitar and set out on his way to the specialty textile store, Brocade, to pick up a bolt of fabric that was to be delivered to a bakery of all places. Why a bakery would want expensive fabric, Luka could only wonder. To each their own, he supposed.

After he signed for the delivery, he secured the large bold of fabric to the back of his bike and once again brought up the job description on the phone. For the first time, he noticed the name of the bakery he was to make the delivery to: Tom & Sabine’s Boulangerie and Patisserie, the very same bakery that Juleka had brought home those delicious pastries from.

The corner of his mouth turned up in a small smile as he thanked his luck on this job. Ever since he had eaten their delicious confections, he had been meaning to track down that bakery so he could get some more, but between working for the delivery service and putting up with Jagged and Mr. Roth’s antics, he just hadn’t had the time to scour the city in search of tasty treats. But today was apparently his lucky day.

With renewed enthusiasm, he pushed himself to go faster to arrive at the bakery. Parking his bike against the pale limestone wall of the bakery, he gently removed the bundle of cloth from the back of his bike and entered the building.

Immediately, he was surrounded by the delicious scent of freshly baked bread and hot, sweet icing. The bell over the door announced his arrival and behind the counter, a pretty little Asian woman looked around the customer she was currently serving and smiled at him.

“I’ll be right with you, dear.” Her voice was lyrical in its clarity, having a sweet tone to it and an almost breathless quality to it. He smiled at her and crossed over the black and white tiled floor to the display case. As he gazed upon its offerings, he completely forgot his reason for being there. The sparkling glass shelves were filled to the brim with an assortment of flaky pastries, berry topped cakes, multi-colored macaroons, and even a triple layer chocolate cake, a hefty wedge missing from where it had already been sampled by the masses. Mouth watering at the appetizing food on the other side of the glass, he gripped the package he was supposed to deliver closer to his chest to keep himself from caressing the glass in a somewhat obscene manner.

“Can I help you, sweetie,” the woman behind the counter asked sweetly.

Jerking his head to snap out of his reverie, Luka reluctantly pulled his eyes away from the display of delicacies and focused his marine eyes on the woman. “I’m with VeloPostal with a delivery from Brocade,” he said.

Eyes falling to the plastic wrapped package in his arms, the woman’s mouth bowed in a smile. “Ah yes, My daughter mentioned that she was expecting a delivery.” She wiped her hands on the apron covering her front and walked around the counter to stand in front of him. His lips quirked as he observed how much short she was compared to him.

She gazed up at him and tilted her head slightly. “I wonder if I could trouble you for a small favor. Would you be so kind as to bring that up to my daughter’s room?”

Luka hesitated. It was usually frowned upon to enter a customer’s home and he didn’t want to get in trouble with his employer.

“I understand that it’s a strange request, but I have to watch the register and Tom is in the back getting an order ready. I’d leave it down here in the bakery, but unfortunately, flour and dark fabric just do not mix well. My daughter asked me before she left to have you bring it up to her room.” She tilted her head in the other direction and looked up at him with eyes sparkling with humor. “If there are any issues, I’ll take full responsibility.”

He thought about it for a moment. “I’ll tell you what, if you can box me up a half dozen of those croissants and a slice of that fruit tart, then I’ll be a customer. There aren’t any rules about customers doing you any favors, is there?”

She blinked at him for a moment, before throwing her head back and laughing. “Oh, I like you.” She turned and walked back behind the counter and grabbed a box to pack his order into. “You’re funny. For doing me a favor, it’s on the house. That way, it’s a favor between friends.”

He grinned at her, nodding his head. “I like the sound of that. My name is Luka.”

“Enchantée, Luka. I’m Sabine. It’s a pleasure to meet you,” she replied.

Introductions made, he followed her directions up the stairs and made his way to the top floor of the cozy little apartment. Upon entering the room on the other side of the trap door, the first thing he noticed was the chaos. Bits of fabric and scraps of paper were scattered all over the wood floor. It was made obvious that the room belonged to a seamstress, given the sewing machine in a place of honor in the middle of the room, surrounded by other bits and bobs of her craft.

He looked around to find a safe place to leave his cargo and he decided that the best place to leave it would be right on her worktable. Tiptoeing around the mess on the floor lest he unknowingly disrupt a vital piece of her creative process, he made his way to the table that was home to a green cutting mat and multiple other folded bits of fabric. He gently placed the bolt on top and turned to leave.

And froze. There, against the wall behind the trap door, was a pair of dress forms, one male, one female. The female form was unadorned, but he didn’t notice its naked state in his captivation.

On the male dress form was a work of art. A finely patterned blazed hung from the form’s broad shoulders. The black fabric of the garment shimmered with a nearly imperceptible pattern of vines and the lapels were made out of silk brocade patterned with ivy leaves the color of freshly cut grass. Asymmetrical pockets accented by the same brocade were detailed on the front, one pocket on the left hip, two on the right. Stepping closer to get a better look at the jacket, Luka noticed that the lapels sparkled with fine golden thread; tiny, hand-embroidered veins decorating the ivy leaves.

The construction of the garment reminds him of the design that had haunted him since the day he picked it up from under his boot. Looking up from the piece, he notices the drawings taped to her wall behind the forms which he assumes is for easy access to her designs when she’s working on the pieces.

Stepping closer, his heart stopped.

There, in the corner of every drawing, are three small letters: MDC. He reached his hand out to trace them before he realized what he was about to do. Here he is, in her private domain, invading her personal space. The tips of his ears color and he quickly withdrew his hand and shoved them both into his jacket pockets. After one last glance around her creative space, he descends the stairs into to bakery below.

Sabine – Mrs. Cheng – was waiting at the bottom of the stairs for him, his box of baked goods in her hands. “Thank you so much for bringing that up for me,” she said.

Once more embarrassed at almost losing his cool and touching her personal effects, Luka dragged his eyes away from her observing expression and trained them on the box she holds out for him to take.

“It’s no problem at all, Mrs. …” he trailed off, stretching the silence he hoped she’d fill.

Quirking an eyebrow, she smiled in response to his not-so-subtle inquiry. “Cheng. I kept my last name after I married my husband, Tom. This bakery has been passed down in his family, so our daughter’s last name is hyphenated so if she decides to take it over someday, it’ll still be a DuPain Bakery.”

He chuckled, walking with her as she returned to her spot behind the counter. “From what I saw upstairs, it looks like your daughter has another career path in mind.”

Sabine’s smile was blinding as she proudly said, “I know. My Marinette’s dream is to become a famous fashion designer. She’s well on her way, too.” She sighed. “My husband and I are so proud of her, but I know deep down Tom wishes she would take over the bakery when she gets older.” Shrugging her shoulders, she continues, “But I know that’s not where her heart lies.”

Nodding his head in understanding, Luka bids her adieu and leaves the bakery.

Now armed with her name, Marinette DuPain-Cheng (and some delicious, flaky pastries), he dons his helmet and pedals off down the road, more determined than ever to make the Tom & Sabine bakery a regular stop. Who knows? Maybe next time he’s in the mood for a croissant, he’ll run into Mademoiselle Marinette, his mystery muse.

-xXx-xXx-xXx-xXx-xXx-xXx-xXx-

Chapter 10

*Woohoo! He finally knows her name! yay! progress! But it’s not going to be that easy... or is it? Find out next time, my lovelies XOXO*

[ayearofmaking]

Getting down with the lockdown

Here in Connecticut, we’ve been in a semi-lockdown for about a month now, and like many people, I’ve vacillated between panic attacks and depression and trying to see the silver lining/it-could-be-worse side of things. For example:

I’m so lucky I still have a job and can work at home!

Oh my god, now that my mom lives with me and my husband, I’m the only one with an income!

At least my husband is still getting job interviews in a time like this!

Holy shit, he’s an immigrant and just moved to the US at the worst time possible and I feel so guilty!

Believe it or not, the panic even carried over into crafting - like many sewists, I did order a few yards of fabric and elastic to make masks for others. Compared to the relative ease with which I’ve made garments and bags though, masks have become the bane of my existence. Everyone’s face is different! I have no idea how you’re supposed to mass produce these. I’ve made 3 for my husband and have yet to make one that fits him right - I may have yelled at him for having the wrong sized head. Since I work at a medical school, I was going to donate these to our healthcare providers, but since we’re still getting conflicting information on what’s considered acceptable PPE, I decided to donate them to a women’s/family homeless shelter - someplace that is ostensibly lower risk than an ICU ward, where people will actually use them and will hopefully help to slow asymptomatic spread of COVID-19. Anyway, this fed into my anxiety because with every mask that I felt I messed up, I was angry at myself because it meant wasted material and one less person who would get a mask.

And then I’ve also been grappling with feeling like, okay - I got out of working in news because covering humanitarian crises was not great for my mental health, and then a pandemic followed me to a medical school, and now I have to read about COVID-19 research and case numbers all day and make videos about this stuff. Cool. But yaaaay I’m so lucky to be employed and have health insurance, even if I was barely making it to the end of the month before, everything is fine!

Anyhow. I’m doing a little better now that I’ve set an alarm to make myself take my anxiety and migraine meds at the same time every day. Duh. 

If there is a silver lining amidst the endless human suffering, the 20% unemployment rate, the miles long lines for food banks, the disproportionately high death rates for POC, the poor - folks who can’t afford to socially distance - I guess it might be this.

We’re all being forced to cut a lot of conveniences out of our lives right now. It means different things to different people, but it boils down to less consumption. Fewer trips in the car, fewer frivolous trips to the store, fewer mindless purchases. With places like Chewy and Petsmart out of stock of my usual pet supplies, my locally owned pet stores are coming to the rescue with curbside pickup. Same for craft supplies. The tiny vegetarian, organic, family owned supermarket by my house is usually better stocked and has better behaved customers than people at Stop and Shop or Target. If you can afford to do takeout, you can pick up meals from local restaurants that are still open, rather than ordering through Grubhub that takes a large commission from these places that are already suffering.

On the flip side, the things that have been added into my life these past few weeks are having my mom and my husband get more time to bond, since we’ve always lived far away in the Middle East, being grateful for both of their compassion, going on lots of hikes and walks and bike rides together, cooking together, playing card games, reading books and watching movies. 

The things that seemed important a few weeks ago - maybe trying to get a job with a fancier title at a fancier institution, deadlines set for myself (including finishing my master’s this year), what people think of me, what my house looks like - all that has gone out the window very rapidly. On the other hand, even with all the uncertainty, it’s easy to contemplate long-term plans with my family, because that is solid.

In other words, now is the time to contemplate what we want to let back into our lives when things eventually go back to “normal.” Do we even want a return to “normal,” considering “normal” is what got us in this situation? “Normal” means our jobs are our whole lives in the US - without a job, we have no health insurance and no safety net. “Normal” has resulted in world-class healthcare systems collapsing and manufacturing supply chains being broken globally. And this crisis has revealed that scientific research and innovation can happen rapidly - we just haven’t been prioritizing it with funding before now. Now is the time to Marie Kondo all that shit and think about the kind of lives we want to lead.

[discocritic]

mad as rabbits by panic! at the disco?

(quick warning for attempted suicide (if this counts): a character is seen standing on the edge of a building, considering jumping, but is stopped before they attempt anything.)

~

The first time they see the boy, he’s shoplifting at Tommy Chow Mein’s.

The figure in the second aisle, frame hidden by an oversized purple hoodie, is inspecting the merchandise just a little too closely. As Pony watches, he makes a move to slip something up his shirt.

The store owner, arms full carrying a box of plastic toothbrushes, suddenly drops the package and rushes over to him. The two other customers pretend they’re not paying attention and continue browsing the overpriced-by-ten-carbons goods.

“What do you think you’re doing, boy?” he barks. The boy jumps and a can of beans falls out from under his ratty jacket.

“N-nothing,” he stammers. “I was, uh…”

The boy’s got to be eighteen or nineteen, somewhere around Show Pony’s own age. (At least, they assume that’s their own age; you can’t be too sure out here. Time passes strangely. Maybe they’re actually thirty and just lost track of time.)

Chow Mein snatches back the can and gives the boy the evil eye. “Out of my store now.”

Show Pony watches him walk out with his hands jammed in his pockets. He’s lucky he didn’t get more than a cold warning. Tommy has a gun specifically to scare off the older teenage thugs.

They figure this kid doesn’t fit the criteria. He’s scrawny and not really threatening enough. He gives off more of the “homeless wanderer” than “juvenile delinquent” vibes.

The next time they see the boy, it’s from the back of Dr. D’s old pickup two days later. They and two other Zone rats lounge in the truck bed, feeling the sun beat down on their uncovered faces and the wind thread through their hair. Hot Chimp is driving because the Doc’s having a particularly bad day—the jarring, persistent pain that barely ever goes away has come back worse in both legs—and they’re going to Zone One to drop off the truck in exchange for a supply of stronger painkillers. He won’t be driving around anymore regardless, so there’s no need to keep the pickup any longer.

They roll to a stop in front of a half-collapsed warehouse. (It looks a little seedy, but Pony’s seen worse.)

Chimp presses the horn, and a heavyset man with two little dogs nipping at his heels comes out from the back exits. The DJ gets out to negotiate a deal.

Pony jumps down and ties his shoe, and then heads for a rock nearby. The warehouse is backed up next to a shallow cave, and little stalagmites (or are they stalactites?) jut up from the ground at the entrance.

They settle down on top of a nice-sized boulder and survey the landscape. The other two ‘runners that came with him stay behind, holding hands and cuddling and just generally doing stuff that girlfriends do.

They’re lonely by themself, having not been with a partner in a while, so they don’t really want to sit there and watch and be even lonelier. They decide to stay here and bask in the sunlight, doing their second favorite thing: channeling the spirit of a lizard.

Lizards are cool. They make nice earrings when they bite onto your earlobes and dangle—if you can deal with the little sting of pain.

And if that gets annoying, well, at least they’re nutritious.

Win-win for Show Pony, eh?

They must fall asleep somehow, because the next thing they know, the sun is going down and they’ve fallen off their perch. Hot Chimp looks like she’s almost done negotiating the deal, and as they walk back, they hear the end of the terms of the deal. The guy’ll come to the station tomorrow to pick up the truck with one of his buddies, so right now they’ll have a way to get back home.

As they hop in the back, wedging themself snugly between two bales of hay, a glint of something catches their eye back at the cave.

They squint. It’s the boy. He’s scurrying around the entrance with a metal pot or something, and Show Pony realizes that’s what was making the sun glare off at them a second earlier.

Maybe they should get out and introduce themself?

But the truck roars to life and they’re pulling out before they have a chance to move. They wave as they pass the cave one last time anyway.

The boy looks up, watching them, but he doesn’t wave back.

The third time they sees the boy, it’s pouring down rain and he’s about to jump off the second floor of an abandoned parking complex.

Show Pony initially ventured up here to get out of the thunderstorm, but they got distracted after walking inside. A couple cars sit in their parking spots, left years ago at the start of the Analog Wars. They don’t bother to check any out; they were looted and siphoned of gas long ago.

Thunder crashes loud enough to make them jump and the hairs on their arms stand up on end. It sounded like that was right beside them.

Then there’s a muffled cry from the level above and they freeze.

Someone else’s in here! A friend!

Well, it could be a drac, which would definitely not be a friend, but it could be another ‘runner. And it wouldn’t hurt to have a little company during the rain.

So they head up to the next level, thinking how great it would be to get one of those shopping carts lying around the Zones and push someone down this ramp in it. They’ve seen a couple outside of the Paradise Motel, but that’s a long way away from here. Wherever here is. Zone One or somewhere cl—

All of a sudden, a shadow makes them look up. There’s someone standing on the edge of an opening made by a bomb blast. His knees are bent like he’s going to jump down.

Down to the ground, two, almost three stories below. In the rain. Landing onto concrete.

“Hey!” they call, suddenly afraid he’s going to leap right then and there. “Don’t do that!”

He turns around, almost losing his balance, and Show Pony sees who it is. They run forward just as he clutches a pipe sticking out from the opening, narrowly avoiding falling off.

“Get down,” they say, softer this time. “Don’t jump, please. Let me help.”

The boy shakes his head. Well, now that they’ve seen him up close, he doesn’t look much like a boy. More like a young man. A skinny, terrified, young man.

Lightning flashes, illuminating his face.

He has brown hair the same color of the dirt smudged across his face. His sweatshirt, the same one he was wearing at the store the first time Pony laid eyes on him, is pretty much rags instead of sweatshirt. There’s a large hole in the knee of his jeans, dried blood peeking out from between the last threads struggling to hold the fabric together.

“Nobody can help,” he says, despair saturating the words. “I can’t even help.” He looks back at the hole in the wall, but Show Pony grabs his wrist before he can edge back over there. “I don’t know what to do anymore.”

He crumples to the ground, pulling them down too. Tears pool in his eyes and he buries his head in his arms.

“You gotta name?” they ask, sitting cross-legged beside him. They’ve carefully positioned themself between the wall and the guy in case he tries to jump again.

“It’s Max,” he mumbles after a long moment. Show thinks they’ve misheard him. His words are muffled since his face is still hidden. But they don’t make a move to get him to look up.

Max? That’s not a great alias. Easy for Better Living to track you down with.

“I mean, like, a 'joy name. No birth name-givin’ here,” they chuckle awkwardly. “I’m Show Pony. Didn’t get named that when I popped out. But 'ey, I think it’s a little more interesting than any normal name, y'know?”

Dammit, they’re rambling again. It’s not really the time for jokes.

Thankfully, the boy doesn’t seem to notice. Or maybe he just doesn’t care. People about to jump out of buildings don’t usually care about dumb jokes.

“No, no Killjoy name,” he whispers. “It’s just Max Armstrong. I just got out of the city a few days ago.” He wipes at his face, then raises his gaze. “Me and my brother. But he's… he’s not doing well.”

“What d'you mean?”

“They were gonna—well, y'know the pills?”

Show Pony nods. Of course they know the pills. Everyone knows the pills.

“Well, I stopped taking mine a couple months ago. But my brother didn’t, uh, he actually got into the stash I had building up and he overdosed two weeks ago. Um, Better Living Medical saved him, but as soon as he “got better” they said they were gonna take him to re-evaluation. Which, you know, no one ever comes back the same after that.“

Max shuts his eyes before continuing and takes a deep breath. "So I broke us both out as soon as he could walk. But he’s really sick now, with Zone flu or something and now—and I can’t find real medicine, and nobody has food and we don’t have any money. He—his name’s Gabe, um, Gabriel actually, and now he’s so sick he won’t even wake up. H-He hasn’t woken up in two days and… I was gonna jump 'cause—I’m so tired, I… I’m just—because I can’t do this anymore—”

He makes a little noise like he’s trying not to cry, and Pony reaches over to pat him on the arm. “Please don’t try to jump,” they say.

The pounding rain’s almost stopped; it’s quiet enough again to hear him without straining.

“Do anything but jump, okay? I’m sure there’s gotta be a way to help you.”

Max turns away and picks at a thread on his sweatshirt, presumably to hide his watery eyes.

Pony doesn’t care. They won’t judge.

“Show me where he is and we’ll help him. I know a guy… he’s good at stuff like this. Had a lotta practice. We can get your brother back. How old’s he?”

“Twenty-one. He’s my big brother and I just—I want him to get better and I’m scared that he’s never gonna…” He stops when his voice trembles. “I just wanna—I’m trying to be strong just in case.”

“Come on,” Show Pony says. “The storm’s almost passed. If you take me to him, I can radio my friend Dr. Death-Defying on the way over and he’ll meet us. I think he’ll know how to help him.”

“Okay.” And he stands up, and that’s it. Show Pony just successfully talked someone down from the ledge. They feel eternally relieved.

Max goes, and they follow him down the ramp and all the way back to the little cave they’d seen from the back of the truck, where Gabriel lays motionless inside underneath a stolen tablecloth/blanket. He’s using a backpack as a pillow. He has a fever just below one hundred and four degrees.

They get out their radio immediately.

Show Pony doesn’t really remember what happened after that, because everything is going so fast, but somehow it’s suddenly evening of the next day and the sky is clear. Max and Gabriel Armstrong are in the radio station, one room over, as Dr. D and Cola tend to the older brother.

It takes another two days, but he survives. He pulls through faster than either medic thought was possible.

When Pony asks how he recovered that quickly, Cola says he did it for his brother. That he knew he was there and woke up for him.

It’s probably true. They have one of the strongest sibling relationships they’ve ever seen.

And Pony becomes well acquainted with the two of them through the years. The brothers find two other 'joys in need of a larger crew and become one of the most famous desert gangs. Everyone knows who they are. Everybody knows their names. They’re legends.

But still, even though no one else has ever heard the story, even after the Fab Four are long gone, Show Pony never brings up the stormy night they helped save the lives of both Party Poison and the Kobra Kid.

[scruffyhappaboreherder]

Modern AU.  Cassian is the skip (captain) of a curling team; Jyn owns and runs a clothing store, and also makes custom athleticwear.  Leia works for the US Olympic Committee and ... is dealing with a lot that’s not directly addressed here.

May the 4th be with you, @doptimous!  The prompt was “sweet talk/flirting”, but this sort of got away from me and turned into something with more background and leadup than talking.  Still, I have a few ideas for other things they might say to eachother, and if/when I post the followups I’ll tag you.  :) I stole the title from a Rush song.  I don’t think there is really much that would require a warning in here?  Oh, and while this is brought to you partly by my quadrennial ritual of getting obsessed with curling, you don’t really need to know anything other than the fact that it’s a sport to read this. --- Carve Away the Stone

"Jyn, come on."  Leia leaned against the doorframe.  Jyn pretended to ignore her as she bent over her sewing machine and guided the fabric so that the needle would flow along its appointed course.  "I could really use some bodies at the curling club benefit auction tonight.  If you come, you can meet up with whoever bids on your donation.  Saves time on going back and forth that way."

"Leia, this was due yesterday.  Do you really think I'd be here on Saturday morning if it weren't important?  And once I'm done, I have plans to go home and curl up with my cat and tea and maybe a book."

"Do you think I'd be here nagging you if it weren't urgent?" Leia countered.  "You can walk to the firehall from here.  Or from your apartment."

Jyn closed her eyes and took her foot off the pedal.  "If I get this finished and mailed, and have time to clean up beforehand, I'll be there."

"Good.  Do me a favor and put it on your social media, would you?"

"It's not exactly on brand."  Either brand, Jyn thought.  Not for the vintage/thrift/hippie chic store she ran, and not for her over-the-internet custom athleticwear business.

"Your personal social media, then.  And you can always come as you are.  Baggy sweater and sweatpants isn't too far off what people wear to curling practice."

"Yeah, that's not happening."  Her business was appearance-oriented; she couldn't appear in public looking like a college student coming off an all-nighter.

"Raid the shop, then."  She waved toward the sales floor, and broke into song.  "It doesn't matter what you wear, just as long as you are there."

Jyn groaned.  "Leave, before I get tempted to stop working and pull the security footage and put that on my social media."

Leia smirked.  "And risk missing the pickup deadline to get that on its way?  See you at seven."

Jyn huffed and turned back to her sewing machine.  "Lock the door behind you."

---

She finished the kit, packed it up, and printed a label.  She quickened her pace when she saw a familiar figure unlocking the drop box and reaching in to collect the packages.

"Hey, Jyn," said Bodhi.  He held out his hand for the box, and she handed it over.  "How's it going?"

She shrugged.  "If I never see chartreuse and orange and hot pink together again, it will be too soon.  But at least this is finally done."

Bodhi winced.  "Glad it's in a box.  The risk of sudden-onset blindness sounds pretty high."

She pulled off a mitten and pretended to fling it him.  "My work is always tasteful and lovely.  Except when the client wants something hideous.  Either way, I deliver."

Bodhi smiled a little.  "Leia told me you would probably have something ready when I was doing drop-offs there, and asked me to stop by your shop."

Jyn sighed.  "And to remind me to come to her benefit auction while I was there?"

"Yep."

Jyn scowled.  "I said I'd be there if I could; she doesn't need to draft everyone in sight to remind me, too."

Bodhi nodded.  "I told her that."

"Thanks for having my back.  Hey, on that note, want to come with me to this thing tonight?"

He looked hesitant.  "Where is it again?"

"The firehall.  As Leia reminded me when she showed up to twist my arm, we can walk."  Bodhi was her upstairs neighbor, in addition to being the area UPS guy.

"Okay.  I can do that."

Jyn nodded approval.  They'd been to the firehall a lot, sitting on either side of Bodhi's mom and watching her play bingo, starting when they were barely old enough to walk.  It was familiar territory.  "I'll come by at 6:30.  That okay?"

"Sure," said Bodhi.  "I should be home by then."

"Good.  See you."  She punched his shoulder lightly and retraced her steps, heading for the side street her apartment building was on.  She tried and failed to stifle an enormous yawn.  Well, she had a few hours to catch up on her sleep.

Wearily, she climbed the steps and let herself in.  She leaned against the door and let Toast twine around her ankles and meow plaintively, then knelt and scooped him up and carried him to the kitchen.

"Yes, I left you by yourself overnight, yes, you're so neglected, I know," she murmured to the cat, who was purring now.  She glanced at the autofeeder: the food and water dishes were fine.  She shifted Toast to one arm, checked the litter box in the bathroom, and set him down while she cleaned it.  Then she washed her hands, made tea, and finally allowed herself to sprawl on the couch and let her aching muscles relax.  Toast jumped onto the couch and curled up next to her, and she patted the tan splotches on his side absently.  "Just going to close my eyes for a few minutes," she told the cat.  

The darkness was soothing, a relief after hours of staring at lurid colors under strong lights.  She fell into it gratefully.

---

She was in a garden, lying on a chaise longue.  Several cartoonishly round bees buzzed in and out of the rosebushes.  The sun shone warmly on her face, and—

Jyn came back to reality with am abrupt jolt.  Toast was sprawled on her torso, purring softly.  And her phone was buzzing on the table.

She cursed and snatched it.  It was Bodhi, of course, asking if everything was all right.  She was already 15 minutes late.  

She dislodged Toast and stood up, and dashed into her bedroom to stare at the closet.  The green shirt-dress with the diagonal hem, she decided, and leggings with a Christmas candy pattern.  She shoved her feet into green Docs and ran out her door and upstairs to knock on Bodhi's.

"Still game?" she asked when he opened the door.  He nodded.  "Want to drive?"

"Sure."  Bodhi grabbed his coat and keys and shut the door behind him.   He followed her to the front door, and then led the way to his boxy grey Honda.

Jyn rested her head against the window and watched the street lights pass by until they found a parking spot a couple blocks away from the firehall.  She climbed out and waited for Bodhi to lock up.  And while she was leaning against the car a truck with a snowplow rumbled down the street and splashed her from shoulder to ankle with grey slushy snow.

Bodhi turned to see why she wasn't coming, or maybe because of the reflexive horrified noise she made.  "Oh my God—" he stammered.  He popped the trunk, darted to it, and handed her a blanket.  "I can, I can drive you to the shop, or back home, or—"

"Forget it," Jyn said ruthlessly.  She used the blanket to scrub away the residue that hadn't already fallen to the ground.  The wet spots on her dress would dry eventually.  The tights were probably a loss, and she irritably managed the process of balancing in the snow as she took them off.  She tossed the tights and the blanket into Bodhi's trunk, and slammed it shut.  "Come on.  Let's go."

Bodhi nodded resolutely and fell into step beside her on the sidewalk.  Jyn watched balefully out of the corner of her eye, but there was no sign of further snow-plow activity.  A block to the corner and another to the firehall; they walked past the engine house and made for the hall's front entrance.  They could see the light through the glass doors; Jyn took a deep breath and yanked the door open.

As soon as they were inside, they were hit with a wave of noise.  Against the far wall, a mock curling lane had been set up, and people in tracksuits were demonstrating shooting techniques.  But most of the attendees were seated at tables or in line at the concession stand or the cash bar.  There were only a few people looking at the silent auction table; she caught Bodhi's eye and nodded in that direction.  

"Might as well see what I'm in for," she muttered.  "If I'm lucky no one will be interested, and I can go back home and sleep and write all of this off as a bad dream."  She looked down at the clipboard that had her business card stapled to the bid sheet.  "Or not.  What the hell is Team Andor?"

"He is," Leia said from behind her; Jyn tensed and successfully fought down the urge to jump.  She pointed at the curling lane.  "The one with dark hair showing the kids how you launch a rock."

Jyn groaned.  "Oh no.  You cannot be serious."  She turned to face Leia.

Leia raised her eyebrows.  "What were you expecting, Johnny Mac?  It's a curling fundraiser."

"I was expecting someone to go for the gift cert.  Or, worst case scenario, someone wanting an insanely frilly wedding dress and having to be talked down."

"I'm sure I could round up someone who needs a wedding dress."  Leia smirked.  "But seriously, Jyn, it's half a dozen hot guys, or at least decent-looking guys you'll get to poke and prod while you measure them.  What's the problem?"

Jyn sighed heavily.  "So this is about you not being satisfied with my love life, again?  Leia, it's fine.  And obtaining someone's measurements is not nearly as sexy as whatever you're picturing.  I'm a professional."

Leia frowned at Bodhi, who had disappointed her by not, as she put it, spicing up Jyn's life with some romance.  Jyn caught Bodhi's eye to reassure him that she was biting her tongue, the way she did every time when Leia was on this topic, to keep from pointing out that Bodhi had had a brief fling with her dad.  We get along so well because we're both graduates of the Galen Erso School of Emotional Fuckery, Leia.  Come on.  You're smart.  Figure it out.

Leia shrugged.  "You can't blame me for trying.  But seriously, what's the big deal?"

Jyn glanced around at the hall full of boisterous curling enthusiasts and their friends and family members.  "Tell you about it later, maybe.  Let's just say that you owe me.  Especially if you encouraged this guy to bid on my donation."

"Is there a problem?"

Jyn spun.  Of course it was the dark-haired guy Leia had pointed out.  She met his eyes.  "Leia and I are very old friends," she told him, keeping her tone even.  "We tease eachother a lot."  She held out her hand.  "I'm Jyn Erso."

"Cassian Andor."

His hand was warm and dry and strong.  Jyn pulled her own away gently, and reached into her purse, not caring if anyone noticed the muck splatters on it.  At least the contents had stayed dry.  She drew out a business card and offered it to him.  "When you're ready to talk about what you'd like, feel free to get in touch."

He nodded and tucked the business card into a pocket without looking at it.  "Would you like to come and see our practice sheet?  It might be helpful."

Jyn opened her mouth to refuse politely, but Leia said ruthlessly, "Yes, Jyn, you should go see it.  It's an interesting use of materials.  And hey, Bodhi, I wanted to make sure you saw Maz Kanata's listing.  She donated some of Emmie's homemade yarn, and it is amazingly soft.  There's a sample, come on."

"Uh," Bodhi stammered. "I would like to see it.  But.  Maybe later."  He took a breath and straightened his shoulders, and Jyn gave him a quick grateful smile.  She knew that would be a difficult temptation to resist under ordinary circumstances—he'd take up knitting to as a relaxation aid and loved the feeling of soft natural yarns—but to do so and reject an obvious social cue had to be making him feel like his anxiety was eating him from the inside out.

Jyn took a deep breath and let it out slowly.  Prospective client, even if you would rather he weren't.  Do not fly off the handle.  She met his eyes; they were dark but they shone like searchlights from his skeptical, serious face.  "Mr. Andor, I've made kit for athletes of all sorts, from tennis players to bowling teams.  I have a wide knowledge of what athletes need in terms of movement and comfort, and I'm not completely unacquainted with curling.  You have my card.  When you're ready to discuss your requirements with me, you know how to get in touch."  She inclined her head.  "Now if you'll excuse me, I would also like to see that yarn."

She captured Bodhi's arm and towed him away.  Conveniently, the yarn was at the very opposite end of the table.  "Thanks," she muttered.  "Sorry."  She let go of his arm.

Bodhi shook his head.  "Sometimes I think you and Leia trying to be friends again is going to kill me.  If you don't kill eachother first."

Jyn grimaced.  "It won't come to that.  But I'll stop twisting your arm to make you come with me.  It isn't fair."

Bodhi shrugged, and picked up the yarn sample.  His eyes closed involuntarily.  "Oh, that is soft.  I might have to bid on it."  He opened his eyes and looked down at the bid sheet and winced.  "Okay, maybe not if the bidding is that high."

Jyn reached for the pen.  "It's on me."

---

She turned the deadbolt of the shop door precisely at one.  On Sundays and Mondays, when she only opened the shop for a few hours, she spent the mornings taking care of administrivia or tidying up.  Occasionally she allowed herself to sleep in, and today she felt she had earned it: she had stayed at the curling fundraiser until the list of silent auction winners was posted, and come home with a voucher that she planned to pass on to Bodhi later today.  He'd bailed early, with her blessing and an assurance that she didn't mind walking home.

Leia had spotted her lurking by the auction table nursing a hot chocolate, and demanded to know where Bodhi was.  On hearing the explanation, she scowled and said that Jyn was insane to think of walking home in this weather without a coat, and walked away.  Jyn expected her dress to be warm enough; the firehall was drafty, and she'd dressed for that.  She had gloves in her purse, and a little cold wouldn't kill her.  But when Leia strode over with a coat and told Jyn to wear it home and that she'd have it picked up from the shop tomorrow, she'd figured she could let Leia win this one.  Even if the coat was not at all something she'd have picked out to go with her dress, and rather large on her, it was warm, and the synthetic fur felt nice when it brushed against her cheeks as she pulled the hood up.

She was faintly surprised when the bells rattled against the glass at five past.  She was even more surprised when she saw that it was Cassian Andor.  Once she'd glanced up as she scribbled a new amount on the bid sheet for the yarn and seen him looking at her.  Not in a creepy way, but thoughtfully, as if she were a puzzle.  She was half-surprised he hadn't withdrawn his bid; she'd half expected that he would, and a part of her even hoped that he would.

"Good afternoon," she said tentatively.  "Did you want to talk about your silent auction bid?"  There, that left the option open for him to say that he'd changed his mind, if he wanted to.  She could work something out with Leia to cover his bid if he wanted his money back.

He shook his head.  "No, Ms. Erso, I've come to retrieve my coat."

Heat rose instantly to Jyn's cheeks.  She fled to the back room, and then had to fight the urge to hide her face in the coat, as the nearest suitable surface.  Instead she snatched it from the coat rack, and forced herself to walk back to the front of the shop at a normal pace.

"I am so sorry."  She held the coat out to him from behind the counter.  "I had no idea Leia had appropriated your coat when she insisted that I wear this home."

"You wouldn't have accepted it if she had?"  He said this calmly, but his eyes were on her as if the answer meant something to him.

Jyn shook her head.  "I wouldn't have wanted someone else to freeze on my account.  I assumed that she raided the lost and found."  She paused and bit the inside of her lip.  "And, at that point, I didn't want to argue."

The corners of his mouth twitched.  "It can be easier not to argue with her when she's annoyed."

"That's what I was thinking," Jyn admitted.  She shrugged, and set the coat down gently on the counter, since he didn't seem to be in a hurry to take it back.  "If it helps, she usually isn't specifically annoyed at you.  More at the universe in general, and it just overflows."

He considered.  "I don't think it does."

Jyn heaved a sigh; it lasted for longer than she expected.  "Yeah, it usually doesn't."  She resisted the urge to fiddle with the fur edging the hood of his coat, just to have something to do with her hands.  "Did you meet Leia through her job?"

"Yes, she's our USOC contact."  He slid his hands into his back pockets.  "Look, Ms. Erso ... I know that Leia, ah, talked you into doing this.  I wanted to say, if you'd rather not, you don't have to."

Jyn lifted her chin and looked him in the eye.  "I don't back out of professional commitments, Mr. Andor.  Unless, of course, you would rather I did."

He shook his head.  "I looked at your portfolio.  I like your work."

"Thanks."  She smiled, and he smiled back.  It transformed his face; suddenly he didn't look quite so wary or tense.  "You know, I don't usually get many customers on Sunday, anyway.  If you want to talk over ideas, I could—"

The door bells clanged again.  Andor jumped, and Jyn looked sharply at the entrance.  A tall Asian man was pushing the door open.

He looked accusingly at Andor.  "Coach Draven wants to know why what was supposed to be a two second stop is taking so long.  You've been in here for—"

"Not now, Kay," Andor interrupted.  "I'm sorry," he said to Jyn.  "This is Kay, my lead.  We were actually on our way to practice."

"Right," Jyn said.  She hastily gathered up the coat and held it out to him.  "Well, now that you have this back—"

He accepted the coat and drew it on.  "Thank you."

She laughed a little.  "Thank you for the involuntary loan."

He smiled again.  She thought she could get used to seeing that smile.  "I'll come back after practice.  We can continue this."

"Good," Jyn said softly.  She lifted her hand in an abbreviated wave as he followed Kay out of the shop.  "Stay warm," she murmured as the door closed behind him.

[quirkyasfok]

Nothing But Duct Tape and Hope

Relationship: Bichie (Bill x Richie)

Tags: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Omega Bill, Alpha Richie, Mpreg Bill

Summary: It takes three chance meetings, and the presence of a beat up rusted-red Ford for Richie to realize who the omega is.

This is part 1. Part 2 can be found here

Read on AO3

The first time Richie sees the omega he doesn’t think much about him. He’s out with some of his buddies, minding his own business when a familiar scent passes by. It triggers odd images of rickety old bikes, cliffs overlooking a sparkling water hole, and a pair of the most intensive blue eyes he’s ever seen. He turns trying to catch a look at who producing the scent by all he sees is tail end of a tall figure in jeans, and a grey hoodie disappearing behind the corner.

The next time he sees the omega he still doesn’t think much about him. He’s out buying himself a sandwich for dinner on his way home from work. They’d gotten several boxes of new records in today that he had to put away, and he finds himself too tired to bother making himself a meal. It’s the same grey hoodie that catches his eyes this time. A figure sitting outside the deli, their head bent low as they scribble away at a well-used notebook. Their hair is a lovely shade of red and long enough to hide their face from his view. The scent hits him next, but it’s off, different. He briefly wonders what a pregnant omega is doing by themselves sitting in a sidewalk when his order gets called, and for the time forgets all about it.

The third time he sees the omega is when it all finally comes back. He’s walking back to his car when he hears the loud ding as someone’s keys hit the pavement followed by someone cursing loudly. He turns to find the same grey hoodie wearing omega clutching to the side of a beat of red ford pickup as they go to pick up their keys.

And then the memories come flooding back.

He’s sixteen again. His glasses are too large for his face, his socks don’t match, and his jeans are honestly more holes than fabric at this point. Next to him Eddie stares in horror at the rusted-up machine in front of them. On the other side Stan stands looking very unimpressed. Bill is the only one who looks happy. He’s smiling like a loon, gesturing to the beat up old truck like it’s the greatest thing in the entire world.

“Is it safe,” Eddie asks. “I feel like just being around that thing will give me tetanus.” Bill doesn’t let this bother him, he shakes his head and keeps smiling.

“It’s s-ssafe E-eddie. I promise. I even had a mechanic l-look it over before I drove it home. E-everything works.”

“That doesn’t mean it’s safe,” Eddie mutters.

“Who’d you get to look at it? Derry mechanics, or Larry’s auto,” Stan asks. Bill pats the hood, bits of rust fall from the underbelly.

“Larry’s auto.”

Bill’s answer doesn’t seem to make Stan happy. Richie doesn’t blame him. The truck literally looks like it’s on its last wheel… if that.

“I thought for certain you’d go for something a little more silver,” he finally pipes in. Bill laughs and gestures for them to follow him to the back. They do, but all three continue to keep their distance. It hits him the second he sees the only new and good-looking thing on the truck as to how much this vehicle means to Bill. On the back, surrounded by rust is a brand-new license’s plate with the words ‘SILVER2’ written in blocky letters. Bill looks so proud of this that Richie can’t even bring himself to comment on how the truck isn’t even silver, can’t bring himself to make side remarks when it takes a few tries for Bill to get the driver side door open, and can’t bring himself to say no when Bill offers to give all three a ride. 

Somehow all four boys manage to squeeze themselves into the bench seat of the old Ford. It’s a tight squeeze that’s made even more awkward by the fact the trucks a manual, and Bill has to be able to access the clutch as he drives. The truck still smells like whoever Bill’s dad bought the truck from, and lemon cleaning spray that instead of masking the scent seems to just makes things worse.

But none of that bothers him. Not the fact that he’s uncomfortable pressed against Eddie and Bill. Not that the Ford smells like old man and lemons. Not the fact that he’s pretty certain the truck is held together by nothing but hope and duct tape.

No.

 All he cares about is the look Bill gets when he turns the key and SILVER2 somehow roars to life with only a few loud clangs. He decides that as long as this truck keeps Bill smiling like that than it’s the best damn truck he’s ever had the privilege of sitting in.

He comes back to reality feeling like somebody has punched him right in the face. Memory after forgotten memory filling his brain. Pleasant memories of summer filled nights with seven losers laid out in the bed of the old Ford laughing together until the early hour of the morning. Sad memories of saying goodbye, watching the rusted red Ford piled high with junk drive off in the direction opposite of his own.

He’d forgotten. They’d promised to stay in touch. They’d promised to always be friends. Somehow, he’d forgotten them, and it took a rusted red truck to get him to remember.

He walks over to the omega, who’s now fiddling with his key ring to get the key he needs to unlock the vehicle. He thinks for a second that the person before him may not be who he thinks it is, but then a familiar pair of blue eyes peek up seeming to sense someone is watching them. Brown meets blue and Richie swears the whole world stops spinning for a second.

Bill seems lost for a few seconds as he stares Richie. His face blank as he stares uncertainly as some unknown alpha steps into his space, but then Richie can see the moment Bill seems to remember. His eyes light up, and he smiles just like on the day he showed off his “brand new” truck to the rest of the losers. He meets Richie halfway and the two embraces in the middle of the parking lot without a single care in the world.

Bill is still slightly taller and the small swell from his baby bump presses awkwardly into Richie’s stomach, but Richie decides then and there that this is the best hug he’s ever had. He thinks he could hug Bill forever, but a car honks at them to move so he sadly has to let go.

They move to go stand by the old Ford. It’s the same as Richie remember it. Seats made mostly of duct tape, more rust than red, and the radio antenna dented slightly in the middle from the time he tried to slide across the hood.

He laughs at this and runs his hands along the hood of the vehicle.

“How in the hell have you managed to keep this thing running?” Bill laughs.

“The same as when we were younger. S-ssshear hope and duct tape.”

Man, did Richie miss that stutter.

The talk for over two hours. Richie tells Bill about his job at the local record store, the band he’s in, and the weird friends he’s made since leaving for college. Bill talks about graduating college, some of the things he’s written, and one wild story involving him having to seduce someone into getting some free stuff for his buddies (“like B-bev did for us”). He shares the story sounding like he’s surprised it actually worked, which just reminds Richie how cute Bill is. He learns that Bill is exactly six months pregnant. Bill never says anything about another Alpha in his life. Richie never asks. They agree to meet up again in a few days then they go their separate ways.

The next time Richie sees Bill it’s for their intentional meet up. They meet up at Richie’s favorite dinner. They talk mainly about the past, and all the fun times they’ve both started to remember. They even discuss the weirdness of forgetting everything. They never discuss the real cause of what could be behind the amnesia. Even though Richie dreamed of claws and red balloons the night before, and Bill’s stutter seems to be just a degree worse than the last time they met (he also swears it had been completely cured until a few days ago) neither seem up to being the first to bring up the forbidden topic.

He also learns the baby’s a boy. Still nothing about the father.

Throughout the next month they continue to meet. They talk about the past. They talk about the present. They talk about the things they love, the things they hate, and everything in between. The weather gets colder, the seasons change from Fall to Winter. Somehow Bill’s baby bump grows larger.

He learns on their seventh meet up about Bill’s relationship status. He makes an off comment about making Bill’s baby daddy jealous with how much time Bill’s been hanging out with him. Bill gives him a sad smile and shrugs. He explains there is no ‘baby daddy’ in his life.

“It’s just m-me and my truck.”

Richie’s almost annoyed with himself by how happy that makes him.

The fourteenth … or maybe it’s fifteenth time they meet isn’t planned. Richie’s out with his buddies again. Their walking down the sidewalk late on a cold winter night. Their all a bit drunk. It’s been a pretty fun evening so far.

But then he spots a familiar red truck parked near a street lamp. It’s sitting alone in an empty parking lot. He waves for his buddies to keep going and makes his way over to the beat up old Ford. Something about this entire situation feels off, and he’s determined to figure out what’s up. He looks over the truck first. The tarp Bill keeps tied over the bed of the truck is untied in one corner, but other than that there appears to be nothing wrong. There’s a large mound of blankets piled up in the bench of the truck, and when he knocks on the driver side window the lump shifts just slightly before Bill’s head appears from the mound. They blink owlishly at each for a few minutes before Bill seems to snap out of his surprise, and unlocks the passenger door for Richie to climb on in. The inside of the truck is just as cold as the outside air, but the blankets Bill offers him are nice and warm and the inside smells strongly of Bill so he can’t complain too much.

“Bill, why are you sleeping outside in your truck?” His own voice surprises him. It sounds a little too gravely. He feels oddly sober now too.

Bill fiddles with the edge if his blanket. He looks embarrassed. He shrugs.

“It’s like I told you R-richie… it’s just me and my truck.” He gestures for Bill to elaborate. Bill sighs and continues. “A few months ago,… when I found out I was p-p-pregnant… my boyfriend at the time was-sssn’t happy about it. He s-sss-said I should get rid of the baby. That he d-doesn’t want to b-be a father. I refused, so he kicked me out.” Bill pauses to sniffle and wipe at his eyes. Richie scoot closer. “My writing makes decent money b-but not enough for me to live on my o-own, so since getting kicked out I’ve just been driving around. I was honestly just passing through, but then you showed up and….” He shrugs and gestures to space around them. “Here we are….”

“Why didn’t you tell me.”

Bill shrugs again.

“I didn’t want to be a b-b-bother.”

“You’re never a bother Big Bill.” He pulls Bill close and hugs him tight. It’s a bit awkward with the space and Bill’s belly but they make it work.

“God Bill your fucking freezing. Why the hell don’t you at least have the heat on.”

“H-heat doesn’t work.”

He lets go of Bill to take the keys off the dash, and puts them in the ignition. The truck sputters a bit before finally roaring to life just as Richie remembered. Bill seems surprised when Richie messes with the radio and it comes to life too.

“The radio hasn’t worked in years.”

Richie just smirks and winks at him.

“Guess it just missed me.”

Bill snorts and rolls his eyes. Even in the dim light Richie can see the tear marks on his cheeks, but he’s smiling softly.

The heat doesn’t magically work, but Richie figures that’s a problem for another day. He convinces Bill to drive them out of the parking lot, and directs him towards the apartment he shares with his roommate.

“Are you sure your roommate won’t mind me spending the night.”

“Yes Bill, and even if he did I wouldn’t give a shit.”

He leads Bill up the stairway. Bill seems a bit uncertain, but Richie fills the silence with shitty jokes that gets Bill giggling. He apologies for the messy state of the apartment, Bill says he doesn’t mind, Richie make sure to keep a hand on Bill’s back as the fumble around in the dark to make sure he doesn’t trip over anything. He leads Bill into his room and shuts the door. He tugs Bill into his bed, and rubs the omega all over trying to breath warmth back into frozen limbs. Bill giggles and squirms when Richie ‘accidently’ rubs at his sides. He feels the baby kick against his palm. Bill flushes a bit. Richie stares at him amazed. They fall asleep in each other’s arms.

Another month passes. Richie can’t believe how time has flown. Bill is eighth months, and looks ready to pop. Currently he’s asleep on the couch, cuddled up close against Riche’s side. The grey hoodie is long gone, and now Bill is wearing a lovely blue sweater. There’s a notebook resting on his belly, and a pencil loosely held in his slack grip. Richie leans over to give him a kiss on the cheek, and takes the pencil and notebook away.

Things aren’t easy. The baby’s due date is coming up, and neither are as prepared as they want to be. Bill still seems upset about dragging Richie into his baby drama, but Richie continues to tell him that it’s all okay. It’s odd how much he doesn’t seem to mind that the baby isn’t his by blood. The idea of helping Bill raise a child pleases him in a way he doesn’t fully understand, but has come to embrace with open arms.

They still don’t talk about the dark parts of their pasts either. They don’t talk about the months Bill spent living alone in his truck, or the images of bright red balloons that seem to fill both their nightmares.

They’ll probably have to talk about it someday, but not yet.

No, for now Richie has more important things to focus on. He looks back down to the newspaper in his lap, and continues to read the ad for the house for sale off Fillmore Street. It’s a bit above their price range, but he figures is he takes a few extra shifts at the record store they just be able to pull that one off. He smiles and circles the ad with a bright red marker. Next to him Bill smiles pleased in his sleep.

Richie wouldn’t have things any other way.

[localocksmithnearme]

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[theworstjedi]

Slimy Negotiations

Sloo-sector transport bound is boarding at gate Besh-43,  a cool Alderaanian woman announced over the comm system of the Pallista Spaceport.

Friyr’s lips twitched at the mention of “Sloo-sector.” Force knows what that system had done to him. He’d missed the first transport off of Alderaan trawling through the markets for something warm to wear. He’d settled on an Echani desh breastplate. Soft, manicured, and battleready - it wasn’t hard to part with his dwindling credits for it. It was warm even in the open maw of the cold spaceport.

He had planned on staying, but a very raw feeling had erupted inside of his chest. 

Friyr took a deep breath and rubbed at the leather bracers he’d made to support his wrists. He was possessed of a strong feeling of disbelonging, something that he often felt when he had first come to the Jedi. Something that Knight Ward had imposed on him like a wayward child in his inability to understand that blindness was not a baggage. The knight was young. Almost haughty in his assumptions if not his manner. Friyr had experienced this sort of emotional neglect in his earlier tenure with the Disciples, but-- Friyr found it a hard thing to return to. Where it had once been a hazard of slipping around the underbelly of the Empire, the haunting reflection of those who had held his chains in a place he had learned to settle felt like iron in the belly rather than around his wrists.

Friyr was coping, re-reticulating his emotional responses and picking through the weakness as he stood in the long shuffling line of bodies before the ticketing counter. It was shameful really, but Friyr had little time to dwell as he stopped at the counter. He seized the opportunity to vault over his feelings.

Friyr fixed a cheery smile on his face as he emerged from the line of weary Alderaanians. “’M goin’ t’Ambria.”

The woman’s voice had the same quality of feeling he had from eating dehydrated Imperial rations.

“We have a direct transport--”

“D’ya have layovers?”

“Hold.” Friyr tapped his foot and hummed obnoxiously. His blind blue eyes raised to the ceiling.

“We have a layover in Hutta leaving soon.” “Whattabout Carrick?”

“In a few hours.” Friyr was warm but not warm enough. 

“I’ll wait,” he sighed.

 Lack of patience was a lack of credits. He didn’t need to know that Nal Hutta was going to cost more to dock into than Carrick. 

He returned to a bench tucked in front of a Starship Repair store. It was warmer away from the open mouthed entrance. It was still a little warm from whoever had paused there last in his absence.

 His head jerked up at a sharp ping emanating from the droid at his feet.

“Who’s callin’, George?” Friyr asked in a voice was a little too apprehensive, even to his own ears.

The small droid staticed out an answer that made Friyr’s sightless eyes pop round.  “Pudd’im through.”

<<Hello, Friyr right? The Magnanimous Mister Juunaba told me you were expecting a call from me--?>> The garbly blue figure was inquisitive.

Friyr blinked spots out of his eyes. He had shoved a holofrequency chip into Boris Juunaba, owner of the Cartel run Pick ‘n Mix bar that Friyr had started frequenting for pickups as of late. Friyr had put on quite a show swooning into that Hutt’s arms, but he hadn’t expected anything to come of the little play. Now...here he was, cards in hand for so long that he wasn’t sure how to lay them.

“Fer business, not pleasure ‘m afraid.” Though...” Friyr hitched on a crooked smile. “We could make it both.”

___

The connection to Hutta had taken him to Rhu Caenis Spaceport, then finally finally the Hutts’ domain. The language of the announcements through the transport carriers was frilly and unfamiliar. Hard as they began to descend. Sickly yellow light filtered through the windows, and NM chattered quietly in Friyr’s clasped arms.

“I-- I goddit, George. I c’n--” Friyr closed his lips to hold a roll of nausea. “I c’n deal with the Hutt. ‘M pretty coy too when I needa be.” A concerned rumbled from the little self-proclaimed smuggler. 

“Can’t be worse than Sith.” Dewootoowoo.

 Friyr squeezed. “I’ll be careful.”

Reeetwwooooo.

Friyr half shrugged through deep breaths. The transport’s pressure dropped sharply, popping his ears. Friyr stiffened in time for the craft to come to a bumpy but secure landing. 

Yatuka mapke bai pikee, the pilot announced in the same sterile garble. Friyr couldn’t tell if it was a droid or-- well a person.

NM sprung from Friyr’s arms to the floor and scuttled to the aisle. Friyr snatched the harness and stumbled his way into a very cushy body.  

“Adtahia peee uba doth bolla,” its owner remarked roughly.

Before Friyr could stick on his sheepish grin and raise his hands the small droid shrieked, clicking as he claw talked and walked forward. Threat this, blaster that. Friyr allowed himself to be pulled closer tot he persons belly so they were almost nose to nose. The person growled, and Friyr caught a wave of heavy wet breath.

“Geooorgeeee,” he muttered and shifted his hips, so the lightsaber on his belt caught the light. “Stoooop, please.”

The person stiffened.

“Kark Jeedai,” he spat at Friyr who was somewhat wide eyed.

NM tugged Friyr forward with a sharp grumble. 

“Kark Jedi?” Friyr asked as he stumbled into a wave of smog.

<<Kriffing Jedi>> the droid translated in a tinny robotic replication of standard basic.

“Oh,” Friyr said, then pitched his guts. 

____

Customs wasn’t much better, but people gave Friyr and the one other Knight from Alderaan a wide berth. He’d given Friyr a paper bag to retch into and pressed his cape against the padawan’s nose, like a smog filter. Chems were still sharp in his nose and watering eyes long after.

“Make sure you eat and drink something soon,” the smooth gentle voice said. The knight’s hands were firm holds on Friyr’s forearms. Friyr nodded. 

“Why’re you here? You don’t look like you’ve even gone one level down Coruscant before.” The warmth in the knight’s voice translated to his laugh, which flowed easily at Friyr’s expense.

“Hey, hey. You gotta travel t’get galaxy wise don’ya?” “I guess, but you’re a padawan you said? You should be with your master.” “Heh.” Friyr waffled as the throngs passed them by. The filtered air of Nal Kragga’s Spaceport was cleaner. Friyr glanced up towards the mans voice and imagined he was looking into a pair of brown eyes. “Our place it-- needs this. An’ I did ask th’council first. I wouldn’ just run off, ya know?”

The knight sighed. Friyr could hear his head lower. 

“It’s th’only thing ‘m good at,” Friyr said quickly, before the man could get a word in edgewise. “Talkin’ t’people is my...thing since my shoulder got busted. S’always been my thing, but I c’n do this fer my Jedi. If they don’ wan’it then.” Friyr shrugged. “Then I tried, but if no one does it, then...we missed out.”

The knight squeezed Friyr’s leg. “I was a difficult padawan too, so I get it. I’m sure there’s more to you than just talking, but maybe-- you should focus on becoming a Shadow or an Investigator instead of calling shots by yourself. They train people for this, you know.”

Friyr gave him a difficult smile.

”Let’s get you to customs then.” A large hand pulled Friyr forward. “You know what you’re gonna say to your Hutt?” ”No idea! I gotta feel a situation first, then swing it.”

”You’re so not a Guardian type, padawan.” ___

There was a guy fussing about his wallet behind Friyr at customs. The knight was ahead of him finished the process of declaring his lightsaber and rattling through the list of questions spoken in a greasily accented common. Even inside, Friyr could still smell the smog. 

Friyr notated the questions, spun up his answers, and stepped forward after the knight had passed. He stepped forward queasily, accutely aware of the guy still looking for his wallet behind him. Friyr was going to guess that in a place like this, it’d already been palmed by someone looking for a next meal.

“Do you have anything to declare?”

“I--”

“Meryn!” the wallet man behind Friyr called out happily and left the line.

“Do you have anything to declare?” the customs officer asked as Friyr began to fish for his lightsaber and the eerily hissing rod on his back 

“Yah, I--”

“He’s with me,” someone side quietly to the irate officer. Friyr zoned in on the distinct rattle of credits, so everything else fell to the background. He knew the sound of money against skin. 

Friyr’s head tipped up and with urging from his little seeing eye droid, he shuffled out of line with a sheepish smile and a wave. No one said a thing, which told Friyr that this occurred with some commonality and that whoever had just greased palms was someone of rapport. 

NM followed the man around the winding throngs of people, acrid stench of Hutta already sticking to their clothes. Friyr took a moment to cough.

“Thanks, but ‘m guessin’ ya didn’ just help me out ‘cause I got a pretty face,” the disfigured sundamaged Jedi said. He was aware of the cottony press of the Alderaanian fabric around his skin and the way he must’ve stood out in those clean cut clothing.

“Heh-- only in part. I’m Meryn. I work for Boris. We talked.”

Meryn had a much nicer voice when it wasn’t being compressed through a holo frequency, Friyr noted with a nod. “Riiiight, right,” he pretended to recall. “’M boyfriend here then?”

“Waiting to receive you in a local cantina.” There was a smirk to Meryn’s voice. “If you’ll come this way?”

“Yah, shur. Follow Meryn, George?”

___

The cantina was playing something quiet. Something swanky over the speakers. What hit Friyr first was the freshness of the air as though it were being double filtered as it eddied through the cantina. Hutt’s domain. Friyr followed Meryn and NM through a giggling group of patrons, laughing at seemingly anything in cool blissed out voices. The whole place made someone want to drop their shoulders and sway to the music. It was everything Friyr had once dreamed of. He’d come in from some job, glide over polished floors, and have a guy drift onto his hip, push his hair back, press a drink into his hand.

Friyr had never really expected to grow up into a half-Jedi who hated alcohol. Or grow up at all, really. Reaching Hutta was always one of those...pipe dreams. 

“Hellooooooo hello, my esteemed patrons!” a low booming sound resonated through Friyr, turning his knee caps to a weak sort of jelly. There was a slimy sound, as though the Hutt were trying to dance. “To what do I owe this occasion?”

The revelers in Boris’ presence stopped talking over the low playing band and the pitchy whine of the singer. Meryn stepped in front of Friyr.

“His Magnamity, himself, Boris of the Juunaba Kajidic.”

 Friyr didn’t need to be blind to know that everyone’s eyes were on him. A distinct Jedi with a kriffed up face and a golden smile. “I once shook his slimy hand,” one of those gathered muttered. 

“Borisssssss~!” Friyr drawled a little too loudly and spread his arms wide.

“I once shook his slimy hand,” one of those gathered muttered as Friyr stepped forward to wrap himself around Boris’ soft gooey belly. He hummed to the dark staccatos of jizz wailing swirling around them, and let the music play him into a state of loving adoration.

“Friiiyr, Fairest of them All! that is a legitimate title he won at my establishment to brandish as he pleases.”

“Fairest of them all? Debatable,” the same man who’d bragged about touching Boris’ hand said. Friyr could feel his eyes roaming the scars. Friyr unstuck himself with a slow wink in the man’s direction. “I once kissed him~”

“What?”

Friyr giggled girlishly and beamed at his so called Hutt boy toy.

“I-- don’t wanna know what else they do.”

“Hi!” Friyr tuned the bemused patrons to the background and stuck his hands in his pockets.

“I hope you don’t mind that I shared your holofrequency with Meryn,” Boris rumbled. A breeze of Hutt mouth stench washed over Friyr.

“Oh shur. I dun mind. I ~missed~ ya. How you been?”

“Friyr dear, I did too.” A large hand ruffled Friyr’s silky head of hair. “Now, business?”

“Shur, straight to th’point. ‘M lookin’ fer a bit of help.”

“Aaaah, there we go; proceed.”

“Chair, George?” The droid led Friyr to a barstool that was no doubt connected to a counter. Friyr planted a foot on the stool to a protesting warble from NM and scrambled onto the counter with a grunt of exertion, a sharp pain down his left side.

“I’m for hire!” someone yelled in the background. “I’m more than just a hot-shot Corellian swoop racer!”

Friyr grinned off the side at the heckler, his palms supporting him as he leaned back on their heels. “I could use a hot-shot Corellian, shur. But not fer work.” An easy laugh as he rolled his head back to Boris. “This is about food. If it was killin’, I’d saber it m’self.”

“Oh food I am well-vested in,” Boris intoned. “I have connections, supply...” The Hutt moved, and it made another wet sound that Friyr idly tracked with his head. “Technologies?”

Friyr nodded and hummed along to the slow warble of the new song. “’M a Jedi who lives in a refugee town. We get funded t’take in people fleein’ planets with war ‘n all, but the planet we’re on? Ambria? It’s got no natural resources an’ we’re at the end of our rope with th’ R’Pahblic givin’ us stuff. These Jedi. You know how we are; we take in anyone. Big hearts, no stuff t’keep ‘em beatin’. I thought maybe I’d look into private contractin’?”

“A Republic settlement... Ohh dear,” the Hutt fussed. A slow slimy sound of anguish. The Hutt equivalent of running fingers through hair, Friyr supposed. “My Imperial leaning allies would be very upset. Most upset indeed, hmhm.” 

The slimey sounds trailed their way softly to Friyr. His chin tipped. The next rumble of the Hutt’s big voice was low. Intimate. Deep in Friyr’s chest, breath against his face.

“Have you heard of hmm... The Vorulan system?”

Friyr leaned forward and slid his hands down the new pants to rest them on his knees. His washed out blue eyes fed off the way Boris’ voice penetrated him for a lover’s intensity. “Nah, I can’t say I have.”

“Well, it so happens they have a space colony; that space colony was formed after however long in isolation, and they have a little innovation I like to call space farming.” Boris paused then added. “OH and hydroponics. Can’t forget the hydroponics.” He leaned closer to the little Jedi, almost skimming Friyr’s up-turned nose on Boris’ top lip. “Turns out, some oligotrophic organisms are quite sustainable! But then I’m sure you’ve heard of Mynock Coronet City?”

Friyr breathed in the unheady smell of hutt and swallowed a thick resurgence of bile. “Coronet? Corellia?” 

His mind processed at lightyears a minute all of the wordy language and civilizations he knew nothing of. The reins of this situation disappeared over his head as the Hutt plunged him into the realm of unknown. This was big leagues talk, and Friyr didn’t quite have the mouth to back it up, but-- do or die that had never stopped him before. 

“‘M not too edumacated, but hydrophonetics? That have somethin’ t’do with water?” he breathed out.

“Yes, that would be the flavor assortment - point being, you can treat mynock meat with spices to make it palatable. And yes, some cultivated plant varieties need not soil, just water and perhaps a cotton substrate.”

Before Friyr can puzzle this into a cohesive assortment of words in his brain, Boris’ tail wrapped around them, sectioning off human and Hutt from prying eyes. The Hutt leaned still closer, and Friyr obligingly skimmed his nose against the Hutt’s face as he spoke. Friyr held his breath.

“If you can’t use the soil... well... space potato seems to grow plentifully in asteroids and that colony was making exogorths and dianoga that will feed off of whatever refuse substrates you have. Dianogan pie, I’m sure you’ve seen at some lower level diners.”

Friyr stroked the Hutt’s face. If the accent recalled the lower levels of Coruscant, then it did its job. “Iiiii think I see,” Friyr dodged answering; he knew As’traa wouldn’t want him to sell his soul in a lie, but nor could he tell the truth. “Ambria is a wasteland. Worse than Tatooine. We got a lake but no soil.” Boris’ skin was slick and foldy under the forner SIth’s burned fingers. “What kinda supplies do ya need t’grow this?” he whispered.

“Hm, the spacefarming? Well, I’d hope you have an outlying station or craft. Not quite sure how they pick space potato out of asteroids. Hydroponics you’d need water and a suitable container of course. Buuut there are third options.”

Hydroponics stuck to Friyr, and he seized it with both hands before Boris could draw him off on a third venture.

“We got a lake. Would that do okay?” Friyr arched his pointed brows high.

Boris flexed his brows under Friyr’s fingers and leaned still more into the Jedi so Friyr’s legs could straddle around his chest. Friyr did so, obligingly, feeling Boris’ thick slick sides beneath his heels in an altogether surreal experience for the human.

“Oh yes, the lake water would be fine as long as you acquire the plants themselves and somewhere with shade - now consider algae vats. The subterrainian bounty of many a city-world. Why milk a bantha when you can cultivate something resembling milk-proteins and the end result? Little dark interior, a lot of UV light, a lot of the relevant strains, and you can emulate that which you can’t grow.”

Friyr’s mind stopped. That could save lives, to cultivate other crops by synthetic means, but Boris was making slimy sounds of excitement with his oversized tail. A mutual excitement. “Aaaaaaaaaaand I know where you could happen to find a spare one.” Sure that a scalping was on the horizon, Friyr braced dread against the feeling of victory whelling into his chest. Boris’ solution was perhaps worse.

“Could ya give me a sample of th’plants this produces. If I get somethin’ t’take back, I c’n get th’ council t’make a better decision. ‘Cuase ahhhh- s’not me you gotta convince at th’enda the day.”

“Oh yes! And perhaps a sample of that which they use to treat mynock meat to render it suitable for your consumption? It turns spaceflight pest into a resource!” The Hutt clapped his hand in jubilation. “And perhaps some dianoga. I have my fees, but consider it a veritable starting point! I’m also impartial to sewer-fed gorgs. Oho! You can’t taste the difference honestly.”

"Youra lifesaver Boris.” Friyr leaned in and pressed his mouth to the Hutt’s before he started getting too carried away. It was as warm and ... wet as before. Like kissing a syrupy tongue. Friyr licked off the slime. He’d started getting accustomed to it by this point... though it did no wonders for his nausea. “So! About your fees! I don’ think I c’n pay fer this with my body. ‘M guessin.” Friyr picked at a nail, pretending he hadn’t just kissed a Hutt twice.

“Ohooooo!” Boris laughed. Perhaps form the kiss, a potential deal, both? “Hm, fifty credits. I have to think about the shipping costs of course. An entire algae vat, however, hmmm...” Boris’ tail moved thoughtfully over the floor, and Friyr watched stoically. Herein lay the catch.  

“So fifty fer now,” he reaffirmed. “Whattabout the full operation? If we were t’get shipments every other week.”

“Ohh, full operation,” the Hutt tsked. Friyr felt it against his whole body. “Fifty credits is for the sample you understand. If it is to their liking we could be looking at a hundred a week for a more significant supply. You want a miscellaneous assortment?”

“Shurrr. About that vat, then? Ya had somethin’ on yer mind?”

Boris’ voice dropped again. “There are several inside faction elements who would be a little upset if one of their supply units went missing - just the one of course!” Of course, Friyr thought dryly. “But if you can procure it without their notice, I can manage the shipping.”

Oh. This was different. Boris didn’t want to dip his tail in, which meant that if this failed the Jedi would bear the brunt of the blame. Clever clever hutt. Friyr glanced tot he side, as if still checking on their privacy as he thought. “I c’n, but yah’d have t’give me details on it.” He dropped his voice just under the chatter of the bubbly crowd of patrons. “What faction and where?”

Boris pressed into him, thrumming, and Friyr pliantly obliged the hands on his back with a blank face. The rather public display of his sexuality was purely performative in nature and so were Boris’, though he was falling into partnership with the Hutt in a purely different way. And what was sexuality but an exchange of give and take? So too was this intricate ritual. He let Boris place his lips into his ear, legs around the Hutt’s chest and arms around his neck.

“New Providence is very politically, hm, something. Imperial elements, Republic elements, former cannibals, two of the factions despise each other. It makes for interesting meetings.”

Friyr licked his lips again as Boris whispered his “sweet nothings.” “Sounds like, heh, a lotta politics. Who’d be missin’ it then?” Friyr’s played footsie with one of Boris’ fat rolls, dislodging something that the Hutt quickly pushed back in. Friyr held a surprised chuckle. Clever Hutt.

“Weeeell, just the one little one wouldn’t be amiss; That is! If you aren’t caught pilfering it. If you were then... Well, you see why I’m leaving the pilfering to you and yours. If I were caught doing such a thing, Queen Aemelia would be quite upset!” Friyr hummed and lidded his eyes so they were almost closed. “Also I am told the Sewerbeast has a fondness of algae vats. Consumes the contents unrefined, straight from the water, mm.”

“Queenie, huh?” Friyr idly storked the back of Boris’ head. “Queenie someone I should be worried about?”

“Oh well, she is Imperial with a self-proclaimed title. She hasn’t barred Jedi, would make the cross faction populace too uneasy, but... well, you can see why she would be most upset with me, which is why I’ll cover extraction to the hangar bays! Careful though, there’s an old legend that the Sewerbeast will try and drag you into her waters. Oho.”  Friyr rolled his eyes behind the Hutt’s back, but pulled back and held two of Boris’ fat rolls, just under his neck to pull his head close to Friyr’s. The padawan laughed lightly. “You drive a hard bargain Boris. Tell ya what.” Friyr’s blissed out eyes complimented a wide spreading smile on his cut lips. A satisfied expression, but one that drew attention to the scars on his face and darkened Friyr’s easy-going nature. “Give me th’ full schims an’ I’ll think about it. ‘M still trainin’ an’ can get kicked outta m’Order, but I’ll pitch your idea. No prahmises though. But if not, then we’ll find other means, ‘less ya c’n sweeten th’deal. Say if we take th’vat, we keep it. As in property of th’ Jedi Order. Knock some credits off shippin’? A liddle manpower wouldn’ hurt none too.”

“Mapping the Harrower isn’t as indepth as it could be, but yes. Mmm, credits, manpower. Oh Merrrrrrynn!”

Friyr untangled his fingers from the rolls, and the Hutt’s encircling tail disappeared as the man who’d fished Friyr form customs hurried over. Convenient lovers no more, Friyr’s palms were still dirty from the exchange.

“Yes, your Magnamity?” the voice at floor level said, and Friyr looked down form his adopted cantina counter perch.

“How would you feel about a mission procuring some New Providence goods for this nice man?” Friyr wagged his brows in Meryn’s direction as the Hutt spoke. “You know. Lower levels... the waterworks... the vat room... One little vat? The room with the beast sightings...? That room...?”

Friyr hummed idly as Meryn directed a him. “The Sewerbeast?” 

The man, confident before, sounded concerned. Friyr almost felt sorry for him. “Yes, by all accounts it helps as well as it hurts!”

“Don’ worry,” Friyr reassured underneath his lazy grin. “‘m a Jedi.” It wasn’t very reassuring.

“Yes! You’ll have a big strong Jedi to help you!” Boris chimed in.

“More’n one. This’ll need more’n me, an’ less th’ thing is dark sided, it won’ be killed. We’re Jedi; we capture.” Friyr slid down the counter and edged past Boris’ belly to lean against the surface he’d just been sitting on. “‘M more worried ‘bout Aemelia than a--”

“Six foot tall beast with abs, several appendages, eyes like the void.” “Yah.. That. Why’d she be mad about missin’  these vats anyway?”

“She is the Queen of New Providence,” Boris said as Meryn idled across from Friyr. “An Imperial Captain. More or less in charge among the in-charge groups. Also because the vats are something of a New Providence property.”

Their food source. Any pang of sympathy Friyr might’ve felt was drowned by the lack of sorrow he had about stealing form Imperials. Kriff it. Kriff them. Kark the Empire.

Friyr tapped his chin, like he wasn’t feeling a sensation akin to bloody murder inside. “Hmmmmmm, well that’s more tricky. I’ll let ya know what the Council says. Fer now, we got ourselves the start of somethin’. We’ll talk, we’ll talk. Meryn nn~ baby!” He turned his hundred watt smile on the Enforcer watching and eyeing both his employer and the affectionate Jedi. “Mind if I cheat on Boris an’ take ya home with me?”

“Oh, by all means!” Boris obliged with an answering smirk form Meryn that Friyr could hear in his voice when he left with the Hutt’s pet on his waist later on that afternoon. Who was to say Friyr wasn’t living his day dreams to the fullest?

[oliveratlanta]

The uncertain future of north Atlanta’s most affordable cities

Chamblee and Doraville have long been bastions of affordability and inclusiveness. Amidst explosive development, can that continue? 

Jerry Margolis removed the drawers from a wooden desk, a scraping sound piercing the emptying room.

Margolis had just sold his work desk to a pair of customers. As they moved it through an open door in the back of the antique shop and into a pickup truck, a piano version of Killing Me Softly played.

February brought the final days of business at Way Back When Antiques, Margolis’s shop in downtown Chamblee. The property, housed in an olive-green building on Peachtree Road, has been sold to real estate developer Selig Enterprises.

As Margolis prepared to close at the end of the month, his shop had only a smattering of furniture, books, and knickknacks remaining. Selig reps tell Curbed Atlanta they’re “very bullish on the area,” and the property is part of a long-term strategy with no immediate plans to redevelop. They aren’t alone in their bullishness.

“I’m sure the rent will go up enough that I couldn’t afford to run my antique business,” Margolis says, adding that Chamblee has changed significantly in the 31 years he’s operated in the area “It’s grown up, and it’s gotten expensive, so the properties that you used to be able to get for just about nothing have doubled and tripled.”

Price hikes in what’s traditionally been a bastion of relative ITP affordability stretch beyond downtown Chamblee’s Antique Row, a longstanding concentration of antique stores. Development of potentially regional impact has spread into neighboring Doraville, with the most visible example being Assembly Yards, a 165-acre mixed-use project on the site of the former General Motors plant.

Older buildings along Peachtree Road include Lenox Cupcakes and Southbound, a restaurant in a former factory that serves hip Southern fare.

Longstanding dessert proprietor the Frosty Caboose among antique shops.

Southbound’s interior.

More than a few neighbors are fretting over what the changes could ultimately mean.

Across the northern arc of intown Atlanta, Chamblee and Doraville are—or were—anomalies. Compared to high-rent neighboring cities Dunwoody, Brookhaven, and Sandy Springs, Chamblee and Doraville until recent years have both seemed downright reasonable. While Atlanta’s average rent is $1,379, Doraville’s is $1,053—23.6 percent lower. Chamblee, which has seen more development in recent years, now has average rents of $1,319, or 5 percent cheaper than Dunwoody and 8.5 percent cheaper than Brookhaven. Median home prices in Doraville and Chamblee are similarly lower than their neighbors. Doraville’s median list price per square foot is $176, compared to Dunwoody’s $201, and Brookhaven’s $242. Chamblee has crept up and is now $200.

Though communities as disparate as Hapeville, Scottdale, and Whittier Mill Village are also relatively affordable and ITP, Chamblee and Doraville have greater transit connectivity than most of metro Atlanta. Both lie on MARTA’s gold rail line, in addition to having MARTA bus transit. The Royal, a privately owned bus line, services Buford Highway, too. These amenities, as government officials stress, make the cities more attractive than ever.

SLX Atlanta is putting up new buildings along Peachtree Boulevard.

The beginnings of Attiva Peachtree by Terminus.

With desirability comes cost, and concerns abound over rising prices—an issue echoed around the country and indeed the world in recent, post-recession years. But in Chamblee and Doraville, the changes of today and tomorrow could be particularly drastic.

These DeKalb County cities have much in common. Both initially prospered as agricultural communities strategically located on major rail lines. In 1917, Chamblee’s dairy land was transformed into the now relocated Camp Gordon, a military installation home to 40,000 personnel that spurred a building and retail boom.

At the end of World War II, the cities looked to industry. Doraville’s GM plant opened in 1947, spawning population and housing growth in the city. This brought jobs to Chamblee as well, with corporations such as Frito-Lay, Kodak, and General Electric building plants. Chamblee and Doraville were places where industrial workers could afford to live and raise families.

In the 1980s, Chamblee’s plants downsized or closed. Doraville’s GM plant, the project that had sparked progress for both cities, shuttered in 2009.

Today, Chamblee and Doraville have higher percentages of Hispanic and Asian people than Atlanta’s average, and this manifests in the local stores, services, and restaurants. When you call many businesses in Doraville, they answer the phone in Spanish. Many residents call such diversity a plus.

Around Chamblee MARTA Station on a recent weekend.

As it did a century ago, large-scale development has come to Chamblee first. This time, instead of a military installation, it’s upscale housing and retail. In Doraville, officials say, Assembly Yards is the first in a slate of high-end projects that could bring an economic boom but indirectly displace low- and middle-income residents—and change the fabric of the cities.

In Downtown Chamblee, a charming historic area next to a MARTA station where freight trains frequently roll by, there isn’t a blending of old and new. It’s more like the new is poking through the old.

Though downtown has considerable open space, it goes for a premium. Land is cleared for The Bristol townhomes, advertised as starting at $600,000. Signs touting space for lease are ubiquitous, and on a recent weekday afternoon, people strolled sidewalks and indulged in ice cream at a business shaped like a red train caboose. On one end of Peachtree Road, the main thoroughfare, there’s an aged barbershop, with a classic barber’s pole and weatherworn shop sign. A five-minute walk down the street, three customers entered a newer, more polished version of the barbershop—same pole as the first—with gleaming barber chairs.

The flipside to all of that is the new Chamblee.

In recent years, Chamblee development has exploded. In addition to hundreds of high-end apartments, condos, townhomes, and office space that is finished or planned, there’s now a Whole Foods. The Peachtree Creek Greenway, a walk and bike path and another selling point, is planned to eventually connect Chamblee and Doraville to the Beltline.

“Within the built environment, you’re seeing a lot of changes that are taking shape based on plans that have been in the works for over 20 years,” says Chamblee Mayor Eric Clarkson, who has lived in the city since the mid-1990s.

Clarkson says planning began in the early 2000s to tie land use to transportation. Chamblee installed zoning codes to require more density and mixed-use development in order to encourage walkability.

“Chamblee is still relatively affordable,” he says. “But with all the development that’s coming and with folks wanting to be in a very walkable environment, the rents and the outright purchase of housing continually goes up at a pretty rapid pace.”

Over the past two years, average rents in Chamblee have jumped 16 percent, double the rate of Atlanta. Median home prices have climbed 8 percent in the past year.

Trackside Chamblee is a block from the MARTA station.

A few blocks away, The Oliver now stands.

“You’d rather have real estate appreciation than going down,” Clarkson says. “Heck, I lived through the Great Recession. I think most folks around here did. We don’t want our property values going down. You want them continually going up, but to this point, we’re still seeing certain pockets as relatively affordable.”

Amy Holmes, a Chamblee resident since 2002, enjoys living in a small city in a large metro. She’s impressed by the city’s planning—and how adding social activities such as summer concerts has helped Chamblee develop an identity. “We’re really kind of thinking as a city,” she says.

“We’re just all stunned by the sudden rise in housing prices, both cost of people’s houses but then the impact of that on rent.”

At the same time, Holmes says she and her neighbors can’t help but notice surging prices.

“We’re just all stunned by the sudden rise in housing prices, both cost of people’s houses but then the impact of that on rent,” she says.

Holmes is president-elect of the Peachtree Gateway Council on Schools, an organization of DeKalb public school parents. She says people at Huntley Hills Elementary School, where two-thirds of kids qualify for free or reduced-price lunches, are shocked by rising rents.

“I feel a real panic around in the air about just what is our future in terms of affordability of housing,” she says. “I know that for people who are thinking, ‘I’m going to retire and sell my house and it’ll be worth a lot,’ that’s true that that’s a good thing for you. But if people are planning to stay here and really have this be their home and would like other people to be able to move into the area, especially families that are going to have kids, it feels like a real catch-22 that has no great solution.”

Losing proximity to Chamblee’s MARTA line has been particularly detrimental for middle- and working-class families, observes Mary Hall, who works in Chamblee and lives nearby.

“It’s pretty clear that there’s been a shift in the kinds of folks that can afford to live within walking distance of Chamblee MARTA Station,” Hall says.

Half a mile from Assembly Yards, Doraville’s Mozart Bakery is nestled between two chicken restaurants, one serving KFC (Korean fried chicken, that is) and the other Mexican grilled chicken. The Buford Highway bakery is a quiet place, where frosted cakes topped with fruit rest behind a glass counter, breads and cookies sit neatly packaged, and menus are in English and Korean.

Welcome to Doraville City Councilmember Stephe Koontz’s de facto office.

“What really makes this area unique is that it’s kind of been preserved, and it hasn’t been gentrified yet,” says Koontz, a longtime Doraville resident.” We have the opportunity to set the tone of what the development here will look like.”

In addition to Assembly Yards and the Peachtree Creek Greenway, there are talks in city council to develop a city center around Doraville MARTA Station. The city owns a whole block there, so its leaders are considering moving civic services to make way for a dense town center. (Those plans are really a return to the past, as Doraville’s old downtown was leveled to make way for MARTA, which opened in 1992.)

This filming hub was created in the Assembly project’s first phase.

Following Chamblee’s lead, Doraville is trying to update its image by dropping the word “industrial” from Peachtree Industrial Boulevard, though most people still refer to the road by its original name.

It’s a symbol for how changes from Chamblee could spill north into Doraville.

“There’s people that would like to see this area get gentrified, the prices of everything go up and basically what happened in Decatur,” Koontz says. “When I talk to people that moved to Decatur 10 years ago, they moved there because there was a mix of ethnicity. There was a lot of quirky little shops like you see on Buford Highway now, a lot of interesting restaurants and places where you could buy different kinds of things, shops you didn’t see in other parts of Atlanta.”

Hundreds of new apartments have been built in the core of Decatur in the past few years, but Koontz says Doraville, as is, doesn’t have enough rental properties to accommodate everyone.

“We’re being affected by other parts of metro Atlanta destroying their affordable housing,” she says, before referencing Beltline areas in particular. “As old-stock apartments are torn down in metro Atlanta and replaced with $3,000-a-month luxury apartments, those people are being displaced, and they’re coming here.”

Sandy Chavarria has lived in Doraville since 1998, when she was a child. As a teenager, she worked in the cafeteria at the Buford Highway Farmers Market. The stores she frequents, the carnicerías she goes to for her meat, are all there. She says Doraville isn’t known for splashy city development like Dunwoody or Brookhaven, but she sees the city changing. “People don’t see it physically, but I know that we are growing. I see it. I see more people walking on the streets. I see a lot of people in the MARTA station.”

Hopstix, an Asian brewpub, joins Chamblee’s wave of new dining options.

Vintage Pizza in the heart of old Chamblee.

Nonetheless, Chavarria feels that development could benefit Doraville, in terms of making a physical and infrastructural statement. But having rented in Doraville since moving out of her parents’ house, she says finding somewhere affordable has become tougher.

“Being raised here in Doraville, I want to continue living in Doraville, but until I can afford to buy a house…it’s really hard to stay within the Buford Highway corridor,” she says.

Though some apartments are renovated and have improved living conditions, landlords sometimes charge higher prices without making needed repairs, says Rebekah Cohen Morris, an English literature teacher living in Doraville and housing equity director at Los Vecinos de Buford Highway advocacy organization.

Meanwhile, other housing is being redeveloped. A new elementary school will replace Shallowford Gardens apartment complex. Carver Hills, a black neighborhood created by GM, is slated to be redeveloped into single-family houses and townhomes. (Residents were in unanimous support of selling their properties and moving.)

Cohen Morris says displacement issues are both obvious and not.

“We’re seeing a lot more people just kind of open their homes and their apartments and allow [in] families that lost their homes due to it being torn down for a new condo or townhome,” she says. “We’ve seen other people start living together, like two or three families in a one, two, or three-bedroom unit. It kind of masks some of the displacement.”

Chamblee’s history as an industrial area has perhaps worked in affordable housing’s favor. So far, development has taken former industrial property, not touching any affordable or older housing, according to Mayor Clarkson.

“Now, unfortunately,” he says, “a lot of that affordability hasn’t aged well and more than likely will need to be replaced in the not-too-distant future.”

“I don’t know why thinking about executives living in your neighborhood isn’t considered diversity. I think you need all walks of life.”

Clarkson is interested in exploring incentives for housing affordability through federal opportunity zones—economically distressed communities where new investments could be eligible for tax benefits. One of these opportunity zones is near Chamblee’s MARTA station.

“That area’s where we have a lot of aging multifamily [housing],” Clarkson says. “I think there’s going to be some real good opportunity, no pun intended, to look at what that opportunity zone means as a vehicle for helping us.”

So far, the area around Chamblee MARTA Station has seen the addition of affordable housing exclusively for seniors.

Developed by the nonprofit Mercy Housing Southeast, Senior Residences at Mercy Park, a 79-unit apartment complex, rents one-bedrooms for $550 to $681 monthly to people at least 62 years old.

Ronit Hoffer, project developer at Mercy Housing Southeast, notes the Walmart and Whole Foods nearby.

“If it’s a transportation-oriented development, if it’s right next to MARTA, then the idea is you don’t necessarily need a car, which is good for low-income folks,” says Hoffer. “Chamblee’s got a lot going, and we’re sort of getting in on it on the ground floor.”

Conversely, Clarkson is pleased that Chamblee has seen more executive move-up housing built, as most of the city’s housing has traditionally been affordable but smaller.

“It was a perpetual moving in, moving out. And so with the advent for infill housing, more infill subdivisions, some larger homes, you get a greater diversity,” says the mayor. “I don’t know why thinking about executives living in your neighborhood isn’t considered diversity. I think you need all walks of life, all socioeconomic levels, all ethnicities. I think it’s very healthy.”

But to make affordability work, Chamblee needs density, Clarkson says.

Councilmember Koontz also wants density for Doraville. She says the city should look at how to incentivize mixed-income housing that’s a combination of high-end larger units and more basic smaller units, with uniform exteriors.

Koontz says the city council is beginning to explore how to attract these housing options, discussing measures such as bonuses for developers and reduced parking requirements near the MARTA station.

“If we displace the current residents that live here and lose the diversity and the population that live in this area, not only is that going to change the whole housing market, it’s going to cause all the businesses up and down this corridor to fail,” Koontz says. “If we wait five years, it’s going to be too late.”

Chamblee resident Holmes says she worries about her neighbors being forced to move because of cost.

“Part of the reason that all of us have liked our neighborhoods in Doraville and Chamblee is because there’s a wide variety of people. When I moved into Huntley Hills, there’s plumbers and electricians and there’s also lawyers, etcetera,” she says. “That’s a normal cross-section of American society to live in, which is a cool thing.”

Hall feels that planners need to study and take things slowly in order to avoid unintended consequences.

“Growth is necessary and important,” she says. “But it shouldn’t come to the detriment of the cultural mix that makes this a really strong area and the families that have raised their kids.”

Cohen Morris, who is running for Doraville City Council in November, says the city needs to preserve affordable housing and develop mixed-income housing in high-density areas, especially near the MARTA station.

“We need to be really intentional so that we don’t overlook people and so that everyone gets to share in the new successes that the cities are experiencing,” she says.

At Way Back When Antiques, a faint smell of wood in the air, Margolis reflected on the changes he’s seen in Chamblee over the decades.

“If it goes like the city wants it to, I think it’ll be really neat. It’ll be a walkable city,” he says. “The properties that antique shops are sitting on become too valuable to the owners to just rent out to an antique shop, and if they need to raise the rent, antique dealers can’t do high-end retail. And that’s what Chamblee is becoming—high-end retail.”

Outside, a MARTA train pulled out of the Chamblee station and passed an increasing number of upscale stores and homes. Traveling on an elevated track behind Way Back When Antiques, the train bent into the distance and out of sight.

It hurtled toward Doraville.

Chamblee Dunwoody Road crosses under Peachtree Road, where a mural harkens the area’s history.

Adina Solomon is a freelance journalist who grew up in Atlanta and attended high school off Buford Highway in Doraville. Her work has appeared in national and local outlets including The Washington Post, Atlanta magazine, The Atlantic’s CityLab, and the Atlanta Journal-Constitution.

source https://atlanta.curbed.com/atlanta-development/2019/3/11/18253838/chamblee-doraville-atlanta-development-affordability

[notsdlifter]

Kill Hollows: Chapter Two

CHAPTER TWO:

THE FACILITATOR

Robert Warrington’s Journal

Token-Oak, Summer of 1996

8888 days before the Syndemic

I didn't see Jacob again for a long time. He spent two years committed at Shadow Mountain. They taught him, according to the grandparents, the “tools to cope.” By the time Jacob got released, he was equipped to “handle the peaks and valleys of life.” Unfortunately, those peaks were too high and those valleys too low.

I moved from Token-Oak to live with an Aunt Gina in the “big city” 300 miles away. Gina was a domineering woman who worked the night shift at a local hospital making beds and mopping floors. She lived in a mobile home nearby the hospital. Even though her house had four wheels and no yard, she kept it meticulously clean. No matter what the excuse, I was not to wake her from sleep. I spent my days tiptoeing around a rickety trailer barely grabbing door handles and plates just trying to survive. The only thing that didn’t wake Gina was reading, so I devoured books on my twin bed at the end of the trailer.

Aunt Gina and I visited Token-Oak on holidays, and even that became rare. The grandparents sent me cards on birthdays, and we had the occasional phone call filled with the truncated dialectic between the elderly and children: “[question]: how was [blank]” . . . “[answer]: it was good.” About once a year, the grandparents would visit. Most of the news I heard about Jacob was cliched mundanities about how he was “finding his way” or “the Lord’s plan for him is different.”

It wasn't until I was in high school that I saw Jacob again for any meaningful stretch. I'd bought my first car and itched to take my first trip. Vegas was out of the question. Even a day trip to the Lake of the Ozarks made my aunt nervous. Eventually, she agreed to let me stay with family. One summer morning, I loaded up my car and headed back.

Token-Oak had been calling me home ever since I left. On the drive back—my teenage nervousness with driving on the highway in full bloom—I thought about all the things I hated about the place: the smallminded bigotry of the town, the anger everyone seemed to wear around their neck like 7,000 scarves, and those fucking oak trees, dying everywhere. The broken fingers of their limbs reaching up into the sky like the tiny fingers of long-dead children. Most of all, though, I thought about that man on the driveway. I’d had dreams about his black gums for years. Waking up sweating, breathing in short puffs to avoid the ammonia stench, I’d curse the thought of Token-Oak.

I had to see it again. I had to.

Jacob was living in a dilapidated home on the south side of town. As Token-Oak’s first neighborhood, Old Town houses were built at the turn of the nineteenth century. Big houses with sprawling lawns, there was a time when well-to-do citizens lived in Old Town. In 1955, the tire plant was built nearby, and a smoky haze blanketed the area. A few years later, an oil drilling company bought a plot of land across the road from the tire plant. All through the night, the clanging of pipes and the smell of burning rubber filled the air. Families left nice cape cods and Tudor homes to flee the nuisance. Over the years, Old Town buildings and homes turned black from the smoke. Rough necks and immigrants working nearby filled the neighborhood.

Jacob bought a home there, an L-shaped two-story in between a flop house for illegals and a home with all the glass broken out and no front door.

I met Jacob one Saturday, and he was raving about his new business on the outskirts of town. The tires of his new pickup thumped as we drove over railroad tracks into a neighborhood with single room cinderblock houses. A few of the houses were ashen-black with burnt roofs and shattered windows. Many others sat abandoned like open sores on a very sick patient. The lawns were dust patches littered with trash and dilapidated automobiles. Front doors of many of the houses sat wide open like amazed faces. The smell of ether singed the air.

A pregnant dog with enlarged teats darted out of a leafless bush. As we rolled through, I felt suspicious and alert and nostalgic at the same time.

At the edge of this neighborhood, there was an aluminum building with a steel door. It was surrounded by a ten-foot razor wire fence with a remote gate.  In the back of the building, there was a garage door with two commercial padlocks. White gravel was thickly spread throughout the storefront. On a long, skinny piece of plywood, a sign outside hung under the peak of the roof that read “Buy, Sell, and Trade.” It was an old-style sign, a pure anachronism that should have read “general store” or “saloon.” The remote gate slid open, and Jacob and I pulled inside.

“What is this? A pawnshop?” I said, looking up at the sign.

“Better,” Jacob said, striding to the entrance. 

He pulled out a ring of keys and plucked one from a set of two dozen. After inserting the keys in the lock, he looked left and right then leaned to glance around the back of the building. He raised his eyebrows when he saw me watching him “C'est la vie,” he said. When the door opened, he turned off an alarm near the front and hit several switches of lights. There was a large sign at the entrance that read “NO MORE THAN EIGHT PEOPLE IN THE STORE AT A TIME” in block letters.

The store had shelves on every wall. On each, as best I could tell, sat jugs, glass pitchers, rubber tubing, and all kinds of chemicals. The wares displayed were a mixture of garden supply store, indoor pool cleaning agents, and farming chemicals. In the far corner, there were generators of various sizes. In the back, there were two, 2,000-gallon trailers marked with anhydrous ammonia.

There were no prices listed on any item.

As I walked around the store, Jacob stepped behind the counter and pulled up a bar stool. He smiled while nodding his head. He spread his arms and swept the shop with his eyes. After a deep breath, he blew it out like a puff off a $50 cigar. He pulled out from behind the counter a double-barreled shotgun. He broke the gun open, looked in the barrels, confirmed it was loaded then snapped it shut.

“You know what it is now?” Jacob said, standing.

“It’s a store for chemicals?” I said.

“Am I going to have to spell it out for you?”

“He touched a shelf near the door that had smaller bottles and batteries. “You got your lower rung shake and bake stuff here.” He stepped a few feet to the right next to matches and a series of plastic jugs and tubes. “Here is your Nazi Cold/P2P cook.” He stepped back a little further to a steel tank and near the generators. “I can even provide the necessaries for an industrial cook. Top quality shit, too.” And he banged a 500-gallon steel drum that reverberated through the room in a loud wobble.

“You can legally do this?” I said.

“What’s illegal here? Name one thing. Hell, I am even a licensed dealer for the fertilizer. Check the name on the jeans, broseph! That says it all.” He pointed to the back of his jeans at the Levi’s logo.

Jacob told me about his hero: Levi Strauss. During the 1849 California gold rush, hundreds of thousands of miners hit the hills and streams of rural Cali looking to strike it rich. Only a few of them found gold and fewer still made money. Most ended up broke, desperate, and dead in pursuit of the dream. But “Uncle Levi” was a visionary, instead of focusing on the unlikely profits, he outfitted gold rushers with new pants, double stitched with denim fabric. He made a killing, and his empire grew, according to Jacob, by “feeding the frenzy.” 

“Sutter’s Mill is now in shambles. But Levi’s has a corporate headquarters on the San Fran pier that ships clothes worldwide.”

“So, you’re outfitting the meth crisis?”

“Nah. I’m a facilitator,” Jacob said as he grabbed the shotgun on the counter and rested it on his hip. Jacob was posturing again, and the message he wanted to convey was clear: he was not to be fucked with. He explained his profit margins and how he tipped the police to “unusual purchases” so they never gave him any trouble. There was a specific dealer, a “skinhead with a bridge piercing and facial tattoo” that bought over half his supplies each month and paid for information about any new cooks.

“Who is this guy?” I asked.

“He is quiet—comes late—after dark. He pulls his truck in the garage and takes a tank of anhydrous and some parts. Pays cash and asks who’s cooking. Some weeks, I make three or four thousand off of him alone.”

“Four thousand… in a week?”

Jacob laughed and slapped the counter.

Jacob walked to the window and pulled the string on a neon open sign. He pressed a button to open the front gate. A razor wire chain link on wheels rattled backward. Jacob walked back to the barstool on the counter and sat down with his shotgun within reach. “Watch this,” he said with a wry smile. In less than ten minutes, the place was filling up with “customers.”

The first person to shuffle in was a woman in her mid-thirties. She had wild, red hair and her freckled skin was pockmarked with sores. The skin on her face sagged in flabby pouches so I could see the outline of her skull. She blinked often and hard. A blue T-shirt that had holes across the belly had a picture of a grey wolf.  It took me a while to realize that these were cigarette burns.

Her focus was in the shake and bake section. She picked up a two-liter bottle and a few packages of batteries. She shuffled to the counter, set them down, and stepped back with her eyes on the floor.

“Fifty,” Jacob said, staring a hole through the woman.

She pulled out a fifty, slid it across the counter, and picked up her supplies. She shuffled out the shop without making a sound. There was a rhythm to purchasing materials from the store, and she knew it well. In less than a minute, she disappeared between two houses.

“You see that?” Jacob said, smiling. “That’s respect. First time, she gave me trouble. But I put that shit down quick.”

“Fifty for a bottle and two batteries? That’s crazy.”

“Yeah,” he said through a pride-filled smile. “She’s going back to her house to start a batch in her little bottle. In a few hours, she’ll have a thousand dollars’ worth of “dirty meth.” He said she was a “small-timer,” but a steady customer. “In a way, she’s smart,” he said. “She does just enough to avoid being tracked by the cops or put down by the big timers.”

A few minutes later, the shop filled up with more customers. Several of which looked like they were in high school. They were looking in the “Nazi Cold” area. One of them, a kid with a backward cap and skinny jeans below his waist, picked up a jug and some tubing and brought them to the counter.

He leaned in close to Jacob and said in a suggestive whisper, “So . . . I need heat to break down pseudo or can I do it cold?”

Jacob’s face contorted into a snarl so intense his eyebrows covered half of his eyes. The kid stepped back and exchanged a glance with his friends. This question, it was clear, was not part of the well-established shop etiquette. Jacob reached up and grabbed the materials from the kid’s hands. He set them behind the counter. And walked around and seized the kid by the shoulder.

“Get the fuck out of here. I don’t know what you think, but we don’t do that here.”

I saw then that Jacob had indeed matured into a man. It wasn’t a display of force—I have no doubt he would have hit that kid if necessary—it was the fact he showed calculated restraint in handling the situation.

Jacob watched them all leave. He sat back down and explained that high schoolers just getting into the trade often wandered in the store. He did not allow store customers to discuss the making of meth inside—“no synthesis talk, no exceptions.” Most importantly, he explained, he did not make scenes with the kids. According to Jacob, they had “parents, people that cared.” A corollary to the rule, Jacob treated full-blown addicts differently.

A man walked in wearing a dirty wife-beater and itching at a ragged beard. There was an instant tension when he entered the shop. His eyes were glazed, and his fat tongue bulged in his mouth. He looked fifty but had the bouncy movements of a younger man. The skin on his arms hung in flabby rivulets riddled with acne. He had a tattoo, an Aztec chieftain astride a pyramid of skulls, with bold lettering, the phrase “Aztlán” coiling up one arm to the base of his chin. There were seven black teardrops tattooed on a single cheek. His eyes connected with the two tanks near the back of the store and he shifted in that direction.

Jacob saw the man walk past and stood behind the counter and scowled.

“Those are ag only!” Jacob said loud enough to grab everyone’s attention. The man stopped and looked Jacob up and down. Two tweakers near the door slipped out. Another customer froze and started shaking. I noticed a bulge in the man’s belt at the base of his spine. When he turned to square up with Jacob, I saw it was a gun. Guns tell the truth. You can tell a person’s experience with firearms by the way they walk. This man had been carrying for a long time.

I held my breath as I stepped back from the counter towards the back of the store. My nerves took over, and my knees shook.

The man smiled at Jacob, exposing a row of golden teeth.

“Necessito… fifty gallons,” the man said in Spanish accent.

“Motherfucker, that’s AG-RI-CUL-TUR-AL only.” Jacob’s hands reached under the counter and his fingers wrapped around a shotgun.

The man looked at the tanks and back at Jacob. There was a stillness in the room as the man’s eyes danced over the store. There was a calculus occurring in his head. When he reached the end of his conclusion, he chuckled. I heard confidence in that laugh, a sound that said he had no problems putting blood on the floor.

He reached behind his back while exposing his horsey teeth.

I hoped to make it to the back of the store, but I knocked into a pallet of aluminum cans, sending them crashing to the cement floor.

An electric snap of a tazer vibrated through the room. There was a hollow moan that mimicked the sound of the electric current. The man grabbed his chest while going down to one knee. Jacob jumped the counter with his shotgun, landing with both feet. Raising the butt of the shotgun, Jacob struck the man in the face with the butt of the gun. He caught him clean on the right cheek. The bone-chilling sound of cracking teeth preceded another moan.

The man collapsed backward clutching his face. Jacob pulled the handgun from behind the man’s back and pistol-whipped the man across the forehead. The sound of metal smacking a skull bone produced a dull “thwap.” The man balled up on the floor in exquisite pain. The man’s desperate hands grabbed the handgun and Jacob pinned his wrist to the concrete.

“Let it go!” Jacob commanded. But the man, even on his back, was defiant. He held on. He clenched his teeth and glared up at Jacob, who towered over him with the shotgun.

“Libre Soy!” Jacob said. Jacob aimed the shotgun at the soft part of the man’s throat.  

The man spat through cracked lips. Blood ran down his forehead and across his face. He pulled himself up, as far as he could with his wrist still pinned, and screamed, “jódete hijo de puta!”

Jacob took the butt of the shotgun and brought it down on the man’s knuckles. I heard the man’s bones breaking against the floor. The man screamed, and Jacob shoved the barrel of the shotgun several inches down his throat. The gun barrel separated more teeth as it destroyed the man’s tonsils. There was a desperate gasp of air as the man took sharp breaths through his nose. Blood covered his face and neck. Each breath was a hollow gargle. In less than thirty seconds, Jacob had obliterated the man’s face.

Jacob grabbed the pistol off the pavement. He slid it into the pocket of his pants. Jacob released the man’s wrist. The broken fingers of the man’s hand contorted into directions in which they were not meant to turn. Jacob leaned into the butt of the shotgun pressing it into the man’s tonsils and cracked teeth. The tearing flesh caused the man to whistle a muffled howl through the gun barrel. It reminded me of how we used to blow on the bottles of our soda pops as a kid. Jacob held the gun in that position until the man was entirely out of breath. Jacob pulled the shotgun free, the barrel dripped a river of blood and mucus on the floor. Jacob raised the dripping barrel and pointed it directly at the man’s head.

There was a calmness to Jacob, though he held an intense stare. His fingers tightened over the trigger as his lips stretched over his teeth.

The man rolled to his stomach and broke into a run. He hit the steel door of the entrance so hard he tumbled to the ground in the white gravel outside. In his wake, he left a bloody trail through the shop and on the door.

Two customers stood silent, watching Jacob. Their mouths agape in shock.

I could not stop shaking. I crouched in the corner surrounded with aluminum cans. I had come so close to death. One wrong move, one fumble of the finger—hell, an unexpected sneeze—and that could have gone much differently. I forced myself to breathe in through my mouth and out my nose, counting each inhale. One . . . ahhh . . . two . . . ahhh. 

Jacob walked over and handed me a spray bottle. “Calm down,” he said and asked me to clean the blood from the floor and on the door. Before I could refuse, he pulled out his cell phone and stepped past me to the back of the shop by the anhydrous tanks. He spoke in a hushed tone into his iPhone.  

“The Mexicans are back.”

The voice on the other end asked a question that I heard vaguely mumbled.

“Guy’s wearing a beater—face all smashed to shit—driving a Black Silverado heading south on MLK.” There was a short pause as Jacob looked up front. He mumbled something into the phone and stuffed it back into his pocket.

Jacob took the spray bottle from me and asked me to sit behind the counter. He cleaned up the blood on the floor and the walls quickly. Bleaching it and then soaking it up with a mop. He brought in a leaf blower and had everything dry in a few minutes. He had a system for cleaning up such a mess and the tools at the ready. The store never shut down, even for a minute.

I sat inside watching customers for another two hours, focusing on my breathing. During that time, over fifty people wandered in. The clear majority of them were full-blown addicts and cooks. They overpaid for parts without a word. Throwing down twenties and fifties for things they could buy from Walmart—which Token-Oak did not have—for a tenth of the price.

Jacob didn’t speak again until late afternoon. The customers shuffled silently about. The shop filled up, there were people in front of every shelf, perhaps eight, maybe ten. All were veterans of the trade. One more walked in, and Jacob stood. He refused to let an additional person in the store and kicked one more out.

In that day alone, Jacob netted over $2500. By five, he locked the front door, padlocked the garage, and we drove out of the gate. He had this little grin on his face, a quiet satisfaction as he turned the wheel, guiding his truck back across the railroad tracks. We turned south on MLK.

As we drove over the bridge into Old Town, Jacob looked over to the passenger seat and said, “It’s not for everyone.”

 “It’s not for me,” I said, still rattled from the incident. Jacob laughed and whistled to the radio. “You beat the hell out of that guy. Once he sobers up… heals up, he’ll come back.”

Jacob cocked his head to the side and looked over at me with a toothy grin. There was something he understood behind that smile, something he would not share. He turned the wheel and took a deep breath.

“He won’t.”

I thought about asking more questions, but I let it slide. It was one of those feelings people get, perhaps a conversational cue. I didn’t want to know more, so it sat. And we drove down Main Street listening to the radio as we headed towards Jacob’s home.

“Why only eight?”

“Huh?” Jacob said in response. “Eight what?”

“In the shop, why do you cap it at eight people? There is enough room.”

Jacob explained that, for whatever reason, once the shop filled up with over eight tweakers, they displayed unusual behavior. They seemed more standoffish. He felt they were “doglike” and when they “packed up” they felt fearless. So, he kept the number of customers searching the shop small at eight.

Once we arrived at Jacob’s house, we walked upstairs. He said he wanted to “show me something I’d appreciate.” We climbed out a second-story window onto an old shake shingle roof. And we laid on our backs in between two half-dead oak trees looking across the rooftops of Token-Oak. The sun set behind the buildings of downtown. Jacob lit up a joint as he looked out across the quaint tableau of the small town. He took a long draw while watching the fading daylight for a long time. It wasn’t comfortable, not exactly, because there were no comfortable moments with Jacob, but it was a pause in the madness. 

Token-Oak, like so many small towns, was built around a courthouse. The building had four columns and a clock tower at its apex. Though not the tallest building in town, it was the most commanding. Blazing white and set upon a slight hill for all to see, the courthouse evoked a Grecian heritage.

In the center of the courthouse square, there was the Token-Oak. The old oak had a way of making people stop in mid-stride to take in its twisting branches. They say that the beautiful old oak on the hill was the reason the first settlers stopped in the town. The pioneers named the village after the tree, viewing its strong trunk and vast branches as emblematic of the town’s inevitable future success; a “token” of good times that were sure to follow. Every town event dating back to the 1860s was held under its branches. For a hundred and fifty years, the “token oak” symbolized manifest destiny and the rugged frontier spirit of its founders.

“It’s dying,” Jacob said. “The Token-Oak. It started dropping leaves last year, and they say they are going to leave it alone.”

We both looked out at the old tree for several minutes.

Set off from the high school, there was a football field with enough stadium lights surrounding it that gave it an ethereal feel. At night, the field glowed as a bubble of brilliant light. It made you understand the fascination so many youths had with the game.

On the outskirts, north of town, there was the meat packing plant surrounded by feedlots of soon-to-be slaughtered cows. Nearly every night, you could hear the wailing of the herd, and if you really listened, you could feel the cattle calling to those headed into the plant. Those yearning bawls were Token-Oak’s background noise

Far in the distance, about two miles northeast, some hills rolled together into each other leaving deep ruts. The view of the setting sun above those hills with the bright clouds just above was spectacular. The townspeople called these deep roots the Hollows. The forest of oaks surrounding Token-Oak was exceptionally thick, but it was a veritable riot of tangled branches along the Hollows. So thick, that some claimed, sunlight couldn’t touch the ground.

The dark lines of the Hollows meandered to a rare bald spot on the tallest hill in the county. People called this bald spot the Hilltop. The Hilltop held a macabre lore that never lost its power to scare. Back in the day, it was rumored that Osage Indians used to come from all over America to die up there. They would sit Indian-style and pile fist-sized rocks in a ring around their legs and let the elements do the rest. They were sick or old or just too sad to live anymore. They would die out in the open, sitting upright enclosed by the rock circles. And the sun and the wind would dry their skin tight, and the skeleton would stay upright in that position for months. The Osage believed the Hilltop was a conduit to the dead. A rally point for the living to meet with deceased loved ones.

There were hundreds of rock circles sitting up there undisturbed. And they weren’t all old-school circles, either. Every year, a teenager, a mother who lost her daughter to a drunk driving accident, a depressed middle-aged man, walked into the dark of the Hollows and up to the Hilltop. They sat down in a circle of rocks and “died.” Anyone who went into those woods, townsfolk said, rarely came back. If they did, they were different, disconnected from their family and friends, they might wander the town for a time, but they eventually disappeared. That fact, more than the weird stories, prevented people from fucking around up there.

The Hollows were full of off-the-grid types and had its share of meth labs and murders. Supposedly, a collective of dealers and ne’er-do-wells ran the Hollows. No one went into the Hollows for a stroll. At the crossing of two dirt roads at the base of the Hollows, someone had been dumping dead town dogs there for as long as I could remember. It was a message, a not-so-subtle reminder to anyone that might wander into the dead oaks. It worked, too. Few went in those woods. Not even the cops. Unless they were going to drag out a body. Even then, they walked in at noon, eight deep, fully loaded.

To Jacob and me, the Hollows held a nervous fascination. It was more legend than story. There were town kids that claimed to have a circle rock from the Hilltop that would whisper to them at night. Every few months, there was a fire lit in the darkness of the Hilltop. I knew a kid with a telescope who claimed to see pagan-style dancing around the fire. Everyone had a story from McClintock’s Tree Farm claiming to see lines of people in the woods. When the wind blew in from the Northeast, which was rare, a haze drifted into town that reeked like ether. There were bits of truth braided with exaggeration, yet the Hollows were real enough. It was the one thing that Jacob was scared to face.

Jacob had been trying to get me to go to the Hilltop since we were little kids. But it held such a mystical fear that we never made the trip.

We sat on the shake shingles of his roof, staring at the Hilltop. As the sun was setting, the ring of the horizon—especially north of town—was dotted with eighty-foot-tall oil rigs. Each one lit up in the shape of a Christmas tree. It gave the little town a bustling feel.

As I looked over at Jacob, he was doing it again. That weird ass thing he did when he knew people were watching him. It was his “deep-thinking-stare” and he was looking right at the Hilltop.

“We should go tonight,” Jacob whispered.

I took a long pull of my beer and shook my head in the negative.

“We should,” he said again with more force, but still no real motivation. 

“People don’t come back,” I said in quick response.

“That is bullshit. That lady came back. The teacher with the two twin girls. What was her name? Amanda something.”

“She came back for two weeks. Remember? And she got a motel room and didn’t speak to a single person. Not even her kids. A few people saw her around town. She was all freaked out.  Right before she disappeared. And her family moved away a few weeks later.”

“Well, the point is, she came back.”

I laughed at this, and we both looked up at the Hilltop. An October wind was blowing across town. A dust devil spun leaves along the ditches of MLK.

“We could sneak in from the north. That old creek bed that runs through Miller’s pasture. It's low and dry and rounds straight up to the Hilltop. Come on, Bha-aab. It’ll be fun. For old times’ sake?

That nickname. I hadn’t heard it in years and, hearing it now, it brought back all the old insecurities. For the briefest of moments, I had relaxed with Jacob. That silly moniker wrecked any rapport that was building. I realized, looking at Jacob, that he was waiting for the right moment to insert the jab. It was the first of many insults, I was sure. I let it pass.

Jacob took a quick pull of his beer and emptied the longneck. He threw it off his roof in a twisting parabola over the reaching fingers of the dead oaks. The bottle hit the street below and shattered. 

Old Town was full of older homes with big porches. Jacob’s immediate neighbor had couches in the front yard. Another had two bumper pull campers sitting on blocks with an extension cord running to each. The house across the street had a hole in a wall the exact size of a car. It was the kind of neighborhood where breaking glass bottles was an everyday occurrence.

“You think that’s true? You think a person can talk to the dead?” he said, looking at me with squinted eyes.

I didn’t answer. We both stared out across Token-Oak. Out through the dead branches of the trees near his house. I heard the bawling of the cattle as they shuffled into the slaughterhouse plant. Faint cries floated on the wind. Just to the North, I saw roughnecks on oil rigs twisting pipe thousands of feet down into the earth. Each pipe spinning into the liquefied remains of ancient life buried beneath eons of geology.

It was a Friday night, a half mile away the football stadium was glowing. There was a helmet crack, and Jacob and I listened to the roar of the crowd. From such a distance, it sounded like an exasperated moan that twisted into the night.

Courthouse square was bathed in brilliant moonlight. A twisting string of low-lying clouds floated above. It was a beautiful side view of the town. From the third story of Jacob’s roof, you could see about everything: the Elks Lodge, McGuillicuddy Mortuary, Zion Lutheran Church, and the open ground around the massive white columns of the courthouse. You could even see the alleys between the principal streets of the town.

I took a long pull on my beer. It was my fifth, and I felt a little loose. So, I threw it in the same spinning parabola that Jacob had. I tossed it a little too hard, and a rictus of alley cats erupted as the glass of my longneck shattered below. Jacob looked at me in a broad smile, though his lips never parted. He was well past five beers, and it showed.

Suddenly, he was up on his elbows looking out at the courthouse square. His eyes narrowed, and his mouth opened in a perfect circle. He raised his index finger to point out. “Watch this,” he said.

There were people on every corner of the courthouse square. All of them standing in front of back alleys. The sun dipped below the horizon, and I didn’t remember seeing so many people moments before. But I didn’t know. I was sixteen and drinking longnecks on a roof. It wasn’t my best moment for memory.

“Who are those people?” I said, looking at Jacob. Token-Oak had several dozen town drunks that wobbled around at night. Shuffling between two dive bars on opposite sides of the courthouse like seasonal birds. They hit the Elks for happy hour, the Moose Bar for quarter beers, and then migrated to McSmitty’s Bar (a local dive named for its owner, so the drunks called it McShitty’s bar) for closing time. It wasn’t uncommon to see a few drunks slouching about. But looking out at the square that night, there were at least two dozen. All of them stumbling around.

“Tweakers,” Jacob said, “Now watch.”

Jacob had gone from leaning on his elbows to sitting, to a full stand as he looked out on the town. He was moving his index finger and mouthing numbers with a Shiner Bock still in one hand.

“Twenty-nine,” he said without looking at me. “And there is another one by McGuillicuddy’s and the cemetery, so thirty.”

“Twenty-nine?”

“Thirty,” Jacob said, correcting me. “. . . wait for it . . .”

They were all moving in various directions, at least it seemed that way at first, but as I stared out, I saw something unique. All thirty took a step at the same time, in a weird shimmy. They moved a quarter block in a few seconds, each of them with curled hands and their necks contorted way to the left. We were too far away, but I swore it looked like their teeth were shut, yet their lips curled back. They walked a few more gamboling steps. Then, as if on a cue, all thirty did the same thing again.

“Whoa . . .” I said raising to a stand, “that is fucking spooky.”

In a few seconds, most were blocked by our vantage point and disappeared behind buildings. In a few more, they were all gone, as quickly as they came.

He only nodded. “This place is full of surprises.”

And he sat and glared out at the square for at least an hour. A few groups of people wandered underneath the Token-Oak in the square. There was a rowdy group of town kids smashing pumpkins. We watched the cops give a half dozen sobriety test to patrons leaving the Elks. But the tweakers didn’t come back. Not that night, at least.