#Used Buick near me

[clovisautoplexca]

Used car dealer

Website : https://www.clovisautoplex.com/

Address : 378 N Minnewawa Ave, Clovis, CA 93612

Phone : +1 559-387-4000

Welcome to Clovis Autoplex a used car dealership in Clovis, CA. Pre-owned vehicle inventory at our used car lot in Clovis often includes Used Honda, Used Toyota, Used Nissan, Used Buick, Used GMC, Used Hyundai, Used Chrysler, Used Dodge, Used Jeep, Pre-owned BMW, Ford, Mazda, and Chevrolet models. All of our pre-owned cars for sale are in excellent condition and offered at remarkable prices. Clovis Autoplex is proud to offer our VIP BUYING PROCESS. Save Time & Buy Online with our express online shopping, where we can streamline the car buying process and deliver the car to your home. The quick and easy process can be started and finalized from your home, office, or wherever you are most comfortable.

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[svg-motors22]

2023 Buick Encore GX Preferred

[angelwings-crossbowstrings]

You Would Break Your Back to Make Me Break a Smile

Pairing: Daryl Dixon x Fem!Reader

Setting: Alexandria era

Warnings: Poorly written smut

Summary: A run goes sideways, leaving you and Daryl to spend the night together in a remote cabin. Nothing new until feelings are thrown into the equation.

A/N: This was originally written for my old OC. It also explored asexual Daryl and there are still elements of that here.

*gif is not mine

You pulled the corner of your bottom lip between your teeth, concentrating on keeping your arm still. The urge to overthrow your opponent was strong, but you had to play fair. Cheating was not an option. It wasn’t until you were mercilessly pinned for the fifth time in a row that you considered cheating may actually be an option after all. 

“Ugh!” You groaned quietly, struggling to free yourself. 

“You’re the one wanted to play,” came the gravelly response. 

You conjured an unimpressed scowl. “Again.” When he didn’t immediately move to oblige, you raised your brows, angled your head for a better view, and elbowed him. “Come on. Again.” A heavy sigh resounded, but he finally raised his arm and clasped your waiting hand, blue eyes avoiding your overconfident grin. Shaking out your shoulder in preparation, you blew upwards to rid your face of an unruly strand of hair and recited “one, two, three, four; I declare a thumb war!”

After three more failed attempts, you finally gave up but not without a massive pout and another jab at his ribs. You flipped unceremoniously onto your back, the point of his elbow resting just above the top of your head. Whether due to chivalry or something else, he had offered to sleep on the floor, but you weren't having that. The full bed was plenty big enough for both of you. It wouldn’t be the first time you had shared a bed. “Your thumbs are longer than mine.”

Daryl scoffed. “Right.” He drawled, the hand he had been using joining the other behind his head. He stared at the ceiling as the last rays of daylight began to crawl away from the looming shadows of the night. It was only a matter of time before he’d hear the familiar growls and moans and the ever unsettling bump of undead bodies against the outer walls. 

“Wanna play Never Have I Ever?” 

Your voice drew him from his thoughts with barely a start. “D’rather not.” You didn’t know. You didn’t need to know. 

You let out a sigh. “We don’t have any liquor anyway.”  A pause. “Truth or dare?”

“S’with ya?” He asked, regarding you from the corner of his eye. You didn’t answer right away; only wiggled around until your hip was pressed tightly against his own. He wasn’t surprised that he hadn’t flinched at the contact and continued to watch you.

“Nothing, silly.” You replied quietly. The need to be near silent when outside the protective walls of your home was imperative. It was also something the spitfire at his side struggled with even when that need was near dire. 

Daryl narrowed his eyes but said nothing else. You had been around him long enough for him to catch the dismissive undertone. The run had gone smoothly for the most part: few walkers, a myriad of medical supplies and canned foods to fill your packs and a couple of milk crates, and even a few stale candy bars you had snagged for a treat on the ride back. It was the living, breathing trio that had been in the middle of stealing the car when the two of you had exited that became the problem. Shots were fired, drawing more of the undead. A bolt had taken down one adversary, the other two making off with the rusted Buick that was meant to be your way home. 

So, you had set out on foot. The supplies sorted and consolidated to fit in your packs and one crate, Daryl had insisted you carry it so he could keep his crossbow at the ready. No more than a dozen walkers were tailing you, but they had been easy enough to either lose or dispatch once you had found the simple cabin that would be your shelter for the night. 

Yes, you had lost the car and had the grueling trek that would take at least most of tomorrow’s daylight hours before reaching that familiar gate, but neither of you were injured, you had food, and you were relatively safe for the night. So, what was bothering you?

“Hey, Daryl?” 

Maybe he was about to find out. 

“Hmm?” He had finally allowed his gaze to settle back on the ceiling only to have it find you once again. You were staring upward intently, a small crease between your brows. That ceiling must have been extremely interesting, the way you both seemed to get lost in it. 

“Have you—ever been in love?” There was a hesitance, a shyness to your question that was evident yet unplanned, as you closed your eyes and your face twisted while a silent curse fell from your curled lips. ‘Nice job, idiot!’ You didn’t watch his reaction, positive that the question had caught him off guard. He didn’t move or make a sound, which had your stomach twisting into knots. This was not how you had wanted this conversation to start; not even close to what you had rehearsed over and over in your head since the prison. “I mean—have you—did you ever—that is to say—”

“No.” It was a simple but honest answer. Daryl had never found time for it; never found he wanted to make time for it. Sure, he had experience with women, thanks to his brother, copious amounts of liquor, and a few twenties scattered over the years of his youth, but no relationships of which to speak. He just was never a sexual being, lacking any desire and overwhelmed by peer pressure and pent up emotion. It was never about connection. He had never let anyone that close. 

“Oh.” You weren't sure what answer you had expected. You thought maybe he would berate you for thinking he cared for such girlish notions. Perhaps he would laugh at you; tell you he had been a player like Merle. Instead, he had answered and was now staring at you from behind the fringe of hair that always found its way over his eyes. You managed a glance at him before you lifted one side of your jacket to study the zipper. “What about Carol?”

He raised an inquisitive eyebrow. “S’not like that with me an’ her.”

“Oh.” You repeated.

“Why?” He countered. And god, he was still looking at you. 

You cleared your throat and turned onto your side to face him. Still, your eyes found everything in the room except his gaze. “Do you think it exists?” You avoided his question. Daryl watched you prop yourself up on your elbow, your dainty fingers reaching for the hem of his jacket. “Like—like there's someone out there for everyone?” You fiddled with a loose thread and glanced up at him from under your long, dark lashes. His handsome face held a mixture of exasperation and confusion. You would have giggled at his plight had your nerves not been twisting around like live wires in your gut. 

Daryl Dixon was your best friend, a title he earned back when your little family was still new—even if you both would have vehemently denied it. He had appointed himself your protector, your instructor. He endured you at your worst, still managing to teach you how to protect yourself; how to survive. You had thrown actual weapons at his head while spouting insults that he didn’t even understand. Daryl had had no problem retaliating, using any and all information he had known of you to produce digs that would make your blood boil or your eyes grow wet. Actual friendship came later and more naturally than he’d probably ever care to admit. Daryl would actually request you to accompany him on runs, trusting you enough to have his back. Your once venomous verbal attacks had softened into banter accompanied by elbow jabs and hair ruffles. You began to enjoy each other's company.

Eventually, the brush of his fingertips over your bicep as he steered you out of harm’s way had begun to send electric pulses into your skin, kickstarting a thumping of your heart that was so loud in your ears, it would drown out the pandemonium around you.  Your name from his lips would send shivers up your spine. The times you had bunked together, you found yourself stealing glances at him while he slept, kept watch, ate, worked on his crossbow. Everything he did was like seeing a unicorn. You were fascinated by him, in awe of this man who seemed to be born and molded for the end of the world. More often than not, he slept next to you, offering his warmth against the winter chill or his presence against the demons that knocked in your nightmares.  He held you while you mourned those you had lost. Daryl was quite easily your favorite person. That, and more. And that is what scared you.

“Dunno.” The archer gave a halfhearted shrug. He couldn’t claim to have never thought about what it would be like settling down with someone; having a family. Settling with you, if he was being honest. Images often invited themselves into the forefront of his mind. You wearing his ring while you chopped vegetables for a stew you were making with Carol. You would bring him a beer and perch yourself on his lap while he had a cigarette on the front porch swing of the home you shared. You’d even steal the smoke right from his lips and take a long draw before offering it back. He’d seen your belly swollen and prominent under your sundress while you hung laundry on the line in the backyard. You cradled a tiny baby in the crook of your arm, leaning so that your family could see the infant’s face. He banished the visions with a minute shake of his head, sitting up and angling to the side so he could regard you properly. “S’this ‘bout, woman?” 

Your mouth opened before snapping shut again with an audible click of your teeth. ‘Don’t chicken out now!’ Daryl’s expression was unreadable, and that alone was terrifying. All the time you had spent together, you were sure you had become fluent in Daryl Dixon. “I—” You sat up quickly, matching his position, not so much to face him but because you had needed to move before the words that were swelling in your throat came spilling out in the wrong order and ruined everything. 

“Ya alright?” Daryl ducked his head to seek out your gaze, his curiosity getting the better of him. It was a strange conversation. He bit back the urge to ask if it was ‘that time of the month.’ Once upon a time, Carol had explained to him why that was frowned upon. “S’really on your mind?”

Was he imagining things or was the distance between you dissipating?

“It’s just—”  You were chewing on your bottom lip, pulling your knees underneath you and then you were right in front of him, lowering to sit on your hip. His brow knitted, Daryl resisted the urge to move, holding his gaze on your face. He could feel your breath mingling with his own now, eyes flickering down to your lips and back to those shimmering irises. Peripherally, he could see your hands on either side of his face, hovering scant inches away. 

“Is—is this okay?” You whispered.

Daryl didn’t answer, not right away. He was too busy trying to control the overbearing thudding behind his ribs. His breathing had picked up, and he was certain he may hyperventilate right there on the spot. ‘Too close. Too close.’ Someway, somehow, he still found himself nodding. 

“Okay.” You breathed against his mouth, your lips tickling his own before meeting them in a gentle press. Your eyes fluttered closed while his widened and stared off into nothing, as if he could see right through you. Your hands finally rested against the sides of his face, your thumbs gently stroking his cheekbones. It wasn’t until your lips parted slightly that the archer snapped out of his stupor and reciprocated, placing his left hand over your right on his face while your mouths moved, slow and deliberate. 

When you pulled back, just far enough to see his expression, his eyes slowly opened (when had he closed them?). You stayed that way for several heartbeats, searching one another. Your hands were still on his face, his larger fingers slowly curling around yours before he moved both to the sliver of mattress that remained between you. 

Unfamiliar emotions swirling in his chest were making it difficult to breathe, constricting and contracting around his heart like a pulsating vice. A war was raging within him and there you were, patient and grounding while you waited for him to work through his inner turmoil. Your pretty eyes lowered as if you knew he couldn’t think while trapped under the weight of your gaze. 

“Look, Daryl—”

“Don’t.” 

You looked at him then. He was staring at your still joined hands between you, his thumb gently rubbing over your knuckles. His eyes were narrowed, a crease between his brows. He looked vaguely uncomfortable and you wanted nothing more than to reach out but something told you he wouldn’t dare let go of your hand at that moment. Several more beats of silence passed and he still hadn’t spoken another word.

You licked your suddenly dry lips, feeling an odd sense of panic. Was it time to defuse the situation? “We don’t have to talk about this.” You offered, keeping still when you felt his hand tighten around yours. “I wasn’t trying to—”

“Do it again.”

“What?” It was your turn to knit your brows. 

He still didn’t look at you but he angled his head back toward you. “Again. What ya did.”

“Kiss you?” 

He gave a curt nod.

You hesitated. “Okay.” You lifted the hand he wasn’t holding to cup his cheek, slotting your mouth over his. He returned the kiss immediately this time, just as gently as before. Just as you thought of pulling back, his free hand came up to cradle the back of your head. Your eyes flew open for but a mere heartbeat before fluttering closed. You melted into the moment, only then noticing the enticing roughness of his chapped lips; the tickle of his scruffy facial hair against your skin. It was quite possibly the most tender kiss you had ever received. No clashing of tongues and teeth; only simple and soft movements of your mouths. You could easily become addicted.

He pulled back first this time, but his hand remained in your hair. Daryl tipped his head forward to touch your foreheads together. “Y/N.” He whispered, not really sure why. He just needed to say your name. The archer wasn’t sure what he was feeling. He knew how much he adored you, needed you in his life but this was too much. He felt like a raw, exposed nerve and wasn’t sure where he was supposed to go from here. 

You pulled away then and Daryl’s head snapped up to watch you. You sat up on your knees and peeled your jacket from your shoulders before tossing it onto the floor. He all but gulped, sure of where this was headed when you reached for his own jacket.

Pushing one shoulder free, you moved to the next and risked a glance at his bicep, the muscles flexing rhythmically under his skin when he lifted his arm to toss the wadded-up leather over your head. Your pulse accelerated and you took a calming breath before reaching for his vest. “You can tell me to stop and I’ll stop.” You popped the first button free and then the next, flicking your gaze up to his but he was watching the nimble movements of your fingers. “Daryl.” He looked up immediately. “All you have to do is say the word.” 

After a moment, he nodded almost imperceptibly. He watched you spread open his vest and push it from his shoulders. He shrugged it off so you could toss it over with your jacket. You sat back on your heels and grabbed the hem of your shirt, pausing for a moment to give him time to interject. When he said nothing, you pulled the garment over your head. With calculated movements, you reached for the front of his dark gray button-up, once again pausing. Daryl couldn’t bring himself to stop you. When the last button was free, you slipped your fingers under the fabric to part it. It was then that the archer felt panic bubble up into this throat, his eyes going wide. He grabbed your wrist so quickly that he hadn’t been aware of the action until he heard your gasp. “Wait—”

You stared at him, briefly alarmed before your eyes softened in understanding. The hand he wasn’t holding gently cradled his cheek. “I’ve seen them before.” 

He knew that. You had tended to so many wounds during your time together, but insecurity ensured that he acknowledged the cursed existence of the mars on his flesh. With a deep breath through his nose, his hands replaced yours to slowly rid himself of the shirt, the fringed edges of the cut-off sleeves tickling his skin. You grabbed it up and twisted your body to add the garment to the ever-growing pile. Your breath caught in your throat as his calloused fingertips brushed your skin. With a quick glance, you smiled softly at the bare curiosity in his gaze. You turned almost fully away from him while unsnapping the clasp of your bra, letting it slide down your arms and to the floor with a quiet sound. 

You looked over your shoulder, your head lowered so that only your eyes were visible. He could see the slight squint of your sparkling orbs. You were smiling at him and his heartrate quickened at the thought of seeing the expression clearly. He remained oblivious of his own expression and the fact that his rare grin and the soft whispers of his fingertips were solely responsible for the way you were looking at him. 

You turned then, returning to your knees, giving him a clear view of your smile—and your naked torso. Daryl felt the heat rise in his face and travel all the way to the tips of his ears. He’d seen a naked woman before but never so calmly; so intimately. 

You noticed his discomfort and tilted your head thoughtfully. “It’s okay to touch me, Daryl.” Your voice was quiet and soft, like you weren't sure if he’d follow through with the gentle command. 

And he didn’t. 

The archer determinedly kept his eyes on your face. It was cute but you’d never tell him so. You moved closer, the air between you scarce enough to take Daryl’s breath. Your lips ghosted over his while your fingers trekked a featherlight path down his arm before settling on his hand. You wrapped your hand around his and lifted it to place his palm on your left breast, keeping your fingers secure enough to ground him. 

“I want this.” You whispered against his mouth. You felt his fingers twitch before his thumb swept slowly over your nipple. You drew in a sharp breath and closed your eyes. Your skin felt chilled at the sudden loss of his touch when he quickly retracted his hand. Your eyes reopened to find his flickering back and forth between your gaze and your chest. 

The sudden press of his mouth on yours had you gasping again before you settled, bringing both hands to his shoulders. His fingers danced over your skin again, his other hand joining the first to stimulate both pebbled buds with gentle twists. How many nights had you dreamed of him touching you like this?

You hesitantly swept your tongue over his bottom lip before withdrawing, testing his reaction. You didn’t want to push him past his comfort level; no matter how badly you wanted him. When his mouth opened and you felt him lick against the crease of your lips, it was over. Your hands moved to his hair, fingers tangling in the greasy strands to pull him closer while you drank in the smoky taste of him. Daryl seemed to be finding a tentative level of confidence, twisting to bring one leg onto the bed, bent at the knee. His rough hands left your chest to slide down your sides, fingers hooking into your belt loops and using them to pull you closer. You let out a squeak which the archer eagerly swallowed before you broke apart, both panting. Your foreheads rested together, Daryl’s eyes closed while you scrutinized him for any sign that he may not want to venture further. 

“Daryl?”

“Will ya take these off?” He questioned hoarsely with a small tug on the loops of your pants. You answered with a nod, pulling his hands away so you could back off the mattress and stand. Daryl watched you intently, your slender fingers popping open the button before sliding down the zipper. When you had shimmied the pants down to mid-calf, you bent to undo the laces of your boots, toeing them off along with your socks. The archer couldn’t help but smirk when you straightened. Of course you weren’t wearing underwear. 

“I’ve shown you mine.  Will you show me yours?” You purred, crawling back onto the bed. 

Daryl scoffed and put his hand on your face while he stood, giving you a playful shove. You laughed quietly, but still reached for his belt. He tried to take a step back and you quickly released him. 

“Do you want to stop?” 

He was wearing that expression again, uncertainty warring with desire. He wanted you. God, did he want you in every way he could possibly have you. The heat that had begun to pool low in his belly was not unfamiliar yet unnerving. This would change everything. You could never go back to what you already had. And would you understand him? Would you accept him for all that he was?

And for all that he wasn’t?

“No.” Goddamnit, he wanted to try. He stepped forward again but you didn’t reach for him. “S’just—” he hesitated, rubbing anxiously at the back of his neck. This beautiful creature was sitting bare and you wanted him, of all people. What if he couldn’t be what you wanted? “Don’t usually care ‘bout this kinda shit.” He thought for a moment that he very well might vomit. You were sitting on your heels now, eyes narrowed and lips pursed. You looked like you were working out some complicated math problem in your head. Daryl barely suppressed his flinch when it was obvious you’d reached a conclusion. 

“Sex.” You stated matter-of-factly at the same time the first sound of a walker clumsily stumbling into the side of the cabin brought both your gazes to the door. You could barely see one another now, day having given way to night several moments ago and your one candle giving the place a gentle orange hue that neither of you sought to complain about when it was dancing across the skin of the other. There were no windows but the archer wondered if the light could be seen through the cracks in the old door, barricaded as it was. 

When the snarls and shuffling continued to pass you by, you looked to him again. Daryl was looking at the floor, any expression hidden behind the curtain of his hair. You remained quiet. He had heard you, so you would wait him out. Pushing would only make him withdraw. You sat back on your hip and pulled the dusty blanket up to cover yourself for the time being. If sex really did make him uncomfortable, having a conversation about it with your goodies saluting him from the bed would not help matters. 

“Yeah.” Daryl finally spoke after a few more moments. “S’not just—” he paused to shift his weight from one foot to the other, “just ain’t never been important ‘less Merle was chasin’ some tail. A distraction’s all it were.” He sighed, crossing his arms with his hands in his armpits. He looked so uncomfortable that it made your heart ache. 

You nodded, not even sure if he was looking at you. “When was the last—”

“‘Fore the world went to shit.”

A while then. You chewed the inside of your cheek. You suddenly felt too exposed, pulling the blanket up further. Where do you go from here? With another glance at him, there was another sharp twinge in your chest. For a man made for the end of the world, he appeared incredibly small and vulnerable right now. “Will you come sit down?”

From the way he angled his head, you could tell he looked at you. A heartbeat passed and he dropped his arms, his footfalls near silent as he approached the bed. The mattress dipped under his weight and you found he chose to sit surprisingly close to you. Your knees were barely pressed against his hip. 

You were still utterly naked under that old blanket; your heartrate had picked up speed at his proximity. You couldn’t tell if you were anxious or aroused and you wondered if you should get dressed and deal with the latter on your own once you returned home instead of pressing him further. “Do you want to keep talking about this?” You gently probed. 

“Not really,” was his immediate response. Your mouth opened to comfort him but he cut you off. “Guess we have to, though.”

“We don’t have to do anything you’re not comfortable with.”

“Nah, s’okay. D’rather talk to you ‘bout it than anyone else.” 

You smiled softly and felt confident enough to reach for his hand. Your movement brought his head to turn toward you and he didn’t flinch away when your fingertips brushed his. After a moment, your tongue darted out to wet your lips and you took a breath. “Since the end, have you ever, you know? With yourself?” 

He seemed to deflate, the shake of his head so minute that you would have missed it had you not been so keenly observing him. 

“Do you ever have the urge to?”

He shrugged one shoulder. “Somethin’s wrong with me.”

“Daryl.” He looked up at you, blue eyes piercing through his dark hair. It hit you like a freight train. “There is nothing wrong with you.” You could only imagine how he must have felt around his brother. How isolated, how different. You wondered if he had ever told his brother, but decided against asking. “A lot of people just aren’t that into sex, old world and new one.” His steady gaze never wavered. You smiled and let go of his hand to brush his hair away from his left eye before wrapping your fingers around his once again. “You’re just Daryl. And that’s more than okay.”

“Huh.” He muttered after a moment, eyes darting back and forth between yours. 

“If it’s okay to ask though,” you ventured. Your bottom lip tucked firmly between your teeth, you squeezed his hand, “how were you feeling just now? With me?” You added with a shaky breath. He didn’t retreat, so that was good. You still didn’t want to push him into anything he didn’t want, but rather help him figure out what it was he did want; sort through his feelings. If he turned you down, you would be disappointed, of course. But his comfort, his safety, and well-being; those came first. If you could never have him in that way, you would live with that. 

“I, uh—it weren’t a bad feelin’.”

So it was a good feeling? Maybe? Shit. Now what? “Okay, okay.” you nodded. “Do you want to call it a night then and just—”

“No.”

His hand squeezed yours so fast that you nearly squeaked in surprise. You did, however, let go of the blanket you held against your chest with the other hand. “Sorry,” you mumbled, pulling the fabric up once again before Daryl grabbed your wrist. You watched him chew on his lip, his eyes overflowing with something you had never seen there before. 

“Wanna try. I‘ve wanted to try with ya for a long time.” His Adam’s Apple bobbed while he swallowed around the words. “If ya ain’t changed your mind.” The statement came out more like a question, his voice quieter with a slight tremble. 

I‘ve wanted ta try with ya fer a long time.

You felt the swirling motion of butterflies in your stomach, your heartrate skyrocketing as you allowed the blanket to fall. Moving slowly, you twisted your wrist in his grip to clasp his hand and pressed forward to throw a leg over his lap. Sitting on his thighs, you gently took hold of both his hands and placed them on the curve of your hips. “We’ll take this slow, okay?” You reached to push back his hair so his eyes were visible. He gave a jerky nod, fingers twitching against your skin. 

“Alright.”

You cupped his face and brought your mouths together once again. This time, there was no hesitance when you opened up to him and beckoned his tongue. The gentle push and pull of the kiss lasted until the need for air became dire, and Daryl pulled away from you only to ghost open-mouthed whispers across your jaw and down to your pulse. Your fingers moved to his hair again and your head fell back, offering the expanse of your throat to him. He nipped and lapped at the flesh between your ear and the junction of your shoulder, earning a breathy moan when he latched on to tattoo a kiss onto the surface. The archer couldn’t help but shiver and moved his hands to splay them open across your spine, tipping you so his mouth could properly explore the valley between your breasts. 

His tongue and lips wandered aimlessly, and he found himself perfectly content in connecting the myriad of freckles that were littered across there. He found all of them adorable, especially the ones that traveled around the rims of your ears. Maybe he’d tell you that one day soon. Like this, he could almost forget the anxiety attempting to claw its way through his ribcage and get lost in warmth of your skin beneath his lips and at the mercy of his tongue. He moved slowly, probably too slowly but eh, he was rusty. He barely remembered any of the other experiences and, truthfully, he didn’t care to in the least. He would be more than fine pretending they had never happened.

“Daryl.”

He shivered at the sound of his name falling from those lips. The same ones that were parted and panting while fingers twisted in his hair, urging him onward. He kissed across the swell of your right breast, tongue teasing a circle around the nipple before he pulled it between his teeth and bit down. The sound you made was intoxicating and he was plenty willing to elicit more of the same from you just before he felt your hips press down and grind against him, successfully making him see stars and release his hold on you in favor of hissing between his teeth. 

Feeling him go rigid, you sat up straight, breathing heavily. “What’s wrong?” You panted, tucking his hair behind his ears while searching his face for answers. “Are you okay?” 

Daryl blinked a few times before finally realizing you were talking to him in close proximity. “Uh—yeah. Yeah, m’fine.”

You narrowed your eyes. He was still completely tense, his fingers digging into your back with enough force to bruise. “Do you want to stop?” 

“No. S’just—”

“Just what?” You watched him closely. So far, he’d yet to move but then his hands were sliding down your back to firmly grasp your hips and— “Oh. Oh!” Sudden understanding rang clear when proof of his desire for you could be felt through the fabric of his trousers. Your brain warred between smugness and sympathy. You had made him feel that way but it had been so long that it had taken him by surprise. “What do you want to do from here?” Whisking away a section of hair that had fallen back into his face, you otherwise remained still. 

“Get up.” He stated hoarsely. It came out a little rougher than he’d meant, but you’d obeyed so he wouldn’t linger on it. 

You sat in the center of the bed and watched him stand. You were grateful for what little you had done, for the things he had shared with you. If this was how he chose to end the scenario, you would smile and support him fully. There could be a next time. He was obviously attracted to you. This was enough. Whatever he felt comfortable giving you was enough. 

Crawling to the top of the old bed, you pulled down the covers on the other side before reaching for your discarded clothing. You stopped less than halfway through the motion when you heard the zipper of his pants. Looking back to him, you found him toeing off his boots while his undone trousers remained on his hips. For the moment. 

“Daryl?”

“C’mere.” He beckoned you with a finger, curling it under your chin as you crawled closer. The archer bent to meet you halfway and captured your lips in a desperate embrace, pushing down his trousers and stepping out of them. The kiss continued even as he struggled to remove one sock at a time, balancing on one leg and causing you to giggle against his mouth. “Shuddup.” He retorted with no real heat. Finally both hands came to cradle your face and gently pull your back. 

“You okay?” You slurred, eyes dark and lips swollen. 

“Yeah.” Daryl tucked a strand of hair behind your ear, trying to catch his breath as he took a moment to just drink you in. “S’not gonna be—”

“I don’t care.” Careful to keep your eyes on his face, you guided him to sit with his back against the headboard, throwing a leg across his lap to hover over him. It would be over quickly. That was a given. But that wasn't the point. “I want whatever you’ll give me, Dixon.” You kissed him gently. “I just want you.”

“Yeah?” The corners of his mouth twitched up into a ghost of a smile. “Ya got me, woman.” 

You both groaned as you lowered onto him, Daryl’s face twisting into such a grimace of barely contained pleasure that you were surprised it wasn’t already over for him. “You good?” Your voice sounded small and breathless even to your own ears, but Daryl’s didn’t seem to be working at all. He gave a jerky nod and pulled you toward him, your foreheads meeting as you both breathed through the new feeling. “Let’s just—stay like this for now, yeah?” Another barely there nod, bumping your heads together. 

Your eyes drifted toward the wall when a walker stumbled into the building. Daryl flinched but didn’t move.  It was hard to ignore a threat that close but as long as you remained quiet, that wall would remain between you and the undead shambling along outside. 

Another tender kiss to his lips before you trailed along his jaw, feeling him exhale shakily against your neck. You allowed your mouth to roam further, your tongue dipping out to taste the salt of his skin over his pulse. You could feel it racing away there, almost vibrating. His fingers flexed on your hips, his breaths now coming in shallow pants. There was a slight tremble to his frame making it clear you couldn’t remain this way much longer lest he combust. You pulled away, cupping his face for your thumbs to gently rub over his cheekbones. You didn’t need to say anything. He nodded in spite of the silence. 

Your breath caught in your throat when you moved, releasing as a low moan as your eyes fluttered closed. He felt sublime. Judging by the choked off noise that came from Daryl, he was feeling exactly the same about you. You kept your movements slow and deliberate. Soon enough, he was rocking up to meet you. 

“You, I—” He was gritting his teeth, sweat beading on his forehead and running down to his chin to drip onto his chest. Still rocking, you placed your finger over his lips and then replaced it with your own. 

“I know. It’s okay.” You whispered. He pushed back on your hips, moving you off of him. You wrapped your fingers around him, pumping in slow, languid strokes. There was a mere heartbeat before he gathered you against him with your arm trapped between you, every muscle and tendon frozen hard in blissful agony with a breathy moan of your name against your shoulder. Oh, how you wished you could see his face as he came undone. His warmth flooded over your hand and onto both your stomach and his, his hold unyielding even as his body twitched and shook while you gently coaxed him down from his high with hushed reassurances and tender kisses against his neck. When the spasms stopped and his hold loosened, you gave him a few moments of just resting against you to catch his breath while your fingers carded idly through his hair. 

“How're you doing, Dixon?” You broke the silence with a calm whisper, slightly leaning away to encourage him to move. Daryl carefully laid back against the headboard, eyes still closed and looking more relaxed than you’d ever seen him. “Hey.”

His tired blue eyes slowly opened, blinking lazily before settling on you. “Hey.” When he brought up a hand to graze his knuckles over your cheek, it seemed to be too heavy for him to hold long. His arm fell back to the bed a moment later. “M’sorry.” He mumbled, a furious blush deepening the color of his already flushed face. 

“For?”

He scoffed. “Obvious, ain’t it?” 

“It was perfect.” When he grunted in response, you laughed quietly. You smiled, kissed his cheek, then you crawled off of him. Before he could even focus on the mess left behind, you had returned with a packet of WetWipes from your pack. They were expired and not very damp but got the job done. 

It was hard not to focus on your touch while you worked, so he opted to reach for a strand of your hair, curling it around his finger tightly. You carried on cleaning both of you up like it was just a natural thing, Daryl’s face reddening once again when you went about wiping him down like you had seen him naked a hundred times. 

He leaned toward you to reach for your shoulder, sliding his fingertips over your warm skin. You grasped his hand to press a gentle but chaste kiss to his palm before standing to retrieve your clothes. You were smiling when you turned back. 

You were pulling your shirt down over your head as Daryl fastened his belt and sat down on the mattress to lace up his boots. Sleeping naked was not an option when beyond the walls of your home unless you didn’t mind leaving those things behind and showing up at the gates in the nude. 

Opting to leave your jacket on the floor, you crawled up to the pillow and laid down. Daryl did the final checks to make sure everything was secure and then returned to sit against the headboard, clearly offering to take first watch. For a man that had just experienced his first orgasm in years, he sure was tense. 

“Why don’t I take first?” You offered. You climbed up to mimic his position. Daryl looked like he might argue but soon nodded and moved down the bed putting his left arm behind his head.  

Finding just a smidge of courage, you reached over to toy with a long strand of his hair. “So.”

“So?” He titled his head back a little to look up at you. 

“That a—one time thing?” 

The archer lowered his head again, looking back to the ceiling directly above him. “Did ya want it to be?”

“Nope.” 

“Then it weren’t.” 

“Good.” 

“Good.”

“Great.”

“Do it again in the mornin’?”

“Absolutely.”

[britany1997]

Let’s Motor

I genuinely wasn’t expecting the response to Rev Your Engines that I got, I was feeling very insecure about my writing when I posted it and I’m crying that y’all loved it so much😭 (read part one here)

I’ve also decided on subsequent fics to indicate when I won’t be writing any more parts, so this will be the final part to this series:) hope y’all love it!

Pre-read by my motorcycle expert adopted brother @pixielostboy 🥰

Poly! Lost boys x GN motor expert reader

🦇🦇🦇🦇🦇🦇🦇🦇🦇🦇🦇🦇🦇🦇🦇🦇🦇

You rolled out from under your 1953 Buick wildcat, smearing your hand across your face as you attempted to wipe it clean of oil.

When you’d finished your shift for the night, your boss was kind enough to let you use the shop’s tools to fix up your own ride.

The tune ups were going well, but you still took your Harley to work instead, hopeful you’d run into the strange group of rockers from a few days ago.

You checked your watch and sighed. Lately you’d tended to drag your feet, just in case the biker boys did drop by, but after days of waiting, you’d finally decided they weren’t coming.

That is until you heard the familiar mumbling of four motors pulling up behind you. You chuckled to yourself as you pulled a bandana from your back pocket to wipe your brow and turned around.

Your face fell as you realized the sight in front of you was not the four weirdos you were hoping to meet again, but another group of leather clad bikers.

You sighed and turned back to pack up your things.

“Expectin’ someone?”

You whipped your head around to lock eyes with a smirking Paul, leaning against a broken down truck one of your coworkers had been fixing up.

“Hello again,” you raised an eyebrow as you wiped down your tools, “where ya been?”

“Been busy sugar,” he explained, “didn’t mean we didn’t wanna come.”

Your lips turned up against your will as you shrugged in reply, “maybe I wanted to see you guys too.”

Paul’s face lit up at your words.

“Why didn’t I hear your bike pull up?” you asked.

“Got one of those silent mufflers, bike don’t make a sound,” he told you.

Your brow furrowed in confusion. Silent mufflers? “What?”

“Kidding babe, just didn’t wanna move the bikes from the boardwalk, I uh walked over.”

You scoffed, “isn’t it like a five mile walk?”

Paul rubbed the back of his neck nervously, “yeah I uh, I walk fast.”

You snorted, “whatever Paulie, you want a ride back on my bike?”

“Yes please,” he sing-songed as he practically skipped over to your side.

You mounted your Harley before Paul slid in behind you. “Hold on tight yeah?” you told him.

“Don’t gotta tell me twice sugar,” he said as his arms slid around your middle. He squeezed your sides gently causing you to flinch.

“Maybe not that tight,” you laughed.

Paul moved his hands to rest on your hips as you nudged up your kickstand with your heel before reving your engine and taking off down the road.

The short drive to the boardwalk gave Paul’s hands many opportunities to wander from your hips, but luckily for him you didn’t mind too much.

You parked your bike to the side of Max’s video as both you and Paul slid off and walked toward the three other boys loitering near the pier.

“Well, well, well,” David smirked as he took a drag, “just couldn’t stay away could ya?”

You scoffed in mock offense, “excuse me, but this one,” you jerked your thumb towards Paul, “tracked me down at work for you idiots.”

David threw his cigarette to the ground and stomped it out, “maybe we needed you to fix up one of our bikes again.”

You snorted, “they look fine to me.”

Dwayne rolled his eyes, “sorry about him, we really did just want to see you.”

You blushed as your gaze fell to the gorgeous brunette man’s shoes, “I kinda wanted to see you guys again too.”

“Wanna race?” Marko blurted out, bouncing on his heels in excitement.

Your head snapped up, “race? Race where?” you asked.

“Hudson’s bluff,” David spoke up, “you know it?”

“Yeah I know it,” you paused for a second, “what does the winner get?”

“A kiss from you,” Paul said smirking, as he leaned an elbow on your shoulder.

You rolled your shoulder, causing his elbow to slide right off you, “and what do I get if I win?” you asked.

“Four kisses,” Paul winked.

You rolled your eyes, “if I win I want…” you trailed off as you thought to yourself.

A lightbulb went off in your head, “I want that,” you decided as you pointed at David’s long black trenchcoat.

David’s jaw dropped, not usually one to be caught off guard, “…you want my coat?”

He regained his senses, “absolutely not, no.”

You pouted in mock sympathy, “scared you’re gonna lose Davey?”

He scoffed, “never.”

You shrugged, “then you’ve got nothing to worry about right?”

David bit his lip and weighed his options. There were four of them and only one of you. How could one little human beat four vicious vampires? You didn’t stand a chance.

David smirked and stuck out his hand, “deal.”

You smiled as you shook his hand, “alright then.”

It didn’t take the five of you long to clamor onto your bikes and line up parallel to each other.

“You’re going down,” Marko whispered from the left of you as Dwayne counted down.

You smirked, “we’ll see.”

As soon as Dwayne bellowed “go,” you were off.

You whipped through the beach, kicking up sand as you rode and making a mental note to clean your wheels later. Paul and David had an early lead, with you and Marko not far behind.

Dwayne trailed behind the four of you, but you suspected it wasn’t for lack of ability but more to teach David a lesson. Either way, you appreciated it.

As you turned off into the forest you pulled past Paul, flicking a wave in his direction as you left him in the dust. You smiled as you heard a soft gasp behind you from the shocked blond boy.

You leaned forward, your brow furrowing as you accelerated until you were neck and neck with David.

“Give up? You could still keep your coat,” you taunted him, keeping your eyes trained on the road.

“Not on your life.” he spit through gritted teeth.

“Suit yourself,” you replied as you pushed forward on the throttle, weaving in front of David and pulling up at the edge of the cliff.

David pulled to a stop in disbelief, “you…how did you…” he sputtered as he tried to make sense of what had just happened.

You smiled, “increased the size of my rear sprocket by two teeth awhile back, helps the bike accelerate quicker,” you explained.

“Why didn’t you say anything babe?” Paul inquired as he parked next to the two of you.

You shrugged, “you never asked,”

“Pretty smart if you ask me,” Marko admitted as he joined as well, “I woulda done that too.”

“Looks like you’ve got a jacket to hand over huh David?” Dwayne teased as he came around to David’s side, playing with the hem of the coat.

David’s face flushed red as he realized. He moved to take the coat off when you stopped him, placing a hand on his.

“No need,” you assured him, “the look on your face is a good enough prize for me.”

David grumbled as the other boys dissolved into fits of laughter.

“You’re a good time babe,” Paul nudged you with his elbow, “we live just down there if you’d like to come in for a drink,” he offered smoothly as the others exchanged knowing glances.

“Sure,” you smiled, “I could go for a drink.”

🦇🦇🦇🦇🦇🦇🦇🦇🦇🦇🦇🦇🦇🦇🦇🦇🦇

Taglist❤️:

@pixielostboy @bloodywickedvamp @6lostgirl6 @anna1306 @misslavenderlady @sidefanficaccounttohidemyshame @paulxbathbomd @peachpixiesstuff @ria-coolgirl @flower-crowned-lady @lostboys1987girl @ghoulgeousimmaculate @feardot-com @softchonk @gothamslostboy @arenpath @bitchyexpertprincess @memphiscity69 @kurt-nightcrawler @solobagginses @mickkmaiden333 @arbesa-mind @warrior-616 @consuming-karma @dwaynedelight @vampirefilmlover @its-freaking-bats @dwaynesluscioushair @hallotonia

[scaly-freaks]

inmate 13453

okay don't get excited, i just felt like writing a bit of a drabble to feel out the atmosphere of a potential start to this au (clicking the tag will give up the other stuff i've posted for it btw)

btw check out the playlist and the pinterest board made by @theageofsilver and @allicentsallure bc they're fab

cw: kidnapping

Soft seventeen.

Bambi eyes, bambi legs.

There’s a certain edge to the way people describe the age she’s at. Not quite eighteen, not quite legal, tangible as cherry juice on greedy fingers. She isn’t sixteen, sweet and tender. It’s a soft first step into adulthood, skirting the border, the in between, the unknowable horrors that lie ahead.

She fucking hates being seventeen.

It’s a shit number first of all. Odd numbers make her want to spew. They feel like nails on a chalkboard, polyester static on leg hair. She can’t even dance, so whatever ABBA are singing about doesn’t apply.

Amara sticks out her tongue and tastes the air as the breeze blows west. She swears she can get a sense of the world when she does.

Her stepfather mocks her for it. That blue-eyed, blonde maniac with the ugly Buick Electra he treats like a brand-name Italian from the southern coasts of Europe. He used to treat her mother the same. Until he began to tell Amara you look just like her when she was young. He leaves his porn tabs open on his computer, as if he wants her to know. ‘Teen’, ‘Latina’, ‘Stepfather’, ‘Rough’, ‘Face-fucking’, ‘Breeding.’

She doesn’t have a drop of Hispanic blood in her.

She really wants to tell her mother, but there is a chance her mother will look right through her instead. She’s been doing that a lot more nowadays. They can’t afford her meds anymore. She just sits on the porch and watches and waits. For what, is anyone's guess.

>> can you pick me up?

>> its dark

>> pls

>> sorry ik its inconvienant

'Step-Daddy' always replies quickly when it’s her. He has a heart next to her name on his phone. She never agreed to that.

>> it’s spelled inconvenient

“Suck my dick,” Amara tells the screen and switches her phone off before he can message again.

She can walk.

The route back runs dangerously close to the edge of the forest. All kinds rot away in there, but she doesn’t like to think of them by name. They’ll become real if she does. She wishes her mother had found a man who lived in the wetlands, and not here at the cursed border between life and the realm beyond. Marshes are easier to understand. Forests are cursed.

Still, life is horribly simple here. Her high school is placid and filled with the dull-eyed children of dull-eyed adults. The gas station where she works didn’t bother to interview her. She walked in and the guy behind the counter stared at her breasts until he remembered she had a face. Her breasts aced the interview for her.

Can I work here? Just until I graduate.

Sure, grab a nametag.

Four months later, and she doesn’t mind it anymore. Her brain shuts off. Her customers are a ragtag mixture of suspicious, ferret-eyed locals and the occasionally buoyant hiker from out of state. If she doesn’t look like she belongs, she’s pretty, and that usually gives people like her a pass. At least until the sleazy comments become ethnically charged. But even then, Amara has a way of making her eyes go ‘dopey’ and just smiling like she’s too slow to understand. Displaying discomfort is what eggs them on (kind of a nasty realisation she opened her eyes to one day).

An engine growls some way down the road.

Old Chevy pickup, faded gold.

She recognises it from the parking lot at the station near the end of her shift.

A guy stepped out, young, early twenties, with a shock of hair that looked white until she realised it was just really, really blonde. She remembers thinking it was odd. The range of blondes in town runs from deep and dirty to the artificial bleach rattled out of holographic boxes of dye. No one has hair like his. She’d have noticed.

His eyebrows were a little darker, and his lashes were darker still. He had a funny way of walking, and he looked at her like she had the head of a fish and the body of a human being. Amara did her best dopey eyes. She asked him if he’d had a good day, pointed out the offers they had on pork rinds. He didn’t say a word. His skin had smears of black grease, glistening with sweat and bronzed by the sun.

Deep blue eyes.

Horribly deep.

Not the kind you’d want to swim in. She likes a softer blue, blue like chlorine, reminiscent of the safety of swimming pools. His were anything but.

She picks up her speed, and for some reason, puts her phone to her ear as if mid-conversation. Nothing about him said he was dangerous at the time. At least not from the way he’d barely said a word or looked down at her body. He was just there, and then he was gone.

And now here he is again.

The Chevy hits the horn. He is creeping closer. Amara turns and waves at him to go on. She doesn’t want a ride. Why isn’t he rolling down the window to offer one though?

It slows to a crawl. Her throat closes up. She has a feeling speeding up will give him what he wants. He’s obviously trying to be a prick. But if she goes back to talk to him, that would be exponentially worse. She switches her phone back on and sees her stepfather’s message telling her to get back home herself after she didn’t reply to tell him her location.

She quickly shoots him a message, and prays he’ll respond.

He doesn’t.

Fuck it.

She walks faster. The Chevy matches the increase. Sweat blooms on the back of her neck.

Every woman has that oh fuck moment. That I’m going to be on the evening news moment. The please god if he catches me let him kill me before he gets to raping me moment.

None of that goes through her head. She keeps thinking of her mother’s cooking. Her mother hasn’t cooked in a year and a half, not since her mind began to slip. But Amara can taste the spices on her tongue, the way the rice was perfectly simmered, the cinnamon in the back of her throat, the smell that clung to the walls, the heat of it.

I wanna come home, Momma.

Her mother’s face gathers into shape in her head, built with sand particles and saltwater. When the Chevy roars, she starts running. Her mother vanishes.

The lights of the truck blink across the tarmac. It’s a signal. But it isn’t for her.

She looks over her shoulder, and she can’t see him.

Run me over. Leave me like carrion on the road. Let the maggots eat me. Don’t cut me up first.

He slows when she starts to tire out. Picks up when she tries again. No other car has graced this road since she first turned onto it. A sign points her to the right, ushering her deeper into the backwoods. The town is to the left.

He figures out where she’s going when she suddenly makes a dash for the bend in the road.

There’s no time to dodge the pickup when it goes for her this time. The wheels skid as he yanks it at an angle and blocks her way. The door flies open and misses her by an inch. His arm grabs for her. She dodges, animal fear and rust on her tongue. He still doesn’t say a word.

A heavy fist connects with the small of her back and she drops like a stone.

The pain is electric. Air turns her lungs into taut balloons, but she can’t make a sound. She twists around and the bruise forming over her spine grates. Adrenaline quickly numbs it as she lashes out with her arms and legs. Kicking, punching, scratching, biting. Her teeth hit home. A mouthful of tattooed flesh, car oil and sweat. Still no sound from him.

She never sees the fist coming, just like last time.

A blow to the head and lights out, nancy.

[cityofmeliora]

Ghost and Southern California

i'm from California, so a lot of the locations in the Ghost lore are familiar to me! i wanna use this post to show / explain Ghost being set in the Los Angeles area.

though it hadn't been explicitly stated yet then, there are actually hints that Ghost is based in Southern California as early as Chapter 4: The Accident. when Sister Imperator is driving, you can see palm trees on the hills along the road. of course, lots of places have palm trees, but the specific combination of palm trees with the rocky cliffs and sparse vegetation feels distinctly Californian to me.

the Dance Macabre music video shows Nihil met Sister Imperator at a mansion in LA (as explained by the intro). don't know the exact location, but if i had to guess, i'd place it maybe somewhere in Beverly Hills, which has a lot of mansions like this.

the Kiss The Go-Goat music video again confirms that they're in Los Angeles. it features the Whisky a Go Go, a real music venue in West Hollywood. the Mary On A Cross animated music video accurately places it on a corner along the Sunset Strip.

the Mary On A Cross lyric video shows Sister Imperator walking through the Ministry building before leaving to see the show at the Whisky a Go Go. this is another indicator the Ministry building is in the LA area since it's within driving distance of the venue. scenes in the Ministry building are filmed at a real mausoleum northeast of LA, but i'm not going to name the location because the Ministry is supposed to be a fictional building. interestingly, the lyric video also gives us the exact time of the concert.

after the events of Kiss The Go-Goat, the Mary On A Cross animated music video starts with Sister Imperator driving to her house, which is in the Hollywood Hills neighborhood near the Hollywood Sign. you can see from the road that they're in the hills looking over the city.

then Sister Imperator and Papa Nihil run from their house to the Hollywood Sign. there are hiking trails that go from the surrounding neighborhoods up to the Hollywood Sign. you can go behind it just like they do in the video.

Sister Imperator and Papa Nihil cross a body of water that is most likely the Hollywood Reservoir, although the video places the Hollywood Sign west of the lake instead of east, as in real life.

Sister Imperator and Papa Nihil make out in a cemetery (which i did not attempt to locate) and then end up at a motel. this is not a real motel, though. it's the Bates Motel movie set at Universal Studios Hollywood. i laughed so hard because recognized it instantly in Rite Here Rite now. (i've been on the same tour that the Nameless Ghouls were on.) Universal Studios Hollywood is both a theme park and an actual film studio. there are people filming when Nihil calls Mr. Psaltarian to come pick him up in the The Future Is A Foreign Land music video.

so to summarize some of the locations in those videos: the Whisky a Go Go, Hollywood Sign, and Universal Studios are highlighted in yellow. the red outline on the map shows the boundary of the Hollywood Hills neighborhood. the Hollywood Reservoir is the body of water in the middle of it.

The Future Is A Foreign Land music video and Chapter 13: The Beach Life feature Mr. Psaltarian's beach house, which is on the Pacific Coast Highway in Malibu. though there are beach houses all along the SoCal coast, Malibu is closest to LA, and is pretty much the only place where houses are that close to the water without some kind of barrier. it's a real house and i've driven past it. i know the exact location but i'm not sharing it, for obvious reasons.

here is Malibu on a map relative to Los Angeles:

as a side note, it appears Cardi now drives Mr. Psaltarian's old car, a 1968 Buick LeSabre convertible. it has California license plates, of course, but the plates must have been replaced at some point, since that California license plate design wasn't in use until 1988.

lastly, Rite Here Rite Now is set at The Forum (now called KIA Forum), which is in Inglewood near the LAX airport. Inglewood is technically its own city, but it's completely surrounded by LA.

when Rite Here Rite Now released, TF said in an interview that it's "common knowledge" that Ghost is based in LA. i found it a bit funny because i've read very few Ghost fanfics that are actually set in LA, so i don't know how 'common' that knowledge really is, LOL. but i hope this post helps!

WHAT WAS BEHIND THE DECISION TO SHOOT THE FILM AT THE FORUM IN L.A.? TOBIAS FORGE: [...] There’s this common knowledge that the HQ of the band seems to be in L.A. So the Forum is not only a classic venue, but it’s sort of their home turf. Had we placed the story someplace else, we would’ve had to justify: Why are they there? Why is this show special? Revolver (June 2024)

[thegentlemansresurgence]

Ok, I will ask anything, thanks for the invitation on your blog to do so. I am randomly asking men who use the moniker of gentleman on their blogs to tell me what they think defines a gentleman. I am so interested to know if the term has morphed. It isn't used so much in current conversations, but I love this term and would like to if the essence is the same in a man's mind's eye. I do not however, have the same fondness for the term Lady! Ok if not interested in answering but if you are just let me know what you think are the key qualities, behaviors, thoughts etc a gentleman should possess. Thanks and take good care

Apologies, but this is going to be a long drawn out answer because I'm also going to take this opportunity to brag on my grandpa.

My grandfather would be my definition of a gentleman. Papa Esley was a tall wiry man, but his biceps and tricep were ripped. He was only 6'3" but as a child it seemed like I was looking up at a sequoia tree. He had a slightly offset nose from his boxing days, and missing middle finger from his days in a textile mill.

Papa Esley always dressed well. Always in dress pants, a long sleeve button up shirt and wingtips. If he was going to work on something he'd take his dress shirt off and sport his wife beater. Occasionally he wore a fedora, had an old leather band watch. Drove a 1970 pea green Buick skylark. He said he got that color cause it looked just as nice when the pollen covered it.

If you can’t tell Papa Esley was my hero. I tried to dress like him, walk like him, talk like him and once and only once, had a haircut like him.

He took me to Oney's barbershop. I remember a handful of men arguing over current events, their wives spending money and sports. Papa loved to bring up Mike Tyson. It was finally my turn to hop in Oney's chair. Oney never asked how you wanted it. Oney gave one haircut, high and tight! I gave the man my $7 and back home we went. Mom was not near as excited about my new haircut as I was.

In 7th grade I shattered my ankle playing basketball. A few days later papa slipped getting out of the shower and broke his femur. Mom took care of both of us.

He had two twin beds in his bedroom. It hadn't changed much since Mema died in 1985. I asked why the twin beds. He told me after 9 kids they figured they might need to try something different. He knew I didn't want to hear it and he'd laugh and laugh.

So in his bedroom we both sat up with our right legs slightly elevated and he started sharing his pearls of wisdom:

Never turn down a piece of gum, your breath probably stinks.

Take your hat off when you meet someone.

Have a firm handshake.

Maintain eye contact.

Introduce yourself and say nice to meet you.

Always say yes sir, no ma'am.

Give your chair up if a woman is standing, it also applied to a person that is older than you.

The only people you should get even with are the ones who've helped you.

Loosen the lug nuts on a flat tire before you jack the car up.

This is how you date, this is how you conduct yourself, this is how you barter, this why you work hard, etc etc

This instance it was mostly one sided but I tried to slide a question or two in when I could. Some he would answer, some he would not. Questions about the war he said he would not discuss. “I had to do things I don't want to talk about, I saw things I don't even have words to describe.”

I learned that he met Mema at a state fair. Trying to impress her, he jumped into the ring with a bear... Papa Esley said he got a few good licks in but knew once the bear's paws hit him, he'd be in trouble... but obviously was a great icebreaker.

I'll tell one more cause it's a moment that sticks with me.

Papa Esley told me to never have sex with a woman I wasn't willing to raise a child with, cause that's a possibility. He explained the consequences, and how my life would no longer be the top priority. I left that day know full well where he stood on the issue.

It wasn't long after that a young girl close to my age showed up at church... pregnant. She sat upfront on the left side, alone. I don't have to paint the picture, you know there were whispers throughout the church that day. I watched my grandfather grab his Bible and go sit with her. He whispered something in her ear, put his arm around her, gave a squeeze and then looked back to the preacher.

We went to Papa's house every Sunday after church. I followed him outside... I had questions. I knew how papa felt about sex before marriage but he didn't react the way I imagined he would.

Papa, what did you say to the girl? He said I introduced myself, told her the good thing about being in a small church is everyone knows your business. The bad thing about being apart of a small church is everyone knows your business. I will help you however I can and gave her a hug.

With his actions my Papa Esley, showed love and compassion to a girl who needed it. That woman still comes every Sunday.

Papa Esley looked the part, and lived it. If he could help, he helped. If he felt strongly about something, he'd stand his ground, regardless of the consequences. He was a man of character, patience, humble and disciplined. The thing I admire the most is there was little doubt that he loved his wife. I loved how they always held hands, sometimes even when they were arguing 🤣

[ravensnpennies]

The Birthday of My Beloved Furchild and His Origin Story

Today is the day I celebrate Nimbus's birthday. I found him in 2014. He's changed my life for the better over that decade. I want to tell you the story of the day I brought him home.

It was hot. I remember that. I had my windows open and "God's AC" was going full-blast. The pain of dealing with the loss of my grandmother and the worry of homelessness was eating away at my sanity. The grief was so much I felt it might eat a hole right through me. I could not content with it.

Black despair the likes of which I hadn't felt in decades consumed my every waking though. Food was ash in my mouth and every drink was bitter and bile-filled. I was breaking and I wasn't sure I'd be able to survive. It was too much. The sheer...weight of what happened was destroying me.

I first heard the cries of a kitten three days prior one afternoon. I ignored it. Not my problem. But the cries persisted and persisted and slowly they got weaker. Whatever is in me that drives me made the call: I either help and investigate or live with that guilt forever. I did the former.

The sound was so faint by now. So soft and pleading. It took me almost 20 minutes to locate them coming from the neighbor's Buick "Sunday ride." He was not home at the time and his wife hated that car so when I asked to investigate she tossed me the keys. The sound was definitely coming from within.

I finally located the cat deep in the engine. Took me almost an hour but I went full on wrecking crew and dissembled it to get to him. It was a tiny, dirty kitten. He cried so much, but didn't fight. I wrapped him up in a towel, handed the keys back, and headed home with my smudged furry prize.

No, I wasn't keeping this animal. I'd saved it. That was enough. I'd take it to a no-kill shelter in the morning. I managed to get them to eat some food from a medicine dropper and then put them in a warm cozy place to sleep.

But he looked at me. Gawd, he looked at me and a cat can look at a king and he said clear as day, "Please, please let me stay? I will love you and care for you and I will be there for you every day. I will take your tears and I will purr at you to soothe your fears. Will you please let me stay?"

And God help me, I did. I didn't know how much I'd need him in the long run. How much of a change he'd bring to my life. How he kept his word and become this tiny little guardian. A lion in the body of a housecat. An angel come to Earth. But I didn't know how special he was - not till later.

You see, only a few years prior I almost died and because of organ damage I became diabetic. I'm brittle. It's rough. You make do. But something about Nimbus...something neither of us expected helped. He could tell when my glucose changed. Better, he found a way to communicate it to me.

But that wasn't all. The first time he woke me from a near diabetic coma I thought it was a fluke. He bit me till I woke up and then I dealt with it. The second time? There was something going on. When my glucose smelled like something he didn't like he would get my attention.

Usually knocking off my diabetes kit to the ground. He saved my life from extreme hypoglycemic attacks four times over the years. I'm talking EMT and ER time. Not just a low. As he grew older I realized how smart he really was. It was baffling. He wasn't any special breed or type. He was just a cat.

But he grew up big and and strong and smart as hell. He quickly grasped fuzzy concepts and relationships. He understood what I told him. I'd say a word and explain it to him and point/associate and then he'd remember. I estimate his intelligence around the 4-5 year old level. He's THAT smart.

I guess I just wanted to celebrate him a little. He deserves it. He's not just my companion, he's my child and I love and cherish him so dearly it makes my heart ache. He makes me crazy some days, but when I say I would die for this cat I mean that in the very literal sense of that phrase.

There are some other things he does. He's my work "rubberduck" - you have no idea how many hours we've spent together talking and solving problems with my writing/design. He also knows when my sleep gets stupid and reminds me. And another big one: I have night terrors. He helps.

He'll wake me up and calm me down until I can think and he just stays there till I'm as soothed as can be. He employs Aurora (our girl kitteh) as an enforcer. If I do anything he doesn't like, he goes to here, something passes between the,, then she yells until I do $whatever.

And some have asked me about how he checks my glucose. I managed to capture it tonight (and uploaded it). It's really this simple for the most part.

I love you so much, son. So damn much. And I'll always take care of you no matter what. You are not a pet. You are family and family don't begin or end with blood, much less species. To the next decade, you lovely beast.

[davycoquette]

the interview 2/3

PART ONE

Gingerly stepping over Robert Barclay's stiffening corpse, I cross the kitchen to pick up the phone hanging on the wall. The dial tone buzzes, filling my ear like the droning of flies. Bile gurgles into my throat, and I hang up so I can swallow it back down.

I sink to my haunches, dropping my notebook and recorder. My fingers claw through my hair and I curl into myself. My mantra goes, "Oh, God. Jesus. Fuck."

A deep groan answers from behind me.

My heart launches into my mouth and I pirouette out of my crouch. I only manage to twist and land on my ass, then crab-walk a few paces from Robert Barclay’s corpse. This is the first good look I’ve gotten at his face. He looks like one of those wax figures in a museum, but on a day when the AC’s busted. His eyes stand wide open and his mouth is agape, resin teeth slanted like they're ready to drop out. One hand is stretched out toward me and the other is curled into his chest.

"Rob? Rob, are you…" Still in there?

It's gas escaping. Some crime scene investigator I talked to a couple years back mentioned this happened when we were gearing up for the interview. It always stuck with me, popping into my conscience intermittently. Death is embarrassing. It's always embarrassed me. I don't know why.

His body gives a little squeak and I gag.

I guess someday this is gonna be me. Maybe someday soon. This is why my momma calls all the time. She thinks I'm gonna overdose, and some jackass is gonna walk in on me stiff on a floor somewhere.

R. Barclay's sounds have attracted his little terrier, and it's sniffing around his face. I summon it away with a click of my tongue and put my hand out. It scurries over with its nubby tail going fast and licks at my fingers, and I scrub its saliva over the crown of its head before picking myself up off the floor.

Robert Barclay is one of those writers who’ll remain a household name. They already make you read one of his books when you're in high school. He's a 'great American' author, and I'll be the forgotten asshole who missed the chance to do his last interview.

If I just got here yesterday, I think. Or did he kick it yesterday?

I look at his little dog, and it sort of looks back at me with its beady eyes that skew in opposite directions.

"Where's your food at, baby?" I ask, and it turns in a tight circle. "Ready to eat? You want breakfast?"

More circles.

I start going through cabinets, but I'm met with leaning towers of pots and pans and plastic containers in each one. He can't have used any of this shit in years. Poor old guy's probably been living on crackers and buffet cafeterias. He never had kids. Never married.

Up until now, he'd been driving himself — I saw his Buick out front where I parked my Amigo. It was like any other geezer's car: beat up around the bumper. Grey, enormous.

The little dog tires of my searching and tap-dances over to a plastic bin near the sliding door where Robert Barclay has his breakfast nook. There's hard bread crumbs on the glass-top table, a few little ants scurrying up and down the wall.

I scoop some kibble out of the bin and deposit it in the dog's food bowl. It lets me check the tag on its collar while it's scarfing the little cardboard flavored nuggets down. Raisin. The name is familiar, I realize; the little author biography blurb I read when I took the job mentioned something about R. Barclay living alone with his dog, Raisin.

While Raisin crunches kibbles, I stand and lean against the counter.

"I was gonna ask if you were working on anything," I tell Rob's body. "And if you ever thought your books were gonna be required reading for schoolkids."

Raisin dislodges a kibble with a wet sounding cough.

"I was gonna ask who you like reading these days."

I scrub my hand over my forehead, rake my fingers through my hair. My hand drops and I stare down at him. "Who do you like reading these days, Rob?"

A clock above the sink ticks as I stand over him. I haven't done much else since breaking in apart from feeding his dog. When he didn't come to the door, I'd stepped down off the concrete slab of his porch to shield my eyes and peer through his living room window, and I could see his silhouette on the kitchen floor from the front of the house. His place is situated out in the countryside, not a neighbor in sight. He doesn't lock his windows, so I let myself in so I could use his phone to call the ambulance.

But there's no hurry. It's not like I want to spend more time than I have to with this unexpectedly stiff and cold version of Robert Barclay, but there's a little part of me that's irrationally concerned I'll be blamed for his death. I have to talk myself down from that ledge: you had an appointment. He's been dead for hours, at least. What motive could you have possibly had? I guess I'm already anxious about what Jason's gonna say; it makes everything feel like one grand conspiracy to ruin me.

I've got some pills in my Isuzu Amigo parked outside. Standing there with my hip leaned against R. Barclay's kitchen counter, I think I better go pop one or four. I'll seem more collected, less suspicious, when the cops get here.

…Will they send cops?

PART THREE

[transfemme-floofer]

I was dusting the house as normal, like I did every week when I saw a strange golden card note on the kitchen table labelled “for my first ancilla”

“Strange” I thought, Mistress Luci was not normally like this, sure she was affectionate at times, but that’s normal for humans to feel that way about their pets. Curious, I opened it, it said: “3pm, on the private beach, near the cove, dress your best”

The time came and I walked down the garden and down the cobbled steps onto the beach. I was dressed in Merrel sandals instead of the standard Imperial Serva heeled sandals, a pink and white pleated skirt given as a gift for good behaviour instead of my summer cherry skirt or my standard issue skirt , a Very Special Occasion (MEO-Mucha Especial Ocasión) scented wick away slave blouse instead of the standard version, and a Peugeot love heart shaped chain link Titanium alloy collar instead of the standard oval chain link medicollar

Mistress looked at me up and down like five times before saying a word. “You’re… beautiful” she finally said, clearly rendered speechless. I curtsy in front of her, “thank you Domina” i replied, remembering to use Latin as well as my native British “where are we going” she had no obligation to reply and so kept silent as we walked to the cove admiring the waves and the cool afternoon, until I could see it, her Amphibicar Fiat Chariot (think like an Italian Ford Crown Victoria or Opel Omega), those things had been around 2610 AUC (1867), but this was a 22nd generation rear mid engined 2766 (2012) Amphibian vehicle variant (itself in it’s 10th generation since 2680 (1947)) with a 5.5L Ferrari Turbo V8, modular and hydraulically adjustable bench seats front and rear, four wheel drive courtesy of Lancia and a luxurious 3-speed hydraulic automatic transmission (with three electro-locked overdrive gears tacked on in the 2760 refresh for fuel and performance, as well as to hide its age) yanked out of the Buick Sappho coupe “Mistress this is wonderful” I turned to see her and say thank you, but found her on one knee

“Julia, I have legally submitted a form for us to be married, so that you won’t have to worry about losing me, your first constant and comfort in a long time” she pulled out a finger print scanner, “all I need is your fingerprint”, I pressed down excitedly, then my tabula got a notification

“Married to Doctor Luciana Antonia Presenti MD, PhD”

And another, from Fiat Intelligencia Automobilli “Authorised Guest of Luciana Presenti’s Intelligent Control System on her 2766 Fiat Chariot”

Mistress added on, “use it wisely”

I oblige “Fiat, open doors-“

Mistress chides playfully “No slave, stupid slut, type it out in the app”

I open the app and find the command room, where I find Mistress had already done test runs, I type in, “open driver door and say “welcome Domina””. It does so flawlessly and without hesitation. Mistress blushed “thanks pet, really appreciate it” she found the 2730s Buick touchscreen still in there with updated visuals and apps, but the same size of the screen and the same working concept. She typed in, “open passenger left back door and give the back ambient red gel lights and put on brothel music”. It did so. “very funny mistress”

(Another case of part two when I feel like it)

[usafphantom2]

The SR-71 Was Close to Perfect

A member of the Blackbirds’ ground crew looks back on the airplane’s flight-test beginnings to the end of the Blackbirds

This first photograph was taken of the SR-71 #972 when it was in a hangar near Dullas airport, waiting for the new Smithsonian Air and Space Museum to be open. Photo Eric long. The other two photographs were taken at Palmdale California December 21, 1989.

After a 480-mile flight from Beale Air Force Base in California, the midnight-black airplane swooped down to about 300 feet above Burbank Tower, less than 30 seconds after its scheduled arrival time of 12 noon. It made an easy half-roll, then completed two more passes. The parking garage roof where I stood reverberated with cheers, but as the Blackbird came in for its final pass, a hundred feet off the runway, and then pulled up just beyond the tower, the crowd fell silent. was December 1989, and this flyby, a gift to Lockheed employees from Ben Rich, head of Advanced Development Projects (the Skunk Works), marked the beginning of the end of the SR-71. After much debate in Congress, the Blackbirds were about to be retired. The YF-12A, the earlier, single-seat version of the SR-71, first flew in August 1963 and the Blackbird in December 1964. It was still unsurpassed when it was retired in 1990, 24 years after it officially entered service.

As I watched the SR-71 that December day, I thought back to the airplane’s flight-test beginnings in the early 1960s. I thought of Ben Rich, Ray Passon, Keith Beswick, and so many others whose lives were forever touched by this aircraft. I too was part of the Blackbird team, setting up housing, transportation, and communications—special measures due to the secrecy necessary. And above all of us was designer Kelly Johnson, who had a gift for sharing his ability to innovate and his drive to succeed. The unity of commitment we felt under leadership from Larry Bohanan in engineering and Dorsey Kammerer in production reached new intensity whenever Kelly arrived in the field. Sometimes he would good-naturedly arm-wrestle with people working there. His team members were hand-picked and fiercely loyal to him. He once offered $50 to anybody who could find an easy job to do. He got no takers. When it came to their specialties, the people working on the Blackbird were the best in the company, perhaps in the country or even the world. The last word in reconnaissance airplanes, the SR-71 was capable of flying faster than Mach 3 and above 85,000 feet. In fact, the SR-71 flew so fast that even in the cold of those rarefied heights, the friction of the air heated its titanium skin to 550 degrees Fahrenheit.

On the day the Blackbird took to the air for the first time, many of the ground crews showed up. I had worked all night, but sleep in those days seemed like nothing but a waste of time so I stayed to watch. The weather was perfect for a December day: clear and cold, with snow on the surrounding mountains. Somewhere around 8 a.m. the desert silence was shattered by the sound of the twin Buick V-8 engines used for the starters. Later, when the Blackbirds operated at their base at Beale, they had permanent start facilities in their hangars, but in the early days two highly modified 425-cubic-inch Buick Wildcats, an estimated 500 horsepower each, were used to turn a massive starter shaft that was inverted into the first one, then the other of the SR-71’s J-58 engines. One sound I shall never forgot is that of those unmuffled Buicks holding steady at better than 6,000 rpm in excess of 15 seconds at a time, all hours of the day and night. Starting the engines was no easy job.

Kelly Johnson stood by in his familiar dark blue suit and tie, smiling as he had a final word for the pilots.

Veteran crew chief standing next to me could only murmur, “Her enemies will never be natural.”( that was true. It was jealous people that were her enemy.)

Written by Jim Norris

@Habubrats71 via X

[not-available-for-comment]

So I work in a large institutional building with the sort of basement that Will have roaches, no matter how careful you are or how much you exterminate. Because the building is also very old, these roaches are the size of Buicks and utterly fearless as well. This circumstance has led to a phenomenon I call Winter Bathroom vs Summer Bathroom.

I work on the second floor (first floor for you Europeans), and it gets very cold in the winter. So roaches typically don’t make it to my floor in the winter months because it’s just not worth it compared to the relatively stable warmth of the basement/presumably they don’t survive if they attempt it. Once it starts getting consistently cold, I feel safe using the Winter Bathroom, which is conveniently located only three doors down the hall from me.

However. Ever since the summer when a THREE INCH roach took up residence IN THE TOILET BOWL of my favorite stall (my favorite stall!) and survived repeated dousing with toilet bowl cleaner (!!!) by the janitorial staff and was only evicted when I complained and someone hired an exterminator, I have not felt. Entirely at ease. In the Winter Bathroom during the summer months. I now continue using it until I see an inevitable roach in or near it once properly warm weather arrives, and then it is dead to me until autumn.

Once Roach Watch has posted an alert, I transfer my attentions to the Summer Bathroom. The Summer Bathroom has enough faults to keep it from being my preferred pit stop. It’s about 3x further away, down a different hall, and passes close to an office of people who may try to engage me in awkward conversations that I usually don’t have all my faculties available for if I’m nipping out for a quick piss mid-task. It’s also busier than the Winter Bathroom. However, crucially, the Summer Bathroom is in a slightly newer and much more recently renovated wing of the building, and I have never seen a single roach in or near it.

Anyway, my first roach sighting of the year was last week, so I’ve been working on remembering to use the Summer Bathroom since, and every time I think about the little ways we mark the changing seasons and how absolutely no one is ever going to understand the slightly elegiac tone of my first several pilgrimages to Summer Bathroom.

[bu1410]

Good afternoon TUMBLR - March 13th - 2024

''Mr. Plant has owed me a shoe since July 5, 1971."

SAUDI Arabia - Al Jubail - 1993

Once returned from Bangladesh, I was called back by SNAMPROGETTI (it was still existing at the time) for a short assignment in Jubail, in the eastern area of Saudi Arabia. It involved the construction of a production plant for MTBE, an additive for unleaded petrol. The plant was built in the so-called Al Jubail el Sinayah, i.e. the industrial area of Al Jubail, one of the two large industrial areas of Saudi Arabia - the other is Yanbu, on the coast of the Red Sea. We lived in a compound called Pearl beach, and thanks to the Greek wife of the coumpound Saudi owner, Pearl Beach was the only place in Al Jubail where the beach was promiscuous. Although to tell the truth the Arab women (Jordanian, Egyptian etc of course not Saudi) bathed fully dressed in the black abaja, the traditional local female dress. I shared a huge villa with Mr. Menozzi Ildebrando with a large living room, American kitchen, 4 bedrooms, 4 bathrooms.

THE PROJECT It was one of the last project with a very strong Italian presence. Not only the top and middle management were Italians, but till at the superintendents/supervisors level of each discipline were Italians too

Mr. BERETTA GIANCARLO I remember in particular the insulation/painting superintendent Beretta Giancarlo, an elderly guy,, close to retirement, originally from Milan. Taking advantage of the fact that our scope of work also included the pipelines connecting the plant to the port of Jubail, he used to show up in the office early morning, and then disappearing all day. He was the protagonist of a funny event but which could have turned into something serious. To access the industrial area from the city, there were numerous police checkpoints. Usually the cops were lying inside the cars, with their bare feet out the window. We used to stop and wait of their ok to proceed - which sometimes could last for 15 or 20 minutes. Beretta - who only spoke Milanese dialect - had already had a couple of arguments with the police. A morning, he stopped hos car next the police car - and than, tired of waiting, the Italian set off without waiting for the policeman's order (who usually got out of the car, put on their shoes and then, gesturing with the mishuak (the ever-present wooden licorice with which the Saudis clean their teeth) shouting: -RUHHH……RUHHHHHH……. MADHA TANTAZIR??!!! (As if to say ''go…what are you waiting for…go!!')

Beretta was immediately chased, and police came to arrest him in the office enclosure. Detained one night for checks, when he was released he was very angry: with the Saudis, with Company, ENI, who had left him in prison, his colleagues who joked about his arrest…… with the entire world!!!

Mr. MARANGON EGIDIO He was the so-called Field Engineer, the one that within Company organization should tackle all the engineering problems arising at site. I will meet him again later at the site in Bir Rebaa, Algeria. Egidio had the ''unlucky '' idea of inviting his wife and daughter Saudi Arabia during Christmas period. And the even more unfortunate idea of leaving for Al Khobar on a Friday morning, to spend a day in that city. About 120 km along the highway from Al Jubail, Al Khobar could boast some shopping malls, a destination for the Marangon family. After traveling about 50 kilometres, near the largest desalination plant of Saudi Arabia, a 17-year-old Saudi driving in the opposite direction of the Marangon family, with his Buick Impala, for reasons never ascertained, jumped the guard rail and hit Marangon's Toyota Corolla head-on. The consequences, as one can imagine, were very serious: Egidio suffered multiple fractures which cost him 2 operations in Saudi and one in Italy (plus a long period of rehabilitation) his wife suffered multiples ribs fractures ribs, , and facial trauma – the daughter, who was sitting in the back, was thrown into the front of the car, smashing the windshield with her head. After the necessary treatment, which obviously lasted weeks, Marangon's wife and daughter returned to Italy.

Meanwhile the young Saudi was completely cleared of any responsibility following the police report. Egidio returned to Italy 45 days after the accident, and a long dispute with SNAMPROGETTI began for him - the Company had let him know that they did not consider themselves responsible for the accident, and did not want to proceed with any type of compensation. The matter ended up in Court, and the Judge partially agreed with Mr. Marangon, ordering SNAMPROGETTI to pay compensation of 60 million lire. (30,000 Euro).

Mr. PAGNINI MARCELLO This guy, being the Civil Construction Manager, was my direct superior. Marchigiano, in his 60s and a hypochondriac, continually subjected himself to clinical and blood tests. One day they found him to have high birulibin and he started breaking everyone's nerves, asking ''Maybe you too have high birulibin and what treatments did you do to reduce it etc…''. He was terrified of being kicked out (he was having his first experience overseas even though he was already nearby retirement). During that time, a rumors were saying SNAMPROGETTI had taken over the extension of the port of Bandar Abbas (Iran) and therefore phantom ''lists of people who will be assigned to the new project'' appeared on the notice board, in which Pagnini's name regularly appeared. Iran, for obvious reason, was a destination that all us were trying to avoid. But Pagnini, desperately seeking another assignement before retirement, expressed his agreement to be assigned in a place nobody wanted. Mr. CAMPUGIANI UMBERTO. A young and enthusiastic guy. He traveled with me on a flight Milan – Vienna – Dahran. At that time, Company was using Austrian Airlines because it obviously cost less. From the Marche region, in his 30s, was having his very first experience abroad in any sense. When the plane began its descent towards Daharan, the cabin crew handed out the disembarcation card to all passengers – and here Campugiani's problems began: he didn't understand a word of English, but he didn't want to be helped. -I want to learn English quickly, he used to say. He was having one those pocket dictionary – at each word he was a flipping through pages. We were sitting on opposite seats in the aisle, at a certain point Umberto leans towards me and says in a low voice:

Why.....why they want to know the data… well, do you understand…? I look at him with interrogation face….

What???

Yes – he says – it says on the card: Data of Bird…data of the bird (In Italian is one of the way we call d*****k!!

Come on, silly – I told him – they ask for the date of BIRTH…read better…….

DA RE LINO - SITE CIVIL ENGINEER Immediately nicknamed ''Darelino'' (all together) he was a jovial 50-year-old from Vittorio Veneto - pipe smoker and photography enthusiast. With his savings from Company pocket money he bought one of the first video cameras in the Al Jubail Souk - and with that device a Friday afternoon Darelino went to the port to record video's. The next day, Saturday, he didn't show up at site , and a quick investigation revealed that he hadn't returned home. Our PRO (Public Relations Officer) soon discovered that he had been held in the local police station, waiting for the Court to reopen on Sunday. Caught by police on filming a ship leaving the port at sunset, he had not put up the slightest resistance to arrest. This fact earned him immediate release from prison on Monday, upon payment of bail, and the confiscation of the video camera.

BRIDGE The large lifts were completed, and the Van Severen's 2,600 ton mobile crane was preparing to leave the site. However, a problem arose: when the crane entered, the bridge over the pipe way did not exist, but in the meantime it had been built - therefore the question: will the bridge support the weight of the crane? (even if dismantled into pieces). Darelino was immediately alerted: he was in charge to solve such problems. And Darelino immediately got to work: he asked for drawings and technical specifications of the bridge, all crane's details, and locked himself in his office. From where he used to come out only to smoke his pipe, and take a breath of air (by the way the stinky air of the Al Jubail ammonia plant and the Shell Refinery, of which one day we saw the 85 mt tall distillation column attempt a take-off and then immediately fall back to the ground). In the end, after a week of ''passion'' in which every time one of us saw Darelino was asking: ''SO SO can the bridge bear the crane passage'??? A morning our Dear Civil Engineer came out from his office and, lighting once again his pipe, said:

Well… if I were the Project Manager… I would call Italy's Head Office…you never know in such case.....better take any precaution..''

MENOZZI ILDEBRANDO He was my house-mate. To tell the truth, the house was so large - that sometimes we didn't see each other for days, except at site. Menozzi was ''a predestined guy'' in the sense that being a recommended person he could allow himself to do and undo as he wanted on the project that no one else was allowed to do - and nobody was able to criticize him. Ildebrando was also a little weird guy - for example he was subject to the ''Hilton hotel syndrome'': before visiting any place he would make sure a Hilton hotel would be there - and if it didn't exist, he wouldn't go there. This was the case on our trip to Bahrain, during Eid el Hada: he came with us because I personally assured him that Manama had a great Hilton hotel. One day we received a visit from Mr. Cincotta, the already named HR Manager from Milan Head Office. Cincotta had brief meetings with all the staff in the construction site offices. To talk to Ildebrando, the HR Manager came personally to our villa, where he told my house-mate that the decision had been made: his next destination would be Venezuela. Ildebrando was heartened by the news, he was afraid of remaining ''imprisoned'' in Arab countries forever, like many of us.

Ildebrando, Umberto and myself sitting in our villa at Pearl Beach compound - Al Jubail - Saudi

On Thursday evenings we used always organized a soccer match - that evening Ildebrando - who was not a football phenomenon - in an attempt to score a goal, fell heavily to the concrete ground and started screaming: we immediately saw that his right arm was broken at the height of the humerus, and hung limply. Ildebrando was cying and shouting without interruption: ''Goodbye Venezuela…goodbye Venezuela…''!! I told him not to worry, he had time to heal before leaving for South America. In the end he went 'to Venezuela, and despite our recommendations 'be careful of the girls, they are dangerous over there… '' after just 6 months he was already married, and the girl was pregnant. From the marriage a boy born, and after a year Ildebrando had already divorced and taken the child to Italy. The last thing I remember about him was a conversation with his father, who asked me:

''But what is he (Ildebrando) doing down there? (in Venezuela)

Why are you sking so?

I am constantly forced to top up my son's credit card''.....

PATRIOT As I wrote previously, Pearl Beach was the only compound in Al Jubail that allowed men and women to share the same beach. But the compound was also housing a battery of Patriot missiles that were positioned right on the beach we frequented on Fridays. The Gulf War had ended a year earlier, and American soldiers were heavily garrisoning the Eastern coast of Saudi Arabia. While the Patriot affair reassured us on the one hand, on the other it made us think of being a possible target for terrorists and deranged people.

DAHRAN HOSPITAL During my stay in Al Jubail I had a couple of problems:

The first due to a ''stupid'' accident (all accidents are stupid, right?) - I was on a the site and inspecting a trench for the electrical cables. I wanted to jump the trench but .......ending up on the other side, I landed on a wooden board with a 12 mm nail on it - a rusty one that pierced the sole of the safety shoes. It's was really bad, I remember it even now that so many years have passed! The nail was stuck in the center of my foot, I was rescued and taken to the infirmary where it was removed. Afterwards I underwent the tetanus injection in the outpatient department of a local clinic.

Following this accident, my left knee began to ''creak'' again. I got a permission to go to Dahran, where an MRI machine was in operation at the hospital I had helped build in 1980.

On the scheduled day, I arrived at the hospital accompanied by a driver, and here the odyssey began! I had with me a letter in which our Doctor explained what had happened and asked for an MRI to be carried out on my knee - a test to be paid, of course.

At first the Filipino nurse had not any problem. She read my letter and told me ''sit and wait for your trun''. Than, after a while she came back saying ''That this test required authorization from the Medical Director of the hospital''.

Can you tell me please where is he sitting? I asked the nurse.

Follow the arrows where it is written ''Medical Director'' she said. I knew the hospital so it wasn't a big problem for me to find my way around the labyrinth of corridors. Finally I arrived in front of the Medical Director's office and knocked on the door.

Come in!

I entered the room and found myself in front of an old Saudi guy.

Immediately he addressed me in that loud and annoyed tone:

Madha tarid?? (what do you want) he said with that typical waving of the hand in the air.

Good morning Sir - I came to undergo to an MRI - here is the letter of introduction from my Doctor - the Philippine nurse in charge of admission told me that your authorization is needed.

Reading the letter – Umm……okay……maybe ....sit down ……

Than after a moment: Okay but here…maybe……The test cannot be done!

Why' so? – I asked politely – if it is a problem of money, I have the cash here to pay for the test…….

That's not the issue… the test cannot be done…the MRI machine is reserved ''FOR SAUDIS ONLY''!!

I don't think I can understand, Sir…

Yes – he says – the machine cannot be used for foreigners, it is reserved only for Saudis! Rouh…Rouh… (Go…go…) And so I was dismissed! 240 kilometers to be told that I couldn't take the test just because I'm NOT Saudi.

RETURN TO ITALY Eventually the day came for the final return to Italy. The night flight from Dahran to Rome was scheduled at 0.30am. I arrived at the airport well in advance, aware that when leaving Saudi Arabia permanently, procedures takes longer than normal. Saudi Arabia is perhaps the only country in the world where a foreign resident needs the so called NOC (Non Objection Certificate) to leave the country. Essentially a sort of ''exit visa'' from the country. The NOC is a certificate that there is no objection from anyone to its holder leaving Saudi Arabia. Therefore there are no pending legal cases, unpaid debts etc. With my good NOC in the hand, I showed up at check in and after having completed the procedure a Saudi guy approached me - he was dressed like everyone else, disdasha and ghutra, sandals on his feet, but I had learned to recognize the cops from their behaviour, and he was one of them. He asked me for my passport and boarding pass, looked at them briefly, put them in the deep pocket of his disdasha and then left, without saying a word, leaving me standing there like a ''cuckoo''. Boarding time was approaching, and there was no sign of the policeman! I was more and more nervous, I risked to missthe flight because of that idiot! When there were only a few minutes left before the plane doors shut off, the cop finally returned. He waved my passport and NOC and in front of the stewardess who was begging me to get on board, and began a weird pantomimes:

Where you want to go?

To Italy……

Where in Italy?

Rome……

Sure you want to go to Rome?

Yes, I'm sure….

SURE YOU WANT TO GO TO ROME???? (Shouting)

Yes …I'm sure….

And WHYYYYY you want to go to Rome? (Again shouting)

Because there is no direct flight to Milan, my home town

Ahh……ok…go…rouh…rouh…. And saying this he finally gave me the passport and the document in my hand. At that moment I turned and almost ran along the bridge that joined the terminal to the plane, and got on board, begging the stewardess to close the door immediately.

[final-girl96]

Chapter Twenty-Six

YN

It's been a month since we came up here. Stu is in full trust but Billy doesn't trust me or Stu. He's smart not to trust me. He's also smart enough not to come near me. He walked too close to me in the kitchen the other day and Stu damn near jumped out of his seat until he saw Billy just walk past and out the back door. And after realizing I could use it to my advantage I started to pit them more against each other. I would do stuff that I knew would piss Billy off and when he would come at me Stu would step in and they would start to fight. I knew Billy knew what I was doing. He's tried to tell Stu about it and he won't listen. He's always on my side.

"Okay, baby, we will be back in a couple hours." Stu leaned down to where I was sitting on the couch reading and pressed his lips to mine in a quick kiss. "Okay. Be careful." He kissed me one more time and then they left. Billy was grumbling about how I couldn't be trusted and that I better be here when they get back. I waited for at least half an hour before getting dressed. I wanted to escape and get home but I was going to leave a note for Stu to get out. Inwas going to tell the police where we were but I was stupid in making the decision to make sure Stu didn't get caught. I just couldn't bring myself to do it.

I grabbed a piece of paper and a pen and wrote out a quick note to Stu.

I grabbed a piece of paper and a pen and wrote out a quick note to Stu.

I'm sorry. I love you but I can't forgive you for what you have done. I can't just forget that. Make sure you get out and far from here before the police get here. Don't be stupid, Stu, I'm giving you a way out because I do still care about you even if I don't agree with what you did. And don't leave this note behind.

Love YN

XX

I left the note sitting on the nightstand and walked to the front door. I wasn't going to take the driveway to the road, that would be stupid. I was going to go through the woods until I hit another cabin. I knew there were other people up here but they were miles away. I was hoping I could make it before they got back. Because there was no doubt in my mind that Stu would come looking for me. And if he found me it wouldn't go well this time.

I wasn't sure how far I had gone but I knew I had to be pretty far from the cabin. I'm sure they would be on their way back by now if not almost there. Since they always decided to wait until evening to leave it was starting to get darker. I didn't bring a flashlight with Mr because I didn't want to give myself away if they did come looking for me. I was starting to regret my decision until I saw a light just up ahead. I sighed in relief and quickened my pace until I came out to a paved driveway.

There was a white Buick sitting outside, the trunk open. A man and woman walked out of the open side door and I started walking towards them. "Excuse me!" I called. The woman turned her head and looked at me. "Please help me. My name is YN Crawford. I–" the woman gasped and rushed towards me. "I know who you are, dear. You're all over the news. Come. Let's get you inside." She rushed me inside and sat me on the couch, wrapping a blanket around my shoulders. "Ted, call the police," she said to her husband.

Everything after that was a blur. The police came and asked a bunch of questions. I just wanted to go home and that's what I told them. When I was finally taken back to Woodsboro Dewey was there, he had a limp and I could see the pain on his face. It's only been a month since it all happened. "Where's my dad?" I asked him as he pulled me into him. "He's on his way." I nodded my head, "Dewey, why are you here and not home resting. You were fucking stabbed in the back." He pulled away to look at me. "As soon as I heard I came rushing over here. I didn't want you to be alone."

"Where is she? I want to see my daughter!" I stood up from the chair I was sitting in and turned around. "Dad!" I rushed over to him and threw myself into his open arms. His arms tightened around me as he mumbled incoherent words into my hair. The next voices I heard were those of Randy and Sidney. And that night was filled with more questioning about what happened and where I was. What they did to me. I told them they didn't do anything. That they hadn't hurt me. That Stu would never hurt me like that.

Then I told them where we were staying. Stu's parents had come in at some point and began to apologize for what their son had done. And just like I had thought, they forgot about the old family cabin. Or at least they said they forgot about it. They could have been lying not wanting their son to be in jail for the rest of his life. I was hoping they had gotten back and seen my note. I hoped Stu got out of there. I really didn't give a fuck about Billy. But I knew I would be looking over my shoulder for the rest of my life. Stu would be coming after me at some point. Maybe not right away but he would eventually.

[supersailorgoku]

I got into this stuff all backwards: I’m a diehard Boys fan and got into SPN over a year ago from a coworker while I was gushing over The Boys TV/Comic adaption heavy lifting (especially Soldier Boy; that is a whole essay in itself and I’ve never seen a trick pulled like that for a character that was on maybe 3-4 issues of the comics entire run and how it’s a total Rubik’s Cube move while making him somehow less sympathetic in his TV role - nevermind the entire lifetime it would take to talk about the clear Homelander-shaped elephant in the room, the actual groundwork of a true Kripkeverse and - well, that’s another post!)

My darling coworker - that I would later recognize her amazing, always equipped custom earrings that said JERK and BITCH for entirely different reasons other than social commentary/affirmation - she literally yelped and was like WOODS YOU ARE WATCHING SUPERNATURAL RIGHT NOW YOU ARE GOING TO SIT AND WATCH AN EPISODE and I did and that episode was Scoobynatural S13E18

I was sold so hard it was like a brick was dropped on me. I’m mad in some ways that it was my first whole ass experience because, as I would find later, almost every episode - some Buick-sized exceptions - is a “pilot” episode and you’ll never go wrong just jumping into that pool and hitting shuffle. How rare. Due to that crucial first impression, I cannot do anything but view Supernatural on the shelf that houses both Red Dwarf and Farscape and I say that with complete, utter, gibbering love. Supernatural, to me, is perfect example of any-size-fits. Get in, the water’s fine.

It really is for everybody. It’s got something for everyone and everyone where I live has fucking seen it because they filmed episodes here so it’s one of my few shows - if any - I feel actually talking to with a person who is looking right at me and within striking distance when I say “Bad Day At Black Rock S3E3 and Dog Dean Afternoon S9E5 and should be shown in college-level courses.” I’m real brave like that.

But that crucial introduction; the sheer coincidence of just avoiding a damn near two decades of this particular piece of media made me realize I’ve never been paying much attention to the internet. tumblr least of all and tumblr - man.

This place is an battleground: bloodied and cracked with bullets, craters, and ghosts and angels and acres upon acres of tapestries and paintings and offerings and so many goddamn words and miles of poetry and I’m taking a tourist walk through the settled, pockmarked earth. I can sit on a bench, made on the backs of fans, built around a rock with a plaque filled with names that never end - but it thrives. It hums with life.

I want to divine with extreme patience, using a stack of dvd and blu-rays - all passed from second-hand sources - (with their owners names and I feel like I know them already; there’s that rarity again) - and copious amounts of unmeasurable time ask the hoof prints and the bullet holes and the angelic ghosts what, exactly, happened here.

[aparticularbandit]

Harmony

Summary: Every time Wanda enters the room, Agatha beams. It’s unsettling, at first, but she gets used to it. She needs a bit of sun to temper her thundercloud, after all. (And always, always, always Agatha beams.)

Follow up to Strumming, Strolling, and Accompaniment.

Wanda Maximoff & Agatha Harkness Rating: G.

previous chapter

They arrive in Westview long after it’s grown dark, long after most of the residents have gone to sleep, as though they’ve flown in on one of those really late flights and then had to drive all the way back—

As though—

They did fly in on one of those really late flights and then they did have to drive all the way back.  Agnes found her car parked neatly in one of the parking garages, grumbled a bit about the cost of having kept it there for—

It’s been how long?

—honestly, she should have just asked someone to drive her to the airport. It’d been an emergency, though, and Max had needed her, and she’d gone just as soon as Max called—

~

This is all empty prattle.

Max listens to her old friend’s words as she buckles into the passenger seat of her red Buick Verano, rests her head in one hand, and then stares out the window, taking in the stars above Newark International studded with the bright lights of landing and ascending planes as they pull out and then the grass-studded darkness on either side of Route 2 as they drive the hour or so to Westview proper.

They barely reach the route before Agnes curses, grumbles about how she should have gotten gas before she left, and then apologizes profusely to Max for needing to make a pit stop.  It’s not that Max particularly minds.  She uses it as an excuse to buy a bottle of RC to help her fight the near constant desire to yawn, and then they’re back on the road.  It might not be smart to drink caffeine this late, but she finds she doesn’t really mind.

With the jet lag, maybe it will help her stay awake until what should be a normal bedtime.

~

When they make it to Westview, when Agnes unlocks the front door and gestures inside, she suggests, softly, that Max take the full of the upstairs (bedrooms, bathrooms, everything), but Max refuses to relocate her old friend to what she considers the dungeon, even though that means she’s stuck in what she has always considered to be a dark, dank, dirty space.  Her breath catches in her throat the first time she starts down the stairs, and Agnes suggests, again, that it might be better for her to stay upstairs.  Healthier.

No, Max says, clutching the bannister so tightly that her knuckles turn a bright white.  It doesn’t scare me anymore.

It’s a lie.  She’s certain Agnes can see that it’s a lie.  Agnes knows, after all.

You don’t have to be strong, hon.  Agnes places a hand on her shoulder and squeezes gentle.  You came here to heal.  You don’t have to force yourself—

I know.  Max sets her hand over Agnes’s.  Thank you, though. You didn’t have to…. She lets her voice trail off, expects Agnes to say something – anything – but she doesn’t.  So she just repeats it again.  Thank you.

Agnes smiles, and although she doesn’t see it, she can hear it in her voice. Any time, super star.

~

Max fits into Agnes’s life as if she was always meant to be there, like the shore waves always beat against, the rope tying an anchor to its ship, the ship a lighthouse always seeks out, the fly the spider beckons into her web.  She takes over the basement apartment with trepidation at first, but it isn’t nearly as horrid as her mind imagined it would be.  Agnes has taken great care to make sure the basement feels less like that and more like an entire second floor; the only reason it sometimes feels less than is that there’s not enough sunlight.  There are small slits of windows here and there, but sometimes Max feels like a plant who needs a little more sun.

Like maybe there isn’t enough in the world to make her feel better.

But then Max creeps upstairs, pulling her sweater sleeves down around her hands, and finds Agnes sitting stretched out on her couch, one ankle neatly crossed over the other, a book in one hand – which isn’t so exciting in and of itself, to be honest, but that every time, Agnes notices her, Agnes glances up from her book, Agnes gives her a smile that looks a bit like sunlight. It’s overwhelming, sometimes, having such brightness directed her way, and so she doesn’t always keep her attention. She can’t always say anything back, just shifts her guitar where it rests on her back and nods when Agnes asks if she’s going to be playing outside again.

Playing outside sounds like she’s a child, and Max has to admit, sometimes she still feels like a child, the way she is so dependent on Agnes for food and water and shelter and really anything else she needs because she still hasn’t applied for a real job, hasn’t been able to—

Max takes her guitar and sits on the sidewalks of downtown Westview and seeds her case with a few dollars and plays to see if anyone will leave anything for her.  Well. Mostly she plays because downtown Westview seems like the sort of place that could use some soft background guitar music, particularly the old gazebo.  It could use a bit of fixing up, if she’s honest, but she’s not the sort to pull out wood and nails and get to it.  Callused as her hands might be; that’s not her calling.

Honestly, Max doesn’t know that she has one at all.

She only knows that she likes to play her guitar and that playing her guitar soothes her in a way that even Agnes with all her warmth cannot.

~

No one really leaves money, but Max leaves the case open anyway.

Just in case.

~

Max tries to make herself useful about the house.  She cleans the dishes when Agnes cooks, and she cooks when Agnes’s back hurts her so bad that she can barely move out of bed.  (Agnes’s favorite is a hearty lamb stew that it took Max years in college to learn to make right.  But that last year, in the cold and snowy December when their heat got turned off and she’d set a fire going in the fireplace just to keep from freezing – that was the first time she’d made it right.  Or maybe Agnes had been a little too groggy and a little too buzzed to be picky, maybe she’d just craved the warmth a stew cooked over the fire could give, maybe she’d been too comforted when they’d curled up together to conserve heat to consider making Max feel less than adequate.)

Always, always, Agnes beams when she approaches.

When they’d been roommates the first time, in college, that first semester when the school had thrown them together, Max thought it was patronizing. She’d been embarrassed and had curled up in her bed, turned her back to the other girl, and just avoided her.  Up until the moment she missed her first class – gone to Standard Mathematics that morning, hoped that a bit of breakfast and time would settle her angry stomach, and decided, when it hadn’t, that she’d better go back to her room and try to rest it off – and found Agnes still in bed, eyes red, cheeks tear-stained.

She still lit up when Max entered the room, but there’d been pain to it.

Too many people read Agnes’s energy and enthusiasm for naïveté and foolishness.  Max hadn’t done that, but she’d misread it just as much as anyone else had.

They’d been friends after that.  Well.  Agnes had always been her friend.  Max just hadn’t understood.

And, in the end, Max’s cutting cynicism tore into the students who took advantage of Agnes’s kindness, and Agnes’s gentleness soothed over so many of Max’s odd habits.

Even now, even in Westview, that’s the way of it – Max depending on Agnes’s kindness when something in her brain just seems to break, Agnes swooping in without a hint of complaint and drawing her home.

~

Sometimes, when Max goes into the basement, her heart beats rapidly in her chest again, her throat constricts, and she can’t breathe.  It doesn’t matter that nothing bad has ever happened in Agnes’s basement, just like it doesn’t matter that Agnes’s basement looks nothing like that basement.  Her breath still catches.  She still feels faint.

Most of the time, Max pushes through all of that, forces herself to her bed, and covers herself with her comforter, breathing deep, timed breaths until she relaxes enough to doze off.  (Sometimes, when this happens, she has nightmares.  Sometimes, those nightmares are memories.  Sometimes, she doesn’t know that they are.)

But not all of the time.

~

You made me a music major.

You want to point that out to her, in the rare moments when you are conscious of yourself again.

You made me a music major, and I have never been good at music.

You made me a theater major, and I have never been good at theater.

You think this must be her sick idea of a joke, that the entirety of the sitcoms you hadn’t even known you’d been running are the basis for her decisions, and you want to snap at her for it.

You only want to snap at her because you still have rare moments of consciousness.

You only want to snap at her because Max is still miserable, and you weren’t supposed to be miserable.

You hadn’t made Agnes miserable.

You don’t—

~

“Max?”

The first time Max hides in the spare bedroom upstairs, Agnes finds her within a few moments.  She lets out a breath as she sees Max sit up in the bed, wide-eyed, and with one hand still on the doorknob (and the other over her heart) says, “I just heard all this noise and someone coming upstairs and I hadn’t heard the front door open and I was sure, hon, that you were some intruder coming to kill me!”  She takes a deep breath in – all of that, one breath, in such a rush – and then sighs. “I’m just glad it’s you, dear, and not someone else.”  Her eyes take Max in, and her face softens.  “Bad dreams, hon?”

Max doesn’t meet her gaze.  Her eyes drop to her hands, and her fingers fidget together.  “I hate the basement, Nessie.  I hate it.”

Within another moment, Agnes curls up in bed next to her.  There’s no I told you so, just the softest, “If you would feel better up here, doll, then you just have to say the word, and I’ll—”

“No.”  Max rests her head against Agnes’s chest and tries to match her breathing with that of her friend.  “It’s not that bad.”

“If you say so.”  Agnes takes a long breath in, holds it for a few beats, and then lets it out.  This is normal.  She’d learned this in an attempt to help.  Max doesn’t need the help, but when she’s there, she offers it without a second thought.  She brushes fingers through Max’s stringy hair and tucks it back out of her face.  “You’re shivering, doll.”

“I—”  A shudder harsher than the shivers cuts Max off.  She swallows before trying again.  “I know.  It’ll pass.” She grits her teeth together. Hard.  “It always does.”

Agnes stays with her until the panic passes, not doing much more than holding her, and when the shivering quiets down, she runs her fingers gentle through Max’s hair one last time and asks, “Would you like some tea, hon? I’ve kept some chamomile aside for you.”

Max just clings to her.  So tired. So tired.  “Stay with me,” she whispers instead, not a question because she doesn’t need to ask. “Until I sleep. Please.”

It won’t be long, Max thinks.  Now that the panic is nearly gone, exhaustion takes its place, crippling on the depression she already feels.  Already, she can barely keep her eyes open, and cradled safe against her longest friend, she relaxes enough to rest.

~

It doesn’t happen often.

But when it does, Max wakes to Agnes still curled protectively around her, clinging to Max nearly as desperately as Max is to her.

~

Are you awake?

Can you hear me?

Are you ready to—?

~

Strange men come to the house exactly once.

They call Max���

They call her something that isn’t her name, but she can’t quite make it out from where she hides in the basement.  She knows they’re there, though, can hear them pounding their boots on the floor just above.  She scans the ceiling, catches the glow-in-the-dark stars where they twinkle above her, and listens to voices that seem familiar but unwelcome.

Before she even answered the door, Agnes saw them and told Max to hide.  Not to just let her have her own conversation with them, not to just stay out of the way, but to hide.  (Agnes would never tell her to stay out of the way because Agnes would never consider her in the way.  That’s Max’s bag.)  She’d seen something flicker in her friend’s eyes – something like anger, something like fear – and despite her own fragile curiosity, she’d gone.

Agnes finds her afterwards, apologizes.  Says, uncharacteristically of her, although Max isn’t sure how she knows that because it feels very right for the Agnes she has always known, “They need help, super star, and I’m….”  She grits her teeth together.  Her hands clench into little fists.  “You told me a little about what happened, hon, but I thought….”

It takes a moment before the smile finds its way back on Agnes’s face. “I’ll be taking on a new job.”

“Why don’t you just tell them no?”

Agnes chuckles, and there is such sadness there.  “They won’t let me say no anymore, dear.”

Max’s brow furrows, and she glares – not at Agnes, but past her, fierce as anything she has ever felt – such deep hatred bubbling in the center of her chest like an unhinged furnace.  “Then I’ll say no for you.”

“No.”  Agnes places a hand over Max’s, stilling a different kind of shuddering entirely.  “No. That will only make things worse.”

“Nessie, if you will let me—”

Agnes squeezes her hand so tight that Max can convince herself she doesn’t feel her friend shuddering.  “No,” she whispers this time.  “I will take care of it, hon.  I do not want you to get involved.”

There are a lot of things Max wants to do.  A lot of things she can do.

But when Agnes tells her no, she listens.

It’s a boundary.  One of their unspoken rules.

And she will not cross it.

~

While Agnes is gone, Max takes her guitar upstairs, sits on the couch, and strums. It fills the empty house enough to echo in the spaces that Agnes leaves behind.

She hates it almost as much as she hates the basement.

~

Agnes is frequently gone, and she comes back tired.  Exhausted.  Weary.  She still beams when she sees Max, but it’s a softer thing, and her eyes don’t light up early the same way that they once did.  It’s like that second year at college, when Agnes realized she wasn’t good enough to do what she’d always wanted to do, when she’d understood that as easy as the science of everything came to her, the higher level mathematics required to go into the career spaces that most called to her were beyond her, no matter how hard she tried.

She’d been so tired then.

As tired as Max often is now.

But they can’t both be bone deep weary.  If Agnes is tired, then Max will have to pick up the slack.  She can do that, after all, can slot into those spaces that Agnes fills much better than she does, can stand in the kitchen and cook and clean and make sure that there is enough food for both of them, can do their laundry while Agnes is gone, can curl up in bed with her friend and hold her close so that Agnes can take the time to be comforted in the same way that she so often comforts Max.

Once, while Max holds Agnes against her, cradling her head with one hand, chin laying just atop her crown, Agnes murmurs, voice soft, “You’re so good to me, doll.  What did I ever do to deserve someone like you, huh?”

Max opens her mouth to answer – You were good to me first – but something else whispers, soft at first, and then harsher, into her mind: Do you think maybe this is what you deserve?

And her own voice, echoing words she has never remembered – What?  You’re…you’re not supposed to talk.

Something even sharper pangs through her head, and Max winces, squeezing her eyes shut, and lets out a little exclamation – wordless – of pain.

“Max?”  Agnes shifts, pulls away so that she can pull up, so she can run a finger along her jaw, along her cheekbone.  “What’s wrong, hon?  What did I say?”

“Nothing.”  Max shakes her head.  “It’s…it’s nothing.”  She winces again.  “My head just….  Migraine, maybe.”  She starts to reach a hand up to massage her temples, but Agnes’s hands are there first, gentle but insistent.  Instantly, she relaxes.  “This,” she murmurs, hums.  “This is what you did to deserve me.”

Agnes chuckles softly.  “This is the least of it, doll.  You’ve done more than enough for….”  Her voice trails off.

“What?”  Max cracks an eye open, then both, and glances at a young woman who is averting her gaze, even as Agnes’s fingers still press soothing into her skin.  She takes Agnes’s hand in her own and pulls it away from her forehead.  Her fingers press gently against Agnes’s fingertips, against her palm, and then she brings her hand up, brings her knuckles to her lips.

“Don’t,” Agnes whispers, still not looking up.

“Don’t what?”

Agnes hesitates before glancing up ever so briefly, meeting Max’s eyes, and whispering with a tone something like terror, “You don’t know what you’re doing, hon.”

I did not ask for this.

For a moment – just a moment – Max imagines she can hear Agnes’s words speaking directly into her mind.  Her brow furrows, and she almost – almost – asks, What did you just say?  But she was looking at Agnes’s lips, and they hadn’t moved, so she couldn’t have said anything.

It’s still enough to give her pause.

“What am I doing?” Max asks instead, blinking twice.  She isn’t sure if she’s asking Agnes or if it’s a question she’s asking herself, and either way, she isn’t sure that she wants an answer. Worse still, she doesn’t know what the answer would even be.  So she squeezes Agnes’s hand, lets it fall away, and then draws her against her chest again, in the same position they were in before, pausing just long enough to kiss the crown of her head before resting her chin there.

~

Wake up, hon.

You’ve been gone long enough.

It’s time to be done with this foolish scheme of—

~

Agnes never tells Max not to open the door while she’s gone.

Which, you know, of course, it makes sense.  It’s not like Max has anyone to fear.  She’s just a thirty-something dried up waste of space who’d gone after music and theater and failed abysmally at both of them and then crawled into her best friend’s basement to waste away another few months in mourning while she figured out what to do with the rest of her life. It’s not like anybody really wants Max.

If they had, she wouldn’t have been such a failure.

So when the doorbell rings – an insidious little tune that has always sounded so familiar, even though Max has never been able to place it – Max opens the door without checking to see who’s outside.  She knows some of the Westview citizens by name, at this point, but she spends so much of her time not really interacting with them, outside of playing guitar on the sidewalk downtown, that she’s not certain she would recognize anyone if she did look.

The thing is?

Max knows, when she opens the door, that the kid in front of her is definitely not from Westview.  No child raised in Westview would wear a denim jacket like that because no parent in Westview would let their kid wear denim jacket like that. Not with all those words written all over it, not with the paint stripes hard on bits and pieces of it, and – well, they’d probably be fine with the rainbow pride flag pinned, but the rest of it—

The kid looks at Max like she knows her, something that is only confirmed when she says, hushed, “I found you.”

“Didn’t know anyone was looking for me.”  Max scans the girl’s face, searches it.  Nothing.  “Who are you?”

“You don’t remember?”

Max’s fingers drum against her pants leg, against the doorframe.  There’s certainly something almost familiar about the girl – maybe she’d been in one of her dreams once, a long time ago; it feels almost like that – but she doesn’t know her.  She shakes her head once and then swallows, steps back, and holds the door open as her gaze drops and she tucks strands of her mousy brown hair back out of her face.  (Once, she might have pulled the strands across instead of back; once, she might have pulled them between her lips and chewed on them.  But she isn’t that young anymore.)  “You can, um. If you’re looking for Agnes, she isn’t here, but you can come in.”

The girl was looking for her. She found her, after all.  Max doesn’t know why she said that.  She bites her lower lip.

“Stephen sent me,” the girl says, like that should mean something.  “He said it was an emergency.”

Max blinks twice.  “I don’t know who that is.”

The girl’s eyes narrow.  “Stephen Strange?  You don’t know who that is?  You literally crossed the multiverse fighting him to—”

Another sharp stab in Max’s head, and she winces, steps back, one hand flying up to her forehead.  It hurts more than the last time.  She swallows, hard, heart beating rapidly in her chest.  “I think,” she says, and her accent comes on strong, “that you should go.”

“You’re the Scarlet Witch.  You should—”

Max slams the door in the kid’s face.

~

You don’t know why America is here.

You don’t know why Stephen wants you.

You don’t know, you don’t know, you don’t know—

~

Agnes doesn’t come back for a week that time, and when she does finally arrive, it’s so late that Max is half-asleep in her friend’s bed.  It’s a bad habit, really.  Agnes has been gone so long, and Max has felt so…off that she’s crawled into her bed to sleep instead of dragging herself into the basement.  She could, if she wanted, but she doesn’t want that.

She only knows that Agnes is home when the woman curls into bed next to her, wraps her arms around her, and buries her head between Max’s shoulder blades.

Agnes must think she’s asleep because she says in a voice so low that even now, Max isn’t sure that she’s heard her right, “I know what you wanted, hon. I’m protecting it for you.  But you’re not any better like this.  You’re still you.  You’re still you.  So come back already.  I’m not cut out for this superhero bullshit.”

Something in you says that you aren’t either.

….

Something in MAX says that MAX isn’t either.

Max doesn’t know what it is, and she’s scared to think about it.

~

“Don’t go.”

“I’m not going anywhere, hon.”  Agnes cracks the oddest grin Max has ever seen – it isn’t happy but it isn’t sad – it’s like she’s trying to beam at her, but it’s broken somehow, and Max doesn’t know why.  “Time off for good behavior, don’t you know.”

“I mean again,” Max corrects as firmly as she can.  “Don’t go again.”  She stares at Agnes as sternly as she can.  “They’re hurting you.  I know they’re hurting you.  So don’t go.”

Agnes’s gaze drops to the mug between her dirty hands.  Chamomile tea.  Max’s favorite because Agnes ran out of lemon-ginger a few days ago and hadn’t wanted to leave the house.  Not that Max minds.  She’d go herself if she felt safe leaving Agnes alone, but she’s so afraid that the other woman will leave while she’s gone and that she won’t get to say goodbye and that, for some reason, she won’t come back the next time.  She doesn’t know why she thinks that.

Something to do with superheroes and how heroes act and how they just keep dying.

Max sees the news.  She knows that much, at least.

Agnes taps broken nails against the scarlet mug.  “If they need me, I have to go, doll.  I’m the expert.  They need an expert—”

“Nessie.”  Max reaches across and places a hand over Agnes’s, but Agnes flinches away.  “I’m not going to—”

“Can you…can you check something for me, hon?” Agnes asks, stepping back, eyes lifting just enough for her gaze to meet Max’s.  “I have a suspicious mole on my back that I just can’t see.  If you could take a quick look, I’d appreciate it.”  She lifts the edge of her pajama shirt. “It’s right here above my—”

Before Agnes can even finish, Max bends down, runs her fingers along the slope of Agnes’s porcelain skin, and bites her lower lip.  “I don’t see one, Nessie.  I’m sorry—”

Maybe it’s because it’s belated, maybe not, but the sharpest surge of all streaks through Max’s head, and she lets out a yelp of pain, stumbling backward, slipping, and falling to the kitchen floor, banging the back of her head against the lower cabinets.  She whimpers in pain, cradling her head.  It throbs again, sharp, sharp, sharp, and then the constriction slowly begins to fade.

“Agatha,” you growl out as she kneels down in front of you.  “Don’t you dare.”

As Max slowly raises her head, as her dark eyes slowly meet Agnes’s bright ones, she sees how wide her friend’s eyes have gotten, how pale her already pale face is, and she coughs twice before asking in a rasping voice, “What did I just say?”

“Nothing, hon—”

“I…I called you something, didn’t I? Something…something else?”

Agnes reaches out, cups Max’s face, and offers her such an achingly fond expression that it feels like she should be smiling.  Only she isn’t.  “You’re fine, doll.”  She brushes a thumb across her cheekbone soothingly.  “You’re just the way you’re supposed to be.”

Max nods and leans into Agnes’s touch and realizes that she’s crying only because she feels the wet on the tips of Agnes’s fingers.

~

Before Agnes leaves the last time, Max brings her guitar up to the living room, sits on the couch, carefully tunes, and begins to play.  It’s a song that’s been stuck in her head for as long as she remembers, one that finds its way under her fingertips near constantly, but she doesn’t know where she’s heard it before.  Every now and again, she plunks out a four note little ditty, and that one feels much more painful for some reason, so she doesn’t do it often (it sounds like a doorbell chime, but it isn’t one that she’s ever heard).  But the one that she can’t get out of her head—

If she’s honest, it sounds a bit like Agnes’s ringtone, a bit like her doorbell chime.  But she can’t place it.

Max sits on the couch and plays the tune and wracks her mind for the words. She knows there are words. Sometimes – sometimes – she can almost pull them out—

Before she realizes what’s happening, Max begins to hum along with it, harmonizing with it, hates the way that sounds, and then cuts herself off only to realize that Agnes has started to hum the tune, too.  For a moment, listening to her friend’s voice, Max pauses to listen, and then she finds it, finds her way, catches Agnes harmonizing when she doesn’t – and they switch off, back and forth, that same tune again and again because she feels like she’s close, like the words are on the tip of her tongue, and then—

It’s too late to fix anything Now that everything has gone wrong—

She stops herself.

Blinks twice.

Looks up at Agnes.

Opens her mouth as though to say something, to ask something, but can’t find the words for what she wants to ask because she doesn’t even know what she’s trying to ask.  It’s something, just like the tune, just like the song, just like the rest of the lyrics, just there right where she should be able to grasp for them and catch them and say something, ask something, but—

Agnes jumps.  Her phone buzzes – completes the tune with her ringtone – and she answers it immediately. Bites her lip.  Goes to the other room.

Then she’s gone, nearly clinging to Max with her last embrace, before Max can even reconsider what she’s trying to ask.

~

This time, when Max answers the door, it isn’t the kid on the other side, and it isn’t anyone she recognizes from Westview, but it’s a man with a scarlet cloak and a fancy blue outfit and a scruffy sort of beard that seems to be normally well kept but isn’t right now.  There are grey streaks in his hair, and his eyes remind her of Agnes’s.

Max takes a deep breath in.  “If you’re looking for Agnes, she isn’t—”

“Agatha is hurt, Wanda.”

“I don’t know who you’re talking about,” Max growls out much fiercer than she understands, she doesn’t know why she’s suddenly so mad, but she is, and she moves to slam the door in the man’s face, “and I think you should go—”

He catches the door with the end of his cloak – Superhero, Max thinks, and she’s sure she’s seen this one on television at one point or another, but she can’t remember his name – and looks down on her with a tired, tired expression.  He sighs, pinches his forehead, and then repeats, correcting himself, “Agnes is hurt, Max.”

“No shit, Sherlock.”  Max’s brow furrows.  “You keep taking her, and you keep hurting her, and you keep sending her back more and more broken, and I told her not to go, and she still—”

“I don’t think you heard me correctly.”  The man holds Max’s gaze as well as he can.  “Agnes is hurt, Max, and I can’t fix her.”

Max stares up at him.  “What are you saying?”

She doesn’t need him to say it, but she wants him to say it anyway.

She needs to hear it.

She—

~

                   It’s too late to fix anything                    Now that everything has gone wrong                    Thanks to—

~

There aren’t any tubes.

That’s the thing that strikes Max as wrong.

When someone is in the hospital and they might be dying, there should be a lot of tubes, a lot of stuff hooked up to them to keep them from dying, but the only thing hooked up to Agnes is a singular drip.  It’s like…it’s like they aren’t even trying. Like Agnes didn’t want—

Agnes wouldn’t want to die, she would want them to save her, what the—

Max takes Agnes’s hand in her own and squeezes it.

She doesn’t feel a squeeze back.

She wants to say something, but she can’t, she doesn’t know what to say, she—

~

When everyone else is gone, when it’s dark outside, Max strums her guitar, its soothing tones picked and plunked, chords soft.  It’s better than the music they want to use in the background.  She keeps trying to sing something, but she can’t get any words out around the thick in her throat, the rasping, the instinct to scream, to cry, to—

The tears come easy, but Max has never needed to see to keep playing.

Her fingers find that tune again:  Pity, pity, pity, pity—

They’re new words, and they run over and over and over in her head, just those words and the ones she already remembers, connecting to it.  Then nothing.  Just a long expanse of nothingness.

~

Max tries to stay awake.

She doesn’t want to miss a second.

What if Agnes wakes up?

She can’t—

~

Wake up, hon; I’m dying here.

Funny that you think I care. You could die, and I would be happy.

You’d blame yourself.

I didn’t tell you to get involved with the fucking Avengers, Agatha.  That was your choice—

Are you fixed, hon?  Is being Max everything you wanted it to—

It’s better than being—

Is it?  Is it really, super star?  Because – fun fact – if I die, then she—

….

Look, hon.  You’ve got a choice here—

Pretty chatty for someone dying, aren’t you?

Better to talk while I still can, don’t you think?  Or would you rather—

~

Wanda opens her eyes.

She grits her teeth, stares at all the golden spiraling bullshit sorcery throbbing through Agatha’s veins and keeping her heart still beating, and waves them all away without a second thought.

Then she gathers the older witch’s broken body in her arms and disappears.

~

“America came to visit me while you were gone.”

Wanda ladles another cupful of stew into a bowl before carrying it over to Agatha’s bed.  She holds a spoon up, blows the steam from the top, and then holds it out to the other witch.  Then she hesitates.  “You don’t mind taking a bite after I—”

“It’s either that or nothing, love, and if you think I’m going to starve to death over such a small—”

Wanda pops the spoon in Agatha’s mouth midsentence, grinning when Agatha shoots her a glare.  “I’m sorry,” she murmurs.  “You were saying?”

Agatha chews the potato as Wanda takes the spoon away and sighs.  She closes her eyes.  “Nothing,” she says, finally.  “I didn’t say anything at all.”

~

Healing is, surprisingly or not, one of Wanda’s strong suits.

But it still takes her a long time before she finishes with Agatha.

It doesn’t need to take a long time. They both know that.  But she takes a long time regardless.

When she’s finished, Wanda brushes a hand through Agatha’s hair and sighs. “You won’t let me go back, will you?”

“If that’s what you want, love, then who am I to deny you?”  Agatha spreads her hands out.  Then she snorts.  “We’ll just end up right back here again.  Or I’ll die, and then you won’t have anyone skilled enough to give you your fix.”

Wanda stares down at Agatha and then says, finally, “What if I tell them that you are mine?  Do you think they’ll leave you alone then?”

Agatha shakes her head.  “First off, no.  Second, I don’t belong to you, hon; you don’t own me.  Third, you would have to mean that, and you certainly don’t.”  She glances up and meets Wanda’s eyes.  “Don’t lie to me, dear.  That won’t do you any favors.”

“I wasn’t lying.”

~

Every time Wanda enters the room, Agatha beams.

It’s unsettling, at first, but she gets used to it.

She needs a bit of sun to temper her thundercloud, after all.

(And always, always, always Agatha beams.)