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matttgirlies · 5 months

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Matt & Me🎀

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a story heavily based on Priscilla Presley’s Book “Elvis & Me” based in the 1950’s - 1970’s.

fem! reader x singer! matt

disclaimer!! - in no way am i saying matt would ever support or do these kind of things, for the sake of the book certain unethical things do happen at times.

warnings - sexual refrences, drug usage

y/nn = your nickname for any confusion🩷

Chapter 9

Matt sent two first-class plane tickets. My father took a leave of absence from his duties in Germany, and we flew off to Los Angeles, where Matt was filming Fun in Acapulco.

We stayed at the Bel Air Sands Hotel, and Matt was the perfect host. He’d pick us up in either a white Rolls-Royce or his famous gold Cadillac and take us on a sightseeing tour along the ocean to Malibu or into Hollywood.

My father was impressed with Matt’s hospitality, but not enough to forget why he was there—to talk about my education and my future at Graceland. Matt didn’t want to jeopardize the deal they had already made, and every time my father brought up my schooling, Matt would find a Hollywood landmark to point out.

“And over there, Captain,” he said, changing the subject as we cruised down Hollywood Boulevard, “is Grauman’s Chinese Theater. I’m sure you’ve heard of that. If you get out here, you can see all the stars of your era, their handprints and footprints. There’s Betty Grable, you remember her, don’t you? Marilyn Monroe, Kennedy’s friend, and if you look hard enough, you might spot Trigger’s hoofprint.” As my father stepped out of the car, Matt added, “I don’t think MacArthur’s are there yet, but I’m working on it.” We all laughed at the incongruity of General MacArthur bending over the wet concrete next to Jane Russell.

After a few days, my father and I flew to Boston and he and James enrolled me in the school Matt had chosen, Immaculate Conception, an all-girls high school, while Matt himself remained in L.A. to finish the film.

Before I left, he assured me that he’d be home soon and that he’d see me in a few weeks.

Matt and I planned to live together at Graceland eventually, but we’d told my parents that I would be staying with James and Angela, so when I arrived in Boston, I moved into their home. James assured my father that I’d be in good hands and not to worry.

The concerned look on my father’s face moved me. It was such a helpless look filled with doubts and fears about whether he was making the right decision. Only time would tell. He returned to Germany and I settled into my new routine.

In the beginning James drove me to and from school, where word of my identity soon leaked out. As I walked down the hallway, heads would turn and whispers would start. Once, a note that was being passed in study hall ended up on the floor. I saw my name on it and picked it up.

“Her name’s y/n,” I read. “She’s supposed to be Matt Sturniolo’s new girlfriend. If we make friends with her, maybe she’ll introduce us to him. Oh, God, wouldn’t that be neat!”

I didn’t know who the writer was, but I couldn’t mistake the meaning. The friendly smiles concealed intentions to get to Matt through me. Consequently, I was afraid to get close to anyone at school, and began to feel lonely and unhappy.

Living with James and Angela was also difficult. I felt out of place in their home, and did not want to be an intrusion in their personal life. I began spending more time with Grandma at Graceland, often staying all night, and gradually, almost unnoticed, I began to move in my things. By the time Matt suggested that I move into Graceland, I already had.

But living on “the hill,” as we called it, was isolated. The only people there were Grandma and the maids, and during the day, the secretaries, Becky Yancy and Patsy Sturniolo. Patsy was Matt’s double first cousin (her mother was Mary Lou’s sister and her father was James’s brother) and also served as James’s confidante. We were close, and after school I would go into the office to talk with her and Becky. But James felt my visits kept the girls from working and finally he put a sign on the door specifying: no one belongs in the office unless they work there, or have an appointment. I knew that meant me too, so I curtailed my visits.

There were other restrictions. I was told that I couldn’t have girlfriends over because strangers weren’t allowed in the house. One day, I was severely criticized for sitting under the trees on the front lawn. I was playing with Honey, the poodle Matt had given me for Christmas, when a friend of Angela’s drove up and told me that I was making a public display of myself.

Even at school, I felt restricted because James was still chauffeuring me there and back. Without my own car, I couldn’t leave the school grounds to take a drive at lunch or when my classes were cut short. At last I asked James if I could use Matt’s Lincoln Mark V and reluctantly, he agreed.

That evening I went for a drive. With the radio blaring and the windows wide open I sped down Highway 51 South, enjoying my newfound independence. I pulled up in front of Patsy Sturniolo’s house and said, “Hop in. Let’s go for a drive.”

Patsy introduced me to Leonard’s Drive-In, where we would spend at least one night a week when we didn’t go bowling or to a movie. But I went out less frequently when the two hundred dollars that my father had given me rapidly began slipping through my fingers. Matt had assured my father not to worry about money, that if I needed any, his father would give it to me. So, with gas added to my expenses, I had no choice but to approach James, as Matt had instructed me.

Hesitantly I walked into his office. I was nervous about talking to James, who had a sharp tongue and said exactly what he thought. Finally I said, “Mr. Sturniolo, I was wondering if I could have some money. I’m spending a lot on gas, which doesn’t leave much for anything else.”

“How much do you think you need?” he asked, his eyes narrowing suspiciously.

“I . . . I don’t know,” I stammered.

He thought for a moment, then said, “Okay, I’ll give you thirty-five dollars. How does that sound?”

Thirty-five dollars sounded fine at the moment, but it didn’t go very far, not with movie tickets, gas, and clothes to buy. Two weeks later I asked him for money to go out with Patsy.

“Hot damn,” he snapped. “Didn’t I just give you thirty-five dollars?”

“That was two weeks ago, Mr. Sturniolo. I can’t stretch it any further than that.”

He stared angrily at me and then his face softened.

“Well, I guess things can get pretty expensive,” he said, counting out another thirty-five dollars. “Now you and Patsy be careful driving out there. You know there’s a lot of accidents on that highway. Why don’t you call me when you get to the theater?”

At the time his caution surprised me, but remembering what Matt had said about Mary Lou, I knew that this was also typical of the rest of the Sturniolos. They always felt better if you called when you arrived at your destination and again before you left for home.

Matt phoned later that evening. In the course of the conversation he asked, “How are you doing on cash, Baby?”

“Funny you should ask that,” I said, mentioning his father’s reaction when I asked for money.

Matt started laughing. “That’s my dad. He’s always been tight. Getting money from him is worse than going to the local bank, even if you’ve got good credit. That’s why I have him taking care of my bills. Every penny’s accounted for. I wouldn’t trust anybody else. Too many thieves. Don’t worry about it. I’ll talk to him.”

I ended up laughing too. Matt’s sense of humor was contagious. He laughed about things that often wouldn’t make sense to anyone else, yet anyone around him would usually end up laughing too.

Unfortunately, Matt forgot to speak to his father. Rather than ask for handouts, I resolved to earn my own money. I began modeling part-time at a boutique near Graceland. When I told Matt about my job, he said, “You’re gonna have to give it up.”

“But I’m enjoying it,” I said.

“It’s either me or a career, Baby. Because when I call you, I need you to be there.”

I quit the modeling job the next day, which left me with very little to do. I started spending even more time in Grandma’s room. I liked being with her. She was always in her favorite chair, ready to share her loving stories about Matt.

Most of them dealt with his early years and the family’s struggle against poverty. Suffering and worry seemed to be the very fabric of Sturniolo’s lives. Any time Matt failed to call home for two days in a row, they worried that something terrible had happened to him in California. Matt’s enormous success and wealth notwithstanding, they were convinced that some misfortune was going to snatch it all away from them. Sometimes all this talk of suffering depressed me.

My only relief was Patsy Sturniolo, and I went to her every chance I got. But then Grandma complained that she was being neglected. She reminded me that Matt’s old girlfriends used to stay with her every single night he was gone. Torn, I couldn’t wait for Matt’s return.

I anxiously waited for his call. It usually came in the early evening.

“Hi, Baby. How’s my girl?” he asked, his voice bright and full of energy.

Happy to hear from him, I said, “I’m fine, Matt.” I tried to mention how lonely I was, but he cut in. “It won’t be long, Baby. Just a few more weeks, and we’ll be wrapping up.”

“I’m glad. I’ll be so happy to see you.”

“Well, then, let me hear some enthusiasm.” He began describing a silly incident that had taken place on the set that day, trying to make me laugh.

I wanted to say, “Matt, talk to me, help me get through these new experiences.” But I realized that he didn’t want to hear about my problems. He felt he had enough of his own. When he asked me how I was doing, I became very animated and said, “Just great, Matt. Everything is wonderful.”

But when we hung up, I still felt an emptiness. I began counting the days until he came home.

After several delays Matt finished Fun in Acapulco and headed back to Graceland. Still afraid of flying, he traveled with the entourage in his huge, custom-built bus, the same one we’d taken to Vegas the year before. At every stop he called Graceland with a progress report. “I’m in Flagstaff now,” he said. “Only a few more days and I’ll be home. How’s my Little Girl doing?”

With each day’s phone call I became increasingly excited. I awaited Matt’s arrival with open arms and a big smile.

Finally one evening he called and said he’d be pulling in around midnight. By ten o’clock, fans were already waiting at the gate. How they found out was a mystery. I was among a small group of his friends and relatives gathered in the living room. All of us peered impatiently out the large window facing the long circular driveway.

I had been hoping that our reunion would be intimate, romantic. But I could now see that it was not to be, and I wondered if Matt would be upset that so many people were around.

By twelve-thirty, the fans at the gate started shrieking and the powerful glaring lights of the bus swept the driveway. Matt was behind the wheel and smoothly brought the bus to a halt. He was the first one out and he came through the front door like a shot.

“Where’s my girl?” he called out, looking around for me.

“Hello,” I said. It seemed more like months than weeks since I’d last seen him.

“Hello?” he echoed in a mocking voice, coming up to me. “I’ve been gone all this time and all you can say is ‘hello’?�� Then he lifted me into the air, kissing and hugging me. “God, it’s good to be home.” He looked around and saw his grandma.

“Dodger, you waited up for me too, bless your heart.” He hugged her and patted the back of her head. Then he greeted the rest of the household. Matt could be extremely affectionate, and this particular night he had hugs for everyone.

With his arrival, Graceland sprang to life. The maids started cooking, and the boys were talking, greeting their wives and girlfriends, and soon they were bringing in the luggage and unpacking it.

After being alone so long, I found this sudden intensity and energy overpowering. I stood amid the commotion, watching Matt go upstairs, as he called out to Pauline, “O Five, what’s for dinner?”

I didn’t know whether to follow him or wait. I didn’t want to appear too excited, so I stayed downstairs until I heard, “y/nn, come up here.” Then I couldn’t get up those stairs fast enough.

We had a few quiet moments together in his room. He asked how I was doing, if I liked school, and if his dad was taking care of me. I started to tell him everything I hadn’t been able to on the phone, that I had missed him, that I had been lonely, that I really wanted to find a job. Then I stopped myself. This wasn’t what Matt wanted to hear.

After a few minutes of talking about Grandma, he kissed me and said, “Well, let’s join the others and eat.”

When we got downstairs the rooms that for weeks had been so quiet were now filled with guests laughing and cracking jokes.

Graceland was—as local DJ George Klein put it—ready to rock and roll.

We had a down-home meal of pork chops, cornbread, home fries, and crowder peas. While we were sitting around the table, local friends dropped by to visit and to catch up on all the gossip about Matt’s latest movie.

“Goddamn, she was a big woman,” Matt was saying about his costar. “Body like a man—no hips, and shoulders broader than mine. I was embarrassed to take my goddamn shirt off next to her.”

“Yeah, but M,” Alan Smith kidded him, “she only had eyes for you.”

“No way, Son, not with John Derek lurking all over the place. I’d be goddamned if I’d start a conversation with her and see his possessive eyes glaring at me. You know he gave her a car, and on the steering wheel it said, ‘Baby, you’re indispensable.’ Head over heels in love with her. Never saw anything like it.”

I was surprised to hear how Matt was talking about Ursula Andress, the alluring sex goddess of Dr. No.

“Wasn’t she pretty?” I asked.

“Pretty?” he snickered. “Hell, she had a bone structure so sharp, it could cut you in half if you turned too fast.”

Everyone howled, including me. Matt’s stories went on for hours. Again I felt out of touch with the conversation and wished I had some colorful stories of my own. I kept wondering when we were going to have some time alone. My world consisted solely of him. I sat quietly, happily observing him. Whenever he winked at me or gave my hand a little squeeze, I returned the gesture, thinking, now? Does he want me to leave, so he can follow me? But then he’d lean back in his chair and begin telling another story.

It was almost dawn before he yawned and said, “Well, we better get some sleep.”

We all rose from the table. He looked over at me, smiled, and said, “Do I have to write a note for school saying you were sick today? Think they’d believe me?”

Everyone laughed—and I blushed.

He put his arm around my waist as we made our way up the staircase to his room. If I appeared cool it was because I was mindful of something he’d once told me: He detested aggressive women. In fact, I was ecstatic. I’m finally going to be alone with him, I thought. All the phone calls, the worrying, the anticipation, and the delays are now over.

I got ready for bed at least fifteen minutes before he came out of his bathroom. He counted out his usual number of sleeping pills and took them one at a time. “Why are you taking those now?” I asked. “You’ll fall asleep.” I had plans, and the last thing I wanted was for him to doze off.

“Don’t worry. It’ll take a while for them to take effect.” He handed me a pill. “Here, just take one of these and you’ll get a good night’s sleep. It’s okay since you’re not going to school this morning.” He cautioned, “I wouldn’t advise it on school nights though.”

I looked at the red monster, remembering my earlier experience with it. “It won’t knock me out for ten days, will it?” I smiled at him as I swallowed the pill. It gave me a nice feeling. My body tingled. I was light-headed but more in control this time.

Snuggled in Matt’s arms, I was happy to be near him, his warm body against mine. Because of the sleeping pill, I could feel my inhibitions dissolving.

“How’s my Little Girl been?” He was speaking very softly now. “I’ve missed her. Has she been good?”

“Yes, she’s been good,” I said. “But she’s been waiting for you. It’s been so lonely here. She couldn’t wait to be in your arms, and she’s been thinking about you so much.”

“Shhh, don’t say anything else. I know you’ve missed me. I want you to just be here with me now and don’t think about anything else. Let’s enjoy each other.”

I was aware of the distant hum of the air conditioner, the music from the radio, the soft glow of the dim lights. Gently and tenderly he began to touch me.

He was passionate and again seemed to be making up for lost time. I felt sure the night would end with Matt finally making love to me. I was drunk with ecstasy. I wanted him. I became bolder, reaching out to him, totally open and honest in my need.

Then, as before when we’d reach this point, he stopped and whispered, “Don’t get carried away, Baby. Let me decide when it should happen. It’s a very sacred thing to me. It always has been. You know that I want it to be something to look forward to. It keeps the desire there. Do you know what I mean?”

I sat up in anger. “What about Nicole?” I yelled. “You mean you didn’t make love to her the whole four years you went with her?”

“Just to a point. Then I stopped. It was difficult for her too, but that’s just how I feel.”

“That’s how you feel. What about me? How long do you think this can go on? God, Matt, that takes a lot of willpower. That’s asking a lot of another person, one who’s in love and has strong, healthy desires.”

“Don’t get me wrong. I’m not saying we can’t do other things. It’s just the actual encounter. I want to save it.”

Fearful of not pleasing him—of destroying my image as his little girl—I resigned myself to the long wait.

Instead of consummating our love in the usual way, he began teaching me other means of pleasing him. We had a strong connection, much of it sexual. The two of us created some exciting and wild times.

Excerpt from: "Elvis and Me" by Priscilla Beaulieu Presley. Scribd.

This material may be protected by copyright.

a/n - i think im going to start doing longer chapters🎀

#matt stuniolo fanfic #matthew sturn #chris sturniolo #matthew sturniolo #matt sturniolo #christopher sturniolo #sturniolo edit #sturniolo fanfic #sturniolo imagine #sturniolo smut #sturniolo triplets #sturniolo x reader #nick sturniolo #Spotify

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copperbadge · 2 years

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“Breaking into a cemetery”? Sam, dish the tea, please! (And not into Boston Harbour, either). What sort of sightseeing exigency required burglarizing the marble orchard? And how did you evade the gendarmes? This sounds a bit “Leverage”. (Or something a young Steve Rogers might pull.)

Looking back, I'm gonna say like 70% was me being young and stupid and 30% was probably ADHD-fueled impulsivity.

Copp's Hill Burial Ground sits on the flat top of Copp's Hill, with walls all the way around and entrances on opposite sides. The other two sides have houses butted up against the cemetery on one, and a tall wall with a long drop down to the street on the other. Signs posted outside of it say that it opens at sunrise and closes at dusk.

When I got there, which was early but well after sunrise, the main entrance was still locked. I walked around, looking for another one, and on the opposing side (the Charter Street entrance) the gate was also locked, but the wall is very low and so is the fencing. If you look at it on Google Streetview you can see that for a reasonably athletic person it would be fairly easy to get up on the wall and vault the fence.

I thought, well, it's supposed to be open, so probably I won't get into trouble if I climb in. Ah, youth.

So I did, and I had a very nice time; I didn't disturb or vandalize anything, obviously, I just walked around and looked for the gravestones I'd wanted to find (Prince Hall, the Mathers, etc). I still have photos I took that day:

[ID: A scanned film-camera photo of a cemetery, looking east towards the water, the sun barely touching the tops of the trees; the gravestones are laid out in irregular lines, cut through with brick-paved paths.]

Anyway, I spent a lovely hour or so amongst the stones, and then I happened to look up as a large SUV drove past the west entrance. It slowed down and I felt like it was...looking at me, very clearly visible as the only person in the cemetery. So I started strolling back towards the east entrance. Sure enough, not long after, a police car pulled up to the west entrance, lights going, and I took off running.

I cleared the fence pretty much in a single leap and darted down Charter Street, ducking into an alley where I pulled my coat off and stuffed it in my messenger bag, figuring that would make me harder to identify. The messenger bag converted to a backpack so I did that as well, pulling out the straps and shouldering it. I then strolled Incredibly Casually down the next cross-street to the Old North Church, which was open, and ducked inside just as the cop car rolled past again. I settled down in one of the high-walled pews for about half an hour, just to be safe, and I didn't hear the sirens come past again. It's quite a pretty little church anyway and I had a book, so it wasn't a hardship.

Should I have broken into the cemetery? While it was laughably easy and I had good intentions, probably not. But nobody was harmed, so while it's not a good example to set it's still a fun story to tell, especially in person (I do hand gestures).

#boston #copp's hill #sam's criminal youth

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hakugreenfinch · 2 years

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Iggy the Stray Dog - ch1

Author: Otsuichi

Original concept: Araki Hirohiko

Originally published: JOJO Magazine 2022 Spring

*** This is a fan translation made purely for entertainment. Please do not repost/reuse/etc without my permission and credit! ***

The plane lands at John F. Kennedy International Airport. In the air, a haze like light yellow smoke drifts, one could not see anything too far away.

I show my passport to pass immigration inspection at the airport. I collect my check-in baggage and catch a yellow taxi. My destination is the Speedwagon Foundation headquarters, located in Midtown Manhattan. I estimate it would take about thirty minutes from the airport by car.

On the way there, the driver keeps wiping the sand gathering on the car’s windshield. Wait, sand? Taking a closer look, even the back seat window is covered in what looks like light yellow sand. I speculate the hazy sight I saw from the airplane must have been the fault of the sand dancing in the air.

„Does sand usually pass over New York this time of the year?” I ask the driver. It wouldn’t be odd for tiny specs of sand to get caught up in the desert wind and travel tens of thousands of kilometers to faraway countries. The driver throws a glimpse at me from the rearview mirror.

„It’s been like this for half a year now, it happens every now and then. I wonder where on earth it came from... Sir, can I ask where you’re from?”

„From Egypt.”

„Thought so! I was sure based on your clothes. This song called „Walk like an Egyptian” is very popular recently in this country, do you know it?”

„No, I haven’t heard it.”

„Well, it’s everywhere. I’m sure some radio station is playing it this very moment!” The driver turns on the radio as he speaks, and music starts playing. It isn’t the song we just discussed but it is a lively music filled with energy, very much like this country. „Welcome to the United States, Sir! Are you here to sightsee?”

„No. I must do some work at the request of my American friend.”

„Wow, good luck with that!”

The taxi drives up on the highway and before soon I can see a bridge before us. Crossing East River, the Robert F. Kennedy Bridge is lying across from the Wards Islands and finally reaching Manhattan Island. I bet my driver wouldn’t even imagine that I of all people would visit this country to capture a stray dog.

***

According to the Speedwagon Foundation’s reports, it was first observed at a New York corner store. One morning as the owner pulled up the shutters of his store, he found that some of the shelves were vandalized. As he evaluated the damage, it seemed like someone had been inside.

In the dark, he heard a noise resembling chewing.

The owner grabbed a mop that happened to be at hand and stepped closer, ready to attack with the handle. Then, he realized what was hiding in the shadows – a small dog of roughly 30 cm height. It was a Boston Terrier. The middle of its head, its nose and mouth were white as well as around its neck, while its eyes, ears and torso were black. Drool was dripping from the skin hanging over on both sides of its muzzle.

The Boston Terrier stopped chewing and stared straight up at the store owner. It was eating coffee flavoured chewing gum.

The store owner swung the mop at it in an attempt to chase it outside, but the dog clung to his head with an astonishing jump, rampaging as if it was trying to tear his hair out, and finally farted before his face and ran away. The store owner testified that it smelled like rotten eggs. Apparently it is quite common among dog breeds like Boston Terriers to breathe through the mouth and fart a lot but thanks to it doing so in front of the man’s face, its private parts flashed before his eyes and he could tell the dog was a male.

Only one thing remains a mystery about this incident – until the store owner opened the shutters in the morning, it should have been impossible for anyone to enter the store. There was no other entrance and the windows had been closed shut. How did the Boston Terrier get inside then?

Upon closer inspection, the Speedwagon Foundation found that a ceiling tile had come off, that’s where he could supposedly enter. But was that even possible for such a small dog? A dog normally couldn’t even have gotten above the ceiling.

Since then, multiple incidents have taken place in various areas of Manhattan of a stray dog stealing chewing gum. One time it was a newspaper stand in the office district, another time it was a store in the harbour from where the Statue of Liberty could be seen where the candy shelves were raided and robbed completely of coffee flavoured chewing gum. If tourists decided to chew some, a stray dog would jump in from outside of their field of vision and run away with the strip of gum. The culprit was always a Boston Terrier. Even if people ran after him, they never managed to capture him.

Countless complaints have been sent to New York City Hall and as a result, pest control was set to work. There is a number of small private pest exterminators in Manhattan, taking care of rats and bats at the request of citizens, but stray cats and dogs also aren’t unusual for them to take care of. The animals they capture are sent off to shelters and put down.

The city commissioned several of these contractors. The „stray dog hunters” collect information on the Boston Terrier’s sightings and jump in their cars carrying huge nets, just like in “Ghostbusters”. However, not even they succeed.

When they chase him down and attempt to corner him, grains of sand start flying around out of nowhere. The sand clings to the men’s faces and get in their eyes, robbing them of their vision while the Boston Terrier runs somewhere far away. The inexplicable sand phenomenon has been reported in other cases as well.

In the nothern parts of Manhattan, on street corners that tourists should never get anywhere near, a fight broke out between rival mafia gangs. At first, it was just an exchange of insults but it soon escalated into guns being pointed at each other. At the sound of the first gunshot, a nearby restaurant’s windows shattered, but no further shots echoed after that.

As the gangsters tried to pull the triggers of their guns, for some reason they just didn’t move. Upon taking a closer look, they saw that they were completely clogged with sand. Thanks to the sand that got inside the machines, they simply couldn’t move properly or shoot bullets.

Could it have been the work of some natural phenomenon? No, that wasn’t it. A Boston Terrier was spotted not far away, sunbathing as he took his noon nap. The sand clogging the guns was his work. He thought that the noise of gunshots was disturbing his nap and thus, who knows how, he made sure that the gangsters’ guns malfunctioned.

He has some sort of power that allows him to manipulate sand.

The Speedwagon Foundation and I hold the same opinion.

I read through the reports concerning the Boston Terrier in a room of the Foundation’s headquarters. On the outside, it seems to be an old-style stone building, however on the inside it is a modern office building. It appears that my face and name are already familiar here since no security guard stops me at the entrance.

Outside my window, the many buildings of Midtown fill my sight, their silhouettes line up across the scenery obscured by sand as if they were ruins in the desert.

„Does this dog have any friends? Dogs usually gather into packs.”

A staff member of the Speedwagon Foundation answers my question.

„It appears he only moves around by himself. However, several reports state that stray bitches had served him. It looks like other dogs have also noted his oddness. For instance, in front of a certain downtown shop there are big dogs that bark all day but whenever this Boston Terrier passes by, they pull in their ears and tails and hide away. He’s not even one third of their sizes and yet those huge dogs are terrified of him! Some even call him the king of stray dogs.”

I pick up another report. This one is summarizing the tales the „stray dog hunters” told.

One day, a vermin exterminator received a request from the city to capture some wild dogs. It happened when the man had locked the dogs up onto the tray of his truck and took a cigarette break in the driver’s seat. He heard a rustling sound, as if sand had been falling down. Taking a closer look, sand had piled up under his seat. It reached up to the man’s ankle, and no matter how much he struggled, it soon reached up to his waist. He tried to open the door and escape but by then the sand has already reached the height of his shoulders, rendering him unable to move. At last, the driver’s seat had been covered in sand up to his neck.

With a thump, the car began to shake and he saw the dogs that were supposed to be locked up on the tray fleeing the truck, one after the other. He later checked the tray and found that although he had locked it up, the door seemed to be damaged.

Through the car’s windscreen, the man covered in sand caught a glimpse of a Boston Terrier. The dog crossed in front of the car calmly, just as if he was looking down at humans, mocking them.

„Was he looking for friends?”

„He might have simply been acting on a whim. Here is some additional material.”

The Speedwagon Foundation staff member shows me another several pages long document. It seems to be a pedigree paper, a registration certificate with a thread diagram and the owner’s name.

„We have confirmed that he ran away from somewhere. It looks like he belonged to a wealthy man in a kuxurious mansion.”

„How do you know?”

„We asked around about a Boston Terrier that loves coffee flavour chewing gum. It wasn’t easy, though...”

According to this man’s story, the time a wealthy household’s pet dog ran away and disappeared and the time this Boston Terrier was first seen in Manhattan line up. The house’s butler confirmed that without a doubt, this dog had a bizarre obsession with coffee flavoured chewing gum.

„At this house, they used to call him Iggy.”

„Iggy, huh...”

Iggy, the odd dog with the power to manipulate sand.

He must be hiding somewhere around Manhattan even now.

„We, the Speedwagon Foundation also took part in the stray dog hunt to help capture him but it was all in vain. It would be a problem if nobody manages to catch him...”

„He probably wants to avoid falling back into that man’s hands.”

Fear confuses the mind. Just a couple of months ago I met a certain man. That man wasn’t human, he wasn’t something that was supposed to be real, something that was supposed to exist. He showed up and called out to me in an intoxicating, beautiful voice.

With a disgraceful shriek, I ran away.

I haven’t returned to my hometown since then.

I shove a bunch of reports inside my suitcase and stand up.

I leave the Speedwagon Foundation’s building. Midtown is a prosperous area even on the island of Manhattan. Skyscrapers are towering on each side of the main street, their highest floors disappearing into the clouds. All kinds of people dressed in all sorts of clothes are crowding the streets and a variety of languages can be heard. I even see quite a number of Arabs just like myself.

I stop a taxi passing by and sit in the back. I give my hotel’s name to the driver, apparently it is right around Central Park. It’s a top notch hotel booked by the Speedwagon Foundation. The driver, a fat white man, takes a look at me from the rear-view mirror and, without saying a word, steps on the gas pedal.

The Speedwagon Foundation was established by a man named Robert E. O. Speedwagon. They are dedicated to studying medicine, pharmacology, archeology and ecology among others, working for the sake of people’s livelihood and welfare. The founder, Mr Speedwagon has already passed away but by means of his will, my American friend and his family get to enjoy the Foundation’s support.

After just a while, the taxi arrives before my hotel. The driver stops the taxi’s fare meter and sticks his hand out to me.

„Seventy-five dollars.” An arrogant attitude rings from his voice.

„Seventy-five dollars? There must be a mistake.”

Just now, I took a taxi from the airport to Manhattan but this price was higher than the fare I paid that time.

„No, it’s seventy-five dollars. Look at the meter, it says seventy-five, doesn’t it?”

The white driver points at the price shown by the liquid crystal screen on the instrument panel with a thick finger. It is the meter displaying the fare. Certainly, it says seventy-five dollars. It is probably overcharging to rip off tourists. I’ve heard of a trick that, by modifying the meter, made it show an unfairly high fare.

„I’m afraid your meter is broken. That’s why it is displaying such an odd number.”

The driver taps it as if to test it and clicks his tongue.

„This is the latest model, I just got it recently. There’s no way it’s broken. If you’ve got that, pay those seventy-five dollars.”

„No, I’m certain it is broken. There, take a look at the screen. Isn’t the display a bit odd?”

„...the hell, what’s up with this?” The driver sounds puzzled. The liquid crystal screen is flickering. He starts sweating – the temperature inside the car is rising. It is me, using my powers just a little bit.

A charred smell begins to waft in the air. The meter is burning up from the heat on the inside until nothing shows up on its screen anymore.

„It’s smoking!”

From the gaps of the machine, white smoke is leaking. The driver lets out a scream as he sees it and tears the door open, getting out of the car. I take my bags and step outside as well.

„How on earth...?! It was brand new,” the driver yells, checking the meter inside the car through a window. The heat melted the screen and the surrounding devices look charred as well. I take out some banknotes and offer what I think to be an appropriate amount to him.

„From Midtown to here the fare should be this much. Your meter was broken, that’s why it was showing an odd number.”

„Aah, yeah... I guess that’s what it was.”

Frankly, the driver doesn’t really look like he cares, he is rather disheartened. Even now, he seems to be on the brink of crying. He is a bad person and he deserves no sympathy. Have I not heated the meter up just enough to damage it, he would have scammed other tourists. The Old Testament’s Exodus said so – an eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth.

The driver puts a cigarette in his mouth, he probably needs a smoke to calm down. I hold out my hand in the cigarette’s direction, pinching its end between my thumb and index finger. The man looks up at me, tensing up. I am taller even than most Americans.

„Your job should come first. That’s what they say in my hometown. From now on, live an earnest life!”

Heat arises between my fingers. The end of the cigarette lits up in red, smoke rising up. Making sure it did, I let go of it. The driver stares at the light, dumbfounded.

„Are you a magician?”

He must think that because I lit a fire without a match or a lighter.

„No, I’m a fortune teller.”

Picking up my baggage, I walk away.

The hotel is a building with a feeling of historical importance and dignity. Stepping through the front entrance, I get overwhelmed by a magnificent lobby. Each and every lighting fixture is like a piece of jewelry. At the reception desk, I make arrangements regarding my accomodation. I put down my name and passport number on a form. The receptionist takes a look at it, and calls out my name with a smile.

„Mr. Mohammed Avdol! We’ve been expecting you.”

#iggy the stray dog #野良犬イギー #jojo's bizarre adventure #jojo no kimyou na bouken #jjba #stardust crusaders #my translation #idk what else to put here #translating from one foreign language to another is a bitch of a work #so if it reads weird thats why #hope its still enjoyable uwu

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legobiwan · 3 months

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I have not forgotten about the prompts. But good gods, writing the Pines twins has been fun but excruciating. Proof I'm still writing below.

~~~~

Stan downshifted his labored trot to an awkward semblance of a power walk, making a half-hearted - quite literally - attempt at maintaining a tail on his showoff brother. Half-a-block later, Stan gave up all pretense of the chase as he sagged against the dull brick wall of an uninspiring convention center, his heart doing a Tin Pan Alley tapdance up his throat. If Ford wanted to sprint around like he was on the lam from the cops in a Tijuana alleyway, he could do it on his own. Stan was done.

“A quick stop for supplies, Stanley,” he groused between heavy breaths, Stan’s typical gross exaggeration of his brother’s voice lacking its usual zeal. “An invigorating walk will do you good, Stanley.”

Bullshit.

An invigorating walk was supposed to be a bit of sightseeing. Checking out those fancy rainbow-jelly bean houses. Buying - okay, maybe liberating - some overpriced tourist crap for the kids. Maybe even scoping out a dingy watering hole or two where he and his brother could while away the evenings.

This, on the other hand, was their third “errand” to some hippy-dippy plant shop in as many days. And - surprise - it was also the third consecutive “brisk constitutional” Ford had press-ganged him into, with the supposed aim of procuring God-knew-what overpriced seaweed that was supposed to be “essential to their preparation for the upcoming voyage.”

Stan let out a beleaguered sigh, a trickle of sweat meandering down his face from his brow line to his chin. He scanned his surroundings out of long-ingrained habit, marking any dark alleyways, shifty, loitering figures in the background - anything that could come at him with a a switchblade and a grudge.

Not that there was much to worry about here. Sure, it wasn’t the prettiest area of town, more an extension of the bustling commercial port than an actual neighborhood. Towers of rusted shipping containers and tall, industrial cranes lined the edge of the harbor on one side, the other half of the street dedicated to boring faux-brick buildings similar to the one he was currently half-collapsed against. On the opposite of the intersection, he could see signs for an attorney’s office and more bizarrely, some restaurant called “Boston Pizza,” the name of which was an affront to Stan’s Jersey sensibilities on multiple levels.

#hello there #writing #the eternal struggle #stanley pines #stanford pines #AGH

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darksigns-exe · 11 months

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Sweet Like Honey - Caught In The Rain

Warnings: None Word Count: 715 Note: I wrote this at the beginning of the month with the intention of of churning out little fics all month. Evidently that didn’t happen. But here’s a little Sweet Like Honey bonus content for your entertainment. It’s basically unedited so don’t come for me and my bad punctuation. Regular chapters continue this week she’s been a bit busy <3

Under normal circumstances, PDA isn’t his style but he also knows that Bee loves a good romcom and if he can give her that cheesy, cliche kiss in the rain moment, he’ll do his damndest to make her knees buckle.

Noah has a whole day for them planned. It’s their one day off for the week and Bee’s time off is nearing its end, meaning that they’ll be separated again way too soon. The first half of the day goes as planned, they look at sights, have a nice little lunch, do some more sightseeing. It’s surprisingly normal, if someone spots them they don’t make contact for which Noah is more than grateful. He luxuriates in her presences, allows himself to just be Noah the boyfriend who gets dragged around Boston so that his lady can look at all the pretty things. It’s nice enough. He takes her picture whenever she asks and even when she doesn’t. He keeps the candids to himself for the most part, pretty little reminders of his girl when she goes back home.

She’s dragged him into some little shop with little handmade trinkets. He doesn’t know how many of these shops they’ve already been to, but it makes her happy so he trudges along no matter how much he’d rather slip beneath the sheets of their bed right now. The twinkling in her eyes when she holds one of the little things she’s found up to him makes it worth it.

By the time they leave the story he’s a good fifty bucks lighter, but Bee has that little spring in her step and so he forgets about it. Fifty dollars doesn’t hurt his wallet anymore. He barely notices that the air has a significant chill now and if Bee notices it, it doesn’t seem to bother her.

When the first drop of rain hits his forehead they’re still a solid thirty minutes away from their hotel. Within no time one drop turns into a full on downpour that soaks them down to the bone in mere moments. He tries to shield her from the rain as best as he can while they maneouver the packed streets.

Noah pulls them under an awning, hoping that they’ll be able to wait out the worst of it. They’re soaked anyway so it doesn’t matter too much, but he doesn’t need either of them getting sick right now.

Bee’s hand is still wrapped firmly around his when they find a free spot between the other soaked bodies trying to escape the rain. Her fringe sticks to her forehead, droplets of rain trailing along the strands of hair and down her face. She looks gorgeous, even wet as a dog.

He brushes some of the wetness away from her cheek. Sometimes he still can’t quite believe it. Their start had been rough, but now that they’re through what he hopes to be the worst it’s absolute bliss. His fingers linger against her skin. It’s awfully cold.

“Whatcha thinking about, pretty boy?”

The nickname forces the blood to rush up into his cheeks, it always does.

“What I’m gonna do to you once we’re out of the rain and these clothes.” His reply comes low, whispered against her ear.

He bites back the rest of what he wants to say.

Bee squeezes his hand “Filthy.”

“Gotta use what time we have, don’t we?” He presses a kiss below her ear “What kind of boyfriend would I be if I sent you home without a souvenir of my own.”

He doesn’t know if the shiver that runs through her comes from the cold or his words. He likes to imagine that it’s the latter.

He shifts his hand behind her neck and pulls her in for a kiss. Under normal circumstances, PDA isn’t his style but he also knows that Bee loves a good romcom and if he can give her that cheesy, cliche kiss in the rain moment, he’ll do his damndest to make her knees buckle. He brings a hand behind her back so that he can lean into her a little more. She lets out a little gasp when he draws his tongue against her lip. The hand that still holds his squeezes tighter still.

She’s breathless and flushed bright pink when he pulls away from her. If she wants romcom, she’ll get romcom.

He leans back in, once more whispering against her ear so that only she can hear him “Soaked as you are, we might as well brave the rain.”

#fic: sweet like honey #bad omens rpf #bad omens fic #bad omens #noah sebastian fic #noah sebastian x ofc #noah sebastian fanfiction #Noah Sebastian #BONUS CONTENT HOURS BOYS

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rian-lindley · 2 years

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Rian had never loved when her husband left for a job. Whenever he was gone her head and heart were filled with worry and longing. While she has still yet to master not pouting upon his departure, Rian had managed to find various ways to fill her time and busy her mind until Guy came home. With him telling her it would be at least a few more days, she decided some pampering was in order.

The next morning she drove into Boston. Stopped and ate breakfast at her favorite diner, sure to take a picture of her bacon and texting it to Guy. Her next stop was to get her nails done, falling into a food coma during her pedicure. She spent the next several hours at the spa, getting treatments and massages until her skin was glowing and her limbs felt like spaghetti. She ate lunch on the go, grabbing a salad and bringing it to the dry bar to eat while she got her hair blown out.

The rest of Rian’s afternoon was spent roaming the city streets, shopping and sightseeing, but mostly shopping. Having lost track of time, her only indicator of how late it had gotten was that by the time she walked out of the last store, it was dark outside. Being a New York City native, navigating Boston had become primarily her husband’s job, since he did most of, if not all, the driving. With the added veil of night, Rian went from directionally challenged to completely inept.

After wandering around for ages, she found what she thought to be the parking garage she had parked in. She skipped the elevator, remembering it being busted when she had arrived, and took the two flights of stairs up to the third floor. Rian thought she heard a second set of footsteps but the parking lot wasn’t that full. Surely it was just the echo of her own sounding off the concrete. She rounded the corner, expecting to see her car a few feet ahead of her but instead, she came face to face with the pavement.

Blood immediately exploded from her nose and pain radiated through her face. For a split second, she thought she had tripped until she felt the kick in her ribs. A yelp of pain escaped her at this impact. Rian tried to push herself up to her hands and knees to crawl away but another blow came to her stomach before she could even steady herself. This time, the wind was knocked out of her and she rolled to her back. She was looking up at the face of her attacker. Bold, to remain unmasked, she thought to herself. Until his fist collided with her already bloodied face. Then all she saw was blackness.

—-

Rian woke up hours later in a hospital bed. Her entire body felt like one big bruise. She brought her hand, which was now the home to an IV, to her face and felt the gauze that was covering it. She sighed and it made her wince in pain. A nurse popped her head in the door and smiled softly. “You’re awake!” Her voice was cheerful and if it wouldn’t have hurt, Rian probably would have glared at her. “Do you remember what happened?”

“Unfortunately.” Rian replied, her voice was hoarse and it hurt to even speak so she didn’t say anything more.

“The officers have been waiting to speak to you, do you mind if they come in?”

Rian nodded her head and soon the nurse’s cheerful demeanor would have been welcomed. The two Boston PD officers who walked in wore solemn expressions.

“Mrs. Lindley, sorry to have to meet you under these conditions. We have a few questions for you. By the time you were found, your attacker was long gone. Do you remember what they looked like? Anything odd about the scene? What were you doing in that parking lot? Do you have any known enemies?”

“Getting in my car, obviously?” Rian said, confused.

“Ma’am, we located your vehicle about three blocks over.” The other officer chimed in and looked at her suspiciously, as if she were lying. This time Rian glared through the pain.

“Jesus Christ, don’t tell my husband that. Okay, I thought I was getting in my car. He was tall, somewhere around six feet. Maybe a little taller. White guy, thirties maybe? Standard build, maybe a little more on the toned side. I wasn’t really checking him out. Strong. Obviously. His hair was dark but short, almost shaved and he had some stubble. I didn’t catch his eye color. Sorry. He was following me, I don’t know how long, I just remember hearing footsteps on the stairs with me.”

The suspicious cop nodded, his expression was impressed now and Rian took note.

“I listen to a lot of True Crime podcasts.” She explained. “This is my first time being one, though. As for enemies…not really?”

“All of your shopping bags and purse were left at the scene. Phone, wallet, your jewelry. We think you were specifically targeted so if you think of anything, let us know. We left our card with the nurse. We’re waiting on some footage from the parking garage security camera and we might have some follow up questions after that. Rest up and have a good night, ma’am.”

The officers gave a curt nod before exiting the room. As Rian watched them leave, it dawned on her that her phone was likely in evidence for now. Thankful again for her morbid obsession, she had her husband’s cell phone number memorized. Reaching for the hospital phone, she dialed the number and hoped he would answer the unknown caller.

“Hello?” A sigh of relief escaped her at the sound of her husband's voice, albeit confused. “Rian?” He asked simply at the sound of her breathing, his tone now concerned.

“Yeah, it’s me. Don’t be mad…”

#[ras // narrative 3]#[tw: blood/assualt]#[tbc]

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