a quiet month


Tweeter and Skeeter.

This is long, be warned. I live in a lowish income neighborhood. My little section is pretty nice, but if you go a few blocks in any direction, it gets pretty shitty. That means I’ve had a few run ins with skeevy meth heads and small time thieves.

This started when I moved in to my house. I noticed that on trash pick-up days, people would go up and down the alley where the trash cans go and dig through looking for recyclables. One of them was a guy I called Old Bob.

Old Bob lived a few houses down. He said he collected to buy presents for his grandkids. I don’t think the kids liked pints of Dark Eyes vodka, but he was harmless. So I started bagging up my cans separately so Old Bob didn’t have to dig through my trash.

Then, there were Tweeter and Skeeter. They would roll up and down the alley in a junky old truck with no exhaust that belched blue smoke. They looked like the after pictures from Faces of Meth. After they saw in was bagging cans for Old Bob, they started grabbing them. This didn’t sit well with me.

The next time I saw Old Bob, I told him I would leave my stuff just inside my yard, up against my shed, where you couldn’t see the bag from the alley. This went on for a month. Then, I heard and smelled Tweeter and Skeeter rumbling down the alley. I didn’t think anything of it, then I heard the rattle of a bag of aluminum cans being thrown into the bed of a truck. Those fuckers had gone into my yard to grab Old Bob’s drinking money. That shit would not stand.

I went to the hardware store; I bought a cheap pair of locks and some latches. I put the latches on my trash cans, I would unlock them when I left for work, which was about 15 minutes before the trash truck came down the alley. I also gave Old Bob a key. By this time, we were becoming downright neighborly. I would chat with him and have him help me around the yard and throw any spare cash his way.

After a few weeks, I heard Tweeter and Skeeter again. I heard them stop, then rattle the can lids, then drive off. I came out the next morning and the fuckers had pried the latches off my cans, and stolen the locks, too.

Now I was pissed. They were stealing Old Bob’s drinking money, and they had fucked with my shit. I stopped keeping cans separate, and started dumping used cat litter over everything.

Tweeter and Skeeter would still roll up to my trash area, but they weren’t willing to dig through shit to get anything. Old Bob was still helping me around the yard, so I would hands him bags of cans when he was over, in addition to the extra cash.

Everything was quiet for a few months. Then, we had a bad storm and the gutters on the alley side of my shed got messed up. They were in OK shape, but the underlying board and gotten torn up. It was too late in the day to do anything, but I figured Old Bob and I could take care of it the next day.

That night, I was woken up by Tweeter and Skeeters damn truck. But before I could throw pants and shoes on and chase them off, they were gone. So were the gutters on my shed.

Needless to say, I was fucking livid. After I calmed down, I went to Home Depot to get a new gutter. As luck would have it, I heard the fucking meth-mobile start up in the parking lot as I was walking in.

I wasn’t about to confront them directly, since I like having all of my blood and internal organs on the inside. What in did do, though, was get a good look at their liscense plates.

They were expired (of course) but the layer of soot from burning oil had obscured the sticker. You wouldn’t notice it from more than 5 feet away.

Finally, I had a way to get back at them. I called a relative who knew a few of the local PD. They said the address on the last registration was a house that had since been burned down in a meth lab fire. They never caught the cooks, but they going to keep an eye out for the truck. If nothing else, they would get a ticket and have to put current plates with a real address on them.

I was OK with this, but I wanted blood. I got my wish when the city did heavy trash pick-up.

I put an old grill in my back yard and scratched “Not Trash”, on the underside, along with spraypainting the smokestack white. Sure enough, Tweeter and Skeeter saw it and couldn’t resist. Once they had done that, I spent a few hours on a Saturday driving around the shittier parts of my neighborhood until I spotted my grill sitting in a yard.

I called my buddy with the police contacts and told them where they could find Tweeter and Skeeter and their un-registered vehicle, along with a stolen grill.

A few hours later, Tweeter and Skeeter came home to a few cops waiting for them. Since scrapping from heavy trash pick-up had been good to them, they were caught with a not insignificant amount of Meth and a lot of precursors to make more.

Tweeter has to serve out a 5 year sentence in prison. He also pinned the lab fire on Skeeter, who will be serving 10 years along side him.

Old Bob still helps me out, too.

everything is awful right now, but please don’t give up hope. we are not alone.

i know this is hard for a lot of us but not everyone is a fighter and that’s ok.
if your heart is soft and kind, that is a gift. don’t let the harshness of the world harden it. protect it. nurture it. kindness will allow us to heal when the fight is over.
in the days to come we will need the caring hearts just as much as the warriors. the growers as much as the destroyers, and the places of quiet to retreat to to help us build something better than what is.

so protect each other, heal together. create safety around yourselves and resist the tide of cruelty that will come.
be strong, be safe. I love you.

Someone else to join - Bucky x Reader - Oneshot

Heyo, my potatoes! ♥ Sooooo I’ve been very very quiet the last months, because I was super busy with my finals but now they are almost over. And while watching some videos on YouTube I got this idea, I had to write this. So let’s jump into it! I hope you enjoy! ♥

Words - 846

Warnings - crying but mostly fluff

Originally posted by jamesbuchananbarnesisbae

As you sit on the double bed in your bedroom, your legs and arms wrapped around a big cushion, you look over to your nighttable, your phone halfway charged. 

Your heart hammers against your chest, you pick up the phone, unplug it and dial Natasha’s number, but before pressing the inviting green button to call her, you delete the number again and stare at the clock on your phone.

It’s 2:36 pm and it shouldn’t take long until your husband is home. And you wanted him to know first. It is his right to know first, wasn’t it?

Keep reading

miraioni  asked:

It's been quite a long hiatus. Have you rested well?

It’s been a very quiet month for me.
I broke the hiatus because I prefer to make people feel good with my content as long as I can before something happens to me.

@chanlerberats and me are brainstorming a much better calendar. Stills from the show to go with the months the events actually happened. Helpless for December. Yorktown for October. Ham’s death for July. Etc.

45 Days - A Valentine's Drabble

Author: @2momsmakearight

Rating: Teen

Summary: it’s been 45 days since he kissed her for the first time.

Notes: I literally just busted this out as a one-shot. The tense bothers me and clearly there isn’t a beta. It’s crap. But I hope you enjoy!! Happy Valentine’s Day!


It’s been 45 days since he kissed her in that emergency room with Dick Clark’s voice echoing quietly in the back of his mind….

The television had aired men brave enough to kiss their best girls on live television so surely kissing his best friend should be easier than he was making it. But even still, as the confetti fell in showers down upon the locked lipped lovebirds on the screen, the moment was upon him, and the room closed in around him.

Before he could second guess himself, he’d leaned forward and pressed his lips to hers in a kiss far more chaste than he had ever envisioned. But she was soft and warm, and his belly had burned in that delicious sensation he had all but forgotten about.

It’s been 45 days since he kissed her for the first time, and 45 days since he kissed her for the *second* time too, when he’d pressed her gently against his door frame as his keys dangled from her fingertips, and his arm had been bound in a sling.

Could he still count that one in his column if she was the one who’d instigated it, and did it really matter when it had finished with his one good hand gripping the flesh of her ass, and her soft moans filling his mouth?

It’s been 45 days since he’d kissed her for the first time, and 44 since he wiped the nervous sweat from his forehead (blaming it on the faulty heat - those damn government pipes) and asked her on a date. A proper date. With table cloths and linen napkins, and if he was lucky maybe he’d get another kiss at the end of the night.

He had been a lucky man that night…

When he cupped her face to kiss her adieu at her door, wanting to taste the sweet wine on her lips he was certain would linger there, their tongues met, and her body had seemingly melted into his. Just as he was about to ask if he could come inside, Mrs. Goodville from next door had interrupted their moment with a stern reminder: “the Holy Ghost goes to bed at midnight, Dana.”

She’d pulled away with a soft snort, and a deep blush, nervously avoiding the eyes of her busybody old neighbor as she brushed non-existent lint from his chest. When the 86 year old woman chose to remain standing in her doorway instead of leaving the two of them to resume their public display of affection, Scully had looked up at him with eyes both apologetic and disappointed, and with a long sigh, he kissed her hand and bid her goodnight.

It was only on the way home that night, that he realized his raging case of blue balls had actually been a blessing in disguise. He could court her. Woo her. He’d waited seven years, and after all of this time they were finally moving in a direction faster than continental drift. That was something. With a toss of his keys in the air, and extra skip in his step, Fox Mulder had fallen asleep that early January night with the image of her blushing cheeks in his mind, and the scent of her perfume clinging to his shirt.

It’s been 45 days since he kissed her for the first time….

…and January turned out to be busier than he had expected. Paperwork and consults had filled the normally quiet month with days spent completely apart from her. She’d gone off to consult on a triple homicide in Oahu of all places, leaving him behind in snowy, chilly Washington, and he’d caught himself lifting his head to tell her something at multiple points in the day, only to be reminded of her absence.

He’d called her one night while she was gone…and for the first time in seven years, he didn’t want to talk about work. He’d wanted to talk about her. For three hours they spoke about nothing and everything all rolled up in the little details the make her *her*.
About her favorite holiday: Christmas, obviously. Favorite dessert: mint chip ice cream. Favorite flower: yellow roses, like Nicky Arnstein gave Fannie Brice. Favorite childhood memory: vacation in the family station wagon up the coast of California. Vanilla or chocolate? Chocolate. Obviously. Silly question, Mulder. Sunrise or sunset? Depends who with. Interesting…

He’d be lying if he said his stomach hadn’t fluttered with that last one.

Softly, he’d told her that he’d like to see both with her one day. Of course he’d already seen both with her in various capacities, but this was different now…so very different.

It’s been 45 days since he kissed her for the first time, and 6 days since he’d greeted her at the airport with a dozen yellow roses, and a sheepish grin. He held her hand in the car on the way to her apartment that night, and had spent the evening curled up on the couch with a single pint of ice cream and dueling spoons, “Funny Girl” in the VCR, and maybe the promise of a sunrise together…

She’d made it to 12:24 before her eyes dropped, and she’d curled softly into his side. He told himself he’d only watch her for two minutes. Two minutes of watching her breathe deeply. Two minutes of watching her face relax as her eyelids twitched in sleep. Two minutes. Just two minutes.

At 1:17 he’d laid her carefully in her bed, pulling the covers over her exhausted body with a lingering kiss on her forehead, and the swelling words about people needing people whispering in the back of his mind.

42 days after he’d kissed her the first time, he got to kiss her again. Was it the fifth, sixth, or one-hundredth time, he couldn’t recall. With an empty bottle of wine between them, and case files strewn to the side he’d pressed her into her carpet and tasted the skin of her neck for the first time; felt the swell of her breast burn into his palm for the first time.

So many firsts still left to be discovered.

It’s been 45 days since he kissed her for the first time, and he finds himself standing in front of the display at the drug store, red and pink swarming his vision in muddled hues of brown to his color-blind eyes. The styrofoam cups balance precariously in his hand as he steps around the fray of frantic men picking over the remnants of the remaining cards, pulling the dying petals from the runt pickings that still remain in the black plastic pails.

With a knowing smile he pays the clerk for their coffee, pulling a red stemmed rose from the impulse-section at the register, and shuffles back to the running car where she greets him with a reproachful shake of her head. Girls are supposed to like red roses on Valentine’s Day, Scully.

“Mulder, Valentine’s Day is a contrived holiday by the greeting card and chocolate companies, meant to reduce the idea of romantic love to one special day full of Mylar balloons, chalky candy hearts and cheesy messages on cards,” she tells him with a lift of her brow.

He shoots her a smile as he keeps his eyes focused on the red light in front of him. “Can’t a guy buy his girlfriend a flower no matter the day?”

The light turns green. And her cheeks turn pink.

He catches her smelling the rose four times on the six minute drive back to the FBI building 45 days after he kissed her for the first time…

Not that he was counting.