it has been bothering me that i cant buy linen that's grown or processed or even woven in the US. the last exists - technically, but it is rare, impractical for a common seamstress such as myself.
i think a lot lately - about running away and going to work a farm. i've wondered for weeks if i could find a flax farm - one with seeds selectively bred for fiber crop. in my mind's eye i can hear the dirt road beneath my feet, the ethereal sprays of delicate blue, like porcelain fragments, hovering over the fields...
my father worked on farms as a child. would i feel closer to him if i pursued it? have i not already endlessly asked that question and turned up with an answer: no. have i not already located his spectre? it was not in dim neighborhood dive bars throughout hockey season. it was not in my pocket full of business cards. it does not answer on the other end when i call the number i still have in my phone.
it was waiting to speak to me over the radio waves.
it said "i want to go home."
i had endless nightmares that he didn't know he was dead. i wake up every day and find that i'm still alive. and i have not run away for so long that i don't know if my legs could still carry me the way they once did.
flax requires specific machinery. the seeds require different spacing than most commercial crops in the US. and it must be cut, at its spacing, to lay in the field for some time. there are machines that do this. for now they must be imported.
would i feel closer? if i could be cut to dry in the sun until i broke down enough to be transformed into something beautiful?
i promised something as a thank you because @babyemos delivered and @hoodharlow finds the gems. anyways. don't call this a comeback.
yes, i'm technically breaking the rules about domme being reader insert by explictly making references in this, but in my head domme's always been black.
cw: does deal with cops/law enforcement, so if that's not your jam, please don't read
sub!joe masterlist | joe burrow masterlist | main masterlist
Domme’s not gotten a speeding ticket in five years. Five fucking years.
None of that undoes the blue and red lights behind her, of course. If she is to blink, they’d still reappear in the rear view mirror. Five fucking years down the drain. “Mommy, I really have to go,” Roslyn whines from the backseat.
“Mom, those are police,” Jack adds on.
Like I can’t see that. But Domme needs to keep her cool. “They are, honey.” All Domme needed to do was make it three streets and then she’d be home. Three more streets and then been able to get Roslyn to the bathroom and checked in Joe.
I just want to let you know that I am home. I feel awful though. Between my nose, stomach, and head, this feels bad. Going to quarantine myself so I don’t spread it to you or the kids just to be safe, that’s what Joe’s text read while Domme waited in the pickup line for Jack. Roslyn’s preschool releases second but Domme always picks her up first since she’s the furthest out and Jack’s school is the closet to home.
Joe’s not the type to complain about being sick. Ever. Not seriously. When they first got together, he’d hardly mention it, except to get sympathy—extra cuddles, more kisses. But it was never anything serious when Joe came down with something. He’d certainly gotten more cautious about it with the kids, never wanting to get them sick if he could help it of course. So, sue Domme for feeling a little panicked when Joe mentioned not just a snuffed nose and a headache but his stomach too. Sue her.
That information lingered even as she picked up Roslyn, and marinated in the back of her head as she navigated the traffic from daycare to home. Nothing prepared any of them for the hour and a half long wait they’d be in due to a crash. And the second they started moving again, Roslyn, with her infinite wisdom of waiting for the last second, mentioned needing to use the bathroom.
Two exits. That’s all it was. So Domme eased down on the gas when she got the chance and no sooner than she could give it a little gas, there go those blue fucking lights.
“Mommy has to stop. Roslyn, but I will get you to the bathroom first. Promise.”
Domme prays she can reason with this officer as she pulls to a stop at the front edge of the gas station. Please let me to my baby to the bathroom. That’s it.
The creeping evening sun settles just a tiny be further down the horizon—winter’s most cruel trick. But Domme waits, hands on the steering wheel, her car parked and engine knocking as it settles down with the loss of power.
The cop appears in her rear view and Domme waits for the officer to motion for the window once he's at her vehicle. She keeps one hand on the wheel and carefully reaches with her left hand to press for the window tor slide down. “Evening,” the officer starts.
“Good evening, officer. I know you probably pulled me over for speeding, but I have to kindly ask, I have my two kids in the back and one of them has to use the bathroom. Could I please get them inside first?”
“This won’t take that long,” the officer states. His gum pops with the words.
“I respect that. But she’s four, sir. We were in that traffic due to the multi lane accident. Can I please take her inside just to use the bathroom? I’ll leave my keys in the car. Please?”
“Like I said—,” he starts again only to be interrupted.
“Mommy! I really have to go!” Roslyn howls from the backseat.
“I can take her, Mom,” Jack offers. “If that’s okay?”
“Mommy, please!”
“I know, baby,” Domme offers gently back to Roslyn. “Please, officer?”
The officer’s huff relays his annoyance. The smack of the gum becomes louder and cackles with each pop as his teeth gnash into it. “Make it, quick,” he snarls, reaching in through the window to pop open the door.
Domme wants to demand he not, that he let her get out on her own accord. But she’s got Jack and Roslyn, and Joe’s at home sick, and she can’t risk her or her kids becoming another statistic. So she keeps her hands visible as she eases out, unclips her keys from the loop in her pants and drops them into the middle console of the truck.
The officer nods and Domme continues on, undoing Roslyn first and talking Jack through how to undo his car seat too. Roslyn whines in her arms, “Mommy. Please!”
“I know, baby, I know,” Domme hums. Her heart races in her chest as she watches the cop from her peripherals. He leans against the driver side door of the squad SUV, lights still circling red and blue behind them. God, just let us get through this safely. Please.
The restrooms are clean, a major relief when Domme pulls all three of them into the family stall. Jack turns to face the awfully tacky green walls and Domme helps Roslyn out of the pants and onto the toilet, a paper cover as a thin and finicky barrier.
“Mommy, are you crying?” Roslyn questions as she works the elastic up her legs.
“Mommy’s fine. Jack, do you have to go?”
“I’ll try.”
Domme and Roslyn trade places, the two of them facing into the corner now. The sting is hot and sharp. But Domme inhales for three seconds and exhales for five. Inhale for three. Exhale for five. A combination that manages to keep the tremble of her body just to her bottom lip and not her entire hands.
“Done,” Jack calls out over the roar of the toilet flush.
“Okay, let’s go wash our hands.”
The hinges squeak as Domme holds open the door. Roslyn climbs up the steps first towards the sink. “Water,” she recites as she reaches for the top of the faucet. It’s much too far, so Domme flicks it on for her. “Soap,” she says next after getting her hands wet. Roslyn moves her tiny fist over and the soap dispenser hums before dropping a much too large dollop into Roslyn’s waiting palm.
Roslyn recounts each step to hand washing, even goes so far as the sing Happy Birthday to the entire bathroom before she takes the paper towel from Domme. Jack is a swifter interaction. He washes his hands seamlessly and then Domme follows suit. With her shoulder, Domme presses into the door and the trio spill out into the gas station, the flourescents seemingly even harsher other than in the bathroom. The electricity buzzes in her ear as she walks both kids through the store and back out into the bitter winter cold.
The officer’s head turn is sharp and Domme gasps, but tightens her hold around Jack and Ros’ hands. One way or a fucking another, we make it through this alive. They have to make it out fucking alive.
Roslyn is buckled in first and Jack is seated second. They’re both quiet, nothing too terrible or Jack, but it unreasonably quiet from Roslyn. “All better?” Domme asks to both of them. To which, she only manages to receive a nod from her kids.
“You were doing 12 over,” the officer spits. “37.”
Domme’s still outside of the car, standing just outside the driver side door but not fully back into the vehicle. Twelve over doesn’t make sense. Sure Domme sped on the highway, but the residential areas around here are all 30. Domme knows she’s got a lead foot. “Brookshire is 30, I thought?”
“25. You saying I don’t know the fucking speed limits around here?”
“No, no. I’ve lived here for a decade. It’s always been 30.”
“Well, it’s fucking 25 now. Get back into your car. I need license and registration.”
Her parents always taught her respect—to use ‘yes, sir’ and ‘no, sir’, to address elders in public, to speak when walking into a room. But cops are a whole different beasts, unpredictable, and hard to hold accountable. So Domme nods, slips back into the truck and pulls out her license and registration.
The cop snatches it from between her fingers and storms back to his vehicle. In her rear view mirror, Domme watches. The way he calls it in over the radio, taps away at the computer inside. The car is eerily quiet but Domme’s thoughts are loud—Brookshire has always been 30 and she knows it. Domme knows the speed limits everywhere because she wants to avoid this exact scenario. And if the speed limit changed, there should be signage.
Yet, she doesn’t recall seeing any signs.
“Slow down and watch the signs.”
She blinks, takes in the ticket, her license, and her registration. She signs as needed—to acknowledge she’s gotten the ticket and that she will appear in court for it—and then waits. She eases into a parking space, hands shaking now. The tears have blurred her vision. They sting too. There’s relief of course, that nothing happened, that she can get her kids home safe and sound. But there’s the frustration too—that she can’t remember if there was a sign or not, that the cop was a fucking asshole.
“Mommy, you’re crying. Do you want me to ask the phone to call daddy?” Ros questions.
“No, no,” Domme hiccups out. “You don’t need to do that. Sorry, Mommy’s going to be okay in a second. I’m so sorry you have to see this.”
“You sure?” Jack tacks on. Not maliciously, just uncertain, probably even a little scared too.
Domme nods. “I’m sure. Mommy just needs a second, okay?” The sniffle is loud and echoes as she inhales, palms coming up to her face to wipe her tears. They’re alive, and that’s all that fucking matters. For the moment.
“It’s going to be a dino nuggets, fries, and broccoli dinner day,” Domme warns as she eases into the garage. It took an extra ten minutes for her to get her bearings and get back on the road. Joe texted twice in the time since she got pulled over—which have both sat unanswered aside from her initial heads up about the traffic.
“Dinosaurs!” Jack cheers from the back seat.
“Nuggets!” Ros adds on.
The air fryer hums in the background. Both kids sit at the dining table working on coloring pages with a quick assortment of fruits and veggies in front of them to snack on. And in the ten minute gap that Domme has, she sneaks down the hall to the back of the house, where Joe is.
The guest bedroom door is shut, when it’s normally slightly ajar, and Domme knocks twice. “One second,” Joe calls out, his voice rougher than usual. It falls silent for another few beats and then the door creaks open, his blue eyes immediately assessing, the furrow of his brow threaded in deeply. If not for the black mask, Domme knows she’d spot the frown pulling at his lips. “You okay?”
Her head shake ‘no’ is immediate. Because her heart is still racing—the veins thump hard at her neck that she can feel them. “I got a ticket. With both kids in the back and I’m not okay. Not right now.”
“Hey, come here. Come here.” Even though they’d both be more concerned about him being sick, Domme can’t help but give into the command. Joe cracks open the door wider and his arms widen. All Domme has to do is step in. And step in, she does, face first into his chest. Her arms tighten around his waist. “What happened?” he asks.
Joe settles his arms around her shoulder and like a window braced for a storm provides a sense of security, the weight of his arms crack open her chest. Domme shakes in his embrace, shoulders jumping with the silent racking of her tears. “Hey, you’re okay, baby. You’re home. Safe. The kids are safe. Because I can hear them bickering over crayons. It’s all okay.”
It’s less bickering and more like Jack having to demand that Ros pick one crayon at a time so they can share the colors an even amount. But none the less, it’s thoroughly their children. And they are safe. All of them.
“There’s not a sign. I swear there isn’t. He got me for 12 over but there’s no sign! I swear, Joe. I swear there isn’t.” Domme doesn’t know if this is a plea to herself, a plea to Joe, or a cry to the universe. It’s a good thing right now she’s not questioning it too much. But the words come up like vomit, like she has to let them out, let Joe know she hadn’t knowingly put the kids in that kind of situation. She’d never do that.
“I know, love. I know you wouldn’t. It’s all okay now.” Joe’s arms tighten around her, a squeeze that manages to cut through the shakes. “It’s all okay now.”
From the kitchen, the air fryer finally dings. Neither one of them as moved, Domme still pressed face first into Joe's chest, Joe's arms wrapped around her shoulders. The sharp tinny sound causes both Jack and Ros to cry in excitement, “Nuggets!”
Domme knows she needs to head back up, plate their food, talk about their days. And she will. She knows she will. “Don’t even think about offering to cover dinner. Just give me an extra thirty seconds here, okay? Please.”
“I can give you a whole extra minute, baby," Joe hums in agreement.
_____________
“See! There’s no sign!” Domme huffs and she jabs a finger as she rolls to a stop.
Joe nods and continues to hold the phone up for a few more seconds and then lowers it back down. “There isn’t. You’re right about that.”
With both kids at a birthday party, and Joe mostly recovered from what turned out to be a combination of allergies and food poisoning, Domme took the same route from two days ago. Her normal exit to get back home. She pointed out where she’s certain the cop came out from, seeing as everyone who lives in the city knows that the particular exit is a speed trap, and they followed like normal onto Brookshire where supposedly after a little Googling a new speed limit sign is supposed to exist.
Yet, no such signage is up.
“Why is it okay to give a poor woman a heart attack with her two kids in the backseat when you don’t even have proper signs up?”
“I take it then that you’re going to try and fight this in court.”
“I think so. Besides, that bastard had an awful attitude.”
Joe snorts from the passenger seat. “I’m glad I’m not recording anymore.”
Her chuckle is short as she eases back into the parking lot of the gas station. Thankfully, there are no police lights behind her now. “Yeah, me too. Roslyn’s tiny bladder I think was nearly my undoing.”
“Can you really blame her? You speed all the time.”
“I resent the fact that you think I’d blame my child for my own actions. I was speeding but she nearly had a meltdown in the backseat while the cop was getting his rocks off with his awful attitude.”
Joe’s hand is warm. His thumb traces at the tendon on the right side of her neck while the rest of his finger engulf her neck, and press at the left side. Domme settles into the touch, head turning to face him. “Jack mentioned to me that you started crying too. After you got the ticket.”
“He’s such a tattletale.”
“No,” Joe laughs, blue eyes dancing with a flood of delight. “He loves his mom, like he should. Just like I raised him too. I think it scared him a little too. Seeing you like that. You’re normally unshakable.”
Her lip trembles and the sting follows suit, crops up for a second before she blinks it away. “I didn’t want anything to happen to them. Cops—it’s not easy, you know? For me, for us and cops.”
He hums before he nods. “I know. They shouldn’t do that, target you or people like you, or make you feel unsafe. But I know they do. I’m sorry I wasn’t there.”
“No,” Domme hums and places her hand, now that the truck’s parked, onto Joe’s knee. “It’s not your fault. You were puking up your guts.”
“My guts were coming out of both ends actually. It was bad. Remind me to never try a new restaurant without consulting you first.”
Joe ordered lunch for himself, a splurge he indulges in only occasionally. But his selection of restaurants was one place with pretty gnarly reviews about people’s experiences and the aftermath of such visits. Unfortunately, Joe is another victim in the tally.
Domme’s laughter is exhaled, a sharp tuft of air from her nostrils. “All you have to do is read the reviews, baby.”
“Too much effort,” Joe laughs. “Besides, one of the guys on the team said they’d eaten there before with no issues. I thought I was safe.”
“You were so far from safe, unfortunately.”
“But we’re not talking about my brush with the other side, we’re talking about you. The cop, if you are serious about taking this court, will be there. And I just, I don’t want you to be taken by surprise about that.”
That, Domme, hadn’t considered. Her last ticket was a small infraction, she paid it without thinking much about taking it to court, knowing that at the time the infraction could’ve been much larger. But this, this is about the principle of the matter. That the cop was an asshole, and that there is no sign. So God only knows how many people are getting tickets because of it.
“Would you mind coming with me? To the hearing?”
“No, of course I don’t mind.” Joe offers it softly, but the words still drip with something like almost offense. “Why would I mind that?”
“Breaking News: Joe Burrow appears in local city courthouse.”
“Fuck that. I don’t care about the headlines. I care about my wife and our kids. Not what some reporter’s going to write about me. Breaking News: Joe Burrow is an involved father and supportive husband. And if I’m ever not either one of those things, you have my permission to leak it to the press.”
“I wouldn’t dare dream of airing our dirty laundry out to the press.”
“I figured as much. But you have the option. If you want it.”
Domme never wants that. She doubts she’d ever need the option, but she laughs all the same. Even as Joe tugs, eases her gently closer and closer over the middle console. The kiss is sweet, several pecks that still manage to make her spine shiver. “Now, as a reward,” Joe whispers, his lips brush against her. “Mike and Ike’s and a Dr. Pepper or do we split that pint of ice cream at home?”
“A reward for what?”
“Being brave. Being my wife. Being a kick ass wife at that. Being a stellar Mom. Whatever you want it to be for really.”
“Dr. Pepper and candy please. Dairy makes you gassy.”
“It does not,” Joe protests.
“Oh, it absolutely does.”
“No, it doesn’t. And it never will.”
“If I do recall, two weeks ago you got pizza for the kids and had how many slices?” Domme questions, easing back as Joe drops his hold around the back of her head and neck.
Joe drops his head into the headrest, a groan climbing up his chest as he does. “Roslyn was supposed to take that to her grave! She promised.”
“She’s four, my love. And she loves to embarrass you at least to me. All it took was two slices, and I quote, ‘Daddy made the whole house stink.’”
His laughter bounces around the car, a sharp wheezing sound as Joe slips his eyes closed. His chest moves with his amusement, shoulders shaking up and down. “She said that? I did not make the whole house stink! Just our bathroom. Which is up a whole flight of stairs!”
“The whole house, my love. The whole house.”
_______________________________
The courthouse is freezing.
Domme and Joe sit as bookends to the kids, Jack snuggled up to Domme and Roslyn working her way into Joe’s lap. Both kids have refused to leave their sides or their jackets given how frigid it is. It’s almost boring to be here, except for the fact that at the stand is the asshole officer. Every time a new case is called up—there’s only but a handful of them that have deemed it worthy enough to come speak to the judge and plead their case—Domme settles her gaze to the cop on the stand, how he sits erect. Uses ‘Your Honor’ like it might be an article rather than a honorary address. How he doesn’t swear. How he looks almost a little too perfectly put together.
A power trip from someone rather insecure, from the looks of it. How he’d been rude and short with her, hardly wanting her to take Roslyn to the bathroom. Not that a child urinating on themself would matter to him, she thinks. He hardly seems like the type. This particular judge is older—thinning hair at the top, glasses that are constantly pulled off his nose. His voice shakes and he greets everyone with a smile as they come up to speak.
There’s a woman in her mid forties who was caught speeding trying to get to her mother in hospice and missing her mother’s last breathes because of said ticket. There’s the older gentleman who was taking his wife to her dialysis appointment driving too slow, but all their children and grandchildren live out of state so he’s the only one around to take his wife to the doctor. There’s the freshly licensed 18 year old, who seems a little too cocky about being in court, but the fine is dropped for him though he will get a couple points added to his driver’s license—which the judge does allow him to take a driving course which at the time of completion will remove some of the points off his record.
Hearing each case only further sentiments for Domme just how much of an asshole this cop is to everyone. Domme’s name is called next and she inhales, throat quaking now with the slamming and erratic beating of her heart. Joe reaches around the kids and squeezes her knee. And Jack Jack doens’t let her go. “Can I go up there with you? I was there too.”
“Stay here with Papa Bear, I’ll be okay.”
“Please.”
Domme sighs, and nods, not wanting to delay this any more than she needs too. So if Jack wants to stand with her, then she’ll allow it. At least he’ll see her fighting back, standing for the right and moral thing, rather than taking the abuse.
“Oh, a plus one,” the judge grins. “Going to stand with your mom today, son?”
Jack nods. “Yes, sir. If that’s okay.”
“Yeah, that’s okay. How are you doing today, Mom?”
Terrified, Domme wants to say. But she doesn’t. “I’m doing okay. And you?”
“Oh, still kicking,” he laughs and then shuffles some papers around on his desk. “Alright, so I see here that you were pulled over for doing 12 over. Why, young lady, that’s one heavy foot you’ve got.”
“My husband warns me of the same thing,” Domme offers, a tad awkward, but it seems to win over the judge as he laughs.
“Okay, yeah, smart man he is. Alright, Officer McLaughlin, run me through what happened.”
The officer recounts, almost without an inch of a facial expression, how he caught Domme coming out of the stop sign, watching her come up to speed, and then over it and then pulling her off. The only true emotion bleeds through when he recounts how Domme asked to please get her kids inside to use the bathroom, how ‘one of the two children stated with urgency about needing to use the bathroom’, and how ‘he accepted the reality that the child could not wait.’
By the time, he’s done talking Domme’s blood is boiling all over again. His recounting flattening the whole interaction. How it fails to account for how he’d opened her door, how she’d admitted to speeding, how he didn’t care at all. “And, uh, Mrs. Burrow, can you tell me a little bit more? I read your statement prior. But uh, it seems a little damning and I like to think you’d want to set a good example for your kids.”
“Yes, Your Honor,” Domme starts exhaling to push out the last of the nerves. “I do want to set a good example. Yes, I’ve been know to speed. Yes, I was speeding that day. My husband who as at home sick that day, and my daughter needed to use the bathroom urgently, and I know I shouldn’t be doing over the speed limit. None of those things warrant breaking the laws we have set. The traffic jam that day lasted for over an hour. I checked in about the bathroom twice before we got moving again, but it wasn’t until we were on the exit ramp that I was made aware that my daughter needed to relieve herself. I did a little research and it appears that Brookshire went from a 30 to a 25 back in September, and then two weeks after that change went into effect, a crash happened and the speed limit sign was damaged a a result. As of last week at the end of January, the city’s failed to put a speed limit sign back up. I went back to the stop just two days after the ticket and there was no sign even then. I have printed out copies of the articles I found—from newspapers and did send in the video from the drive back through after Officer McLaughlin pulled me over.”
The bailiff approaches and the judge nods. “Yes, yes, let’s take a look at that video while he’s grabbing those articles.”
The TV at the side of the room goes from the deep black to the bright blue. The sound crackles and the video plays that Joe took, the newspaper with the date shown before it pans back up. Domme narrates the turns and Joe was careful to get the street names in the shot. The stop sign comes up—in the hazy distance the gas station appears and Domme’s voice starts to float in before it cuts.
“Now, Officer McLaughlin, you mentioned that there’s a sign prior to this moment?”
“Y—yes, Your Honor. It’s westbound of Brookshire, about half a mile down from this particular intersection.”
“Mrs. Burrow, this is just after the exit right? The way this video is taken?”
Domme nods. “Yes, Your Honor.”
The judge nods again, one arm of his glasses pressed to his lips. “So the only way to have seen the other sign is to have been coming up Brookshire already. Not coming off the exit. Let me take a look at these articles.” He shuffles for a moment after getting his glasses back onto his face and then snorts. “Highlighted and color coordinated. Very studious of you, Mrs. Burrow.”
It’s what she does best, paying attention to the details. But Domme doesn’t answer, can’t answer as she watches the judge reviewing everything in front of him. “Mrs. Burrow, what’s your son’s name? If you don’t mind sharing with the court.”
Jack Jack looks up to Domme, eyes widening. She nods and he turns back to fact the judge. “My name’s Jackson, sir. But please call me Jack.”
“I like that, Jackson. Strong name. Now, Jack, were you there the day your mom got pulled over?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Did your sister have to go to the bathroom real bad?”
Jack nods. “Yes, sir.”
“And was it you that offered to take your sister into the gas station to use the bathroom while your mother was trying to ask Officer McLaughlin to take her?”
Another yes. “Yes, sir. I did ask.”
“And was your dad home sick?”
“Yes, sir. Mom told us when we got home that he was sick and qu- Mom, what’s the word again?
“Quarantine.”
“Thank you,” Jack returns with a squeeze to her hand. He turns back to the judge and continues on, “Mom told us when we got home that Dad was sick and quarantining away from us so we didn’t get sick. Turns out, he just ate some bad food. But it sounded dicey there for a minute.”
The judge’s eyes widen. The bailiff has to catch himself before he laughs and the entire room hisses with sounds like muffled laughter. “Oh, goodness. Was your mom worried at all? About your sister and your dad?”
“I think so, yes.”
“Thank you, Jack. I appreciate your honesty.” The judge turns his gaze back towards Domme and peels his glasses off his face. “Mrs. Burrow, you’re one step removed of being an actual First Lady to this city. I’ve seen the grace and compassion you extend to the community; it’s clear that you are well loved by your family too. A sick husband, a child who’s less than comfortable at the moment, thorough research, a lack of visible signage, a pretty clear traffic record within the last five years, and your highlighted and coordinated clear and concise evidence leaves me no choice but to extend that same grace and compassion back to you. I’m waiving this ticket in its entirety for you.”
Domme’s bones almost liquid with the relief, her shoulders drop, and the tears start. But she listens as the judgment continues on, a smile gracing his face, “I do have to warn you, though, please check your shoes and remove all lead from them and your feet before you leave the house next time. I do not want to see you in this courthouse again, though, I think I might have had the coolest courtroom today given you and your husband’s presence. Alas, that’s a title I only want once. This ticket will be forfeited. The infraction will be struck from your record. I will have the city look into that speed limit sign as well. Have a great rest of your day.”
The gavel clacks and Domme’s voice shakes as she gives her gratitude and collects Jack Jack into her arms. “Tha-thank you, Your Honor.”
_____________________
“Jack Jack, buddy, did you have to sell your old man out in front of the entire court?” Joe teases as he gets Jack buckled into the car seat.
“You told me not to lie to the judge!”
“You did good, bub. You did good.” Joe presses a kiss to his forehead and eases the car door shut. Inside and settled into the driver’s seat, he takes Domme’s knee against his palm and squeezes. The action brings her awareness from the parking lot out the windshield to him. “I’m proud of you. For fighting back, speaking your truth. And most importantly, not calling that cop outside his name in court. Because I think you should have. He seems like a huge dick.”
Domme snorts at the last sentence but nods. Her fingers are still a tad cold as they curl around his. A shiver Joe would take any day of the week and twice on Sunday if he could. “Thank you for being there and risking the headlines for me.”
“It’s why husbands do.” Because surely, anyone that loves someone like Joe loves Domme would risk it, would want to be there for their partner.
She shakes her head. “No, it’s what you do and I love you for that.”
She lifts his hand, lips pressing a kiss to the now faint scars along the back of his hand and along his wrist. Each kiss is soft and a leaves the faintest streak of her lip stain behind on his skin. When she’s done, Domme places his hand onto the gearshift, but they both know that he’ll be placing it back onto her knee the moment he gets the car into gear.
But Joe does wait, knows that it will not take long for reporters to begin their articles—to talk about how he showed up to court, how Domme was there for the speeding ticket, how Jack felt so compelled to go with her, how Joe’s unfortunate run in with food poisoning could’ve been a crucial part in Domme getting out of the ticket. None of them will be able to capture how afraid she was, how certain she was that there hadn't been a sign, but how utterly terrified she’d been about actually taking that to court. He prays too no one runs Jack’s name, that both Jack and Roslyn can cling to some aspect of anonymity just a little while longer too.
In the following days, most of the headlines are about the comments the judge made about Domme’s work within the community an a couple are funny jabs at Joe’s expense—The Burrows appear in court following speeding ticket; how a ‘dicey’ bathroom situation might’ve saved the day. But by the end of the following week, the news is dead in the water and hardly discussed. It’s just enough time Joe thinks and he cracks open the package—one he received the weekend prior.
Ros leans into his side. “What’s that?”
“It’s for a joke. A prank,” Joe explains. “They’re flags.”
“And cones?” She questions, pointing to the bright orange bleeding through the white and black checkered flag.
“If I tell you, you have to promise to keep it a secret.”
Ros laughs. “I’m no good with secrets.”
“Tell me about it,” Joe teases. “I can’t believe you told Mom I made the whole house stink after two slices of pizza.”
“Well, you did!”
“That’s besides the point. You said you wouldn’t tell. And then you did.”
“It was funny,” Ros counters with a shrug of her shoulders.
There’s really no point in arguing with a four year old so Joe leaves it there. “C’mon. Mom will be home soon. I need some help.”
Joe leans into the railing of the porch. It’s just after 5 but the darkness is thickening up. Domme’s brunch plans always turn into afternoon plans. Not that Joe minds it in the slightest. He just knows if Domme mentions brunch on a Saturday, it really means he’s the entire afternoon is just him and the kids. Most often, one of them has some kind of activity—a play date, a birthday party, a friend’s recital that they want to attend. At the very least, it’s never boring. Though with Jack Jack and Ros, nothing is every really boring.
Headlights break through the growing dark and Joe turns to Jack Jack, who nods and taps at the phone in front of him—the tripod angled to catch the action but short enough for Jack Jack to man it himself even with the winter gloves on. Roslyn stands huddled next to him their driveway is lined with the orange cones and Joe is quick to get to the edge of the mailbox before Domme gets to the house.
Joe begins waving the checkered flags at Domme’s approach, signaling that she’s reached the end of the race and gives one sharp honk of the horn before she eases up the driveway. The passenger side window is rolled down just as she gets the entire car into the driveway, but not fully up it. “Joseph Lee Burrow, you think you’re so funny. Don’t you?”
Joe shrugs. “I think I’m hilarious. Now please return this vehicle to the pit stop for maintenance.”
After going to PTD LA and various other concerts, I’m so prepared for this tour that I booked all my travel and accommodations for things JUST IN CASE.
It’s hard though because my bts bestie who I got into them with broke up with me last week. There’s a huge gash. I’d dedicated some chapters of my fics to her, as she was my biggest supporter of writing.
It was really sudden and there was no room for conversation or discussion, which is eating away at me, and I would trade the whole tour, or even never talking about kpop again if it meant she was still my friend. The last texts before the breakup were about our tour plans, so not having her to go with or even be excited with has me feeling so empty.
But that’s not where we are now. I understand that. I’ll still think of her when I hear them. When I go to the concerts, I’ll always remember the ones she was by my side for and miss her in that space. She’s not replaceable to me. Ever.
But life goes on, right? It has to. Even if I wish I could go back and spend one more day with her as my friend. I won’t forget how much she helped me when I needed it the most.
I hope if you want to go to this tour, you get the chance to feel the way she and I felt under the colorful lights. I hope you’re with someone who makes you feel at home.
@babyemos @hoodharlow (getting tagged because this is more fleshed out than the messages in the group chat)
OC works for the company that Joe hires for house cleaning. The two of them don’t speak much, mostly just about if he’s planning to have overnight guests so then wanting those linens refreshed before they come or OC noticing that the detergent he has is almost empty but that maybe the local grocery store has a coupon that expires tomorrow so OC mentions that they can go pick it up after work and bring it back next week when they're in again, etc. Joe’s trying not to hit on them right out the gate, nor does he really want to cross any sort of lines because OC is literally washing his drawls or dusting the ceiling fans and on the clock.
However, after a few weeks of OC being assigned specifically to Joe's place, he notices a brochure for a master’s program at LSU in the laundry room. He reads over the front to see it advertising a Masters in Library Sciences with a red pen slipped over it. If it hadn't been for Joe almost running out of toilet paper, he wouldn't have even been in the laundry room in the first place. But he's there now and the purple and yellow is unmistakable. Rather than trashing it, Joe saves it for the next time OC is supposed to be by.
The world's not always kind. Joe winds up injured during week 2. His family is by now. They’re helping him until he’s more mobile and off crutches so OC is rotated to another client. They need the hours anyway. They know Joe's schedule like clockwork so they do ask about him to their manager, but all they're told is that he's not greenlit days/opened availability but hasn't stated why. OC is in no real position to argue with where the hours are.
They graduated from one field, maybe marketing or being a paralegal, and started working in a different a city. However, they had to come back when their aunt told them they were sick. The bad off sick. The kind of sick that doctor's give time frames for and manage pain, but don't work to stop pain or discomfort. Their aunt decides she won't stay in hospice, not when she's still got good days ahead. So she calls up OC about wanting to cross things off their bucket list. While OC's previous job paid well, it was a bit of a soul suck. But being asked to travel to places, try things, eat food? Yeah, OC will quit their job for that.
There's some cash OC's managed to save because the soul suck job pays well. Their aunt had some money saved up as well. It's really a win win. OC quits, moves back to Cincinnati and starts helping their aunt complete their bucket it. It takes about 4/5 months before the end descends. Yet, this city feels like a piece of OC and they don't want to leave again. They don't want to go back to the previous job. The past five months has taught them one thing--people only get one life.
Aunt dead and no desire to leave the city, OC sets out to see what they can put together. There's the aunt's house, which was always predetermined to go to the niece or nephew with the most children. OC doesn't have any kids, but their brother has three. Though the brother tried to visit as often as he could, he still had his own responsibilities. OC harbors no ill feelings that their brother will get the house. It's the way it was always going to be.
The thing that does sting is that now OC has to figure out what to do next. Their brother's offered them a room in the aunt's house, but that would be six people-three adults, three kids-in a four bedroom house. Not a good deal. OC can stay in the aunt's house until they find a job and a place after which point, the brother and his family will move in from their tiny two bedroom apartment. OC has always loved books and stories, so going back to school for something related feels right to them. But school means needing cash and needing cash means needing a job.
There's an ad in a local coffee shop for the cleaning job. It offers decent enough pay, promise for a lot of hours, and a need for discretion. All things OC possess so they apply. Next, they manage to come across a Craig'sList offer where 2 people are looking to replace their 3rd roommate. Lady luck strikes again. The rent split three ways is dirt cheap. So OC takes the leap. Moves in, starts the cleaning job, and with hope they can land on what their next career move is.
Cleaning gives OC time to think and time to think effectively leads them into the decision to go back to school for Library Sciences. That brochure slips out a pocket. Joe picks it up and now fast foward, Joe's grateful for his parents help, but his mother is restless which makes him restless and annoyed. She's cleaning now, the broom brushing over the floors, the tap of the pan against the trashcan is methodical.
Sweeping turns into shuffling through his mail and in that mail is the brochure. Robin asks if it's Joe, and he's quick to tell her not to throw it out. He suspects it belongs to the regular cleaner who comes by. He noticed it a couple weeks back, but hadn't had them come by given his injury to return it. Robin nods, but there's a glint to her eyes and she promises to put it somewhere safe.
A month goes by before OC finally gets a text about Joe’s house needing some TLC. The job's double the usual pay due to how long it’s been. That's a no brainer when cash is needed, who wouldn't take double pay. So OC does not hesitate gets the details about day and time and thanks the high heavens that whatever has caused Joe to delay is over.
Joe is slow to answer the door. The first thing OC notices. When the door does creak open, the second thing OC notices is that he's got a crutch. The third thing they notice is that they have a big fat mouth, "You better have someone else here with you."
Joe just shrugs. "My family's back home now. It's not too bad anymore."
It's not OC's place and they both know that, but that doesn't stop a stern warning for Joe to holler for them if he needs anything. There whole day is basically just his place. So it's not like time is to terrible of a concern. "Sure, if I need something, I'll call out."
Halfway through cleaning, Joe finds OC in the laundry room. He holds up the brochure, "Is this yours by chance? I noticed it like last month and didn’t want to toss it if it was yours."
OC noticed it missing, but assumed by now it'd been tossed. So they thank Joe and he nods before hobbling back towards the living room. He pauses though and turn. "Holler," he calls out. It's not even a shout. Loud enough that it should be clear he said something but not loud enough to be distinct.
Yet, OC peeks their head out from the laundry room door. "Yes?"
"Just testing to see if you really meant it."
Over the next three weeks, more and more conversation rises between OC and Joe. They do notice his cast gone one day, the dust of it swept up when they do a pass through the living room. A small tift does ensue, "Were you cleared to do that? Play doctor?" they ask.
"I'm not at liberty to say. Don't want you to be liable, considering you hate paperwork."
"I am allergic to it. Did enough of it when my aunt died. But that's stupid and I need you to know that."
"My mom's up my ass about this enough as it is. I do not need you on that bandwagon too."
"I'm just a house cleaner. But I hope it all works out."
Joe doesn’t talk about the injury a lot only when it's brought up indirectly. His main focus is about OC and their life. "You mentioned your aunt dying. Was that recent?" OC ask about the things they've noticed left out. "Are you collecting from the latest booster box yet or just felt nostalgic?" Joe's "You serious about school?" met with "I saw some tiger's eye and I think your altar might need it."
Joe tries his best to be subtle with his encouragement about school. OC recommend some books to him that were interesting and helped him find some childhood books he thought he'd never see again. Again, with a big ass mouth, OC can't help the tease after Joe's asked about the deadlines, “Are you pro me going back to school because you think education is important or because you want it so that we'd both be Tigers?"
“I do think education is important and, of course, I want you to be a tiger. I love Louisiana and what it did for me. You deserve to reach your dreams too.”
Now, OC was not expecting that. Conversations feel less like they're awkward attempts to fill the silence and a bit more charged. There's more flirting happening, not quite hidden, but not obscenely overt either. Not until, Joe has a wet dream about OC. He knows he’s fucked then. (In an attempt to spare his pride, Joe does wash his own sheets that night and he curses his damn washer out but he gets it going and the sheets come out clean thankfully. But it was touch and go there as he tried to get the soil setting set right. OC definitely notices that Joe is a little too antsy about the sheets in his room when they come by the next day but they don't harp on that fact. Well not for too long anway). A new online term starts in the middle of the spring and OC doesn't tell Joe that they've applied. But one week Joe can tell they're stressed in like March/April and asks when decisions come in. Of course that man can sus it out in a heart beat.
OC tells him it’s in another week or so. Joe simply nods, "You'll have to let me know when it finally hits you that you're officially a Tiger then."
And fuck if that man isn't right, two days later, there's an acceptance email in OC's inbox for the term that starts in three weeks.
OC keeps the cleaning gig to help with rent, tuition and other necessities. However, Joe’s got other plans. He times it just right, waits for OC to have put the last of the laundry into the dryer, ensures there's not a broom in their hands, and catches them just before the slip into the bright yellow rubber gloves for the bathrooms. "Would you ever consider a different part time gig? Get you away from inhaling Clorox so often."
"No, this pays well. I'm paying rent and tuition off this. Plus everything else. Why would I give that up?"
"You do not make this easy at all. I’m trying to ask you out without it being weird considering you've literally have handled intimate and personal items of mine."
"Your holey boxer briefs? Yeah, I think we passed being worried about weird a long time ago."
"That was one pair."
"Three. I tossed the other two to spare your dignity."
"How much dignity can a man have if you've not only seen but thrown out his hole riddled underwear?"
"Enough dignity for me to say yes to a date."
Discretion is of the utmost priority, so Joe has other cleaners come by between OC visits, even starts trying a different company so that way there's less potential HR concerns. The thing about it is that OC's job is strict about punctuality. After spending the night with Joe, a rather steamy night, they wake to his warmth and way too much sun peeking out form the curtains. They've been tardy once because of traffic at the beginning of the month. A second tardy in the same month would be a fireable offense.
OC hurries to get ready and Joe, though initially annoyed at how rudely he was awakened, notices the pure terror on their face and leaps into action. He throws on a t-shirt and shorts, barely bothering to wipe the crust out of his eyes before he peels out of the driveway and towards the address that they prattle off. It's actually closer to Joe than it would've been from OC's place, but still, they just barely make it to the job on time by the skin of their teeth. Joe promises to get them once they're finished here and will ensure he has food and coffee in hand.
True to word, he does, but it gets them spotted unfortunately. OC's already been looking for other work, but with school, they need a job that's going to pay well. It sends them back into the field of study they'd left from but it's a temporary position anyway so both the job and OC know it's not forever, especially considering OC is in their last year of school.
Now with the new job, things get easier a little it. OC and Joe start 'officially' dating. It's dating that doesn't have to hide from like anyone in their immediate lives. This information is never publicly confirmed until Joe insists on taking OC down to Louisiana for the in-person commencement. He shows them to all his favorite spots and because Louisiana loves Joe down and Joe loves Louisiana down word gets out that Joe's back in town. They a little bombarded trying to get shrimp po' boys, but the city's so happy to see Joe again.
Joe cheers the loudest at commencement when OC's name is called and they live happily ever after.
got a jung kook pic in my phone case rn and my bf's mom was trying to tell me she thought its weird for men to wear makeup and asked if i would be ok if my bf wore makeup and how its not manly etc etc
i was like what do i even say to that and i fully started zoning out. feels like a lot of the ppl i dated in the past have since transitioned or otherwise come out and wear makeup. there was this kind of unspoken raw need for connection and understanding and wanting to be around someone who got it and that maybe should not have ever even been packaged as "dating" but whatever water under the bridge. is staying up all night to talk while wearing each others clothes also weird to this guy's mom?? No. no. i dont think it's weird for men to wear makeup. i would be putting makeup on your son all the time if he didnt describe it to me often as a "sensory nightmare"
i was like "well, doesnt it sound nice to be with someone who understands why it takes a long time to get ready before going out?"
she said "no. he's going to steal my makeup." bdksjsnsbskdn
Last week the music community lost one of the most innovative artists and producers of the twenty-first century. Sophie, who sadly passed aw
also tho i say "Ghosts of My Life" is not a book rec from me but fishers writing on hauntology and "lost futures" are both reallyyyyy interesting concepts especially as they relate to electronic music (and, for me, personally, interesting as they relate to the use of "sampling" in music - which IMO is, or was, inherently anti-capitalist. hoping spotify acquiring whosampled will push the techniques further rather than destroying them completely)
fisher spent a long time writing about how there's evidence that there kind of is no such thing as a "future" but he regarded rave and jungle as futuristic, in spite of that, which will kind of forever be interesting to me - that he wanted to write about that as a significant cultural phenomenon. rave music is actually something really new (in terms of entire human civilization timeline) and special
we are already starting to see evidence of musicians making "anti-electronic" music as a stance against AI, which i think was an unanticipated consequence - at least i didn't see it coming: music that is distinct in its lack of relationship with ~computers, as opposed to music made through a relationship with computers that has continued to evolve into something more experimental. we all know AI can only reproduce what's already been created. it lacks in experimentation, imo, even if you're exceptional at sculpting prompts. as it becomes harder to tell what's "real"/authentic and what's not - could it push both [creation of] and [demand for] to not necessarily have to sound "good" (melodic) or "polished" in new and interesting ways. (punk music already does this, often, rejecting "technically good" singing with harsh vocals like screaming and growling.
pretty immediately after fisher's death, we already have to ask if electronic music still feels like a possible future or if the moment has passed
(i wish i could ask mark fisher what he thinks about AI...)
this past week i found out mr. mark "easier to imagine the end of the world than the end of capitalism" fisher was into the rave scene so i was chasing down that overlap... k-punk, as he was known, was not an architect but rather a cultural theorist. he is particularly beloved in design community, though - even today. it's like the upper limit for how edgy/leftist any design professor will ever let themselves get in the academic setting. i was thinking, tho, my professors were probably all raised on this particular flavor of soft-nihilism. i'm sure it felt like an answer/salve to a lot of people struggling to find meaning through the 2000s/2010s. i feel like i need to read all of his stuff to understand my mentors better. it's bordering on being contemporary canon literature in our field - and in the larger art world in general.
(only have a few followers who are architecture-adjacent // assume most of you don't have the same relationship with this media. but sorry if i'm overexplaining here.)
for years now i haven't been able to figure out why architecture memers (like boysfirm, danklloydwright, etc) never seem to shut up about Burial?? that always felt oddly specific in a way that i couldn't place. Burial is good but like, "real artist" black turtleneck architects definitely have this tendency to need to assert some kind of functional knowledge of the underground and will signal to one another through subtle/obscure references to counter culture? (i'm sure i'm guilty of it as well - but i have a skull tattooed on my hand. i don't need to get creative with how i signal to other designers that i'm "alt" or whatever. i literally cannot hide it.)
anywayyyyyyyy turns out i just needed to open the table of contents on Ghosts of My Life (2014)...
i think i would like to add that there's a running joke that there are two kinds of people in this world: those made worse by reading fisher, and those made better by reading fisher. a lot of the people find him kind of tiresome... but i find a lot of people kind of tiresome! but that's to say this is very much not a book rec i am just unpacking meme references that have been plaguing me.
every accomplishment for the rest of my life is stained with grief and i know this but i cried for hours last night about how i will never hear your fingers sweep up the fretboard of the guitar that bear's dad gave to me while i play bar chords for you. and how i have been to the place where they spread your ashes. it was the halfway point on the walk home, the spot where my brother and i's path split from yours, where the trees are tallest so the forest is quiet. but you are not there, you are not anywhere. and sometimes i tell myself its productive to mourn and other times i cannot convince myself that there is anything more to it than a lasting bitterness that you died first
