☆ 𝐌𝐚𝐫𝐭𝐢𝐧 𝐒. 𝐌𝐜𝐅𝐥𝐲.

My bestest good friend experienced a tragedy this past weekend: her mother passed onto the next plane of existence. This woman (you can refer to her as Cowgirl, thank you very much!) was just as much of an Angel as she named her daughter… and my lovely friend needs some help giving her the forever home she deserves.

Please, if you see this post, please reblog. And, if you’re able to: please consider donating.

Let’s give the New York Cowgirl™️ the burial she deserves ❤️

Thank you.

For all intents and purposes, the weather couldn’t have been any more perfect than it was that Friday. Only a handful of cotton ball-like clouds dotted the azure sky, and the mild temperatures brought some people out to enjoy the sun while exploring the Californian sandy beaches. Marty knew, because on the drive over he saw the state of the few public beaches as the truck drove past.

While some miles away families were busy enjoying a relaxing summer picnic, Marty McFly chose to spend the day in seclusion. He needed to be able to access his most repressed thoughts and feelings without running risk of being interrupted by any external stimuli. Despite appearances, Marty took his decision to come here and do this very seriously. . .

Dr. Emmett Brown had entrusted the safekeeping of the most important and world changing invention since the discovery of fire into the hands of the teenaged Marty McFly. For six years the boy (now a grown man) kept the vehicle relatively safe… but, with another swig from the whiskey bottle that sat upon a flat portion of the wrecked hood… Marty was finally ready to let go of his past, if it made his future any more brighter.

He swore he heard the scientist’s voice over the sounds of the crashing waves below, and the shorter man couldn’t help but laugh. Laugh at the sheer audacity that his mind chose this moment to hallucinate his voice. Marty shoved the picture back into his wallet, then he wet his tongue with another swig of the amber whiskey. He stared straight ahead, looking at nothing in particular as he spoke aloud (in a slurred voice):

“The moment I’m in trouble you’re nowhere to be seen, but the millisecond your precious car is in trouble, you appear. Your priorities are insulting, Doc.”

Who knows how his presence here, now, will inadvertently change things?

❝Marty! Hold on; I'm coming over!❞ Emmett tries again when the boy doesn't seem to acknowledge him and hurries off, choking down the lump forming in his throat as he runs towards Marty, the sheer drop into oblivion, the unrelenting ocean crashing against—

⸻car is in trouble, you appear. Your priorities are insulting, Doc.

Marty's words nearly pin him where he stands, carried faintly over the sound of the ocean below, but Emmett doesn't stop until he's reached the car and inched his way closer and closer to the edge of the world. He keeps one hand on the car to ground his mounting nerves, if only slightly, and all the colour drains from his face the moment he foolishly looks over the side, following the trail of the rock he'd shuffled his feet against as it falls, falls, falls, swallowed up without a trace.

Despite its still gleaming exterior, the car is a shell of what it once was, perhaps not too unlike Marty as the strong scent of alcohol mingles with the scent of seawater. He casts a shadow upon the hood of the car, his tall frame blocking the blazing sun overhead.

“Marty! Hold on; I’m coming over!” McFly heard a voice call out (seemingly) from behind himself. As he did, his eyes grew distant, attempting to wade through the sludge that was his memories.

What all did he drink that day? What all did he take? “Christ, I can’t even remember what I had for breakfast,” the shorter guy began aloud, before finishing in his head. … let alone what exactly was in that joint he smoked earlier.

The scientist took baby steps to approach his friend, and for the next few moments Marty continued to take his presence to be a figment of his imagination. Nothing more. The Angel on his shoulder telling him not to do it.

“Why,” he shakily voiced into the air, his emotions flipping on a dime to despair.. then hardening to anger as he downed a giant gulp of whiskey. “Whywhywhywhy— you’re the logical one here, Doc s’please, make.. make it sense.” (Sloshing your words there a bit, Martin).

“Why—” his question was cut off as he made to put his weight on his palm upon the hood, but missed, causing the shorter man to trip on the headlight.. thankfully only falling safely onto the grass to the right of the vehicular corpse.

Marty squeezed his eyes closed, willing, praying the vomit he felt bubbling up his esophagus didn’t venture any further than that. His throat felt like fire, raw from acid. He unconsciously squeezed his palms into the grass, steadying his spinning world.

Everything was so dark, he couldn’t understand. He swore he told his brain it was safe to open his eyes. He could feel the slight wind upon his eyeballs. Then why was he in a shadow…?

“Marty, it’s me. I’m here, I’m sorry I took so long.”

The younger man blinked as he tried to decipher the meaning behind the presence of the taller man that stood before him. The man that held his shoulders firm. Near painfully, but always just at the cusp of being so. The man with the wild (well, actually neatly brushed today) snow white hair he knew he could recognize a mile away.

“D-” was all Marty got out before he proceeded to rotate to his right, losing his previous battle by emptying the contents of his stomach onto a patch of grass.

Ever since he spoke to his new psychologist, Marty had been toying with an idea in his mind.

He continued to debate it, while downing the whiskey bottle in his hand. . . staring at the broken heap of metal in front of him.

The corpse of the DeLorean was simply reminders of his past. . of his present.

And of the future.

What could’ve happened. . What could’ve been. . But what was also the reality he actually lived in.

He told Skylar - his psychologist - his idea about destroying the time machine. Explaining that, he felt like the act would free him somehow.

That, in getting rid of the remnants of the past, he could finally begin to move on for the future.

He had came to a decision.

A few days later, he had paid a tow-truck driver to drive the vehicular corpse to a specific spot on the California coast.

It was on a high cliff, with the thunderous sounds of the ocean below plowing against the rocky wall.

Marty told the truck driver he had a friend that was gonna meet him there within an hour - he didn’t - just to get the guy to drive off and leave him alone.

Finally alone, he sat, back against a broken hood. .

He pulled out a certain photo he kept - folded up, he knows, he apologizes for the disrespectful treatment - in his wallet. A photo from the 1880s.

A photo of him. . And a man he missed.. so goddamn much.

Surface thoughts told him he should hate the scientist with every fiber in his being.. but..

“. . . What’d I give.. to hug you, one last time. . D-dad.”

I know, Emmett. I'm not trying to stop you. I'm only telling you to be careful and come back in one piece.

Funny, how despite his unique status as time-traveller, time seemed to be the one thing there was never enough of.

Emmett clutches the likely once alcohol-soaked journal in trembling hands, ignoring the way the overpowering scent assails his senses, and flips through the available entries. Some of these entries are written in what is very obviously Marty's script—he would recognise that handwriting anywhere after so many years—while other pages are sloppy and near illegible, hieroglyphs on the page that take even him a few precious moments to decipher.

He almost doesn't want to believe these could have been written by the same person—by Marty—not with the morbid and concerning tone some of these private ramblings take, and Emmett is powerless to stop the way it feels like the world is falling out beneath him, threatening to devour him and send him straight to the pits of hell for such a grievous oversight.

There are months upon months of entries in this journal, everything easily traceable to what should have been an easily fixed mistake, and if he had the time to sit and read every single one, allow the weight of the mounting guilt to settle properly on his shoulders, he just might, if only to catch up on everything that he's missed—caused, albeit inadvertently—throughout the years. Years!

But that will do neither of them any good in the moment, so Emmett flips to the final entry in the journal—June 12th, just a few days ago now—and quietly thanks whatever higher power there is that Marty kept such detailed entries.

June 16—dispose of the vehicular corpse for good by sending it over the cliffside.

Stuffing the journal in his pocket, Emmett hurries out to the car, racing off at breakneck speeds.

It takes him nearly an hour to cut through the California traffic and another twenty-seven minutes to arrive at the chosen drop site. By the time he exits the car, his fingers and knuckles have turned white from how tightly he gripped the steering wheel the entire trip and he can feel the uncomfortable sensation of pins and needles halfway up to his elbows.

The sun shoots off the stainless steel frame of the car like a bullet and Emmett throws up a hand to shield his eyes from its expert aim. He can see the outline of a figure sprawled across the warped frame of the car and—

For all intents and purposes, the weather couldn’t have been any more perfect than it was that Friday. Only a handful of cotton ball-like clouds dotted the azure sky, and the mild temperatures brought some people out to enjoy the sun while exploring the Californian sandy beaches. Marty knew, because on the drive over he saw the state of the few public beaches as the truck drove past.

While some miles away families were busy enjoying a relaxing summer picnic, Marty McFly chose to spend the day in seclusion. He needed to be able to access his most repressed thoughts and feelings without running risk of being interrupted by any external stimuli. Despite appearances, Marty took his decision to come here and do this very seriously. . .

Dr. Emmett Brown had entrusted the safekeeping of the most important and world changing invention since the discovery of fire into the hands of the teenaged Marty McFly. For six years the boy (now a grown man) kept the vehicle relatively safe… but, with another swig from the whiskey bottle that sat upon a flat portion of the wrecked hood… Marty was finally ready to let go of his past, if it made his future any more brighter.

He swore he heard the scientist’s voice over the sounds of the crashing waves below, and the shorter man couldn’t help but laugh. Laugh at the sheer audacity that his mind chose this moment to hallucinate his voice. Marty shoved the picture back into his wallet, then he wet his tongue with another swig of the amber whiskey. He stared straight ahead, looking at nothing in particular as he spoke aloud (in a slurred voice):

“The moment I’m in trouble you’re nowhere to be seen, but the millisecond your precious car is in trouble, you appear. Your priorities are insulting, Doc.”

Ever since he spoke to his new psychologist, Marty had been toying with an idea in his mind.

He continued to debate it, while downing the whiskey bottle in his hand. . . staring at the broken heap of metal in front of him.

The corpse of the DeLorean was simply reminders of his past. . of his present.

And of the future.

What could’ve happened. . What could’ve been. . But what was also the reality he actually lived in.

He told Skylar - his psychologist - his idea about destroying the time machine. Explaining that, he felt like the act would free him somehow.

That, in getting rid of the remnants of the past, he could finally begin to move on for the future.

He had came to a decision.

A few days later, he had paid a tow-truck driver to drive the vehicular corpse to a specific spot on the California coast.

It was on a high cliff, with the thunderous sounds of the ocean below plowing against the rocky wall.

Marty told the truck driver he had a friend that was gonna meet him there within an hour - he didn’t - just to get the guy to drive off and leave him alone.

Finally alone, he sat, back against a broken hood. .

He pulled out a certain photo he kept - folded up, he knows, he apologizes for the disrespectful treatment - in his wallet. A photo from the 1880s.

A photo of him. . And a man he missed.. so goddamn much.

Surface thoughts told him he should hate the scientist with every fiber in his being.. but..

“. . . What’d I give.. to hug you, one last time. . D-dad.”

“Terribly sorry; didn’t realize you were into half day old musk,” sarcasm dripped from the older man’s lips, earning a roll of the eyes from the younger McFly.

Continued w. @ashortdropandasuddenstop

Marty gave a nervous laugh at the scraggly-looking man’s denial of his alcoholic excuse. He even winced when he spoke the word “chariot.” Way too close of a correct guess of a car, Marty needed to try harder.

“You’re a pirate?” Marty nearly opened his mouth to question, before halting his words. You can’t give him an opening to question who you are, what the DeLorean is.. you can’t.. back away.. run.. hurry…

“What IS That contraption anyway?”

… It was long past time for them to rename Murphy’s Law to Marty’s Law.

It was both obvious that Marty was sweating nothing but bullets… but also trying his very hardest to employee a completely uninterested look as he backed closer and closer to the vehicle, palm searching behind him for the door handle.

“It’s nothing really, now please accept my thank you for saving my life, and please forget I was here. I have to go.”

“I’d advise against the use of too much soap.. considering it’s known to bring disease if you wash off your protective barrier.”

Blink blink. “That’s..” Marty shook his head, unconsciously scrunching up his nose. “That’s not.. how soap works.”

At least the scraggily ex-Commodore didn’t smell too much like a latrine, currently.

A smile, as Marty noticed how in child-like awe James was in, then eyes scrunched together in giggles as he watched his wonder being replace with acrophobic terror. He remembered fondly the days when he was the terrified passenger.

It was borderline rude, how much Marty took pleasure in the sight of his trembling. “And you can trust me to have an excellent driving record with the DeLorean. We’ll need to make a stop in Jamaica for fuel, which should be…” Calculating… “In just under an hour’s time. I’ll get you something of more sustenance when we land then, okay?”

Good thing the ex-Commodore could spare an hour…

Norrington did not like heights.  Oh sure  a dive from the fort, a jump across the fort sure.. but Human’s were not known to fly in his time and this was unheard of.  So he stayed in his new slumped position in the passenger seat .

” An hour?   thats all?“ he  was also flabbergasted at the speed of the flying machines.    ” I suppose that’s not so bad… “  He takes a chance after a few minutes and sits up again .. peeking back out of the window  again, then back at the Captain of this flying chariot.  ” Let us hope for both of our sakes that is true. “ he chuckles a bit.

As far as Marty could tell, the skies were relatively clear - save for that one commercial jet. No other traffic nearby, and it was a clear, beautiful day. He checked the compass installed upon the dash; they were heading in the right direction.

With the cruise control set, Marty adjusted his right leg into a more comfortable position. . .

. . . And shot his attention back towards the man slouched in the passenger seat. Did he hear him correctly?

“Y-you want to hear my music?” It was clear as day by the expression on his face that Marty’s heart was touched. A now excited hand reached over to the volume knob, twisting it until it was a few notches below medium. His finger then quickly shot to the rewind button, clicking until the CD began at track one.

His own voice was heard over the speakers, voicing out a muffled “one, two, three, four,” before an electric guitar was heard, shortly followed by a steady drumbeat.

In the driver seat, the smile never left the musician’s features. He excitedly gave commentary. “I didn’t write this particular song, but this is me on the electric guitar, and singing. A few buddies of mine did the drums bass.”

I'm outta luck, outta love, Marty’s singing voice was heard over the radio.

Gotta photograph, picture of

Passion killer, you're too much

You're the only one I wanna touch. . .

The physical Marty lip-synced along to his recorded self, bobbing his head to the beat, glancing between outside the windshield and to his passenger. “Do you like? I don’t.. I don’t have my guitar with me, but if I find one, I could play you something else!”

Aw, the musician was happy to finally have found an audience. . .

Resting his left palm briefly upon the British man’s hip, Marty slowly lowered himself until he was on bended knees, rolling his eyes in a slightly exasperated manner upon hearing his sarcastic comment. “I could do without your assumptions of my capabilities, Karl,” Marty retorted.

His right palm steadily massaged the man’s growing length as the younger wetted his lips, moistening his mouth to be as slick as possible. After putting off the moment until he could put it off no longer, Marty pulled his head down… closer, closer. . .

. . . hand moving towards his base as his lips made contact. First, by taking in just the tip, massaging his end with his tongue and lips. As the smaller man took more and more of his length in his mouth, he had to suppress gags, eventually withdrawing after about only six seconds. . . but not for the reason you may think.

“Jes- Jesus Christ dude, it’s like you bathe yourself in Old Spice.” Another gag. “Its all I smell and taste now.”

After taking a few much-needed breaths of clean air from behind his shoulder (as if a club’s bathroom air could be considered clean), Marty picked up the (probably devilishly amused) man’s engorged cock again, and went back to work, swallowing him whole before nearly withdrawing, swallowing, withdrawing, tongue dancing all along his length.