American Sun

[Soapy]

Janae looked at Caine for a long moment—eyes holding something unreadable, almost a question of their own. Then she just nodded, lips pressed together and glanced away as if tucking something back inside.

[Chillcavern]

Caught up here. Good stretch of updates Caesar

Poor Caine and Mireya man. Both of them getting shit from literally everywhere I stg (Maria working to pass on her generational trauma to her daughter, fucking hell. At least Sara’s trying). Barely, ever. catching breaks, which constantly gets then into sticky situations because they don’t see another choice. Meanwhile they’re just trying to survive, let alone being able to be kids themselves (that scene with Mireya wishing to be just another teenager really… hit hard).

And you said they haven’t hit the bottom yet?



Love the attention to some of the real traps and shit that happens - things like making just more than assistance thresholds, the crap you deal with on probation, paying for tests, eating sleep, hell even Percy’s situation (doing what the system “wants” gets you in even deeper shit, since you throw away your support system for a fucking PO lol).

Love that Quentin’s a big proponent of HBCU’s despite not having gone to one. That feels…right, for his character. Reminds me of a professor I once had.

[Caesar]

Janae looked at Caine for a long moment—eyes holding something unreadable, almost a question of their own. Then she just nodded, lips pressed together and glanced away as if tucking something back inside.

Caine's not Vic. He's loyal to his woman.

Caught up here. Good stretch of updates Caesar

Poor Caine and Mireya man. Both of them getting shit from literally everywhere I stg (Maria working to pass on her generational trauma to her daughter, fucking hell. At least Sara’s trying). Barely, ever. catching breaks, which constantly gets then into sticky situations because they don’t see another choice. Meanwhile they’re just trying to survive, let alone being able to be kids themselves (that scene with Mireya wishing to be just another teenager really… hit hard).

And you said they haven’t hit the bottom yet?



Love the attention to some of the real traps and shit that happens - things like making just more than assistance thresholds, the crap you deal with on probation, paying for tests, eating sleep, hell even Percy’s situation (doing what the system “wants” gets you in even deeper shit, since you throw away your support system for a fucking PO lol).

Love that Quentin’s a big proponent of HBCU’s despite not having gone to one. That feels…right, for his character. Reminds me of a professor I once had.

The question is how sticky will these situations get?

Maria and Sara are two sides of the same coin. One who has been made bitter from being a single mother and one who has decided it's not going to help her to be bitter. We'll see how that impacts the children.

Arguably Caine has hit rock bottom tbf he was facing life in prison. The question is how high does he bounce back up.

Gracias. Pulling deep on all my governmental knowledge for some of these things. Did a lot of work with the benefits cliff especially.

[Caesar]

Tout Moun Gen Soti, Pa Tout Gen Retou

Caine came awake to banging. Not the light kind, but the kind that rattled the cheap picture frames and set the couch cushions jumping beneath him. The room was gray with dawn, a line of pale light leaking through the blinds. For a second, he wasn’t sure if he was dreaming. Then he heard Hector—sharp, half-panicked, cursing in Spanish—and the sound of bare feet hitting the floor.

Caine sat up, breath caught in his throat. His back ached from the old couch. He blinked blearily, heart already racing as the banging came again, even louder.

Hector was by the peephole, eyes flashing. “¡Apúrate, Caine! Es tuyo,” he barked, voice low but urgent.

Ada and Rosario shuffled in behind him, both of them wrapped in old housecoats, eyes still gummy with sleep. Saul lingered by the hallway wall, arms folded tight across his chest, jaw set in that practiced scowl he wore whenever cops were near. His eyes tracked every move, not scared—just tense, already calculating how long this would last and what they might tear up this time.

Sara’s voice floated in from the kitchen, already tight with worry. “Who is it, Hector?”

Hector shot her a look. “Probation. For him.” He jerked his chin at Caine, then hissed in Spanish—something about trouble always finding them, about how the world was never satisfied with leaving Black boys alone. Then, without another word, Hector herded Ada and Rosario toward the back bedrooms. The doors clicked shut, the old wood groaning in protest.

Caine dragged himself upright, rolling his neck. His shirt was twisted, his jeans stiff from yesterday’s sweat. He smelled like detergent and the oil from last night’s fried chicken. He heard the low, restless sigh of Saul as he shifted his weight, arms still crossed, eyes narrowed at the commotion. His mother braced herself at the end of the hallway.

Through the stained window, Caine caught the familiar shape of Roussel—white face hard, jaw set, one hand already reaching for the doorbell again. Two other officers in black windbreakers waited on either side, arms folded, their breath ghosting in the cold air.

Caine’s palms were slick as he opened the door. Roussel pushed past him without so much as a hello, his boots thudding against the loose floorboards.

“Stand right there. Don’t touch nothing.” Roussel’s voice was flat, carrying the sour tang of someone who’d already decided the outcome.

The other two officers moved in with military precision—one rifled through a battered duffel bag on the floor, the other upending Caine’s sneakers and shaking out a sock. The apartment filled with the scent of cheap cologne, old linoleum, and Sara’s coffee burning on the stove.

Sara stepped forward, hands trembling, face pinched with worry. “Please, can you at least—”

Roussel cut her off. “Back the fuck up.” His words hit her like a slap. Sara’s mouth opened, then closed, her shoulders collapsing inward as she retreated, eyes shining with something close to fury.

Saul didn’t say a word, just leaned heavier against the wall, jaw locked, watching the search with cold, silent resentment.

Roussel snapped his fingers at Caine. “Bathroom. Move.”

Caine swallowed, nodding once, jaw tight as iron. Roussel shoved a plastic cup and a zip-top bag into his hands, the plastic crinkling loudly in the silence.

“You know how this goes. Piss in the cup, then I need a few strands of hair. I know how y’all like to party for Fat Tuesday.”

Caine moved toward the bathroom, the hallway narrowing around him. The tile was cold under his bare feet, the mirror fogged at the corners, streaked from too many rushed mornings. He could feel Roussel’s presence just outside the door—close, unyielding, waiting to pounce.

He set the cup on the edge of the sink, hands shaking as he undid his jeans. The world outside muffled—voices, the clatter of drawers, the heavy tread of strangers through a home that never felt like his. He caught his reflection, gaunt and tired, dark eyes rimmed with red.

For a moment, he just stood there, head bowed, breathing in the stale scent of bleach and fear, the bitter taste of anger rising in his throat. He could hear his mother murmuring something, maybe a prayer, maybe a curse, her voice barely audible over the chaos. The whole house was holding its breath, waiting for the verdict.

He filled the cup, capped it, and ran a hand over his scalp, plucking loose a few strands from his dreads. When he stepped out, Roussel was waiting, palm open, eyes cold.

Caine dropped the hair and cup into Roussel’s grasp. Roussel gave a little satisfied grunt, already moving on, calling over his shoulder for the other officers to keep searching.

Caine looked past him, catching Sara’s eyes—her face pale, jaw clenched. He nodded once, not trusting himself to speak.

~~~

The house was too quiet, like everyone was holding their breath. Sunlight squeezed through the warped blinds, tracing thin gold stripes over the tangled sheets and the pile of Camila’s toys scattered on the floor. Mireya lay half on her side, one leg hooked over the edge of the bed, the other knee pulled in tight, phone balanced on her stomach. Her thumb scrolled Instagram, but she couldn’t remember what she’d last seen.

Her body felt heavy, all marrow and fatigue. The only thing moving in the room was Camila, who sat in a mess of plastic cups and a marker-stained blanket, humming to herself as she tried to build a crooked tower. Every few minutes, Camila glanced up at her mother—a quick, searching look—then went back to stacking, comforted by presence alone.

Outside, the faint sound of the neighbor’s radio filtered in, some old bounce song washed thin by distance and time. The TV was on, cartoons flickering, but neither of them paid attention. Mireya’s eyes burned, gritty with too little sleep and too many days that started just like this.

It was almost noon. She knew, but didn’t care. Mardi Gras break meant she could just… stop, for a little. Not be anyone’s good student, good employee, good daughter. Just a girl in bed, breathing.

The spell snapped with the heavy thud of Maria’s steps down the hallway. Mireya felt her chest tighten, already bracing. The door banged open, sunlight spilling over the threshold.

“You’re still in bed?” Maria’s voice cut through the room, sharp enough to wake the dead. Her eyes found the clock, then fixed on Mireya, mouth pinched. “It’s the middle of the day, Mireya. Get up.”

Mireya kept scrolling, stubborn, her voice flat. “I’m tired, clearly.”

Maria stepped fully into the room, arms folded across her chest, shadow falling over the mattress. “If you’re so tired, maybe you should pick up extra shifts. Or maybe you’re just planning to sleep through life? Because there’s no money coming in with you lying there. You think anyone is going to take care of you and that baby if you don’t take care of yourself?”

Mireya swallowed. Her mouth tasted sour—guilt, anger, something she didn’t have a name for. She closed her eyes, then forced herself upright. “I’m going to work later.”

Maria scoffed, bitter and tired. “You always say that. You’re acting like a child. You have responsibilities, Mireya. Not just school, not just those little dreams you keep chasing.”

That last word—dreams—landed harder than any of the others. Something snapped.

Mireya’s voice shook as she sat up fully, eyes burning. “I’m tired of you always saying I’m a failure. I’m the only one who’s even trying! You think I want to be here? You think I want to be stuck in this house every day, begging for hours, missing sleep, missing everything?”

Camila’s game crashed to the floor as the shouting cut through her peace. She let out a wail, bottom lip trembling, arms reaching blindly for her mother.

Maria’s face changed—soft for a flash, then hard again. “Now look at what you did. You’ve made your daughter cry. Is this what you want? For her to grow up seeing this?”

Mireya’s hands shook as she gathered Camila up, holding her close, heart pounding so hard she thought Maria might hear it.

“It’s okay, mami. Shhh, I’m right here,” she whispered, breathing in Camila’s warm scalp, the powdery scent of her skin.

Maria shook her head, letting her arms drop. “Forget it. Just get up and do something. Anything. You keep waiting for life to change, and you’re going to wake up one day and realize it passed you by.”

She left the door open as she walked out, her heels clicking sharp against the tile. The hallway filled with silence.

Mireya held Camila tighter, tears burning at the back of her throat. She pressed her face into her daughter’s hair and tried to swallow the ache, but it pressed in from all sides. She wasn’t sure who she was madder at—her mother, herself, or the world that felt so damn small and closed-in.

The TV kept playing, voices from the cartoons blending into the hum of the city outside. Mireya stared at the spot where sunlight met the floor, her chest heavy, Camila’s fingers tangled in her hair. She wondered, not for the first time, how much more she could hold before something gave.

~~~

The locker room was alive with energy, the kind that buzzed in your teeth. The tang of bleach and sweat cut through the air, familiar and foreign at the same time. Caine sat at the end of a bench, quiet, stretching his legs, lacing up his cleats with methodical, practiced hands. His number hadn’t been assigned yet—just a plain white shirt, no legacy to lean on.

Boys crowded in the aisle, trading jokes, snapping towels, talking about who showed out last season and who got offers already. Every now and then someone eyed Caine, sizing him up. He was new, but his frame—broad shoulders, arms cut with hard muscle, the easy six-three that made people step back—got him noticed even in a room full of talent.

He heard Jay’s name a half-dozen times before they even got out the door. “Jay gon’ have another year, y’all watch,” someone called, and Jay just grinned, chest out, tossing a ball behind his back to the backup like it was nothing. Caine caught the glances, the silent calculation: who’s this big dude, and what’s his story?

They jogged out onto the turf, the field still slick with dew. The stands were mostly empty, but Caine could see a handful of dads and little brothers already gathering, holding up phones, hollering names. He took a long breath—wet grass, motor oil, a trace of fryer grease from the concession stand behind the end zone.

Coach Joseph blew his whistle, voice cutting through the noise. “Karr football, y’all know what it is. You want to keep that jersey, you better bring it. No favorites, no handouts, y’all hear me?”

The drills hit fast: quarterbacks at one end, receivers at another, coaches barking out numbers and routes. Jay went first, his release quick and low, the ball snapping to a slot receiver who barely broke stride. The staff nodded—this was routine, the script everyone expected.

Caine waited, shifting from foot to foot. When his turn came, the hush was subtle but real—a couple linemen paused to watch, a coach held his clipboard a second longer. He took the snap, felt the laces bite his fingertips, and rolled right, searching for the seam. The throw left his hand with a whistle, a tight spiral that split the zone. The receiver hesitated—just for a blink—then snatched it out the air, turning upfield in surprise.

The next rep, Caine went left. Then right again. Short slant, then a fade, then an option. By the third or fourth, even the seniors were watching, murmurs running down the line. Jay was good—slick, quick, a natural—but Caine’s arm strength was obvious, the ball popping loud against receivers’ gloves. He caught sight of Coach Joseph, arms crossed, brow raised—not impressed, not yet, but curious.

Between drills, nobody said much. Caine sipped water, wiped sweat from his brow, listened to cleats scrape concrete as boys hustled back to their spots. Jay smirked once, tossing Caine a look that was equal parts challenge and respect.

Finally, the whistle blew for the last set. Coach called everyone in, went over expectations, rattled off the next week’s practice times, then let them break.

As the pack started to scatter, Coach Joseph caught Caine’s arm, steering him aside. Up close, the coach’s eyes were sharp, unreadable.

“Where’d you play last year?”

Caine felt his mouth go dry. He didn’t flinch. “Didn’t. Had to sit out.”

Coach studied him, the pause stretching just a little. Then he nodded. “You did a good job out there. We’ll see if you can keep it up.”

Caine nodded, picking up his bag, pulse still jumping. He didn’t say thank you—just kept moving, the words echoing in his head. The sun was full over the field now, hot on his neck as he walked, the sound of other boys laughing in the distance.

He let the moment settle, not letting himself hope, not yet. But as he rounded the corner, he let his hand brush the grass—just once—like a promise to himself that he’d come back. He wasn’t anybody’s star. Not yet. But for a heartbeat, he was just a ballplayer again, and that felt like enough.

~~~

The blunt was just ash by now, pinched between Tyree’s fingers, the sweet smell lost to the stale funk of cologne, sweat, and fast food wrappers ground into the floor mats. Ramon guided the Crown Vic down MLK, knuckles tapping the wheel to a beat only he could hear. The radio murmured low, a DJ cutting through static and bass.

Tyree sat shotgun, flipping the lighter open and closed, knee bouncing. E.J. slouched behind him, but kept shifting his weight, peering out the back window as they crept past boarded-up houses and busted streetlights. Zo fiddled with his hoodie strings, fingers twitching, gun wedged under his thigh.

Nobody said much. Not on this kind of drive.

Ramon took the first pass slow—windows cracked, lights off, the car floating down Rocheblave like just another ride looking for a spot. But the gray Nissan stood out, front end nosed up on the curb, familiar as a scar. That’s them—the dudes from 110 who rolled down Galvez running their mouths.

Ramon’s voice was barely above a whisper: “That’s them.”

E.J. shifted, rolling his neck. “Yeah, that’s them niggas alright.”

Tyree twisted in his seat, peering into the shadows. “We spinnin’ now or what?”

“Gotta make the block,” Ramon said, voice calm but jaw clenched.

He hit the turn, cutting back onto a side street, heart knocking once, hard, then settling into that steady rhythm he knew too well. As they looped back toward Rocheblave, the temperature in the car changed—energy wound tight, everybody bracing.

Zo wiped his palms on his jeans, muttering “Shit,” under his breath, then checked his gun again, just to feel the cool weight. E.J. bounced his knee, knuckles white on the grip. Tyree kept cracking his lighter, thumb flicking fast, breath fogging the window in bursts.

The radio static sharpened, then faded. The block was coming up again. Ramon’s fingers drummed the steering wheel, eyes fixed dead ahead. “Y’all ready?” he asked, but he didn’t need to. The question was just ritual.

Tyree sucked his teeth, wiped his hand on his shorts. “Let’s get it.”

Zo and E.J. both exhaled, long and slow. Nobody was laughing now.

This time, as the Crown Vic slid onto Rocheblave, windows dropped with a chorus of squeaks. Tyree, E.J., and Zo climbed halfway out, tension like static crackling around their bodies, adrenaline warping the air. Ramon mashed the gas. The rivals looked up, realization sparking too late as gunfire rattled down the block, shells spinning on the asphalt. The world shrank to the crack of shots, the reek of gunpowder, the wild, animal thrill of being alive.

A shot answered—glass popping somewhere, a woman screaming far off. Ramon jerked the wheel, the car lurching hard through the intersection, tires spitting up old Mardi Gras beads.

Tyree whooped, voice hoarse with leftover fear. He slapped E.J. on the shoulder, then reached back to dap Zo, hands shaking, sweat beading on his brow. “Them niggas fast as fuck, man.”

Ramon flicked a glance in the mirror, watching the street fall away. His chest pounded, but his hands never left ten and two.

Zo slumped back, tucking his piece away. “You can run me by my baby mama? She frying shrimp.”

Ramon shook his head, half-smile showing through the tension.

E.J. let out a laugh, finally. “She sharing?”

Tyree just grinned, rolling the window up, letting the night air rush out as the city swallowed them up—boys caught between laughter and the echo of gunfire, hoping that for tonight, they’d outrun both.

~~~

The concrete yard office felt like a shoebox left in the sun. Sweat trickled down Mireya’s back as she sat at the chipped desk, the sticky edge of her ID card digging into her palm. A cheap fan rattled in the corner, pushing around the heat and the stale scent of old takeout, but nothing really moved the air.

Outside, trucks beeped and belched, their engines a low, constant growl behind the thin glass. Every now and then a burst of laughter or a cuss word drifted in from the yard, but Mireya barely heard them. She’d been here all morning, legs stiff, head pounding, mind stuck in a loop: bank account, test date, Camila’s growing feet, Maria’s voice in her ear.

Her laptop screen was a mess of tabs—ACT website, bank statement, Gmail, Facebook half-loaded with old prom pictures she barely looked at. The ACT site flashed a warning in bright red: LATE REGISTRATION—EXTRA FEE APPLIES.

She stared at the date, then the price. The late fee hurt—$36, nearly five hours on her feet at the store for a single charge. Daycare was coming, her phone bill past due, Camila’s shoes already too tight. She did the math anyway, like she always did, running her finger down the little notebook in her lap, penciled numbers blurring with eraser marks and anxiety.

Mireya tapped out a message with sore thumbs: Y’all registered for the ACT yet?

Angela’s reply was instant: Taking it next date. Got my good pen ready.

Paz chimed in: Ugh, I’m not ready but yeah. Same day as Angie.

Mireya smiled for a second at their jokes, then stared at the registration page. Every time she hesitated, she pictured Camila in kindergarten someday, asking about college, about how Mireya made it out, about everything she’d given up. If she waited until fall, who knew what would happen? Life never got easier.

She swallowed, hit “register,” and the confirmation loaded—a cheery green check mark that felt like a slap. She refreshed her bank app and watched the number tumble, bottoming out, her stomach rolling with it. She closed the laptop, needing a breath, but all she felt was the weight of the office closing in. Even her sweat felt heavy, sticking to her shirt, salt drying on her lips.

The door banged open. Leo stepped in like he owned the place, his work boots caked with dust, hands stained gray. He smelled like cigarettes and heat. Mireya tensed, sensing trouble before he said a word.

He didn’t smile or say good morning. Just dragged a chair over—metal scraping sharp on concrete—and sat too close. His eyes flicked from her laptop to the bills poking out of her bag.

“You busy?” he asked, voice low, already half a dare.

She glanced at him, exhausted, but kept her tone flat. “Depends.”

He pulled a folded hundred from his pocket, the bill crisp, setting it on the desk like a challenge. “Just to drive me.”

She looked at the money. It looked fake, like movie cash—impossibly clean, a hundred dollars for an hour of her life. She didn’t reach for it, not yet. “Just to drive.”

Leo’s mouth curled. “You sure you don’t need more?”

She forced herself not to flinch. “I’m sure that’s all I need.”

He grunted, shoved the chair back, and stood up, his boots thudding heavy as he crossed to the trash can. Mireya watched as he tossed something in—quick flick of his wrist, nothing to see. The door slammed behind him, cool night air rushing in before it shut.

Mireya waited, chest tight, listening for footsteps to fade before she crossed the office. She opened the lid, heart thumping. On top of yesterday’s coffee cup, a bright blue condom wrapper stared up at her. The implication hung in the air—unsaid, unwanted, familiar.

She squeezed her eyes shut, grounding herself with the scrape of the desk under her fingers, the distant clang of trucks, the pressure of money still sitting on the desk. It was just a ride, this time. But every time she said yes, it felt like another brick added to the wall around her.

She picked up the cash, tucked it deep in her pocket, and grabbed her bag. When she stepped outside, the yard was washed in harsh floodlights and deep shadows, the air heavy with the damp chill that settled over New Orleans after dark. Leo was already by his truck, head down, thumbs flying over his phone, the glow of the screen lighting up his face.

Around her, the world kept moving—trucks rumbling in the distance, men shouting in bursts of laughter, the thump of bass leaking from a car radio parked somewhere out by the gates.

Mireya lifted her chin, squared her shoulders. She wasn’t going to let anyone see her sweat. She walked straight to the driver’s side, the night pressing close, every step a reminder that no matter how hard she worked, she was always hustling just to stay even.

She slid behind the wheel and gripped it tight, jaw set.

[redsox907]

So much for only her and ol boy knowing about it. Clearly Kike is salty it wasn’t him

[Soapy]

do these people ever have a good day lmao

[Caesar]

So much for only her and ol boy knowing about it. Clearly Kike is salty it wasn’t him

Does Kike know or was Kike just throwing shit at the wall and see what sticks

do these people ever have a good day lmao

Good day according to whose standards? Caine has a relatively fine day in the update before last, sir. Hell, even Mireya

[redsox907]

do these people ever have a good day lmao

ain't no rest for the wicked brodie and in this story? They all grimy

[Captain Canada]

In what world did Mireya have a good day?

This officially torture porn until further notice

[djp73]