#Her neck probably is constantly aching by how often she cranes it

[fivedollarfred]

Behold! A Scout and a Pauling!

But Eighties!

Got inspired yesterday and since I've been binge watching this artist who really emphasizes the fashions of eras and that if you want to accurately portray a time period, the clothing and fashion aren't something to flippantly brush off, and I agree with that. Like, if you can't get a general idea of what time period a character is in if said time period is important, then you kinda failed at portraying it.

Anyways, I chose the eighties because, one, they'd be alive for it, and two, it's a pretty memorable era for clothing, and three, it gives me the excuse to give Scout a denim jacket.

[miniature-space-hamster]

Wrote a fic that was a byproduct of me trying to figure out how Kaidan and Karina Shepard had their first kiss. It got a little spicier than I originally intended. This takes place before the rest of my “Soft Place to Land” fics. Anyway, hope you enjoy.~

Shepard cursed to herself as her eyes darted from screen to screen on her omnitool, trying to find a solution. Nothing seemed to be physically wrong with Mako, but the vehicle had lost all communications. Even the sensors were failing her, and she was beginning to lose her patience. Kaidan laid outside the Mako, almost entirely under the vehicle, trying to look for any possible damage underneath. He’d never say it out loud, but with the way Shepard drove this thing, he was half expecting to find a large rock lodged in the vehicle, but there was nothing. He grumbled to himself before pulling himself up, and leaning against the Mako as he poked his head through the doorway, towards Shepard. “It’s all fine down here. I don’t know what happened.” He paused for a moment, kicking the dirt slightly as he watched the growing winds whisk away the dust cloud that formed at his feet. “Wish Tali was here. She’d probably know what to do.”

Shepard looked up at the ceiling of the Mako to stretch her aching neck, they’ve been at this for nearly an hour with no luck. “Same, but we couldn’t risk it with the suit rupture.” It was just a pin prick moments before departure, but Shepard sent her to the medbay immediately before she got a severe infection. Shepard considered asking another teammate to come, but it was such a minor task and she didn’t want to postpone scanning the planet for necessary resources any further. She knew the two of them would be fine. They were supposed to be fine. But now she definitely missed the Quarian’s expertise.

Shepard smacked the dashboard of the Mako in equal parts irritation and last ditch effort to try anything. Kaidan jumped slightly at the sudden sound. Shepard was always quiet, sometimes almost unnervingly so at times that he half expected the motion to not make a noise. But, to both of their surprise, the dashboard came to life, bathing her in its golden glow.

“Are you reading me, commander?” Joker's voice was nearly inaudible against the overwhelming amount of interference. It sounded like he's been trying to contact them for a while now. From what she could make out, his voice sounded strained with desperation. He needed a sign that they were okay.

“Barely, we’re having some trouble with the Mako.” Shepard grumbled into the microphone, trying to use her omnitool to sharpen the signal, but it didn’t help much.

“There’s a storm coming. A bad one. We won’t be able to pick you up in the middle of it. You’ll need to sit tight until it’s over.” The irritation was evident in Joker’s voice. If they had a window for rescue, it seemed that it had long since passed.

Shepard gave Kaidan a look, seeing the wind whipping the stray hairs that fell down to his brow. She tried to hide the sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach. There was near pitch black darkness on the horizon that blocked out the setting sun, and it was approaching at an alarming speed. Kaidan gave her a nod in understanding, they needed to move quickly. “There’s a cave not far from here. We can park the Mako there for shelter. “

Shepard nodded as Kaidan hopped into the passenger seat without hesitation, providing directions. She could feel the wind trying to rip control of the Mako from her grip. She found herself constantly having to overcorrect the wheel just to keep the vehicle moving straight. She kept her fingers off the boosters, for fear of flipping the vehicle. Her knuckles were white and her hands were shaking by the time they were in the cave.

The vehicle lurched in protest as she hit the brakes a bit too hard, too eager to take her hands off the wheel. Shepard craned her neck to get a look at the cave’s ceiling, wondering how much she trusted it’s stability. It felt weirdly claustrophobic having such a big machine nestled in a cavern this size. It was a tight squeeze. They'd have difficulty getting out on either side, but they were free from the wind and what sounded like hail.

Shepard looked to Kaidan with a somewhat sheepish grin, feeling somewhat responsible for their predicament. She found herself mentally going back through the calculations and reports in her mind, trying to find out where she went wrong. This wasn’t in her reports of the planet.

“Well, I guess we better get comfortable.” There was a sigh in her voice as she took off her helmet and untied her hair. She let her hair fall naturally with a slight shake of her head.

She met Kaidan’s eyes and she couldn’t tell over the darkness of the cave, but she could’ve sworn she saw him blush. He cleared his throat and looked away for a moment before pulling up a box that rested by his feet onto his lap.

Shepard saw the shine of the dashboard against his teeth as he gave her a slight smile before reaching in and handing her something. She took the item, unsure of what was in her hands for a moment, before realizing it was a sandwich. “I, uh, noticed you didn’t get a chance to eat before we left..” he seemed unusually bashful as he placed a hand on his neck.

She looked at the sandwich, and again at Kaidan. She tried to figure out when he had the time to do all this. She completely forgot to eat today. She didn’t have the time to have more than a cup of instant coffee, and even then it went cold before she took her first sip. It felt like the work Hackett sent her was never ending.

She gave Kaidan a nervous smile as a silent thanks, finding herself at a loss of words as heat rose on her ears and neck. Kaidan continued to pull out two beer bottles before untwisting a top and passing one to her. “Before you say anything, technically our shift ended an hour ago.” He gave her a sly grin that she couldn’t help but match as she took a bottle.

“Well, we might be stuck here for the night...” Her voice was wary as she pressed the cold glass bottle to her lips. She was never one to lax on regulations, but after today she needed a drink. Despite nothing going right today, she couldn’t help but be thankful for the choice in company.

She took a bite of her sandwich, unable to remember the last time she had something that wasn’t prepackaged and in the form of an energy bar. With her hunger finally catching up to her, in this moment it was the best thing she’d ever eaten. She looked at Kaidan, seeing the golden light of the dashboard reflect the warm, bronze flecks in his eyes. “Thank you…” She looked away quickly afraid she’d get lost in the depths of his eyes.

Kaidan held back a smile, as he pulled out a sandwich for himself. He noticed how her features softened as she ate. She finally stopped clenching her jaw as she took a moment to accept their new situation. This was about as relaxed as he’s ever seen her, on or off duty. He felt like these were the moments when he got to see the real Shepard. She was so sure of herself on the battlefield, but in moments like this she let herself be vulnerable. It was a word he never would’ve normally associated with the great Commander Shepard before getting to know her.

Shepard expected to feel a nervous tension rising in her chest. It’s only been two days since they both admitted to maybe feeling something for one another, though neither were quite sure what it was yet. Kaidan suggested seeing where things would go if they went out during shore leave. Despite these mutual feelings, she still found Kaidan easy to be around. Shepard struggled to open up and connect with others at times, being as painfully introverted as she was, but Kaidan never forced herself to be someone she wasn’t. He was content to be near her, even if she didn’t have anything to say at the moment. She never felt pressured by his presence to put on her usual facade of commander.

After finishing her sandwich, her hunger sated. She felt her mind shift to other needs. Shepard shivered violently, feeling the storm’s chill enter her bones. The nights on this planet often dipped below freezing. She heard the rattle of her armor, feeling another violent wave fill her body. She noticed Kaidan was rubbing his hands together for warmth. “Cold?” She asked, already knowing the answer. She paused for a moment as she climbed into the back of the Mako. There was an emergency blanket, but only one. She held it up for him to see. It felt thin, but it was better than nothing. “We’ll have to share.”

Kaidan quietly followed her to the backseat, trying to hold back his grin. There was more leg room here, without any bulky tech to get in the way. They both stripped themselves of their outer armor, letting their chest plates and gauntlets litter the floor, leaving on the more comfortable inner layer.

Kaidan was the first to sit, finally feeling the strain of the day cause his muscles to ache. He stretched his legs as he slouched to get comfortable. He rested an arm on the back of the seat, inviting Shepard to sit next to him. She first took a cautious seat before curling up beside him, realizing that they’ve never touched like this before. Was he always this warm?

Besides the time she pulled him away from the beacon, she’s never touched him at all. But even in that moment she only thought about his safety, not how it felt to be curled up next to him. She found that her desire for warmth overcame her sense of modesty as Kaidan wrapped them both in the blanket.

She twisted herself closer as she felt her body shiver violently. She rested her legs on top of his as Kaidan wrapped his arms around her. His warmth quickly filled her body as she leaned in his direction, pressing their bodies flush. She tried to tell herself that this was solely for warmth, and it was, but she so desperately wanted to explore his body with her hands.

She tried to speak, about anything to pull her thoughts away from the body pressed against her own, but any and all words were trapped in her throat as a flush rose on her face. She tried to wash down the heat in her face with what remained on the beer. Kaidan was usually the one to speak, and Shepard would listen, but he too was silent in this moment as he watched her trying to gauge her reaction to their close contact.

Shepard met his eyes, nearly black in the darkness, but still warm nonetheless. Her eyes trailed down to his lips, wanting desperately to know what they felt like, before her eyes yet again met his. She didn't want to yearn for him like this, reminding herself that he was her staff lieutenant. Her pulse quickened as she reached for his face, nervous she was taking things too far. Her hand softly grazed his stubble and rested at his jaw. In the near pitch dark she caught herself focusing on the softness of his skin.

Kaidan’s eyes widened, but so did his smile. He let a hand gently trail up her neck, resting at the base of her skull. He applied the slightest gentle pressure as he stroked her scalp, without pulling her in, as he invited her to come closer if she wanted. He was fully prepared for rejection, they were after all in an emergency situation.

Before Kaidan even realized it, her lips locked with his own. There was a moment of tender uncertainty as they tried to find one another’s rhythm. They settled for a slow pace, as they gently explored the expanse of one another’s lips. Shepard liked the way Kaidan’s lips felt on her own, tasting the beer on his breath. He felt almost electric as she gently bit down on his lower lip. The smell of element zero filled her lungs and made her head feel fuzzy. It was unfamiliar to her, but pleasant nonetheless.

Shepard let her free hand dance on Kaidan’s torso, before resting behind a shoulder blade, trying to pull him in closer than their bodies allowed, as their kiss deepened as Kaidan’s tongue momentarily slipped into her mouth. Kaidan propped up his legs to pull Shepard closer. She readjusted herself so she could straddle his lap without breaking the kiss. He let his tongue explore her lips, memorizing their shape, while his hands gripped her waist. His tongue traced the scar that marked both lips and trailed upward.

Shepard pulled away to catch her breath, not realizing how long she was holding it. She pressed her forehead against his shoulder as she bit her lip, holding back a smile. Kaidan in turn let his head drop back against the seat as he also tried to steady himself, with Shepard still straddling his lap.

Shepard cursed to herself, quietly but against Kaidan’s ear. He turned to her direction, “I wasn’t that bad, was I?”

Shepard held back a laugh, “No, that’s not it…” She paused as she groaned again in frustration. “I shouldn’t want this.” She poked his chest gingerly. “Ishouldn’t be taking advantage of you like this. I sh-“ her voice trailed off as she again tapped her forehead against Kaidan’s shoulder in frustration.

Kaidan took a deep breath, “You aren’t taking advantage of me if I also want this, Shepard.” She met his gaze as he ran a finger across her forehead, tucking a stubborn strand of hair behind her ear.

They looked at one another for a long while before Shepard finally spoke up, “Karina.”

Kaidan gave her a raised eyebrow.

“Call me Karina.” She felt her pulse in her throat. He just kissed her senseless, why did this somehow feel more intimate? “Any fraternization rules are pretty much out the window now. At least when we’re alone.”

Karina could hear the smile in his tone. “Then you should call me Kaidan.”

“Alright, fair enough Kaidan.” She laughed, feeling another wave of blush rise in her face, but she didn’t make an effort to hide it this time.

Kaidan felt his stomach flip. Something about the way her accent made the syllables roll so softly from her tongue. He really liked hearing his name in her voice and couldn’t wait to hear it again.

Hope you liked it.

[littlemisswolfie]

A Midnight Run

AO3

The woods are dark, this late at night. Sam knows the moon above her is full, but its light is hidden behind the leaves of the trees looming over her. Her legs burn from the force of her feet pounding over the grass and dirt, and her lungs ache with all the air they’re pulling in and pushing out as she runs, but she can’t stop running. Not now. Not yet.

A few hundred yards to her left, someone yelps and something else growls. Heart pounding, Sam veers right and pounds her legs harder. She thinks that was Tucker. That means she’s the last one standing. The realization sends a shot of adrenaline through her system.

He wants a chase? she thinks. I’ll give him a chase.

There’s a creek nearby. Maybe she can hide her scent if she runs through it. That’s his primary means of tracking, after all. She has a chance if she can take away his sense of smell. If only she hadn’t left her bag in the truck; she has all sorts of nifty plants in there she could have used.

But there’s no use dwelling on that now. She has to keep moving.

The sound of running water hits her ears. She’s close to the creek. The ground is uneven here, and though all she wants is to sprint to the water, she has to take it slow. Tripping and falling would make too much noise, and then all hopes of escape would be dashed. And she refuses to let him win this time.

Her boots hit the creek with a splash. She bends at the waist to scoop water up and wet her face and arms as well. The water is freezing, but she can deal. In a few minutes, she’ll either be back in the warm truck, or she’ll be caught. Either way, she won’t be cold for long.

She backtracks a little to muddle the scent before taking off again. Sam knows these woods as well as she knows her bedroom by now, and she doesn’t need light to navigate. If she can make it back to the big pine tree they parked the truck by, she’s home free. Getting to the tree means the chase is over. And it’s less than a quarter mile away.

She takes one more deep breath to steel herself before she runs. She runs faster than she’s ever run in her life. Hell, she could outrun Dash Baxter. She’ll run as hard as it takes to get her to that tree. Because the tree means she wins.

She can just see the trunk of the tree when a twig snaps behind her. Her spine goes hot, burning white like a supernova, and that’s all the warning she gets before she’s being tackled to the ground. A hand comes up to keep her head from hitting the ground, but the rest of her body absorbs the shock, and suddenly there’s something heavy and warm over her, and a set of teeth pressing at her throat. Not biting, but the threat is there in the points of the fangs. “Gotcha.”

She groans, irritated, but rolls her head to the side in submission. “Only because you won’t let me use any of my herbs, you ass. Not all of us have night vision and super speed like you do.”

Danny chuckles, the sound much darker than it is during the day. Suddenly, Sam finds herself shivering from something other than the cold. “Are you, Sam Manson, saying you need help to beat me at something?”

“You wish.” She puts her palms against his chest, feeling fur where his shirt is ripped, and nudges, and he sits back without protest, though he’s still straddling her hips. She can’t see much of him in the low light, but she knows he can see her, so she wipes at her face to get some of the dirt off. Sam never used to be so aware of her appearance. In fact, she openly mocked girls like Paulina and Star who were so obsessed with their looks.

But that was before Danny changed.

They’re still not sure how, exactly, the change happened. It wasn’t like he was bitten or anything. It was probably something they messed with in his parents’ lab last September, but they’ll never be sure, now. What matters is that Danny isn’t human anymore. Sam can’t see him now, but she’s seen him often enough in the past few months to know exactly what he looks like. His body is larger, taller, more muscular. Black fur sprouts from his skin. His nails are sharper, more claw-like. His ears have moved to the top of his head, now pointed and fuzzy. And his eyes, usually the color of the sky on a clear day, are like liquid mercury—silver and burning.

“Now that you have me,” Sam says with a quirked eyebrow, “what are you going to do with me?”

Danny growls low in his throat at the obvious provocation and dives in, slanting his lips over Sam’s in a heated kiss. His hands, large and hot, grab her wrists and pin them above her head. She moans into the kiss, and though she very much enjoys his weight on top of her, she wishes she could wrap her legs around him to hold him to her.  But when Danny’s like this, more wolf than man, he has to be in control. He has to have the leverage. “Part of the curse,” he’d grumbled once. “The wolf would rather die than submit.”

Lucky for them, Sam found herself more than happy to submit, if only to Danny.

“Tucker?” Sam asks when Danny pulls back to let her breathe.

Danny leans down to kiss and lick his way down her neck. “He went back to the truck to watch our phones. The woods are all ours.”

Good enough for Sam. She cranes her neck up to kiss Danny again, and he releases her hands so his can nudge her jacket away. “Next run,” he says against her lips, “try shedding some layers. It muddles your scent.”

“Giving me advice now, wolf boy?” Sam asks, trying to pretend he’s not leaving her breathless.

His fingers work their way under her tee shirt and brush against her belly. “Yes. The sooner you get away, the sooner you’ll let me mark you.”

One of Danny’s many new instincts is the drive to claim anything that’s his. In the day to day, he does it in both human and animalistic ways. He writes his name on the tag of all his clothes and scribbles on the covers of all his notebooks and he has a million decals on his cherry red motorcycle. He’s constantly touching Sam and Tucker at school, and he’s scent marked them at least once a day since their first run in with Skulker, a rival alpha who thought Danny would be easy pickings when he first changed. He’s drawn the line at peeing on things, thank god, but the one way Sam hasn’t let him claim her yet is by marking her.

Marking is permanent. Danny marking her would result in a bruise that would basically telegraph “Mate of Danny Fenton” to any supernatural creature in the immediate vicinity. And it’s not that Sam isn’t ready for that commitment—she’s been in love with Danny for years—but she refuses to be a damsel in distress any time some hunter or rival supernatural wants to get one over on Danny. So Sam decided she would refuse his mark until she could get away from him on a full moon on her own merit. If she can outrun a werewolf on his own turf at the time he’s at his strongest, she can do anything.

And Danny, the wonderful guy that he is, respects her decision, and he never holds back.

Just like he doesn’t hold back now.

Forty-five minutes later, they return to the truck. It’s Sam’s truck, a sixteenth birthday gift from her grandmother, and it’s the group’s primary form of transportation aside from Danny’s motorcycle. Tucker’s sitting in the passenger seat, blaring Ember’s new album over the Bluetooth radio, and he gives him an impressive eye roll when he sees their rumpled clothes and tangled hair. “Next month,” he says when they’re situated in the cab, Sam on the hump and Danny behind the wheel, “I’m asking Ember to come, too.”

“She’s gonna be in Mexico on her tour next month,” Danny reminds him.

“Damn.”

Sam leans her head on his shoulder. “Buck up. Maybe I’ll get away next month.”

“You guys will just be even worse if you do.”

Neither of them brings up the option of Tucker simply not coming at all next month. Danny wouldn’t stand for it. He needs them both on full moon nights. No exceptions.

Danny puts the truck into drive.

Tucker gets dropped off first, and Danny, as he always does, waits until he’s safely climbed the fire escape up to his window before driving away. Sam could move over to the passenger seat, but that would mean moving away from Danny, so she stays put until they get to her house.

They climb out of the truck and Danny cups her face with his hands and pulls her up for one last kiss. “Text me when you get home,” she tells him, even though he’s probably the most dangerous thing in Amity Park, at least for the moment.

“I will,” be promises, laying his forehead against hers. “I love you, Sam.”

Butterflies explode in her belly. “Love you, too.”

She feels Danny’s eyes on her as she clambers up the flower trellis leading to her window, and when she’s safely inside, it’s her turn to watch, silent, as he lopes off into the night.

[onceuponamirror]

For a prompt: who about some nice Archie/Betty platonic friendship? I think their friendship was the most screwed over by the writers (and the fandom) and I would like to see them as the best friend they’re supposed to be. Maybe a moment of mechanic- Betty helping Archie with that god awful car he bought? Maybe some nice Betty-Archie-Fred moment?

a/n: this is peak angsty betty; i intended to do more of their friendship (because i totally agree about how their friendship got screwed and loved this prompt) but my muse turned this into a post-canon angst-healing. well, semi-canon; i scrapped the archie’s arrest thing. i don’t feel like dealing with all of this plot nonsense

She’s been keeping an eye on the Andrews’ house for a couple of weeks now.

It started when Fred had stormed the crowd still gathering on their front steps, his arms outstretched, and demanded they all go home and stay home. Betty’d been trying that technique for days, but as the very public first victim of her father, Fred Andrews had a bit more credit to his name in this regard. 

She’d felt endeared by it, relieved by it, and ashamed by it all at once, though this would be a series of feelings that she’d become accustomed to in the months following her father’s arrest.

Still; Betty has always liked Fred. 

She still associates him with the warm, bubbly summers that she shared with Archie and Jughead before there words for the dynamic between the three of them, always saw him as some kind of vessel of paternally sage wisdom, untouchably moral and unshakable. 

But she’s seen him shake now, and it’s been months since her father was carted away—and it still feels like her fault. 

And so—Betty catches herself staring out of the window a lot lately. 

She remembers staring out of her bedroom window for a glimpse of Archie wandering across his room; she remembers the wistful, moonish sighs out into the Andrews backyard, and the disappointment she’d feel when it’d be Fred or Mary instead of the once object of her affections.

It’s different now, and not just because she understands the flutterings for Archie were for a concept of a relationship that paled in comparison to the one she ended up having—flutterings that feel so foolish in retrospect, but she still can’t quite fault them, because they paved the road to Jughead.

Now, though, when she stares out the window, it’s because she’s looking for a reminder. The mornings that follow nightmares, the moments where she still feels like she’s being watched, the days where a kind of phantom pain sits at the base of her spine and causes gooseflesh, sometimes the only cure is relief that can only come with seeing either of them out, about, alive—not untouched, not unharmed, but alive all the same.

And it’s on one of those days, where she’s sitting by the window and idly tapping her pencil against the homework that feels horribly banal now, that she sees the two Andrews, together wheeling out some kind of disfigured, scrap metal project gone awry into the driveway. 

She stares at it, realizing its got four wheels and the general concept of an engine, and it dawns on her that this…might be a car. Or it was, in a past life. 

Cracking open her window an inch to the makings of spring and carrying voices, it takes only a few minutes of eavesdropping to put together the picture; they’re trying to salvage this ghost of a car, somehow.

Over the course of the afternoon, Betty’s attention keeps darting down to the driveway, a small smile at her lips when the new tire Fred is attempting to put onto the frame rolls right out of his hands, and Archie chases it halfway down the block. It’s brevity out of a Sunday gag strip, and her chest aches for it, wondering if she’ll ever find that in her own house again.

Eventually, the window is opened all the way, as she’d been pushing it up a hair every half hour or so. But she fidgets there, homework long abandoned, spare texts floating between her and Jughead and then Veronica, watching the two of them attempt to work on this mobile junkyard of a car.

She wonders, if this had happened months ago, if she’d be doing there now, assisting them—or given their current speed, instructing them. Maybe her own father would be alongside her, once upon a time.

He was the one who taught her about cars, taught her everything she knows.

And it’s for that reason that she feels rooted to that window, unable to move, even to offer them advice on the best wrenches, to tell them they’re better off building a new engine than trying to clean the rust off the original one. 

Betty doesn’t notice her mother come in; whereas Alice used to bang open doors and click clack around the house in the heels of a happy housewife, she appears to now float from room to room, gliding in and out like the ghost of herself. And thus, when Betty hears her voice behind her, she nearly jumps right out of her skin.

“Good lord, is that supposed to be a car?” Alice muses aloud, leaning in over Betty’s shoulder to get a better view. It’s the first time she’s sounded quite like herself in a few weeks, and Betty cranes her neck up to rake her eyes over her mother’s sad, tired face. 

“I think so,” Betty says, trailing her attention back down across the yard. 

“Well, someone should go put it out of its misery,” she sighs.

“I think they’re going to end up doing that, whether or not they mean to,” Betty replies, tucking her fist under her chin. “I’ve been watching them. I don’t think they really know what they’re doing.”

Alice lobs a sharp eye onto her daughter, and seems to read between the lines. She exhales then, and straightens. “Come on,” she says, pushing off from the window ledge. She gets halfway to the door when she realizes Betty hasn’t moved, and pivots back around. “You should bring them some lemonade, Elizabeth,” she adds, and at first, Betty thinks it’s an attempt at her old steeliness, but seeing the lines shift across her mother��s face, she realizes it’s a plea.

Perhaps for something familiar. Still something apple pie, in spite of it all.

So Betty gets up, her knees aching from being tucked underneath her all day, and follows her mother downstairs.

And a few minutes later, she’s outside the house, closing the front door behind her, and although there’s no one clambering for a photo now, no stray reporter or sycophant left, her hands still tremble with the tray in her hands. The ice cubes in her pitcher of lemonade rattle louder than her heartbeat. 

Archie and Fred fall silent as they see her approaching; although Fred had been comfortingly forgiving after the fact, Archie has never seemed to fully relax around her since. She knows he doesn’t blame her the way she blames herself, but they fidget around each other in the same way, as if constantly on different ends of the same thought.

“Hi,” she says, unsurprised to hear her voice small. “Thought you guys might want some lemonade.”

“Betty, this is a nice surprise,” Fred says at once, striding forward to help her with the tray. He takes it and deftly deposits onto a rolling work cart, beaming at her in a way that brings both relief and shame, as she often feels. “Let me go get some glasses for us,” he says, and then he disappears back into his own house, leaving her and Archie alone for the first time in months.

“New car?” She asks, gesturing vaguely at the rusted red thing in front of them.

His lips lift, just barely. “Yeah. Traded for it at the junkyard. My dad and I are fixing it up together.” 

“I guessed,” she says, scrambling for something else to say and resisting the urge to apologize to him yet again. She thinks she could say it a thousand more times and feel no different. “That’s nice. I used to do that with my—” 

But she promptly falls silent, and Archie eyes her, knowing what she was going to say, and her face burns hot. His jaw clicks and unclicks, as his gaze turns to the ground, clearly thinking.

“You’ve always been good at this stuff,” he says eventually, and with an overly obvious attempt at diplomacy around the subject. “Got any pointers?”

He stares at her, the width of an olive branch between them.

She has several, glancing at the tool box they have out, and the supplies they’re sorely missing. But everything she knows on this subject, she will probably hear in her father’s instructive voice, and she doesn’t know if she can handle that.

Betty licks her lips, feeling like she understands her mother’s desire for the familiar all the more now. 

Truthfully, all she wants to do is pick up a wrench and take this car apart and put it back together again. Her hands twitch with the desire to fix something, anything.

And then she thinks: they have to take off the engine gasket first, and to her shock, doesn’t hear it in her father’s voice. 

She hears her own. 

Just then, Fred re-emerges from the house with a couple of glasses. She notices a third one for herself, and feels color. 

“Are you staying, Betty? We could use another set of hands,” he says amiably, offering her one of the cups. “Or advice, if you’ve got any,” he adds, with a light chuckle and grinning wryly. “I worked on a car with my old man, but that was longer ago than I might want to admit, and I’m rustier than I thought I’d be.”

Archie glances between her and his father, and then he smiles too. His posture droops, like he hadn’t realized how rigidly he’d been standing, and she thinks, for the first time—  

“Okay,” Betty says, voice rising back into its usual decibel. She smiles. “Okay.”

[dylanowhy]

Game Night [Smut] - Stiles Stilinski Imagine

Author: dylanowhy (me)

Summary: You are new to Beacon Hills and attend Lydia’s party with your new friend Kira where you meet a few people, but one stands out a little bit more than the others.

Pairings: Stiles Stilinski x Reader

Warnings: Language. Sexually Explicit Content.  

Word Count: 2,767

A/N: This is the final installment of Warm Welcome, I hope you guys enjoy!

Part I - Part II

Vibration seeped through your body. It was from the continuous stomping of the people around you. It was game night and you were here to cheer on your school, it also helped there was a mole cursed boy who looked pretty damn good in the light burgundy jersey. “Now it’s time to get out there and kick some ass!” Coach yelled after one of his huge pep talks, causing the boys to get riled up and ready for a good game. “Not you Greenburg, sit down. No one wants you out there.” You couldn’t help but smile, Stiles giving you a small wave before he went to take his position on the field, you were so lost inside your own mind, swimming with the things you’d like to do to the boy, you almost didn’t hear Kira talking to you.

“He likes you. I think it’s cute.” You laughed softly at her words, if she only knew. The last few weeks between you and Stiles had been something else. It was filled with secret looks that only you two understood, followed by under the table hand jobs and hickies that were becoming too hard to cover up after 10 minute breaks between classes. The thoughts caused a smirk to appear on your face, although things had been pretty heated it hadn’t passed the threshold of no return yet. Oh no, you were saving that for tonight.

You knew it would be perfect, the boy would be slightly worn from all the activity. He would have aches and small pains and you’d help him relax, maybe a little too much at first and he’d be somewhat confused, but he would get it. He always got it eventually, and when he did, it was like a whirlwind of excitement. His eyes lighting up, his hands becoming grabby in all the right areas. You had to squeeze your thighs tight together at the thought, pushing back your urges until later.

Roaring applause filled your ears, snapping you back to the real world. You figured the team had scored as you watched Stiles jump up into the air, his shirt lifting in a way that should be casual, but it was so much more to you. As it probably was to half the crowd. Apparently, Stiles believed that no one in Beacon Hills found him attractive, but you knew he was dead wrong. Would you tell him that? No way in hell. The thought of him being with someone else shot a pang to your heart.

You must admit, for something that was only supposed to be fun, you were getting a little more attached than you previously thought you would. Stiles had become almost everything. He was the guy you called when you needed help with homework, even though you only ended up making out. He was the one who drove you around because you didn’t want to go home and deal with your mom. He was the one who thought about you and brought you things to brighten your day, it was like dating without the official tagline, it was something different.

The game ended with surprising results. Forty-seven to nineteen, Cyclones. It’s not like they were horrible at the game, Kira had said they always seemed to win and come out on top, but the difference was quite unbelievable, especially for the first game of the season, and it caused for a celebration. Everyone found themselves back at Lydia’s house as always, bodies swaying again to the mind-numbing music. This time however, it was different. You weren’t a scared new comer who didn’t know anyone, you weren’t dancing and getting to know people all at once. It was quite nice to fit in.

Your back was pressed firmly to the wall behind you, eyes drifting over Stiles and he took a sip of his beer lazily. It was cute, watching sleep seep into him as he tried his hardest to celebrate with his friends. His face brightened when he saw you, excusing himself from his fellow team mates as he brought himself over to you. The smile on his face was cozy, it made you laugh. “What do I have beer on me?” Stile instantly started to feel himself, pressing his shirt to reveal the muscles underneath. You had to bite down on your bottom lip, that feeling from earlier coming back between your legs. “No, just admiring.”

Lifting your hand, you raked your fingers through his slightly stiff hair, causing his eyebrow to arch. You two were touchy in public, but never to this extent. It always seemed friendly, or they tried to make it look that way at least, but right now you didn’t care who looked or stared. You were going to look at him with glazed eyes, and he was going to sigh at your touch, and the people around you were slowly disappearing. A smirk appeared on his face, and he leaned down, lips contacting the shell of your ear. “Are you trying to start something?” His voice was hot and it sent shivers down your spine. “I just want to take care of you.”

Those words were all it took, Stiles took your hand and lead you upstairs, his tired eyes showing some gleam of light. You found yourselves in the guest bedroom, locking yourself in as the music turned into a dull thump. “Bed.” You said before he could speak, you heard a small chuckle come from him as he sat at the edge of the bed. You could feel his eyes on you, and they dared you to turn around. “Shirt off.” You demanded again, you didn’t have to look at him to know his eyebrows were lifting, probably an all too happy smile on his face. You heard the rustle of clothing, first the sound of a loose-fitting flannel hitting the floor, followed by a slight heavier thud of a shirt. You grinned, finally turning around. Dark eyes gliding over skin, landing on a pair of perfect pink lips that were curved slightly.

You walked around him slowly, his neck craning to follow your every move. You crawled on the bed behind him, balancing yourself on your knees as you pressed your chest against his back. “You seem tense.” You cooed, fingers grasping his shoulders, working the pad of your fingertips into the tender muscle. Stiles closed his eyes, head falling forward as a groan fell from his lips. You giggled, leaning down to press kisses along his neck and your finger continued to work magic on his shoulders.

The sight beneath you was absolutely breath taking. There was Stiles, mouth agape as his head pressed back into your chest. Soft noises would escape him from time to time and you constantly thought about how lucky you were that it was you that was in this room with him. His eyes flutter as you pressed a small kiss to his temple, something innocent enough, but he knew your intentions. The smirk on his face apparent. You kissed him again, but this time softly on his lips. It causes the fluttering to stop and eyes to open. Your hands began to move, explore the body in front of you, nails across back, light touches on chest, anything you could do to tease and drive him restlessly up a wall.

“(Y/N)” Your name left as a moan, and that was all that you needed. You were surprised that you had held on for this long, your stomach doing flips as your lips connect to his. The position was awkward but the kiss was sweet. Sending waves down your body as you move your way around him, straddling his lap as you pressed your clothed chest against his bare on. “Not fair.” He whispered, tugging your shirt at the bottom, indicating he wanted it off and as soon as possible. You let him slip your shirt over your head, cold hand pressing against soft warm flesh. It was enough to make you suck in a breath. You could feel him hardening beneath you, and it caused your hips to move involuntarily, bucking down and colliding with his. You moan in unison, the fact that he felt this good against you and you were still clothed was a scary fact.

“Tonight. I want to tonight.” Your voice was low, you almost didn’t recognize it and he gave you a look of question. He probably thought this was still a game, probably thought you’d get so eerily close before pulling away. Maybe it was the dark intensity in your eyes, but he realized this was no longer some play thing, that you really meant what you said and his fingers gripped at your hips at that, dragging your hips against his in a sweet way. His lips were on the move at that point, planting kisses along your jawline and down to the crook of your neck. He made sure to leave his mark this time, wanting everyone to know he finally got what he was after, that he finally got you. He left wet hot kisses down the valley of your breast, his fingers fumbling behind you, his eagerness causing a small giggle to escape you. You reached behind you, stop his frantic hands and unclasping your bra for him, allowing him to do the rest of the work. A smirk was placed on your face as you watched his eyes widen and he slid the straps down your shoulders. It was not your first time bare in front of Stiles and yet he looked at you as if it was, it caused you to feel a bit self-conscious, having a nervous feeling coming over you as the instinct to cover yourself came to mind. He however noticed your hesitation and took ahold of your hand before you could do anything. “Beautiful.” His words were soft, “I don’t say it often, but you, (Y/N), are absolutely beautiful.”

Maybe it was those words that set a fire inside of you that you had never felt before, or maybe it was Stiles soft lips caressing you in places that made your eyes roll into the back of your head. You don’t know how it happened, but within seconds you were flipped, back pressed into the mattress. You let out a small whimper at the loss of his lips, the warmth of him being away from you causing pain. He was taking you in, the sight of you, as his fingers worked the button of your jeans and you cursed yourself for not wearing a skirt like Lydia has suggested, but you couldn’t do it anymore, couldn’t take the slow sweet pace Stiles was trying to set up, you reached, crashing his lips back down to yours in almost a bruising manner, this time he was the one who was whimpering. Finally, fabric was removed as Stiles got the hint, nothing but thin material separated you two from what you really wanted and it caused a delicious sigh to leave you as Stiles lips began to trail, leaving hot wet kisses down your stomach to the place you needed him the most.

Although it was not as slow as it seemed, it felt like it took forever for him to remove your final piece of clothing, the only thing that was keeping you from what you wanted. His lips felt soft and warm as he kissed up your thighs, you could feel your muscles tense at how close he was, your fingers wrapped in the sheets with anticipation, you could feel your breath start to quicken. The sharp noise that left your mouth when his lips finally came in contact with your folds was almost inhuman and you could just feel the smirk placed upon his lips as his tongue poked out, licking a long swipe up to your clit, the moans escaping you almost uncontrollable.

“Fuck baby, you taste so good.” Your hands were now tangled in his short locks, softly pulling and tugging as you withered on the bed, the expert workings of his tongue causing you to see white. He hummed against you, bring one of his hands to smooth down your stomach as he brought the other to your entrance. Without warning he pushed two fingers inside of you, “Fuck, Stiles!” What left your mouth was somewhat between a whimper and a moan, you could feel the knot in your stomach began to tighten, so close to break any moment, coming close to your orgasm in an alarming rate. “That’s it baby, cum for me.” His voice was low, husky, it sent chills up your spine as you cried out, reaching the edge and tipping off into a world of pure bliss and pleasure.

Stiles chuckled as he kissed his way up your body, “Shut up.” You said between soft pants, his lips finding their way to your neck. You could feel him, thick and hard on your thigh, drawing a breath from you as you realized what was about to come. You felt like you had waited your whole life for this moment, to actually be this close to him, to feel him in ways that most wished but hadn’t. He didn’t ask questions, but he didn’t have to. You both knew this is what you wanted, that this was something that had kept the two of you up for the past few weeks. You both knew that this was right.

He lifts your legs, placing them around his waist as he lined himself up with you. His eyes were dark as he looked down at you with admiration, taking in the sight before him. With ease, he slid himself inside of you, causing the two of you to let a drawn moan out in unison. You bit you lip at the size of him, you knew he was very gifted in that area, but to actually feel it inside of you was another story. It took a lot for him not to be frantic, you could tell he was holding back as much as possible, wanting this to last longer than the both of you feared it would. His hips moved slow, trying to find a perfect pace for you two. It was all grunts and moans, and you were pretty sure he had marks down his back by now. “Faster, Stiles.” You appreciated him wanting to make things last but with each thrust it sent agonizing feel of need through your body. He obliged, not even batting an eyelash as his hips started to quicken, with each trust you could feel him getting deeper and deeper, him getting lost in pure lust.

The noises alone were purely erotic, skin against skin, a competition of who could moan the loudest. His teeth were digging into your shoulder, trying to muffle his sounds while your lips pressed against his neck, possibly deafening him with the sound exiting you. The headboard was hitting the wall behind it, and if it weren’t from the loud music that was seeping through the walls, you were sure every person down stairs could hear what was happening. “Fuck, (Y/N).” His thrust started to get more frantic, his release nearing him as you could feel your walls begin to tighten around him, your second orgasm coming down on you fast and hard. You gave your final moan, his name leaving your lips as you pulled him as close to you as possible. It was like the world around you stopped, you couldn’t see anything but white, your heart was beating in your ears. It was the most amazing feeling to ever wash over you. He never slowly, using this new tightness to find his own release as he let out a small cry, hips jerking at random times, his body laying breathlessly on top of you. “Fuck, baby.” He breathed, his body rolling off of yours.

The smile on your face couldn’t be broken as you laughed softly. Lazy eyes looked over at you, one eyebrow lifting. “Shut up.” He mumbled, face flushed form the previous activities. You were amazed that you found him so beautiful, even with small beads of sweating gathering on his face, you couldn’t help but find yourself so far in with the boy lying beside you. “So,” You pressed, moving your body closer to him as you placed a hand on his chest. “Round two?” You gave him a small smirk as he chuckled, his fingers lazily tangling in your hair as he sighed. “You’re going to be the death of me.”

[terassaras]

Year of the Lion: Zero

A Sangatsu no Lion/March Comes in Like a Lion fic.

Rei contemplates nothingness.

Read below or on AO3. DO NOT repost on any other platforms.

Chapter Warnings: deep introspection, much sadness & loneliness, mild dissociation & depression symptoms, a bit of philosophy thrown in.

Rei?

What a weird name!

But it suits you. No home, no family, no school, no friends.

 When I open my eyes, the sunlight is dancing across the ceiling in golden glimmers, reflected by the river flowing under a ribbon of robin egg skies. It’s the only time when the room would fill with warmth and shapes and colors. It’s like being inside a kaleidoscope.

Otherwise, the room is empty. No curtains, no bed, no desk, no sofa. Not even a bottle of cooking oil or a jar of salt on the counters. It doesn’t look like a home.

Maybe it’s because I don’t have one.

 There isn’t anywhere in this world where you belong, is there?

 Kyoko’s words pierce through my mind like midday thunder—a crack without a warning, a burn across my finger. The curse of a shogi player is a good memory. I can remember every syllable in her words as much as the acid on her tongue. They return every so often, merciless and clear, and each time I would think the same.

It’s all just as she said.

The only odd thing is that I’m not bothered by it.

Rationally speaking, there is no use in agonizing over the truth. It’s as if she had torn my shirt open and seen through my chest, a wicked smile breaking across her beautiful features, delighted at what she’d found. I had no defense—not against her words or—

Not against her.

 Kiriyama Rei. That is my name. Class C, Group 1, fifth dan. Age seventeen. Occupation: professional shogi player. Other than that—

 You are a zero.

 Kiriyama Rei. Age seventeen. First year of high school. Professional shogi player 5-dan. That is all.

As for what I have, well, I have this shogi board that Father gave. It is my most precious possession. Other than that, my apartment is empty. Empty—but with a mesmerizing view of the river.

I like watching the river. It is a wide, blue river that stretches and curves around the city, undisturbed by the motions of people or time, breathing constantly in quiet, peaceful waves.

But lately I felt lost even when I watch the water slowly rise and fall.

Rise, fall.

Rise.

Fall.

 Do you know that sensation when you jump from a high place into a pool? Those few seconds before you crash, when you have neither the earth nor your legs to support you, and you suddenly become painfully aware of your own weight?

And you think, “Have I always been this heavy?”

Gravity is pulling you into its core and there’s nothing you can do.

You know you’re going to hit the water. The surface tension explodes and the water suddenly becomes angry slaps running on your skin.

Suddenly you’re inside a different atmosphere. The angry sounds disappear, swallowed by the giant mass of dark water. Light flickers. The water over you won’t let the brightness in. And you are still going down, pulled by your own weight, which you thought was your own.

Your heart makes up for the lack of sound. It is beating wildly between your eardrums as it senses your panic. The adrenaline kicks in, heating your limbs down to your fingers, screaming at you to

Swim! Fight!

Forget everything else!

Breathe!

 Do you know that sensation of falling?

That is how I fear I’ll fall

Losing

Sinking

Deeper

As the days pass by

 ….

……….

……………….

Breathe!

The first gasp of air feels like a cold cut across my lungs. Even when the air stings, even if it burns my throat, even if my limbs feel like lead, I surface and breathe. I must.

So I swim.

And swim.

And swim.

And somewhere in the darkness of the ocean I’m swimming, under this sky that has only known storm and lightning, I frantically search for a place, a thing.

That’s right. If I can just get there, somewhere, some place where I won’t feel like falling once I stop moving. If I can get there everything will be—

Once I get there, I can stop moving, and there will be nothing. Maybe finally I can stop—stop this endless struggling, falling, thinking, feeling, suffocating, being—

 Looking at the shadows of shogi pieces in the vanishing daylight, pieces I haven’t moved since the blurry hours of the morning, I can’t tell if I’m still swimming or if I’ve stopped moving at all.

  Rei.

Zero.

A nothing.

Aside from shogi, I don’t have much and I have nothing to offer anybody. The memories of my family are hazy and I don’t remember them much. I might—I might’ve left them that way. And the family that took me in—I left them too, because I could see too clearly what my selfish hands had done to them. And now—

No home, no relatives, no school, no friends.

Well…

I think…

If having nothing means I’m not taking anything from anyone,

If feeling nothing means I’m not hurting anyone,

And if days when nothing happens mean I’m not hurting,

Then maybe it’s better that way.

Maybe I can accept being like this.

…

………

But then—what is this feeling that I’m not—that it’s not okay? That somehow...something’s…

  Emptiness.

I might have read the word somewhere, maybe in a middle school literature class, like in a poem or an essay. I didn’t think about it much back then. Maybe it was the day after a match. I was probably worn out, my mind wandering in a too-light feeling.

So I decided to go to the bookstore. I walked into the section bearing guides and tactic books for shogi out of habit. I passed by the magazine section just to glance at the shogi magazines though there’s no reason for me to pick one up. It’s not like reading shogi player interviews can help me win matches.

Then I found the dictionary aisle and looked up. Large books stood in neat rows, their spines almost as wide as my hand, their covers muted and fonts practical. Heavy and silent, the dictionaries seem almost proud, as if each of them held the entire weight of the world’s knowledge.

I shuddered. I suddenly felt so small—overwhelmed by the number of books, the immensity of their wisdom. If I knew nothing, then these pages must list everything. It suddenly seemed impossible to choose just one title. So many books, so many decisions I could make, and I couldn’t figure out what the right move was.

I couldn’t see a winning strategy.

I took a deep breath. I had to calm down. Even in shogi you have to make the first move—and even if it seems like a monumental decision, what follows is more important.

I took another deep breath. Eventually, I picked up a dictionary titled The Great Passage. The title sounded interesting for some reason. I flipped through the pages and found the word:

 空 【クウ】 (Kuu)

Definitions:

(1)    Empty air, sky.

(2)    Fruitlessness, meaninglessness

(3)    Void

(4)    Shunya: emptiness, nothingness; the lack of an immutable intrinsic nature within any phenomenon. Also: dependent creation. Buddhist term.

 Emptiness.

Can emptiness mean something?

I looked around for the nearest window. All above me was the monotony of rectangular ceilings and fluorescent illuminations. I got up and for some reason started half-running, half-walking towards the exit—and as I stumbled onto the empty sidewalk, I looked up.

Beyond the static skyscrapers were bright winter skies and not a single cloud.

Nothing in sight.

No, not nothing. I read about this. The atmosphere is made of gas particles that scatter the light at certain wavelengths perceived by the human eye as colors. And then beyond that is the milky way, the outer space, the entire universe, which continuously expands and which vastness is beyond reach and comprehension—

An endless depth. A void.

Huh. But you can’t really see anything up there from here, standing here on solid, concrete earth.

I went back to the bookstore and picked up the dictionary I had left. My head was running around in a hurricane of thoughts. I stared at the word for minutes, reading the definitions enough times for them to burn into my mind. One meaning had caught me.

It was shunya.

I shelved the dictionary back and went to a section I had never been, searching hastily for one kind of book. It was an unplanned decision. It was a book on shunya—on emptiness. It felt odd to buy something other than shogi books or textbooks—but I just felt like I had to. Maybe I was hoping it would help me understand a small part of this world—a small part of myself.

On my walk back to Rokugatsu Town, pressing the solidness of the book’s spine against my beating heart, I kept craning my neck up to the sky till it ached.

  Obsessed with emptiness, I tore through the pages of the book like a hungry beast. I was a lion on a huntI was on a silent journey, scanning my surroundings, sometimes running till my chest hurt and sometimes prowling, studying things from a great distance, trying to find things I could claw my desperate mind to. Any formula, any theory, any word that would quell this hunger. I skimmed through the introduction and jumped right to one part.

 Shunyata

A Sanskrit word, shunya means “zero,” “nothing,” “empty” or “void.” The root of the word is svi, “hollow,” and the noun form is shunyata, hence, “nothingness.” The Great Buddha describes it as void, the absence of rising and falling, cessation, and calmness. Dew drops, floating bubbles, flash of lightning, reflections in the mirror—these are all said to illustrate shunyata. However, it holds different meanings in different streams of Buddhism.

Although it may seem contrary, shunyata does not suggest some kind of “great void,” as if it were some dimension where nothing can be found. Rather, all existence and all nature are based in shunyata.

In Mahayana, shunyata is the belief that “all things are empty of intrinsic existence and nature,” or pratitya prasamutpada. That is, all things dependently originated. Everything we know is just an impermanent concept, they seem to appear and then disappear, when actually it is not so. They are things we thought to have name and a separate existence, when truly there is no real nature, essence, or substance in anything. No “things” or “conditions” appear on their own. Everything is interdependent and exists relatively.

However, that does not mean one’s experience is not real or that one does not exist. It is just that we choose to name and make concepts or boxes out of experiences or objects when they, in fact, are inseparable from everything else and will continue to change. We call a bicycle a “bicycle” but once the parts are taken out, do we still call them a bicycle? There is no one essence or substance that makes up a “bicycle” or stands for what “bicycle” is. Nothing stays as they are forever.

We tend to think of the “self” as “the self” and therefore cling to all emotions, thoughts, and experiences as though they were the most meaningful things. By doing this one would be filled with greed, craving, and suffering as one would be filled with ego. However, when one manifests shunyata or emptiness, one is freed from attachments, and one becomes egoless, or anatta, the non-self. The self is not attached to things and no thing is attached to its meaning as perceived by self. This is the only way to understand the reality of life. Perceived self is impermanent, perceived material is impermanent, and perceived existence is impermanent. Emptiness is the nature of all existence.

 Huh. Wait—hold on.

So emptiness is saying that…everything means nothing? It’s just all names and imagination? But then—

Oh, okay, nothing stays as they are forever—so in that sense, maybe things change and so will I. Things will change. I got that…I think.

Okay, so emptiness is not some great void, rather…all existence is…empty?

Wait—what?

Does that mean who am I or what I’m thinking or whatever I’m doing—it all means nothing?

That can’t—I mean—if that’s so, then what have I been doing all this time? What have I been agonizing over all this time!? It can’t all be nothing!

Oh—hold on, it says if we cling to our emotions, thoughts, and experiences as the most meaningful thing, we become filled with greed and craving and suffering…

Huh?

What?

Well I’m—I am suffering! What’s wrong with that? And I don’t even know why!

And what is this part!? It says you must become egoless? The not-self? What the hell is that? If I don’t have self, if I’m really empty, if I really don’t care about what happens or what I do or what I think or feel…

…

…..

 I guess the world I’m trying to understand is too different. The words were there but it was as if I was watching everything while hanging upside down. Even though—

Even though the book was called A Monkey’s Guide to Buddhism: Even Monkeys Can Understand!

….

…….

I just don’t get it.

Yeah. I really don’t get it—this emptiness thing.

  Okay, I have been thinking about this. How can I agonize so much if I say that I have nothing?

I’ve been trying to read that book. Maybe it’s that dependent creation again. It’s that…maybe who I am now…is because of everything that has happened. That includes every person I’ve met. Don’t they say that people leave an impression on you and that they never really leave you? So in a sense you are never alone.

That means….all the people I’ve faced on the shogi board are part of me. The hundreds, hundreds of people that I won and lost against, in front of that small board.

That also means…Father.

Maybe even Kyouko.

Mom. Dad. Chihiro.

But if that meant I wasn’t alone—it’s still strange. It doesn’t make a difference. It’s not like I can see or touch or talk to them.

The Buddhism book says that you go into this cycle—this samsara--that’s inescapable unless you reach nirvana. Everything just repeats itself over again. And as part of the cycle you can never escape this…grief, this dukka. That’s a part of life.

………

That’s sad, I think. That you can never escape this grief.

But do other people carry this grief too? This grief that just exists because you exist?

…

…I don’t know.

I really don’t know. Is that something you can ask other people?

No, no, no, no—just the thought of speaking to strangers is—and I mean with that kind of topic—there is no way, is there?

But if there were somebody I can ask…

Right—come o think of it, if other people are part of me…that means I would be part of others too.

Huh?

Wait, would I? Have I ever been that kind of person to someone? To anyone?

  It was childish and embarrassing, I guess, but I hid that book. I didn’t have many places to hide things in the apartment so I shoved it in a box of off-season clothes and old textbooks.

I didn’t want to see it again. Even the thought of confronting the title, lifting the pages weighed by so much wisdom, the black ink spilling blunt truths onto my hands—

It scares me.

Rather than ponder about all this…emptiness and life cycle and karma and attainment…things I can’t make heads or tails of…

I just want to think about things I can solve.

Yes, like shogi matches. That I can work with. If I just focus on game notations and think about tactics and practice and practice, I can just make out a path.

Yeah. I don’t need to worry about anything else.

Yeah.

  Back here again.

The pawns are raring. The knights, bishops, and lances are staring. The generals and the rooks are waiting. The board is standing there, expecting.

And I’m the only one who couldn’t make a move.

Though it’s almost the beginning of the new year, nothing has changed and nothing feels different.

I thought I’ve been swimming frantically all this time. But the truth is I’m slower than time. Most days it’s a struggle to pull myself out of bed and make the heavy thoughts go away.

But I mean—there’s no way I wouldn’t think or worry about things is there? About what I should do, about what I wished I didn’t do, about—

I guess that’s what happens when you have too much time by yourself.  

Thinking and worrying so much with no one to talk to, my head just keeps going in circles. The circles keep growing bigger and looser and wilder, like a child drawing with a black crayon, painting pictures not even he can understand.

There, sitting with arms wrapped around knees that throbbed from sitting too long, I’m floating in a giant starless darkness—and though my stomach pleaded and cried to me for food, I stay there, knees glued to my chest, listening to the endless drone of the heater that does nothing to the numbing winter night.

  I wake to the ache on my back. The blanket over my shoulder has joined the scattered shogi pieces on the floor. I must’ve fallen asleep at some point and kicked the board in my sleep.

Papers bearing game notations rustle under my hands, crumpling and sticking on my skin, as I rise and look outside to the new year’s sky.

It’s morning.

A grey morning.

A cold, grey morning.

And there’s shogi to do.

 Ah, I should probably eat….but making breakfast is a pain.

Hmmm, I should at least drink some water. No, later.

There’s laundry too—when was the last time I did it?

Right, at least I should change my clothes—but maybe later. It’s too much. I’ll just do shogi.

And the next morning will be the same. I’ll do shogi.

And the day after tomorrow will come and it’ll be the same. I’ll do shogi.

And then next year will come and I…

Author Comment:

Things get better, as Rei will learn, but it takes time. Also, there’s nothing like an existential crisis that can get you to read a book on philosophy and/or religion. Just…maybe not a book called A Monkey’s Guide. Word defintion taken from here.

There’s one more chapter planned for January and then one chapter (hopefully) for each month after. Comments, critics, and questions are always welcome.

 PS. Did anyone notice the reference to a recent anime?