#Just going to say that the new bald guy in the Wanderers is probably from Garo frfr

[justlarkin]

Oh okay, fuck me then. I guess I don't need my sword or arm. Yeah, that's perfectly fine. You go ahead and take those, Christine. Oh? No? Barguest is going to take them to the Wanderers instead? Okay yeah, whatever. Just pass my dismembered arm around. Who cares.

[bearlytolerant]

Fandom: Starfield

Rating: T

Pairing: Sam Coe x f!Spacefarer

Word Count: 1241

somewhere close to me

Sunset washes the balcony in warm orange hues where Sam leans against the railing, sipping from his glass of Chandra Melbec. Wine isn’t his regular go-to. But this one isn’t half bad. The waiter’s description—if he’s remembering correctly—was a full bodied red wine with notes of chocolate and fresh earth.

Apparently he likes the taste of bittersweet dirt.

The sight of Shepard’s hand lingering on a very tall and very bald man, he does not like so much. Not that he blames the man for doing so. Shepard is a sight to behold and it isn’t fair.

“Hey, you look just like Sam Coe.” Everything in him wants to ignore the comment. But he plasters on a charming smile and turns to address the gala attendee. Just a kid, maybe pushing twenty, probably not unlike him at that age. Most likely being dragged around and forced to attend fancy events, riding the coattails of his wealthy parents. Sam softens.

“You know, I get that a lot.”

“Huh, weird. You’re not him though, right?”

“What if I told you I am?”

“Nah, you look too old to be him.”

Doing his best not to laugh he tells the kid, “well, we don’t all age gracefully.”

The kid stares at him a little dumbfounded but then his eyes light up and his mouth kinda hangs in an O as he processes the information.

“You are him! Can I get a selfie?”

Sam obliges, setting his glass of wine on a nearby table. Smiling big, the kid pulls out his phone and snaps a shot of them side by side. “My grandma’s going to love this! Thanks man!”

He wanders off and Sam sighs. Honestly, he never considered he might be popular amongst the elderly. Learn something new everyday.

Sam grabs his wine again. Takes a sip. Swirls the glass and watches the kid move on to the next conversation. Then his eyes drift back to Shepard where the tall man’s hand is settled just above the swell of her ass. His fingers barely graze the exposed skin on her back and he practically chokes on his next sip of wine.

It’s none of his business but his feet are already carrying him over there.

Shepard is all smiles, more than she usually is. “Oh, Sam, this is Dalton Fiennes, Ryujin’s Chief of Security. This is—“

“Akila’s very own Sam Coe,” the stoic man says while sticking his hand out.

Sam switches the wine to his other hand. There’s a little surprise that this man—Dalton—would be familiar with the Coes. Maybe his fan base consists of more than just grannys. Or, more likely, it’s his job to know anyone and everyone worth knowing. His job to stick his nose where it doesn’t belong. He extends his hand to Dalton. Of course, the guy’s got a firm grip. It’s crushing but at least Dalton’s large and surprisingly soft hand isn’t on Shepard’s back anymore.

“So how did you two meet?” Sam asks, trying not to be too obvious as he flexes his fingers.

Shep says, “you know when you and I first met and I had just started working at Ryujin to make ends meet?”

Sam nods.

“There was a bit of a security issue which required us to work closely together. I was able to become well acquainted with Dalton through that.”

The emphasis isn’t lost on him nor is that smile that’s thrown at Dalton.

“Have to applaud her. Without her assistance, Ryujin would have had an insurmountable mess to clean up. She’s truly a unique and remarkable woman.”

“I wholly agree,” Sam says.

“Keep the praise coming, it’s nice to have the ego stroked every now and then,” Shepard says with a small laugh.

“I would gladly give you well deserved praise all night.”

Sam nearly chokes again, the wine burning as it goes down. They don’t notice. He watches as the two of them exchange a meaningful glance and then she looks away, taking a sip from her own glass of wine. Sam wants to tease her and he would if they were alone. Or maybe with their friends. Certainly not as the third wheel to whatever dynamic he’d found himself in.

The half beat of silence is interrupted when Dalton says,”excuse me. It appears I am being summoned.” He’s looking past them, listening to someone speak on his earpiece. Then he gives Shepard a charming smile and brushes his fingers down her arm, briefly squeezing her hand before letting it go. “It was lovely seeing you here tonight, Zero.”

Her name is a number and Dalton makes it so intimate and personal. Sam practically has goosebumps on his arms and he’s not even the intended audience.

“Hopefully, I will have the pleasure of crossing your path again.”

“Likewise. Have a wonderful evening Dalton,” she says.

Sam’s heart is in his throat. He downs the other half of his wine in an instant and follows Shepard back to the balcony.

“Was it just me or was there some heat between you two?”

It’s not some and there’s no question. But how else is he supposed to ask if she’s taken and that’s his competition?

Shepard’s cheeks are a lovely pink and he doesn’t remember ever seeing them like that before. She’s not really the blushing type. Usually she’s the one causing the blushing.

“Sorry, I didn’t mean for that to happen.”

Sam leans over the balcony railing, though his attention is fully on Shep. “So you two—uh—“

“Do you really want to go there?”

“We don’t have to. But I would like to remind you of a certain someone who was really pushy on the subject of Jacob Coe.”

“Fair point.” She sighs. “It’s a yes—after I stopped working there. I—he, well.” She clears her throat, lost for a moment in what he can only assume is a memory. The blush blooms brighter, and she chuckles a little.

There’s a moment of regret as he hangs onto her every word. Not sure if he can handle the details that she might lay on him but to satisfy his curiosity, he needs to know.

“The simplest answer is we were—something but weren’t cut out for that something long term. Mostly myself to blame for that.”

He silently thanks whatever gods might be out there for sparing him.

She breathes deep and meets his gaze. “I realized that it wasn’t fair to be with him when I’m madly in love with someone else.”

“Oh.” Sam deflates.

Who the hell is she in love with? Someone from Constellation? Another random person that he has yet to meet? Even though a tiny voice in his head hopes that someone is him, he doubts it could be. But he doesn’t ask and she doesn’t tell. Everything about her is unreadable. Still, he thinks of the kiss on his cheek earlier. Makes him wonder. But he’s seen her kiss Walter on the cheek too. Something like that isn’t enough to go on when making bold and grandiose declarations of his—feelings. Not to mention—oh no—the revelation dawns on him. Did she see him as another father figure?

Though time suspends for him, everyone around them is shuffling to their seats. The gala performances are to begin. There’s more food to eat, wine to drink.

“Come on, let’s go find Walter and Issa.”

Sam follows, setting his muddied mind aside, hoping for something stronger than a glass of wine.

[thedamageofherdays]

This week's [23-08-2021 - 29-08-2021] reading log is here! I read a lot again this week and I feel like it's a lovely variety of fics. Most fics are Stucky like usual, but there's at least one other ship. I am constantly amazed by the talent people have in this fandom! There was one fic I read on Tumblr that I can't seem to find unfortunately, but when I do I'll make sure to reblog and rec it 💕

Favourites are marked with a 🌻

When life gives you lemons by moonthejedi394 @moonythejedi394 [Stucky, 40k words, Mature] (12/15 chapters available)

Or 13 Terrible Things to Do With Lemons Other Than Making Lemonade

Steve Rogers is a home health nurse. He works for an agency, which assigned him to the aging Winifred Barnes, the one and only Silent Era Hollywood darling. As her needs increased, she requested the agency assign Steve to her full-time. She could pay for it, so she got it. Steve then moved in with her, becoming her caregiver; he cooked, he cleaned, he managed her medications, he made sure she was comfortable.

Winifred's children treated him less than ideally. He was the help, after all. And then Steve had the audacity to go and turn out to be eldest son James Barnes's soulmate. No one saw that coming.

The Masseur and the Assassin by buckybarnesdeservestobehappy @buckybarnesdeservestobehappy [Stucky, 17k words, Explicit]

Bucky Barnes needed a vacation from his job. What he found was a happy ending.

The Words Breathe by buckbarnesdeservestobehappy [Stucky, 1k words, Mature]

All Steve has to do is keep his promise. When he doesn’t, Bucky gets mouthy.

Soft by this_wayward_life @wayward-lives [Stucky, 2k words, Explicit]

The last time he'd seen Bucky he'd looked unhealthy, with pallid skin and greasy, lanky hair. Now, Bucky shone; his hair was thick and silky, his skin a deep bronze from spending so much time outside. He was softer, too; the hard muscle that used to cover him was now replaced by soft fat, his body still strong, but in a more mundane way. His thighs were thicker, his ass plumper, and when he'd pulled Steve into the river Steve had noticed the pudge on his stomach.

Seeing Bucky so happy, well-fed and shining, was a bit of a kick in the face. For all the years they'd known each other, he'd never seen Bucky so... care-free. Now that Bucky was putting on weight, his middle soft and his body malleable, it sent a bolt of arousal through Steve every time he noticed the curves of Bucky's body.

Or: Bucky put on a bit of weight in Wakanda, and Steve is Not Coping.

🌻 Revive Another Side of Me by dontcallmebree @iamthe-wo-manwhocan [Stucky, 1k words, Mature]

Steve’s never lived in a world without Bucky, and he’s not living now. It takes them a while, much too long, to get that awaited rest, a little slice of peace after the dust has settled.Steve Rogers and Bucky Barnes are inseparable, history remembers. But they’re not men of the past quite yet.

🌻 imagine being loved by me by spacebuck @spacebuck [Stucky, 20k words, Explicit]

Just after 1am - a few hours after he posted today’s photo - he hears the tell-tale sound of a twitter message. Bucky grabs his phone, not checking who it’s from as he opens it because it’s probably one of his mutuals yelling at him as per usual. When he actually looks at his phone, though, it’s not Natasha

The ‘verified’ check stares back at him for a long moment before he can even bring himself to process the name on his screen. Steve Rogers is messaging him. Or, he reasons, a very good fake. The handle looks right though, not that Bucky knows. Not that Bucky has Captain’s America’s tweets set up as notifications, or that Bucky’s own display name is set to captain america’s bitch. Not at all.

Hey, the first message says. It’s Steve.

🌻 JB’s Complete Lube Services by dixons_mama @dixons-mama [Stucky, 3k words, Explicit]

People just didn’t approach Captain America and proposition him. Although, sometimes Steve wished they would; even the pinnacle of virtue and justice needed to get dicked down from time to time.

Or, the one where Steve has the hots for a mechanic and decides to be proactive in getting that dick.

If it had to be someone by rainbow_nerds [Stucky, 1k words, Mature]

Bucky had known since he was a child that he didn’t have a choice in who he married, but he’d thought he had more time before the day arrived.

Miscalculations by christywantspizza @christywantspizza [Ransom Drysdale/Reader, 6k words, Explicit]

Ransom tries to get you to sleep with him by less than honorable means. You give him what he wants, just not how he wants it.

How to Seduce a Writer by obsessivereader [Stucky, 2k words, Teen]

What's a determined master strategist going to do when the oblivious writer he's trying to woo keeps missing all the clues?

He doesn’t think it’s because he hadn’t signaled his own interest to Bucky. He’s pretty much done everything short of hitting Bucky over the head with semaphore flags by this point. There’s no way Bucky could’ve missed them. Unless… There’d been that one link he’d stumbled upon when he’d googled ‘how to talk to a writer’. It’d been written by a writer, who’d been candid about how oblivious writers could be, and how someone could go about seducing one. An idea starts to form. It’s ridiculous, but at this point, he’s willing to go with ridiculous, since subtle wasn’t getting him anywhere.

🌻 Pod Bless America by Deisderium @deisderium [Stucky, 6k words, Teen]

Bucky can't believe his favorite podficcer recorded his newest fanfic AU of the show Commandos. He's even more surprised when the customer who busts him listening to fic while he's working in the office supply store turns out to be that podficcer.

* The guy—maybe bi_shield?—took his phone, looked down at the screen, and smiled. "Yeah, that one's mine," he said with no evidence of embarrassment. "It was a good one." He handed the phone back to Bucky.

"I wrote it," Bucky croaked.

take a bite by wearing_tearing [Stucky, 7k words, Mature]

"I’d never let anyone freeze to death.” Steve gives a big sigh and flutters his lashes. “All that blood gone to waste.”

Bucky’s lips turn down and his nose scrunches up a little. “I want to be grossed out, but…”

“But you get it.” Steve gives him a pointed look. “Vampires aren’t the only ones who can appreciate how juicy blood is.”

*

Or: Vampire Steve saves newly-turned werewolf Bucky from a snowstorm.

Leaving the Shield Behind by BuckyAboveEverything [Stucky, 6k words, Teen]

“So, on one hand, we have Steve Rogers - hunk, genius, animal lover. Buys you waffles and overpriced coffee. 100% wholesome all-American boy.”

“And, on the other hand, we have Capsicle – twink, smart-ass, fanboy. Reads your stories and sends you fanart. Possibly a pervert or a serial killer.”

Bucky groaned.

“I am 100% certain I am 0% sure of what to do."

Bucky Barnes, full-time copywriter and free-time fanfic writer, struggles to choose between two equally-attractive suitors, only to find that he doesn’t have to after all.

* Based on a true story *

Cap's Book Corner by Neche [Stucky, 2k words, Teen]

Recluse Author Bucky Barns stumbles into fanboy Steve Rogers bookstore one day...

Cat Nap by galwednesday @galwednesday [Stucky, 8k words, Teen]

Objectively, losing the Bucharest safehouse and its contents was the least of Bucky’s problems. The balding agent he’d seen directing the raid was apparently affiliated with SHIELD, which was a shadowy government agency that made representatives from other shadowy government agencies suddenly remember urgent appointments when Bucky tried to bribe, threaten, and otherwise shake them down for information on what the hell SHIELD might want with a former brainwashed assassin. Dodging SHIELD should be his number one priority.

Subjectively, he wanted his fucking cat back.

at any given moment by honeypuffed [Stucky, 1k words, Teen]

Steve and Bucky find out that everyone thinks they're sleeping together.

Brought to Brightness by eyres [Stucky, 10k words, Teen]

Army veteran Bucky Barnes has fallen in love with Steve, a guy he met online a few months after he returned from Afghanistan. Only problem is, he doesn't know Steve's last name or even what he looks like.

When his sister helps him send his story into MTV's Catfish, he's hoping they can help him meet Steve or, at least, let him move on with his life if Steve isn't real. Little does he know, Steve and Captain America have more in common than just a first name.

🌻 Nokken Wood by leveragehunters @leveragehunters [Stucky, 10k words, Teen]

When Sam's friend needs a house-sitter for his place in the country, Steve jumps at the chance. Six months rent-free to do nothing but draw and paint and wander the countryside, looking for inspiration? It was like a dream. But when he gets lost in a storm and nearly falls into a pond he starts to rethink the whole like a dream aspect of life in the country. And when a red-eyed, sharp-clawed, silver-fanged creature rises out of the darkness, Steve is one hundred percent certain the dream's morphed into a nightmare.

...until it gives him a cup of tea.

(Inspired partly by this prompt a supernatural creature is supposed to scare you but instead it gives you a cup of tea and a blanket because you're having a bad day and you keep coming back and partly by this painting.)

Professional Pride by galwednesday [Stucky, 700 words, Teen]

Bucky is having a very good day, until he turns around and finds himself face-to-face with Captain America.

“Oh shit,” he blurts before he can stop himself, and Captain America blinks at him. “Hey, hi, I didn’t expect to see you here.” Here, at New York’s Pride parade, surrounded by thousands of happy screaming people wearing rainbows and sometimes not much else. What is he doing here? Is he on guard duty or something? Was he just on a mission and happened to be passing by on his way back?

He’s in uniform but with the cowl loose around his neck, so when he rubs the back of his head it fluffs up his matted hair. “I, uh. I saw one of your–temporary tattoos?” Captain fucking America says, like it’s a question.

The A-bridged Guide to Trolling by galwednesday [Stucky, 1k words, Teen]

“I don’t have any money.”

Oh no, now the girl looked upset. Her eyes were huge and her lip was wobbling. Bucky tried to think fast despite the oh shit oh shit oh shit looping through his head.

“That’s okay,” Bucky said gently. “I don’t need money. We can figure out another kind of toll.”

The girl frowned at him. “Like what?”

Bucky scratched his head, trying to think of something a kid was certain to have on hand. “Do you know any jokes?”

(Fantasy AU in which Steve is a hedge witch with a green thumb, Bucky is a bridge troll who's new in town, and knock-knock jokes are a viable form of currency.)

It's a bittersweet ending (if you know what I mean) by relenafanel [Stucky, 1k words, Teen]

“I’ll see you around, Steve,” Bucky answers with a smirk, moving away from the counter with a wink.

Steve watches him go. Bucky’s wearing a pair of skinny jeans coated in something to give the appearance of leather. It’s impossible to not watch him go.

stuck on you by wearing_tearing [Stucky, 5k words, Teen]

“Bucky? You don’t look so hot.”

Bucky makes a tiny little sound in the back of his throat, only to start coughing. Of course he doesn’t look hot. He’s sick and he’s dying and Steve obviously isn’t attracted to him.

Decision-Making in Relationships (Paid Research Opportunity!) by castiowl [Stucky, 8k words, Teen]

Clint looked thoughtfully at the flyer. “I guess your actual roommate wouldn’t be down with it?”

Bucky frowned. “Have you met Steve Rogers?”

no way out but through by hollimichele [Stucky, 9k words, Teen]

Steve never sees it coming.

you got blood on your hands (and i know it's mine) by nighimpossible [Stucky, 3k words, Teen]

Bucky refuses to see Steve after his deprogramming.

Like What You See by daisymondays [Stucky, 8k words, Teen]

For all the time Bucky’s spent fantasizing about meeting Captain America, he’d never imagined it would be while posing nude in front of a drawing class.

🌻 A Real Boy by itsnotbleak [Stucky, 5k words, Teen]

It took the Winter Soldier three weeks to remember that human beings needed to sleep and eat.

It took Steve far too long to realise the Winter Soldier was sleeping in his bed.

Amapola by chaya [Stucky, 830 words, Teen]

Total fluff. Bucky's recovering nicely. Steve's oblivious. Sometimes it's best to set aside subtlety for action.

Knocking Boots With Sugar by buckybarnesdeservestobehappy [Stucky, 4k words, Explicit]

In between summers at college, Steve Rogers wants a new adventure beyond his lonely life in Brooklyn. He ends up in West Texas working on a dude ranch where Bucky Barnes is a long-time employee. When Bucky offers to buy Steve a drink, they end up drunk on tequila and making out in public. For the rest of the summer, they're inseparable. As the summer draws to a close, Steve realizes he doesn't want to leave.

Rogers and Associate by roe87 @jro616 [Stucky, 7k words, Teen]

When they first meet, Bucky is a hooker and Steve is a cop. She's been arrested, but Steve lets her off.

Years pass and they maintain a casual friendship, seeing each other out on the streets most nights.

Though he later makes detective, Steve loses faith in the system and quits his job.

He wants to set up as a private investigator, and he asks Bucky if she'd be his assistant.

Just in time by rainbow_nerds [Stucky, 1k words, Mature]

Bucky knew the apartment he was renting was old fashioned, but walking in the front door and finding himself transported back to 1938 was not on the list of things he had prepared himself for.

🌻 You Like What's in My Head by dontcallmebree [Stucky, 15k words, Explicit] (with art by @kocuria)

Bucky can’t decide if Steve’s a tough nut to crack or incredibly easy. The timbre of his voice, a low and almost amused, “Sure, kid,” when Bucky asks for a drink feels like something gripping him on the back of his neck.

He thinks this might be one of those moments in life he’ll pinpoint in the future and either curse at for dooming himself, or remember fondly with pride.

He’s right. Bucky Barnes blunders through falling in love with Commander Rogers and tries to find a deeper meaning behind the expensive gifts and thorough fucking.

Can I Sit Here? by BuckyFrickenBarnes [Stucky, 962 words, General]

Bucky has unusual methods for getting rid of his writer's block.

Or, Bucky needs that table.

Workplace Romance by BuckyFricken Barnes [Stucky, 1k words, General]

Bucky is under the impression that his boss hates him.

Or,

Steve needs to get better at dealing with his feelings.

🌻 1-800-MAYTAG by Miss Plum @misspluckyplum [Stucky, 1k words, Explicit]

Bucky just wants to get some housework done. It gets out of hand fast. Silly little fluff and smut romp with snarky stucky boys.

Eyes of the Forest by Lordelannette [Stucky, 7k words, Explicit] (2/8 chapters available)

When Omega Bucky Barnes comes to Eagle Lake, it was in search of wolves, a creature that had not been seen in the area for decades.

What he finds instead is Steve Rogers, a handsome, though quiet Alpha who seems to be everywhere in the forest.

[hellothere-generalangsty]

Hello doll, it's Minty! 💚 I saw your requests are open and I simply had to dance into your inbox! I would adore a Bad Batch Western AU fix with Crosshair and the sentence prompt "If that wound doesn't kill you, then I will". I love you friend! 💚💛💚💛💚

Crosshair – Dust and Blood (TBB Western AU)

Summary: Every story need a beginning, a middle, and an end. This is the beginning, and it starts with a man who calls himself Crosshair.

From the sentence prompts:

22. “If that wound doesn’t kill you, then I will.”

Word Count: ≈1535 words

CW/ TW: Angst? Idk if you could say it’s angsty - it’s not happy that’s for sure but angsty? Idk anyway; western stuff, wounds/ injuries, (death) threats, pain, scars, blood

Tags: @mintywriteswritings @chaoticvampirejedi @loth-wolffe @m-o-o-n-s-g-o-o-n-s (thank you again for the help!) @dusk-dawn-and-stars @tacticalsparkles @imalovernotahater @canwestayinthisdream @wakeupjackthisisntfair @namesmox @badbatch-simp24 @lightning-wolffe @maddieskywalker @for-the-love-of-clones @m-e-w-117 @99squad @equalityforcats

@ladykatakuri @firelordillyria @andiebell2023

Notes: This is so exciting for me you can’t even imagine; thank you Minty for the request! I’m really happy to dive a bit more into the stories of the boys, and Crosshair’s arc is one I’m really happy to explore ^^

Also feel free to check Little One – Highly Suspect (you’ll find out a lot of their songs help me dive into that AU)

Dust.

This is how everything started, and how everything would end. He knew it the moment he jumped down his horse, a grimace of pain twisting his face as the dry coat of blood on his ribs ripped open once again. He tried to take a deep breath but stopped halfway, the pumping in his head becoming too strong to focus on anything else. He almost tripped on his feet, grabbing the beige mane of his companion to keep himself up; which made the horse neigh.

“Sorry, pal.” He barely muttered, unable to do more than loosen up his grip a bit.

Above him, an old sign falling into pieces, and a barely readable inscription on it; bleached by the constant exposure to the sun and the occasional rains.

Marauder Valley.

He walked through the entrance of the abandoned village – if one could call it a village – and wandered next to his horse, looking for shelter and a new shirt. His was tainted with red; dark and dried, smelling like iron and sweat. His wound wasn't bleeding too much anymore, but he could still feel a thin dash dripping against his skin when he was turning around or raising his arm.

It took him a few minutes to find the abandoned saloon, and the sight made him hum in a mixture of disgust and relief. A thick coat of dust was laying on the floor, and most of the bottles and tables were left to be; frozen in the middle of their usual occupations. A deck of cards was spread on one of them, and he came closer to take a better look.

Poker. And it was a good hand. Whoever played it knew what they were doing.

The wooden floor was lightly creaking under his feet as he walked around; and hadn’t it be for the few footsteps he was leaving behind, no one could have guessed he came here. He took a small hallway, leading to a few unsanitary rooms – barely big enough for a bed and a chair for most of them – and looked under the beds for a medical wallet or something he could use to patch himself up. His head was spinning a bit, but the clicking of a gun’s chamber and the cold metal tickling the back of his neck felt more important in the moment.

“If that wound doesn’t kill you, then I will.”

He slowly turned around, hands barely raised to show he intended no harm, and came face to face with a lady; probably in her mid-forties, small and chubby, and visibly determined to fulfil her promise.

“I need a doctor.”

“You won’t find any ‘round here.”

“Then a drink will do.” he shrugged, unimpressed.

“We’re going out and get you a drink then.”

She moved the cannon of her gun toward the main room, letting him open the way. He went in with the hope of getting some rest and medicine, and got back outside empty-handed and under the threat of an armed lady; bathed by the burning sunrays of a hot afternoon, in the middle of nowhere.

Nothing had changed during his little visit in the saloon but his state. He tripped on his feet, unable to focus on the stairs and the figure next to him, and fell on his knees next to his horse. The pain was getting worse; stinging and burning, the sensation of warm blood dripping from his open wound and straining his shirt even more; and the headache, the heat, the shivers-

“Alright, sit down.”

He dropped his weight on his behind, letting out a heavy sigh.

“Stay here. And don’t faint!” the woman warned as she walked away from him, disappearing behind the horse. His head felt too heavy, his veins pumping too hard to let him think straight. He let himself lay back against the dusty wooden floor, closing his eyes under the bright light burning above him.

He woke up when cold water splashed his face, making him jolt and grimace in pain.

“ Told you not to faint.”

“I didn’t.” he groaned, trying to sit again, the coat of blood ripping itself a bit as he did.

“Feel like y’can walk?” she looked down at him with a sort of irritated worry. He nodded, grabbing the guardrail to get up, slowly. “Good. Follow me.”

He stumbled a bit, trying to catch up with the woman. He thought he could handle it; he had gone through a lot to get here, and it couldn’t be worse than what he had left behind.

Or maybe it could be.

The loud thud of a body falling on the ground caught the woman’s attention, and as she turned around, a sigh escaped from between her lips.

“Great… Now I have to get the big guy.”

.

Waking up was painful, sudden. His ribs were on fire, his eye stinging – though the light was filtering through old curtains – and the remaining of his headache was still blurring his vision. He didn’t noticed the comfort of the mattress right away, neither the voices filling the room he was in.

“Ha, coming back to us. Told ya ‘t would work.” A deep voice commented in a smile.

“And that?” the woman’s voice asked, and he guessed she was pointing at his wounded ribs. He brushed the tips of his fingers against his own torso, realizing he was bare skin and wrapped in a bandage.

“Can’t do miracles. ‘Have to rest for a few days, go easy with manual tasks for a while.”

He let out a groan when he heard the recommendation, and tried to move his arms to push himself up and sit in the bed.

“I wouldn’t do that,” the voice advised in a laugh, “Unless ya want to open that wound ‘gain.”

He blinked a few times, and managed to see who was talking to him; a man, tall and visibly strong, dressed with dirty clothes and a squared shirt – probably a farmer. A scar was covering the side of his bald head and reached his left eye. The man was neither scary nor impressive, and seemed friendly enough.

He abandoned the idea of sitting, letting go of the light pressure he had put on his elbows and falling down against the mattress. His head gently buried itself in the pillow, and he let out a long, tired sigh.

“Who’re you?” he muttered in his breath, turning his head their way to look at them.

“’Name’s Cid,” the woman told him, “and he’s the big guy.”

“You know that’s not my name.” the man chuckled, and his voice filled the room with warmth and amusement as he looked at Cid.

“Don’t know your name, and couldn’t care less about it.” she shrugged.

“And you are?” the big guy asked, shifting his attention back to him.

He had expected the question, and he knew the simple answer would be to give his name. But he couldn’t stand the sound of it anymore, and his spite told him to go for that one instead. After all, it was “made for him”.

“Crosshair.”

 “Well then, welcome to Marauder Valley Crosshair.” The man smiled at him.

He didn’t feel like returning the gesture, but nodded nonetheless, out of respect and gratitude for their help. He scanned the room, bringing a hand to his face; a light grimace twisting his mouth as he felt the skin stretching on the side of his body.

His fingers ran against his scar around his eye, trying to sooth the stinging pain. It was still recent, bright red, not quite blending in with his warm skintone.

“Well, ‘gotta leave now,” the big guy smiled, grabbing his hat in hand as he walked toward the door, “but if you need anything, I won’t be far.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Cid pushed him out of the room, following his steps, “we know. You,” she pointed to Crosshair, “don’t play stupid, stay in bed.”

And on these words, she dragged the door behind her, slamming it before her heeled steps hit the apparent stairs outside the room. Crosshair stared at the door for a moment, contemplating once again getting up, but he was tired, and the bed was comfortable; and these people didn’t seem to want him any harm.

He didn’t seem to want any harm either, right, “Crosshair”?

He groaned faintly at the thought, and his hand dropped from his face to his chest, barely grabbing the thin blanket above him. He was far from him; from them, and now he just needed to sleep the pain away.

Sleep the pain away. Sleep.

Don’t let them get to you. Because they will get to you.

He will find you, you know he will.

They did this to you. They will do worse.

You know that, don’t you, Crosshair?

He let out a frustrated sigh at the thoughts, and slowly turned his head to look at the window. The sun was shining bright behind the curtains, and he could see the dust floating in the rays of light filtering through. It was peaceful.

For now he was safe, far away in a lost, abandoned town, in the middle of nowhere.

For now.

[bleachbleachbleach]

Fic: Away, Away

This was written for Day 13 of @hitsuhina-week! If you prefer, you can also read this on AO3. Which is my preference, because Tumblr keeps eating my spacing whether I use Rich Text or HTML so it looks absurd on here. >.>

Aftermath / Going on a Trip Together Hinamori Momo + Hitsugaya Toushirou Pre-Series

--

This will be the last time. 

(Whisper it, so he won't hear.)

--

Every spring, Junrinan finds its way to the western mountains. (The souls of Rukongai wander.) There is no grand procession: They disperse across the vast range, often alone and sometimes in twos. They are always careful not to cause disruption, because while one soul in a forest full of spirits generally isn't worth the effort, seven is a meal.

They are three. 

Soon, they will be two. Hinamori can't stop whispering her new name, hi na mo ri. It's early to be out here, but the snows were mild this year and new growth is already peeking from beneath the thick, rich leaf rot. She feels an affinity with this year's tender saplings, a feeling that grows hotter with every whispered repetition of her name. Her grandmother had given it to her, showed her how to write it. She'd studied her name harder than she had the exam.

Hinamori has an acceptance letter. In April, she is leaving. 

Hinamori nearly walks straight into a nettle spirit--the hair-eating kind--draped across the game path plain as day.

"Do you wanna be bald?" Toushirou grouses as he yanks her back just in time. "I guess it fits. You're acting like a blind old man." 

Hinamori blinks, brushes imagined hair from her face. It's the fifth time she's tried to walk straight through a spirit in as many days. 

"Studying is bad for your eyes," says Toushirou. He doesn't care for moony Hinamori. Momo had paid a lot more attention to what was in front of her. But she's Hinamori now. At least, that's the only name she'll write, dragging her thin stick through the dirt outside the house. So that's what he calls her.

Toushirou squeezes through a bumble of pot-bellied mushroom spirits and Hinamori follows him, stepping carefully into his tracks.

"You'll need to keep reading even when I'm not around. It'll go if you don't practice," she says.

Toushirou makes a noncommittal sound.

"I'll send you letters full of kanji and quiz you on them when I visit." I'll learn how to write them pretty, she promises, just like Baachan does.

"Will you write me back?" she asks.

"Probably not."

This hurts her. But Toushirou plans to go the rest of his life without writing a single thing. It's not personal.

"Why would I need to tell you what happens in Junrinan?" he says. "You already know."

--

And if I forget?

--

Life in Junrinan doesn't change. That's what Toushirou was promised. The winters are quiet and slow, and in spring they go to the mountains. Summers are for farming, and autumns for harvest. Then winters are quiet and slow again.

Spring passes with bracken and angelica in hand. It is counted in the spirals of ferns as their number grows in the baskets. Some are dried; some are steeped. Mostly, they are sold. Many of the men in Junrinan spend springtime waking before dawn to sprint to the mountain, forage the lowlands, and return to the village for evening revelries, but Toushirou and Hinamori and their grandmother have always spent the whole of the season between the trees. The mountains prefer it when you stay. 

This will be true no matter how long Hinamori is gone.

April 12th through July 20th, then our first break, she says, scratching numbers in the dirt. But Junrinan doesn't have dates the way the Academy does. She draws the way the trees will change. The change happens in a long straight line, and beyond July 20th there is an emptiness rather than a repetition. How do you draw an unwritten future?

Hinamori writes her name again.

--

In the spring, everything is full: Toushirou enjoys the wet green of it, the late snows and vernal flooding. The water flows down from the mountains ice cold and the forests are loud and thick with spirits.

The spirits have no names that are written and no faces that have ever stayed the same, unremembered but immemorial. They are loud. Most of them respect the borders of his body. They brush against his legs with thick wet fur or scrape his cheek with leathery wings. They coil around his throat, treating him like a tree or rock. Some of them are trees and rocks. They are the mountains and forest, just like the wandering souls of Junrinan. They all belong here, more or less.

Toushirou can see most of them. When the blurry ones pass through you, it's feverishly unpleasant for the split-second it happens and then is nothing at all. The blurry ones, Toushirou figures, aren't actually in this forest. They are like shadows at sunset, cast long and far from their bodies. Their true bodies roam a different world entirely.

That's what Hinamori wants to do. 

Hinamori used to clamor for shinigami stories any time one of them passed through town. She'd been told one time that all travelers carried stories and now expected it.

The shinigami never expected her. Unless commerce was involved they didn't tend to acknowledge souls, or even look at them. So they always seemed surprised by Hinamori, like it hadn't occurred to them that they'd meet a real, full person out here. Which is fair enough, Toushirou grudgingly allows--there are plenty of souls in Junrinan so old and staid they cannot move, nor speak. (Don't touch them. It's unlucky.)

We don't talk about those.

The shinigami talk story: The story of black dye. The story of a tall bathhouse. The story of grilled meat on sticks. The story of the time they saw a noble. The story of a big fish. The story of a bigger fish. The story of the bullet train. The story of my sister, who isn't very interesting but is the only thing that comes to mind right now sorry. The story of 19th seats should be paid more. The story of the soul who wanted a story. 

Almost none of the stories are about death.

"Little girls shouldn't go into those mountains," one shinigami once said, which is as close as a story ever came to it. "Nasty stuff in there. They're called Hollows, you know. Real bad guys."

The shinigami patted the sword at his hip. He'd just told Hinamori a story about the third son of a lesser noble whom everyone loved and thought deserved better than the shadows of his elder brothers. And how preposterous is it, really, that he should have to prove himself when his brothers never did? Pushed out here into the boonies, seeking honor and fame. He really feels for the guy. Don't you? Don't you?

"You seem to know a lot about 'this guy,'" Toushirou offered.

"I'm a master storyteller," said the shinigami.

I've killed a Hollow before, you know, boasted the master storyteller. He'd led a unit of twelve men into those mountains out there, which were so quiet you could hear your own heart beating. When you can hear your terror--that's when you're on the cusp of valor. His eyes lit up. I was the one who cut the mask, he said.

Twelve is obviously far too many (seven is a meal), and those mountains have never been quiet. Toushirou didn't think he'd really been.

In the spring, though, there's a dark scar where once there'd been a copse of trees. Shattered branches and burned ground. His grandmother says it smells like Hollow. 

"They see things differently," his grandmother half-explains, of the shinigami and their Hollows and the silence of their mountains. Of course this would seem a different place to them.

"They're idiots," says Toushirou, though suddenly he's not sure. The scar is hair-raising, and his stomach roils. Maybe they really shouldn't be out in the woods.

"The shinigami know more than you," says Hinamori, taking his hand in hers. She grips it tightly, reassuring, or maybe annoyed. Both. She has a lot of school spirit for someone who hasn't even been yet.

But she doesn't let go of his hand, even after they've returned to the cover of the live trees, kitsune fire nestled in the brambles at their feet.

Toushirou makes the mistake of noticing a spirit that tends to linger just out of sight. It feeds on your instinct to look, and it grows higher and higher the more you crane your neck, so sure you'll be able to sneak a glimpse of it. By the time you realize the trick, you've always been had. It's very annoying.

--

This will be the last time.

(Scream it.)

--

"It's so dark out here," says Hinamori, in spite of the kitsune and all the rest. Lots of spirits glow. She is still holding his hand.

Toushirou thinks of the small lamp Hinamori had bought to study by, the wild shadows it cast on the interior walls and the way it had made all hours bright. He thinks of all the hours she hadn't slept. All because some shinigami had told her a story about a school. 

Anything would seem dark by comparison. He can't remember the last time she hadn't had her lamp on when he went to bed.

Hinamori is going to snap the bones in his hand. He yelps. Tears prick in his eyes. "What's wrong with you?"

She doesn't let go, and then she doesn't let go.

"It's so quiet," she says faintly. Her free hand wavers over her heart protectively.

It's so dark. It's so quiet. Quiet enough to hear your terror.

Except it's not. It's not dark.

It's not quiet.

The forest is full, air thick with chirrups and buzzing, screeching, hooting, chittering. Bodies clack and bones shudder. Reeds whistle and something large makes a whomping, resonating tone. Foxfire hisses as it makes sparks, throws phosphorous motes that dance high above. A heartbeat glow marches up the ridged spine of a lizard spirit. The forest is as it has always been.

Toushirou's eyes widen. 

"You can't hear them anymore."

To Hinamori, it is all darkness and silence. 

She sinks to the ground, burying her head in her knees as though to hide from the quiet. From the black. She drops his hand.

"Momo--"

She shakes her head. She opens her hands to the sky like she's waiting for a bird to land. For a split second, a small warm flame billows from her palms. 

Then the entire forest catches.

The thought had been innocent enough--to be her own light in the darkness, conquer her fear. But the forest only hears the conquering. It's the kitsune who don't take kindly to Hinamori's light. Their fire screeches up and outward and then all the spirits are in frenzy. A meal! scream some; and others, a threat! A danger to be expunged. A strange thing not of this forest, these mountains.

Outsider! the world around them hisses. Away.

away, away

Hinamori screams as the flames leap forward--the claws, the vines, the terrors and all in between. She throws herself in front of Toushirou. 

Toushirou can't find his voice at all. The wide whites of his eyes feel the propulsive gust of the forest coming down on them. On Hinamori. No! he can't shout, cold fear coiling over his frozen legs and pricking at his shoulder blades. Something serpentine rushes past him and he's on the ground. His head smacks hard against a writhing tree root and he tastes bile, feels nothing. 

Hears everything.

away

When he wakes, snow is falling, wet and sloppy. Kitsune are nibbling at the singed edges of a hanafuda. Hinamori is in her grandmother's arms. She's crying.

--

Before Hinamori started studying, with her bright lamp and her long nights and her feverish poetry scratched into the ground, before the hunger came, she'd woken one morning to a futon streaked with her blood. Her grandmother said that this was womanhood.

"The tea will stop the bleeding," she assured a tearful Hinamori as they scrubbed at her futon, pinking the waters. Toushirou beat at the stain with his feet, splashing everywhere.

"You don't have to touch it," Hinamori had said quietly, her eyes fixed on the water. "It's my mess."

"Baachan said I have to help," Toushirou objected. "Besides, am I supposed to just sit here and watch you bleed?"

--

Just one last time.

--

Hinamori isn't hurt, but she is in pain. The forest doesn't want her anymore. (She is leaving.)

"The forest sees them differently," his grandmother says, the other half of her earlier explanation. "Them," meaning shinigami. "Them," meaning Hinamori, now.

Shinigami see and are seen differently. They belong differently. Toushirou had only ever distinguished them by their black clothes, and sometimes their attitude. But his grandmother talks about reiryoku, about reiatsu, about the realms the shinigami travel through and the spirits they are blind to. The spirits that belong to different worlds than theirs, even when they're side by side. Some worlds are bound to one another, tied by fate and duty; others are repelled.

As Hinamori's reiatsu blossomed with her womanhood, slowly folding outward past her skin, beyond her body, her worlds were chosen for her. Like the bleeding, there's a tea to help this, too, but it's not the same. 

There is no going back.

"What're you looking at," Toushirou scowls at her. He's not sure what to do with her pain. There's nothing he can do for her pain. But she's looking at him differently, a little less like Hinamori and a little more like the rest of Junrinan does, and that scares him.

She asks him if he'd felt anything. Something cold.

She's asked him before. Every day since the incident, she's asked him.

His answer is always the same. No. Just fear.

He should be helping his grandmother. They're here in the forest for a reason, and that hasn't changed; they have foraging to do. But he doesn't want to leave Hinamori alone. 

"Don't be afraid of it, Shiro-chan," says Hinamori. Hinamori, who's now afraid of the dark.

Hinamori, who is leaving.

--

She doesn't have a choice. When her power comes into her she knows there is only one place she can go. It's a place she has always wanted to go. (She has always wanted to go places.) But now she has to.

She smiles. 

If she is going to go, she's going to fly. She will love, and yearn, and cry. She will give all of herself to the future before her, even when it means that precious things can be only memory. If there is something Hinamori leaves in him when she goes, it's flight. 

Someday, Toushirou will remember to remember that.

--

"Will you write me?" she asks.

--

--

(You will be written.)

--

She returns for the summer, then is gone again. Winter, then gone again. But she doesn't come home for the spring. They'll be going to the realm of the living. They will fight Hollows, just like the Gotei 13. She explains the meaning and stroke order of the characters, go tei,  though she doesn't explain what the Gotei 13 actually is. That part must already seem obvious to her. Shinigami stuff. That's all Toushirou will ever need to know. Seems pretentious.

When Junrinan returns to the mountains this year, Toushirou and his grandmother stay behind. "It's dangerous," she says. She squeezes his shoulders.

It's dangerous now. 

There is no going back.

Junrinan may not change, but life does, and by the second summer, Hinamori has mostly forgotten the shapes of the forest spirits. Toushirou is forgetting them, too. 

The difference is, Hinamori has found replacements. She talks about incantations and sword stances, friendships and histories. She has been to the realm of the living. It's only been a year, and already they have nothing in common but their memories, ever-receding. 

Sometimes she wakes up screaming. She doesn't say why.

--

Toushirou dreams of a chill ripping through him. He dreams of a place where there are no mountains as far as the eye can see.

--

He wakes to Hinamori.

[weirdanecdotes]

How I Met Mick Jagger

This is also how I became an Unintentional Groupie. If I hadn’t befriended a couple of DJ’s, I never would have had access to music stars. This story takes place in the early 60s. It may shock you to learn music was segregated by color. And calling people Black didn’t saturate society until a decade later. To avoid offending anyone, I have substituted polite words where needed. Nor were there any issues about cultural appropriation at the time. I must have been woke because I got upset when White artists ripped off Black artists. But my issue with it was a lack of authenticity and the literal theft. Anyway, this story actually begins...

After we moved from Brookhaven to Buckhead and there were no buses to take me to church, Papa used to drive me to Peachtree Road Methodist on Sunday mornings to attend classes and morning services. By the time I was fifteen, he decided to sleep in and shifted me to attending evening services and a youth club afterwards.

Despite the fact the youth club had a basketball court where we could dance in our socks, most of the youths skipped out soon after they were dropped off. Some of them had older friends with cars who picked them up and brought them back in time to innocently look like they’d never been away.

Others left in gaggles to wander the streets and I tagged along without being invited. There was a strip of shops next to the church and behind that on Mathieson Drive there was a rather fantastical old house built out of rough granite blocks that had a turret!

I had no idea why we going but climbed the steep driveway and the even steeper steps to the front door, which was shockingly unlocked. They didn’t even knock before pushing it open.

Inside, rock n’ roll music boomed and a sign on the wall announced we had entered WQXI Radio. Up yet another flight of steep steps, we arrived at a hallway with plate glass windows on one side. Behind a locked door on the windowed room sat a DJ doing his job. When he saw us, he grinned and waved. Then during the next musical interlude he asked what we wanted to hear.

That’s how I met my first disk jockey—Patrick Aloysius Hughes. I put the emphasis on his middle name like he always did on the radio. He practically sung it into five syllables—Al-lo-wish-she-us!

After that, I went by myself to visit him on Sunday evenings. I told him my Bill Lowery Story and he laughed like a maniac. Pat was as hyperactive as I was and I was too ignorant of the world to even wonder if his buzz was natural or snorted. I wanted to know everything about his job and he was glad to explain how everything worked. Of course, we talked about music. I also learned about The Industry that controlled everything teenagers were allowed to hear, about Payola and how new releases came with gift boxes that included tickets to VIP seating at sporting events.

It was probably a few months before he unlocked the door and let me into the control room to flip levers and twiddle dials. That dear man never made any kind of move on me. He simply enjoyed company. One Sunday evening, Pat rather ominously told me Paul Drew—the DJ who manned the midnight till dawn shift—was coming just to meet me. I naturally asked, "Why?"

"You're like a prodigy or something," Pat shrugged, "You know music better than I do."

Paul arrived and beside Pat they looked like a comic duo. Pat was a tall string-bean good ol' boy and Paul was a short, round, balding guy with a Yankee accent. Pat flat-out loved rock n' rock. Paul was cerebral and filled his airtime with “easy listening” Oldies like Frank Sinatra, some classical music and a sprinkling of cool jazz.

“I hear you know music like no one else your age,” Paul eyed me with respect.

“She’s uncanny,” Pat enthused, “If she says it’s gonna be a hit, it is!”

Rolling my eyes, I allowed, “I do recognize all the current trends built into a track but mainly—if I don’t like it—I reckon it will be a hit just to annoy me every time I hear it on the radio.”

They guffawed then Paul sat down and seriously asked, “What do you like?” He even pulled a notepad out of his back pocket & the pen from his shirt to take notes.

Feeling utterly intimidated, I answered slowly, alert for any negative reactions, “Anything by Modern Jazz Quartet, Miles Davis, his especially Sketches of Spain, Andre Previn’s soundtrack for The Subterraneans, Dave Brubeck. I’m currently hooked on Pachebel’s Canon in D, can’t stop listening to it over and over. But, here I must confess,” I breathed out in a whisper, “for fun, I listen to WAOK.”

“Of course, you do,” Paul bobbed his head and chuckled, “Chuck Berry invented rock n’ roll.”

Taking that as I dig, I insisted, “He actually did. And Little Richard…”

He held up his hand to forestall my ire, “I know, I know. What other white music do you like?”

“Recently, Jim Salle [another story] insisted I listen to a folkie debut album by Bob Dylan. He knows my tastes. I bought it. House of the Rising Sun might fit your format. I believe Dylan stole it from a couple of colored artists. I predict some rock n’ roll band is gonna steal it from him.”

It took over two years before my prediction came true but Paul Drew remembered and called to tell me he’d just gotten The Animals’ version and was promoting it. Looking back, I think was in a sense their ideal listener and articulate enough to explain my opinions. But also, I was pretty.

Shortly after I got my driver’s license, Paul called early one Sunday in an excited state. “The Rolling Stones are passing thru the airport today! Like, in a couple of hours they’ll have an hour layover. If you can get out there, I can get you into the Delta VIP Lounge.”

I replied indignantly, “I don’t like the Rolling Stones.”

“Heh,” Paul snickered, “Of course not, that’s why they’re massive stars. Their managers aren’t going to let me near them. But, sweetheart, you can get to them. They’ll probably come to you!”

I guessed, “Then I introduce them to you?”

“Exactly.”

I called my BF Ginny who was a Rolling Stone fan and a beauty. I looked exactly like this, the same dress, minus the bandanna:

The Delta VIP Lounge had two levels. Immediately inside the entrance was a bar/café area but, on a higher guarded level, actual VIPs came to rest between flights. Ginny and I easily found Paul at the bar and he ordered us Coca-Cola’s with cherry syrup. The bartender added little umbrellas. We giggled like the schoolgirls we were.

Before Paul could detail his plan to gain access, The Stones arrived, loudly shouting profanities and obscenities. Like she was iron filings and they were magnets, Ginny slipped like a shadow past security, went directly to Brian Jones, and sat in his lap! He greeted her, “Well hello, baby girl!”

The guard may have taken that to mean we were expected because he stepped aside to let me follow her. I stood there uncertainly. From over three feet away, I could smell them. They were sweaty, filthy, uncouth, drunken fools. I glanced back at Paul, gave him a helpless shrug, and primly took a seat on a nearby Mid-Century Modern sofa, all imitation leather with chrome legs and trim.

I was stunned when Mick Jagger approached, took a seat at the other end, casually threw his arm over its back to turn towards me, and politely asked, “What brings you here this fine morning?”

I was stunned because unlike the other band members he was immaculately clean and well dressed in a blue-stripped seersucker jacket, a spotlessly white shirt, khaki slacks, and white buck shoes with red rubber soles. He looked like a prep school poet who did not belong with his rowdy bandmates.

I was stunned because color photography had not accurately rendered the paleness of his strawberry blonde hair, ice blue eyes, flawless cream complexion, ruddy schoolboy cheeks, or his mouth! Good gawd! I couldn’t take my eyes off his lips. He was the most beautiful man I’d ever seen in person and that took my breath away. I literally could not answer him.

He tried again, “Where are you coming from? Where are you going?”

“I’m just here because you are,” I whispered, “My friend is a DJ who would like to talk to you.”

He snapped, “That’s not going to happen,” breathed out his boredom in a shuddering sigh then asked, “Are you a fan?”

“No,” I gestured toward Ginny who had moved onto Keith Richards’ lap, “but my friend is.”

“Oh gawd,” he drawled at the scene, flipping delicate fingers to dismiss it from his thoughts, and turned his attention back on me. “Do you think we might have enough in common to have a decent conversation to pass the time?”

“We could talk about music." I turned a bit petulant, "I don’t like you because Little Richard did you first.”

“I don’t deny that,” he wasn’t offended, “He taught me all about performing on stage. I bet you don’t like the Beach Boys either and certainly not Pat Boone.”

I managed to smile and agreed, “Definitely not. I won’t hold your Little Richard impersonation against you personally. I’m sure he appreciates being introduced to music fans who would never know about him otherwise. Seeing you dressed as you are today it’s hard for me to imagine how you became a rock n’ roll star. Didn’t you study at the London School of Economics?”

He archly declared, “Economics is so boring.”

“I don’t think so,” I countered, “I got an A-plus in Economics.”

He stunned me yet again by gracefully sliding across the sofa to sit closer to me and eagerly shared, “Then you understand I was on track to work in a bank or, if I was lucky, maybe I’d be a stock trader. Now Keith and I go way back. We started a garage band and did covers of soul artists. We did gigs for audiences who had no idea they were listening to colored music. So while I was preparing to handle other people’s money just to earn a small share of it, I could already sing like Little Richard and saw, shall we say, a market opening.”

He paused and I inserted, “So it’s all about the money.”

Looking directly into my eyes, he insisted, “And my true love of R&B. Please don’t think of me as a rip-off artist. I’m paying homage to artists who are better than I’ll ever be and get them into bigger and better venues. We’re all getting rich together.”

I boldly asked, “May I quote that when I tell my DJ friend about our conversation?”

“Please,” he drew back in mock chagrin, “you can tell whoever you like. I’m not sharing any secrets. But let me enjoy having a real conversation with a pretty girl who doesn’t want to rip my clothes off. I feel like we’re connecting…intellectually. ”

“We are indeed,” I bobbed my head in agreement. "What I like about Economics is it creates the delusion that we control money instead of money controlling us."

I remember his eyes flying wide in surprise and how his teeth sparkled when he grinned but the rest of our conversation is a blur. It's not that I've forgotten our joking banter. My brain simply didn't imprint any memory cells while I was in the midst of a significant life-altering experience.

I relied on the etiquette lessons I'd been forced to take to maintain my decorum. In case you don't know what I mean, I kept my legs demurely crossed at the ankles, knees together, hands relaxed in my lap, back straight, chin up, and spoke softly. I was trained to be a Southern Lady.

I'm amazed I didn't quiver just a bit because I was experiencing sexual attraction for the very first time. It wasn't lust. I was simply overwhelmed by wanting a man to kiss me. I'd gotten kissed at Vacation Bible School when I was 13 and felt nothing. It was not an experience I sought to repeat until I met a man who glowed like an angel. People who have artistic souls and enough talent to become famous are not ordinary. They possess Charisma—a magical ability to enthrall others.

I have the vague impression I was witty and his laughing grin was the living embodiment of joy. I'm serious. That man's ridiculous mouth is a caricature like a Comedy mask made for Greek Theater masks.

The spell was broken when a man called his name and he turned away to hear they were cleared to board their next flight. He stood up and so did I. He looked me up and down in appraisal and I got nervous, "Um, ah, I'm so glad I got to meet you. I now admire you as an artist and a person.”

AND HE BLUSHED!

I nearly fainted but got distracted by Ginny getting French-kissed goodbye by Brian Jones then noticed how Mick stood, awkwardly fidgeting like he couldn’t decide how to say goodbye. Subtle body shifts suggested he might try to hug me. If he did, I might break down in tears.

Instead, I offered my hand and he held it gently while saying, “You’ve made my day. I’d ask for your number but I have no idea when I’ll ever be in Atlanta again. This has been an extraordinary encounter. Thank you so much.”

“The pleasure has been all mine,” I gushed then giggled girlishly.

“No,” he drawled, “we shared the pleasure.” He started away but turned back to add, “You know my mates aren’t going to remember your girlfriend but I’ll probably never forget you.”

He was wrong about that. Less than two years later, Ginny was in the UK living with Brian Jones! I never expected to hear from him and, therefore, wasn't disappointed.

[horrorslashergirl]

Chromeskull meeting his young future SO drinking at a bar after she walked in on her now ex-boyfriend sleeping with her now ex-best friend.

Chromeskull x Reader- Fantasy to Reality

Authors Note: Oh you know....Just a very long Chromeskull OneShot. Nothing out of the ordinary.

Warnings: 18+ Smut

Words: 4.1k

It didn't matter that you were looking out of place with your sweater, leggings, and UGG's among the people at the bar who were dressed in flashy clothes, you didn't come here to hook up or find a possible partner; you just wanted to get away from the apartment that you shared with your boyfriend. Oh! Ex-boyfriend to be exact.

Looking down at the half-empty glass of vodka, you debated if you should order another one, drowning yourself in alcohol seemed like a good getaway at the moment. You simply didn't want to spend your time listening to your cheating ex-boyfriend and who was supposed to be your best friend. All that sugar-coating was just a facade for their secret affair.

You thought that your relationship will blossom more, especially that you decided to go to the same college as your supposed lover; it was his idea after all. Staying in a bar all night was better than wandering the streets. You didn't had any place to go, after all, moving to another state, you didn't know anyone that would help you in this current predicament.

You were pulled out of your thoughts when someone occupied the stool at the bar next to you, and from the corner of your eye, you could tell it was a man, but you didn't give him any attention.

'[Name]?' an electronic voice pulled your attention, your eyes darting to the person; all dressed in fancy black clothes, tattooed hands, bald head, and finally to a pair of chocolate brown eyes.

"Jesse?" you asked, eyebrows raised in surprise, and the man offered you a grin, showing pearly white teeth.

Of course! How could you forget about him, he lived in Jacksonville!

You haven't seen him since you were 14. He was an old family friend, remembering him from the family gatherings and parties, he was friends with your father.

"What are you doing here?" you asked and he raised an eyebrow at you.

'I should ask you the same thing, little shrimp.'

Oh, that old nickname he used on you when you were a child. He was a little younger than your father, and according to your age, he was supposed to be now probably in his late 30s.

"Just having a drink." you simply replied, but he could read you like an open book.

'Doesn't look like it.'

You sighed, knowing you won't get away without him finding out what was really bothering you, plus you kind of needed to get your frustrations out, so you began to explain to him what happened, how you got backstabbed twice in one shot by the people that were supposed to love, care and support you.

By the furrow and sad look in his eyes, you could tell he was angry by your former best friend and boyfriend, but also pity by what happened to you.

'No need to cry over such people. You can do much better.'

"You say that only to make me feel better." you murmured, taking another sip of your drink, only to be snatched away by Jesse, who gave you that stern father-look.

'No more drinking. You had enough.'

"I-I'm just angry....This is not how my first year of college was supposed to be like." you said, looking down at your hands.

'College can be tough...especially if you go after guys who don't know what they want from life.'

This time you gave Jesse an amused look and snorted.

"So what? I am supposed to date guys who have the same age as my father?" you asked in a sassy tone, and perhaps you shouldn't have said that because to Jesse it gave him some taboo ideas, but he quickly pulled them aside, he was married after all and you were the daughter of one of his friends. You were off-limits and so was he.

'What I am saying is that you should look for a real man. Someone who has a stable life and not some bag of meat who plays football, cannot keep a conversation and sleeps with your best friend.'

Ouch, that was harsh and his eyes softened as he noticed that he struck a nerve.

'I expect you to have higher standards, shrimp. You could do much better than that pig.'

You smiled at Jesse and nodded, feeling your self-esteem rise up a little from the ashes.

He indeed helped you out of your misery and it was nice to known someone in Jacksonville. Jesse even helped you out after that encounter at the bar, buying you a small apartment so that you won't have to stay with your ex-boyfriend and pay the rent, he always called you from time to time to ask if you needed something, it felt good to know someone genuinely cared about you.

'How can I not help you out, shrimp? You're my best friend's daughter. I don't wanna see you dead in an alleyway.'

Of course, your father was his best friend, it came naturally for Jesse to look out for you since your father lived on the other side of the country, but still, you couldn't help that sometimes you think of every nice thing he did for you as something more than family chivalry, especially after that small talk about how you could do so much better in the dating department.

You'd do him, alright!

Every time such thoughts crossed your mind you reminded yourself that he was your dad's best friend, a married man, and twice your age, but then other images crossed your mind that clashed with your rational part of the brain.

How could you not fantasize about Jesse? He was a tall, classy, and handsome man, with tattoos that you could ogle at for hours, dark brown eyes that always sparkled with mischief, and the way his lips pulled into a smirk; he really was a wet dream, well your wet dream.

It wasn't like you didn't continue to date, more like went on a first date and gave up, because the guy wasn't what you were looking for. They simply didn't have that specific something that Jesse had.

You continued on with your life, focusing on college and studies; three years went on like this until you were in the last year and one night you were watching some sappy romantic movie while your thoughts went again on a certain man.

You remembered an event that made you smile.

It was Jesse's wedding, you were just 14 and your parents pulled you along. You were sitting at the table, looking as the people danced on the gigantic ballroom, when Jesse came to you, asking why you had such a gloomy face.

You were probably the only teenager there and you had none close to your age to talk to or spend time with, so you amused yourself with watching.

'Dance?'

Of course, the invitation was all innocent and his wife was with the ladies having a good time, probably gossiping and whatnot.

"I-I don't know how to dance." you confessed, looking down, only for Jesse to crouch down and give you a genuine smile.

'Follow my lead.'

With that, he extended his hand and you accepted it, pulling you to the dance floor and sitting your feet on his own. You praised yourself internally for choosing ballet flats over the torturous heels. It was all fun back then, you were still clueless when you were a teenager and still didn't looked into boys and dating games.

Now? You remembered how good he looked into that groom tuxedo, how his expensive cologne invaded all your senses, and how he grinned down at your little self.

The ringing of your phone pulled you out of the delicious daydream and checked to see who it was.

Your father.

It was the usual call: How you're doing in college? What new things happened? Did you get a boyfriend? Nothing really out of the ordinary until he brought Jesse into the discussion and you felt sweat form at the back of your neck.

Looks like he had an accident six months ago and his wife died. That really made you speechless. You haven't talked with Jesse in the past months, you were so busy with studying and final exams and projects; you indeed missed on a lot of things.

"How is he dealing with everything?" you asked, genuinely concerned.

"He is overworking himself, trying to distract himself from all the hurricane of events. Just thought I let you know so if you see him next time you won't be taken aback." your father explained.

You understood the intention and the fact that he mentioned that Jesse was left scarred; you really wondered what happened. Car accident? Jesse had a habit of driving like a maniac.

Looking at the phone in your hand you wondered if you should text him, ask him if everything's alright, but decided against it. You weren't someone prolific in his life, you were just a person on the edge and he was polite and considerate to you, because of your status, not that he viewed you as something more than daddy's little girl.

All night you couldn't sleep because of the news, they haunted your dreams and made you all curious. The next day, earlier in the morning, you decided to go directly at him, you knew his address, and a face to face meeting was better than a text.

Paying the cab driver and waving him off, your eyes averted to the imposing metal gates and the kingdom-like front lawn and right behind it the 'castle'. Come to think that just one man lives in this place really made you wonder how much of a God-complex Jesse had.

Just as you were ready to call on the interphone, a small and put together brown-haired woman stepped out of the house and walking towards the gate, her eyes looking at you with curiosity.

"You must be [Name]." she said, offering a professional smile.

You raised an eyebrow at her.

"How do you know my name?" you asked, feeling like she knew more than you might think.

"Mr. Cromeans talks about you a lot. I'm Spann, his assistant. He didn't expect you." she said, pressing a button on a remote and the gate unlocked.

Top technology indeed.

"No, he doesn't. It's more like a surprise visit, to be honest....I just got the news of what...happened." you said, your mood dropping a little and Spann gave you a sympathetic look, motioning for you to follow her.

"I'm sure he will be happy to see you. None has visited him since the incident." she explained and your eyes widened.

None has visited him? He had so many people at his wedding and so many people always took a chance to be in his presence. What just happened? Being curious you followed Spann and profit to take in your surroundings; the villa was really imposing, the colors of black and white being the most noticeable, and you had to watch your steps as you marched up the marble stairs to the front row. Spann opened the double doors for you and motioned for you to enter.

"He is in his office. Go ahead, I have to go back to the headquarters of the company, but I'm sure he will be happy that you're here." That was the only thing she said before she closed the doors and left you standing there, feeling like a little mouse in this big house.

Looking around a bit you noticed what you assumed was the door to his study and you could hear the faint sound of fingers typing on the keyboard. With a little reluctance, you knocked on the door to make your presence known and opened the door, your eyes seeing Jesse behind the black desk working on his laptop.

You took the time that he wasn't looking up to observe him. The familiar flawless pale face was indeed deeply scarred, the skull structure more prominent and one might felt disgusted at such a sight, but you felt something else, it wasn't pitying, perhaps you felt a deep empathy, wonders of how much it hurt to get on such a result.

When his gaze moved up, probably he expected Spann, but not you, because his eye widened, hands stopping above the keyboard.

'[Name]? What are you doing here?' he slowly signed, getting up from the plush leather seat at his desk.

In the meantime, you had learned a bit of ASL from Jesse, the basics, but you took liberties and studied the unspoken language deeper. Why? Probably in certain hopes.

"I came to visit....I-I heard what happened." you spoke in a soft voice, afraid to not say something that might be wrong, your hands playing with the sleeves of your shirt nervously.

Jesse sighed, rubbing the back of his neck.

'Nothing to worry about.' he signed, then leaned against his desk, his usual goofy face, full of cheekiness no longer present.

"I-I'm sorry." you didn't know for what you were apologizing.

Were you apologizing because his face turned into meatball meat and all because of him and his not so orthodox hobby and business, although you didn't know about it? Were you apologizing because his wife was dead and you didn't felt any remorse, because now he was available? You were apologizing because you were feeling like a despicable human being, with egoistic intent?

'You don't have to be. It wasn't your fault.' he signed, then he took a sip of his drink; definitely whiskey.

Not your fault, but the emotions you were feeling.

"None has been visiting you, at last, that's what I'd heard." you said, not really so sure what to make of this conversation.

Jesse gave you a non-pulsed look; no, none came to visit him or give him a 'get better' card or anything corny like that, because he didn't need any pity coming from anyone. He wasn't a helpless man; yes, he was mute, but he wasn't paralyzed to the bed or an old man you can give the compassion smile to. Vulnerable wasn't a word to attribute to Jesse Cromeans, but the truth was that he was feeling just like that.

Yes, the news about his now-dead wife broke him down, but Chromeskull wasn't one to be put down simply like that, and in a few weeks he got over it, despite the empty bed, just like the rest of the enormous villa. Even if she wouldn't have shot herself what would have become of their marriage; she would have left him in a heartbeat, and if it wasn't for the serial killer part, then sure as hell it would be for his face.

None, but Spann looked him dead in the eye, but that small woman had guts of steel. The women couldn't even look him up and no amount of money could change that. Sleeping with old geezers for a 1000$ sure thing, but a disfigured man like him, no thank you. Piggies were, all the same, no matter age, status; they were all disgusting future beef that will all fall to his blades.

He was pulled out of the gruesome daydream when your hand touched his forearm, his gaze meeting yours that showed pity. He fucking hated that sentiment, especially if it was directed at him.

"It's not that bad." you whispered, but Jesse was too blind to see through you trying to emphasize with him.

His face or what had remained of him pulled into a frown.

'Not bad? I look like a monster.' he signed with shaky hands, feeling like strangling something.

Indeed he was a monster, inside and out, only you didn't know it and the devil sure will drag you down for what was to come. You found your back against the wall, his tall form in front of you, looking you down. You felt like a small child being scolded by the strict father and you looked away, not able to hold eye contact. One hand pulled your chin up, making you look at Jesse.

'Look at me.' he signed and you felt your lower lip tremble, not out of fear, but more feeling self-conscious, not knowing what to say to make him feel better.

'Go home, shrimp.' he signed, turning away from you.

That nickname made you feel something else; rage.

"No." you simply said, making him stop and look back at you with a cold gaze.

"No. I'm not a shrimp. I'm not a little girl anymore, you know? I'm gonna finish college this year and hopefully get a great job in a prestigious company." you said, voice not shuttering at all, which surprised you.

"I know what you've been through was hard and I don't pity you, because you are stronger than you think, or else you wouldn't be here in front of me, alive. I know it's not the same, but it's not the outside-pack that's important. Everyone will in the end be all wrinkled and pruney at some point. The youth is temporary and isn't the inside that counts, with goods and bads." you blabbered, not stopping at all to give Jesse a chance to sign.

"I'm not a little girl anymore that you can order to walk back to her daddy. I'm a fucking woman now!" you said, a hard look forming on your face.

That declaration really took Jesse by surprise, especially how straightforward you were looking at him, not even a glimpse of disgust in your eyes. Looking you up and down, he could agree with you. You sure grew up from that little girl that he used to make her laugh with goofy faces and jokes, you were no longer underage, you were no longer a clueless little thing that he took ballroom-dancing when there was none around parties to amuse you.

You were a woman now.

The next few seconds were a blurr, because you found your lips assaulted by rough, scarred ones; one of Jesse's hands fisting your hair and the other one around your waist, pulling you flush against his body. It was like millions of fireworks exploded inside your ribcage.

Jesse was prepared for you to push against him, to be completely repulsed, but your actions definitely took him by surprise. Your hands moved to fist his black dress-shirt, pulling him as close to you as possible, your lips moving against his and tongue running shyly over his.

You two kissed like two lovers who have been pulled apart for years, the need, the longing, everything was so intense as the need for air started to be and the kiss was broken, leaving you two to catch your breaths.

This was wrong on so many levels. You were the daughter of one of his very good friends, he could be by age your father, but God did that kiss felt so good and you reciprocated it.

What was so wrong about it?

"Jesse...." you whispered his name, pulling on his dress-jacket, signaling that you wanted it off.

Ohhh....fuck what people think.

Lips crashed down back again into another sloppy kiss, his body backing yours until you two reached the door, opening it and like that the jacket was off onto the white marble floor.

Both your steps took you to the main staircase and Jesse didn't waisted another minute, picking you up and marching towards the master bedroom. Until you reached the destination, clothes flew everywhere in your path; black button-shirt, black slacks along with your white blouse and black jeans, and both your shoes.

Before reaching the master bedroom, Jesse pinned you against the wall of the hallway, leaving opened mouthed kisses down your neck, the only pieces of clothing on you two were the white lingerie set and his black Calvin Klein boxers.

'Are you sure?' he signed, resting his forehead against yours, the only response you could form was a simple nod.

'Are you very sure, because the moment we step into the bedroom I won't be able to stop.'

That promise made a rush of arousal to pool into your panties and getting bolder you took one of his hands, moving it over your soaked panties, his brown eye-widening at how wet you were and all you did was just kiss. His hands moved behind your thighs and picked you up, waltzing into the bedroom and laying you down on the soft black bedsheets.

You stopped him before he could get on top of you, making him feel like you were ready to back up; perhaps you did realize that you didn't want him, but again you took him aback.

"I wanna please you."

He tilted his head, looking down at you curiously as you sat on the edge of the bed.

"I wanna make you feel like a man, one that is very much loved."

Oh, God...How can he deny you, especially when you give him those doe-like eyes of yours?

You motioned for him to move closer to your form, your hands running down his chest and to the waistband of his boxers, biting your lip as you slowly pulled them down. Your expression was probably hilarious because you felt Jesse give a silent laugh.

Ok, he was definitely going to be the biggest you ever had and when you looked up at him and saw that smirk of his, feeling proud of what he was packing, you felt your heartbeat pick up. Slowly, you started to stroke him, up and down, eyes focused on him, then you started to use your mouth, working more on the tip, feeling how his legs tensed every time you run the tip of your tongue over the slit on top of the head.

Jesse was feeling like he was in heaven, your hot mouth so sweetly wrapped around his cock, sucking and fondling his balls, and everything was because you wanted, not because you felt forced or because he paid you. You were genuinely enjoying yourself.

He was going to cum if you kept it like this and he would be damned if he was going to cum like a virgin from a very good blowjob. It's been six months without any sex and jerking off got to a point all boring, so having a young and beautiful girl such as yourself worship his cock like that, really was setting his libido into a howling fit.

His hand moved into your hair and pulled you away from the hard as stell length of his. You got worried, thinking you did something wrong, only to be laid back on the bed, all sprawled under him. He would have loved to bury his face between your legs and choke on your pussy, but his face was still sensitive, even kissing got him a little itching. There was more recuperation progress to do on his face, but until then, he was going to make you scream.

Your hand rested on his neck, feeling his pulse and looking into his brown eye, the other one foggy and probably blind.

"Jesse....I wanna see your face as I cum." you whispered and that was the last straw because in the next 5 seconds you were filled up to the brim with his length, your legs around his waist and hands running down his back, both of you breathing hard.

How could you want him? Someone who could have anyone she desired, you....You desired him.

He would have lasted more than 30 minutes, but everything was coming down on him with such intensity it was hard to hold his orgasm, but it was all worth seeing the lewd faces you made as he pounded himself into you, your moans and praises were all music to his ears.

You cuddled up to him, his hand stroking up and down your lower back and he chuckled silently; you reminded him of a kitten, all content like you just won the jackpot.

"I'm happy to be with you." you whispered, kissing his chest, fingertips running over the skull tattoo.

'You do realize your father will have my head on a stick, right?' he signed with an amused smirk.

"Mhmm...Don't worry. I will protect you." you said and Jesse pulled you onto his lap, smirking at you.

'I'm sure you will, shrimp.'

You gave him a glare, punching playfully on his chest and making him laugh.

"Will you stop with that nickname? I'm not a little girl anymore, dork." you told him, but he shrugged.

'You're still my little girl. You are daddy's little girl.' he signed suggestively, and you squeaked as you felt something poke your behind.

"Jesse!"

[cryingcow]

Character Story - Kiryu (Junior High Student) [RGGO]

Remember how in Kiwami there’s a Majima Everywhere event where Majima accuses Kiryu of reading sexy magazines outside of M Store and Kiryu just snaps? Well, this may or may not be the backstory to that XD

We don’t have Junior High in our country, so how old is a JH student? 13? 14? Either way, if I were the one in Kiryu’s position, I’m pretty sure I’d be crying the entire time. Kudos to our Dragon Baby for staying strong!

Story: Kiryu enters a bookstore to buy the latest issue of Dragon Ball, and ends up getting accused of stealing a porn magazine and earning a reputation in Kamurocho.

Kazama: “It’s normal for a growing boy to feel these things, Kazuma. You see when a man and a woman love each other very much-”

Kiryu: “AaAaAaAAaaAAaaaAAAaAaaA!!!”

For those who don’t know, the H stands for "hentai" :D

.

CHAPTER 1

.

|When Kiryu Kazuma was a junior high student . . .|

|On that day, Kiryu was visiting a bookstore.|

 [Bookstore]

Bookstore Clerk: “Welcome.”

Kiryu: “Now . . . what to do . . .”

Kiryu: (Today is the release of the latest issue of ‘Dragon Bowling’ . . . but if I buy it now, I’ll be broke for the rest of the month. But I really want to read the new issue . . . hmm, I’m conflicted.)

{The front door opens.}

Bookstore Clerk: “Welcome.”

Bald Guy: “. . .”

Kiryu: (. . . What is with that bald guy? He keeps glaring over here . . . Hm? It looks like I wandered into the erotic books corner . . . Ah, so it wasn’t me he was looking at. This is awkward, there’s only the two of us here. I don’t want to linger here too much . . .)

Kiryu: “Well then, I need to decide if I’m going to buy that book or not. Hmm . . .”

{Bald Guy bumps into Kiryu.}

Bald Guy: “Oops . . . you shouldn’t be standing there, bro, you’re in the way.”

Kiryu: “What . . . ?”

{Bald Guy leaves the store.}

Bookstore Clerk: “Thank you very much.”

Kiryu: “Tch. What’s with that guy? Bumping into someone and not even buying anything.  . . . I should just go home for today. If I still have money at the end of the month, then I’ll buy it.”

Bookstore Clerk: “Hey, you . . . can I talk to you for a moment?”

Kiryu: “Hm?”

Bookstore Clerk: “I’m sorry if it’s a misunderstanding. But . . . I want you to show me the inside of your bag.”

Kiryu: “My bag . . . ? Why?”

Bookstore Clerk: “One of the adult books on the shelf is gone. If it’s a misunderstanding, I apologize in advance. But for the time being, please allow me to check.”

Kiryu: “. . . You’re saying I shoplifted? That’s absurd. If you want to look in my bag, fine.”

{Kiryu unzips his bag.}

Kiryu: “As you can see . . . hn?!”

Kiryu: (‘Erotic Volcano Summer Special Issue’?! What is this doing in my bag . . . ?!)

Bookstore Clerk: “Th-This is . . . the lost H book!! There’s no doubt, the mystery is solved! You . . . shoplifter! Come here, I’m calling the police!”

Kiryu: “W-Wait! I didn’t shoplift! This . . . this is a mistake!”

Bookstore Clerk: “Oh you made a mistake and somehow this H book just fell into your bag without your permission?”

Kiryu: “Th-That’s . . .”

Bookstore Clerk: “Now come with me . . .”

Kiryu: “Please wait. Here, you can have my student ID. I can’t run away or hide. So please give me some time . . . I will definitely find the true criminal who framed me.”

{Kiryu runs off.}

Bookstore Clerk: “Ah! Wait!!”

----

[Nakamichi Alley]

Kiryu: “Haa . . . haa . . . I can’t find him at all . . . Where did that man go? I have to clear this misunderstanding with the clerk as soon as possible . . .”

Giant Man: “. . . Are you Kiryu Kazuma?”

Kiryu: “? . . . and if I am?”

Giant Man: “Apparently it’s true . . . but even if you’re a kid, I can’t forgive you. I’ll punish you!!”

Kiryu: “Tch. I’m in a hurry!”

{Kiryu defeats the Giant Man.}

Giant Man: “F-Fuck! To lose to a shoplifter of erotic books . . .”

Kiryu: “What?!”

Giant Man: “Because of you, Muramura Bookstore is closed . . . The store had the best assortment of erotic books!”

Kiryu: “W-Wait a minute . . . you think I’m a shoplifter?”

Giant Man: “You can’t hide your lechery by playing dumb! You’re absolutely unforgivable!”

Kiryu: “Wait! . . . Damn it, he’s gone. What does he mean? Why does that guy think I’m a shoplifter?”

City Man: “I thought he was a good kid, but that Kiryu-kun shoplifts H books.”

Kiryu: “?!”

City Woman: “Hey kid, shoplifting isn’t cute. If you want to know about H things, I can teach you.”

Kiryu: “?!”

Kiryu: “N-No way . . . does this mean the rumors of me shoplifting are spreading through the city? Only that bald guy could have done this, but why . . . ?!”

Kazama: “Kazuma . . .”

Kiryu: “O-Oyassan! What are you doing here?”

Kazama: “. . .”

Kiryu: “. . . ?”

Kazama: “. . . Ah, I’m sorry . . . I shouldn’t have thought that you’d stay a child forever. You’re going through puberty.”

Kiryu: “. . . Eh?”

Kazama: ‘I was like that too when I was your age. It’s not bad to be interested in such things.”

Kiryu: “Oyassan? What are you . . . D-Don’t tell me it reached even your ears!! O-Oyassan! It’s all a misunderstanding!!”

Kazama: “I know the kind of person you are. But are you saying the shoplifting is a misunderstanding?”

Kiryu: “Eh? Y-Yes! That’s right! I was screwed over . . . !”

Kiryu: (It’s Oyassan after all! He knows me better than anyone else . . .)

Kazama: “. . . Most of the time, such rumors are started even if you’re just browsing.”

Kiryu: “?!”

Kazama: “Next time, read it in a place where no one will find you. A man has to keep up appearances, after all.”

Kiryu: “O-Oyassan! I-It’s not like that!”

Kazama: “it’s alright . . . I know you want to hide your interests. But there’s nothing to be ashamed of.”

Kiryu: “No . . . that’s not . . .”

Kazama: “Don’t worry. I asked the guy who told me this not to tell anyone else.  . . . Oh, sorry. I was on my way to Patriarch Dojima. Let’s discuss this more later. Kazuma, I know you’re anxious, but you can always rely on me.”

{Kazama leaves Kiryu alone.}

Kiryu: “O-Oyassan . . . ! Th-This is the worst . . . Damn it, I have to find that bald guy and prove my innocence before the rumors spread even further . . . !”

.

-END-

.

CHAPTER 2

.

[Nakamichi Street]

Kiryu: “Haa . . . haa . . . That bald guy . . . I can’t find him at all.”

Mister: “Hey, isn’t that the boy who shoplifts H books? Haha, say . . . are you okay?”

Kiryu: “?!”

Young Woman: “You get withdrawal symptoms if you can’t steal H books, right? That’s scary.”

Kiryu: “?!”

Mister: “He has a bed made of H books at his house, and he can’t sleep without them . . . That’s abnormal.”

Kiryu: “?!”

Kiryu: “Oi! Wait a moment! I’m not a shoplifter! And-“

Mister: “Hiii! Did you get even more excited when we mentioned H books?! D-Don’t attack us!”

Young Woman: “Hiii! Don’t come any closer!”

{The two run away.}

Kiryu: “O-Oi! Wait . . . ! Damn it. Why are the shoplifting rumors so widespread . . . is it the work of that bald guy? And why are the rumors escalating? At this rate, I’m going to end up sounding terribly perverted . . . I need to prove my innocence quickly. But where on earth can I find that man?”

Nishikiyama: “Kiryu! Haa . . . haa . . . I finally found you.”

Kiryu: “Nishiki . . . ! What is it?”

Nishikiyama: “Haa . . . haa . . . you . . . I heard you shoplifted erotic books and got thrown into prison . . .”

Kiryu: “I’m in prison?!”

Nishikiyama: “Yeah, you’re an addict who shoplifts erotic books . . . many erotic bookstores have shut down from your erotic book shoplifting. Now that they’ve caught you, you can’t escape imprisonment.”

Kiryu: “That’s not true! It’s all a rumor.”

Nishikiyama: “. . . Rumor? So it’s not true?”

Kiryu: “It’s a lie. It’s all a lie.”

Nishikiyama: “. . . So it’s not true that you’ve shoplifted so many erotic books and became so addicted to shoplifting that you can’t sleep anymore?”

Kiryu: “Yeah . . . it’s a lie.”

Nishikiyama: “Haa . . . well, it was a good one. That little liar.”

Kiryu: “Little?”

Nishikiyama: “Yeah, there was a little old man telling passersby about it. So I thought you were in a pinch . . .”

Kiryu: “Why is the man spreading such a lie . . . Where was he?”

Nishikiyama: “Suppon Street. I just heard it a while ago, so he’s probably still there.”

Kiryu: “Damn him!”

{Kiryu runs off.}

Nishikiyama: “Oi! Kiryu, wait!”

----

[Suppon Street]

Petite Man: “So now, that Kiryu guy is . . . hm?”

Kiryu: “Hey, can you tell me the story of that Kiryu guy?”

Petite Man: “Oh, good. That Kiryu Kazuma is a shoplifter specializing in H books. It’s outrageous. Countless shops have been crushed by his shoplifting, the total amount of damage incurred is more than 10 million yen. Did you hear that Muramura Bookstore and Sukehira Land shut down recently? That was Kiryu’s work.”

Kiryu: “Huh . . . what an outrageous guy . . . So, where did you hear that big lie?”

Petite Man: “. . . Big lie? What do you know.”

Kiryu: “I know more than you. Because that Kiryu Kazuma is me.”

Petite Man: “?!”

{The man tries to run, but bumps into Nishiki.}

Nishikiyama: “Oops, can’t let you escape.”

Petite Man: “L-Let me go!”

Kiryu: “We’ll let you go. If you tell us why you’re spreading such a lie.”

Petite Man: “Gck . . . I’ll kill you!”

{Kiryu and Nishiki beat the guy up.}

Petite Man: “H-Hiii! S-Sorry! I’ll tell you anything! Please forgive me!”

Kiryu: “Then tell me . . . who are you?”

Petite Man: “I’m . . . Ken . . . I’m a thief . . . there’s two of us working together.”

Kiryu: “Thieves? Why’s a guy like you spreading lies about me?”

Ken: “M-My aniki asked me to . . .”

Kiryu: “Aniki?”

Ken: “He’s the boss of our little group. My aniki is a master a shoplifting, known as the Miraculous Tatsu.  . . . He’s the one who slipped that H book in your bag.”

Kiryu: “What?! Is that the guy with the shaved head?!”

Ken: “He wears a jumper, has a beard . . . has a lot of exposed skin on his head, yeah.”

Kiryu: “So it is him . . . Then why is he framing me and telling lies?”

Ken: “He said he had a grudge against Kiryu-san because he lost a fight to him once . . . That’s why he framed you as a shoplifter of H books and pinned his crime of making bookstores shut down on you.”

Nishikiyama: “What a guy.”

Kiryu: “What kind of person is that aniki of yours? Where is he now?”

Ken: “When he contacted me earlier, he said he was shoplifting back at that bookstore where you got accused.”

Kiryu: “. . . Alright. Then I’ll go to the bookstore. Follow me. I want you as my witness.”

Ken: “Y-Yes sir . . .”

.

-END-

.

CHAPTER 3

.

Bookstore Clerk: “. . .”

Bald Guy: (Oh? A new erotic book is out. Should I take 10 when the clerk takes his eyes off me? Kuku, how unfortunate for him that Miraculous Tatsu is here. I’ll keep shoplifting until the store shuts down.)

Kiryu: “I found him. The Miraculous Tatsu.”

Ken: “Aniki . . . I’m sorry . . .”

Miraculous Tatsu: “. . . Hm? . . .Kiryu . . . and . . . Ken?!”

Bookstore Clerk: “Hm? Ah, you shoplifter!! I won’t let you run this time!”

Kiryu: “Wait, Mr. Clerk. I’m not the shoplifter. That bald guy is the one who put the book in my bag and framed me.”

Bookstore Clerk: “Eh?!”

Miraculous Tatsu: “. . . I don’t know what he’s talking about. Can you stop imposing your sins on others?”

Kiryu: “There’s no use trying to squeeze your way out of this. Your subordinate has ratted you out already. Right?”

Ken: “Y-Yes . . . my aniki framed Kiryu for the shoplifting . . .”

Miraculous Tatsu: “. . . tch.”

Bookstore Clerk: “Wh-what! So it was you!”

Miraculous Tatsu: “. . . I don’t know that guy. Kiryu just brought him up as a false witness.”

Bookstore Clerk: “What was that . . . is that right?! Boy!”

Kiryu: “Don’t be stupid. That guy’s the criminal!”

Bookstore Clerk: “Wh-Which one is telling the truth . . .”

Miraculous Tatsu: “Mr. Clerk. Are you going to listen to a shoplifter? Isn’t this guy the villain who’s been getting bookstores shut down?”

Kiryu: “?!”

Miraculous Tatsu: “If you don’t make up your mind quickly, your store will be destroyed.”

Bookstore Clerk: “I-I won’t forgive you! I’ll protect this bookstore! This time I’m not letting you go, I’m calling the police!”

Kiryu: “Fuck . . .”

Miraculous Tatsu: “Hehe . . . give it up, Kiryu. You’ll forever be known as the pervert who steals erotic books.”

Kiryu: “I’m . . . not a shoplifter . . . or a pervert . . . !”

Miraculous Tatsu: “Heh, shoplifting ‘Erotic Volcano Summer Special Issue’, you don’t have an excuse.”

Kiryu: “. . . wait. You . . . why do you know the name of the book?”

Miraculous Tatsu: “. . . Ah?!”

Bookstore Clerk: “?!”

Kiryu: “The ones who know the title should only be me and the clerk here.”

Bookstore Clerk: “Surely you have an explanation, customer. Why do you know the title?”

Miraculous Tatsu: “Th-That is . . .”

Kiryu: “If you can’t say it, I’ll answer. There’s only one reason . . . because you’re the one who put it in my bag.”

Miraculous Tatsu: “Fuck . . .”

Bookstore Clerk: “Customer. Do you have anything else to say in your defense?”

Miraculous Tatsu: “Tch!”

Kiryu: “You can’t escape.”

Miraculous Tatsu: “That’s it! I’ll kill you!”

Kiryu: “If you can do it, then go ahead. On behalf of all the bookstores you put out of business . . . I’ll crush you again!!”

{Kiryu defeats the guy.}

Miraculous Tatsu: “Hiii! Please forgive me! I’ll confess to everything! I-I’ll admit I did it!!!! So please stop!!!!”

Kiryu: “. . . so that’s it then. Mr. Clerk, please handle this guy and the other one.”

Ken: “Hiii . . . “

Bookstore Clerk: “Y-Yeah. I’ll take care for them and hand them over to the police. And . . . thank you. Because of you, I’ve finally caught the real shoplifter. I’m sorry I suspected you of shoplifting H books.”

Kiryu: “. . . You just did your job. You don’t need to apologize.”

Bookstore Clerk: “But . . . there’s rumors about you in the city, right? That you stole H books . . .”

Kiryu: “. . .”

Bookstore Clerk: “I’m sorry about that. I’ll take full responsibility for the rumors. If I spread word that you were framed, the rumors should disappear in a few days.”

Kiryu: “Really?”

Bookstore Clerk: “Yeah. I know a rumor-loving Aunt who lives in a radio tower in Kamurocho. I’m sure the rumors will be managed.”

----

Kiryu: “. . . Phew. The rumors are likely to settle down now with this.”

Nishikiyama: “Kiryu! How was it?”

Kiryu: “Nishiki . . . things should be fine. I caught the criminal and cleared up my name.”

Nishikiyama: “Hehe, I’m glad. Well, even if you were accused of shoplifting erotic books, you have to admit it was funny.”

Kiryu: “. . . I’m not laughing.”

Nishikiyama: “Well, anyway, at least the case is settled.”

Giant Man: “Oh! You! I finally found you!”

Kiryu: “! You . . . we met earlier . . . I’m not a shoplifter.”

Giant Man: “Hehe, yeah it was a mistake. I heard it was all a lie. Sorry you got framed.”

Kiryu: “Really . . . ? Then what’s this about?”

Giant Man: “Did you get it? Did you buy ‘Erotic Volcano Summer Special Issue’? Even if you’re young, I want to discuss it with you!”

Kiryu: “. . .”

Nishikiyama: “This . . . the rumors aren’t going to disappear any time soon, huh . . .”

.

-END-

Masterlist

[gentlemen-of-lies]

Gentlemen of Lies, chapter 3

Making friends with a bald man on a bicycle

(Next chapter) (Chapter 2)

————

Curt had heard about Bletchley Park, not much to spark any sort of special interest, but he knew it held a significant role in the war, breaking German codes, and even developing brand new technology. So he was quite excited to see it in action.

Unfortunately, his expectations were dashed almost as soon as they arrived. According to Owen, while Bletchley was still part of the British Intelligence, it stopped its code breaking in 1946, after the war had ended. And was really only used now for training certain workers, such as teachers, or air traffic controllers. Andrew Hayes was one of the trainers, not a very a cool role in Curt’s opinion. Was he even part of MI6? Apparently he had used to be. Not a Bletchley worker, although his girlfriend had been, but a spy during the war, his German coming in handy. Now his German only came in handy if he so happened to train a German to be a teacher, which he never did. And Curt was now realising why Hayes was a suspect in the first place. MI6 had essentially dropped him as soon as the war had ended, keeping him on only while it was convenient for them.

They didn’t even enter the building, Owen said there was no need for Hayes to accidentally spot them, as it may blow their case. He said it was better to wait until they saw him leave and then keep an eye on him. Their viewing spot was on another bench, round the corner from the building’s main exit and entrance, a good area to observe the entire front driveway, but still keeping out of sight from those leaving and entering. Curt shuffled around in his seat.

“Stop fidgeting,” reprimanded Owen. Curt glared at him.

“I can’t help it, those clothes you gave me are too tight.” Curt had opened up the duffel back once he’d returned to his hostel last night, and had found a white collared shirt, and a brown jacket, much neater and cleaner than his own clothes.

“They look fine.”

“Doesn’t matter how they look, they feel like plastic.”

“When you’re undercover, it does matter how it looks, and your comfort means nothing. Get a hold of yourself, Mega. You’re the one who has to follow Hayes. If he catches me, he’ll know what’s happening immediately.”

“Then why are you here?”

“To make sure you’re following the right person.” Curt raised an eyebrow, annoyed at Owen’s clear conviction that Curt was useless as a spy. Well, he’d sure show Owen. He was determined to solve this case himself, and rub it in both Owen and Cynthia’s faces.

While they waited, Curt observed his immediate surroundings, seeing the green spaces and the gated entrances. He wasn’t one to ponder the past, or be sentimental in any way, but he couldn’t help but think about all that was achieved here during the war, and seeing how soon it had come crashing down. It went from breaking top secret codes, to teaching middle aged men how to land a plane. From the best mathematicians in the world, to people who simply needed a pay check. It certainly made him think about the unpredictability of his own job, how soon things change, how different one day is from the other. It wasn’t a thought he was particularly keen on entertaining, so he brushed it aside.

Besides, he had spotted a suspect. Not Hayes, but Lawson. Lawson was exiting the building from a different direction, out of sight from Owen. Curt followed the man with his eyes. What he really wanted to do was follow him properly, but Owen would never let him. So he tried to keep him in sight as long as possible, maybe work out where he was heading. It was impossible of course; he could have been heading anywhere. All he managed to mentally note down was that Lawson was cycling down a road joining from the other side of Bletchley.

“There’s Hayes,” alerted Owen. Curt pulled his eyes away from where Lawson had rounded a corner, and fixated them on their new target: Andrew Hayes. He was a rather short man, bespectacled, slightly balding. Didn’t look like much of a threat, if Curt was being honest, but then... those who didn’t look like a threat were usually the opposite. Or at least, they were in his experience.

Hayes placed a black briefcase into the front basket on his bicycle, and began to ride away. Owen nudged Curt to stand up.

“Quick, follow him. But don’t be too obvious.” Curt gave him a disbelieving look, about to say something, but Owen pointed firmly at the receding figure, and Curt had no choice but to jog to catch up with the man, slowing down as soon as he could in case he was spotted. How was he supposed to follow a man on a bike without running? Or at least speed walking, both of which would arouse suspicion. But luckily for him, Hayes seemed to be taking it easy, just a nice afternoon bike ride on the rare days of sunshine, so it wasn’t long before Curt could comfortably walk behind him, at a safe distant, and not lose sight of the man.

Curt was expecting Hayes to go straight home, so he wasn’t sure what his plan of action would be afterwards. He couldn’t exactly spy on him in his own home. Maybe with a bit more experience he could, but at the moment, he didn’t want to risk screwing anything up.

But thankfully, the man stopped at a café, parking his bicycle outside and as Curt watched, he went to the counter to order something, and sat down at one of the neighbouring tables. Even better, the café was practically full. Curt had a plan of action.

He waited a few minutes before entering the café himself, ordered a coffee from the girl behind the counter and went over to Hayes.

“Is this seat taken?” He asked, pointing to the chair opposite from where Hayes was sitting. Hayes looked a little bewildered at the imposition, but he gestured at the chair, signalling that it was free. Curt sat down.

“You’re an American?” Hayes asked.

“Yeah. Just arrived here a few days ago.”

“How are you liking it?”

“Weather’s not great, but the people are swell.” Actually the people either ignored him or “took the piss out of him”, a phrase he’d picked up from Bill the receptionist. But he certainly didn’t want to insult the country of the guy he was supposed to making friends with.

“That’s good to hear.” The waiter came over with Hayes’s coffee, along with a jam tart he’d also ordered. Hayes thanked the waiter, and turned back to Curt. “So how come you’re here anyway?” Curt couldn’t believe his luck: Hayes was a talker. Usually he had to work to get any information out of someone, especially a stranger.

“Visiting family. My mom’s side is British.” Wasn’t true of course. His mom’s side had never even left the state, let alone the country. “This is the first time I’ve been though, my job got me travelling...” Curt hoped Hayes would take the bait.

“What’s your job?” Bingo.

“Before the war I worked as a travel writer for a newspaper. I’m finally able to get back to it.”

“You’re lucky you got your job back. I lost mine, work as a teacher now.”

“What was your job before?”

“Oh, just a government position. Nothing too important.” Curt’s coffee finally arrived, and he took a sip of it before continuing. He had to keep Hayes talking, long enough for them to strike up a proper rapport.

“How come you lost it then?” Hayes didn’t respond right away. He took a bite out of his tart.

“Not sure, if I’m honest. The war turned everything on its head.”

“Did you fight in it?”

“No, I still kept my position. Helped the effort of course, but I wasn’t a soldier. What about you?”

“Sure, I fought in it.” Curt hadn’t stepped foot on the battlefield, but Hayes didn’t need to know that. Frankly, it was a good opportunity to make himself look cool. An opportunity he had no intention of letting go. “Of course, our soldiers did a lot of the clean up, but I fought in a few battles.”

“Well, that’s awfully brave of you.”

“Why thank you, sir.” Curt noticed his American accent becoming... extra American. It was a tip he’d soon picked up for himself. The more American you sounded, the more people were intrigued. Especially the ladies.

Curt was about to continue, but all of a sudden, he spotted someone outside. By some pure trick of fate, Lawson was wandering down the street, wheeling his bike beside him. The bike seemed to have a puncture, an observation confirmed by Lawson heading into a bike shop that stood just across from the café. This was Curt’s chance.

He thought of Owen. Owen would be pissed. But what did he care? He didn’t even like Owen. And besides, he was starting to get suspicious- not just of Lawson- but from Owen himself. Why was Owen so adamant that Lawson wasn’t a suspect? What sort of spy ruled out anyone just because of a gut feeling? Curt had a duty to follow Lawson. Owen couldn’t get pissed at him for doing his duty.

“I’m going to have to say good day to you, sir,” Curt said to Hayes, tipping an imaginary hat for added effect. “’Fraid I must get going, gotta deadline to meet. But it was nice meeting you.”

“It was nice meeting you too.”

“You here often? I wouldn’t mind catching up now and again before I head back to the States.” Curt thought he might as well do something he was ordered to do. No point in losing a connection to one of the suspects.

“Um, yes, I come here after work every day.”

“Well then, I hope to see you again.”

“And you. You can tell me all about America. Fascinating place, I’ve heard.”

“It sure is, and I’d be happy to talk to you about it.” He tried to wrap the conversation up as soon as he could, not wanting to lose sight of Lawson. He didn’t know how long he’d be in that shop for. Should he enter the shop? Or simply hang back, follow him when he had exited onto the street?

“Are you alright?” Asked Hayes, suddenly. Shit. Curt’s mind had wandered off and he’d forgotten to continue speaking.

“Uh, yeah. Sure. I’ll be going then.” Hayes nodded in acknowledgement, probably getting sick of him by now, which wasn’t what he had intended. Curt turned around, handed a five pound note to the lady at the counter, tipped the waiter, and left the shop. The little bell by the door tinkling as he did so.

He didn’t want Hayes to spot him hanging around, so he ducked into the nearest alleyway, still on the same side of the street as the café, waiting for Lawson to come out. He had to wait some time, checking his watch every so often, tapping his feet impatiently. When Lawson did make an appearance, what was he going to do about it? Strike up a conversation? Follow him home. Perhaps he hadn’t thought this through so well.

But he didn’t have time for a self-evaluation, as at that moment, the door of the bike shop opened and Lawson stepped out onto the pavement. This was it.

There was no opportunity to bump into him, start up a friendly interaction. Curt had no choice but to simply stray behind him, his head bent low, walking on the opposite side of the street. Lawson didn’t have his bike with him, so it was a little harder to stay out of sight. He wanted to at least find out where Lawson lived. Even if he didn’t yet make any sort of move, he could always return at a later date with a proper plan in mind, and perhaps even convince Owen to let him trail the guy.

The walk wasn’t too long. Lawson lived down a road lined with flats, his flat being in one of the first buildings coming into the street. Curt couldn’t do much else except note down the street name and the building number, but after a few minutes, when Lawson was safely inside, Curt walked up the front steps, hoping to find one of those signs, markers, whatever they were called, that had the surnames and flat number of each resident.

Indeed, the building did have said sign. But weirdly- suspiciously- Lawson wasn’t listed. Only by process of elimination could Curt work out that Lawson lived in flat 2B. It was the only flat not listed. Good piece of information, Mega. You’re doing well.

He could easily trail Hayes and Lawson without Owen finding out about the latter.

Curt smiled to himself. He’d solve this case, no doubt about it.

[javajunkieao3]

Benny/Beth Fic:  Being Alive - Part 9

For the next few months, Benny and Beth alternate visits between Kentucky and New York.   They hadn’t discussed a permanent solution to their problem, which both of them knew they would have to eventually, but for now their arrangement was working.  The US Open is in Vegas again and they meet in the Caesar’s Palace lobby.  Benny makes some teasing comment but she has already dropped her luggage and thrown her arms around him.

           “Geez guys, get a room,” a voice says behind them.  

The voice belongs to one of two people, whose voices are as indiscernible as their identical faces.

           “Hello boys,” Benny says smoothly, his arm slung over Beth’s shoulders. “Any insider tips for us?”

           The twins were helping out at the tournament, no doubt swayed by the comped rooms and meals.

           “You know we could disqualify you for even asking that,” Mike says good-naturedly, knowing Benny was only joking.

           “The Federation could have us wired for all you know,” Matt adds.

           “The Federation is too worried about brownnosing with Nixon to worry about who you two are talking to,” Benny says.

           “He has a point,” Mike says.  “We are very low on the totem pole.”

           “Did you hear Gorsky is here?”  Matt says, missing the way Beth’s face pales.  “He wasn’t supposed to come, but he got added last minute.  We had to rearrange all the initial plays.”

           “We should rest-up before the games start this afternoon,” Beth says.  “It was good seeing you two.”

           “Yeah, you too,” Mike says.  “We’ll see you guys later.”      

           Beth doesn’t talk on their way to the room, and after Benny opens the door she immediately runs over to the bathroom and pukes.  Benny crouches next to her, rubbing her back.

           “You don’t have to worry about Gorsky.  You could beat him in your sleep.”

           “I know.”  She stands up and washes her mouth out in the sink.

           Benny can tell she doesn’t want to talk about it further, and so instead he asks her, “What do you want to do for lunch?  We can just order room service.”

           Beth nods.  “That sounds great.  Thanks.”

           She unpacks her suitcase and hangs her dresses up in the closet, carefully smoothing any wrinkles from the skirts.  Benny watches her and asks, “Which one are you wearing today?”

           “I’m not sure yet.”  She usually has each day’s outfit planned in advance, but this time she had hesitated, throwing in more than enough for the three-day tournament.  Her hand lingers on a cream shift dress that she brought. She planned to pair it with a turquoise cardigan, but quickly realizes she left it at home.

           “How do burgers sound?”  Benny asks from the bed, the phone wedged between his ear and shoulder.

           “Burgers sound great.”

----

           After lunch, Beth settles on a deep green dress with white piping throughout the bodice, and she sits at the table for her first match.  A short balding man sits across from her.  He fidgets before they even start to play, and after her first decisive move, the fidgeting increases.  In theory, all the players at the Open should be good, but she beats him in less than thirty minutes.  She continued her streak, some games taking longer than others, and then she is finished for the day.  Benny is still playing and she can tell from the board that it will be a long time before they are finished.  Maybe even the possibility of an adjournment. Beth watches for twenty minutes or so and then stands, wandering through the casino. She stops at a roulette table and watches a group of nicely dressed couples play.  As the roulette wheel spins, a familiar thought presses at the back of Beth’s mind.

           She missed her period.

           She’s thought about it at least on an hourly basis since she reached day 10, and then with each additional day, she thought about it more.  The only time she didn’t think about it was when she was playing chess.  Even during the easy games, her mind became too occupied by the board.  It had been a relief that afternoon to just play.  But then when it was over, the thoughts returned.

           In the beginning, she could tell herself that it was because of stress. It was difficult with all the travel back and forth between Kentucky and New York, and she didn’t like being away from Benny.  But then she started getting sick in the morning.  And sometimes in the afternoon, too.  At a certain point, she had to accept the reality of her situation.  She was pregnant.

           And she still hadn’t told Benny.

           She walks past one of several bars in the casino, surprised when she recognizes the back of a head.  Her feet propel her forward and she reaches out a hand that seems to cover his shoulder of its own accord.

           “Townes?”

           He turns around and she’s hugging him, just like in Moscow, and he murmurs, “Harmon, it sure is good to see you.”

           “What are you doing here?”  

           “I’m covering the tournament for the Kentucky Chronicle.”

           She sits next to him and orders a club soda.  It occurs to her that she now has more than one reason to do so.    

           “You look different,” he says, and for a panicked second she thinks that he knows. “You look happy.”

           His words surprise her.  Had she not looked happy before?  She asks him that and he laughs slightly, shaking his head.  “No, you seemed happy.  But this is different.  You seem, I don’t know, content.”

           “I guess I am in a way.”

           “I heard about you and Benny Watts,” Townes says.  “I can’t say I wasn’t a little jealous.”   She raises an eyebrow, her breath quickening, and he adds, “I’m just imaging all the great chess games you guys must play.”

           Beth laughs, relieved by the turn that took.  “We do play a lot of chess.  But not all the time.  Sometimes it surprises me how normal we are.”

           “Normal is good.”

           “How about you and Roger?” she asks.

           “We’re doing good,” Townes says, taking a sip of his drink.  It looks like whiskey.  Beth couldn’t remember if she had ever seen him drink before.  “So, what’s new with you?  There has to be something since we last saw each other.”

           It’s such an opportune question that she almost tells him.  Because it’s Townes and something about him had always felt safe to her, even when her feelings confused things, but she doesn’t.  She feels guilty for even thinking it.

           “I’m going to start classes at a community college near me,” Beth says.

           “Don’t tell me you’re leaving us,” Townes says.

           “No, I’m not leaving you,” she says with a grin.  “Just exploring a bit.”

           “I think that’s good,” he says, taking a sip of his whiskey.  “There’s more to life than chess.”

           She leans in and says, “I don’t think you’re supposed to say that at a chess tournament.”

           He matches her stature and says, “I won’t tell, if you don’t.”

           He grins and she can’t help herself from grinning back, and then someone clears their throat behind them.

           “Benny Watts,” Townes says jovially.  “It’s nice to see you.”

           “Yeah, you too.”  She can tell from his tone that he’s irritated.

           “How’d your game go?”  Beth asks, hoping to reduce the tension.

           “We adjourned.  Are you ready to get some dinner?”

           Beth nods, slipping off her stool.  “It was good to see you, Townes.”

           “You too, Beth.  Best of luck to you with everything.”

           She nods and follows Benny out of the bar.  He isn’t saying anything, which is how she knows that he’s mad.

           “Benny-“

           “Did I interrupt something over there?”

           “Of course not.  We were just talking.”

           He nods, jaw clenched, and she doesn’t want to deal with a pissed off Benny all night, so she takes a hold of his arm and stops him.  Before she can say anything, he asks, “Did you guys sleep together in Paris?”

           “What?  No. Why would you think that?”

           Benny makes a sort of scoffing noise and she plants her hands on her hips. “Benny, we didn’t sleep together because Townes is gay.”

           He blinks rapidly and says, “What?”

           “It’s not exactly common knowledge, but he’s gay.  And in a relationship.  So, no, we didn’t sleep together.  And, no, you didn’t walk in on anything back at the bar.”

           “Shit, I’m sorry,” he says.  “I just heard some stuff before, and I just sort of assumed…”

           “I know,” she says.  “But, even if he wasn’t, there still wouldn’t have been anything happening at the bar.”

           Benny looks chagrined, and he says, “I probably shouldn’t have jumped to conclusions there.  My game wasn’t going like I wanted, so I came in a little hot to begin with, and then I saw you together…”

           “Are you in bad shape for tomorrow?”  she asks immediately.

           “No, I should be fine.  I just made a move I shouldn’t have, and he ran with it.”

           “Do you want to go through some combinations tonight?”

           Benny looks at her and says, “I’m a total jerk and you still want to go through combinations?”

           “You’re the one who told me before that the Americans are at a disadvantage because we don’t work as a team.”

           Benny smiles slightly and shakes his head.  “Yeah, I did say that.”

           “And you’re not a jerk.  I understand why you thought you saw what you saw.”  She wonders then if Cleo ever told him about her being in love with Townes. “So, dinner first?”

           He nods, capturing her hand in his.  “Yeah, dinner first.”

----

            The next morning, Beth wakes up with a headache and immediate nerves.  Ever since she almost told Townes about her pregnancy, it had become increasingly more apparent how she had not told Benny. At first, she rationalized it that she didn’t want to distract him from the game.  But, she had been getting sick before she left for Vegas.  The truth was, the moment that she told him it became real.

           She purposely didn’t eat before her morning slate of games so that she wouldn’t get sick.  But, it seemed that food had very little to do with the entire process, and she leaves her first game twice to dry heave into a waste basket in the women’s bathroom. It seems unfair that this can still happen and nothing comes up.  She knows Benny noticed and when she gets up during her second game, Benny is waiting for her outside the bathroom.

           “Beth, what’s going on?”

           “I’m fine.  I think I just ate something weird at breakfast.”

           “You didn’t eat breakfast.”

           Irritation crackles in her chest, and she snaps, “Benny, just leave it for now.  I’m fine.  We both have games to play.”

           “What do you mean, leave it for now?”

           She’s tired and her stomach hurts from all of the retching.  All she wants to do is go sit back down at the chessboard and forget about everything else, but Benny is insistent, and she can tell from his stance that he isn’t going to go back to his game without an explanation.

           “Fine,” she huffs.  “If you must know, I’m pregnant.”

           His eyes widen.  “You’re what?”

           “And I need to go back to my game before I have to go dry heave again in fifteen minutes.  Excuse me.”

           She walks back to her board, feeling marginally guilty when she sees Benny reappear, his face completely devoid of color.  She forces her attention back on the board and is able to successfully close the game without having to go back to the bathroom.  She quickly buys a muffin from a café between games and gets half of it down before she has to start her next game.  She’s relieved to see that Benny wins his game.  And then he wins his next too, and so does she. When the day is finally over, Beth is relieved until Benny comes up to her and says, “We have to talk.”

           He waits until they are in their room and then asks, “Are you sure about this?”

           “I’m a month late.  So, yeah, I’m pretty sure.”

           She expects him to share her consternation over the situation, but instead, he grins wide, placing his hands on her stomach.

           “Stop that,” she says, swatting his hands away.  “It’s not like anything is really there yet.”

           “You’re not happy,” he says in disbelief.

           “I don’t know what I am,” she says, sitting on the edge of the bed.  “I know I said I wanted to explore life outside of chess, but this…this is an end to all of it.”

           “That’s not true.”        

           “How can I possibly go to tournaments with a baby?  And then if you get to go, I’ll just grow to resent you for it, and-“

           “Hey, slow down,” he says, sitting next to her and taking a hold of her hands. “Who said you can’t go to tournaments?”

           “Be practical.”

           “I am.  We can find a way to make this work.”

           “How can we possibly make this work?”  she asks, her voice strained.  “Think of this weekend.  How could we possibly make something like this weekend work with a baby?”

           “We have family.”

           “Oh, you mean your alcoholic mother?  Or wait, what about me?  Oh, that’s right, I’m an orphan whose adoptive father won’t even acknowledge exists.”

           “Then we’ll bring the baby with us.”

           “Benny, come on,” she says.  It’s ridiculous and she doesn’t see how he doesn’t see that.

           “We’re not the first people in chess to start a family.  Borgov has a family.”

           “Borgov’s wife doesn’t play chess.  I’m not going to just become the person who holds the baby while you travel around the country, Benny.  I won’t.”

           “Do you really think I’d expect you to do that?”  Benny asks sharply.

           “No,” Beth admits.  “I just don’t know how to do this.  Any of it.”

           “We’ll figure it out,” Benny repeats, his voice softening.  “But this baby is a good thing.”

           Beth looks over at him, and although she still believes this could all be a disaster, the look in his eyes makes her believe it a little less.

           “How will becoming a father fit in with your image as the rock star of chess?”

           He shakes his head and says, “As long as I’ve got you, I don’t need to be the rock star of anything.”

           She holds his hands against her stomach and says, “I’m scared.”

           “I know.  But, we can handle this.”

           He’s such a steady force.  He always has been.  Even when being around him made her heart beat like mad – either out of nerves in the beginning, or something else later on – there had been a sureness that he brought out in her.  Sureness that she could learn to beat him.  Sureness that she could learn to love him as much as he loved her.  She looks down at his hands, getting a crazy idea, and it sounds even crazier when she says it aloud.  “We should get married.”

           “What?”  Benny asks.

           “We can just go down to one of those 24-hour chapels.”

           “Is this because of the baby?”

           “Partially,” Beth admits.  She isn’t one for convention, but being a child born out of wedlock had left its scars. “But mostly, it’s because of you.”

           Benny pauses and then says, “Yeah, okay.  Let’s get married.”

----

           Beth throws on her cream dress, which turns out to be of use even without the turquoise cardigan, and Benny wears his nicer pair of jeans and a black button-up.  They need a witness, so they stop at the twins’ room.

           “Beth and I are getting married.  Any chance one of you wants to be the witness?”

           Mike grins wide.  “There’s not a chance in hell you’re only getting one of us.  Matt, let’s go!”

----

           It turns out there’s a chapel in the hotel and they go there, ducking their heads down when some other players from the tournament see them walking in.

           “I feel like we maybe should have gone somewhere else,” Beth says.

           “Nah, I think this chapel is perfect.”  

           “Are you going to change your last name to Watts?”  Mike asks Beth.  “Because then we’ll have to update the board.”

           “You both would be B. Watts,” Matt says with dawning realization.  “That won’t work.”

           “That definitely won’t work,” Mike echoes.

           “I’m keeping my last name,” Beth says firmly.

           The twins look over to Benny and he shrugs.  “Looks like she’s keeping her name, boys.”

           There’s one couple ahead of them who appears to be several bottles deep into the night, and when Beth and Benny walk up, the officiant says, “You two look remarkably sober.”

           “That’s because we are,” Benny says.

           “Well, look at that.  I might actually officiate a wedding that doesn’t end in divorce.  Do you have a witness?”

           “We have two,” Beth says, gesturing to the twins.

           “Sober and over-prepared.  What a marvel.  Alright, let’s get you two married.”

           The wedding is short and sweet.  They realize on the spot that they hadn’t thought of rings, and Benny uses two he is already wearing.  He gives her the one he wore when they first met.  She remembers how he always played with it between moves.  They don’t do any sort of special vows but when Benny kisses her, she is the happiest she has ever been.  

----

           The next morning, Townes catches her in the elevator – Benny had already gone downstairs for his game – and he says, “I heard a rumor.  It sounds like I can’t call you Harmon anymore.”

           Beth grins and confirms, “Benny and I got married last night.  But, I’m keeping my last name.  So, you can still call me Harmon.”

           He nods.  “I’m glad to hear that.  I’m happy for you.  It seems like you’re in a really good place.”

           Beth doesn’t know if that is true or not given the particular circumstance he is unaware of, but she wants to believe him.  When the doors open, Townes gestures for her to go first and says, “Good luck on your game, Harmon.  Kentucky and me are rooting for you.”

           “Thanks, Townes.”

           When Beth gets to her chair, there is a piece of paper on it that says Mrs. Benny Watts.  She looks over to the twins, who are watching her with glee.  Shaking her head, she crumples the paper into a ball and walks over to them, holding it out in her palm.

           Mike grins, taking the balled-up paper, and says, “Never change, Harmon.”

           “I won’t.”

[johnnypsycho]

As a rule, generally, when I’m hitchhiking I avoid major interstates and cities and concentrate on back roads, small towns, and rural routes; everyone is always in such a hurry on the interstate. The rest areas won’t let you sleep in them. Too many semi trucks, driving too close to the shoulder. Too many bridges with no emergency lane. There is too much noise...for me hitchhiking isn’t about the destination, it’s about the journey. If I’m going to walk 3,000 miles, I want to enjoy it as much as possible.

This time, however, I was in a little bit of a hurry; the Circus tour was going to start in a week, in northern Vermont, and I was still almost 1,500 miles away in Tallahassee, Fla., having just stopped in to visit my brother at Florida State University.

I had been on the road for a couple of months at this point; I left Savannah, Ga. in May, and headed to Los Angeles to see a girl I was in love with...it didn’t work out, of course, and I turned around about half way there, in Texas (after spending a weekend in jail on a vagrancy charge, and a few days with a friend of a friend, in Tyler.), and headed east with no particular destination in mind. When, during a phone call to my mother, I was reminded that the Circus was getting ready to start again, I called the Circus Barn, in Greensboro, and let them know I would be there...

So, I started out on I-10 E, and made my way towards the dreaded I-95 N/S corridor; a total shit show, true, but I would probably make it back in 3 or 4 days.

I made it to Jacksonville by late that same night, and wasn’t tired, so I decided to keep going through the night and get some rest the next day, or maybe someone would pick me up and let me crash at their place, which happened more than you might think.

It was past midnight when an older model sedan slowed down as they passed and pulled over to the side of the road. I jogged up to the car, and a young kid, maybe 14 or 15, thin, with dark hair and that deep brown Florida tan, rolled down the passenger side window and asked if I needed a ride. I said I sure did, opened the back door, threw in my backpack, and slid onto the dark leather seats. The car smelled of cigarettes...

The driver turned on the overhead light and turned around. “How ya doin’? I’m Heyward, this here’s Justin. Where ya headed?” He looked to be about 50; overweight and balding, Marlboro red hanging from his lips.

I told them, briefly, where I was going and why. He said he couldn’t take me that far, but would a few exits up help? “It sure would.”, I said. “Well, let’s get going,” he said.

Justin, the young kid, turned around and started talking to me; asking me where I came from; wanting to hear about the circus; small talk...I noticed in the dim light of the back seat, that he was covered in cheap pin prick tattoos; crude nude women, some weird symbols, odd dates. Across his knuckles, on both hands, were names...

“So, can I suck your dick?”, he said...

“What was that?” I asked, thinking I must have misheard.

“Can I suck your dick? I love to suck dick.” Heyward, driving, hadn’t turned around.

“Uh...nah. Thanks, though. I’m good.”

“Y’oughta let him. Little fucker can suck a golf ball through a garden hose,” said a no longer silent Heyward, still not taking his eyes off the road.

This is another reason I avoid interstates...

“I won this cute little shit right here in a poker game at a truck stop, a few months ago, and I ain’t never had my dick sucked so good. Tight little ass, too, if that’s more what you’re into...”

The names tattooed on Justin’s hands were the names of his previous ���owners’. He was 14, and had run away from a state home when he was twelve. He had been selling his ass from truck stop to truck stop ever since...with no shortage of buyers.

I was starting to get a little worried. I wasn’t scared; I was 21 and strong and more than capable of defending myself against a fat, middle aged pervert and his 14 year old street meat partner. I didn’t want to have to kill anyone, though...and it kinda looked like I might have to, if they decided to not let me out of the car.

“I’m good, guys. Really. If that’s the only reason y’all stopped, you might as well let me out. I’m not gonna change my mind.”

“Well, shit,” said Heyward, still not slowing down, “you’re a good looking guy. We could have some fun. I’ll spring for a room, buy us some booze and food...? If you don’t want to get fucked, we’ll let you do all the pitchin’, and we can just catch. You don’t have to suck nothin’. “

“Nah, my man. Not gonna happen.”

“Alright, then. I’m just gonna let you out right here. That Ok?”

“Sure is. Thanks.”

He pulled over and stopped. I grabbed my stuff, and got out.

They drove off, and I started walking. I just shook my head, and wondered about other people’s lives, and how we end up where we do.

About 30 minutes later, the same older model sedan drove slowly past, and pulled over on the shoulder in front of me...

At this point, I’m more than a little concerned about what might happen next; I immediately go on high alert. My heart is racing. Are these guys about to try to kidnap me? Is this shit about to get very, very real? The car starts backing up...the passenger side window rolls slowly down as they get closer. Justin sticks his head out the window...I set my backpack down on the ground beside me, and get ready to fight.

“Listen, we’ll give you $100 bucks, and Heyward can just watch me suck your dick. You can fuck me, and we’ll leave, and let you have the room to yourself. It don’t have to be too gay, and shit.”

“Like I said, I’m good. I really need you guys to leave me alone. Kinda creeping me out.”

He pulls his head back inside and says something to Heyward.

He sticks his head out again, “$200, and I just suck your dick. No fuckin’. “

“Not gonna happen.”

“Well, shit. That’s too bad. I really want to suck your dick.”

“Sorry, bud.”

“Ok. See you around.”

“Not likely,” I said.

They pull away, slowly. Their taillights fade into the night. I grab my pack, and continue my late night walk alongside the busy freeway.

I wonder if Justin will live to see 15...

“Chris! Come here. I want you to meet someone...” Desha called to me from across the room, snapping me out of my reverie; she had been bouncing around from group to group of people I didn’t know, hugging and laughing all the way. We were on the top floor of some hotel outside of Atlanta, where a local swingers group was having a party. The group had rented the whole floor and all the rooms were open to one another. Naked people were everywhere; a woman was giving head to five or six guys in the middle of this room while a crowd gathered around. Some guys were jerking off while another couple was fucking off to the side on one of the couches...This was my first time ever attending a party like this; Desha had assured me I would love it. Of course, as had become the norm lately, I was rolling my balls off, having taken 3-4 tabs of X shortly before we arrived...

“This is my friend, Andy. I haven’t seen her in forever,”

Andy was a tall blonde woman, maybe 35 years old. Fit, attractive, and very naked.

“Let’s find an empty bed, somewhere.”, said Desha.

As we went from room to room looking for an empty bed with our new found friend, everyone was looking at me, The New Guy, as if I were a piece of meat. Men and women, singles and couples...I wasn’t even a person. I was a just new cock in the mix; ripe for the fucking. It felt oddly...dirty...there were strobe lights and loud music and all manner of moans coming from every corner of every room. EVERYONE knew Desha. I could hear people talking about us, and who we were going to fuck, or, more accurately, who got to fuck us...

We found a bed.

“Sit down here,” said Andy, as she grabbed me by the hand and pulled me towards the bed.

I sat down as she turned and grabbed Desha by the back of the head and began kissing her. They began to make out feverishly; Andy stripping off Desha’s clothes; both exploring each other’s bodies. She laid Desha down on the bed, head next to my lap, and went down on her as though life itself depended on it.

The two of them traded orgasms for an indeterminate amount of time as I sat - so very high - next to them on the edge of the bed. Even though I was new to this scene, I knew that they controlled the pace of whatever would happen next, so I kept my hands to myself, and just watched...

“Take off your clothes,” Desha told me, between gasps, “I want you to fuck Andy. Remember, no kissing. I just want to watch you fuck her, like you fuck me.”

Desha laid down on her back and opened her legs, as Andy rolled over on her stomach and arched her back, presenting herself to me as she put her head between Desha’s legs and buried her face in her dripping pussy.

“Look at me, Chris. I want to see your face while you fuck my friend.”

A crowd had gathered around to watch. Some women sat on the side of the bed and began massaging Andy and Desha. Another woman put her head down by Andy’s ass and began licking my cock as I stroked in and out. The men had to stand off to the side, as they were not allowed to participate; only to watch. They masturbated as I fucked this woman I had met just 30 minutes before, until she screamed into my girlfriend’s pussy. Desha told me not to stop; just keep fucking until I was about to cum. THAT belonged to her, and her alone. I pulled out as I came, and Desha crawled around and took my cock into her mouth, swallowing every last drop. My head was spinning. The ecstasy was kicking my ass. I still hadn’t said a single word to anyone since we arrived at the party...

The other women slowly got up from the bed, and went over to their respective partners, wandering away to the next room and the next scene, leaving the three of us alone...

“That was so hot,” said Desha, with a smile, “Thanks, Andy. It’s been great catching up. I guess we’re going to leave now. See you next time.”

“Good to see you, too. Nice to meet you, Chris. Looks like everything we’ve heard about you was true.” She reached down and gave my cock a friendly squeeze as she kissed me on the cheek... “See you around,” she said.

“Not likely,” I thought to myself...

[icecream-and-gadreel]

Stage Fright

Summary: After finals are over, Kevin insists on dragging you to a karaoke bar (though socializing is the last thing you want to do). When a guy from your college freezes on stage, you go to the rescue.

Pairing: SamXreader, 

Other Characters: Kevin, Charlie (mentioned)

Rating: If the warnings don’t turn you away, you’re good!

Warnings: language, drinking, kissing

Word count: 1800+

A/N: This is from the archives! Thank you @lipstickandwhiskey​ for recovering this for me! Also, everyone needs some slightly aggressive reader, amiright?

Eternity squad: @sheinthatfandom​  @lipstickandwhiskey​ @feelmyroarrrr @bcarolinablr​ @mrswhozeewhatsis​

You groan as Kevin leads you into the karaoke bar. He gabs on about you needing to relax, though being in a crowded bar did the opposite for you. Finals were over and everyone felt dead – both mentally and psychically – so the only thing on your mind was going to sleep.

“Come on, I barely get to do anything!” Kevin whines, looking back at you with a pout. You resist the urge to mention that it’s his fault for piling so much on his plate, offering him a tight-lipped smile instead. As he leads you to a table in the back of the bar, you recognize a few faces. Apparently, this is the place to be after cramming five weeks of information into one night. 

“Just one song,” you grumble. You could almost feel the bed underneath you. It wasn’t luxurious, but it was much better than standing. Gripping your arm, Kevin leans to your ear.

“I know you don’t do the whole friendship thing --" he glances at his group of friends sitting at the table -- "But can you try?” he whispers before sitting down with the others. You recognized Charlie but that was about it. You wave over the bartender, asking for a shot of whiskey and immediately drawing out your ID. He squints at it, flipping it around and drawing it closer to his face. When he raises the ID to compare it to your face, you boil over. 

“Yeah I decided to fake my way into a fu-” Kevin covers your mouth before you can continue, covering the moment with awkward laughter. The bartender passes it back to you with squinted eyes, muttering under his breath.

“No, seriously,” a voice booms from behind you, making you turn your attention to the source. The first thing that sticks out is his dimpled cheeks. His hazel eyes shine brightly in the dimly lit room and his smile melts you. You haven’t seen him around campus, then again you haven’t seen many of the other students.  He pulls his hair into a bun with a laugh. God, this is the first time you've wished you were in on the joke. People begin chanting your school's song, and you sink in your seat as every student joins in. When the man with the bun joins in, you lose a bit of respect for him.

“You can do that but you can’t get on stage?” a girl laughs and nudges him, making his smile fade.

“I said no.” He forces out a laugh, downing the brown liquor in his cup.

“Y/N?” Kevin calls, waving his hand in your face. You snap your head away from the piece of eye candy and raise your eyebrows. “You wanna go up with me or..?”

“Whatever,” you say, downing the shot in front of you and calling the bartender once more. The people at the table next to you all stand, softly whispering someone's name. After a few moments, their rhythmic chanting grows louder.

“Sammy..Sammy….Sammy…” Pretty soon the whole bar is chanting. Most of the people don’t know what’s going on, but they join in none the less. The group makes their way to the stage and poking out above all of them is the mystery man's head, his bun bouncing as they push him. They leave him on the stage, cheering when he picks up the microphone. The room goes silent as the sea of eyes train on him. He doesn’t move nor does he say a word. He just stares back at everyone with the color draining from his skin. After a solid minute passes, the ‘boos’ begin. He was dying up there. You toss back your third shot before standing up and heading toward the stage. You grab the mic from his hand, leaning in close to him.

“Name?” you whisper. He chuckles, leaning his head to you as well.

“You didn’t hear? I’m Sam,” he says. You look over to the person controlling the jukebox, nodding your head at him. He furrows his brow, raising his arms in confusion.

“Turn on a song you prick!” you snap, gaining a middle finger from him. He turns on a song, pausing to flip you off once more. You recognize the lyrics instantly thanks to your mother's musical taste.

I cried a tear, you wiped it dry

I was confused, you cleared my mind

You sing with your eyes closed tight, trying to keep your voice from cracking too often. Sam leans down and sings with you, his deep voice sounding much better than yours.

“I sold my soul, you bought it back for me,” he leans away, allowing you to step in.

“And held me up and gave me dignity!” You chuckle over the lyrics, swaying from side to side to the melody. You couldn’t care less about 'awws’ you received. Singing with him actually brought a bit of brightness into the night. After the song ends you drop the mic and make your way off to the side, heading straight for the rude jukebox operator.

“Hey, asshole-”

“Thank you,” Sam interrupts you with a pat on your shoulder. You hold your finger up to jukebox guy and whirl around to him. He scratches his scruff, eyes hooded and a toothy grin on his face. “I have stage fright so..”

“No kidding, those guys aren’t your friends,” you say, glaring behind him at the group of people. He glances to them with a chuckle.

“No, I guess not.” Sam pauses, clenching his jaw and shoving his hands into his pockets. “You wanna get out of here?”

“Please?” you nod and grab his hand in yours. “I’m taking Sammy home.” you grin at Kevin as you pass, giving him a thumbs up. He frowns and shakes his head with his mouth gaping.

“Wait he’s –”

“Bye Kev!” you squeal, snatching the shot from in front of him and downing it. Sam follows behind you, pausing in front of Kevin’s table and smiling softly.

“How’d finals go?” he asks. Kevin sighs, slumping his head onto his fist.

“I barely made it,” he grumbles. You roll your eyes at Sam and tap your foot. What kind of college kid asks about tests? You would regret your decision if he wasn’t so cute. After exchanging more small talk with Kevin, he finally follows you out of the bar.

………….

“How old are you again?” he chuckles, watching you sink into the swing.

"You’re never too old to swing.” You begin pumping your legs slowly, waiting for him to sit next to you. Reluctantly, he makes his way to the swing and begins swinging lightly.

“What are you in for?” Sam asks, leaning his head against the chain.

“Generals, can't make up my mind yet, you?” You flick your eyes to him and take in a breath. He’s staring up at the moon, a faint smile on his face and a twinkle in his eyes. Something akin to wonder is molded in his gaze.

“Linguistics.”

“My best friend does that crap,” you chuckle, your mind wandering to Kevin. He was probably hugging the stage and singing – slurring – a Journey song.

“Kevin?” he asks. You nod, kicking the sand and letting your eyes fold closed. “He’s a nice guy,”

“Sadly he decided to latch onto me,” you say, a smile creeping across your lips. 

“I don’t think it’s sad, you’re a sweet girl,” he says. Your eyes dart open and you kick him, a growl escaping your lips. He retracts his leg with a hearty laugh, holding his arm out in defense as you swing at him. “It was a compliment!”

“It was a bald-faced lie!” you try to hold it in but a giggle escapes you. You're giggling with a stranger. This is new.

“How? You saved me!”

“I...” you pause as his words sink in. “Fine. I’m sweet. Don’t let anyone know.” You point at him threateningly before leaping from the swing and heading towards the slides. Sam follows after you, laughing loudly at your antics.

“Wait for me at the end,” you command, climbing the ladder and staring back at him. He rolls his eyes with a nod. You climb in, glancing nervously as the slide creaks under your weight. This is fine. It's designed for kids under forty pounds, but this is fine. You slide down the freezing surface, smiling when you see Sam staring up at you. When you meet him, he rests his hands on either side of the slide. Butterflies collect in your stomach as you stare into his eyes, your heart pounding in your chest. He leans down, pressing a soft kiss against your lips with a puff of air. 

“I hope that’s why I was waiting here,” he whispers against your lips.

“It is now,” you giggle – god he was making you do that too often – and hook your hand behind his neck. You press a second gentle kiss against his lips, enjoying the heat radiating off of him.

–

“You what?” Kevin squeaks, halting and whipping his head to you.

“I know I know, I said I’d never date in college but-”

“You kissed SAMMY?” he asks in a high pitched voice, willing his legs to go forward.

“What, does he have a girlfriend?” You furrow your brow, running over the conversations you had with him yesterday. He never mentioned it.

“No, but – is this why you’re walking me to class?”

“Well, yeah."

“Y-you said you wanted to bond with me more!”

“Two birds, Kev.” You shrug and dart into the classroom, searching for Sam. When your eyes land on him your jaw hits the ground. “Oh my god.”

“Hi.” He rises from his desk and makes his way to you and Kevin. He doesn’t have his hair in a bun anymore and now has on a suit. ’Professor Sam “Sammy” Winchester’ is strewn across the board in sloppy handwriting.

“You..you’re a..” you stammer over your words, glancing from him to the students.

“Thanks for walking me home, I was pretty tipsy.” He puts on an awkward smile, letting his eyes fall on Kevin.

“I know all about your --” Kevin raises his hands --“walk.” He quotes over his words with squinted eyes. Sam clenches his jaw, his eyes wide and trained on you.

“You told him?!” he asks through clenched teeth.

“I didn’t know!” you retort in a small voice. The three of you fall into an awkward silence. Finally, Sam lets out a hearty laugh, brushing his fingers through his hair. 

"I mean, I did have fun last night," he says, ignoring the glares from Kevin. "Karaoke tonight?"

Though you try -- and god do you try -- you can't help the smile on your face. "It's a date."

[nsheetee]

Déjà vu

Pairing: Ten x Reader Genre: Childhood Friends to Lovers AU, College AU || Fluff Length: 2.3k Warning: Some swearing, that bad cliche where one character saves the other when a car passes by Summary: You accidentally reunite with your childhood friend Ten after several years of not seeing each other. 

☆ ━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━ ☆

Do you ever feel like there’s a memory stuck in your head? It’s somewhere in your subconscious, coming out through déjà vu or through dreams, but you can’t actually remember it until you see a particular picture you haven’t seen in a long time or reconcile with an old friend that you haven’t spoken to in a while.

That’s what it felt like when you see Ten again for the first time in 10 years.

He’s taller than you remember. His hair is still the same shade of black, but now it’s chopped shorter to only cover his forehead rather than his eyes. You used to tease him so much about his lankiness and his height and his hair but as you look at him now, you realize he’s grown. He has muscles that stick out of the short sleeves of his shirt and his tan skin glows even under the ugly lights of the classroom.

You sit down, unknowingly clutching the sides of the seat as you watch Ten. He doesn’t seem to have seen you walk in and continues to sketch in a notebook while a dark-haired guy sitting next to him, you assume Ten’s friend, talks to him. Only your luck would bring an old childhood friend back into your life, especially when you’re trying to start on a clean slate at your new university. You contemplate the pros and cons about dropping this class and taking it next semester, but the professor walks in before you can think on it any further.

The professor is a short and square-looking man with a growing bald spot on his head and a sweater vest over his chest. He introduces himself and starts taking attendance. You can almost feel your eyes roll into the back of your head by how monotonous his voice sounds.

“And next is… Chit...Chitta…” Your eyes glare over towards the dark-haired boy who starts snickering and pushing Ten’s arm. You see Ten covering his face with a hand as the professor attempts to say his full name.

“It’s Chittaphon.” You don’t even realize you spoke up until the words leave your mouth. Bodies turn to look at you, but you can only feel the surprised gaze of one pair. You feel like sliding down your seat as Ten’s mouth opens in realization, the corner of his lips coming up as he keep looking at you.

You should’ve kept your mouth shut.

“Is that your name?” The professor asks, looking up from his attendance sheet.

“No, sir. That’s mine. You can call me Ten.” The professor looks between both of you with a raised eyebrow. “I don’t know who they are.” Some people in the class laugh at Ten’s comment and you feel your body heat up with embarrassment.

You definitely should’ve kept your mouth shut.

When the first lecture ends, you’re out of your seat and through the door before the professor can wish the class a good day. You hear Ten’s voice shouting your name as you maneuver through the other students in the building to reach the doors. A hand on your forearm makes you stop in your spot and Ten comes to stand in front of you.

“Huh. It really is you.”

“I thought you didn’t know who I was.” You shake his hands off your forearms.

“Hey, I was just joking.” Ten laughs and you think you just transported 10 years into the past with his words. Memories of Ten playing pranks on you everytime he would come over for his English lessons with your mother dance through your head. You came to this university to begin a new chapter of your life, but seeing Ten makes you a bit homesick. “I can’t believe you’re here.” He finally finishes his thought.

“Me neither. I thought you weren’t smart enough to get into college.” You cross your arms over your chest and a sneaky smile covers Ten’s lips.

“If one of us is not smart enough to get into college, shouldn’t it be you? You ate crayons when we were 7.” He laughs wholeheartedly at the memory and your annoyance gets the better of you. You walk away from him, but Ten trails next to you.

“Do you remember when we played outside after my english lessons? I once dared you to eat a rollie-pollie and you cried.” Ten laughs again as you both walk out of the building, down the sidewalk, and to the bus stop.

“Oh, oh, do you remember the time we went swimming in the lake and--” Ten cuts off. You look at him when he becomes silent.

“Yeah, you stole my clothes and I had to walk home in my bathing suit. I got a cold from that, for your information.” You finish the story bitterly. That was what you remember the story to be but to Ten, that day was a bit more important for him.

It was the day he realized he likes you. Like-likes you.

That day when he picked you up from your house and walked alongside the road with you all the way to the lake, his heart beat a little faster and he tried to fix his hair even though he knew it was going to be ruined by the water soon. He kept pushing you into the street as you walked and you screamed at him to stop because of the cars passing by, Ten laughed, but he stopped for you. And when he came to his tutoring lessons the next few days, he felt genuine guilt when he could hear sniffling and coughing from your bedroom.

Even now, 10 years later, Ten still finds his heart beating uncomfortably fast and his eyes not able to wander from you. How could he stop looking at you when he hasn’t seen you for the past 10 years?

After a short bus ride, you both get off at the same stop and continue to awkwardly walk down the street side by side. No conversation; just a foot of space between both of you and your own earbuds in your ears.

“Why are you following me?” You ask, filling the uncomfortable silence.

“I’m not following you. My apartment is this way.” You scoff at the amount of coincidences that have been happening to you today, sending a quick message in your head to Fate to ask why she hates you. When Ten notices you step up the steps to a building, he stops and turns to face you.

“I live over there.” He points to a tall apartment building across the street. “It looks like you and I will be walking home together every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday.” He smiles cheekily before turning around and continuing his walk to his own home.

When you make it into your apartment, you take off your shoes and lean against the wall, sliding down until your butt meets the wooden floor. You push a sigh out of your lungs, already tired from school and it was only the first day. You contemplate just how bad it is that Ten will be in one of your classes and living only a minute away from you. Despite all of his teasing and the amount of embarrassing memories he has of you, he’s still an old friend and you’ll treat him as such. You just hope the small crush you had on him as a child will stay in the past.

☆☆☆

“Stop moving.” Ten grumbles from beside you, his knee nudging your side as he folds himself between you and the window of the bus. He’s been attempting to draw you on the bus ride home today, but your moving has kept him from getting a good look at your face. You’re a bit scared to look at him, fearing your inability to look away if you get the chance to stare at him.

“Wait,” Ten says suddenly, causing you to stop your movement. “Don’t move. Not even an inch.” He mumbles, his pencil working quickly on his notepad. It’s perched awkwardly on his thigh, and his eyes filter from his paper to you multiple times in several minutes. When the bus stops at your destination, you both leave your seats and walk down the concrete sidewalk.

“Well,” You motion your head to the notepad that’s shoved between Ten’s arm and side. “Are you going to show me the drawing?”

“No.” Ten snorts and continues to walk down the sidewalk as you veer off to the right and climb the steps to your building. Before you can roll your eyes and curse him under your breath, he stops and turns to you.

“What’s your apartment number?”

“What’s it to you?”

“Just tell me. Or I’ll knock on every door on every floor until you answer.” You roll your eyes at his threat, but tell him your apartment number anyways. Ten is exactly the type of person who is extra enough to annoy your neighbors. Later that night, your doorbell rings an annoying number of times in a row. When you open the door, there’s no one there. Only a dish of food with a note attached to it sitting on your doorstep.

“You told me a few days ago you live alone. Here’s some pasta I made. Knowing you, you’re probably the worst cook ever. Don’t starve. - 10”

The hand holding the note drops to your side and you stare down at the glass dish on your doorstep, steam covering the inside of it. It’s fresh.

You curse to yourself, childishly stomping your foot down. That little drawing, cooking, conniving imbecile was squeezing his way back into the chambers of your heart. Little by little, you knew you’d fall for him if he kept doing things like this. You can’t help but accept the pasta, opening the lid to the dish and savouring the aroma as the steam hits you in the face.

Damn it. He’s a good cook, too.

☆☆☆

Towards the end of the semester, your and Ten’s schedules became busy. Riding the bus together for 3 days of the week turned into only 2 days, which then turned into 1 day. It was slightly embarrassing how quickly you got used to Ten being around you, and when he suddenly wasn’t there as much as he used to be, you were even more embarrassed to admit that you miss him. Ten quickly pointed out your happy expression when you saw him approach you at the bus station that day.

“Missed me?” He asks, a slight smirk on his lips that makes you roll your eyes.

“You wish.” You lied. Before another word can be spoken, the bus pulls up and you load into your usual seat with Ten at your side once again. The bus ride is surprisingly peaceful; Ten pulls out his headphones and give one to you, your knees brush together as the bus shakes on it’s bumpy ride down the road. It’s snowed in your area this season already but when you step out of the bus, the small snowflakes take you by surprise and you raise your hand to feel them melt in your palm.

“Hey, Y/N…” Ten trails off as you walk down the sidewalk; your shoulders brushing, your head facing upwards while his sheepishly looks down at his feet.

“Yeah?” You finally reply.

“I have something to confess…” He trails off again.

“What is-” You’re cut off by Ten pulling you into him by your elbow. A car honks loudly as it passes by at what is probably way over the speed limit. You and Ten both watch the car drive by, your bodies way closer than they have been in a long time.

“My confession is that you’re dumb. Why would you walk that close to the road?” Ten scolds you, but you know he’s not mad.

“Because I know you’ll pull me away from the road.”

A feeling of déjà vu takes over you and Ten; you both remembered that day that you went to the lake. The sweet memories of an earlier time when the only thing that mattered was what game you’ll play once you reach your favorite hangout spot at the lake. Ten used to push you into the street and pull you back when you yelled at him, but you always knew he wouldn’t put you into any real harm.

Why kid yourselves? Not much has changed.

“I’m gonna kiss you.” Ten states and your eyes widen at his unexpected words. The grip he has on your elbow pulls you closer, if even possible, and he leans in. You lean away, your mind nor your lips prepared for this new step of your relationship. Your other hand stops him from leaning and he looks confused for a moment.

“Sorry-”

“Just so we have our stories correct; you fell for me first and couldn’t stop yourself from kissing me. I’m just so undeniable.” Ten blinks at your words, surprised at your confidence and at your smirk.

“I hate you.” He mumbles.

“Really?” You hum in fake concentration. “Says the guy who’s about to kiss me.”

Ten’s lips find yours, anything to shut you up. You can’t help but smile; so many of your childhood dreams coming true with this one shared moment. You and Ten kiss for a little while longer until your fingertips are numb from the cold.

“Let’s go up to my apartment.” You suggest after leaning away.

“Oh? Already inviting me up to your place?” Ten teases, not letting you lean too far away.

“Very funny. I have to give you back your dish, and I guess we can kiss a little more.”

[theres-no-protocol-for-this]

Kitties Afoot

At some point, this started a discussion about Murderbot in the present as a cat. It has since become something else entirely, and I don’t regret a thing. So, I guess, stary kitty meets almost-stray human.

There’s more written, but I haven’t edited the rest and I’m not sure I trust Tumblr with anything longer.

I came home to find a giant, scrawny feline curled up on my front porch. The black and gray creature lay on top of the welcome mat with its paws tucked under its shivering body. It looked huge for a cat but not big enough for a mountain lion, and it didn’t look like a kitten. The strange animal was malnourished; as I approached, I could count the poor baby’s ribs with each shuddering breath it took. 

“Shit,” I whispered and checked my phone.

It was well into the evening and getting colder outside with each passing moment. The kitty looked up when I got to my front steps. Bright blue eyes stared at me as the creature scrunched up, making itself as small as possible.

“Hey, it’s all right,” I said as soothingly as I could. “I won’t hurt you. Let me get you inside before the weather turns nasty.”

Not that I thought the cat would understand me, but I was used to talking to animals. Before Tasha had passed away earlier that year, I had always had pets at home. I’d spoken to the family dog as a child and to my ex-boyfriend’s two ferrets. And, of course, Tasha the Princess never shut up. Most days, I still woke up expecting to find her dozing on my head.

I set my backpack on the ground, slipped out of my sweater, and wrapped the warm clothing around the shivering kitty. It tried to claw me through the thick fabric but didn’t get very far, though I caught a good look at its sharp talons. I held it in my arms and did my best to navigate the front door. The cat must’ve weighed twenty pounds, but it was probably all muscle and grump.

Inside, I set it down on a folded blanket on the couch and went looking for a heating pad. September was a little early to be getting out the winter stuff. Still, the kitty wouldn’t stop shivering, and I wanted to warm it up as quickly as possible. 

The furball stayed put and watched me from its new comfortable perch. Its sleek fur was pitch black, the color of raven wings, but its paws were gray, as was its stomach. I couldn’t tell if the cat was male or female, and I wasn’t going to peek between its legs to find out. 

Once I had the heating pad in place, I put a couple of Tasha’s bowls on the coffee table and scooted the table right up to the couch. From here, the kitty had to only shift its weight to reach the water and wet cat food. Everything about the situation was weird, from the cat’s knowing glances to the constant reminders that Tasha was gone. 

I scrolled through my contacts and found the phone number of a family veterinarian. It was too late to call Dr. Hopkins now, but I sent him a quick message and asked for an urgent appointment. If the kitty survived the night, and I had a sneaking suspicion the grumpy monster wasn’t going down without a fight, it would need medical attention. 

The cat shifted restlessly on its pile of blankets, so I turned on the television. Tasha had loved those stupidly endless videos on YouTube where the camera was trained on a tree stump where birds came to feed. This cast couldn’t care less. It didn’t even notice the TV until I turned on a food documentary episode on Netflix.

I went to make myself a snack in the kitchen and noticed the cat half watching me and half paying attention to whatever it saw on the television. Like I said, weird cat.

My home is tiny, a two-story townhome with an unfinished basement that occasionally floods. I’d gotten lucky with the place; I’d been sharing it with a roommate who suddenly had to move cross-country, and she paid for her share of the mortgage for three months. And then I’d found a decent manager job at a local cafe that let me keep the place. 

I hummed while puttering around the kitchen. It was too late for a proper dinner, and I wasn’t hungry anyway. And I couldn’t drink coffee that late in the evening, not if I planned to get any sleep. The kitty drank some water from the closest bowl and then closed its eyes. 

Asleep, it could almost pass for a house cat.

Up close, though, there was no mistaking that it was a wild creature. Its ears followed my motions even while it dozed. I turned up the heater for the night and then sat on the other side of the couch, giving the strange feline plenty of space. To my surprise, it stretched out a bit once I was sitting down like it didn’t mind the company so long as said company kept a respectable distance. 

***

I don’t remember falling asleep on the couch, but that’s where I woke up the following morning. I sat pressed against one of the couch’s plush arms, legs tucked under me. There was a blanket draped over me that I didn’t remember grabbing. The strange cat lay curled up a few inches from my left foot; I could swear it was purring slightly.

As soon as I moved, uncurling my stiff legs, it got up and jumped off the couch. Standing next to the coffee table, it was apparent just how big it was for a feline. It trotted over to the front door like it owned the place. Standing on its back paws, the cat had no trouble reaching the handle, though it didn’t have the thumbs needed to operate it.

I stood up, followed it, and opened the door for it. “You’re pretty smart for a kitty,” I said as it jumped out onto the front porch. “You gonna be OK, little guy?”

“Meow,” said the cat and vanished into the bushes next to the porch steps. 

“Bye, kitty!”

I went back inside but didn’t close the front door. It seemed stupid in retrospect. What kind of person leaves the door open for anyone to stroll inside? But it was Friday and my one day off, so I made coffee in the kitchen and texted with my mother. And maybe hoped that my feline companion might return. 

My mother lives halfway across the country in a memory care facility. I can’t say I love my mother — that would be a bald faced lie — but we still text occasionally. I know that my stepfather is taking good care of her, and I love him dearly. 

That morning, she was showing off a watercolor painting that she’d created that week. She told me she’d never been to the beach before, and I had to put the phone down for ten minutes before I could answer. Mom and I had vacationed at the beach every year while Dad was still alive. She’d painted a sunset over those turbulent waters. 

Sniffling, I cradled my mug and tried not to let the tears fall. I should’ve known better by then, but it still stung every time. 

I was still struggling to keep my composure when I heard the sound of claws on the linoleum. Tasha had loathed coming into the kitchen because it wasn’t carpeted, and the drama queen just hadn’t liked the feel of it under her little kitty feet.

Giant Cat had no such compunctions. It stood a few feet out of reach, watching me with those soulful eyes until I had to look away. Sniffling, I rubbed at my face and forced myself to smile. 

“Hey there, furball. Back for more food?”

“Meow.”

I opened a can of wet food — if I was going to feed this beast, I would need to get more immediately — and poured the contents into a bowl. After setting the bowl on the floor, I stepped away from it and perched on a counter, watching the cat.

I walked over to the bowl, sniffed at it a few times, and then devoured the food like it was starving. When it was done, it licked its lips and, in one mighty leap, jumped onto the counter. Where it sat down and nuzzled the toaster. 

Tasha had never mastered the art of climbing on the furniture. Anything taller than a couch had warranted a loud, obnoxious mew until I came over and picked her up. Not this cat. It seemed perfectly capable of getting up to wherever the fuck it wanted. 

“How about a trip to the vet?” I asked. “Just to make you’re not all scratched up inside.”

“Hiss,” said the cat.

I rolled my eyes and giggled. “Not a fan of vets, huh?”

“Hiss.”

“Right.” I finished my coffee in three big gulps. “Of course not. Though, to be honest, I’m not a huge fan of doctors, either.” Mom had seen so many doctors after she’d first gotten sick that I loathed the smell of disinfectant now.

Kitty jumped off the counter after sniffing at the coffee maker and my box of tea samples and went exploring. Like it owned the place, it wandered into the laundry room and then up the stairs into my bedroom. I rinsed out my coffee mug and followed it, curious to see what it might do next. 

About half an hour later, the cat decided that it had sniffed at those things it deemed essential and returned to the living room. Hopping onto the couch, it settled on top of the blanket pile and stared between me and the television. 

“Seriously?” I asked, choking back laughter. 

I’d never heard of a cat that liked watching Netflix. Tasha had mostly enjoyed shows with bird noises or where things moved. Sometimes, the princess would randomly attack the TV like she hoped to catch whatever she was looking at. Meanwhile, this cat meowed at me unhappily when I turned on a bird video and didn’t stop until it saw the Netflix logo. Then, it focused on whatever action flick began playing and snuggled further into the warm blankets.

“Seriously,” I muttered again, quietly, and stood there by the banister, shaking my head. 

My weird companion spent the next few hours chilling in front of the TV. Its ears would occasionally perk up when a truck passed by, but mostly it watched the show. Have you ever seen a cat watch television? Because, up until this point, I hadn’t. And I wasn’t sure what to think.

Doing chores proved somewhat tricky when I kept casting furtive glances toward the strange creature. It paid me no heed, but somehow, it seemed to know when I watched it with blatant curiosity. Like, my previous pets had been… pets. This hissy weirdo, meanwhile, was something else entirely.

Eventually, I decided that I needed to get groceries and more cat food, and generally get out of the house for a little while. During a nice, long shower, I convinced myself that I was crazy, and there was nothing weird about the kitty in my living room. Then, I came back downstairs and found the kitty nuzzling the TV remote and decided that I didn’t care.

“Wanna watch something else?” I asked.

The cat looked up at me. “Meow.”

It took me a moment to actually look at the TV and realize that the action movie had ended while I was upstairs. Kitty apparently just wanted something else to start playing. Right. Totally normal right there.

“I need to go out for a while,” I said while scrolling through the Netflix menus. The rest came out before I could think too hard about speaking to a wild animal. “I need to pick up groceries. And cat food. And honestly, I’ve worked twelve-hour shifts for the last week and a half, and I’m ready to see something other than more walls. 

“So, let’s get something nice and long started, OK? So you don’t get bored while I’m out. I’m not too keen on leaving the front door open, but the back door’s not locked — I know, I know, bad habit — and you can probably just reach the handle. It’s the pull-down kind.”

“Meow.”

I turned on some kind of drama that promised at least fifteen hours of episodes. “Well, anyway. I’ll be back in a while. Tuna or chicken?”

“Meow meow.”

“Chicken it is.” I was still talking to a cat. Maybe I missed Tasha more than I’d thought. “See you later, kitty.”

[dancedelion]

Be Good to Me (part 2 / 3)

Genre: angst with a happy ending, Beauty and the Beast AU Summary: Jaskier has just been broken up with (again), he has nowhere to stay (again) and people are booing his songs (again). He overhears the villagers talk about a beast in a castle in the woods. Then they mention it's supposed to be dangerous. Well, now he's got no other choice. That beast won't even know what's coming for it. (Geralt doesn't.) ao3: Be Good to Me part 1 Jaskier blearily blinks his eyes open, trying to find his bearings. Has he managed to charm his way into someone's bed again? Sneaked into someone's stables?

He turns his head and flinches back immediately – Geralt is standing next to the dining table and staring at him. Right, that's what happened. Forest walk, weird castle, incredibly handsome and vaguely threatening witcher.

“Have you just been watching me this whole time?” Jaskier says and sits up. “Don't know if that's more flattering or creepy.”

Geralt doesn't react to his flirting, but he doesn't rip Jaskier's throat out for it either, so Jaskier assumes that means he's free to go wild with it.

“Oh, hey, did you – did you put a blanket on me?” Jaskier says startled. “And didn't I fall asleep at the table?” “No, you didn't,” Geralt says – the filthy liar - and turns his head away – but Jaskier has decided he likes him, now. There is no more escape.

“You should leave as long as the sun is still up,” Geralt says.

“Leave? There is no way I'm leaving now. You should have thought about that before you let me eat cake and carried me to the sofa – you big softhearted brute, you. Yeah, pretty sure that's one of the most basic rules in the book called 'How to Come Across like a Monster' – if you want me to be scared of you, don't put a blanket on me while I'm sleeping. That's just not working out.”

Geralt turns to look at him with one of the old favorites, Menacing Glare.

“Oh, come on, don't make that face. Here's the good news – I'm going to stick around.”

“You're leaving tomorrow.” Clear step up from leaving before sun down. Jaskier hides his smile.

“Next week?” Jaskier tries to bargain.

“Tonight,” Geralt snarls.

“Yeah, yeah, tomorrow it is,” Jaskier quickly concedes. “Wanna give me a tour of the place?”

“It's a place.”

“Yeah, I gathered, but what about the rooms? How many are there? What are they like?” “Don't know. Haven't looked.” “You haven't looked? Well, you do seem more like an ourdoors-y kind of guy. Is that it? You roam the monster-infested forest for fun?”

“No. I'm just. Here.”

“Ah, that sounds... depressing. I'm going to take a look around, if you don't mind.”

Geralt starts to open his mouth, but Jaskier quickly lifts a finger. “And also if you do.”

Jaskier goes up the stairs again and walks down the hallway. He starts counting the doors, but stops at a lot. One door is a little bigger and framed with gold, so Jaskier opens it and finds – a library. A giant one, shelves up to the ceiling. Jaskier coughs, because there seems to be even more dust in this room.

He starts walking between the shelves. Oh, the educators at Oxenfurt would be so jealous if they knew about this place. The books seem to be about all kinds of topics, scientific and fictional alike. Jaskier turns to go back downstairs but stops – Geralt is leaning in the doorway.

“Gee, Geralt, you nearly gave me a heart attack,” Jaskier says. “You're so sneaky, like a – a – an assassin? A spy? No, like a -”

Geralt does that almost-smirk-thing again.

“A witcher?” he asks.

“Nah, that's not it,” Jaskier says thoughtfully. “A cuttlefish!”

Geralt raises his eyebrows.

“Yes, they're sneaky,” Jaskier scowls. “How would you know? Have you ever met one?”

“Have you?” “I – no, but – only because they're so good at sneaking away. I'm just gonna put it out there – a witcher is genetically probably at least ten percent cuttlefish.”

“Well, you don't choose your mutations. They choose you.”

Jaskier shakes his head a little, smiling, and steps closer.

“Did you know about this library?” Jaskier says. “I can't believe this is just in the middle of nowhere. I mean – this is incredible!”

“Hm,” Geralt says, “I've never been in this room.”

“A travesty. Look at this stuff! It's just got everything.”

Jaskier starts wandering again. Behind one of the shelves, he finds a cushioned armchair and gasps. “Okay, that does it. I'm living here now.”

Geralt looks like he's going to say something, so Jaskier shushes him. “No objections!” And it's working, because Geralt doesn't object.

So Jaskier picks one of the novels and sits down in the armchair, thinking to himself that he's not going to get up again in the next twelve years at least. Curled up in the armchair, Jaskier can forget about the loneliness that always seems to be just a step behind, about his songs that are really just as stale as the bread people throw at him. When he looks up again, Geralt is gone, so Jaskier turns to his book again. A while later, Jaskier sees him sitting by the window, carving something into wood. Jaskier smiles and pretends he read something funny. They sit there morning, midday, afternoon.

Jaskier asks the dinner table for warm bread like his mother used to make it. Apples like from the tree in front of his old house. He'd nearly forgotten what they tasted like.

Jaskier doesn't try to get close to Geralt. (He does wish he knew how to build a bridge.)

When evening breaks, Jaskier tries to find out which room Geralt lives in, but Geralt never seems to sleep. Instead, Jaskier goes into the room next to the library and falls onto the bed. His mind won't stop churning. The library, the magic dinner table, the strange but strangely kind witcher. Jaskier has to keep this somehow, he has to convince Geralt to let him stay. He falls asleep trying to think of something to say - please, I can offer you – free view of my gorgeous good looks, an abundance of annoying comments, accidental insults intended as compliments, songs no one wants to hear... a smile an ear a hand

*** “It's raining.”

Deep sigh.

“Do you want me to get wet, Geralt? Cold and wet, Geralt, that's just one step away from pneumonia, and that's just a step away from death.” “Fine. You're leaving tomorrow.”

*** “I heard a noise outside.”

Moderate sigh.

“I think there might be a monster just out the door just waiting for me. Do you want me to get killed, Geralt? Killed!”

“Fine. But tomorrow.”

*** “You know, I've really made friends with the bald guy in the painting over the fireplace and I feel like he might cry if I were leaving, maybe commit suicide -” “Jaskier.” “Yeah?” “Just stay.”

***

He does.

*** “No, I don't like him,” Geralt tells Roach. Roach huffs. “I don't! What, you think I like his chatter or his stupid questions or his pretty smile? Don't be ridiculous.”

He continues brushing down her side. “I don't even like his singing. I just like... that it's not quiet.”

Roach flicks her ear and tilts her head. Geralt pets her throat.

“He's not charming. He's annoying. Today, he found a chest with old clothes in them and decided to try them all on. And show me, too. It was very annoying.”

Roach neighs softly.

“No, I didn't like it,” Geralt says, “I don't even know why I bother talking to you. If you keep this up, I'm not going to give you another carrot.”

At that, she snubs her nose against his hand. He is already feeding her another carrot.

“You're supposed to be on my side, you know. Did he sneak down here to give you these snacks he remembered form Skellige? He did, didn't he?”

Geralt is going to say something else about Jaskier when he suddenly hears the front gate closing. His heart lodges in his throat immediately. Only one person could be at that gate – is Jaskier leaving? Why would he not say something?

(Afraid he'll get violent? Afraid he'll keep him here, forever, forever, forever? Or just so done with him – with his grunts, with his stilted responses, with his beastly eyes – that all he wants is to get away?)

And Geralt still doesn't know how to catch a ray of light, but he rushes out of the stables anyway. It's been weeks since Jaskier first came here – and Geralt is just – he's used to him now.

He stops in his tracks when he sees the figure on the courtyard – not Jaskier. Someone new. If his head hadn't been so clouded, he'd have noticed the smell earlier. Different.

She is rushing towards the castle. She hasn't seen him, but she's not looking left or right. He can hear her heavy breathing, her pained gasp. She trips and scrambles hurriedly to her feet again. Geralt quickly skims his surroundings, something must be following her. He can't sense anything in immediate proximity, so he goes after the girl instead.

He slips into the castle after her. She flinches at his grunt and spins around. A veil of relief lays itself over the deeper fear. He's a stranger and he knows how he looks – if she's relieved to see him, that means something scarier is after her.

“Please,” she says and he skims her slim figure, the ragged pale blue dress. Not appropriate for the colder temperatures. “Please, you have to help me hide.” “What's after you?” Geralt asks, already drawing his sword. “Species, size, state?”

“He's -”

She cuts herself off, too panicked to keep speaking, but she has already answered his first question. Human. The worst kind to get involved with.

“Come here,” someone says from the side. Jaskier is in the door of the dining room, beckoning her closer. “You're safe here.” She shuffles over to him and Jaskier quickly shuts the door behind them. Not a second later, a loud knock on the door rips through the air. Geralt swiftly moves behind the door, just as it opens.

“Hello?”

A stocky man walks through. Geralt presses his back to the door and lifts his sword quietly. Geralt takes in the plain clothes, the sweaty skin of his neck, the slow movements. Not a threat. Carefully, he sheathes his sword again and steps forward.

“What do you want?” Geralt asks. The man startles at his deep voice and turns.

“Oh, sir, I'm sorry to intrude. Did you happen to see that misbehaved girl somewhere around?”

“Why are you asking?”

“That miserable wench was promised to me by her father. We had... a slight disagreement.”

“I see,” Geralt says slowly. The man steps a little closer.

“You look strange,” he says, “oh Melitele, you're a freak, aren't you?” Geralt slams him against the door open door. The man clutches at his throat, but Geralt presses down harder.

“You're going to forget about this girl,” Geralt says, his voice deeper than usual. “You're going to walk out of this castle. You are never going to return to this place.” The man nods frantically. Geralt fixes him with a particularly vicious gaze and growls deeply. He snarls once, then punches the door right next to the man's head. The punch breaks the wood, but not Geralt's skin. When Geralt finally lets go of him, the man slumps. He keeps standing there a little frozen, shaking. Geralt barks. That's enough to get the man running. Geralt stands and waits until he sees that the man is gone, then he closes the door softly.

Behind him, the dining room door opens slowly. Geralt tries to relax his fist and get his breathing under control.

Jaskier and the girl are both staring at him wide-eyed.

“You heard that,” Geralt says quietly, knowing they did. He drops his shoulders, trying to appear as non-threateningly as he can. It's not a lot.

He knows how this goes. The girl was desperate before, didn't really get a good look at him when she asked for his help. Now it'll be different. She stares at him out of brown eyes, blown wide. She sees him. Jaskier does, too. They have seen the deranged look in his animal eyes, the hot anger he hides in his fists. Any minute now, she'll run from this place, from him, as far as she can. She looks so small next to Jaskier, a sheep in front of a wolf.

This is where Jaskier knows that the depictions of the townspeople may not reflect his appearance, but they paint a perfect portrait of his soul.

This is the monster living a mockery of human day-by-day.

This is escape into the biting cold, into the arms of kikimoras, ghouls, men with booming voices.

Let me try again, I think there is something human somewhere deep inside of me -

This is Geralt without a weapon, with his neck exposed.

This is -

“Wow. That was impressive,” Jaskier says. “Your hand went straight through and you didn't even take a swing. Phew, you scared the living daylights out of that guy. I reckon we won't be seeing him again for a while. We should have pie. Anyone else in the mood for pie? Yeah, we should definitely have pie. That was stressful.”

Geralt lets out a breath through his nose. His jaw slowly slacks. The girl finally takes her eyes off him.

Jaskier is already wandering back into the living room. With heavy steps, Geralt goes after him. The girl goes a little tense when he gets close, but she doesn't flinch.

She is shivering a little. Geralt quickly strides over to the sofa and grabs the blanket that's still lying there. He approaches her with it slowly – draping it over her might not go over too well. He holds it in her direction from a safe distance.

Jaskier is at the table, conjuring three different kinds of pie. The girl sits down on shaky legs.

“So,” Jaskier says, sliding into the seat next to hers. “What's your name?” “Zofia,” she says in a small voice. “I – Oh gods. Oh – thank you.” She turns to Geralt, who is standing awkwardly behind the seat across from Jaskier. “Thank you for saving me.” Geralt is too startled to answer.

“Do you want to tell us what happened?” Jaskier says, gentle in a way that Geralt could never manage.

“I – Gods, I can't go back. I have nowhere to go. My father -” she stops and clams her fingers across her mouth. She keeps speaking through her fingers. “He wanted me to marry that – that beast. I just had to – I ran. I don't -”

“You can stay here,” Jaskier says, giving her a reassuring smile. Geralt wants to curse the stupidity of it, of course she doesn't-

“Can I?” she asks him, a little shy, a little insecure.

Confused, Geralt hms.

“That means 'yes', don't worry about it,” Jaskier says, “now, may I offer you some pie?” Zofia is not very talkative, but Jaskier fills the silence for them. Geralt makes another fire, but his mind still goes over the encounter again and again. It's hard to make sense of. Why would she let him near her? Why would she eat in his presence? The only thing different than any time before is – Jaskier. He acts the way he always has – foolish, reckless, like Geralt doesn't scare him. Is he skilled at being an actor or skilled at being a fool?

After lighting the fire, Geralt stays on guard. Peace never lasts. That strange warm feeling in his chest never lasts. But just for tonight, when the sun sets, Geralt is still here, in front of the fire, listening to two voices.

*** A few days later, Jaskier finds the flowers. Geralt hadn't really tried to hide them, but he had almost forgotten about them, placed in one of the many rooms of the castle.

“Geralt, why are you letting these poor flowers die? These ones are fine, but there were petals all around them.”

Geralt stares at the flowers. There's only a handful of them left. Bright yellow buttercups. Flowers need tending to. But these ones have been cut off at the stem – they're doomed to die.

“Don't touch them,” Geralt grinds out. He's still staring at them, counting them, again and again. Five buttercups. Five weeks. He'd thought there were still more of them.

“Fuck,” he says.

“What's wrong?” Jaskier asks softly, eyebrows drawn together.

Five buttercups, forlorn in the big vase. There had been a bouquet of them once. Weeks, months, years even, once. Sunsets and sunrises.

(It is easy to lose track of the flowers in your garden.)

“Nothing,” Geralt lies. He snatches the vase and clutches it in his fingers. He's already thinking of another hiding spot.

(Can flowers grow eyes?) (How long before Jaskier finds the wooden statue of her?) (How many questions can Geralt evade?)

Jaskier accepts his lie, but Geralt can't that easily. Sunrises have become precious again.

*** The next time it happens, it's a scream, so much closer than usual. Geralt runs outside immediately. The days have been getting colder, snow has settled on the ground. This time, no one is in the court yard, but he rushes to the gate and there is another woman, in a blue cloak. Geralt's eyes dart around through the bars of the gate and it takes him only a moment to spot the kikimora, eight-legged and disgusting.

He knows the gate won't open for him, can feel the magic holding him in. Instead, he makes a grab for the dagger in his boot. The kikimora roars, looming over the white-haired woman. The dagger lodges itself in its jaw, and it gurgles, sways.

“Get over here,” Geralt calls.

The woman looks up at him helplessly. While she hurries to the gate, Geralt throws another knife, this time hitting its throat. The monster is still quick and after her. Geralt brandishes his sword, standing alert. He's out of daggers, out of options. There's nothing he can do.

(And he curses his curse -) Her hair, her pale skin, it would be barely visible in the snow, she would be nothing but a bloodstain on the ground.

Geralt would shake the iron bars, trying to rip them off with brute strength, if he didn't know how futile it was.

Do you want me to live in that moment forever, witch? How many times do I have to lose her?

The forest has become a stage for Geralt's worst mistakes and he is trapped in the audience. (Every corpse in this forest has died by Geralt's hand, has died by a footstep not taken.)

The woman reaches the gate fast, she slips in and as soon as the kikimora is here, has rushed after her, Geralt stabs it with his sword, easily. He hasn't unlearned how to take lives, monsters never do -

He is standing over its body, his fingers tightening around the handle of the sword. Breaths come out heavy. Here is another dead body, another one he didn't save. He looks into its eyes and wonders what it must be like.

Children lay down in snow sometimes. Joyfully laughing. Is snow soft to lay down in? Is snow a kinder coffin? Is it comfortable to be forgotten under the cold blanket of it?

(Are four yellow buttercups drowning in that too big vase?)

His teeth press together hard, like he's trying to bite through stone.

“I'm armed,” someone says. “So don't try anything.”

Geralt abruptly shakes his head and steps back, sheathing his sword again.

“Why didn't you use your weapon against him?” Geralt nods to the body.

He turns his head. The girl – the woman – old girl, young woman – clutches a pointy rock in her fingers. She didn't have it before, must have picked it up while he was distracted. Smart.

“I didn't have it before,” she says, “but don't think I'll hesitate to use it.” “Good on the improvisation,” Geralt says. “Don't think that'd be a fair fight.” He lifts his weaponless hands.

“Don't worry, I won't hurt you,” he continues.

“And why would I believe you, Mister Stranger?”

“I mean,” he says, tilting his head, “I did just save your life.”

She scrutinizes him a little and lowers the hand holding the rock.

“Okay. That's fair,” she says. Her shoulders relax, too. Then her head snaps up again. “But I'm keeping my eyes on you!”

Immediately, she turns her eyes away from him and starts walking towards the castle. Smiling quietly, Geralt follows behind.

“You wouldn't happen to have any food, would you?” she asks.

***

“So what's your name?” Jaskier asks, sliding a bowl of soup across the table. When Geralt had come in with the white haired girl, he hadn't even blinked, just led her to the dining room with easy touches, easy smiles.

The girl's gaze is guarded and she hesitates. “Fiona,” she says. Geralt can tell she has learned to be weary of strangers, but she has not yet learned how to lie. “I just got lost in the woods. I'm a peasant's daughter.”

Geralt watches her quietly, the way she looks down on the table and takes a sip from the soup. She's too thin, even considering that winter has started. She's running from something, and it's not just a kikimora.

“Shouldn't have gone through the swamp,” Geralt says.

He can't believe a word out of her mouth, but Geralt isn't too concerned. How do you trust someone who has nothing to hide?

“Yes, well, I was...” the girl says, still trying to find a place to look that's not Geralt's face, “I was in a hurry.”

She presses her lips together, like she's already said too much, and Geralt doesn't ask. In dimmed light, the face of a friend is indistinguishable from that of a foe. Sometimes closed lip smiles hide razor-sharp teeth. Sometimes someone will offer you a hand to get you to show yours.

“You can always stay here, if you want,” Jaskier says, not asking for permission because he knows Geralt's answer, “there's plenty of room everywhere. Too much, certainly. Lots of space unused, you'd really be doing us a favor.”

The girl stay silent for a long while. She's understood she's better off on her own, but not used to it. (Would you sleep in a monster's den if you had nowhere else to go?)

“You're good with a sword,” she says to Geralt eventually.

“I am.”

“Would you teach me?” she says, starts rambling, “I'm not completely useless, I can help around the house. I'll help clean, I'll dust, not to be rude, but that floor could really use a scrubbing -” “See, Geralt, she understands,” Jaskier says triumphantly. “Come on. You could use a real sparring opponent, I'm sure that tree you always hack away at has had enough of you by now.”

It's two against one. Geralt never really stood a chance.

*** Three voices. Heartbeats. Laughter, sometimes. Shuffling. Footsteps. The occasional crash. The occasional giggle.

Is this how to be human?

Is this how a house is lived in?

The girl – Fiona – the girl – has little fighting skill, but she learns quickly. They're in the entrance hall because it's big and bright. Jaskier is lounging on the stairs, Zofia next to him sewing.

Jaskier's quiet tune floats over to them. Geralt steps carefully, the girl imitates him. Are these ballroom dances, like stepping into footprints in the snow?

She still has an uncertain grip on her sword, even thought Geralt has showed her before. But she is quick, he'll giver her that, has good reflexes.

They spar every day now. Geralt picks up the wood to carve less and less.

He gets used to humans scarily quickly, barely looks at the paintings anymore.

She's a little better today and Geralt lets her knock the sword out of his hand. She smirks proudly, but Geralt's gaze skitters over to Jaskier.

“You're getting slower, old man,” he says, eyes twinkling.

Geralt holds his gaze.

Is this how to be human, with sweaty palms and an unsettling feeling in your stomach? With your throat dry? With your heart too quick?

Jaskier's smile is always a challenge and Geralt always loses against it.

These people are staying, for a little while. Like light in a bottle. Like something not to be kept.

Sometimes Geralt is alone, but from somewhere in the castle, he can always hear singing.

[horrorslashergirl]

I have a request, since they're open! Anything with the Collector x Reader x Chromeskull. I love that pair! Surprise me with what happens. Preferably angst.

The Collector x Reader x Chromeskull- Hazardous Toxicity

Authors Note: Getting some practice with angsty scenarios and these two see to fit the picture, because what’s not toxic about being in a relationship with a serial killer, neverthless with two of them.

Warning: Toxic Polyamorous Relationship

Words: 2.2k

You had a peculiar taste in men and that went with the fact that you didn't like routine or having a normal relationship with a normal guy with a normal job and a normal hobby. Normal wasn't an adjective or characteristic you were attracted to.

If you could describe what your preference in men was, you would start by saying that you always liked them older, maybe because you had enough of going on dates with guys your age that talked about the same topics; college, sports, nothing that would really spark a certain interest, but alas you were glad at the end of the date they preferred to remain just friends. Easier to get out and not make an awkward scene and probably explain why there was no chemistry.

The past relationships you had were to put it nicely, acceptable. The guys always let you take the lead; you ordered the food, you decided what movie to watch, what to do on a certain date. To be always in charge was tiring and you felt kind of empty. There was no excitement what so ever.

So, imagine the actual relationship you were having now. Never in your life would you predict that you would end up in a polyamorous relationship with two men that were much older than you. It was just a fantasy, one that turned out to be real.

To say that your partners were quite unique would be just an easy saying; they always stood out of the crowd, maybe one of the reasons you were so intrigued by them, but they were that type of standing out like 'He's so handsome and fuckable type'. Well, in your opinion, yes, but in your friends and people that knew you, they were downright intimidating. Possible another plus in your attractiveness book.

They had that certain vibe that if they wanted to crush someone's skull, they would do it, not that you minded because, in a certain twisted way, you felt protected because Lord helps the poor soul that would have the guts to hurt you.

At the beginning of the relationship, everyone said that you should be careful, be vigilant because you don't know them well; they were mysterious to say so, never putting all the cards down for you to see, making your stay on your toes and your mind always to wander to their personas. That was what made you be drawn to them, they excited your mind and the intimacy?

You never knew how much pleasure exists, nevertheless with two men like them. They always made you crave more, your legs turning to jelly and mind a mess, all morals flying out the window and letting your carnal instincts take over.

Everything was perfect because you felt cherished, they always treated you with all kinds of surprises, and sometimes it felt like they were competing for your affection and attention; the perks of having two alpha males.

They also had their differences, despite how similar Jesse and Asa were. Jesse was an extrovert, while Asa was an introvert. Despite Jesse being mute he always found himself teasing you, be it at first using the electronic reader and later on suggestive signing after you got better with ASL. Asa could speak very loud and clear but chose not to, only if he had something to say, which always was accompanied by an authoritative tone, more or less.

Both are very highly intellectual and that showed; Asa being a successful entomologist at the university and the many degrees and diplomas on the wall of his office spoke for him, not to mention how much he knew about history and art. Jesse was nothing less either, with running a successful chroming company, being a highly respected and feared CEO and it always amazed you how much he knew about information technology.

So basically your type was experienced, tall, intimidating, and smart.

After being for some time in the relationship, your known one always said that they were controlling you, which at first made you confused about this statement, wondering from where they deducted that.

Maybe you were a little blind, not able to see how they chose for you what to wear, what to eat, how you should do your hair. You saw them as a suggestion, but the ones outside begged to differ.

There also came a hard time when you were having trouble at your job, the economy was going down, your boss had to cut salaries and you couldn't afford to pay rent, not to mention that you needed to over-work; extra hours staying at work meant less time spending with your lovers.

They suggest that you should move in with them, switching from Asa's house to Jesse's depending on when they weren't working, plus they made you give up on your job, explaining how the money wasn't even covering how much you worked.

You agreed; maybe the lack of sleep, too much frustration, and injustice conducted you to agree with their proposition.

They took care of all your needs, be them material, spiritual or physical; they delivered it. You couldn't argue on that, but slowly, without you realizing it, they made you be dependent on them, seeking them whenever you felt like, but you were always the submissive, they owned the power and you only basked it what they emanated.

The apex of this relationship came when darker secrets came out because your curiosity got the better of you, not going to work that left you a lot of time to think and brown-noose into their stuff and business; the biggest mistake of your life, much worse than entering this hazardous relationship.

The first time your eyes looked over a photo-album of Asa's, you expected to see family photos, since he never brought this subject, you were interested in it, but seeing all the gruesome photos, you never thought a human could be shaped like this? This had to be some sick joke, right? But it wasn't.

You haven't told Asa about it or tried to question him, making sure you put the album exactly where it was. You debated if you should tell Jesse since Asa had to do some entomology related work for the weekend and you stayed by Jesse's house, but he had to go to work too, something about an unannounced meeting, leaving you to spend time all alone into his enormous house, so again curiosity got the best of you.

If you thought that Asa's photo album was gruesome, then the tapes you found in Jesse's Chrysler inside the glove box and trunk were sure going to give you nightmares.

You were pacing in Jesse's living room, drinking some whiskey to calm your nerves because you were sure that a breakdown was going to come, then it hit you. All the missing people, the murders on the news; you played detective and pin-pointed everything.

It all came down to you, the harsh reality; all the false sense of safeness and affection, it was pure-down manipulation, the undercover controlling that you were too blind to see because you were like a love-struck puppy to them.

The solution was simple; break up this relationship.

That's what you did, you wrote down a quick note, not explaining why you were leaving them, you just wanted to getaway. You left Jesse's place and walked for half an hour. Where? You didn't know, you had nowhere to go because all your friends left you; some that decided you were a lost cause, others too afraid of your men.

You had so much money just to stay at a cheap hostel for some days, but it was better than sleeping in a bus station on a dirty bench. Maybe you will go back to your parents? You didn't have a plan in mind.

The first night you couldn't sleep, not only because the bed was very much uncomfortable and the people in the room next to you were making too much noise, but because you felt like they were always watching; you were getting paranoid.

The next day, you managed to get some sleep in the morning, sleeping until it was the afternoon, the growl of your stomach waking you up. You walked to a cheap restaurant across the hostel, and as you took the first bite of the scrambled eggs and a little too burnt sausages, you grimaced.

Too accustomed to five-star meals and champagne, doll?

Alas, you swallowed down, reminding yourself that luxury wasn't an option in your current predicament. You sipped on the bitter coffee, the taste as truthful as the relationship which you ended, the dark liquid waking you up, and everything pouring down on you; it was only a game. The affection was only a camouflage for the twisted intentions, the protectiveness only possession.

After sitting there for hours and the waitress telling you that if you wouldn't order anything else you should leave, you walked back towards the hostel, walking upstairs to your room, entering and closing the door behind you, you were ready to hit the bed again, only to stop dead in your tracks when your gaze meets long black-clad legs, eyes moving up over the black clothes and wide chest and stopping on a bone-chilling chromed skull mask.

The bald head and tall frame of the mad was a dead giveaway to who he was, and when you heard heavy footsteps behind you, you knew who the second person was behind you, but your mind didn't want to acknowledge the scenario.

"Going somewhere?" the calm and familiar voice asked behind you, feeling Asa stop behind you, just a few inches away from his chest to press against your back.

'Piggy has been naughty.' Jesse signed, making your gut twist at the nickname he gave you.

"I-I...." you didn't know what to say, afraid of saying anything when your eyes saw Jesse twirl a large knife, clearly amused by your face that showed fear.

"You what? Trying to break things off without a specific motive?" Asa asked into your ear, gloved hands grasping your hips into a bruising grip, fingers digging into your skin behind your shirt.

Of course, they found out you were sneaking where your nose shouldn't be. Asa knew where everything he owned was, so it was no surprise when he found the photo album a little out of place, and Jesse? You cursed yourself for forgetting that he had security cameras all over his place.

Jesse moved off the couch and stalked towards you, looking down at your form and at this moment you really hated how tall and imposing of a figure he had. You were turned around and pressed to his chest, your eyes ready to meet Asa's face, only to be masked by a black-foam mask, making him look so very menacing, like a very dangerous spider.

You felt Jesse trail the tip of his knife up and down your thigh, his masked face pressing against the top of your head.

"You know what I am most curious about?" Asa asked, pulling out a knife of his own and trailing the blunt edge over your neck, the cold blade making your breath hitch.

"Any person in your situation would have called us in." he answered for you.

That's when it hit you, your eyes widening. Any person in their right mind would have gone directly to the police, telling them everything, you had enough proof to put them behind bars for the rest of their lives, but you hid out like a rabbit, ready for the wolves to find you.

"Aren't you such a loyal pet?" Asa murmured in your ear, the knife nicking your collarbone a little, feeling his hot breath and rough texture of his mask hit your skin.

'Someone has a little crush.' the electronic voice from Jesse's phone spoke, making you more aware of what was happening.

"P-Please....I won't tell anyone." you whispered, closing your eyes as you felt Jesse move his knife up and down on your inner thigh.

"I'm sure you won't. It would be a shame to kneecap you, queen bee." Asa said, sadistic promises behind the cruel words.

You whimpered at the nickname, one it used to make you smile brightly and nuzzle into his chest, feeling so loved and appreciated, but now it made you sick to the stomach.

'Very big shame to destroy such a cute face.' Jesse added, pulling his knife away only for his nitrile covered hand to come up and cup your cheek, running his thumb over your soft skin.

"Are you going to come home with us or do we have to train you through?" Asa asked, question rhetorical and by Gods, you didn't want to find out what it means 'training' in his mind.

Swallowing down, you nodded, doe-like eyes on his obsidian ones, his plush lips pulled into a winning lop-sided smile, then his lips pressed against your forehead, making you tremble a little.

Asa pulled away from you, walking towards the door, opening it. You were pushed forward by Jesse, who wrapped one long arm around your shoulder, making sure you wouldn't try to run away, not like you would get too far away.

As you passed the small reception you saw the owner of the hostel dead, into a pool of blood with his guts out.

This was a warning that this was not a childish game.

The meaning was simple; Try breaking things off with them and they will break your legs.