#i pray for a bingo. i PRAY to be able to cross out every single one of their smug faces

[fingertipsmp3]

Who do we most want to see gone? Personally if Rees-Mogg, Truss, Braverman, Patel, Fabricant, Hunt, Williamson and/or Badenoch lose their seats I will probably throw a party

[sabraeal]

Get Up Eight, Chapter 7

[Read on AO3]

Obiyuki AU Bingo 2021 Free Space

The air is sweet outside of Hiratsuka; the ocean’s salt still carries its pale sting on the breeze, but it cannot compete with the last of the spring’s harvest. The paddies are flooded still, slowly draining under the heat of the sun; wet earth weighs down the air’s sweetness, rich and full. This far into the season it is gold and green as far as the eye can see, set over a shimmering stretch of blue; a precious comb laid on silk. But this, this is finer than any gift an emperor could give his concubines. Ryo might buy jade and sapphires, but it could not buy a moment in time, experienced with all the senses of the body.

The threshing would come soon, as the end came for all beautiful things. The fields will be allowed to dry, and in weeks, this ground would lie fallow, a barren marshy plain awaiting its next use. But impermanence is a part of beauty, what made a sight such as this so precious and so dear. Just as petals fell from cherry trees, or snow sifted from the winter sky, this moment only existed in the here and now. In mere days, all of this would be gone.

Even Obi slows ahead of her, hands resting on the tight nip of his hips. Stalks spring thickly up beside the road, paddies dug so close the cobbles have sunk, curving the edges of the walkway like a scroll unfurled. He stands in the middle of it, a samurai out of a wood-block print, surveying his domain--

“Well,” he huffs, turning his chin over his shoulder. “It sure smells like shit.”

Shirayuki tries to stifle it, to keep the noise buried deep in her chest, but it’s impossible-- a laugh hiccups up between her lips, and try as she might, her sleeve doesn’t muffle it a single bit.

“What, ojou-san?” His mouth quirks at a corner, too sly for innocence. “Don’t you think so?”

Now that he mentions it...yes. That sweet earthy smell mixed with standing water gives off a fragrance that only a fly could love. The rice may be sweet on the wind and salt may still roll through with a breeze, but when the skies were quiet and her feet were still, it savored of nothing so strongly as the pies oxen dropped on the road.

Not that she’d ever give her samurai the satisfaction of agreeing.

“Surely it isn’t so bad as all that.” She takes in a large, pointed breath, and prays she won’t cough. “I only smell sweet grass.”

Both narrow brows scurry up his forehead, rumpling his scar. “Is that so, ojou-san?”

With a sharp smile he swaggers over to one of the sparse pines clinging onto the road, dropping down into a squat. “Then you won’t mind if we take our rest here?”

“W-what?” There’s barely any room for the cobbles, and none at all for two travelers trying to stay off them. And the smell...

“Come on.” He pats the muddy ground beside him; it splats beneath his palm. “This water looks healing if I do say so myself. Perfect to rest your poor feet in.”

Shirayuki casts a dubious glance over the road’s edge, knowing full well what she will find. These paddies are not freshly filled, water sparkling blue under the fair sky like in the ukiyo-e; oh no, this is a field left to drain, the water growing murkier with every day, probably rife with leeches and worse. Fine for plants, but for her poor, weeping blisters--

Well, she’d certainly collect quite a few friends putting her feet in there. They would be such a comfort before she succumbed to whatever infection stagnant water gave her. He blisters throb at the thought.

“We should keep going,” she informs him steadily. “Weren’t you just saying there was much road left to be traveled?”

At least, that had been his excuse in Hiratsuka. No time for dallying, ojou-san, he’d told her, slipping a vendor a few mon for the onigiri in her hands. We’ll have to sleep on the road if the light fades before we get to Odawara.

Obi doesn’t exactly frown; such an expression isn’t in his nature-- instead his mouth pulls to the precise width of the line she’s toeing.

“Well,” he hums his dangerous way, the sort that says only her twelve ryo stand between his hand and her cheek. His body unfurls to standing with an exaggerated slowness, a threat in every curl of his limbs. “Since ojou-san doesn’t need a break, I suppose we can walk all the way to Oiso.”

Her ronin stands across from her, kimono threadbare, hakama in hardly better shape, arms folded across his narrow chest. She knows that cock to his hip, that hint of a smirk on his face-- he expects her to fold, he expects her to beg like the delicate ojou-san she’s pretending to be.

Even wrapped tight under her tabi, the warabi loosely tied, her feet ache. Kino’s wife would plead to stop-- no, command him to. Either way, she would merely confirm what he already knew; she was a pampered fine lady, unable to keep up with the grueling pace he set. A burden he would be made to bear all the way to Kyoto.

Shirayuki shifts the sack on her back, Buddha’s hand pressing into her spine. “Fine. Let us keep going.”

Marsh bleeds into hills, the road flattening and slanting both, reeds rising up into pines. The shade is a welcome reprieve, as is the sea breeze that stirs the branches overhead and sends shadows to dance at her feet. Even as nature’s wonder presses in around her, Shirayuki cannot help but think she might be able to enjoy it better if her feet were not about to pop off at the ankle.

Oiso is hardly an hour’s walk from Hiratsuka, but every step is on needles, stabbing wherever her sole touches cobble. Still, still-- she will not relent. Surely they would see the post for the shukuba at any moment, and then she might--

“Ojou-san?” A shadow falls over her; even if she could not see the patched hem of his hakama, the scent of his sweat, clean and earthy, would give him away. His hands hover at her shoulders, steadying without touch. “Are you all right?”

“Ah!” She steps back, covering a wince with a smile. “No, no. I’m just fine. I can keep up! Oiso is only a few miles away, isn’t it?”

“It is.” He shifts back, arms folding into a forbidding bar of steel across her vision. “Do your feet hurt, ojou-san?”

His tone might be playful, a little sing-song like a child at play, but it is a knowing gaze that he wears, fixed to the hem of her kimono. She shuffles her feet, hoping they fall into shadow-- if only she had bought new tabi in Hiratsuka, she would have had a few more hours before the blood stained the new cloth. 

His breath hisses through his teeth like a palpable hit. “Ojou-san!”

Ah, so he’s seen it. That will make this conversation a hair more difficult.

“Don’t worry about me!” she yelps, sweeping away from the hands that would grab her, that would hold her in place to behold the extent of her foolishness. “It can wait until we get to Oiso-juku!”

He shakes his head, sitting back on his heels. “We’ll rest.”

Her cheeks puff out with annoyance. “Aren’t I the one who makes those decisions, samurai-dono?”

His mouth pulls thin for a moment, considering her, but the next has it bent in a bright smile. “All right then. Let’s rest. We can have some of those onigiri in your pack.”

Shirayuki longs to protest-- she did not make her way trading on feminine weakness in Yokohama, and she was not about to start here and now because this man would let her-- but her stomach growls long and loud, a beggar on its knees.

“Well,” she murmurs, looking away from that smug grin. “If you insist.”

“You know.” Obi’s fingers pluck nimbly at the twine knotted around the bamboo leaf, slipping it open with a firm tug on one end. Inside, the rice still steams, just cool enough to touch. “If you had said something, we could have stopped at Hiratsuka.”

Shirayuki looks up, her legs stretched out before her, wiggling her toes with a grimace. She spares him a raised brow, managing only a strained, “Could we have?”

His mouth opens, then closes again. Gold eyes shine almost green in the shade of the pine trees, but they drop away before she can determine whether it is merely a trick of the light. “Maybe.”

Her lips press tight as she watches him, long fingers separating one sticky triangle off from the others. “You’re worried. Did something happen...?”

At the hatago, Shirayuki assumes, but caution stills her tongue. The days she has spent with him have been long, but still-- she’s known him for only three. What trouble dogs his steps now may have been bought and paid for long before she knelt across from him in a tea house and offered twelve ryo to take her away from her own.

“Should I rewrap them?”

Her head jolts up; the amber of his eyes waits to trap her, honey-warm with curiosity. He presses the still-warm onigiri into her palm, and she-- she nearly says no. She may be smaller than him, but she’s not a child. A single rice ball would not a meal make.

But then he chucks his chin downward, toward where her feet sit bare save for the bandages.

“Oh,” she breathes, flexing them. Even that small movement sends pain lancing up her legs. “No, not yet.”

He shifts, mouth rumpled into a dubious knot. “It’s soaked through in places.”

“It’s fine.” Sour plum bursts on her tongue, rice sticking to her teeth as she tries to hurry it along. “It will take too much time to tend to now.”

If anything, his frown deepens. “I can work quick, ojou-san. You said last night that I’d done a good job.”

“I...” A frisson ran through her when he’d cupped her heel in his palm, fingers brushing over her blisters with a gentleness she had not expected from a man as rough as him. And when his hand had slid higher, gripping her calf to hold her in place-- “It can wait. Until we stop.”

Until she is sure she won’t need her legs to support her afterward.

He hums, unconvinced, but settles back onto his seat, knees crossed in front of him. If he were born to a greater station, there would be block prints of him like this, desultory and cross-legged, moments away from a war.

“Oiso is close by,” he reminds her, as if she did not tell him the same only minutes ago. “If the pain’s too much, let me know. We can always stop for the night.”

She swallows her bite of onigiri, watching him steadily. “Would you stop on your own?”

He lets out a long, annoyed breath. “No.”

“Then we’ll press on to Odawara.” She offers him a soft smile. “I’ll be fine.”

“It’s not a short walk,” he warns her, impatience creeping into his tone. “If you’re really hurting--”

“I know.” She smiles. “I’ll tell you.”

He leans back on his hands, a laugh rasping out of his throat. “I doubt that. You’d faint before you’d admit you can’t keep up.”

She lets out a huff. She can’t say it’s not true, but all the same, he doesn’t have to say it. “I--”

“Well, well.” A man emerges from the pines, lips stretched to a smile so wide that her own cheeks hurt. “Look at what we have here, boys.”

Shirayuki jumps-- not far, stretched out as she is, but enough to tuck her feet beneath her kimono, hiding the bandages. Obi’s already got his own beneath him, his knuckles bone white where they wrap around his hilt. His gaze fixes on the treeline, steady and gold, the way a tiger might watch from the long grass, and her breath catches. Obi might wear a man’s skin, but in this moment he is more wolf than warrior, a predator in the guise of its prey.

But that man doesn’t see it. He strides into the copse, blades rattling at his side, heedlessly smiling at his death. “No need for that, oni-san.”

Obi’s hilt creaks beneath his grip. “I’m not your brother.”

Her eyes blink wide, searching the strained planes of his face. This man may be a stranger, unwelcome in their company, but to be so unconscionably rude-- well, Shirayuki can hardly countenance it. Not from a man who slid goshujin through his teeth like steel bared from its sheath, a man who wielded manners as a weapon--

A man who knows that his rudeness would mark them more than submission. She’d seen what counted as fighting words when she ran the sake house; not a single bushi worth his blade would let a ronin parry their generous parity.

But still, this one only smiles. Wider now, the sharp edges of his eyeteeth cresting the ridge of his lips.

“Oh, no?” Men shuffle through the trees, the boughs obscuring their gaunt faces, but still, Shirayuki is sure-- they don’t smile like this samurai. No, ronin. He might have the paired blades wrapped at his hips, but there’s no crest on his haori, only a single long tail winding over his shoulders from the hair at his nape, instead of a bushi’s top-knot. “But we shared a drink back at the hatago, didn’t we?”

Shirayuki takes in the worn hem of this ronin’s hakama, the meticulously mended seams of his haori, the fine material his kimono had once been; none of it is familiar, nor is his face. “Obi-dono?”

Something twitches in the depths of Obi’s jaw. A flicker of recognition, perhaps, to pair with the fleet warning that lopes across his eyes.

“Having a rest, I see?” the ronin observes, edging ever closer to the clearing, his men jostling around him. Three of them, plus the headman; more than any man could manage, no matter how skilled Obi might be. “Now, we were just thinking the same thing, weren’t we?”

Tension thickens the air, and there’s no reason for it, none at all. Not unless her yojimbo is restless, eager to prove to her his prowess. It’s an exhibition that she is less than enthused to participate in, especially with these odds.

“Please.” There is no sake house for her to serve, but her old role drops over her like a mask, mouth stretching into that close-lipped smile, hiding in behind her sleeve. “Come in. I mean--” Obi stares at her, chin slowly shaking, a silent plea-- “please, come sit.”

It’s his stare-- pupils pinprick small with shock, white a thin ring all around the gold-- that reminds her that she’s still looking up. Her eyes drop, fixing to the stranger’s hands, where no dirt lingers beneath his nails, each one diligently picked and scrubbed to cleanliness. But no-- it must drop farther still, down to rest demurely on her knees. Already she's done too much, said too much; a hostess speaks to custom with ease, but a retiring ojou-san in the company of her retainer...

She would be silent. A woman ready to fade into the background as the men carried on her business.

Shirayuki shifts, rolling up to rest on her knees, head bowed. Not three days on the road, and already the role she has chosen for herself chafes.

“Well, since onee-san has been so kind.” The man saunters from the shade, crouching down to a kneel. “It would be rude to refuse.”

Obi’s jaw works, a rebuttal brewing on his lips, but she holds out a hand instead, quelling. Her palm brushes over his knee, the muscles hovering beneath her fingertips going tense, his breath caught in his chest--

And she jolts it away, letting it hover safely over him instead. Still, he lowers onto his feet, placing the blade at his side. The right side, she notes with satisfaction, until he rolls back, legs crossing at the ankle before him, hands braced on his knees. A shogun’s stance, she had thought when Kino took it, but Obi in his threadbare kimono, juban long since lost, and faded hakama...

He makes it look like trouble.

Shirayuki swallows a grimace, bowing her head over her hands. “You are too kind, oni-san--” Obi grunts, displeasure stark on his sharp face, but at least leaves his protest to that-- “please, partake in our meal as well. We have only just started.”

Obi swivels toward her, betrayal writ clear in his eyes, but there’s nothing for it. She’s already asked the headman to sit; she can’t possibly ask him to starve. Not unless Obi would like to risk these men finding them on another stretch of road, far from any shukuba, the night much closer, their minds less wary.

The ronin casts a lingering glance at the onigiri still on the leaf, his tongue tracing the barest path over his lips--

“It is you who are too kind, onee-san, by offering,” he says, the picture of well-born courtesy. “We’d be happy to. As long as you don’t mind sharing our food as well?”

Obi blinks. “Your food?”

The headman holds up a hand, and at once his ronin come forward, dropping their sacks in front of them, and--

“Oh,” Shirayuki breathes, staring at the array of bento tumbled across their makeshift camp. Thinking of what they might well find inside them, her stomach shivers, just short of making its anticipation known. “Well, if you insist...”

As each lid springs open on the men’s hakubento, a feast spills forth: rolled egg and minced fish cakes, soy bears and boiled lotus, taro and shiitake. One has whole, simmered shrimp with pickled ginger, and the water in her mouth nearly leaks out at the sight of it.

“So much,” Shirayuki murmurs, palms pressed flat to her thighs. “Where did you get it all?”

“The hatago.” The ronin’s mouth lifts at a corner, gaze darting to where Obi sits beside her, stiff. “I’m surprised your man didn’t have them pack one for you.”

She resists looking at him, just waits until he’s finished his sticky bite of onigiri to say, “We were in a hurry.”

The ronin’s reply is a sly flash of teeth. “Hope you made it where you were going.”

Obi settles back onto his heels. “Not fast enough.”

It’s an answer made to be muttered, but Obi enunciates every syllable clearly, punctuating it with an insolent lift of his gaze, meeting the man’s with a pointed finality. It’s her first instinct to scold him, the way she might with Kino-san when he acted out of turn, but her breath catches in her chest.

She would do that. Her, a girl raised beneath the bar of a sake house, used to putting men in their place before they reached too far out of it. But a young ojou-san, naive to the ways of the world-- she would sit silent, letting the men speak their piece. If a fight broke out, she might scream, covering her fear with her sleeves, and hope for the best. Ah, never has she been so ill-suited for a role before. 

It doesn’t matter in the end; the ronin only twitches his mouth to mark it before turning to her, smile firmly seated on his lips.

“I’m the headman of this outfit.” The man pats his chest, drawing her attention back to the fine material worn thin, to the juban that is still meticulously white when it has not yellowed at the collar. “They call me Mihaya.”

No family name, she notes. That’s fine enough for her. “And I’m Shirayuki.”

She casts a pointed glance toward Obi, willing him to show one glimmer of the respect he pays every other creature that’s made their acquaintance, but he makes no move to introduce himself. Instead he only reaches forward, past all the fine foods Mihaya’s men have provided, and picks up the last of their onigiri.

“Are you going to have this, ojou-san?” he asks, so mild. “Or should I?”

She draws in a deep, steadying breath. “Go ahead. I’ll be fine with sharing with the others.”

His lip juts at that, sullen, but it disappears behind a sharp smile. “Well then, more for me.”

Her only solace in his rudeness is that at least Mihaya’s companions return with the same, too busy stuffing their mouths to pay attention to propriety. Even with such fine bento as these, they dig into each box like men who haven’t eaten in days instead of mere hours ago.

“You must be from around here.”

Shirayuki startles, attention whipping back toward where the headman sits smiling, one hand brace on his knee. “Since you’re traveling south, I mean. Unless you’re traveling back home, onee-san?”

“Oh, no. I’m from--” Obi’s warning glance stills her too-honest response-- “not so far away.”

“Thought so.” There’s a conspiratorial sparkle in his eye as he leans toward her. “I don’t see many of your kind on the road, at least not without an entourage.”

“Oh.” Her fingers clench in her kimono, keeping her seated. She should have thought of that; a girl from a family with money to spare would have sent her with a handful of men, carrying her from Edo to Kyoto slung like precious cargo between them. “I thought-- I mean, my grandfather thought traveling with one guard would draw less attention than a dozen.”

“Might keep more eyes off you, sure,” Mihaya agrees, crunching on a slice of taro. “But it’s safer to have more men when the roads get...rough. You get set on by bandits, and one sword won’t do you much good, onee-san.”

“Is that so?” she asks mildly. “I thought-- what is the saying? Having a single, well-made blade is better than a thousand that will break on the first strike.”

Obi coughs.

“True enough, onee-san.” The headman’s smile wears thinner with each word. “And it’s so much harder to find quality nowadays.”

They have only known each other this past hour, but already, Shirayuki finds little quarrel with Mihaya or his manners; at least, not as much as she does with Obi and his, but still--

Still, she mislikes the smug glance he cuts toward Obi, his gaze raking up his worn and well-mended clothes, the lack of his juban, and clearly, clearly-- finding him wanting.

“For some.” There’s a bite to her voice that surprises her, but she likes it. “I am fortunate indeed to have found such an exemplary bushi as Obi. I could hardly wish for better.”

Mihaya’s expression crumples like a paper lantern in the rain. “I’m sure--”

“Where are you from, Mihaya-san?” she interjects; the last thing they need is to have this rest spoiled by this odd hostility between headman and yojimbo. Especially if it might force her to admit she’s only had her exemplary guard for all of two days. “You don’t sound like a man from Edo.”

A dark shadow flits over his face, like a cloud passing over the sun, gone before she’s ever truly seen it. “Here and there.”

The west, his accent says, though it’s too crisp to be from any common man. Just like his clothes, his voice betrays him. Still, there’s no reason to push; plenty of men have left their domains these days. With tension between the shogun and emperor--

Well, Shirayuki wouldn’t want to be a man with a blade in hand. Samurai had once lived and died by the sword before the shogun wrenched the domains beneath him and brought an end to the warring states. But with all the silken pillows being pulled from beneath the tender seats of the daimyo, blades rattle in their sheaths, threatening its return.

“Where are you off to, onee-san?” Mihaya’s smile is brittle as he sits back, eyes casting her a hooded, measuring glance. “Not all the way to Kyoto I hope.”

Obi shifts, restless beside her. Her fingers sweep out subtly between them, thumb and small finger spanning the gap. It stills him, but not his grunt, wary and dissatisfied. Too cautious, her yojimbo. To avoid so obvious a question only means she has something to hide.

And she does, she does, but none of these men need to know it. Let them think her a loose-lipped ojou-san, if they wished. Better than a girl with no family and a dozen ryo in her bag, with only one guard to keep her safe. “I am.”

Mihaya whistles, long and low, impressed. “That’s a long journey for an ojou-san like yourself. What’s so important in Kyoto?”

“Ah...” A cousin, she should say. That’s what she told Obi, after all, and one story was easier to keep track of than a dozen. But still, there’s something in the headman’s eyes that demands more, than makes a cousin seem a pale prize to crawl across a country for.

“A husband,” Obi offers, so easy. “Arranged. You know how these things are. Ryo flows through fingers easy enough, but blood binds. Man’s eager to have her too.”

“A girl as pretty as this one?” Mihaya laughs, giving her a demonstrative glance. “I can believe it.”

“How about you, Mihaya-san?” she asks, if only to keep from more speculation. “Where are you and your men heading?”

“Funny you should ask, onee-san.” His mouth twitches, almost triumphant. “Kyoto. Just like you are.”

[cutesuki--bakugou]

Summer Solitude

Main Pairing: Katsuki Bakugou x Koge Naegi (OC) 

Story Rating: Mature

Genre: Fluff / Romance / Domestic / 

Story Warnings: Cursing, sexual terms and themes, flirting, playful spanking, vague mentions of kinks, mostly fluff and just silliness

Words: 2,395

Pt. 1 | Pt. 2 | Pt. 3

Written for the @bnhabookclub​​ ‘s members bingo event!

Crossed off: Lake Date

Bingo Masterlist

Art in banner by me

“Katsuki, where the heck are you taking me?” 

“Wouldn’t you like to know.” 

“Yeah, I would. That’s why I’m asking, you smartass.” With a playful scrunch of her nose, Koge brought his hand up to her lips, placing soft kisses along his knuckles. “We’ve been driving for almost two hours and we’re out in the middle of nowhere now!” Their hands flopping back to lay on her bare thigh, the petite woman turned her gaze back to peer out at the passing trees, the thick forest surrounding the small countryside road not giving her any hints to where they were. All Bakugou had told her was to pack things for a day outdoors and to either bring or wear her swimsuit. Koge had decided on the latter, even though the tight material had begun to grow a tad uncomfortable in specific places, especially with her minidress coverup that had a tendency to cling to every curve. 

Bakugou had followed her example, dressed in just some orange swim trunks and his typical black tank. Because of the way they had dressed, Koge thought they wouldn’t be going far, but it was clear at this point that she was mistaken. He had refused to tell her, and he wasn’t using a GPS to help her cheat or get hints, so the only real couple of clues she had was that the location was in nature and involved them getting wet somehow. 

The curiosity was killing her. 

“Well I’m not telling you. Be a salty bitch all you want, you aren’t getting shit out of me.” Bakugou rubbed his thumb along her skin, his palm hot against her thigh. “It’s a surprise for a reason, Utsuro. You’ll like it. Besides, it’s been a while since we’ve been able to go out on a date and not have two wild children to deal with.” 

Koge gave a small sigh of relief at the thought, leaning her head back against the headrest. “I know! I can see now why you asked your mom to babysit. Those two little gremlins have been driving me crazy.” 

“Natsuki’s not even a year old yet, either. She’s going to be a handful.” 

“Just like her handful of a Daddy.” Koge smiled at her husband sweetly, rubbing up and down his forearm gently. “She’s literally going to be just like you. I hope you can handle it.” 

“Tch, I think you’re the one that needs to pray. I can deal with one of myself, but you’ll have to deal with two.” A small grin stretched across Bakugou’s lips, careful as he turned the car through a tight corner. “And Matsuki might be a calm little squid right now, but who knows. He may just turn into a crazy person when he gets his quirk.” 

“Katsuki, love, I have dealt with you my whole life. I can handle more of you. But you have never dealt with yourself. You’re going to go crazy, because you are crazy-- OW, hey-!” Koge burst out into giggles, trying to escape the wrath of her lover as he squeezed her leg right above her knee where she was ticklish. “No, no, don’t-! I’ll jump out of the car if you do that!” 

“Well then you’ll be left alone to wander the woods all alone while I go enjoy our date.” 

“Psh, yeah right.” Koge leaned over the console, hugging onto his arm with her cheek on his shoulder. “You’d miss me. You’d come looking for me.”

“Maybe in like… two days. Or a month.” 

“You couldn’t last a day without me. Admit it!” 

“Fine, fine. You’re right, Utsuro.” Bakugou took a moment to place a kiss on the top of her head, though he kept his focus mostly on the tight and uneven road. “Wouldn’t last a single day. Why else would I have married you?” 

“‘Cause you like the way I suck your dick.” 

“I only pretend.” 

With a click of her tongue, Koge sunk her teeth into his skin, though he didn’t bother to react as he turned off the road onto a dirt and rock path. Distracted by the change, Koge released him and sat back in her seat, beginning to see some breaks in the trees that hinted at what was beyond. “Oooh, I think we’re almost there.” 

Bakugou gave a small grunt in confirmation as the path curved, and before Koge could really prepare, they were out of the woods and thrust into a completely open field. Just as soon as they left the woods, the path turned back into a regular paved road, which ascended and curved along a grassy hill. When Koge finally caught sight of what was below, a small gasp escaped her lips, leaning against the door with her nose pressed against the window in an attempt to see better. “Wha-, Katsuki! Look at that! The water is so pretty!” 

Below them, surrounded by forest and grassy parks, was a huge lake that extended farther than Koge could see, snaking around hills and islands and coated with the early morning fog. Having left the house a little before sunrise, the earth was still coated in a misty, glowing haze as the sun struggled to climb over the rolling clouds. The beams of yellow light that broke through glistened against the beautiful blue water, sparkling like millions of tiny diamonds. Along the right side that was visible to her, Koge could see a little beach area, with tables and a few people already scattered about, trying to prepare before the summer sun hit them in full blast. 

“Are we going to that little beach?!” 

“No, fuck that. My family pays for some exclusive land up here.” 

“And you never told me this?!” 

“They just bought it!” Bakugou huffed at the accusation secrecy, glowering at his wife out of the corner of his eye. “I wanted to surprise you with it! You always say you want surprises, but then you get annoyed when it’s something I didn’t immediately tell you about.” 

“Is there a house on the land?” Koge continued her questions, ignoring his gripe for the moment. “Is it gated or fenced in? How many acres? Does it have a dock and-” 

“Utsuro! You’re rambling.” Bakugou reached over and pinched her backside, since there was a little peek of her left butt cheek while she leaned forward to see the view over the dashboard of the car. With a yelp, Koge was quick to sit back down, pouting up at him while she rubbed the now stinging skin. 

“Ouch! I’m just asking questions!” 

“You’ll see when we get there. And stay sitting down!” 

“I’m not going to go flying out of the car, Katsuki.” 

“No, I don’t mean that. I just can’t focus on driving seeing your ass peeking out of that little coverup.” 

After another thirty minutes of driving around the hillside roads with Koge asking questions that Bakugou refused to answer, they finally pulled up to a gate that was secured with a chain and large lock. After plopping a key into her hand, Koge hopped out at his request and unlocked the gate, pushing it open to allow him to drive in. Once they were through, Koge secured the gate back in place with a rattling of chains and a click of the lock, before crawling back into the car. “Oooh, that’s fancy! So secure!” 

“My mom wants to get an electric gate with a keypad later down the road, just in case we have guests and shit that one to come stay here.” 

“‘Stay’? So there is a house?” Koge smiled up at him slyly, putting the key back away where he had pulled it from originally. “You just gave it away!” 

“Tch, whatever. You can see it through the trees, anyway.” 

Sure enough, as they made their way down the driveway, a two-story house soon came into view, bringing a smile to Koge’s lips. “Damn! I can see why your parents wanted this place! Ooh! It does have a covered dock and everything! A fire pit too! Oh Katsuki, I want to live here.” 

“Maybe when we retire and the kids are out of our hair, we can get a lake house. Or just move out here, I’m sure I’ll get it when my parents are gone, if it hasn’t gone to shit or anything. Utsuro, stop bouncing in your seat, you’re shaking the car!” 

“It’s so amazing! Katsuki, I’ve always dreamed of a beach or lake house like this! I know it isn’t ours, but it’s so beautiful out here! Have you seen it all yet?” 

“Just pictures,” Bakugou parked the car, glancing at the outside of the house before looking down at his impatiently wiggling wife. Unable to resist an amused smile at her excitement, he leaned over and gave her a firm kiss on the cheek to catch her attention, though it was followed by a softer, more affectionate peck. “Happy?” 

Giggling softly with the affection, Koge turned her head to catch a quick kiss on his lips, caressing both of his cheeks. “I’m happy, Katsuki. And excited! C’mon, where’s my grand tour!” 

“I don’t know where shit is, I’ve only seen pictures. You have to take your seatbelt off before you can get out of the car, you dumbass!” 

The tour of the house was a quick one, with Koge bouncing down the halls and excitedly pointing out this feature or that detail and anything else that caught her eye. In design, it was very much like a traditional style Japanese home, much different from the modern design that Bakugou’s parents usually preferred, which is why he believed they decided to buy it. He was indifferent, but Koge was ecstatic, even her modern preferences fading away at the beauty of the house. By the time the couple got to the end of the dock, she was smiling nearly from ear to ear, taking in the beauty of the tranquil nature that surrounded them. 

“It’s beautiful here, Katsuki. I’m not as much of a nature buff as you are, but this really is so nice! The water is so clear and clean. And there’s not another person around at all! Total privacy.” Leaning over a bit, she peered down into the water, looking about for anything interesting such as fish or plants. Most of the area was just rocks that she could see with very little vegetation, which would be good for swimming, and she already found herself wanting to jump in. “Let’s go get the stuff from the car so we can swim!” 

“Sure. Y’know, it is beautiful out here. But nothing can compare to that ass in that swimsuit.” Smirk on his lips and malicious intent undetected by Koge, Bakugou waited until she was really close to the edge of the dock before bringing his full palm hard onto her ass. Paired with a push, Koge was sent squealing and flailing into the water, landing with a loud splash that rippled through the air, though it was dwarfed by Bakugou’s laughter. “Got you!” 

Coming back up to the surface, Koge first took in a large breath to gather herself, shaking her head to rid her eyes of her hair and water to glare up at him. “Katsuki! You can’t go for two attacks at once! That slap hurt.” 

“Boohoo. How’s the water-” Before he could even finish his question, Koge had stripped her coverup off and threw the bundled up ball of clothing at his face, hitting him before it fell to the wood at his feet with a slick plop. Face and chest now dripping with water, Bakugou stood there in shock for a moment before his menacing glare returned, slicking his hair back with the water that coated his forehead. “You think that was funny, Utsuro?” 

“Yeah, big guy. You deserve it.” 

“Oh yeah?” Stripping off his shirt, Bakugou tossed it aside, using only his feet to slip off his sneakers. “I deserve it? You know what you deserve?” 

“What?” Koge began to swim backwards a bit, sly smirk on her lips. “Another spanking?” 

Once all clothing was discarded besides his swim trunks, Bakugou took a few steps back before jogging forward, propelling himself off the edge of the dock to land full cannonball right in front of Koge. Before she could recover from the wave, Bakugou snatched her by the ribs, using his advantage of strength to lift her up and toss her into the air, sending her flying a few feet away as she squealed in delight. Laughing as he pushed his hair back from his face, Bakugou swam towards her. “That’s what you deserve, Utsuro.” 

“It’s not fair!” Koge latched onto him, her arms around his neck and legs latched around his waist. “I can’t do stuff like that to you! You’re too buff.” 

Caressing her body in close, Bakugou kissed her lips softly, placing a few last punishing pats on her previously spanked butt cheek. “Poor Utsuro. Too tiny to retaliate.” 

“I could retaliate. I could pinch that cute little butt. Or give you some nice blue balls. You don’t get any pussy.” 

Bakugou laughed, a sharp and amused chortle that brought a blush to Koge’s cheeks. “Yeah right! Utsuro, you’re obsessed with my dick, you wouldn’t be able to brush me off.” 

“You don’t think so?” 

“Nope.” Smirking against her lips, he squeezed a handful of her ass, only making her blush darken. “You’ve wanted to hop on my dick since this morning. You, retaliate by not letting me fuck you? That won’t ever happen.” 

“Well, how about I bet you.” Koge nudged his nose playfully with her own. “I bet you that I won’t fall for your sexual advances until tomorrow. If I win, then we buy your parents a hot tub to go along with this place-” 

“The fuck-?”

“-But if you win, then we can do that kinky thing you wanted to do, since we have time alone.” 

“Seriously? With the knives?” 

“Mhmm. But you can’t be all try hard. Everything has to be natural. Deal?” 

“You’re gonna lose. But I’ll get you tonight, you have no idea what I have planned. You’ll be falling into my arms.” 

“Apparently the only thing I’ll be falling into is the water, as you’ve so lovingly demonstrated. Ah, wait- No, Katsuki, don’t throw me again!”

[violetmuses]

Grey || Chapter 20

Dedications: @kestiscroft The truth is revealed at last!

--------------------

2023

Sharon Carter

“Would you like to know the truth, Agent Carter?” It wasn't another phone call, but someone talked to me in person.

One question echoed from behind me, but I didn’t notice its speaking figure until this had revealed their presence.

“Before we talk any further, who are you?” I turned around on this sidewalk to see a man standing in front of me.

Street lights beamed their shadows onto his dark complexion. His topped black hair turned grey in spots, but this stranger vaguely reminded me of someone. Dressed to hide among criminals too, he looked holstered, clearly familiar with Lowtown.

“Just you wait. For now, know that if you and Richardo keep plotting against Dionne, I will strip every privilege that you have ever received from the government.“ This complete stranger threatened me.

“Whoever you are, please understand that I don’t fare well with blackmail. You don’t even know who I am.” I should’ve already killed him as soon as he mentioned the word privilege.

“Someone very dear to me once said that in his world, a man can do anything with experience and patience.” The stranger affirmed his words, but never smiled.

“Who said that?” I narrowed my eyes, obviously trying to figure out who would’ve quoted that statement.

“Eight years ago, our man in question went for blood and split up the Avengers. Now, he’s shacking up in a luxury condo with my niece.” The stranger detailed, finally exposing a reason to be here.

Shit! All thoughts panicked as Zemo crossed my mind, but I couldn’t run away, not now or ever.

“Are you Paul Charles, the Real Estate agent?” I sent out that obvious question, although we both already knew the correct answer.

“Are you serious? Let me answer your stupid question with my response, Agent Carter: almost every single Hightown residence and other venues, including your own apartment, falls under the Charles family name.” Paul held onto his own chest, laughing to taunt me here.

“That’s impossible.” I scrunched up my face, already taking out my phone to verify his falsehood.

“Dionne can buy any property of her choosing over there. Even then, she would still have enough money left over to do whatever she wants afterwards. Honestly, that’s only part of the truth I have in store for you.” Paul continued, marking his words again.

“Oh…” I gasped while looking at my phone and Paul kept speaking.

I read that not only did the Charles family own various stakes of Hightown properties in Madripoor, but Paul moonlighted as a hacker of sorts and quadrupled his salary underground.

“I’m sure you remember the HYDRA breach.” Paul walked forward, but didn’t touch me, of course. A shoulder holster peeked with authority underneath his jacket.

“Did you help Romanoff put out those files?” I asked.

“No. I gave Helmut the coordinates to Vasily Kaprov’s house located in Cleveland, Ohio.” Paul asserted, deepening the invisible and proverbial hole that cracked beneath my steps

“You led a monster to the Winter Soldier handbook.” I shuddered gently, still trying to keep composure at this point.

“If Helmut is a monster, then what are you?” Paul took another towards me, but dominated our conversation again.

“The Power Broker.” I stood my ground, trying to keep my own command here, even around the Lowtown misfits who might’ve hear us.

“No, you’re just another lackey.” Paul just scoffed in return.

“Enough games, Paul. I’ve walked in circles all this time. Who is our true Power Broker?” I whispered, praying silently that no one around us comprehended what I asked.

“The Baroness of Sokovia.” Paul balled up one of his fists and clenched bright teeth, sizing me up without closing space between us both.

“Heike Zemo? That’s not true. She’s been dead for eight years. We all know what happened to Sokovia.” I spun into another mirage of a circle, shocked by his answer.

“I’m sorry, but please try to be more intelligent before I walk away. Heike was only a replacement, Agent Carter.” Paul corrected me, still leaving my mind clueless.

“What are you talking about?” I whispered my question with a racing heart.

“Has Dionne already told you about her relationship with Helmut?” Paul asked once more, hiding both hands in the pockets of that windbreaker jacket.

“Yes.” I sighed, but nodded. My thoughts soon remembered everything that Dionne and Zemo said up to this point.

“Twenty years back, after my brother Ray passed on, Helmut called me and asked if we could go jewelry shopping. I planned to visit Sokovia and we wanted to choose Dionne’s engagement ring.” Paul’s voice lost its energy, now sounding drained instead.

“His father ruined it all.” I mumbled, but Paul heard exactly what my phrase had been.

“Bingo.” Paul gestured, simmering frustration again, and for good reason.

That's unfortunate." I said a few moments later.

“In 2003, Heike and Helmut’s engagement party was a fucking joke! If you don’t believe me, it’s all filmed up until a certain point.” Paul hissed, explaining more details.

“Where’s the footage?” I squinted, hoping to reach a goldmine here.

“If I speak any further about the video, how do I know that you won’t betray me, Agent Carter? To be honest, I will always trust Helmut over you.” Paul spewed his venom once more, still pledging his allegiance to Zemo decades later.

“We’re Americans, Paul. I still think you have every right to plead the Fifth, regardless of location.” I folded both arms.

“I won’t respond to your American comment. Although he was Sokovian, Helmut would never make a slick remark like that. We checked his privilege at the door and he’s been loyal with our family ever since.” Paul clenched his teeth again, battling me once more.

“So, you’re telling me that Dionne is the Power Broker?” My softened words mounted the gravity of what I was trying to figure out all along.

“I thought the clues were obvious. You should’ve felt gears turning once I mentioned Helmut's engagement ring for her. Besides, why do you think she can move anywhere in Madripoor and not be killed instantly?” Paul smoked a cigarette.

“Access.” I whispered.

“Let me tell you something else: Perkins was able to reach Madripoor and abduct my niece because folks didn't check their no-entry lists! This island and its people might be lawless, but we still got rules here. James Patterson called the Street Law.” Paul referenced someone else I didn't recognize yet. I’d research later, curious despite this talk now.

“I’m sorry.” I apologized to Paul Charles, even though Russell Perkins never hit S.H.I.E.L.D.’s radar, at least not as far as I remembered.

“All you were so busy worrying about HYDRA and The Winter Soldier that another barbarian slipped through the intel cracks. Even before Sokovia was destroyed, Helmut tried to warn us about Perkins.” Paul kept going, making even more sense.

“Hacking aside, how do you know that much about Perkins’s record?” I shook my head, still shocked and hurt by Paul’s answers.

“Helmut sent me everything after Perkins tried to murder a Sokovian diplomat. If this world actually focused on the correct things, Perkins would’ve rotted in prison instead of escaping and abusing my niece!” Paul was seething responding to me again.

“Don't you realize that Zemo should be in prison too?” I grounded us, pushing empty aside for once here.

“I’ve been told many times that you should be jailed as well, Agent Carter.” After stumping out that cigarette, Paul Charles lurked his own footsteps back into darkness before I could speak up again.

[bcdrawsandwrites]

Next entry for @badthingshappenbingo!

I AM NO LONGER ACCEPTING PROMPTS! The single-bone marks on the card indicate which prompts I have received and am going to write, and I finally have prompts that will earn me a bingo once they’ve been posted (but they’re not posted yet)!

This fic has also been posted to FFN and AO3, so you can check it out on my Assortment of Broken Bones collection on there if you like!

This prompt came from @tomato-bitch! She had a more specific scenario in mind for this prompt...

Prompt: Mugging Characters: Héctor and Chicharrón, pre-movie

---~~~---

The night was cool, but not chilly, the air crisp and refreshing in his... well, where his lungs would have been. The sky was clear, the stars were bright, and the moon was full—it would have been a perfect night to sit outside, either on the rooftops or around a fire, and talk with his nearly-forgotten family.

But Héctor was far from Shantytown tonight.

He wished he weren't. He would rather be anywhere but here, doing anything other than what he was about to do.

Drawing in a breath, he cringed, bringing his hands to his cervical vertebrae, still tender from a few days ago.

"You think you can just waltz in here, take our stuff?"

"I'm sorry, señor, really—I'll be on my way and never bother you agai—"

"Oh, no, you're staying right here."

He swallowed down the pain in his throat. His voice was still rough—it was part of the reason he hadn't spoken to anyone in Shantytown for a few days. A small part of the reason, anyway.

"What do you guys think? That left femur of yours would fetch a nice price on the market, eh?"

"What—no, no, por favor, don't! I-I promise I won't come back, I won't say anything—"

"But you want this, right? You took a pretty gutsy risk coming here to try to swipe it."

"I-I..."

"How about this. You do us a favor, and we'll consider not pawning off your unbroken bones. And maybe throw this in as well."

"I... sí, okay, I'll do whatever you want!"

Whatever they wanted... He pinched the bridge of his nose, reminding himself not to use that phrase again.

"Wait, wait, no, that's... I-I don't have..."

"If you don't have that kind of money on you, we have no problem exchanging your bones for it."

"...How long will you give me?"

"Get back to us in three days. Right here, the morning following the third night."

"Thr—you can't be—?!"

"If we don't get it then, we'll track you down. Don't think you can hide, amigo. We have ways of finding you. So do we have a deal or not?"

"...Sí."

"Good."

It was not the kind of money that he could make running errands. It was not the kind of money he could make on odd jobs, or even pawning off every item in his possession. He'd tried, even—sold his good pens, the only chair in his shack, even the blanket he used to keep himself warm at night. He spent a day running every errand Ceci threw at him. (She'd asked him what he was trying to save up for this time, what the plan this year was, what happened to his throat. He couldn't give her a straight answer.) The money he'd saved up had straight-up not been enough.

It was the night of the third day, and the money was due tomorrow morning.

Héctor had no other choice.

...At least, that's what he told himself. The police were still an option. They weren't exactly on good terms with him, and he wouldn't exactly be in the clear himself given he'd been the one trying to steal in the first place (in order to illegally cross the flower bridge), but he could inform them of the criminals who were threatening him. The police could take care of that, and... well... he'd probably be arrested, but even a week in jail was better than permanently losing half his bones to some scumbags in the underworld of the underworld.

But... if he went to the police and got himself arrested, he wouldn't be able to cross. Dia de Muertos was only in two days. Even if by some miracle they didn't arrest him, he wouldn't be able to get...

Sighing, Héctor shook his head, bringing himself back to the present. No, he had to do this. If he wanted a shot at seeing his Coco again... he had to.

He had to.

After waiting for a few more moments, he surveyed his surroundings again—the buildings were tall here, and quite old. It was still several layers above Shantytown, but old enough that very few people actually lived here these days. The Land of the Dead, normally quite bright at night, was dark here, with few working streetlamps and no lights shining through any windows. As a result, it was not the safest place to be. Héctor had learned that the hard way, and discovered the reason why it could be so unsafe.

And now... he was about to become part of the reason why it was so unsafe.

It's for Coco, he told himself, shutting his eyes. It's for her. You can just do this once, so you can see her again, and then never do it again.

He peered down the street from his spot in the shadows of the alley, looking in both directions, but it was still clear. Something within him desperately hoped that someone would be here, while another, deeper part of him begged whatever higher power existed to not let a soul cross his path. But it was either this, getting torn apart, or missing another chance at crossing the bridge.

Leaning against a cold wall, he waited in silence, listening for any sounds of movement. For the past few hours, he'd only heard the occasional stray alebrije, which soared in the distance overhead. There were no creatures here in these streets, skeletal, alebrije, or otherwise.

As he waited, his mind drifted, and he tried to picture how old Coco was now. It was hard to imagine her as anything other than the small child he'd left behind, hard to imagine anything other than her soft, young voice. But she was in her seventies now, he knew—older than Imelda had lived. He wondered what sort of family she'd made for herself—if she had children of her own, if they had their own children. He wondered if she was in good health now.

Maybe he'd get to see for himself in a couple days, if everything went right.

If it didn't... well, maybe he would be lucky enough to try again next year. He couldn't count on it, though—as much as he hated to think of his daughter in such a state, she may not be in the best health. This could very well be his last chance.

He was so lost in his thoughts that he nearly missed the sound of footsteps. Sucking in air through his teeth, he listened—yes, someone was absolutely walking down the street, coming around the corner down the block. The footfalls were hesitant, as though trying to make as little noise as possible, though occasionally they moved in short bursts of speed. It was either someone who was very scared... or a criminal.

He desperately hoped it was not the latter.

Sure enough, someone came into view—they had a slight frame, and he could just make out the skirt they wore—a woman, then? Her feet made a pock, pock, pock noise as they made contact with the ground, and her bones did not clack—at least, not loud enough for him to hear. What was a soul like this doing here?

The still night air easily carried her quiet voice:

"No... no, th-this isn't right."

Héctor froze up, backing against the wall. She definitely sounded afraid.

"I thought I saw the path was...? Maybe it was f-further down?"

She was lost.

Carefully he poked his head out again—she wouldn't see him in the shadow of the alleyway like this. She was closer now, and he could see her better—from her frame and her voice, she sounded like she'd died young, what he could see of her clothing looked nice and clean, and she carried a big purse slung over her opposite shoulder. Meanwhile, her body language radiated fear and unease.

His immediate instinct was to approach her, reassure her, tell her the correct way to go, and, if she let him (people didn't tend to trust the nearly-forgotten, after all), help guide her out of this terrible place himself. But he held himself back, swallowing down the lump in his throat and feeling it plummet down to his stomach cavity.

No, he wasn't here to help her.

It's for Coco, he told himself again, gritting his teeth as he ducked back into the alley. It's for Coco, it's for her, you have to do this.

The woman was getting closer, though a part of him prayed that she would turn around, head back the other way.

It's for Coco.

She was getting closer. He could hear her nervous breathing.

It's for Coco.

Closer now. The stars reflected off of the tears in her eyes.

It's for Coco.

He did not want to do this.

But it's for Coco.

He did not want to do this.

But if you don't do this, you'll never see her again.

She was right in front of him, and he lunged at her, aiming for the purse.

The woman's scream tore through the night, and Héctor crashed to the ground—he'd missed. Immediately she took off running, and he reformed, charging after her. "Get back here!" he called, hating how rough his voice sounded, hating what he was doing, hating every part of this. "Just—please, just give me your money!"

She didn't answer, only screaming into the night: "HELP! SOMEONE, PLEASE!"

Any other night and he would be running off to help. Was there anyone around here that would do that?

The terror of the idea struck him—what if someone else was here? What if someone came to her rescue, and attacked him? Took him to the police?

"HELP!"

He couldn't let that happen—he had to get this over with, but his broken tibia ached and his fibula was threatening to pop loose again—he wasn't going to be able to keep up with her. Let her get away, a small part of him said, but he shook the thought away—he couldn't do that, but he wasn't sure if he could catch her, either.

Whether by stroke of luck or some devil tempting him, the woman's shoes caught on an uneven cobblestone, and she stumbled and fell.

Leave her alone, the small part said, but he charged at her anyway. He tried to yank her purse away, but wound up yanking her back up to her feet. Rolling with it, he shoved her against a nearby wall. She was crying.

"Leave me alone...!" she sobbed, as he tried to tug the purse away.

"I-I... I don't want to hurt you, señorita," Héctor stammered. "Just give me—"

To his surprise, she fought back, shoving at his sternum and jostling his broken ribs. He hissed in pain, but very quickly realized a problem, as the starlight above them reflected off her shining white bones: she was a remembered skeleton, and he was not.

"Get away, get off of me!" she cried, kicking and shoving at him as he struggled to keep hold of her. Her foot struck at his bad leg, and he held back a cry of pain, but the strained noise came through his throat anyway.

Apparently encouraged by this, the woman shoved at his bad arm, and he felt the two cracked halves of it rub against each other.

He couldn't fight her—she would win.

He had to play dirty.

Pulling back the arm that she'd successfully pushed away, he swung his fist at her, swiftly connecting with her skull and knocking it off her shoulders. While she screamed again, he'd successfully stunned her enough to stop fighting. He grabbed her purse, yanked it off her shoulders, and ran.

"No, no! GET BACK HERE! HELP! SOMEONE!"

But there was no one else around, and Héctor bolted off into the night.

He wasn't sure which was heavier: the stolen purse, which he struggled to carry, or his guilty conscience, which threatened to tug his heart down to the ground.

---

Héctor did not take the purse back to Shantytown, but sought out a safe spot on the way back to the location where he was to meet the awful men who started this in the first place.

Are you sure you're not one of them, amigo? a voice within him asked, and he swallowed the lump down again.

Sorting through the purse, he found several useless objects—a book of some sort, a box of candies, a stack of letters... He set them aside for now, continuing to dig through the purse until he found what he was looking for: a wallet.

As he'd hoped, it had a fair amount of money in it—more than he would have expected someone to carry on their person, but... he wouldn't complain. Pulling a meager amount of money out of his own pouch, he put it with the stolen money and began to count.

To his dismay, it was barely not enough. Wincing, he dug through the purse again, hoping he'd missed something, and sure enough, he found a smaller wallet within. For a moment he wondered why she would carry two wallets... until he realized this one didn't carry money.

Smiling faces of living family members peered out at him—brothers, sisters, parents, grandparents, nieces, nephews.

She had a family, too.

He turned to look at the other objects he'd set aside: The book was a sketchbook. The box of candies had a sticker label on the outside with a man's name on it. The letters were all addressed to different people with the same last name, in places in the Land of the Living.

She'd died recently, he realized—possibly on the way to mail these letters. She'd died, and had gotten lost, and he'd...

No, I had to do it. It's for Coco, it's...

Another thought shoved itself to the front of his mind:

What would Coco say, if she knew you'd done this to get to her?

His breath caught in his throat, and when he finally managed to breathe, it came in short, harsh sobs.

---

Héctor felt numb as he stood before them. He no longer had the purse; he'd hidden it away, feeling like he couldn't look at it any longer without getting sick.

"Ey, wasn't expecting you to actually do it," the man said, his mouth twisting into an unpleasant grin. "You came through, amigo."

I'm not your amigo. I'm not anyone's amigo, Héctor thought, but said nothing, staring off to the side.

"We could use someone like you."

"No."

"Suit yourself. Oh... but you wanted this, right?"

Again, Héctor said nothing, but didn't resist as the man pushed a large box into his arms. He did cringe when the man slammed a hand onto his back.

"Nice working with you."

Another voice spoke up: "Uhhh... jefe?"

They turned to see one of the other men, who had been counting the money Héctor had turned over. His stomach twisted.

"He's just... barely short."

"...Huh. You're right."

Héctor took a step back, wondering if he could make a break for it. "It's... it's only a little," he said. "If you give me another day, I could—"

"Oh, no, no, we had a deal." The man stepped up to him again, the friendly air he'd had earlier now long gone. "You make up the money to us, or we'll make it up with your bones."

"It's... I... I'm nearly forgotten, my bones are barely worth—"

The man lifted Héctor's chin with his knuckle, and Héctor grit his teeth as his head was turned to one side, then another, before he forcibly yanked himself away.

"No... I think you might have something worthwhile on you."

Héctor opened his mouth to protest, just as the man's fist connected with his face.

---

It was evening on Dia de Muertos, and Héctor had his scheme ready. His jaw still ached something terrible, but he reminded himself that he'd been lucky.

One tooth was a pretty small price to pay for being able to see his daughter.

But what about—

He shut down the voice again. No, focus, he just had to finish putting his plan into action, and then he could cross the bridge, and see his Coco, and then he would never have to think about the rest of this terrible, terrible week ever again.

"Hey, that's—"

"You!"

Instantly recognizing the voices, Héctor seized up in terror—no, this couldn't be happening, the police couldn't have found him this early—

"What do you think you're doing here, Rivera?! What are you doing with that?"

With a surge of panic, Héctor bolted, leaving behind the materials he'd fought so hard to retrieve, and any hope of seeing Coco that year.

He'd failed.

---

Héctor sat on the edge of his hammock numbly, having no other seat in his shack anymore. Dia de Muertos wasn't even over, but he couldn't even enact his plan—couldn't even go anywhere near the bridge. The police were clearly on the lookout for him—perhaps someone had given them a description of him as a forewarning.

He shuddered, one arm wrapped tightly around himself while his other hand massaged his jaw.

"You're back early."

Nearly falling backwards off his hammock, he looked up in shock to see Chicharrón standing in the doorway. The old man could move quietly when he needed to. "S... sí," he stammered, fighting to get back into a seated position again. "It's... it's not a good year."

He sat back, and the hammock immediately twisted, dumping him out the other side. He groaned, but made no effort to get back up.

Chicharrón stamped closer, grasped him by the heel, and yanked him away from the hammock. "Up."

Shakily he pushed himself back up to his feet, but couldn't keep his back straight for the heavy weight in his chest. Cheech looked him up and down, frowning, and Héctor sighed. "I didn't lose another rib, if that's what you're wondering."

"Then what did you lose?"

Perceptive. Héctor grimaced, showing his teeth, and turned his head to his right, so Cheech could see the missing tooth on the left side of his bottom jaw.

With a deep hum, Chicharrón turned around, stamping his way out the door. He didn't need to speak for Héctor to know that he wanted to be followed. Not particularly feeling like wallowing alone in misery tonight, he limped out after him. He would've snatched a bottle on his way out, but he'd sold that too a few days earlier.

To his surprise, Cheech immediately turned and climbed up the ladder (actually a series of boards nailed to the side of his house), sitting up on the edge of Héctor's roof, and Héctor joined him. The shack wasn't particularly tall, but it was still a nice view regardless. The old man produced a bottle that he'd evidently been hiding in his rib cage and took a deep gulp from it before passing it to Héctor, who gladly took a drink himself.

The alcohol took some of the weight off of his heavy heart, but it didn't make it go away entirely. It was better than nothing, at least, and Héctor and Chicharrón sat in silence for some time. No questions about how he'd lost his tooth, or why the night had been so terrible (other than the obvious). Just silence.

It was comforting, for a time. But the memories and thoughts of the past week didn't fade—of his failures, of Coco, of what he'd done. The latter especially still haunted him; every time he closed his eyes, he could see the woman's terrified face and hear her voice.

The comfort was soon gone, and the silence became suffocating.

"Cheech," Héctor finally said, voice choked. "Have you ever screwed up?"

"You think I'd be here if I hadn't?" Chicharrón snapped, yanking the bottle away and taking a swig, draining the last of it. He tossed the empty glass into the water below. "...Yeah. I have."

"What... do you do?"

"What can you do?"

Héctor snorted, leaning back to look at the stars, but it was cloudy tonight. It took him a moment before he realized Cheech was staring at him, and he gave a start.

"Wasn't a rhetorical question."

Oh. Héctor rubbed his jaw again, massaging the spot where he'd been hit. He couldn't go back to those men—there was no way he could get that money back without risking them trying to steal anything else from him. They may have already spent the money on who-knows-what anyway. He thought back to the woman, but he had no idea where she was staying. Even if he did, there was no way she would want to go anywhere near him. He couldn't blame her for that; he wouldn't want to go anywhere near himself either, after that.

"Well," he started, forcing a laugh. "I could... never do that again."

"Pshaw. Everyone screws up eventually."

Héctor shuddered. "No. Not like... not like what I did."

Shrugging, Chicharrón looked out over the town. "That it, then? Nothing else you can do?"

He thought about it further... and then he remembered. "Actually... I think there is."

"Yeah? What's—"

Héctor made to climb down off the roof, forgot he'd been drinking, lost his balance, and slid down off the inclined surface and into a pile of bones on the ground.

"Hm," Cheech grunted, staying up on the roof and tipping his hat over his eyes before leaning back. "Idiota."

---

He'd hid the purse away, in the midst of some fake plants, beneath the plastic wood chips that surrounded them. It took him a while to find the exact spot, and he earned himself a few odd glances when people saw him digging around. ("I dropped something here," he would explain, which wasn't technically a lie.) After a few hours of trying different spots, he finally unearthed the purse, carefully emptying it of any plastic chips before slinging it over his shoulder.

The next part of the plan was risky, but he knew a way to make it slightly easier. He swung by Ceci's place—her apartment, rather than her studio, and nearly bumped into her as she carried a basket of offerings to her door.

"Héctor?!" she cried, scrambling to keep a hold of the basket. "What are—ugh, I don't want to deal with your schemes tonight—"

"I—I know, Ceci, but please...!"

"I actually have the night off tonight, and for once—"

"I know Ceci, but I just—"

"Why are you wearing a purse anyway?"

"Ceci, por favor, I really, really need your help—just one thing, one."

He must have looked really desperate, because Ceci sighed, dropping her shoulders. "Fine. One thing," she said, stepping through the door to set the basket down. "What do you need?"

"I need... an outfit."

---

It was a nicer outfit than he'd expected—a warm cloak with a hood that he was sorely tempted to keep, but he'd promised her he'd bring this one back. To make sure he'd keep his word, she'd kept his goatee, which worked well enough, given he was disguising himself anyway. She'd also agreed to brush his wig, peppering it with some silver hairspray to make him look older. Instead of keeping the purse slung over his shoulder, he carried it in his arms, occasionally looking it over as he walked, rehearsing in his mind what he was going to say.

Still he felt uneasy as he reached the police department, and forced himself to walk through the doors without limping. A woman glanced up at him as he set the purse on the counter.

"I found this discarded near the street," he said, trying to hide the fact that his leg was in agony, as well as his terror that they would recognize him here. "Did... someone report a missing purse?"

After a brief conversation, the woman said she'd get it sorted out—a few people had reported missing purses recently. Héctor nodded, grateful, and left the building, nearly forgetting to mask his limp. He did limp back to Ceci's, though, exchanging the borrowed outfit for his original and his goatee.

"What were you doing, anyway?" Ceci asked, as he stuck his goatee back on. She was a lot less short with him than usual, and he chalked it up to the fact that he'd actually returned the outfit intact.

"Had to... return a stolen purse to the police," he said, quickly brushing his hands through his hair in an attempt to knock the silver out of it. He only succeeded in dusting the palms of his hands silver. "The police and I are, um... not exactly on good terms, heh, so I had to go in disguise so no one recognized me. They'd think I was up to something otherwise."

"You usually are," Ceci remarked, then swatted at his hand when he tried to brush it through his hair again. "Stop that, you'll get that silver everywhere." When he sighed, she crossed her arms. "You returned it, didn't you? What's there to be upset about?"

Good question. "Just... tired," he lied. He was hoping he'd feel better after returning the purse, but all of that woman's money was missing. Even if he'd been able to put it back, it wouldn't erase the fact that he'd chased the woman down and hit her.

He did have one extra thing added to the purse, however: a note.

I'm sorry for what I did. My daughter would never have wanted this. I hope you can enjoy your time with your family, on both sides of the bridge.

It didn't change what he'd done, but for now, Héctor hoped it would be enough.

[findmeinpops]

Chapter Five: I Predict A Riot

Summary: A sequel to I’m On Fire. The six of you were all happily joking, squeezed into a single booth. No one saw the man stood outside the diner watching. The relationship between you and Sweet Pea was growing stronger, it would make getting to you even harder but he was determined to do it. One way or another, he would get his revenge.

I’m On Fire: Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4, Part 5, Part 6

I Predict A Riot: Part 7, Part 8, Part 9, Part 10, Part 11, Part 12, Part 13, Part 14

Abbreviations: Y/N - Your Name            Y/L/N - Your Last Name

Sweet Pea had wandered around the empty streets for a while after he left. He wasn’t quite sure where he was going; he knew where he wanted to go but not how to get there. The Ghoulies moved camp a lot but Pea had hoped that maybe they had returned to an old spot. But they hadn’t.

As it started to rain torrentially, Pea almost gave up. He had been hoping to hold up your honour, teach the Ghoulies what happens when you mess with someone he loves. He sat on a little bench by the side of the road under a flickering street lamp. The rain made sure that his clothes were soaked through to the skin and his hair was sticking to his face. But he wasn’t cold.

This anger that was inside of him, in his core, was very much alive. It was like a fire in his gut. The intense heat kept rolling off it, filling his whole body with the desire for revenge. No one would touch you, he would make sure of it but the best way to do that it is to eliminate the threat, or at least force it to back off and return to the cave it came from. Where the Ghoulies were, though, he didn’t know. It would be futile to keep searching when he could be back at the trailer, with you by his side, protecting you himself.

Pea pulled his phone out of his jacket pocket and was just calling Toni to tell her just that when a pair of headlights appeared around the corner followed by rowdy shouts. This wouldn’t have been unusual if Pea hadn’t been on a lane in the middle of nowhere, somewhere between Riverdale and Greendale. The only buildings nearby were barns and an abandoned warehouse, Sweet Pea hadn’t seen anyone for miles.

Pea hastily threw his phone back into his pocket and stood to try and flag down the car, but then he saw who was in it. 

Four very drunk, inner-circle Ghoulies were sat in the back; the windows were down and a heavy beat was smothering their shrieks and shouts. Pea smoothly stood and slipped out of the glow of the street light and into the shadow of a nearby hedge.

The driver, spraying water in all directions, skidded around the corner and down a beaten, off-the-track road. Pea followed the car, sticking to the shadows at the side of the road and keeping a safe distance so as not to be seen.

The road became smaller and smaller, with less room to hide. Trees and bushes acted as barricades either side of the tarmac, providing more shadows and shelter from the rain but also eliminating any means of escape. If someone spotted him, he would be done for.

Soon the road opened up into a clearing where a large derelict barn stood. Trees surrounded the clearing, concealing it from the outside world and creating a fortress of sorts. The driver brought the car up to the large wooden doors of the building before pressing hard on the horn. Two lackeys opened the doors, nodding to the passengers as the car was driven inside, before shutting and locking them.

Bingo. He had found the Ghoulies, now he just needed to get inside. Pea made his way to the front doors and gripped the handle before thinking better of it. If he were to march straight in, the Ghoulies would surround him and then kill him. No, he had to be strategical. Peering through the window, he saw that most of the members were draped over various pieces of furniture around the room, smoking and drinking. Pea didn’t know the Ghoulies all that well, he had always tried to steer clear of them, they were bad news, but the one member he certainly did know was their leader: Malachai. He was nowhere in sight and Pea was quite glad that the most vicious Ghoulie, with the worst reputation, wasn’t here.

In the main room, behind the gang, Pea could see two narrow doorways which, he assumed, would lead to some other kind of back room. If he could get in there, via some kind of back entrance, then he could catch them off guard, maybe have the upper hand.

Avoiding all the windows, Pea crept around the side of the building where he found a window leading to a small bathroom.  After ensuring the room was empty, Pea pulled a knife out from his belt and used it to force the weak, old catch open.

First, he threw his bag in before clambering in himself. Pea struggled to fit his large frame through such a small opening, the wood shrieked in protest and the hinge threatened to give way but, eventually, he made it through, landing with one foot in the filthy toilet bowl. Muttering to himself about the disgusting state of the room (something you would be very proud of) he unzipped his bag, pulling out a long blade as well as a handgun which he had stolen from Mustang when he hadn’t been looking.

He zipped the bag up and slung it back over his shoulder before moving to the door. “Here goes nothing.” He muttered to himself before pushing open the door.

“Well, what do we have here?” A large man stood in the doorway, his arms crossed. The rest of them had formed an intimidating crowd behind him, holding weapons and cackling and jeering. “Grab him.”

Silently in the corner, in the shadows where she wouldn’t be seen, she watched. She would have to confront Sweet Pea soon but now was not the time, she just hoped he would survive. She pulled her jacket a little tighter around her and snuck out the back where she jumped onto her bike and went back to the spot, the spot that had meant so much to her. How had it all gone wrong?

Toni threw down the phone before picking up her jacket and running out the door. You followed her and were surprised to find that the other Serpents were already waiting.

“You need to stay here.” Jug stepped forward, grabbing hold of your shoulders. “We know they want you and God knows what Pea will do to us if you get captured, hurt or worse.” You knew he was right but you wanted to be there for him. You wanted to hold him and tell him it would be alright. You wanted to show the Ghoulies that you weren’t scared, that you couldn’t be intimidated by them.

You attempted to brush his hands off in protest but he only gripped harder, staring you in the eye. “I will come and get you if there is anything wrong, I promise you. Pea will need you but he’ll need you in one piece. Promise me you will stay here and not do anything stupid.”

You didn’t answer him but instead turned on your heel and stalked inside, curling up in Pea’s bed. Wrapping the covers around you, you inhaled the scent that was undeniably Sweet Pea. It smelled like home.

Fangs had used his phone to track Pea’s and they were now racing down narrow, winding roads. Hoping and praying that Pea would be nothing more than badly bruised, but they knew Pea. He was fiercely protective of those he loved, or even just liked, and he definitely loved you. If the Ghoulies had hurt Sweet Pea though, they would pay. No one touched a Serpent and got away with it. They were a family and no Serpent would ever stand alone.

The group parked a small distance from the barn and ran the rest of the way so as not to alert the Ghoulies of their arrival. They were a violent gang and were even more oblivious to the law than the Serpents, the element of surprise would be key.

Jug peered through the front window and winced at what he saw. Pea lay, curled up on the floor next to a discarded chair to which he had presumably been tied to earlier. Blood covered every inch of the chair and the ropes which hung from it; his clothes were ripped and saturated with blood too. His eyes were closed, he was unconscious. At least he wasn’t in pain.

A tall man with blood stained hands stood beside him, staring down at him menacingly. He was the ring-leader. Malachai was nowhere in sight and, for the first time, Fangs actually wished that the gang-leader had been there. He somewhat held authority over the group and could have stopped this happening, or at least stopped it escalating this far.

He delivered a kick to Sweet Pea’s stomach and he flinched in response but there was no other movement. He was weak, or maybe he had just resigned himself to dying. But he wouldn’t on the Serpent’s watch.

On the count of three, they burst through the doors, wielding their weapons. The main objective was to get Pea and run, Jughead had instructed, but secretly he hoped he would be able to get in a few hits.

The Serpents caught the Ghoulies off-guard. Many of them had discarded their weapons once Hatchet had taken over torture duties and were simply enjoying watching Sweet Pea squirm and whimper. They ran to collect them, giving the Serpents an opening to grab their friend but Hatchet had other ideas. He stalked forwards, swinging the nunchucks he had been holding when the intruders had arrived. The Serpents wanted Sweet Pea? Well they wouldn’t get him without a fight.

You waited for hours, staring at your phone obsessively, hoping for anything. Was no news good or bad? Maybe they had found him wandering the streets, only a little wet and angry at not having found the Ghoulies’ hideout, and were on their way back with him now. There would be no need to call or text because they would be here any second.

Or maybe they hadn’t found him and he was rotting in a ditch somewhere, maybe the Ghoulies had dumped him somewhere to die or had tortured and killed him. Maybe the Ghoulies had captured all of the Serpents and were torturing them. You didn’t know because no one had called. You couldn’t go and help rescue Pea because you had no car and you would get nowhere on foot. You were utterly helpless and you hated it.

Just after the three hour mark, a motorbike pulled up outside. You rushed to the door, flinging it open to a bloodied-up and beaten Jughead. Before he could get a word out, you enveloped him in a hug and checked him over for injuries.

“How are you? How’s everyone? How’s Pea? Is he alive? Oh God, is he alive?” Tears started streaming down your cheeks at the thought of never seeing him again. Jughead tried to take you back inside when you started leaning into him for support, your legs weak from the rush of emotion, but you refused, adamant that you wanted to know everything.

“Sweets is at the hospital. He’s pretty badly beaten but he’s alive.” The knot that had built up in your gut slackened. It wouldn’t be gone until you saw him in the flesh, until you could touch him and cuddle him and kiss him. Tears continued to flow from your eyes. You were relieved. “We can go, if you want?”

Your frantic nods were answer enough and Jug led you to his bike, passing you the helmet, before helping you slide on. He revved the engine without saying another word and took off, taking you to see Pea.

Tagged:

@swordsandserpents @justmesadgirl @galaxy-hale @nepriaa @wybcalum @happilydeadontheinside @we-chemical-kids @iamaunicorn4704 @quinzzelx @forever-the-broken @celestialcastiel @abundanceofcarolines @ashwarren32 @alien-tribute @fangirlbitch02 @marauders162 @cherryblcssm @mari-cross @caleigh-bugg @harusaru07 @poolpartyingwithjaws @blueberry-lipgloss @riverdalesserpent @h-e-a-v-y-l-e-a-t-h-e-r @mdgrdians

[chroniclesofawkwardness]

90 Days

What can you accomplish in three months? Could you lose weight? Could you find love? Would you really know if a job you thought you wanted was the right fit? If you were still a fetus within those first three months, you’d have grown from a single cell to about the size of a domino piece that, according to WebMD, could open and close its fists. 

Most tourist visas (for fetuses and otherwise) last 90 days. I’ve often wondered whose decision this was, and why. When I was staying in Serbia on a tourist visa, I never seemed to be able to get a straight answer, which was par for the course.

I’ll never forget the first time I had to leave Serbia because my tourist visa was expiring. It was October 2007, and the weather was finally beginning to turn colder. I’d had my mom pay too much money to mail me my own sweaters from home, but even her monetary efforts couldn’t delay the passage of time.

Adam and I woke up early that morning because we wanted to go to Tempo (think a smaller version of Wal-Mart) to buy a wall heater for the upstairs bathroom of the house. The closest Tempo was in Baja, Hungary. Baja wasn’t that far from Sombor, so going to Tempo seemed like the perfect opportunity to get my obligatory border crossing out of the way, and make it back to Serbia without too many sideways glances at my U.S. passport. Privately, I hoped that the same policemen who were on the Serbian side the Hungarian border when we crossed would still be there when we came back, so I wouldn’t have to explain the whole story of what I was doing in that part of the world to someone new, even if I didn’t know what my whole story was. 

We crossed into Hungary without incident, and I got a stamp in my passport of a little car as proof of when and how I’d left Serbia that day. It sat nicely next to the one of a plane that said Surčin from when I landed at the airport in Belgrade almost three months before. It was a new day, but the sun wasn’t up yet. I’d been spoiled by the long days of summer. While the days had grown gradually shorter since the end of June, I remember looking at my watch thinking the sun should have been up by then. Whatever my circadian rhythms were telling me, our first priority was to exchange our dinars for the local currency, forints. 

As we drove around Baja looking for a place to exchange money, the city looked to still be asleep. Adam finally found a hotel with an open exchange office, and we were on our way.

Tempo was just as dead. I was amazed at how few people were in the store. Most of them were older, and moved quite deliberately, either as a sign of their age, or other conditions not so easily estimated by the naked eye. It reminded me of visiting Wal-Mart with my dad to gather supplies for days of painting Spartan Municipal Stadium for my Eagle Scout service project. 

Adam’s phone rang just as we walked out of the store with the wall heater. It was his father, and my yoga teacher, Fabijan: 

“You guys got up really early this morning,” he said.

It was only then I realized that we’d both forgotten about the time falling back an hour overnight. We finally understood why we had such trouble finding an open exchange office, and why Tempo had been largely devoid of human life. 

We crossed back into Serbia, but since the police had taken the white card that was my Declaration of Temporary Residence when we left, I’d have to go back to the police station and get another one -- the first of many such trips in the years to come. When I went to the police station in Sombor that Monday to get another white card, the lady behind the desk looked really confused. Her lips didn’t form any words, but her facial expression seemed to say, “You left Serbia and came back?” It’s also possible that she’d seen a U.S. passport as often as she’d seen a guy with two fs in his last name like me. Serbian is written exactly as it’s spoken and vice versa, so the second f at the end of Ratcliff would be unnecessary.

I left Sombor for Novi Sad not long that return trip to the police station, but my 90-day clock never stopped ticking. My first two weeks in Novi Sad were the hardest. Not only was I sleeping on Ivica’s (someone I barely knew) couch, but I also couldn’t register at his address because he only rented the apartment. I needed to legally report my presence to the Novi Sad police in exchange for yet another white card, but I first had to hope that Fabijan and Slavica - especially Slavica - hadn’t already reported to the police in Sombor that I was no longer living with them. Fabijan had at least been gracious near the end of my time in Sombor, telling me one day that he didn’t ask me to come, so he wouldn’t ask me to leave. Slavica, on the other hand, struck me as the type of vindictive cunt who would snitch on me to the cops out of pure spite, since it turned out that I wasn’t the rich, look-at-me symbol of American excess she needed to trot out in public to stroke her ego and become the envy of the neighborhood.

If Slavica decided to rat me out to the police in Sombor, I would have had to go to the police in Novi Sad with either the owner of Ivica’s apartment or at least her lična karta (national ID) as proof she knew I was living there. Given how my welcome in Sombor had worn out, and the fact that the lady who owned the place had no idea I’d crashed on the couch, this wasn’t something I felt comfortable doing. During those two weeks, all I did hope and pray the lady didn’t show up unannounced, as I had. I worried about being kicked out of the country since I could have had police from both cities after me. I thought even Serbia’s bureaucratic system, which was notorious for making things extraordinarily difficult on its own citizens, would be able to produce all the evidence it needed to deport me as something of a persona non grata within a matter of minutes.

Tick... tick... tick...

There were times when Sanja’s business partner and fellow English teacher, Maja, would take me to their school in Šid to get my trimestral obligation out of the way. Strangely, from Novi Sad, it was easier to get to Šid by briefly crossing into Croatia rather than staying in Serbia the whole time. Maja told me she’d seen cops prop their feet up on the swinging gate on the Serbian side of the border to combat boredom, and she even heard one admit to watching westerns to pass the time.

More than once after I started working with Daniel and the man in the cowboy hat, we’d hop in the man in the cowboy hat’s yellow Chevy Spark, cross the border with Croatia to get the exit stamp, and just turn right back around. I could feel that the women who worked in the division of the Novi Sad police department responsible for keeping track of foreigners were growing more and more suspicious of me. One lady, in particular, had long black hair, and eyes that seemed to burn a hole through my forehead every time she looked my way. To this day, I don’t know if she was angry because she saw me so many times, or because my appearances frequently interrupted her morning coffee service, and make her do work that didn’t involve her playing hostess.

Whatever her motivation, or lack thereof, I wished she’d focused her energy on stopping crimes committed by Serbian citizens, and let my single American life slide. Besides, her country’s institutions of law enforcement had such a history of helping criminals get out of the country with fake passports in the nineties, that I didn’t think any policemen would pay attention to the fact I was trying to stay in my real American one almost two decades after their most recent round of wars ended (at least on paper). That is until I heard a knock at the door one day.

I’d been living with Zs. under somewhat more comfortable conditions. With Sanja’s help, I’d managed to get the mandatory health insurance I needed because Serbia’s visa regime was undergoing changes meant to harmonize its regulations with those of the European Union. We’d also managed to get my fiancée visa in just under the wire. Due to another change, if I hadn’t transitioned to a fiancée visa before my last tourist visa had expired, I would have had to leave the country for three months before being allowed back in. Some kind of 90 days in, 90 days out rule had been put on the books by the time the knock came. 

Zs. was still in her underwear. I’d just finished my latest hack job attempt at shaving. I’d nicked myself in too many places to count, and applied dozens of tiny toilet paper squares to my face to curtail the bleeding. The sound of the knock startled us both. A quick glance through the peephole in the door showed two uniformed police officers waiting outside. Zs. ran to put on pants, I ran to dispose of any flyers advertising schools of foreign languages, worried that if the wrong eyes fell upon them, I’d find myself having to explain away almost indisputable evidence that I’d been teaching English under the table because I had no legal right to do so. This time, I didn’t have to worry about Slavica. I had to worry that the mere sight of an officer’s holstered gun would compel me to tell the truth, just as it had when I was a kid, and my dad would stroll in to the kitchen every Sunday night dressed in uniform to work bingo, and share in the roast my mom had made more often than not.

Yes dad, I know I currently have a C in Algebra. Yes, dad, I know I can do anything if I apply myself, I’ll bring the textbook home and read ahead every night until my grade gets better. Yes, dad, I know Timmy Smith’s father is a piece of shit, and Dr. Jones didn’t get to be a doctor by running around with the idiots he went to high school with.  

Tick... tick... tick...

Surprisingly, these officers didn’t want much from me. One just stood around staring off into the distance at God knows what, the other sat on the couch asking Zs. and me questions. I can’t remember how many bloodied squares of toilet paper fell from my face like snowflakes from the sky during the interview, but I do remember the officer asking me if I was born in New Orleans (where my passport was issued), and asking Zs. what her occupation was. Our encounter with Novi Sad’s finest wasn’t anything like the hours-long interrogations I’d come to expect from watching too many true crime shows on television. I didn’t know if these guys had honed their interview skills by watching reruns of Columbo, or if, from behind their desks, they were just too worn out and disinterested to care. I imagined them like my dad, content at their keyboards or relive their glory days of kicking in doors and slapping handcuffs on supposed bad guys.

Satisfied with our answers that I lived of remittance from relatives abroad, and Zs. was a university student, the officers turned to leave. I couldn’t shake the notion that even though the leftover bloody toilet paper snowflakes seemed to fall from my face all at once -- out of relief that, like me, they no longer had to cover up what they’d been hiding -- one of the officers would catch sight a neglected school flyer, turn to me like Lieutenant Columbo, and say: “Just one more thing.”

I flashed back to an experience I had with my dad when I was about fifteen. He’d insisted on taking me somewhere I didn’t want to go. As I begrudgingly opened the passenger door to his black, beat up 1987 Cutlass Sierra S, fully expecting us to ride together in silence, he looked at me and said, out of nowhere: “Your mother tells me you’ve been saying fuck a lot.” I knew I was busted, so I had no choice but to come clean about my affinity for a certain four-letter word.

More than a dozen years after the confrontation about my love of fuckery, as the officers came closer to our apartment door, I could still see myself cracking under the slightest pressure of being asked just one more thing. In an instant, I thought my whole charade would come crashing down, and I’d have to tell the whole, unadulterated truth to yet another a cop:

Yes, officer, I’m teaching English in your country illegally. Yes, officer, the monthly transfers into my bank account aren’t enough to live on, even here. Yes officer, I fully intend to marry this psycho bit... I mean, uh... fine woman. 

I was so close to freedom from the inquisition, yet I had to remind myself that even as the doorknob turned, I would not be truly liberated until our apartment door had closed and the officers’ footsteps had faded down the hallway. Despite the years of practice I’d had with my dad, after our visit from Novi Sad’s boys in blue, I started feeling unsure of how long I could maintain my smokescreen of half-truths and one-word answers to authority figures. I began to entertain the idea of leaving Serbia before my next 90-day period came to an end. I knew full well that thanks to Zs. I had a fiancée visa which lasted a year, but after years of “tourist” trips across borders and back, 90 days had become my default measurement of time.

When such questions came from behind the glass that shielded one of my fellow countrymen at the U.S. Embassy in Belgrade, I started thinking that even they didn’t want me to stay. Zs. had to visit the embassy multiple times as part of the application process for the scholarship she would eventually win to study in the United States. I don’t remember why they called me over during one of her visits, but I do remember the man behind the glass looking at Zs., looking back and me, then asking, “Did you marry her yet?” 

I felt like I was on an episode of a popular “life unscripted” TV show where the contestants (if you can call them that) have 90 days to get married before one has to leave whichever country they’re in. 90 days isn’t enough time to know if a job’s a good fit, or if a commitment you made to drop extra pounds has become a lifestyle change, let alone if a person’s a good match to spend the rest of your life with. Sure, the contestants’ day-to-day activities, fights, and occasional intimate moments might make interesting fodder for the masses who’d rather watch navigate their lives instead of living their own, but you’d be hard-pressed to convince me that contestants’ lives didn’t really start until the cameras stopped. 

The producers of those so-called unscripted shows know this, but they’re still laughing all the way to the bank. They’re betting their audiences would prefer sitting back, cracking open a White Claw (or munching on a bowl of movie theater butter popcorn), and watching someone else’s relationship Hindenburg to working on themselves. it’s easier to indulge in the hard seltzer craze, pretend to care about koala colonies threatened Australian bushfires, or flex to your friends about how much you love your new sheets made from ethically-obtained cotton than it is to unplug the Wi-Fi and really try to fix your life. Zs.’s favorite “life unscripted” show was about brides-to-be trying to find the right wedding dress. I wonder why that was?

I know these shows exist because I’m just as guilty of watching them as anyone else. Some moments make me cringe, others make me cry, and a third grouping makes me want to yell at the television about what I hadn’t seen as much as what I had, thanks to some magical, manipulative editing. 

Perhaps the best approach is to take life one day at a time, whether you’re battling an addiction, trying to put on a pretty face for the camera, or take one off after the lights have gone down. Either way, the show must go on. 

[theoutdoorpursuit]

The Trials and Tribulations Of a Public Land Hunter: Scouting

I’m entering into my fifth season as a wannabe “Outdoorsman,” still looking for my first successful harvest of a whitetail deer. Until this season, I’ve hunted entirely on private land through friends and family. I still have some private land connections, but they all entail at least a three hour drive. Not ideal for an already seemingly short season.

My passion for hunting has grown considerably each year and as the desire to hunt has increased, I’ve found limited access to huntable properties. My only option, to venture into the public lands offered here in Virginia.

Every hunters heard the horror stories of public land hunting. Wildlife Management Areas (WMAs) woods resembling a pumpkin patch of fluorescent orange on a Saturday morning. Climbing into a tree only to realize there’s someone in it. Fellow hunters passing through during prime hours, blowing up your spot and spooking deer.

We hunt because of our love of nature and the ability to feel secluded in a wild, untouched place. Maybe possible out West, where public land is vast and abundant, but here on the East Coast where demand is high and resources limited, it takes some effort.

From my limited research, good, secluded hunting can be attainable if willing to go the extra mile. I’ve read stories of big, bruiser whitetails deep in Virginia’s George Washington National Forest, where hunters rarely venture. So here I set forth, where most hunters dare not enter, to escape the hunting pressures and search for that elusive feeling of being in the Wild.

As a public lands rookie, it's difficult to find information on where to start, where it's worth actually looking. In a modern age of endless information, one can google damn near anything, but google deer hunting on public lands and nothing. Not a single lead. It was now all to clear to me that good public land intel is top secret stuff. Hunters take that shit to the grave. I was left with one option, to scout hard and hike it out on my own. And so, hike it out I would.

My first scouting trip occurred in July as I headed out to the 1,790,000 plus acres of the George Washington National Forest. Quite a lot of land to aimlessly cover, so better get hiking.

I headed down the scenic Blue Ridge Parkway looking for a spot to hike it out. I’d done plenty of hiking out this way, yet never realized these lands were all accessible to hunters. In a way it was somewhat uncomfortable walking the same trails as hikers. Would these same people be out here in the Fall? What would they say if we crossed paths while fully dressed in camouflage carrying a rifle or bow?

I thought I was getting an early start scouting in July for the upcoming Fall, but I was met with a wilderness completely overgrown in vegetation. Venturing off the trails, that were overgrown themselves, would prove to be quite the task. Off the trail, it looked easy to vanish into the wilderness. Would these same areas be flooded with fellow hunters? Would I be able to find my way back if I ventured deep into the wooded abyss? I pressed on in the humid, Summer heat. It was well over 95 degrees. I continued to trudge through tick infested shrubs and various plants that alarmingly all resembled poison ivy. I swear every plant has three leaves. I plopped down on a log, dripping in sweat as defeat washed over me. What had I gotten myself into?

After an overwhelming trip to the GWNF where my only discovery was the extent I was in over my head, I decided to narrow my search to a couple reputable WMA’s. I had limited experience on WMA’s, a couple squirrel hunts and some days on the rifle range, but it was worth a shot. I had read about one well known WMA. Strict harvesting limitations allowed for one of the best deer populations in the state, or so they said. These restrictions entailed harvesting only bucks with at least four points on a side, yet thankfully doe were still on the menu. Obviously if I had heard about the WMA, it would be known to hundreds of other hunters as well, but the restrictions gave me hope that if luck was on my side, I just might be able to get it done.

With little to no other viable options, I made the hour and a half drive to WMA number one in the end of July, praying that this coming Fall my time and efforts wouldn’t be met with a pumpkin patch parcel of woods, battling hundreds of hunters for a couple of deer.

If you’ve never been on a WMA, they’re relatively difficult to navigate. I entered into the Management Area down a gravel road, looking for the first parking station, driving right past the lot with a wooden bulletin board of announcements and WMA information. As I flipped my car in reverse I looked for the entrance into the gravel lot, yet only saw overgrown grass. I turned into what I thought was an entrance only to be launched forward into a three foot ditched, disguised by tall grass. My Chevy Malibu jolted forward, coming to a thudding halt.

I flipped my car in reverse and hit the gas, but it didn’t budge. The wheels spun and spun. Climbing out of my car, I found it’s front buried into the ditch with only three tires touching the ground, the back driver side wheel a foot in the air. With no cell service and a company car in a ditch, I began to panic. I got back in the car and floored the gas. Nothing. I floored it again. Nothing but spinning wheels. SHIT.

Pausing for a minute to collect my breath, I slowly eased on the gas and turned the wheels back and forth. Bingo. The car slowly popped out saving my ass and most likely my job. Minutes later, as I sat in my car breathing heavily, two guys in a jeep came flying down the gravel road. What an awkward conversation that would have been, had they drove up on a Malibu headfirst in a ditch, in the middle of the day, in the middle of nowhere. If this was any omen to how my time on public land would go, I was in deep shit.

Once I gathered myself and stopped shaking, I decided the only thing left to do was hike. I had come all this way. Seasonal gates were closed for the Summer therefore my only method of scouting would be on foot. So once again, I huffed and puffed through the Summer heat, stopping every five minutes or so to take a refreshing gulp of water from my canteen. I pressed on, through spiderwebs, brush, and briar patches. Although I still wasn’t entirely sure what I was looking for, I gathered a general grasp on the layout of the land. I saw some tracks, found some climbing trees and most importantly saved the trailhead locations on my phone. It wasn’t much, but it was a start.

I returned to said WMA weeks later with my good buddy Ed to show him what I’d found and to see if we couldn’t explore further. This would prove easier said than done as Ed had a few too many the night prior. Thankfully, it was a much cooler day as August rapidly approached. 50 or so days until bow season began.

We pressed through the woods, it was nice to have a second eye and someone who had a better idea of what we were scouting. Ed reminded me that the majority of public land hunters would park their truck and fumble about a hundred yards into the woods where they would hang their treestand. All we had to do was think like an overweight, redneck weekend warrior and then go the extra mile. And go the extra mile we did.

Ed was struggling, battling the Summer elements and huffing it through the woods was no easy task, especially after a long night of drinking wine. We spoke little as we marched on, swatting spider webs from our face. The woods were quiet and other than a gaggle of turkeys, seemingly dead.

We came to a bend in the trail when out of the corner of my eye I saw what I thought was a deer.  Turning my head, I realized this was no deer, but a young black bear 50 yards from where we stood. Bear was the farthest species from my mind. The WMA’s description had stated that black bear were a rarity, yet here he was. Our first reaction; “Oh shit, where’s mama bear?” but to our relief it was just the young, perhaps year old cub, stealthy passing through the treeline. He paid us no intention, clearly in pursuit of something much more interesting as he trotted along heading towards our intended path. We began to converse loudly in order to announce our presence and not startle the curious cub.

The bear sighting was just what we needed to get our blood pumping and our morale up. Purchasing a bear tag for the Fall season suddenly became intriguing.

We hiked on, down to a river, followed a stream, and located some promising trees. Once upon a time this WMA was a private hunt club. When we discovered trees with indentations resembling marks from old permanent stands, we became optimistic that we had found tried and true spots. Just outside the shaded hardwoods was open brush, prime for bedding. If all went according to plan, the deer would rise and head towards the woods, following the stream line, entering into our field of play.

Now, to find our way back, retrace our steps, and take mental images of our surroundings. Hopefully, come opening day, we would find our coveted climbing trees in the dark hours of the morning. Or perhaps we’d end up fumbling in circles, scrambling to find a tree before the sun beat us up into the sky. Only time would tell.

With my first scouting location in the books, I wasn’t sure whether to feel optimistic or overwhelmed. The important part was that we had somewhere to hunt come opening day. As each Summer day inched towards Fall, I’d visualize opening morning. I’d visualize my tree. I’d also foolishly visualize a monster buck stampeding my way. The chances of killing a big, bruiser deer on opening day in a WMA… slim. The chances of getting lost, striking out, or tangling with other hunters… high. But that’s just public land hunting for you. Still, come October 7th, I’d lace up my boots, spray myself down with scent-away, and nock an arrow. You can’t kill a deer on the couch.