#the cover paper/cloth bares the load/keeps it from slipping out to it's full length long term

[simply-sithel]

I am not a precise crafter, which makes my ongoing interest in minis- where every mm counts- rather self defeating. Anyway, the hinge gap is always a struggle and once you glue that shit together it's really annoying to try to disassembling for correction. Latest solution to the error of my ways-- just tucking away that extra length.

I put a crease in the middle of my hinge gap and then fold one of the halves over on itself. Back with another strip of thin brown paper and done! Cover sits a lot nicer and I'm spared the agony of disassemble/reassemble.

[ixchel-sketch]

TITLE: Cacalotl / El Cuervo  GENRE: Crime & Romance FANDOM: Mayans M.C. SHIP(S): Coco & Original Female Character STATUS: Complete LENGTH: 4,057 words

Coco is beginning to feel worn down by balancing his responsibilities with the MC and his relationship with Maya. Before she goes away to a festival for a week he gets a letter letting him know that he’s being placed back on active duty. The club is supportive now that he is a fully patched member and all that is left to do is tell Maya about it. Meanwhile she discovers some game changing news of her own.

The honeymoon phase was officially over, whatever the fuck that meant. Five months into their relationship and there was no longer any novelty about coming home and finding arbitrary art supplies scattered into every corner of his place. Or the small piles of clothes that remained stacked where they’d been removed until he reminded her to do her fucking laundry. Though he didn’t have too much of a leg to stand on with complaints, his beer bottles and cigarette butts were practically a form of interior design by this point. Both of them had low moods where they weren’t productive, much less focused on avoiding the other’s pet peeves. 

When he was still a prospect Coco could get away with disappearing for a few hours to a night or two spent somewhere else. Now that he was a fully patched member he didn't have to stay late after parties and runs to clean shit up. There was more freedom and some stability now that the club business was going good. Maya had decided to cut down on the amount of travel she did a year, her nights spent split between the RV parked in the back of Coco's house and his bed. Sometimes it was great, he felt a sense of peace coming home and seeing her face light up when he entered the room. Or her head popping out from behind the thin door of her van once the sound of his motorcycle cut off. The feel of her pressed against him at night. But on the hard days, ones where she would suddenly stay in all day and only move to finish a painting or pop something in the microwave reminded him of just how trapped all of the so called stability made Coco feel. 

And the guilt at having those feelings just made him feel even more fucked up. Maya would look at him with those big dopey eyes and say sweet things at him.  Even when his temper would flare and he would push her away she would just shut down and give him space or worse...be outright accepting. The guys didn’t see it as a problem and Coco had gone long past the point of trying to explain. As far as Angel and Gilly were concerned she was damn near perfect, never causing drama or getting into Club business. She didn’t even give Coco a hard time when they would spend nights at Vicki’s for some celebration or another that usually involved other women giving them attention. 

 Which was just another sin Coco could add to his current list of burdens. While Maya had remained faithful and filled her time making art Coco had not been able to resist flirting and stealing kisses from the women at Vicki's. He hadn't slept with anyone, an embarrassingly small point of pride he still wore like a badge. Though the longer it took for them to see any kind of excitement or danger the more his resolve weakened on that front. When they finally got a job doing a run that their northern charter couldn’t complete, crossing over territories that would take at least a couple of days to cover and keep up with the necessary hospitality, it felt like a breath of fresh air. An eager distraction from confronting the news he’d gotten earlier that week. 

Maya certainly hadn’t seen it that way. 

“Oh.” Her shoulders slumped and the look of disappointment that wormed onto her face made his stomach clench. “ I have to leave for that festival in a couple days…” 

“Yeah.” She’d been gearing up for that for weeks, only adding to the stress of their interactions. A smudge of red paint on her cheek told him she’d been working on the collection again.  Finally being able to get away for more than a day was exactly what he needed. “And?” 

“I just thought you might want to spend it together.” Her words were loaded and it sent Coco automatically on edge. They had never set restrictions on the other’s behavior before but now she was going to disapprove of the Club business? 

“It’s not exactly a choice.” 

“But you want to go, right?” 

His shoulders bunched up, making the shrug more apparent and he turned his back to where she was standing in the kitchen to head towards the room and begin packing his bag. The plan was to leave early in the morning and cover as much road as possible. Maya stayed at the doorway and even not facing her Coco could guess that her arms were crossed over her chest. “I gotta go. It feels like I’ve been stuck in the house for fucking weeks.”

“That’s kind of funny,” Though her tone made it clear that she felt no amusement. “ considering you’ve had more shifts and club stuff these last two weeks than in the past couple of months. And when you are here you’re practically itching to leave.” 

“How the fuck do you know what’s going on in my head?” The clothes were tossed onto the bed with little care, just a couple things that would fit into his military surplus backpack. 

“Are you serious?” She scoffs, turned to head back into the kitchen so that she could finish putting away some dishes she’d been working on clearing out earlier. Maya had a habit of leaving them in the sink until the end of the day and felt the need to clean from the rising tension come over her. “The only time you want to talk to be around me is when you want to fuck.”

“Wait wait,” He calls from the other room and the sound of his pack being dropped to the floor is the only noise until he’s standing in front of her with an incredulous expression. Dark brows are lowered into a glower and Maya squares her shoulders in preparation for the oncoming fight. 

They didn’t get into arguments often. In fact she could probably count the number of actual fights on one hand, usually resulting in one of them leaving the house until they had both cooled down and were ready to actually talk about it. There was always some sort of catalyst, or some slow building thing that was finally too much for either of them bare. The former was always an easier fix...but something about the way that he’d been pushing her away made her think the resolution wouldn’t be so simple this time. It had only become obvious that something was wrong when she noticed the way he would lean away from her, the casual brush of his hand against her waist or ass had long since stopped when they were in public. And even though she knew the club had legitimate connections and business at Vicki’s, Coco came back smelling more and more like cheap perfume instead of just cigarette smoke. 

“Don’t pull that fuckin shit. If I’m not at the club or work I’m here just hanging while you do your art so you can take the fuck off again. And when I gotta do the same you wanna start shit? Fuck!” One of the drying plates from the sink is swept off the counter in one fast movement, sending glass shattering on the floor and making Maya jump a couple inches in the air. Her eyes are wide with shock and he purposefully doesn’t meet them, only stares at the organic shaped pieces of ceramic that decorated the tile. 

“What the fuck is goin’ on with you?” Her Appalachian draw picked up as her heart started to race. There was definitely something deeper that caused this kind of reaction in him and the dread that it was something big began to loom in her mind’s horizon. “This isn’t about me wanting to spend time with you before I leave town for a couple weeks is it?”

“No, it’s about you never leaving me the fuck alone!” She’s silent, watching him try to breathe some level headed thoughts back into the conversation, his hand swipes at his mouth where some spittle still clung from when he was shouting. “You’re always here, and when you’re not you’re in my fucking drive way. I agreed to date you, not put a fucking ring on it.” 

Coco felt out of control. As though the topic they had was covered in a metaphoric sheen of gasoline and in his hand held the match. Sure, there had been times when Coco had done his best to lash out and push Maya away, but all of those had been weighted down by his infatuation with her. Now, all he could think about was how good the road was going to feel and the hours of silence and distance. Of action. Of getting away from the conversation at hand and where he knew it would lead. There was far more comfort in the life that he’d known than there was struggling to find himself in a life of domesticity with her. 

“Well it’s a good thing I’m leaving then, I guess.” To agree with her out loud would be too spiteful so instead he went to work picking up the mess he’d made. Shoulders still held high and tight and each action was careful, like he was desperately trying to keep whatever he was feeling buried. Each silent moment made the void of anxiety in her chest open just a little bit wider. “Do you...still want me here? Or is this about something else?” 

Coco’s dark eyes snap to her face and Maya swallows heavily. There’s a severity to his grimace and she had a feeling if he didn’t have a dust pan full of broken plate he’d probably be reaching for a cigarette right about now. After dumping them in the trash can he ran a hand through his hair. A few moments of tense silence later and Coco crossed the kitchen to pull out an official looking envelope, her own gaze drawn towards the seal of the US military at the corner. “What the fuck is that?” 

“Got this a couple days ago. “ Her hands were practically shaking as the piece of paper slipped free from its packaging. A quick scan of the first page gave her enough information...he was being called back to active duty and would have to leave at the end of the month.  “I already told the guys, they got no beef with it.” 

“But you didn’t want to tell me. You didn’t even tell me you were still enlisted!” “Signed up for six years, they can call me back if they want.” 

“So? Fuck them!” 

The glare she receives for that outburst tells her all she needs to know. His mind was made up and the withdrawing made total sense now. A lump formed in her throat and she retreated back to his room to climb onto the bed and wait for him to follow. The painting she’d just finished earlier was still hung on the wall to dry and caught her eye. When Coco finally came in to finish packing Maya waited, the air heavy between them. There was an emotional pain blooming in her heart that felt like the coming of the end. Her voice wavered when she finally worked up the courage to speak. 

“What does that mean for us? I don’t...I don’t want us to be over.” 

Tears finally break free and make tracks down her cheeks and Coco lets out a heavy sigh. Maya hadn’t even noticed that she had her palms pressed to her face until his calloused hands are gently pulling them away so he can wrap his arms around her. Falling for each other hadn’t been in either one’s plans and even though she’d never met another person that made her feel like he did --- some part of her had always known that Coco wasn’t ready for something permanent. 

“Nothing’s got to change right now, we got a couple days to figure it out.” She shook her head against his shoulder and let out a small hiccup of a sob. He was leaving to get away from her. He wanted it to end and there was nothing that she could do about it. The emotion at the forefront of her mind was heavy confusion at how they had even gotten to this point. More gentle than he had ever been, Coco buried his face against her neck and for just a moment she thought he might join her in shedding a couple tears. Instead he simply stroked her back until her chest felt a little less tight and her crying had slowed to a stop. The warmth of his palm against her spine and Coco’s steady breathing turned heavy as he pulled her closer still. 

“I love you.” Maya whispered into the space between them. He didn’t reply, simply placed a kiss in the corner of her neck, her jaw, her lips. His hands are careful but still hold a bit of desperation where they grip her. The fact that he doesn’t say it in return doesn’t go unnoticed but she valiantly pushed the fear of what was to come away so that she could only feel the familiar and comforting arousal that his attentions usually brought on. Maya kissed him back with fervor, hands splayed on his chest, smoothed over the loose white T-shirt he wore until she could wrap her arms around his neck.  The long steady strokes down her back slowly reach even lower until he’s grabbing her ass and pulling her into his lap. 

“I’m sorry.” She’s not sure if he means for the fight, or for something more final… Either way it doesn’t matter at the moment. Maya shushes him with another kiss, one of her hands going to card through the short black hair at the base of his head. His gentleness begins to fade when she arches her back so that their chests are pressed against the other,  though there is still a measure of care to his movements when Coco pauses to remove the sundress she'd thrown on earlier. 

His clothes are quick to follow and Maya takes the opportunity to stretch out on the mattress beside him, eyes roving over his bare form -- memorising the lines of his tattoos and the way they move over his muscles. Soon the shadow of him looms over her, his forearms bracketed either side of her and Coco places a kiss on her forehead. There's something heavy and too scary to name behind their intimacy. A slowness that neither had really had too much patience for before that night. Now it was as though both of them were determined to take their time, one of his legs sliding between hers and allowing the weight of his body to rub her in all the right places. 

"Fuck, you feel good." He groans, hips rolling against her. Maya smirks and brings her hand up to lick her palm before slipping it between them and around his member, earning a gasp of pleasure and fevered kiss for her efforts. Coco thrust against her hand, his own findinding purchase in gripping her thigh or calf where it's raised against his side. His breath is hot between them, warming the air between kisses placed on her collar and lower still. 

Maya lets out a small cry when he noses against her breast then his lips close around a raised nipple. At the same time Coco easily entered her, her hand on his dick going to scrape up his back and rest curled around broad inked shoulders in order to keep him close. She feels stretched and full in all the right ways, but it’s still not enough.

"Shit, harder baby--" Her tone breathy and heavy with desperation. The heat on Maya's belly growing and moving south with building pressure of pleasure. Opposite of her request, he comes free of her and laughs at the pouting frown that creased her full lips. Before she had time to complain though, Coco takes firm hold of one of her legs and brings it up to his shoulder. 

“Oh! Fuck!” At this angle it feels like he might be trying to split her open, hips pistoning fast and harsh until the sound of their pants and the slap of flesh is all that’s left. One of Maya’s hands traces up the muscles of his stomach to lay a palm over his chest and Coco meets her lust filled gaze with heavy lidded eyes. A wet kiss placed messily at the where her calf is balanced against his collar. Her own eyes fall closed as her orgasm ripples through her and pulls him closer to the edge, but she thinks she catches the words ‘Te quiero’ on his lips.

It’s almost a week before she talks to him again. Four days before she’s supposed to return from the festival. The next morning Coco had taken off hours before she woke up, leaving Maya full of insecurity over their future and the argument that had occured that night. There was no trying to talk him out of his decision and the longer that she spent thinking about the time that would mean apart --- the bigger the void got in her chest and the looming feeling of heartbreak. They had never spent too much time planning their future, but she had a feeling at least a year apart would require some kind of heavy talking. And if their last conversation was any judge of his feelings on commitment then she truly felt as though their relationship was living on borrowed time. The internal disquiet caused her stomach to let out a sharp pang of nausea, bile rising in her throat and Maya forced herself to breathe through it rather than go running out of her booth. 

“Hey! Maya!” A familiar voice caused her head to snap up and a grin pushed the dark thoughts momentarily at bay. Tati, the artist that ran the table next to hers came over with a water bottle in her outstretched hand. “Here, you’re looking kind of pale.” 

“I’m alright, just a bit of indigestion.” 

“Damn, that sucks. Do you think I could borrow a tampon?” 

“No. Please do not return it.” She laughed and went to get her purse, sure she had a few older ones lying towards the bottom of the large patchwork bag. Her mind ildely trying to think of the last time she’d used them and froze with a sudden icy chill of panic Maya couldn’t hope to hide. Her fingers shook as she fumbled to place the plastic wrapped tube in her friend’s hand. 

“You okay? You look like you just saw a fucking ghost.” 

“N..No, I’m fine.” Tati looked unconvinced but thanked her again before heading back over to the safety of her canopy. These were the times she wished she’d split the table with another artist so that she might be able to take a break and answer the scary question that was growing like a weed in the back of her mind. As it was she would have to wait until the end of the day to close up her booth and head to the nearest convenience store, each hour passing by impossibly slow despite the amount of decent foot traffic she had. Her gaze cast out and locked onto a nest of a black birds, most likely a crow, equally busy in the tree across the foot worn path. Whether they were a beautiful show of nature or a bad omen she couldn’t say.  Instead she counted the weeks since her last cycle, then again for good measure to make sure that it wasn’t just paranoia. Sure, she was on The Pill but had been known to accidentally miss a day or two...and she’d never been very good about staying on schedule with it. 

" Fuck me, shit.” By the time she made it to the store the sun had set and her anxiety was in full swing. Maya grabbed two boxes of tests and polished off the rest of her large water bottle. Privacy was pushed to the back of her mind in panic and the brunette locked herself into handicapped stall. Coco had been slow to answer her texts since he'd left, and even now left her messages on read despite the obvious stress behind them. With her heart racing and the test lining up on the sink accusingly, she was in no mood to be toyed with. 

"Pick up, pinche pendejo." Three calls, no answer. The sound of women coming and going in the other stalls completely ignored by the focus at hand. By the fifth call there's finally an answer on the other end, his voice tight and the sound of laughter in the background loud and obnoxious over the line. 

"What?" 

"Where are you?" She had expected him to be home, or maybe out with the guys. Though the familiar sound of music and women's laughter told her otherwise. "At Vicki's?"

"Yeah. Hello to you too."

"Hm." He'd never ignored her calls when he was there before.

"What? Qué paso?"

"I think we have a problem." She waits for him  to say anything but the only response is the quieting of ambient noise. He must have gone into another room or stepped outside. The tension grows so thick that her stomach spikes with nausea once again. One glance at the four tests lining the sink and she's unable to breathe the repugnant feeling away this time. The cell phone placed quickly on the floor before Maya emptied the contents of her stomach. 

With a tired sigh she wiped her mouth and picked the cell phone up, grumbling a weak apology. 

"What happened? You take something?"

"No, nothing like that." She'd called him from a show sick from drinking or tripping before, her impulse control severely lacking while on the road. The words felt foreign in her mouth but she forced them out. The bitter taste of bile still coating the back of her throat with a scratchy burn. "I'm pregnant." 

Nothing. Almost complete quiet except for where his breathing has gone rough and stilted. "What the fuck did you just say? Are you sure? I thought you were on the pill?" 

Multiple feelings strike her at once, rippling through her core like a physical blow. Intensifying with each question. Though her tone goes flat and cold, the cell gripped so tight Maya's knuckles go white. "I am. It's not perfect." 

"Yeah? No shit." 

Her eyes closed tightly and Maya swept the tests into the trash. There was no use clinging to them as though she could will away the situation. She clears her throat to make sure her voice doesn't break. "So...what do you want to do?" 

It's his turn to sigh, a slow whooshing crackle over the line and he sounds bone weary and utterly contrary to the wired and shaky energy that courses through her veins. "That's not on me. Look... I already got a couple kids, and I'm not in their lives for a reason. Ain't nothing really changed on that front." 

It's a conversation that they should have been holding in person. Both of them shared accountability for what had happened and not being able to see the look on his face only hastened the hysteria that swiftly encroached. "Right. So you don't...want to be involved. If I keep it."

"Maya...I'm not even gonna be here." 

"Right." Her heart sinks and Maya finally flees the small bathroom, rushing out of the store and shivering when the night air chills the nervous sweat that misted her forehead. The lock to her bike came free as she balanced the cell phone on her shoulder. Numb shock of what this meant making her movements mechanical. The consuming heartbreak just waiting until she was alone to attack, for now anger was her only defense. "You're right. I got this. Just do me a little favor, 'kay?" 

He doesn't answer but it doesn't really matter. There's no way that Coco would turn down this final request, especially since she wouldn't be back for another few days. 

"Pack up my shit so I can just swing by and get it? Thanks." 

[swordmeetssorcery]

Getting Out Of Town

“I hear you’re the one to see for getting things out of the city gates without mayor or baron being the wiser.”

The man had approached literally hat in hand. Middle aged and thick in the middle, sweating through his coarsely woven clothes, he stood by the table, wringing his hands in his cap. The one he addressed occupied a corner table along with a handful of well dressed but rough looking folk. Their conversation stopped and they turned as one to glare at the newcomer who realized he’d apparently made some breach of etiquette.

A woman with scars on her face as well as her knuckles reached for her dagger as she growled “You have a loose tongue, baker. Yes, I know who you are; I’ve seen you. Aefsheen, would you like me to remove that tongue before it does any damage?”

“No, Danniven. I don’t think that’ll be necessary. Well… yet, anyway. Friends, give me the table, please. Danniven, do please keep an eye pointed this way, though.” As the others left the table, the mustachioed and goateed half elf with the purple eyes and shoulder length blonde hair motioned to the chair recently vacated by the sullen Danniven.

“First things first. Never talk openly about any business that can get a person thrown into gaol or dungeon. Danniven’s less friendly than I, but more friendly than some. You’ll save yourself a lot of grief to remember that. As to my business, it’s mine to know. I don’t know where you get your information, but for argument’s sake let’s say you’ve heard correctly. Who are you, aside from a baker, and why are you trying to move pastries out of the city gates under the noses of our fine watchmen?”

“Oh, sir! I do apologize – I swear upon my life I meant no harm. I’m Orthis Greenleaf, and it’s just that I’m quite desperate, you see. It’s not my baked goods I’m looking to sneak out of the city. Have you ever smuggled people?”

Aefsheen’s hand dropped to the dagger on his belt. “Fuck off. I don’t work with slavers. Leave now, and be quick about it lest I let Danniven have her way after all – she hasn’t spilled blood in so long she’s antsy. Or I may skewer you myself.”

“Sir, no. Nononono…

It’s my own son, sir.”

“I’m intrigued. Continue, but stop calling me ‘sir’. I’m no lord.”

Greenleaf stammered on “Of course, Mr. Aefsheen. My boy, he meant no harm, y’see. There was a youth; barely begun to have a peach’s worth of fuzz on his chin, and he was stuffing sweet rolls in his pockets and ran from the shop. Well, of course my boy Errod ran after him – we can’t afford to feed thieves; we barely support ourselves most days. Well, he caught up with the kid and gave him a sound whopping about the ears and retrieved our merchandise, what hadn’t been smashed flat in the pursuit and scuffle.”

“Completely understandable. What’s the problem?” Aefsheen interjected.

“Yeah, well. Turns out the young rascal’s noble born. Was just out stealing sweets for a lark. Found out what happens when you get caught with another man’s property down in our part of town, eh? Well, by the time he gets home, he has the story all twisted to say that he’d merely complained about the flatness of the rolls and that my boy thrashed him over the insult. Of course he had his squashed ‘evidence’ in hand to back up his case, so his lordship father talked to his friend the judge, and they’ve sentenced my boy to a year in the dungeon, but they say they’ll send him to the headsman’s block if he doesn’t show himself within two days.

Mr. Aefsheen, he’s only fifteen himself, and no thug nor thief. He’s only ever played children’s games and worked in the family bakery. He won’t survive a year there, especially knowing he did nothing wrong.

I’ve heard tell of sanctuary settlements where one can pay an entry fee and hide away until matters like this are either settled or forgotten about. Is this true? Do you know where one is? Could you get my boy there?”

Aefsheen took a long draught of his mead, thinking it over. The story sounded plausible. True, the man could be a spy sent by the guard. But that seemed an excessive amount of trouble to catch one smuggler in a city full of larger threats. Plus the man didn’t seem like a spy – he’d nearly shit himself when confronted by Danniven, and still seemed nervous. The half elf was inclined to believe the story. Plus, he hadn’t had a job in a while, and his resources were dwindling. He had a lifestyle and image to maintain, after all. He was inclined to take the gamble. Then again, as the man had said, he had limited resources. How would he be able to pay both Aefsheen and the Sanctuary Guild?

“Alright, Orthis. Again, purely for the sake of conversation, let’s say I’m the kind of man to do the job you need. You do realize it’s not charity work, don’t you? And, hypothetically speaking of course, if these sanctuaries were to be more than rumor, well, they’d definitely cost money as well. You yourself stated you do well to support your family most days. How would you propose to pay?”

“I was hoping to work out a sort of barter arrangement, to be honest. Mr. Aefsheen, I could provide you food for free. If you can save my boy from the chopping block or the dungeon, I’d feed you for life if that’s what you demand. As for those that would hide Errod, I do have a bit of coin saved aside. I’ll send it with him and hope that it’s enough.”

Aefsheen took another pull on his goblet, and motioned the serving girl to bring him another and one for Orthis. Free food for life seemed a good deal if the baker and his family could live up to it. Sure, he traveled most of the time, but having food provided for his mother would surely ease his expenses quite a bit.

“Orthis, I can’t speak for the Sanctuary Guild, but as for my payment, I believe we can work something out. Now, before we get into the particulars, I want to warn you that although I travel and am away most of the time, if at any time you inform on me to the guard, or to anyone, or in any way try to renege on our arrangement, Danniven will pay a midnight visit to you and your family. Now, let’s put aside that serious bit and enjoy a drink while we iron out the details.”

It took a couple of days’ worth of inquiries and bribes, but Aefsheen was able to confirm the baker’s story. A local minor nobleman apparently wanted the boy’s head on a stick. Upon obtaining that information, he met with Danniven to put a plan in motion.

  Orthis and Errod walked out of the bakery in the dim, predawn light, Errod carrying a small bindle of clothing under his arm and Orthis pushing a cart full of various loaves of bread and sweets. Aefsheen stood by a large covered wagon, wearing a traveler’s cloak over simple and rugged clothing, looking much more like a wagoner than he had when Orthis last saw him. “All right, gentlemen, if you’ll follow me to the back here. There we go, young lad. Up into the wagon with you.”

Orthis and Errod looked inside the wagon and took in its contents: assorted cookware hanging from hooks on the framework of the cover, a couple of rolls of bedding tucked into a corner, a bundle of what looked to be flatware and drinking vessels in another corner. Sturdily built floor with broad benches along the sides. “What if the guards happen to look inside for him? Are you just going to cover him with this load of bread?” Orthis seemed dubious.

Aefsheen laughed “Well, in a manner of speaking, yes.” He climbed up past Errod, and fidgeted with a nail in the floor by the bedrolls. Very subtly, a trapdoor lifted ever so slightly in the floor. Aefsheen caught the edge of it with his fingertips and lifted it, revealing a hidden cargo space just big enough that two adults could lie down inside it and almost be comfortable. “Errod will be just fine in here for an hour or so. We’ll load the bread into the wagon and no one will give it a second glance. Once we’re out of sight of the gates, I’ll let him out and he can ride in the back until I’m sure I wasn’t followed, then he can move up front with me and ride in the open air.”

“What if you are stopped and questioned, though?” “Orthis, this is far from my first time passing through those gates with contraband. I have a legitimate cargo for them to see, so there’s really no worry about me being detained. Just in case, however, I will have an unseen escort to the gates. You haven’t even noticed your old pal Danniven in the shadows across the street, have you? Or the friends accompanying her, for that matter. It’ll be fine. Also…” He lifted the driver’s seat bench to reveal the storage space underneath it, and pulled up the hilt of his rapier. “I’ll wear this along with my dagger once we’re outside the city and free from legal restraint. I also have a bow and a quiver of arrows in there which ride in the holder you can see beside the seat, so I’m not worried about bandits, either. Now, just remember to deliver the fee to this address.” Aefsheen handed him a slip of paper. “I’ll rarely be there, but that’s where the food is to go every morning. Avoid being seen or talking to the lady who lives there, but if you’re ever asked about payment, just say it’s been taken care of. And remember, she’s watched, so keep your bargain.

“Now, Errod, into the box with you, while your father and I bury you in bread.” Aefsheen laughed, but neither Orthis nor Errod seemed to appreciate the use of the word “bury”. Father and son said their goodbyes and embraced before the younger climbed into the hidden hold, clutching his bindle. Orthis handed him a small bag of coins. “Hopefully this will be enough to buy you lodging for a bit, son.” Once the trapdoor was back in place, Orthis could no longer make out its outline, despite knowing where to look.

Within a few minutes, the wagon was loaded with baskets of bread and sweet rolls. Aefsheen shook Orthis’ hand and reassured him that the boy would be fine. He climbed up to the driver’s seat and shook the reins, and off they went down the cobblestone street, as the morning sky reddened into dawn. Orthis just barely saw the movement in the shadows across the street, moving off in the same direction as the wagon.

As he expected, at the gate, the guardsmen merely waved him through – just another traveler leaving the city.  They didn’t even bat an eye when he stopped to drape the baldric holding his sword over his shoulder – it was a perfectly routine sight to them. Once past a rise in the road, he pulled over and moved enough of the bread to open the trapdoor and let the boy out of hiding. Aside from frazzled nerves and minor bruising from the rough cobblestone streets, Errod was fine. Once they passed the first crossroad, Aefsheen invited the boy to move up front and get some air along with his first glimpse of the world beyond the gates of Oakyard.

Errod marveled at the sights of the land: wide open farmland, as far as he could see on either side of the road, being tilled by men behind donkeys or mules pulling plows, dotted here and there with small thickets of forest. He saw various animals from his perch on the driver’s seat - various birds, both game and predators, as well as deer and rabbits, none of which he had ever seen outside a butcher’s shop.  Once they saw a small group of men hunkered by a fire along the side of the road. Aefsheen took the bow out of its holder and laid it across his lap as a precaution, and handed his dagger to Errod. They kept a wary eye on the ragtag group, who turned out to merely be travelers stopping for a rest, or at least bandits who’d decided the modest looking wagon wasn’t worth the risk the bow presented. At any rate, the pair rolled on past without incident and shortly returned the bow to its holder and the dagger to its sheath on Aefsheen’s belt.

As the sun began to set on the western horizon, Aefsheen pulled the wagon off the road and behind a small stand of trees so as not to be noticed from the highway. They built a small fire and Aefsheen handed a bedroll to Errod. They ate a supper made from preserved meats that Aefsheen had stored away, augmented by bread baked early that morning. The night passed without incident, and they broke their fast with some of the sweet pastries.

The Great Road they traveled was part of the vast network of such highways commissioned by the ancient King Rothnik to connect the capitals of the five baronies after conquering neighboring kings and making them barons under his rule. His idea was to make the transportation of trade goods and troops easier and quicker, and it worked fairly well. At least when it was maintained and patrolled. Both of which fluctuated from barony to barony and generation to generation. At any rate, the large flat stones used to pave it made for much easier going than a regular dirt road. By the end of the second day, they came to the North River.

As they approached the North River crossing, they saw the village of Stickbridge on the southern bank. Stickbridge was not much more than a way stop for travelers and a supply point for local farmers and craftsmen. It was getting late, and Errod was afraid Aefsheen might stop in town for the night, and voiced his concern over being noticed as a fugitive.

“Relax. It’s some local man with money who wants you, not the Baron. That nobleman is unknown here, and his reach doesn’t extend this far. Nobody here would even know about you. And with no reward, they wouldn’t care, either. But don’t fret – I plan to drive on through this town anyway. But if all goes well, we won’t have to camp another night, though.”

The Great Road served as Stickbridge’s main street, and Aefsheen hardly slowed the wagon as they rolled through town ignoring both the gawking stares of farmers and the hawking calls of tavern keepers trying to draw business.

The sun was setting as they exited the village, and in the waning light, they could just make out the edge of a lake off to the east. As they came upon a flat section of ground that looked hardened and rutted from frequent use, Aefsheen turned off toward the lake. Errod wanted to ask him about the turn, but a look at Aefsheen’s tensed jaw told him the question was likely best left unasked.

“There’s said to be a safehouse near the lake. I’ll be honest with you – I believe it’s here, but I’ve never visited it myself, and I don’t know how welcoming they are. However, providing sanctuary is their business, so they’ll talk to us at least. I just don’t know if that small sack of coin your father gave you will meet their fee. We’ll find out.” A glance over at the boy showed he was spooked at the thought of not being allowed in. “It’ll work out one way or another, Errod. I made a deal with your father to get you to safe hiding, and if it’s not here, I’ll find a place for you elsewhere. You don’t get far in my business by not honoring agreements."

They were making their way along a path that was barely more than earth packed hard from hooves and boots between two wagon ruts. Errod could barely see twenty feet in front of them in the gloom, but Aefsheen’s elf-descended eyes could make out some sort of fortification ahead, just past the trees and before the lakeshore.

Even as prepared as he thought he was, Aefsheen’s sharp eyes didn’t see the man until he stepped out into the road. At the sight of the chainmail clad dwarf, Aefsheen instinctively reached for his rapier. When an arrow from an unseen bow struck the side of the wagon, he released the hilt before drawing the blade. The dwarf stood steady, war pick hanging loosely in his relaxed grip. “Who are you, and what do you want here?” demanded the bearded warrior blocking their progress and taking a step closer to them.

“I’m called Aefsheen Silverthorn of Oakyard, and my traveling companion would prefer to remain nameless for the moment, if that suffices.” Aefsheen answered, then continued speaking in a sort of language Errod couldn’t make out. It was odd to him, because he knew about half the words coming out of Aefsheen’s mouth, but the phrasing and context made no sense to him whatsoever. It was very confusing and a bit dizzying to try to decipher. The dwarf answered, and they went back and forth for a few minutes before he stepped forward and retrieved the arrow from the wagon and slipped back into the cover of the foliage.

 “What was that all about?” Errod inquired. Aefsheen explained: “There’s a secret tongue, nearly universal throughout the kingdom of Pentalohr among folk of certain professions. It’s based on the Common language, but it uses misdirection and invented words so that the uninitiated can’t eavesdrop on private discussions. Had I spoken plainly, we may very well have been buried in these woods or sunk in that lake by morning. As it is, I’ve gained us progress to the gates at least. Let’s see what awaits us there.”

 As they exited the wood, they saw a massive, walled estate ahead of them, against the backdrop of the lake beyond. They could make out the rooftop of a large central mansion along with several other buildings. There seemed to be room within the fortification for more buildings that perhaps just weren’t tall enough to be seen above the wall. And fortification seemed to be the right word for it. It was no fortress to withstand a military siege, by any means, but it had high walls, at least fifteen feet tall, with arrow slits flanking the massive front gate. The tops of the wall had broken glass set into the stone to prevent scalers from easily climbing over, and at the base of the wall was a trench filled with sharp brambles.

 Aefsheen’s sharp eyes just caught a glint of reflected light off the edge of an arrowhead being aimed from inside one of the archer’s posts as a lone man, finely dressed and unarmed, strode out to the middle of the bridge that spanned the trench.  

Speaking plainly, this newcomer said “State your business, and be quick. I was about to have my dinner.” “I don’t need sanctuary for myself – I’m merely transporting the lad here. Although if you’d allow me, I’d gladly pay you for a night’s lodging and a meal rather than go back and have something surely inferior in Stickbridge. “ “We aren’t an inn or pub here. We provide sanctuary from hunters, whether it be for a night or a year. I’m sure you know our fee. No? Well, then: half of your valuables, and you help with day to day labor while here. Open your wagon and let me see the contents.” Aefsheen led the man to the back of the wagon, careful not to let his hands stray too close to sword or dagger. He opened the flap to display the baskets of bread and pastries.

“In addition to a meager amount of coins, the lad works for his father as a baker, and brings this load of loaves, rolls, and pastries to supplement payment.”

The man addressed Errod “And why do you seek sanctuary, boy? What have you done that’s so bad? Tell me the truth, and hold nothing back – I’ll know if you lie. I ask because those who come here are usually a bit more hardened and weathered than you appear to be.”

“Sir, my name is Errod and I beat a boy who was stealing our wares. He turned out to be the son of a noble in my city and lied to his father about the circumstances of the fight. The nobleman has a judge friend who has sentenced me to a year in the dungeon, or beheading if I didn’t turn myself in by dawn two days ago.  My father scraped together all the coin our family had that wasn’t owed to suppliers for the bakery and sent me with Mr. Aefsheen here to find safety away from Oakyard.”

 “Aesfsheen, is it? How did you get the boy past the gates? If they wanted his head on a pike, surely they guards were told to look for him. Did you just pile baked goods on top of him and get lucky?”

“I don’t think they expected Errod to have the means to leave the city. They didn’t bat an eye at me at the gate. Besides, I have ways of moving things from place to place unseen “. Aefsheen replied with a crooked grin.

 “Show me. Now, before the sun is all the way down. Don’t waste my time, traveler.”

 Aefsheen, thinking about the arrowhead he’d spied earlier, felt he had no option, so he moved the bread aside and flipped the catch to reveal the hidden compartment. He explained that since the space didn’t extend to the edges of the wagon, one would practically have to crawl underneath to notice it, and gate guards rarely were motivated enough to get their uniforms muddy. He also pointed out that the benches along the sides of the interior were hollow and that most people didn’t even think to check them. “For particularly valuable cargo, I’ll cover the floor of the wagon with something distasteful and sometimes smelly. Like leaking barrels of fish, or manure. And for those that do insist on checking, well…” He patted his scabbard. “I haven’t lost a cargo yet. I may have had to find a different route, but I’ve always delivered.”

The man held out his hand “Aefsheen, my name is Celigg. I’m the Senior Guildmaster at this house. I’m impressed with your ingenuity and I’d like to invite you to be my dinner guest and to stay the night after all.

Young Errod, do you bake, or do you just help haul dough?”

“Oh, I’m no apprentice, sir. I’ve been working in the family bakery since I could walk. I didn’t serve a formal apprenticeship, but I know enough to run a bakery myself. Pa’s even started teaching me the accounting part a bit. I know my way around a kitchen, too. Can’t stuff a roll with sausage or bacon if you don’t know how to cook those, eh?” “Errod, this may be your lucky day. For one thing, we’ll take all this bread as your payment. If you stay on as our guest, your work will start the day after tomorrow. However, as it happens, our old cook died last week. Nothing sinister; he was an old man. But it does leave us shorthanded in the kitchen. If you’re interested, and if you cook as well as you say, we may take you on. Curb your excitement, boy. You don’t even know what this offer means yet. It’s no job you can wander away from in a few months’ time. It will require a longstanding commitment to the Guild. Don’t worry yourself over it tonight, though. Eat and relax. One of my guild brothers will explain everything to you tomorrow and you’ll have plenty of time to think it over.

 As they ate a hot dinner of freshly hunted pheasant and vegetables grown on guild grounds, Aefsheen took in the richly appointed dining room and furnishings. “Benefits of the station” according to Celigg and his two co-guildmasters. They explained to Aefsheen that each house of the Sanctuary Guild was governed by a triumvirate of masters: a spell caster, a man with strong ties to the criminal underground, and a warrior. This provided each house with connections to a local network as well as coordination of both physical and magical defense. They seemed very interested in Aefsheen and his wagon. He explained how he’d designed it with the help of the master of his local thieves’ guild in Oakyard, where he’d grown up.

 “Aefsheen, we have a package we need delivered to Seaspray. It needs to be delivered in secret. We’ll provide you with the address and the name of whom to ask for when you arrive. Do you think you can do that?” “Of course I can. In addition to my fee, I’ll need some sort of decoy cargo. I’ll look very suspicious coming into a trade hub with no merchandise. If you don’t have anything, you can pay me extra to cover purchasing something along the way.”

 The guildmasters at first seemed taken aback that he’d ask for extra money, then the obvious warrior of the three threw his head back and laughed. “You have some large stones, boy! I think I like you.”

 And thus began Aefsheen Silverthorn’s association with the Sanctuary Guild.

(Copyright 2020 Robert Worth Cadenhead, Jr)

[comfortablynumbonthepuzzle]

No Scissors Required (Byeler Fic)

Description: 

Joyce is changing Will’s sheets when she finds a tear in the bottom of his mattress. Upon further investigation, she finds he’s hidden a notebook, and even though she knows she shouldn’t, she opens it, finding some incriminating photos of a certain male celebrity and even more incriminating drawings of a certain male best friend. Joyce knows she shouldn’t meddle, but she can’t help it. Sometimes a mother knows best.

Angsty but has a (kind of) happy ending.

No Scissors Required

It’s 4 pm on a Sunday. As the daylight slips away and with it the promise of a productive weekend, Joyce is attempting some form of damage control.

She’s doing okay: she’s got dinner on the stove, a load of laundry whirring in the dryer, and neat stacks of envelopes, bank notices, and coupons divided on the kitchen table, waiting to be opened and handled and filed appropriately. She’ll get to that, of course. Right after she’s had a cigarette.

It’s one of those rare afternoons where it feels like the dust has settled, and that she’s finally got a handle on things. A small, spiteful part of her wishes Lonnie could see her doing so well. She then thinks of Hopper, feeling equal parts buoyed and daunted by the potential in their future, then, remembering Bob, instantly guilty. She tables that thought for now, but resolves to call the police station first thing tomorrow morning, certain she can conjure up something to be worried about by then. Hopper will know it’s a ploy, but he’ll appreciate it. He can’t seem to work up the nerve to call her unless it’s under silly pretenses either.

Will’s studying in the dining room. He told her for what, but she can’t keep track. Everyday, it’s something new, something for “organic chemistry” or “advanced calculus” or “studio art” or “classical poetry” (meanwhile, Joyce herself can’t remember ever taking anything but ‘math’ and science’). She trusts him to handle it himself; is continually amazed by his composure, his perseverance, his seemingly infinite capacity for information and instruction; balks at how much he seems to absorb. School is the one realm in which she won’t meddle; the one thing that seems to have stayed the same, even after everything. If anything, Will’s become more involved, taking on more responsibility, working harder, longer hours. Still, he sees his friends regularly, and though she wishes he’d spend just a bit more time having fun, she figures it’s all a necessary distraction.

She can barely see him over the piles of books and paper, just the top of his head bobbing every now and again, more aggressively when he’s erasing a mistake. She feels such strong fondness for him. She and Will have always been close, and continue to be even as Will and his friends careen ungracefully into adolescence, but still she finds herself, like any mother, wondering: What is he thinking? What is he feeling? What does he worry about? Is he okay?

He’s fourteen now, in his first year of high school, the same age she and Lonnie started going out. True, we didn’t date consistently until much later, she concedes, and for the briefest of moments her mind flashes back to Hopper. She wonders, not for the first time, if maybe Will’s found himself a- well, not a Lonnie.

But she knows the answer. Will spends too much time at home, too much time studying, too much time with her, or Jonathan, or his friends. And even if he didn’t, Joyce knows that Will is too careful, too cautious, too used to hiding his feelings. But she also knows it’s more than that. Will’s never expressed interest in anyone, at least not to her. In fact, as long as Joyce can remember, Will has looked so discomfited at any mention of romance, at any allusion to any sort of love life he may or may not have, that Joyce has stopped bringing it up. She’s even considered that maybe he’s not interested in that sort of thing at all.

But Joyce knows that’s not true. She just knows. And she’s tried, albeit in roundabout ways, to address whatever it is that flusters him. She speaks in cautious, neutral terms. She avoids pronouns. She never asks direct questions, instead making statements, testing the waters, waiting for him to agree or disagree. Things like, she’s kind of cute or he’s got nice eyes, don’t you think? or I just read in the school newsletter that the Snowball’s coming up. (Normally he responds to her questions with noncommittal shrugs but that one earned her a sharp so what?). And, she’s not sure why she feels so compelled, but she tells Will she’s proud of him as often as she can. She tells him how much she loves him, and how she’ll continue to do so forever, no matter what. Still, Will won’t budge, and Joyce worries, worries, worries.

The timer on the stove goes off, and Joyce jerks her head towards the sound. The laundry’s ready to come out of the dryer.

She’s unloading the warm sheets into a basket when she notices a loose thread hanging from the corner. She pulls at it, hoping it’ll snap, but it only ensnares more fabric. Annoyed, she begins to rummage through her sewing box, looking for scissors. They’re nowhere to be found.

“Will?” She calls.

“Yeah?”

“Do you have the scissors from my sewing kit?”

There’s a pause. “They’re in my room,” Will calls back, sounding slightly guilty.

“Baby, I thought we agreed you would use your own scissors for art projects?”

“Sorry! Yours are better.”

Balancing the laundry basket on her hip, Joyce walks into Will’s room, where the scissors in question are resting on his desk atop a nondescript pile of magazine paper scraps. Joyce notes the mess: clothes litter the floor, Will’s bed is unmade, and there are open books everywhere.

“Will, honey, your room’s a mess!” She calls.

“Sorry! I haven’t had time to clean it.”

Joyce feels a pang of guilt. “I know. I know, you’ve been working so hard lately.”

She sighs, eyeing the unmade bed. Normally, Will prefers to clean his own room. Joyce figures it’s a consequence of all his time spent in Hawkins Lab being poked and prodded and examined; that he’s eager to preserve his privacy and personhood in whatever little ways he can. Joyce doesn’t mind. She indulges him when she thinks it’ll help him cope, and knows, secretly, that if not for Will it would probably never get done.

The longer Joyce stands there, surrounded by teenage mess, the more she feels the urge to do something nice for him, for studious, brilliant, thoroughly decent Will, who’s studying so hard just meters away. So she decides she’ll clean his room, just this once. Because, she reasons, he shouldn’t study for hours and have to return to clutter. Surely he won’t mind. She begins to strip his bed of its bedding, replacing it with the soft, warm, forest-green sheets she’s just removed from the dryer, taking pains to smooth out every crease. She likes this, trying to make things comfy. It makes her feel most like a mother.

She’s pulling the fitted sheet over the fourth and final corner of the bed, when it comes loose on the left side of the other end. Joyce tries to pull it back over the edge, but it won’t budge. Frustrated, she lifts the mattress up, trying to get leverage. And that’s when she sees it.

There -- inconspicuous, but there nonetheless -- is a long slit cut into the underside of the mattress. Joyce almost doesn’t know what she’s looking at, until she reaches out and touches it, and realizes that the edges of the crater fold back. She reaches inside, and her hand makes contact with something thick and paper. A book, maybe? Her heart begins to thud as she pulls it out.

It’s a notebook. Nothing special. Just a beat-up, spiral notebook with a red cover. She knows she shouldn’t open it. She knows it’s a violation of Will’s privacy, that it would be wrong to trespass like this, that whatever is in there is clearly meant for Will’s eyes and Will’s eyes only. But Joyce can’t help thinking: What is he thinking? What is he feeling? What does he worry about? Is he okay?

So she opens the notebook. A stack of photos falls out, scattering all over the cluttered floor.

Joyce curses to herself in a whisper-shout, dropping the notebook, closed, onto Will’s bed. She drops to the ground, frantically assembling the photographs, trying not to make a sound. And she’s so caught up, and there are so many of them, that it takes a few seconds for her to even look at them properly.

The first one she sees doesn’t strike her as odd. It’s a black and white photo of River Phoenix, standing on what seems to be a balcony in New York City, looking over his shoulder at the camera. It’s a good photo, she thinks, but she isn’t sure why it’s been hidden. Confused, she looks through the photos she’s already collected, then at the other ones still around her on the ground. She begins to notice a pattern: some are in color, some not, but all are of River Phoenix. River Phoenix with long hair, with short hair, with hair wild and big, wearing wire-rimmed glasses. In one, he’s holding a guitar, and his shirt is only buttoned up halfway. Joyce stares at that one the longest. They’ve all been cut out of different magazines and newspapers (is this what he’s using my scissors for...?), meaning they’d been collected from different sources, over some length of time. But why? Why these photos? What exactly does he do with - And then it clicks, and Joyce knows exactly what she’s looking at.

Her fingers begin to tremble. She glances at the red notebook perched on the side of Will’s bed, just above eye-level. She grabs it and stares at it for what seems like forever, until finally resolving to open it. What she finds when she does is almost worse than the photos.

What she finds is sketchaftersketchaftersketchaftersketch of a face she knows all too well. It’s Mike Wheeler, as animated in Will’s drawings as he is in real life, displaying the full spectrum of human emotion. Will has drawn Mike sitting down and standing up, from all sorts of angles, and in a comprehensive range of styles. There’s cartoon Mike, for example, the protagonist in what looks like the beginnings of a comic book set in Hawkins High, drawn impeccably in sleek black ink. There are rough, imprecise renderings done in charcoal pencil that smear and blend into one another. There’s one particularly impressive full-page pencil sketch of Mike talking into a walkie talkie, his hair wild and big, wearing wire-rimmed glasses. It’s not just sketches, though - Will’s masterful drawings are interspersed with doodles and phrases written in his distinctive chicken-scratch. Mike’s full name is spelled out several times, alternately in cursive and in block letters. And all of Joyce’s suspicions are confirmed, all at once.

Joyce can’t help it when her nose starts to sting and she feels tears. She’s not angry, no. Not disappointed. Not disgusted. Joyce, in this moment, feels a sober sort of pride. She’s proud to know that Will feels love, in the same way that any parent rejoices when their child first begins that tricky, exciting ritual. For a few seconds she’s reminded how grown he is, how frighteningly close he is to leaving her. But this is what she’s always wanted for him, for as long as she can remember. She thinks, horribly, of the times she’d lie awake at night, imagining a future where Will is happy and in love, praying that it offers him some respite from a world full of Lonnies. She wonders if Mike knows about the drawings, or the sentiment attached. She figures he doesn’t, and if he does, it’s probably not because Will told him.

So she’s sad, too. She has sensed, from a very young age, that Will was different, and that his path would be a little darker, a little more treacherous. For the first time she really understands that Will knows this too. After all, there’s a reason the notebook is in the mattress. It breaks her heart.

“Mom?” Will’s voice calls from the living room. Joyce freezes.

“Mom?” Will calls again. Joyce curses to herself, rushing to tuck the photos into the notebook and shove the whole thing back into the mattress.

Will walks into the doorframe just as Joyce finishes making the bed.

“Yes, honey?”

Will’s brow wrinkles. “Did you change the sheets?” He asks.

“Um, yeah.” Joyce says, trying to conceal how hard her heart is pounding.

“You didn’t have to do that,” Will says sharply. Then, softer: “I mean. Thank you. But you really didn’t have to do that. I like doing it myself.”

Joyce shrugs. “I know. I just thought you’d appreciate a mother’s touch.” She’s trying very hard to add humor to her inflection, not sure if he’ll buy it. Will smiles, forgiving. Joyce wraps her arm around him, kisses his temple despite the eye-roll it gets her, and grips him just a little too tight.

She feels guilty for the rest of the day.

----

It’s 1 am on Sunday morning, one week after Joyce first discovers the notebook, and the boys are all asleep on her living room floor.

They’d all gone to see Back to the Future at the Hawk earlier that night, returning to the Byers’ house afterwards to continue the fun. Once the shrieking and the laughter die down, and Joyce feels confident that they’re asleep, she ventures out in search of a glass of water. She moves quietly over the carpeted floors, but stops at the threshold of the kitchen. She can hear faint whispering, barely intelligible, coming from the behind the couch.

“I guess I’m just relieved,” she hears someone say. It’s too raspy to know who for sure. “There’s a part of me that hasn’t accepted that we’re finally together after all this time.” Joyce knows that voice. That’s Mike.

“Yeah. Me too.” This voice is weaker, sleepier, and she immediately recognizes it as Will.

Who? She thinks. Who’s together after all this time?

“...especially because I thought it would never happen.” Mike again. What would never happen?

“What would your parents think?”

“I’m not going to tell them.” Wait a second. Are they-?

“Well, yeah. But if you did?”

“Are you kidding me? They’d flip.” Is Mike-?!

“Really?”

“Uh, yeah. Can you imagine my dad’s reaction? With everything that’s going on in the country right now? Honestly, some shit is just too weird. Even for Hawkins.”

“What about at school? Are we supposed to pretend?” Joyce is frozen, she can’t believe what she’s hearing.

“Do we have a choice?” Mike says, softly.

“I guess not.”

“I guess we have to wait and see what Hopper says.” Hopper? Joyce thinks, confused. What the hell does Hopper have to do with anything?

“Does he want us to call her Jane, or El?”

Jane?

Mike laughs. “She’ll always be El to me.”

And then Joyce realizes that they’re talking about Eleven. Of course they’re talking about Eleven.

Mike starts to speak again. “But everything will be how it’s always been. You know, at school. Nothing’s going to change.” His voice is laced with something cautious. Will laughs softly, as if trying to bury it, whatever it is.

“What are you talking about? Everything’s going to change.” And Joyce swears she can hear the regret in his voice.

----

It’s 6 pm on a tuesday, three days after the sleepover and ten after Joyce first finds the notebook, and Joyce is finishing up a shift at Melvald’s.

She feels happy. She’s got a lot to look forward to. Jonathan is bringing home takeout from the diner, club sandwiches and french fries, and Will will come home excited and talkative after A.V. club. (And, of course, Hopper happened to stop in today, looking for hair clips for El. He of course played it off like he was overwhelmed, but it was impossible to miss how happy he was to again be participating in the rituals of having a growing daughter. What about these ones? He’d asked. Joyce tells him that the ones he’s picked, bright pink with acrylic bumblebees, look a little young for her, don’t you think? Oh. Well, you know, it’s been a while. Well, you know her better than I do- I only have boys. She does like pink. Then get them! He smiles. They smile. Bitchin’.)

Will and Jonathan will be home a little later than usual, with Will coming from A.V. club and Jonathan from work, so she has just enough time before they arrive, Will first and then Jonathan, to set the table and smoke a cigarette in the quiet emptiness.

Their family dinners, infrequent thanks to work and academic commitments, always seem to make everyone happier. Joyce remembers Sunday morning after the sleepover, how Will looked more subdued than usual, how he hugged Mike goodbye somewhat tersely and watched him ride his bike down the driveway until he disappeared, and thinks: he needs it.

She waves goodbye to Donald and heads toward the exit. The automatic doors open when she nears, but Joyce stops short at the threshold, staring at the magazine rack.

--

It’s 6:18 on a Tuesday, three days after the sleepover, ten days after Joyce first finds the notebook, 18 minutes after she has what she hopes isn’t a terrible idea, and Joyce is waiting in the kitchen for Will to get home.

She’s standing in a part of the dining room where she knows she can’t be seen from the door, watching and waiting for it to open. She’s relieved when it does and Will walks in. He kicks off his shoes and sheds his jacket in seconds, and Joyce is warmed by how eager he seems to just be home. “I’m home!” He calls, but Joyce doesn’t say anything. Not yet.

Will lets his backpack drop to the ground with a thud and collapses onto the couch. He sits there a minute, idle. Come on. Joyce wills. Pick it up.

Almost a minute passes, and then Will seems to notice something on the coffee table, something Joyce can’t see from where she’s standing. His eyes are wide as he looks around, thisaway and thataway, to check if anyone’s there. Cautiously, he picks it up.

It’s a copy of People Magazine, with River Phoenix on the cover. It’s not Mike, Joyce thinks, but it is something.

Joyce watches as he flips through it, and when a pink blush creeps over his cheeks, she knows he’s reached the centerfold -- a glossy, full-page photo of River Phoenix, without a shirt on, posing behind a wire fence.

And it’s perforated. Able to be ripped out of the magazine neatly and cleanly, to be hung up on a wall or folded into a spiral notebook and shoved under the bed.

No scissors required.

Notes:

1. The last time I wrote fanfiction was in high school and I can say with some certainty it is the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever produced, so ridiculous that when I went looking for it a couple months ago I knew I just had to distribute it to all my friends alongside a “reader’s companion” (yes- a reader’s companion to my erotica) highlighting everything cringeworthy. Point is I'm new to this, pls be nice!

2. This is not erotica. They’re 14. Not. Erotica. Not even close. Not even a little.

3. I know it’s a bit anachronistic. River Phoenix hadn’t even starred in Stand By Me by the time this fic is supposed to take place, but I really think that Will would be into him because he’s artsy and sensitive and beautiful, AND because he and Mike remind me of Chris and Gordie.

4. thanks eversomuch to @otpgod1 for their kind words of encouragement in publishing this! 

[toukenra]

I actually have a weather request too. XD It's been a strangely hot October, the heat has been near unbearable and the Saniwa thought, since they were done with work early, they could bring some cold water to everyone. Reactions from Mutsu, Tomoegata, Hasebe, and Kenshin pretty please~! ❣️

Honestly, (I feel like absolute trash. AHAHAHAHAHA~~) I’m so sorry for being so inactive guys! It’s been such a trying month. Due to the colleges going on strike for more than a month–I had to play catch up with my school work (I had to write 5 tests in a week once I returned from being away. Right now I’m almost more than half way through the course load. I also really want to keep my 90 average so I can qualify for free tuition next semester).

I’m really sorry again for being gone for so long. I’m honestly surprised I have not yet had a mental break down. Also, I might/might not be online in the next few days because I am starting to have symptoms of a cold and sore throat (It was -15 the other day–and being the idiot that I was–I left my house not dressed for the weather to get to work).

I’m so sorry to Mod Panacke! I’m supposed to be the older one but I have been so busy and inactive, I feel like I have let you down! So sorry! 

Enough of me rambling about life. I have finally (finally) made time to write and hopefully I’ll be able to tackle another request today. 

Underneath the Cut for being too Lengthy. Please do enjoy.

-Mod Catharia.

MUTSUNOMKAMI YOSHIYUKI

“Mutsu-san, why don’t you take a moment to rest!”

“ARUJI!”

He immediately perked up and made his way over as soon as he heard your voice

…Even if it was 50 meters away from where you were standing

PUPPY MUTSUTM  U・ᴥ・U  

You pat his shoulder as he engulfed you in a big hug, not particularly minding that his clothes had a few spots where dirt had been smeared from working in the fields

You gently give Izuminokami and Kashuu a small wave as they slowly make their way over, looking  a bit annoyed that Mutsunokami was easily able to establish skinship with you

You slowly bend down to the tray you had placed on the ground prior to calling the group over

A rather large plate of Onigiri and Mochi was perched on the tray as well as three cups of freshly brewed tea was staring your charges in the face before you choose to spoke up

“I’m sure you must be tired from working in the fields. Why not have a small snack?”

“Thanks Aruji!”

If you have not seen Katsugeki then you should have an idea about how happy this sword would be when eating….

And a bigger grin would be plastered on his face if Aruji decided to keep him and a few others company

Can you imagine Kashuu stuffing his face with food, looking slightly sullen as you served Mutsu more food. LOL

You spending time with them no matter how busy your schedule says a lot and that you care for their well being

After snacks, the group would pick up on where they left off work, returning to the field as you cleaned up

“Thanks Aru–” Kashuu started but was immediately interrupted by the energetic Uchigatana beside him

“Thanks for the snacks, Aruji!!” Mutsunokami yelled from the field

“You’re very welcome!” You laugh while waving away at the group as you make your way to the kitchens to bring the dirty dishes

In your peripheral sight, you can see the two swords from the Shinsengumi surrounding their unsuspecting comrade before placing him in a chokehold

“A-ah! Hey! What’s going on!?”

“You’re acting too close to Aruji!”

“We couldn’t even have a conversation with Master because you kept talking even with your mouth full!”

“It’s both your own fault you didn’t speak up!!”

“Why you-!?”

“I won’t let you monopolize Aruji!!”

TOMOEGATA NAGINATA

You yawned openly and slumped over your desk, not caring about the papers that begun to crumple underneath

To hell with your supervisor for sending you all this work…They can wait! After they made you wait for supplies last month!

You eventually turn your head and noticed Tomoe who had been assigned as your secretary that day and was working on various documents

For a few minutes, you noticed the taller man looking a little tired than usual and it made you slightly worry…

It was quite hot that day and you have not seen the Naginata even take a sip of water since he had started working hours ago.

Also, He’s been rubbing at his eyes since the past hour…

He’s probably feeling sluggish because of the heat as well…

You silently checked your schedule and noticed that you didn’t have a vacant spot but still decided that a break was in order

Surely, Tomoe must be tired and hungry at this point

Silently, you got up and walked over to the nearby table that housed a pitcher of water and a single glass

Usually, you were the only one working in the office and that explained why there was only one cup

You immediately poured a good amount and made your way over to Tomoe, gently placing the glassware in front of him

“I think you should take a break for a little bit Tomoe…” You begin and push the glass towards him. “I haven’t seen you drink anything and it’s pretty hot out.”

“T-there’s no need Master…” The bespectacled man mumbled as you returned your desk to open a drawer which was filled with some prepackaged snacks.

“Catch!” You toss the older man a pack of Pocky before opening a pack for yourself and settling back behind your desk. “Take a break Tomoe…I don’t want you getting a headache and a heatstroke. No buts!”

“T-thank you Aruji.” You smiled softly as you returned to your work for a few minutes and at the same time having a few ocassional bites of your own food

After an hour or so, you finally look up and see Tomoe’s head lowered on the desk and you assumed that the poor man had fallen asleep …not that you would blame him

The Naginata had always been a bit stubborn like Hasebe but he was a good individual who tried his best to serve you

Standing up, you walk over to the mounted fan and made sure that the breeze reached the sleeping man before resuming your work

HESHIKIRI HASEBE

First of all, What makes you think he’ll let you serve him?

More than half the inhabitants of the Citadel had stripped down into a plain white shirt or otherwise had remained shirtless

…And because of that, you had decided to just stay in your office since it was quite…for lack of a better word, dangerous…

The only sword that remained dressed appropriately–like in his full battle outfit even with the sweltering heat–was Hasebe

You were low-key a bit disappointed that the Uchigatana remained fully clothed…Hey, a girl can dream…Right?

The two of you were working in comfortable silence and had shared a pitcher of water while sitting across each other

Occasionally, the brunette would take sips of water, conscious of the amount he was drinking in front of you

You, on the other hand, could care less…If you were given the chance, you probably would have hiked up your skirt well above the appropriate length

At some point, you had gotten so sluggish that you reached for the nearest filled glass and gulped it’s contents without a second thought

You didn’t even notice the Uchigatana’s wide eyes until you placed the now empty glass down

You blink at Hasebe covering half his mouth with his face burning

“Hasebe, Are you alright?”

“…A-Aruji…The glass.”

“Huh?”

“T-That was my glass…”

Ignore the Caption But I’m pretty sure he would have a breakdown because of you

A second passed and you could feel embarrassment creeping into the cracks of your soul and you immediately covered your face

You had actually drank from Hasebe’s glass…which is equal to indirectly kissing him….indirect or no, you still kissed him…

“I-I’m sorry! I-I’ll grab you a different glass-!” You get up abruptly and Hasebe tried to calm you down.

“No,no…It’s alright, Aruj–” The warrior was interrupted when the pitcher of water accidentally toppled to the side and it’s contents spilled over you secretary.

“Oh my God! I’m so sorry, Hasebe!”

You were about to take out your handkerchief when you realized that the water had made his undershirt see through…

You could not pry your gaze off the man as he slipped off his button down shirt and you could barely hear his voice as he spoke

Who could blame you?? It’s so rare to see Heshikiri Hasebe half dressed…These are the moments that you live for anyway…

“E-erhm…Aruji…”

You finally snapped out of your thoughts and scrambled to go get Hasebe a towel from the cupboard, too embarrassed to face him

“I’m sorry! I’ll be back Hasebe!”

Instead of you giving him a glass of water, you basically gave him a refreshing shower in your office…

It seemed that YOU needed that glass of water instead…Cough* Thirsty ArujiTM

…Never mind the wet documents since you got to some delicious eye-candy anyway. YUM.

KENSHIN KAGEMITSU

The young boy was seated in one of the rooms facing the courtyard, watching a few of his fellow Tantous playing

You gently walked over and placed a glass of water beside the sword, making sure not to startle him

“What are you doing here by yourself?” You smile in a friendly manner

“Ah, Master.” The blue-haired Tantou looked up at you before you bent down on your knees. “I’m just cooling down after training.”

“Hmm…Would you mind if I keep you company then?” A small nod from the boy was all you needed before settling on the seat beside him while taking a bag of pretzels, hidden in your belt. “Here, have a snack. You must be tired.”

“Are you sure, Aruji?” The blue-haired sword asked hesitantly before you placed the small packet into his hands.

“Mhm. Go right ahead.”

“E-erm…Alright, J-just a bit. then” The Tantou smiled faintly as he gratefully opened the small bag while reaching for the glass of water, tilting his head towards you in a small bow. “Thank you.”

For a few moments, you and the small warrior remained quiet as you watched a few others were passing along the scenery, occasionally having you and Kenshin a wave.

“Did you finish all your work, Aruji?” Your little companion inquired as you took out the fan you had tucked into your obi

“Yes. I was just making my rounds but it’s just too hot to be walking around.” You sighed as you began to fan yourself gently nudged the Tantou to move closer to you.

“Come closer, Kenshin…so I can fan you as well.” You pat the space between you two before Kenshin moved almost hesitantly

You almost laugh as the sword leaned much closer once he felt the breeze from your fan

He’s such a cute kid and he always tries his best…Surely, if brought up properly he could be as charming as Azuki Nagamitsu….

Unknowingly, you had started patting the Tantou’s head gently, lost in your own thoughts as you continued to fan the both of you

A few more minutes pass until, the two of you finally began to feel a little more drowsy than usual-blame it on the heat–and fell asleep

It was only when Shokudaikiri Mitsutada and Koryuu Kagemitsu passed by, noticing the two of you sleeping rather precariously in the open

Once the two of you were woken up, be prepared to be lectured a bit by the Citadel’s resident cook for being to carefree

[ibroughtthisonmyselfpixels]

No Return Policy

A Between-Preludes Ficlet Where Certain Clothes Take Some Adjusting to Fit Sims with One Leg

Warning: contains the use of an ableist slur, specifically one against physically disabled people, used by a physically disabled person against himself. It has been censored, but I felt it important for him to use it in this instance, to reflect his mental state at the time. It may also discuss some of the ways cis people inherently see trans people at one point, albeit briefly.

hey jsyk you left 1 of ur bags of clothes in my room? cnt remember what u wanted to do w/it so im just leavin it on the bed. drive careful x

Rigel waits for the text’s ‘delivered’ notice to pop up before flopping with a huff onto his bed, which jostles the bag he’s talking about. Weak as it is, this is the best he can do for now. By the time he found it, Lorelei’d already left with the car, so yelling from the doorway was out; phoning her will be pretty much impossible; and there’s no way he’s taking the subway just to deliver a black sack full of her old clothes to her. Not even his fondness for her can conquer that hot mess of public ‘transport’.

The scrap of lined paper that’s serving as a label is falling off, barely hanging by one sticky-taped corner at this point. SALLY POSS., it says. But what the hell would Sally want with any of Lor’s stuff? Sally’s twice her size. Unless... argh, dammit, I know she explained this before. What is this for?

It’s one of the curses of living with your best-friend-cum-ex-girlfriend, he thinks, scratching his stump. You grow complacent. 

Which isn’t in itself a bad thing - he wouldn’t be staying here at all if they weren’t still enough in sync that they could get away with it. (Some people he’s talked to about it think it’s weird, that it creates an awkward atmosphere after the break-up. But honestly, he thinks it’d be even more awkward for him to just up and walk away from what’s a good thing in its own right just because one small side of it went wrong. Who do they think he is? The guy from that Dashed Hearts sitcom?) He takes care of the mechanical side of things and makes it a functioning house; she fills it with her music and makes it a home. When she’s got too few spoons to make them dinner, he orders pizza; when he’s had a rough day, she’s already turned all the lights down. It just - it works.

Except on days like this, where he’s caught short by not paying as much attention as he should have, and now he’s got a bag of clothes bound neither for Goodwill nor the garbage, taking up space. 

Maybe if I look through some of them, I’ll remember why they’re in there? He side-eyes the bag again. I mean, I saw her put them all in piles, sort them out. I helped her do it, for god’s sake. (Admittedly, he mostly added to the ‘keep’ pile.) It’s gotta jog my memory somehow. And it’ll give me something to do while Lor’s out, anyway.

Before he can change his mind, he pulls it closer to him, almost-tears it open - the label finally peels off and floats to the floor - and starts rifling through what’s inside.

An old frilly red top comes out first. Then a crumpled-up black V-neck, with a glittering tiger design on it; that’s tossed off quickly. A pair of orange pumps, with - wait, was that heel splitting before or after it went in the bag? He sets them aside for now; maybe he can add some glue to them later. White distressed jeans; that one makes sense. She’s never been in the market for jeans, comfortable or stylish. A bundled up pair of tights, some white leggings, yellow t-shirt with sun motifs, yellow this, brown that...

Man, Lorelei really does have a knack for this color coordination shit. ‘specially for a Banilla. ...wonder if it’s the autism that does it? I mean, half the chicks I’ve known couldn’t get on this level, he speculates, adding some dresses to the ever-increasing out-of-the-sack pile. Or am I bias? I dunno. Maybe I am. Or maybe she just looks so comfy in her clothes that they look better by association.  Wish I could be that comfy in mine. 

His thoughts take on an all-too-familiar bitter tone, and not for the first time that day, his amputation sticks out too strongly where he’s sitting. A literal double-edged sword: source of pride for survival; source of scorn and shame in blackest nights when every word spoken, in bitterness or sincerity, comes back to him. Ugly leg, ugly eyebrow, ugly face, ugly figure... Crack it open the wrong way, and he bets all the uglinesses in him will fall out. 

Fucking Saul. Fucking Bernadette. Fucking Gabe. Motherfucking Gabe’s fucking stupid fucking MMBC, leaving everyone dead but the fucking cr*pple, too low brow to fucking kick it. Fucking me for ever thinking I could fuckin--

A flash of sunset filling up his vision stops his long, long string of expletives. He blinks as though blinded, then the fog lifts and he realizes that he’s grabbed one of Lorelei’s more vibrant skirts in his distraction. Shifting it so he’s holding it from the top, he takes a better look at it. It’s multi-layered and ruffled, sort of like a flower; her standard yellow on top, down to orange, down to a red so dark it’s like... no, not like that, not like Bryce round the jaws of the glittering - like the YouTube logo! Yeah, that works. 

Lorelei wore this for their first-but-actually-second-if-you-count-their-first-meeting-ever date, her and Rigel’s. It looked good on paper, but it didn’t really sit on her hips well - he knew it, she knew it, neither actually said so because, you know, tact; and yet it was so very obvious that he hasn’t seen it on her since. He strokes the fabric absently. Almost a shame she’s getting rid of it. This relic, almost, this beginning of a better part of his life is in his hands, on the cusp of being thrown away. Maybe if it fit him better than her, she wouldn’t have to--

That last thought throws him up short.

Whoa. Come on, Rigel. Thought you’d cracked this. Haven’t had that urge for weeks. His wonky brows knit together at the lie. Okay, days. Haven’t had that urge for days. But you can’t go back on it now, you can’t act on it now! What the hell would Lor think? Cam freaked out and he was a fucking saint, what’s she gonna do if she comes back and...? 

...but she’s not coming back, and probably won’t be back for another few hours, and the decadence of the skirt cascades over his leg, drowning it out with the familiar comforting whisper of ~wear me, wear me~ he’s heard so oft...

...okay, a few minutes. Half an hour. Half an hour won’t hurt.

His trousers struggle and scratch against him, as though pleading for him to change his mind; he pushes through regardless. They always do that - always have. Through high scholarship, internship, relationship. And it’s never stopped the skirts from sliding on like silken butter, as the surviving leg pokes through, then the other, the hem stopping just at the empty knee. Never stops her heel (his? his... her heel) from stretching, landing, poised, dusted with imaginary glitter. Never stops the material clinging to her waist as she hoists herself up, brushes herself off - a little too tight, but so close to just right. 

A few elastic burns are a small price to pay for feeling human.

With every step in the flowing mass of cotton and cloth towards the full length mirror in the bathroom across the hall, the thick tar that makes up Rigel Maurer drips down, seeps through the floorboards to be someone else’s problem. It’s an unknown, unseen, copper-hair(ed-legged) fatale making this walk now, swinging open the door. Beautiful. Worthwhile in her own right. Alive, despite everything, despite all that--

She jerks back involuntarily, inches from the mirror. Fuck, the skirt’s got caught on the door handle.  Okay, don’t panic. She can handle this. It’s just by a belt loop - hell kind of skirt has belt loops anyway? If she tugs this way - no, this way, it ought to be able to slip out - no, nothing doing. Come on, if she just tugs-- 

She hears the tearing sound before she sees it. All else gets swamped up in the sudden rush of falling, crashing with an undignified thud. Pain cracks through the calf, and the skull; he’s hit his head on the sink. The room spins uncontrollably, scattered with stars, as he pushes himself back, tries to get his bearings. 

The first thing he sees as his vision clears is the skirt, prone on the floor, ripped clean in half from top to bottom.

“Oh shit.” 

The next hour or so goes by in a blind panicked blur for the now-re-trousered Rigel, and by the end of it the remains of the thing are, in this order: flattened out; frayed at the side where he tried and failed to do a basic blanket stitch; covered in flecks of masking tape on the inside; crumpled up after being tossed at the wall; and finally, in desperation, stuffed into a plastic bag from Mike’s Cornerstore and balanced precariously on top of a whole load of other clothes in the top of his closet. After that, for the rest of the morning and some of the afternoon, he halfheartedly puts the things he took out back into the SALLY POSS sack and potters about the house, making no attempt to escape the pitch black thundercloud over his head.

Who, besides himself, did he think he was fooling? 

Since life has a bad habit of throwing everything bad at once at him, he hears the hodge-podge skirt fall out of the closet for the third time seconds before Lorelei’s car returns home, engine sounding like it’s seen better days. He’s barely got it back in place before he hears her coming, engrossed in conversation - crap crap crap - and he swings the door shut over him before he can think twice to escape. Better in here than out there, right?

“--my head if it wasn’t screwed on, Sally.” His friend’s voice is loud through the wood, soft-spoken though it is. “I swear I had the bag with the others-”

“Honestly, it’s fine! Anything that gives me a chance to visit is fine. I love what you’ve done with the place!”

“Y-yes, well. That’s mostly Rigel’s... Anyway, it’s over here, on the bed. There should be enough in there for you to work with.”

He hears Sally’s wheelchair humming into the room, then a low whistle and a rustling through. “Hoo-ee, Lorelei, you didn’t have to get this many!”

“I know, but I wanted to.”

“No, hon, I’m not knocking you for - wow, look at all this! This’ll be great to get me started!” More ruffling. “Etsy’s gonna flip when they see this.”

Etsy? Isn’t that-

“Oh, did you leave that old rahrah skirt of yours in there too? Like I asked?”

“I think so? I can’t see it now, but I know we put it in there...”

“AAAAAAA! You’re an angel! A, a preemptive angel - you know what I mean! That old thing’s gonna make the best lampshade you ever did see once I resize it - I’ll have to show you when it’s done!”

In an instant, everything Lorelei explained comes rushing back. “Fuck, of course, she’s gonna repurpose them!” he cries. 

...cries a little louder than he intended, he realizes belatedly; for the next moment, the door swings open, sending the bag once again tumbling onto his head, and she’s got this curious bewildered look all over her face.

“Rigel? What are you doing in the closet?”

“Uh... I, I thought I’d practice coming out of it again. Hey, Sally,” he yells over her shoulder, “I’m bi! Thought you’d like to know.” 

Sally cracks up - she knew that old chestnut about him long ago. But Lorelei, as clear through her ghost of a smile, isn’t quite as impressed with the bluff. (To be fair, who could blame her? It was weak even by his standards.) “No, seriously. Is everything okay?”

“Well, depends how you define--” The object that got him in this predicament in the first place flops down again into his hands as he moves his head, reminding him of its inevitable conclusion. “Ah, right. The skirt. Here you go. I mean, might as well.” 

She takes it gratefully, without question why it’s in a separate bag, and with a “Here, catch,” throws it over to Sally.

“Oh, - just to warn you two, the thing might be a little more, uh...”  But his warning comes a little too late, as she’s already lifting what’s more like a scarf than a skirt out of the bag. “...pre-ripped.”

“Um. Well, okay? That’s convenient!” chirps Sally. “It means I don’t have to go to the tro--”

“No, no no, it wasn’t meant to come like that!” Lorelei’s golden eyes are wide behind her glasses in panic, making him squirm between the coathangers. As ill-advised as the thing was, it’s probably hard for her to see it in such a state... and all the harder when she turns back to him in even more confusion. “You saw me put it in there, didn’t you? It wasn’t ripped before.”

“Y-yeah. I know.”

“W...well, well, how’d it get ripped? It can’t have just done that by itself. Could it?”

A thousand pathetic excuses rear up in Rigel’s throat like last night’s cheap wine. A stray cat did it, a washing machine, a passing gnome, a robber. No, all too unbelievable. But he won’t tell her the truth, he won’t. It’s selfish, it’s ridiculous. She’s never going to believe it if he says that-

“I was wearing it, okay?”

...but nor can he lie to her face. Not to Lorelei’s face.

“...you were wearing it?” she parrots.

“Yeah. I was looking through all the stuff and I found it, and I put it on for a bit, and it got caught on the door handle and it just - it tore.” It all spills out before he can stop himself. “I tried to fix it, really I did, I couldn’t remember if she wanted it intact or what, and, and and it’s not... It’s just something I do sometimes, y’know - wear skirts - or dresses or other such, but not like in front of anyone, it’s not a fetish thing, I - if that’s what you’re thinking... It just helps me not be Rigel sometimes. Helps be feel less Rigel and more... more me. If that makes any sense. Probably doesn’t. Y-y’know.” 

It’s a long and rambly speech for someone like (more-)Rigel to make, especially spur of the moment. And the fact that Lorelei’s expression only softens slightly during it doesn’t help his nerves. But when she senses he’s done, she lets loose a sigh that cuts into his eardrums. 

“Okay. Thanks for telling me, Rigel. That was...” She pauses, looking somewhere above him - probably for any more surprises. When none arrive, she adds evenly, “Okay. I’m going to go check on Sally. I’ll let you calm down in here if you want.” (Belatedly, it occurs to him that Sally actually slipped out of the room while he was doing all that talking.)

“Thanks. ...Lor, I’m really sorry--”

“It’s okay.”

“Are you mad at me?”

She ignores that, heads to the living room. 

“Cus it really feels like you’re mad at me!” he calls, but again, she’s gone before he can finish. Feeling like a lemon, he finally steps out of his dark cramped box, but still opts to stay in his room for the rest of Sally’s visit, just to stay out of their way. It’s for the best.

Lorelei doesn’t approach the subject again even after Sally leaves, with the evidence of Rigel’s transgressions tucked into the rest of her clothes; nor does she bring it up by morning. In a way, it makes sense: that kind of revelation isn’t something you just discuss at the breakfast table. But even when he tentatively asks her again if she’s mad at him still, she deflects the subject onto what’s in the morning paper, and it feels wrong to press the point again after that... 

Still, he almost wishes she’d just tell him to move out and take his sickness with him and get it over with. It’d be better than this hanging over his head.

That sense of anxiety follows him through his work day as well. He starts his Fixit duties by, at both her request and his instinct, looking at the car. It turns out that the cam shaft belt is slipping off, which he takes care of with his usual expediency - he even tops up the oil in a (possibly futile) attempt to sweeten the pot - and that in turn allows her to set off for ‘some more last-minute shopping’. He’s got a series of pretty furious repairs to get through besides that, too: a washing machine at the Bumble place, one of the projectors at the cineplex which takes up most of the day, and a park-based porta-potty that ‘conveniently’ clogged itself just after two Hope’s Peak students got caught making out in it. Not to mention his usual weekly check-in at the local pool to see if that’s still running smoothly; fortunately, things still seem to be in order. 

It’s quite late by the time he gets home, and Lorelei still hasn’t returned, as far as he can see. No dinner on the stove, nor any sound of her in the house... though, he discovers, his bedroom door is ajar, enticingly so. His heart drops into his stomach, and he enters to face what’s surely a letter of regret, or an eviction notice, or something like that.

...what he finds instead is a well made bed, and another skirt on top of the bed.

He gasps - he can’t help himself. It’s... glamour! It’s long, he estimates about ankle-length, and looks almost like it’s made of leather, or faux-leather at the very least. And though it’s not as brightly colored as the last one he tried, it’s a deep brown flecked with lighter shades, perfectly matching the jacket he has on. He hops over to it, barely believing it’s real and in his room, touching it to make sure... no, surprisingly it’s still cotton! Very soft indeed! This’ll be a dream to - 

wait, is it for...? He lifts it up and off to make sure there’s no sign that it’s just a joke, and there’s a receipt underneath it. The telltale signs of Lorelei’s scattershot handwriting bleed through from the other side.

R, I have a feeling this one might fit you better than my old one. You can keep it on when I get back round 7pm if you want so I can see how it looks. I hope it does suit you - this store has a no return policy. - L x

A wild laugh escapes him as he hugs the skirt close. “Lorelei, you deceptive little miracle-worker...!” 

Unlike before, he wastes no time in getting this one on. (Except to head to the bathroom beforehand - he’s not making the same mistakes again.) The second it slides up, near seamlessly but for a zip on the side, over her hips, it feels like coming home in one swift motion. All the fears of the day dissipate in that oh-so-comfortable fit, that swooshing sound of fabric, the shaking loose of limbs and of notions and of names that have plagued her for minutes hours eons. It just screams... It doesn’t even scream Rigel. It screams her.

...so why, then, standing there in her new self, does something still not work about it? The mirror image seems just fine: top half false, bottom half real. Skirt over leg... and stump.

Maybe that’s it. Maybe the strongest beauty is also in being a little ugly. A little - risky.

With that thought pulsing through her head, she rifles through the medicine cabinet, pulls out a dainty pair of scissors, and tears a long slit up the right side of her skirt. Both loose flaps are picked up, then tucked into the top, letting her amputation shine through, true and - god forbid - proud.

“Perfect.”

[yourrendezvouswithanus-blog]

The Girl in the Red Dress

Be warned, this contains graphic descriptions!

It was a normal Friday night for myself. It was 6.00pm and I was getting ready to go to a party at a friend's house. My stereo was blasting heavy metal and I was in the bathroom, shaving in the mirror while wearing nothing but a towel around my waist.

I rinsed the excess shaving foam off of my face and splashed on some aftershave, which stung slightly. Next I went through to the main room of my bed-sit apartment and threw the towel aside. I looked through my wardrobe and pulled out a pair of black, stonewashed jeans and a black, short-sleeved shirt.

I lay them down on the king-sized bed and walked over to my dresser. From the dresser I took out a pair of black boxer-briefs and a pair of black cotton socks. I placed the garments on top of my other clothes on the bed and stood in front of my full-length mirror.

I was muscular and I always stopped to take it in whenever I could. Most of my body had been covered in tattoos, mostly depicting violence and death. I designed them all myself because during the day, I ran my own tattoo studio down town. It was a very busy studio and that was because of my expertise. You see, I was the most decorated tattoo artist in the city (Both in tattoos and awards).

My body hair was always at a minimum, the only visible body hair being in my armpits, and I could plainly see my large penis in the mirror. At eight inches soft, it was quite a monster. Even more so when it was at it's full eleven inches when hard. I named it “The Beast”.

I pulled on my boxer-briefs, which bulged in the crotch from my big guy. Next I pulled on my socks, sitting on the bed so that I didn't fall over. Up next was the jeans which slipped on and were held up with a black leather belt. I then pulled on my shirt and buttoned it up.

I dusted myself down and checked myself out in the mirror. I was gorgeous.

I stepped over to the other side of the room and sat down on my futon. I pulled on a pair of black leather army boots and tied the laces up. I then stood up and picked up my black leather jacket. After putting on my jacket, I turned off the stereo and left my apartment to go to the party.

On my way to the party, I stopped by my local supermarket to pick up some alcohol. I grabbed a two litre of dry cider and two seventy-five centilitres bottles of whiskey. Only the whiskey was for the party, the cider was for on the way there.

I hated paying for buses that were rarely cleaned and crammed full of people, so I usually walked to all the parties I went to. So the cider helped pass the time while I walked.

It took nearly an hour to walk to my friend's house on the other side of the small city and I had already finished the cider. And although there was two litres of cider in my system, I was nowhere near tipsy.

I knocked on the door and my friend, John, Answered the door. John was a metal-head like me but he was nowhere near as well kept as I was. He was slightly chubby, always wore old clothes, had a long, shabby beard and long hair to match. He resembled homeless bum.

“Gabriel!” he yelled over the loud music. “You made it!”

“I brought my own booze.” I said, holding up a bottle of whiskey in each hand.

“Good for you!” he yelled. “We're doing absinthe shots later on. You in?”

“Nah, I'm good bro.” I replied.

He invited me in and I followed, closing the front door behind me. The inside of John's apartment was huge. There was plenty of space for everyone and I had estimated that there was about fifty people there.

Despite his shabby looks, John was actually loaded. When he was eighteen, he had come up with an idea that I won't delve into with the details, but the important thing was that his ingenious idea had made him a millionaire.

And despite his fortune, his apartment was scarcely furnished. The main room had no furniture other than two large couches and  sixty inch television which was mounted on the wall.

The music was blaring from the television and everyone was having a good time, drinking and socialising. I stood near the doorway to the hallway and cracked open my first bottle of whiskey. John had disappeared into the kitchen, his usual domain at parties, And I was left with a bunch of people I didn't know.

“You can put your coat in the spare bedroom.” a guy standing beside me said into my ear.

“Thanks.” I replied. “I'm Gabriel.” I offered my hand.

He shook my hand. “I'm Dave, I live here with John.”

“You must have moved in recently.” I said

“Yeah. Apparently John didn't like living in this big apartment on his own so he put an advert in the paper for a room-mate. I answered it.”

“Lucky you.” I said and headed back down the hall.

I found the spare room which had nothing in it except a bed with a bare mattress, topped with a few coats. I took my jacket off and hung it up in the closet, the unopened bottle of whiskey still in the inside pocket.

I returned to the party and was instantly taken aside by a pretty blonde girl wearing black skinny jeans and a baggy tank-top.

“Nice tattoos.” she said, stroking my left arm. “Who designed them?”

“I did.”

“No fucking way!” she yelled “What do you do for a living?”

“I'm a tattoo artist.”

“That's fucking awesome!” I could tell she was already drunk. “I like this one here the most.”

She pointed out the tattoo on the inside of my left forearm. It was a pile of skulls, each one decorated to depict characters from my favourite video games.

“That one depicts my favourite video games.” I said.

“Why they all dead like that?”

“To go with the theme of the rest of my arm.” I pulled my sleeve up on my shirt, showing several more skeleton-related tattoos.

“Dude!” she yelled. “You are fucking legendary!”

She swayed slightly, probably from light-headedness.

“You should go sit down.” I said.

She swayed again. “You're probably right.” she paused for a moment. “I need a piss.”

And just like that, she was gone. And thank god for that.

I went through to the kitchen in the hopes that I wouldn't run into the blonde drunk girl again and ran in with John and several other people, mostly girls.

“Gabe!” he yelled with excitement “Nice of you to join us in the party zone.”

“Seems like the party is actually through there.” I pointed to the living room with my thumb.

“Nonsense!” he yelled. He like to yell a lot. “Those idiots don't know how to have a party!”

It was quite smoky in the kitchen, most likely due to the fact that all twelve people, except me, was smoking.

There was a ting and John got even more excited. He turned around and turned off the cooker and pulled out a baking tray with brownies on it.

“Here's why the kitchen is the best place to have a party!” he yelled, placing the baking tray on the centre island of the kitchen.

I could already tell what was in the brownies from the distinct aroma that they emitted. They were definitely pot brownies.

“You know, guys.” he said while beginning to cut up the brownies onto a serving plate. “I heard a guy the other day saying that he does all sorts of drugs. I could tell that he was just trying to impress his friends who were all smoking pot at the time. And the guy said, and I quote, “I inject four marijuanas a day!””

The room burst into laughter, me included. Even I knew that you didn't inject cannabis. It was almost impossible to do so. I also know that successfully injecting cannabis was one of the few ways it could kill you.

“What a fucking idiot!” I heard a red-headed girl shout. “Did his friends laugh at him?”

“You can bet your fucking ass they did!” John laughed some more. “They laughed at him so hard that he ran off, crying like a child!”

They all laughed some more. While I did find it amusing, I didn't laugh at all.

“Come on, Gabriel.” John said. “That was hilarious. Why are you not laughing?”

I forced a little laugh to make him happy.

“There we go.” he said as he served the brownies onto plates and began handing them out. “You want one Gabriel?”

“Sure.”

I had never taken drugs before so this was a first for me. I took the brownie from him and took a large bite. It was delicious. Before, I had always taken John's word when he said that the weed brought out the flavour of the chocolate in the brownies, now I knew it was true.

I munched down the rest of my brownie and returned the plate to John.

“Was it good?” he asked.

“Fucking amazing.” I replied “How long until it kicks in?”

“Anything up to an hour.” he said, starting to eat his second brownie. “Try not to eat too many, seeing as you're drinking as well.”

“Sure.”

I stood there, in the kitchen, listening to the others tell stories about other times they took drugs. There was this redhead girl beside me, dressed in a tight tank top and black leggings who started talking to me.

“About a week ago,” she said. “I went to a party where everyone was smoking weed.”

I nodded to her to tell her to keep going.

“I was handed a bong and I ended up smoking a whole ounce to myself. I was fucking wrecked. Then before I knew it, I was having sex with this strange guy on the kitchen floor.”

“Wow.” I said.

“Yeah I know!” she yelled. “Then he came inside of me and walked away. And before I could get up, his friend was on top of me, fucking me. I was too stoned to do anything.”

“So you were raped?”

“No, it wasn't like that. I actually enjoyed it. Then once he was done, another guy took his place, and then another.”

“So you let four strangers have their way with you?”

“Not quite.” she said.

“Oh?”

“Yeah, after the fourth guy, I was led into the living room stripped naked and tied to the coffee table. It was exciting. Before I knew what was happening, I had a guy in my ass, two others playing with my tits and a girl grinding her bare, wet pussy on my face.”

I was staring at her breasts, which were huge. “Think we'll have a repeat tonight?”

She laughed. “One can only hope.”

“So what happened next?” I could feel the cannabis kicking in and thanks to the whiskey, I had begun to lose my inhibitions.

“after six more guys ejaculated inside me, one of the girls began fisting my pussy as another guy shoved his dick in my mouth. I sucked that dick until he came and the girl fisted me until I came. And what was even better was that the whole thing was recorded on my phone.”

“Really?”

“Don't believe me? Here, have a look.”

She took out her phone and played the video file. Right enough, it was recorded right from the point of the first guy in the kitchen. She fast-forwarded the video to the point where she was tied down. I was getting hard just watching this video.

“Your tits are really nice.”

“Thanks.” she replied.

She fast-forwarded the clip again and I watched as she was fisted until she came. The girl fisting her was covered in the juices that sprayed from her vagina.

“Amazing.” I said.

“I know, right? I enjoyed myself at that party.”

“Can I see your tits first hand?”

She looked at me with a surprised expression then suddenly took her top off and unhooked her bra. Everyone cheered as her huge breasts were exposed for everyone to see. And for some strange reason, the other girls in the kitchen followed her example.

I counted seven topless women in the kitchen with us. I began to hear moaning from the living room so I went to investigate. To my surprise, there was already an orgy under way in the living room. Women fucking men, women fucking women and even a man fucking another man.

I returned to the kitchen to find everyone in there already getting down to business. The woman I wanted to fuck, the redhead girl who got gang-banged at her last party, was sucking on John's dick. I felt left out so I returned to the living room.

I downed the last of the whiskey and then looked around at the people having sex without me. I put the empty bottle on the floor and contemplated joining in with the two girls locked in a sixty-nine position. Then I saw her.

She was the only girl still wearing clothes. She had long blonde hair, bright blue eyes and was wearing a long red lace dress. She looked straight at me, staring right into my eyes. She was beautiful.

I watched as she slowly made her way through the crowd of people engaged in sexual activities and left the room into the hallway. I ran over to the door which she had left through and just managed to catch a glimpse of her going into the toilet. I went into the spare room and grabbed my second bottle of whiskey.

I drunk about a quarter of the bottle before knocking on the bathroom door. The door opened slightly and through the crack I could see a single blue eye looking out at me.

“Fancy some fun?” I said with a big smile on my face.

“Depends on what you have in mind?” her voice was soft and soothing.

“Hows about some private fun in there? Just me and you, we'll rock each other's worlds.”

She paused for a second. “Come in.”

I entered the bathroom which was covered in white tiles with a single magnolia wall. It was quite spacious for a bathroom. I finally saw her in full, up close. Her long blonde hair hung in natural curls, covering half her face. Her curves were quite prominent in her tight, lace dress which came half-way down her thighs. I could tell she wasn't wearing tights of any kind. She wore red high heeled shoes with red nail polish on her toenails and fingernails.

She locked the bathroom door after I was in the room.

“You excited?” she said, closing the gap between us, putting her arms around my waist and staring up into my eyes.

“Yeah, I'm excited. Although I'm quite wasted.”

“Really? I haven't touched anything tonight.”

“So you're sober?”

“Yes.”

“And you still want to do this?”

“I get my kicks in other ways.”

“Oh? Do tell.”

“It's better if I just show you.”

She kissed me. It was anything but a small peck. She grabbed my hair and pulled me close to her, crushing my lips against hers. She opened her mouth and slipped her tongue between my lips, feeling about my mouth with it. I met her tongue with mine, caressing it all over with my slippery organ. The cannabis I had ingested earlier was heightening the sensation.

She grabbed my ass with one hand, the other firmly holding my face in place. My left hand travelled down her back to squeeze her ass, my right moved up to cup her breast. She gave a moan of pleasure.

She pulled back and I opened my eyes. My heart jumped when I saw her. Her pale skin was now a dark grey, her eyes were black with gold irises and horns had sprouted from her head. I was going to scream but after I had blinked, she was back to normal.

“Are you okay?” she asked. “You look like you've seen a ghost.”

“I... I'm okay.” I lied.

She took a step back and turned around. “Unzip me.”

I took a hold of the zip on the back of the dress and pulled it down. I watched as the lace dress slipped to the floor with ease, revealing red lace matching bra and thong. Her skin was flawless and all I could think about was how cute she looked, standing there in front of me.

“How do I look?” she asked, blushing.

“Amazing.”

She grabbed me by the belt buckle and pulled me close. Slowly, she unbuckled my belt then she unbuttoned my jeans. She then pulled my jeans down to my ankles and forced me to sit down on the toilet seat. She then got down on her knees slowly and pulled down my boxer-briefs, my already hard member standing to attention.

She took it in one hand and gently stroked it.

“You like that?”

“Mmm... yeah.” I moaned

I closed my eyes and tilted my head back as she continued to stroke me gently. I felt her wrap her lips around the tip, her tongue stroking it gently, moist with saliva. It felt amazing.

I opened my eyes and looked down to her. Her grey skin and horns were back and I was just about to scream when she stopped and turned back to normal. She smiled at me, baring jagged teeth. But once she closed her mouth and opened it again to put my cock in it once more, her teeth were back to normal.

This is some powerful weed, I thought to myself.

I was coming close to a climax when she stopped sucking and stood up.

“Can't have you finishing before the main event, can we?”

She then unclipped her bra and tossed it aside before slowly pulling down her thong and placed it aside. She then climbed on top of me, legs on either side, and slipped me inside of her with ease.

Inside her was warm and wet. I had never felt this good just being inside someone. Every girl that I had been with before had always made me use a condom but for some reason, this girl didn't care. I didn't care either as long as it didn't come back to bite me in the ass.

She went gentle at first, using my whole length to pleasure herself. Up and down, up and down, slow and gentle. She stroked a nipple on my face and I licked it.

She moaned as my tongue caressed her nipple. I gave it a suck and then a bite. She moaned even more.

“Yeah, baby,” she moaned. “Bite it just like that.”

She began to grind on my cock as I played with her nipples. Harder and harder, she kept grinding. I looked up at her and she gazed down into my eyes. She then pulled me close to her, my head in her chest.

I pulled back to kiss her but what I saw stopped me. She was glaring at me, the grey skin, horns and golden eyes were back. Her mouth was wide open with jagged teeth and a long purple tongue hanging over her chin.

“Give me a kiss, baby.” she said in a deep, almost demonic voice.

I opened my mouth to scream but as I did, the girl sprouted dragon-like wings and shoved her long tongue down my throat. I gagged and tried to pull away but was unable to because now she was holding onto my head.

And she was still riding my hard cock, fast and hard. I no longer wanted to fuck her but she was not giving me the choice. Between her tongue down my throat, her hands gripping my head and her pelvic floor grasping my dick, I was in no position to even attempt escape.

And then it happened. Suddenly I felt release, in more ways than one. At the precise moment that I had reached climax, the girl let go of my head and removed her tongue from my throat. I moaned with relief and she moaned with pleasure. I felt her insides contract as she too reached climax.

I closed my eyes as we sat there, motionless, waiting for her climax to stop. Then she got off of me, a quick movement which pained my still sensitive member.

I had no idea how long I sat there with my eyes closed but when I opened them, the girl was standing there, in front of me, fully clothed and back to normal with semen dripping down her right leg, holding her thong in her hand.

“This was indeed, fun.” she said with a grin on her face. “Hope you enjoyed it as much as I did.”

“What the fuck happened? You freaked me out there.”

She stepped over to me and tilted my head up to look her in the eyes. “That's simple, babe. I was not invited to this party. I let myself in. In fact I am not even of this world.”

Her features slowly changed back into the horrifying monster.

“I am what you'd call a succubus.” She said in her deep demonic voice. And I have come here for the sole purpose of seducing you.”

“Wh... why me?” I asked, fear in my mind.

“So I can make you do my bidding, of course.”

“But... but...”

“No buts now.” she grinned again. “Now, sleep.”

She clicked her fingers and everything went black.

When I came to, I was stark naked and lying on what I could only assume was John's bed. I was sticky, like all over. I peeled myself off of John's bedsheets and looked around the room. The only light in the room was the orange glow of the street lights outside the building beaming through the open curtains.

I walked over to the door and tried to turn on the light but nothing happened when I hit the switch.

I think the bulb is done. I thought to myself.

I opened the door to the living room and was surprised to find that the lights were off.

“Hello?” I called out. “Anyone here?”

I felt along the wall for the light switch. There was a stickiness to the floor. I tripped on something on my way. It was long and squishy but cold. Almost like a leg of an animal without hair.

I flicked the switch on the wall and stood there, staring at my hand. My hand was covered in dark red blood, most likely what was causing the sticky sensation when I woke up. Where did this blood come from? Why was I covered in the stuff?

I looked back towards the bedroom reluctantly and saw the thing I had almost tripped over. It was a leg, severed from it's body at the knee. I could tell it had belonged to a woman by the blue nail polish on the toes.

I felt sick but I felt the need to turn around and look at the rest of the room. Turning slowly, I took in the nightmare that was the living room.

There was blood everywhere: all over the carpet, the couches and even on the tv. There was a message on the wall written in blood.

'The night of the all mighty Dark Lord is upon us.' it read.