#they will fucking bake under the sun AND they’re not smart enough to know to stay under the shelter the whole time

[iii-of-ender]

my favorite thing about some horse people is how self-righteous they are. they’re like dog owners but with the “they’re wild animals!” excuse

[kidstemplatte]

I know you must be so busy rn, but could we get some headcannons/ little fic about Terzo with his kids on Christmas

dad! terzo during the holidays headcanons🎁🎄

tysm for your request, anon! i hope this is close to what you wanted! please enjoy<3

◇ i like to imagine the clergy decorates for the holiday season, i’m not sure what exactly they’d celebrate since i’m no expert regarding theistic satanism (i need my art school anon to help me with this one 🤍) but i think they would do some of the christmas-esque stuff just for the fun of it

◇ i imagine their decor is a nice fun mix of spooky and sweet, or more of a witchy vibe.

◇ i headcanon that they’re in sweden, which means there’s snow outside!!! terzo doesn’t like the cold, since he’s from italy haha but his kids loooooove playing in the snow so he sticks it out for them!

◇ he gets all wrapped up in like 1000 layers because he’s a big old baby, definitely not dramatic at all.

◇ but also he makes his kids do the same, he’s very protective and wants to make sure his kids don’t freeze!

◇ honestly i think terzo’s the kind of dad who would make up an urban legend to scare his kids into wearing proper winter gear…💀 they’re SPRINTING to get inside after he tells them about the monster who eats little children who don’t wear their gloves…

◇ do not take terzo ice skating because his ass will fall down over and over and over again. but on second thought, it makes the kids laugh, so maybe do take him.

◇ terzo cannot wrap presents. he is so bad at it. he has to ask the ghouls or one of his brothers to do it. but this also means he really appreciates the artistry of gift-wrapping.

◇when he gets a gift of any kind he always wriggles his fingers and goes “for me?” like you’ve just bestowed a treasure upon him.

◇ he will absolutely melt if his kids give him a gift of any kind, a homemade card or even just a cool rock one of them found. he will keep it forEVER.

◇ if there’s an elf on the shelf or some kind of satanic equivalent, terzo is leaving it in the funniest fucking places. then he sits around waiting for his kids’ reactions because he loves hearing them laugh.

◇ but it’s not just for the kids- it’s for his own amusement as well. you can bet that elf is going on nihil’s grave.

◇ every christmas eve eve (december 23rd muahaha) terzo watches nightmare before christmas with his kids.

◇ terzo’s favorite christmas movie is home alone, but he has to give the kids a disclaimer before they watch because they’re little troublemakers and they WILL get ideas from all the traps and shenanigans.

◇ i don’t know about anyone else, but i always had a hard time as a kid falling asleep on christmas eve because i was so excited. i imagine terzo’s kids are the same way haha, so he reads them stories until they fall asleep.

◇ terzo doesn’t care much about his kids believing in santa until they tell him they don't. because to terzo, that’s a challenge.

◇ initially, he wants to dress up as santa himself, but he knows the kids are smart enough to find out it’s him. so he has to outsource his work. (he makes omega dress up as santa and put the gifts terzo made him wrap under the tree. omega gets a raise.)

◇ the kids are getting whatever they ask for btw. it’s typically nothing too unreasonable because they’re raised well haha.

◇ if the kids want to leave food out for santa, terzo’s using it as an excuse to order a fancy ass hundred dollar meal and eat it at 3 am. santa’s getting steak made with wagyu beef and a nice glass of wine.

◇ i hc that terzo can cook but he can’t bake for shit, (i have a fic i’ve been wanting to finish for so long about that) so primo makes the kids gingerbread cookies (he has an extensive cookie cutter collection) and they’re all decorated super fun lol.

◇ also in my mind the clergy is a huge piece of property with a forest behind it, and in this forest there are deer! so before the sun sets on the night of christmas eve terzo takes the kids to leave food for the deer as fuel for their upcoming flight :,)

└─── °∘❉∘° ───┘

that’s it yall!!! happy holidays and tysm for your request anon!!! i rlly hope u liked it!! i have more stories coming soon i can’t wait to share!!

[passivenovember]

Billy reads that bread can cause his toenails to fall out at the cuticle, and interdimensional space monsters aside, this is scary news. The worst news. The most devastating news he’s ever received, for a lot of reasons. 

Mainly because he loves his toenails. 

If they fall out Steve will have nothing to paint when he gets high, and at the rate Billy’s consuming wheat, like. Two slices with avocado in the morning, and a turkey sub for lunch, and maybe flap-jacks or french toast or monkey bread for dinner, if he’s feeling down, Billy slaps his newspaper onto the coffee table hard enough that Steve looks over at him from the desk.

“What’s wrong,” Steve wonders, glasses slipping down the bridge of his nose. 

“We’ve gotta throw out all the bread,” Billy says, mentally rifling through all the sandals he’ll have to get rid of when his toenails wash down the shower drain. “And the muffins, too. No more cranberry muffins–”

“What are you talking about?”

“Bread can cause toenails to fall out at the cuticle.”

“Where does it say that?”

“Right here,” Billy spits, reaching for the newspaper to find the article before Steve makes it across the living room. “On page eleven. Susan Harforth at the Hawkins Sun says that recent studies show–”

The ancient couch nearly collapses under both their weight. “What studies? Who’s conducting these studies?”

“I don’t know. How the fuck should I know, maybe the government, or something. Martha Stewart.” Billy lets Steve cuddle in close, trying not to get distracted by the scent of his shampoo. “The point is–”

“I don’t think you should believe everything you read in the papers, baby.”

Billy frowns. “But–”

“It’s fear mongering. They’re waging an all out war against Sarah Lee and English Muffins, and my favorite Sunday morning snack, apparently. And for what? To chase some ever changing beauty standard?” 

Billy fiddles with the edge of his newspaper, wondering how Steve earned a Masters in art therapy and got so fucking smart.

“But the other stuff is true,” Billy opens the newspaper again, like, “Listen to this: recent studies show that high intake of gluten can lead to sluggish afternoons, extended weight gain, and heart disease.” Billy pauses so the effect can sink through all that hair. “I eat so much bread.”

“It makes you happy.”

“Yeah, but it also makes me wanna take four hour naps on the weekend and lay in a patch of sunlight so I can bake into a little fat, toenail-less muffin–” Billy peeks over the lip of the paper, squawking to find Steve laughing at him. 

“It’s not funny, Steve.” Billy says harshly, even though it’s kind of funny. 

“Baby, life is hard.” Steve says.

Which makes Billy want to bear his teeth. “What, since you married me?”

“Oh, for sure.” 

Billy throws the newspaper at him, grumbling when Steve pulls Billy into the warm little landing of his chest.

“You know the best part of my week is Sunday morning, when we have those fresh muffins over cartoons and handjobs?”

“You’re fucking gross.”

Steve kisses the top of his head. “It’s all the gluten, perverting my mind.”

[yes-ihavealwaysbeengreen]

Hey 👋

How are you?

Could I please request a king Arthur prompt when he first starts courting his partner but originally they cant stand him like they think hes too cocky but he worms his way into their heart 🥰

Pairing: King Arthur x F! Reader

Warnings: 18 + for language, a little angst.

Masterlist 

The Queen 

“Arthur, you could have any girl in the entire realm at your fingertips; why did you have to choose this one?” Wet Stick sighs, watching from under his cloak and cursing his friend for his taste in women. “He couldn’t just pick one of those nice noble ladies; he had to pick a headstrong girl with a chip on her shoulder,” he grumbles to himself. 

You locked up the shop behind you and take off home, turning once to wave into the shadows knowing the knight is there watching. He emerges on a large brown horse, coming to walk beside you. “Good Evening, Sir Tristan; how was your day today?” you smile up at him, and he laughs with a shake of his head. 

“How do you always know where I am, my Lady?” You reach into your knapsack and pull out a warm cheese roll wrapped in cloth, handing it up to him. “Thank you, ma’am,” he unwraps it and takes a large bite, moaning at the taste. “Is this why he wants to marry you? Because of how delicious your baking is? Honestly, if the King weren’t enamored with you, I’d probably ask you myself,” he laughs. 

You groan, pulling your green cloak above your head. “Sir Tristan, how many times must I ask that you call me by my name? I am no lady, just a baker, no one special.” 

“The King would disagree.” You cringe and walk a little faster towards the warmth of your cottage. “He thinks you’re the most beautiful maiden in the entire Kingdom, and Arthur always gets what he wants, and that’s you, my lady.” You stop and glare at him; he holds his hands up in defense using your name. 

“Why would I want that cocky, overbearing brute of a man to marry me? He can go to hell for all I care.” Tristan doesn’t take offense like other knights because he knows how overbearing his friend can be. It’d been amusing to see Arthur fall for the beautiful, headstrong woman. Every flower ended up in the trash, letter burnt, and request for an audience denied. Arthur was close to giving up on courting the woman, but something was holding him back. 

“Have I ever told you what he was like growing up?” You roll your eyes, already dreading the tale that is sure to highlight only the King’s good points. 

“No,” you mumble, “but I’m sure it some heroic tale.” He barks out a laugh, and you stop to watch him, “what’s so funny?” 

“What do you know about the King? Honestly, tell me,” he jumps down from the horse and grabs the reins walking beside you. “Because if that’s your opinion, then you don’t know him at all.” 

You think about all you know about the King and realize with an ache in your belly that you didn’t know much about the King besides the rumors you’d heard. “Well,” you stumble, “he’s arrogant...uhm, he doesn’t care about anyone but himself...and,” you struggle to come up with something else, much to Tristan’s amusement. 

“Arthur was raised in a brothel,” you pause, raising a brow, “I’m telling the truth. When his parents were murdered, he floated down the river in a boat and was found by the prostitutes washing their clothes by the river. They took him in and raised him. He, in turn, grew up and protected them. The brothel was one of the only places in all of Londinium that women were treated with respect. If someone got too handsy with one of the girls, Arthur would beat them within an inch of their life before they’d even think to disrespect a woman like that. Then he’d take all their money and give it to the girl.” 

“He’s also really smart, smarter than the lot of us, at least. He had coffers hidden in the wall of the brothel behind a bookshelf. He dreamed of getting out and buying himself a piece of land, building a home. The girls would all be taken care of and wouldn’t have to be prostitutes anymore. He was damn close too before we found out he was the born King.” You mull over his words and keep walking closer towards your home. 

“How did he feel about becoming the born King?” you ask quietly. 

Tristan smiles, rubbing the snout of his horse affectionately. “He hated it. Didn’t want anything to do with the sword or being King. It wasn’t until he saw his friends being attacked, the Black Legs had us surrounded, outnumbered; there was no way we could win the fight. Arthur begged us to run away, that he was what they wanted, he was ready to die for us. Arthur embraced Excalibur and killed them all, saving us. He’s loyal to a fault that one. Then when Back Lack-” he takes a shuddering breath, and you reach out and rub his arm. 

“If it’s too painful, you don’t have to say.” He wipes at his eyes with his cloak and smiles at you. 

“No, I won’t let his memory fade because it makes me sad to talk about him. Back Lack was our friend, and Vortigern murdered him in front of his son and Arthur. Blue screamed, and I can still hear his wails in my head; Arthur took his son in and has become like a father to him.” You think of the young boy who follows behind the King and smiles. 

You reach the door of your cottage and put your hand on the knob, dropping your head to the door with a sigh. “What does he say about me?” you ask, turning to look at the Knight, “I know he’s must have told you why he is trying so hard to court me.” 

Tristan smiles, seeing the small crack in your cleverly crafted armor. “While you may not know the King at all, he knows everything about you. I dare say he’s in love with you.” 

You search his eyes for any lie and sigh, opening the door and stepping inside. “Wait here for a moment, please,” he nods, and you close the door behind you. Emerging a few moments later in one of your clean dresses and a light blue cloak of fine fabric the King had gifted you, too delicate for you to throw into the trash. “Take me to him, please,” you ask, pulling the cloak over your head. 

“Yes, my lady,” Tristan smiles, mounting his horse and reaching a hand out to pull you up behind him. He rides swift to the looming gates of the palace, and the heavy wooden doors creak as they’re pulled open. The hour is late, and there is only a handful of guards around watching you with a curious expression. You slide off the horse and follow closely behind Tristan as he weaves through the labyrinth of hallways before reaching a large door. He knocks out a combination, and Arthur’s voice comes from inside asking you to enter. 

Tristan stands back and gives your hand a squeeze, “good luck. I promise he’s worth it.” You smile, trembling, and give him a return squeeze. You watch his back retreat and take a deep breath before turning the handle. 

“Did she get home alright, Stick?” You follow his voice, stepping around the chair and looking down at him. He’s writing a letter, the quill moving across the page, a half-full glass of wine on the table to his left. “She didn’t see you, right? You know how much she detests having a guard.” 

“She didn’t make it home okay,” you say quietly, but he jumps anyways, looking up at you with wide eyes. “But she did find her way safely to you, my King.” He rises from his chair and stands tall beside you, gazing into your eyes, and for the first time, you see past the facade of the King he’s created and instead see the man, Arthur. 

“Are you well, my darling?” he asks, cupping your cheek; you close your eyes and lean into his touch. His smile is bright enough to rival the sun, and you smile back at him just as brightly. 

“I learned about you tonight, my King,” he furrows his brow, “Sir Tristan was telling me tales of how you became King.” 

He grins, “And what did he tell you?” He pulls away, pouring a second glass of wine and handing it to you. He takes your hand and leads you over to the roaring fire, sitting down in one of the chairs in front of it. You take a sip of the wine and put down the glass, climbing into his lap and putting your head against his shoulder. His hand comes up to wrap around your waist, keeping you snug to his side, putting down his glass of wine, and putting the other hand in your lap. 

You roll his fingers between your hands, feeling the callouses from years of fighting coarse against your skin. He leans his head against your own, and you can feel the warmth of his breath on your cheek. “He told me about you growing up in the brothel, how you protected those women, and their honor. He told me how you begged them to leave when the Black Legs came, and only when your friend’s lives were threatened did you finally wield Excalibur.” 

You sit up and look him deep in the pools of blue that are his eyes, lowering your voice to almost a whisper. “He also told me about Back Lack and Blue. How you’ve become like a father to him,” you trail off, looking down at his hand in your own, “he said you love me.” You look up and catch the storm in his expression, the showers of tears that threaten to fall as he’s reminded of his lost friend. 

You cup his cheek and brush your fingers beneath his eye collected them like diamonds. “He died because of me because I wasn’t able to protect him.” 

“It wasn’t your fault,” you whisper. He takes a shuddery breath, and you hold on to him with both hands, keeping his eyes on you. “You did the best you could; you are raising his son. He wouldn’t blame you for what happened.” 

He tugs you closer, and your foreheads touch, “he would have liked you,” he gives a watery chuckle. “He’d have loved your baking, the way you stand up for yourself, and call me out on my bullshit.” You laugh, and he leans closer, “Tristan was right.” 

“About what?” the ghost of his lips brushes yours, and you gasp at the touch. 

“I love you,” you pull back a little, “I love how strong you are, loyal, fierce, and fucking stunning. You are everything I could ever ask for, and I know I came on too strong. I pushed you away when all I wanted was to hold you close like this. From the moment I saw you, spoke to you, the moment you chucked a rolling pin at my head, I knew.” 

You cringe at one of the more colorful visits you had with the King. “What? What did you know?” 

“That you are much more than a baker.” He nuzzles his nose against your own, and you give a breathless reply, begging him to tell you what you are. His lips touch yours slowly, just barely touching, and your eyes slide closed, moving closer to him when he whispers, “you’re my Queen.” 

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[applsauss]

Letters | War-tober #18

Description: “Read it to me?” When you speak your voice cracks with disuse.

Fandom: Band of Brothers


Pairing: Ronald Speirs/Reader

Word Count: 1.9k+

Warning(s): None.

      “We ain’t get any letters for a while now…” O’Keefe breaks the tepid silence without thought, as if he doesn’t spend every moment not filled with gunfire spiraling with dread. 

“Nope,” Perconte says around his toothbrush. 

You squint up at the white sun, then close your eyes and chase the colors dancing behind your eyelids. It is a dull pain that takes the edge off the darker thoughts prowling the corners of your mind. The acrid smelling smoke rising from the cigarette in your right hand fills your nose, and you flick it so the ashes crumble, then are taken by the breeze.

Germany is peaceful. Spring is melting the frigid countryside bit by bit and when the wind picks up, you don’t shiver anymore. It is the type of cold like shade on a summer day, not something bone chilling and desperate--a reminder of the dead.

The birches planted along the road sway while the countryside takes another long breath, their leaves flashing silver under the pale blue sky, and you watch this marvel of nature without comment, utterly still. 

"You think they'll come in soon?" O’Keefe asks. 

“Nope,” Perconte responds again.

"Well, I hope they do," O'Keefe barrels on with an optimistic lilt to his voice. 

This is the final straw for Perconte. He pulls the toothbrush from his mouth and braces his forearm on his knee. "Why? Got a dame back home to get ahold of? O'Reilly?" 

You let out a sharp breath from your nose. No matter how much the replacements bother you, they always seem to drive Perconte the furthest up the wall. Everyone's lost their fuses since Toccoa, the Krauts have gone around the circle with scissors halving them. Discipline helped you survive Sobel, but you've traded that, along with your patience, in for the reflexes and nerves honed only in battle. 

You are not so different that you are unrecognisable as that paratrooper who spent that night of nights praying to god for mercy over the English Channel, but you are changed, like that person you were before was nothing more than a cast, and now the common Easy Company soldier is poured and forged of iron. 

O'Keefe seems to consider Perconte's question, then after a moment he fumbles over his answer. "...Yes?"

Perconte turns sharply towards you. "Now that's a lie if I ever heard one." 

You are tired, the memory of the fear you felt in that flying fortress enough to drag your heart down until it is barely beating. You bring the cigarette dangling loosely from your fingers up to your lips and take a drag to try and calm down. "Leave the kid alone, Perco," you mumble. 

Annoying as he is, O'Keefe is right about one thing. You haven't gotten a letter for a very long time. Not just because they haven't been delivered, though. Nobody's writing anymore--not even your parents. It's not that they don't love you, but you think that they've already finished mourning you. 

Everyone back home, they've made peace with never seeing you again. Whether you die today or live tomorrow, it wouldn't make a difference to them because you'd still be gone. They've moved on, not for any fault of yours or theirs, it's simply been too long since they've seen your face. 

This is just one more thing that drives the wedge between the common Easy Company soldier and replacements deeper. There is this deep, ugly resentment that seizes your heart and fills your mouth when you watch those boys walk around as if they are still loved, while you know in your body that you are not. 

What’s worse than that is that the funny thing the men have been saying is right. Germany is the best you've had it this whole war--better than France, or England or even your own Toccoa. Germany is the closest you've felt to home since you stepped foot on the train that dragged you away from it. 

Perconte clicks his tongue at you, then sticks his toothbrush back into his mouth, the bristles nearly flat from use. "Take that fuckin' thing outta your mouth," you grouse. 

"Not everyone wants to rot their teeth with them cigarettes," he defends halfheartedly. Squabbling is a comfortable pastime you've honed. 

"Perco,” you shoot back, “you're one annoying sunnuvabitch." 

"He's not that bad!" O'Keefe is quick to jump to Perconte's defense, and the sound of his voice makes annoyance pinch in your gut. 

Both you and Perconte round on O’Keefe at the same moment. "Shut up!" 

Nobody shuts up. O'Keefe keeps talking about home like it's down the road, Perco keeps sniping at him, his sharp words flying right over the replacement's head, and you take another drag from your cigarette, then stare down at the mud between your boots. Fuck, you wish you had a letter to read. 

Gravel crunches under foreign feet, and all three of you glance up as Captain Speirs walks past in that dangerous, prowling way he does. He doesn't look at you, but the sight of him churns your stomach--just not in the same way it makes Perco gulp nervously. Everyone in Easy has gotten a little more comfortable around Speirs (Bar Talbert, who tries to compare him to Winters every chance he gets, only to disappoint himself), but the air still changes when he's near. It is the shocking cold feeling of being alert. 

You wait till Speirs disappears from sight, then put your cigarette out in the dirt and pocket it, fed up with your current company. “I’m gonna go sniff around for some food,” you say before standing abruptly and stalking off in the same direction you last saw Speirs. 

---

He's in your thoughts more often than not. 

When you're staring down at the puppy chow the cooks serve you, when you're shivering under your thin blanket watching the stars, when you’re washing your face in a bucket of dirty water, when you're pressed up against your fellow soldier being shelled to bits, more often than not he's in your thoughts. 

Speirs’ face is leagues better than the last one you were stuck on (your neighbor's while he waved you off to war, two years older than you and a college boy, too smart for you anyways).

"Sergeant." You nearly jump out of your skin when Speirs' voice rings out from the dark alley to your left. He steps into the light, emerging from the liquid darkness like he is born from the obscurity. 

You startle for a moment, your hand settled over your stuttering heart, then you close your eyes. "Sir." 

Speirs hums quietly and says your name then, cradles it in his mouth before the affection bleeds through the syllables and your chest expands with warm breath and something else--some emotion entirely too strong for you to name. 

There is a delicateness to his features that seemed foreign until you traced it for the first time with your fingers, learned that he tastes of the same liquor you and your pals pass around the fire. 

Now when you think of Speirs, of that low camber of his voice, of his dark eyes as he watches you, his long eyelashes and the bow of his lips, there is no danger. You are as familiar with him as you are yourself. 

“Ron,” you utter, voice unchecked.

---

In your memories, it is morning. The winter sun is struggling to peak over the horizon and the dawn is a solemn blue-gray, as if it is afraid to break the silence. You are afraid to break the silence as well, as you pull the covers off your naked legs and take in your first breaths of wakefulness. 

The radiators have no such qualms. It is so quiet you can hear the house whispering with each breath it takes, and then they click on all at once and the house is filled with the sound of that comforting rumble, a promise of warmth.

You make your way through the house, bare feet sticking to the cold hardwood floor, and you hear your father in the kitchen, fussing with the coffee pot. There is something sacred in the mundane, in the everyday. This moment in time will live with you forever.

---

You spoon the warm beans into your mouth and close your eyes. Eating this meager dinner feels better than anything ever has before after two days without, but there is an exhaustion that sits right behind your eyes now--always. 

“We’ve got it better here than we’ve had it anywhere else. Isn’t it kind of bullshit?” Luz gripes from beside you. 

You are sitting at the top of the steps of some shop front, leaning against the awning. Luz and Johnny are cramped in beside you, and Cobb, Liebgott, Malarkey and Jancovek are sitting below you. Liebgott is resting his back against your shins, you can feel the warmth of him through your pants and when he shifts, his shoulder blades knock against your knees. 

You don’t pay much attention to anything said after that. The night is turning dark and the silver clouds obscure the stars from sight. Faintly you wonder if the Germans feel the same way you do, or maybe they’re more upset because now they are fighting in their own country. 

“Hey,” Liebgott says suddenly, shifting so your legs move with his weight. “Any of yous got letters to read?” 

The question makes your heart twist painfully. You’ve lost your appetite. 

---

Despite how hard you fight it, when given a moment of respite your thoughts, without fail, turn homeward. You are no longer in Germany, aware of krauts or guns and bullets, but you are a child and the smell of food cooking in the kitchen fills your nose. You are a teenager tripping over the shoes in front of the door, late once again to meet with your friends. 

You are unaware of the world, laying on the hardwood floor with stripes of sunlight shaped by the windows across your bare skin. The window is open, the breeze smells like baked asphalt and grass. A dog is barking. The leaves on the tree in your frontyard shimmer and flash like scales. 

Your mother calls your name. 

Your father laughs. 

Speirs sighs, and you blink your eyes, suddenly staring at the cracked ceiling of someone else’s childhood bedroom. 

Night falls quicker than you’re used to in this part of the world. Candlelight bounces off a pile of silver in the corner and is alight in Ron’s dark eyes. 

He is sitting up, back against the headboard, the blankets around his waist as he stares at a letter he received today. 

You huddle into the quilt, curled up in your side. You trace the lines of his face with your eyes before your attention drops to the letter. There is a bitterness in your mouth you bite back. A loneliness--a longing you cannot control. 

Home. 

You think of your home.

“Read it to me?” When you speak your voice cracks with disuse. You clear your throat before repeating the question once more, only with less confidence.

Ron’s eyes flick to you and he regards you for a long moment before his eyes soften with something like empathy, something like love--and maybe those two things are in practice, the same.

He clears his throat and begins narrating the letter from his mother without much inflection, though in just hearing the kind words of a mother you can pretend to feel the love of one. And with that you close your eyes and slowly, slowly drift to sleep to the sound of Ron’s voice filling the gentle darkness, traveling out the window and into the night--warm like candlelight and soft like the shade of a tree in springtime.

Masterlist | Posting Schedule | War-tober Prompts

[ilooklikeaburntchickenugget]

Loyalty

A/N: I got inspiration for this piece from the Tumblr account @xxfanfiction-emo-trinityxx​ (I got their permission to tag them!) however I think they’re a wonderful writer and always one of the top ones with a huge amount of Gerard x Reader fics that I keep on crawling back to. They have a work called “Gotham City Rivals” (with two parts) that I fell in love with and decided to do my own spinoff of with their idea. I also don’t know that much about any DC comics, most of Gerard’s character in this is based off of Bruce Wayne, but I didn’t do a bunch of research so I apologize for any inaccuracies. Hope you guys enjoy! Pairing: Batman!Gerard x Catwoman!Reader Word count: 2,781 Warnings: Angst, minor fighting, swear words, injury, mentions of blood.

You slipped off your skin tight suit with a harsh gasp, your teeth grinding together at the rough cuts that the latex and leather of your suit now brushed against. Yet the sounds of a hot shower and the steam that you could already see promised some element of relief to the pain. “You alright?” You heard your boyfriend walk in the room, armor still on in it’s completion besides his mask and gloves that he was currently carelessly throwing on the marble counter.

“Yeah, I think so.” You responded, examining the damage of your wounds in the mirror. “Not the worse I’ve taken.” Reflecting back on the various gun shots and stabs you’ve received over the years.

He came over, standing behind you. His metal armor always looked so good on him, solid black with small decals that you felt lucky enough you only got to see. He gave small kisses on the cuts and bruises along your shoulder and collarbones. It wasn’t in a sexual way, more in a caring one.

He finally decided to take off his suit as well, revealing his soft muscles but well built frame. You always found it funny how comic and cartoon artists portrayed real life heroes. They ignore your hip dips, made your waist the size of a pencil, and even overemphasized your boobs. And with Gerard, well, he was actually a lot like what artists portrayed him as, maybe just a little less triangle shaped.

“Next time,” You sighed as you look at him in the mirror that was now fogging with steam, his eyes on yours through the reflection, “You’re taking more hits.” He lightly laughed.

“Fine.” He agreed with a kind smile, “If you insist.”

“I’ve told you a million times, Gerard, I don’t know anything about those two!” You paced around his marble office trying to explain to him, “They are batshit crazy. They hold no patterns, no compunction, it’s part of their game and it makes it fun for them.” Your feet hastily moved back and forth on the gray tiled floor, the only light source was the sun creeping through the gray clouds outside and small desk-lamps around the large room.

“You’ve worked with her a few times,” He argued back from across his desk where he sat, “You have to know something.” “Those ‘two times’ happened probably five years ago, and it was exchanging files for some cash that’s it.” You sighed, “They don’t have a plan, ever, that’s what I’m telling you. Gerard, I know you’re incredibly smart and think with a plan. And the Joker’s really fucking smart too, but he’s also mentally insane and has no grip on himself other than to kill. He’s like a wild fucking animal.” Your boyfriend leaned back in his chair with a heavy sigh, his finger holding his temple together as he collected himself. “If I could help you on this, you know I would in a heartbeat.”

“Would you though?” His anger was growing, both he and you knew it. In fact, the entire room and all its objects were now drowning in the tension.

“What?” You asked barely above a whisper and through teeth clenched together, eyebrows furrowing as your vision grew red. There was no response. “If you’re questioning the integrity of my current work then fuck off. You’re too scared to kill the man, and now you’re gonna put some of this one me?” You snapped, he remained emotionless. Damn he was good at his job. “Go fuck yourself Gerard.” And with that, you stormed out of the room and up to your shared bedroom.

This stupid mansion he lived in was still a maze to you, and stomping through it in your utter fit of rage didn’t help, the sound of your feet bouncing off the large halls. It made your head want to explode.

You had never once blown up on him in your two years of dating and partnership. But never had he ever questioned your morals, or more importantly your loyalty. And you were expecting some form of an apology in the least.

Sure, you felt a little bad about bringing up his own methods of working. He had his extremely valid reasons, but it was a button to push in response to him pushing yours. You knew you would apologize eventually, but you needed him to come to you first.

After all, he was the one acting like a child. It was almost like an interrogation of you, despite the fact you had told him countless times that you knew nothing about the Joker or Harley. Other than the two deals you made with them in your early days for some extra money, those two were wild cards.

So you sat in the absurdly big California king with decorated in a gray and black and decided to do some breathing exercises so you didn’t use the wall as a knife throwing target.

It was hours, no, more than hours before you saw your lover again. And if it wasn’t for your stomach grumbling in hunger you would’ve stayed cooped up in the room. You wandered your way into the grand kitchen, beginning to look for whatever you could.

Grabbing a cookie from a batch you had baked just the day before, you began brewing some coffee for yourself. Of course you didn’t hear Gerard walk in, since you two had begun this whole partner/dating thing he had begun picking up on some of your specialties, such as being extremely quiet. On missions and such you were thankful for it, considering his armor was quite clunky, but now you regretted it.

The two of you didn’t even acknowledge each other’s presence, despite the fact that you were only a few feet a way. It was like a silent game, but just completely ignoring each other. It was like the other person didn’t even exist.

But the tension was a whole other level. You literally felt suffocated by how tense it was. And you knew your lover felt the same. With the extremely small glances you took you were able to piece together how he was definitely a form of uncomfortable, his emotions starting to break through, which you knew they would eventually.

You decided once your drink was done to leave the room, leaving Gerard and the extreme conflict behind. Well, some of it at least. And back in your room you grew bored, fast.

You didn’t want to show your weak side, determination to not be the first to apologize flowed through your veins. So, you decided to relieve your stress the way you always did.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” You heard Gerard’s voice echo through the hallway next to you. Your skintight suit hugged your body, kitten heels hitting the ground in rhythm.

“Going out.” You replied.

“In your suit?” He questioned, this time grabbing your arm tightly with his hand. “I don’t think so.”

“Oh?” You questioned, turning to him and eyeing him through your mask, “And what are you gonna do about it?”

“Don’t test me.” He warned, his voice growing deep. This time, you pulled your arm harshly from his grip, which he didn’t fight back.

“That’s what I thought.” You spat, walking off.

Patrols were not the most enjoyable thing, the only time they were was when you were stressed and needed something to take your mind off of all your problems. A relationship limiting argument between you and your boyfriend was a perfect example.

Very rarely, if ever, did big stuff happen in Gotham. Small crimes like robberies, domestic cases, so on and so forth could be dealt with by the excuse of a police department the city had to offer. You were wondering when the federal government would finally come and kick a shoe up their ass.

It was funny, Gerard with all his power, I mean being the Gerard Way (despite the fact absolutely no one knew he was Batman) still couldn’t convince major officials to bring in more backup despite his numerous requests hidden in comments within conversations. The excuse was always that Gotham didn’t need help: they had Batman.

And let’s not forget his stealthy partner who did a lot of the work as well, the wonderful Catwoman who always got overlooked by the patriarchal influences that still flushed their way into society today. You scoffed at it.

On your earpiece you heard an incoming for an “escalating situation” at one of the prisons, which was just icing on the already destroyed caked for “a bunch of dangerous prisoners just got out.” Great.

It took you less than five minutes to be at the scene, strutting in and flashing your badge. It wasn’t that you actually needed one, it was just for good measure.

You got led through the dozens of police cars lining the outside of the prison all with flashing lights and a few sirens still going, escorted by one of the main detective inside where you were met with another officer talking to the one and only man himself.

Those hazels eyes hidden well under the mask looked up and met yours, softening just a bit from the black optics of Batman’s as you approached him. “Catwoman.” He said in a stern tone.

“Batman.” You responded the same, arms crossed over your chest.

You were briefed on the situation: A bunch of highly dangerous criminals did escape and were on the loose. The police felt that they needed help because some may or may not have ties to the Joker, therefore it made it a case for you and Gerard to deal with.

“Be careful,” Gerard told you, the two of you walking side by side in the street on patrol and looking out, “I don’t want you getting hurt again.” “Please,” You scoffed, “These guys probably have guns and a destructed god complex. I don’t see a problem.” “Some of these are former Arkham patients.” He warned, “They could be dangerous. And crazy.” “Like we haven’t dealt with that before.” You reminded him, “Or more specifically me, because I could have connections, ya know?” A verbal stab for sure. He looked over and glared.

“We’re not having this conversation right now.” “So when we get home are you finally going to grow up and have one after the entirety of today?”

“I told you-” Before he could even finish the two of you were surrounded by men with guns and various other forms of highly illegal weaponry. “Shit.” He muttered.

“Yeah shit.” You responded as bullets began shooting towards you. A few of them managed to ricochet off of nearby metal beams hitting your attackers, while other nearly missed you as you managed to jump behind them. With a few solid kicks and swings you were able to disarm and knock out four or five of them, Gerard getting the other 10 of them or so considering his suit and physical ability was greater than yours.

“How many were there again?” You asked him.

“15.” He responded. You looked around, mentally counting the bodies.

“Perfect, 15.” You responded with a sigh. “Do they not know how to scatter?” He shook his head.

A deafening silence filled the car on your way home, the only thing being heard was the soft engine rumbling of the mobile. You were still going to be strong about this whole thing, despite the fact that you wanted it to be over with.

You looked around out of boredom, and down at your suit to see if there was any damage. And, well, there was more than damage. “Well, would you look at that,” You lightly laughed, looking at the left side of your torso where a big slash and blood was seeping through. You hadn’t noticed any pain or anything until you looked down.

“What the fuck?” He asked, looking down to from the road.

“Gee, pay attention to the road.” He reluctantly huffed and put his gaze back there.

“You have a huge fucking slash on your side.” “I know,” You commented, “Oh well, we’ll fix it when we get home.”

You hadn’t noticed his increase in speed or the extra few minutes he cut off as you pulled into the large and modern mansion. Before you could even step out of the car in the garage Gerard had already opened your car door and picked you up, carrying you bridal style.

“You know I can walk.” You lightly laughed, holding on to his arms, “I think it was just a bullet graze.”

“I don’t want you hurting yourself.” He placed you down on the couch, “Let me grab the first aid kit.”

He was gone for only a few moments, coming back with the kit in handy, no mask and gloves this time, with no time to remove his armor. It wasn’t a life threatening wound, that’s for sure. “May I?” He asked, motioning to the zipper on the back of your suit. It was so cute to you how he always asked, despite your years of being together. You nodded, moving your hair out of the way.

He took your suit off with ease, helping you step out despite the harsh feeling you got from the slash. Carefully he sat you back down, dabbing your wound with a bit of alcohol and making sure not to directly touch the affected area. There was a certain spot where he had to touch the wound with the cottonball. You couldn’t help but cringe and gasp at the painful feeling, shutting your eyes as it felt like your flesh was burning. “I’m sorry baby.” He commented, squeezing your thigh for support. “You’re doing so great.”

It took him only a few more minutes, and the two of you deciding stitches may be stretching it too far, for you to finally be all bandaged up. You slowly got up, Gerard coming right to you and helping to hold your hips up. “I would suggest a bath but-” “Not a good idea.” You lightly laughed, placing your head on his shoulder. “Thank you.” You mumbled.

“No problem.” He responded, kissing the top of your head. “You alright?” You nodded as he picked you up again, taking you to the bedroom to rest.

He placed you lightly on the bed while removing the covers on the side you always slept. You crawled into the open area he had created, placing your wounded body onto the sheets and covering it up. “Do you want some pajamas?” He asked, now removing some of his suit, his unbrushed and tangled black hair fell just below his eyes.

“Yeah, actually,” You lightly smiled, “If you wouldn’t mind. This sports bra is kinda tight.” He nodded, walking into your closet and grabbing some sweatpants, while walking into his own to grab an old t-shirt, knowing those were your favorite things to wear.

He gave them to you, and stood there watching to which you rolled your eyes, “C’mon now, turn around.” You instructed, his eyes went wide with a form of embarrassment, “You don’t get to see my tits, yet.” He sighed, complying with you as you slipped your bra off and shirt on in a few seconds.

You decided against pants, considering that would take a lot of extra effort. So you just pulled the covers over you, sinking back in. “You can turn around now.” And Gerard did, looking at you with the shirt on and residing to his own side of the bed next to you.

You chose a petty play next, completely ignoring him, waiting for an apology. “I’m sorry.” He said, leaning back on the frame of the bed and looking at you. You looked back at him signaling him to do more explaining, “I’m sorry for questioning your loyalty and moral of your work. I know those two things matter to you very much, and I had no right to question either of those.” You took a moment to let the words settle in.

“Thank you,” You responded, “I’m sorry for bringing up the way you work. I know why you do it and I, too, didn’t have the right to do that either.” “Thank you.” He responded, both of you taking sighs of relief as most of the tension alleviated. “I love you.” He told you next. It had taken him a full year to speak those wonderful three words to you, and whenever he said them you always cherished the way they sounded.

“I love you too.” You responded with a small smile, placing your head on his shoulder which he happily complied with.

[thesleepycrypto]

Cryptage prompt: Vampire catcher Mirage x Vampire Crypto

I shared this with my friend and now I wanna share it here uwu

Vampires can be ugly mother fuckers, but sometimes the ones he can find are a bit attractive and those are the ones he goes for. And one night he finds a particular vampire who’s looks really catch his eyes. He’s the most attractive vampire he’s ever seen. He’d be a real trophy to catch. So of course, Elliott tries.

But he’s gotta be careful, vampire are incredibly skittish, and you only get one chance until they’re gone forever. So screw ups he could not afford. He launches his net and snags the vampire who obviously screeches in alarm, nows the hardest part, getting to him before he shifts into a bat.

Elliotts probably lost countless numbers of vampires because he couldn’t get to them in the ropes before they shifted into bats.

Elliott manages to get to the vampire just in time before he notices the change in the others struggles. He just about tackles the thing before it can shrink into a tiny bat and escape.

“Oho no you don’t” he chimes as he wrestles the poor vampire down against the ground, laying over it and using his weight to pin the distressed creature down against the ground. The vampire is clearly not happy with its predicament and begins to screech bloody murder while Elliott tries to press its head down against the ground so that it won’t bite him.

As he manages to do so he gets a good look at the creatures face, and boy is he beautiful. He was more than some trophy definitely. Those huge white fangs glistening in the moonlight as each harsh snarl and screech stretched apart the vampires mouth enough to see them. His bright piercing blue eyes occasionally opening to gaze up at his attacker. Absolutely stunning, Elliott began to get lost in those gorgeous bright eyes.

But what held most of Elliotts attention was the gold plating all over his face, and around his left eye. He wanted to touch them, but couldn’t risk being bit. No this thing obviously wanted to kill him now that he’s disturbed his night. The vampires fangs weren’t the most impressive he’s seen, but they were lethal and would definitely deal some damage. He was just... so pretty. He couldn’t stop staring...

He was becoming a little to amerced in the vampires unholy gaze before the harsh struggles of the creature finally pulled him back, and he resumed his efforts to keep the squirming thing down, and hopefully still enough so that it wouldn’t shift. He didn’t want to crush a tiny vampire bat under his body on accident. Especially one as pretty as this vampire.

“Oh calm down ya little fruit bat, I’m not gonna hurt ya”. He reluctantly groans as the thing keeps hissing and screeching in his ear. “You see a stake on me at all? You’re fine, relax, sheesh”.

Of course, the way Elliott just captured this pretty creature could easily come off as him wanting to harm him, but that wasn’t his intent. He just liked catching vampires for fun, as stupid as that sounded.

Crypto’s hissing begins to die down as he finally exhausts himself, falling limp underneath the large man as harsh pants begin to replace his previous struggles, taking over the movement of his body. His chest heaves and falls with each heavy breath. He was exhausted, and Elliott took quick note of that. He felt a little bad wearing out the poor thing, but damn he had really put up a fight. Yeah vampires were extremely aggressive, but most he caught didn’t fight nearly as long as this one. This one must be finicky. Cute.

“Have we calmed down now?” Elliott chimes, but that was probably a mistake as his words seemed to suddenly jumpstart the vampire again as it began to growl and squirm beneath him. “I can sit here all night buddy. And all day if you don’t quit it...” he warned, knowing vampires couldn’t stand out in the sun. Of course he didn’t want to hurt it that way. He just wanted him to stop struggling for once.

And those words actually seemed to do it, the vampire stopped immediately and just resumed its panting, merely focusing on its own breathing now. That was definitely a relief for Elliott as he sighed out, gently moving his hand off the side of the vampires face and gently slipping it into his greasy black hair.

“There that wasn’t so hard now was it? You’re cool, I’m cool, we’re all cool. So-“ he stated, absentmindedly stroking his fingers through the thick dark locks of the vampires hair. “My names Elliott, and you are...?”

No answer. Like hell he was going to talk. He just wanted to get away. And the sun would come up in an hour or 2. He really needed to get away.

“Hey, it’s rude not to answer. I know you got a voice box in there” Elliott presses, which is probably a mistake considering how distressed the poor vampire is already after having been caught and forced into submission. So elliotts does the smart thing and silences himself and forces himself to be patient with the creature. And patience is a virtue.

“Crypto...” came the flat response from the vampire finally. Elliotts face brightened up as he actually got a response. And oh man how deep this vampires voice was... so elegant.

“What a lovely name” Elliott can’t help but hum, stroking his hand through the vampires hair again without a care in the world. This only prompts the vampire to wince in discomfort.

“If you’re not going to kill me, let me go. I shouldn’t be out here any longer”. The vampire then spoke, praying a longer sentence would hopefully convince the man enough to let him go. Elliott definitely seemed excited the vampire was actually talking to him, but he understood quite well that the thing really wanted to get away. But he was just so pretty... he didn’t want to let him go. He wouldn’t ever see him again...

“As much as it would kill me to let such a pretty thing like you slip away, I see your point. Can’t have you frying like bacon in the sun now can we?”

Oh thank god. He was being set free!

“On one condition”

Fuck

“You come back so I can see you again. And don’t give me the buts, it’s just a simple request. I mean come on, I could leave you out here in the sun but I’m letting you go. So the least you can do for me as a favor is to come back and visit me”. Elliott spoke as if everything he said was valid. Which... it was in a way.

As much as Crypto didn’t want to, he would definitely rather have to deal with this man for a little while longer than to be baking in the sun, a slow painful death.

“Fine” the vampire just about growled, now waiting very impatiently to be set free. Elliott, seemingly satisfied, quickly gets up off the vampire and works on undoing those ropes.

“Same time tomorrow?” He asks with a wink, and Crypto showed some heavy restraint on not ripping the mans throat out right away.

As soon as those ropes were gone, the vampire suddenly shifted, a small cloud of black dust suddenly forming in the air. And not a moment later, a little black bat frantically flew out of the cluster of smoke, flapping its little wings in a frenzy and up into the pitch black sky of the night.

[notyetneedcoffee]

No Secrets, Part 2

Pairing: Steve Rogers x Reader, Bucky Barnes x Reader (???)

Warnings: None in this section

You sat in the car staring at the house. Your beautiful new prison.  

“Miss Y/L/N, you have an incoming call from Miss Maximoff.” The car’s AI announce.  

“Hi Wanda, so who called you?”

“Steve. He sent me the file and thought I might be able to help.” She was on the other side of the planet at the moment. It had to be the dark hours of the morning where she was. Still, she sounded alert and concerned. “How are you holding up?”

“At the moment?” You sighed, gripping the steering wheel hard. “I’m frustrated.”

“That’s it?” Wanda laughed. “I’d be pissed.”

“Yeah, that too.” You admitted.

“Try not to be too angry, though. They just feel like every weird, inane, and inappropriate thing that pops into their head is some how on blazing display now. They conveniently forget that I can pick up on all that, too. I’m just better at not responding.”

You tried to put yourself in Tony’s shoes. As much as you hated it, you understood his reaction. You may not agree with his solution, but you understood. Picturing the crazy stuff that probably popped into the team’s minds, and having to deal with it all at once might be a bit much to deal with, it kind of made you smile. “I suppose being around everyone would get kind of maddening.”

Wanda laughed. “It’s why I don’t do parties. I know you’re still likely to see some of them before this wears off. Please keep one very important thing in mind. People are not what they think. What matters is the way they choose to act.”

“Okay.” You considered her words.  

“Much of what people think are caused by outside influences, or old tapes in their head. Still, they choose to do different. Just like someone may be racked with fear, but behave more bravely than anyone else. There are some people who’s thoughts are plagued with darkness, but they choose to be kind.”

Sitting quietly in your car, in front of the big modern house next to the lake, you knew things could be so much worse. The reality that Tony really was trying to be as good to you as he could right now sunk in. “You’re wiser than your years, my friend.”

“Don’t give me too much credit.” She laughed. “There is one other thing, Padawan. Don’t fight it. It’s like saying ‘hey don’t think about a blue monkey in a pink tu-tu’. You brain immediately conjures the monkey.”

“Okay.” You laughed despite yourself.  

“I don’t know how available I’ll be, but call me if you need to. Whenever, night or day.” Wanda encouraged.

“I will. Listen, thanks.”

“Don’t sound so down. You’re probably going to get tons of sleep, be able to catch up on all the great shows, work out all you want, and not have to listen to Sam and Bucky fight over who gets to pick the music in the gym. Time will fly by.”

“I’m sure you’re right.”  

“I’ll talk to you later.”

“Thanks, Wanda.” You cut off the call as you popped the trunk to grabbed your bags.  

The house looked like a team from Architectural Digest picked the décor. It had all the conveniences of Tony’s smart homes. The refrigerator looked to be stocked by one of the compound’s chefs. A neat row of your favorite bottled juice was lined up beside your favorite soda and a stack of your favorite yogurts. On the giant bed you found a set of expensive silk pajamas and a plush robe under a copy of Anna Karenina. In the en-suite bathroom you found a tub big enough for four, and beside it a basket full of spa goodies.  

The cell phone in your pocket buzzed. Steve’s name scrolled across the screen.

“Hey.”

“You made it okay.”  

“Yeah. Tony must be feeling guilty. The house it loaded up with all kinds of gifts.” 

“I hope they’re nice.”

“I suppose.” You sighed. “I’d rather be home.”

“I know.” His voice was quiet.  

“Wanda called.” You sat down on the edge of the tub, running your hand over the fluffy towel.

“Good.” Steve took a deep breath. “I think we have, ah, some stuff to talk about but… God, I can’t do this over the phone. I’m sorry. I just… It feels wrong to do this over the phone.”

One of the generational leaps Steve never managed to make was his attitude towards the phone. It was a utilitarian tool. If you had something important to say, he felt you should do it face to face. You smiled, “I know. It’s okay, Steve.”

“Really?”

“We can talk later.” You gave a humorless laugh. “It’s not like I’m going anywhere.”

“I’m sorry, Honey. I really am.” Again his voice dropped low, quiet.

The little endearment warmed your cheeks. He so rarely used it. “No reason to be sorry, Steve.”

“Well, you get settled in and I’ll talk to you soon.”

“Okay. Steve,” You sighed. “Thank you for checking on me. You be safe.”  

“Will do.”

Strains of what you thought might be Verdi tickled the back of your mind. You stopped chopping the cucumber and put the knife down. The clock showed 12:35. It was still a half an hour until Bruce was supposed to be at the house.

‘Got to stay focused. This is so going to suck. What if she starts asking me questions? You’re going stumble around like a dumbass. Some genius you are. No. No. It’s going to be fine. It’s a short visit. I’ll be fine.’

Yep. Definitely Bruce.  

You munched on your salad as you split your attention between the British Bake Off on the television and Banner’s constant internal rambling. It swung from running down a check list for his visit to trying to remember the Band Aid’s commercial jingle.  

When the knock came at the door you looked at the clock. Only two minutes had passed. Bruce must have been at the street, or just coming down the long drive, when you heard him. Interesting.

“Hi Bruce.” You opened the door, popping a piece of cucumber in your mouth. “Hungry?”

“Ah, no.” He came in. “Thanks. I don’t want to be rude, but I’d like to just get to it. If you don’t mind, that is?”

“Why not?” You dropped into the chair at the table. “You’re just the first person I’ve seen in a week.”

‘Shit. Shit. Way to be a jerk.’

“It’s okay, Bruce.” You smiled. “I don’t mind, really. What do I do?”

“Ah, bring your chair out here. Then, ah, just let me run the scans.”

You pulled your chair out where he could walk around you. “Do I need to stay still?”

“No, I mean don’t dance around or anything.” He began pulling out equipment. He was internally humming the Verdi piece.  

“How’s the team?” You knew it would be kinder to just be quiet, but you were dying for some interaction.

“Okay. Staying busy.” Came out of his mouth, but a barrage of things hit you. ‘Cap won’t stop moping. Tony needs to cut back on the caffeine. I’m gonna go green on Bucky soon.’

“I heard you just got back. Some mission with Nat and Clint.”

‘What a dress.’  

“Ah, damn it. This sucks.” Bruce looked away from the device in his hands and deep in your eyes. “I’m really sorry, but I’m just afraid to talk about anything okay.”

You frown, nodding. “I’m sorry. I’ll stay quiet.”

‘Dammit. Dammit. Dammit.’

“You know what? Fuck it.” He sighed. “Things are tense. They’re kind of awful. Tony and I stick to the lab. Cap is walking around on auto-pilot. Bucky is fucking impossible. Sam is trying to play peacemaker but failing spectacularly. Clint came up with the mission just because Natasha and Bucky nearly killed each other sparring.”

‘I hate it. Hate it.’

“I’m sorry.” You twisted you hands together. “I don’t want everyone miserable over what happened to me.”

‘No. No. No. Fuck. Don’t cry. I’m going rip Tony’s arms off if she cries.’

“Not your fault.” Bruce sighed.  

“Bruce.” You lifted you jaw. “I know it’s not my fault, but at least if I were there Tony wouldn’t feel guilty, I could tell Steve snap out of it, and I could smack Buck up side the head. You tell them to knock that crap off.”

He chuckled. “I’ll tell them you said so.”

Bruce asked you some medical questions and took a blood sample after finishing the scan. He calmed down quite a bit, but still left as soon as he could. Later that evening he called you to say that the reading were consistent with your time in the lab. The anomaly would go away, it would just take time.  

You made yourself a hot chocolate and curled up on one of the deck chairs to listen to sounds of the evening forest when you got off the phone. It would be a long while alone. The sun wouldn’t set for a while yet, and you were reading a new book. Reading outside lessened the feeling of being trapped.  

‘Don’t care. Got to do this.’

You head came up at the same time you heard the motorcycle pull down the drive. By the time Steve parked his bike, you stood at the edge of the deck just a few feet away. He looked up, seeing you clutch a throw blanket around your shoulders, wearing jeans and an old tee. Steve looked you over from bare feet to big eyes.

‘Beautiful.’

“I missed you.” He said, voice low.

“Missed you, too.”

Steve stepped closer. “I’ve been thinking, a lot. There’s something I don’t think I can, I don’t want, to wait to tell you.”

“Okay.” You swallowed, fighting to hold still. So much, so strong, hit you at once. 

He took a deep breath, his large hand touched your hair, cupped your face. “I’m not sure when my feelings changed, but for a long time now all I can think about is how much I want you, want you to be with me.”

‘Those lips. So pretty.’

You felt a smile curl at the corner of your mouth. His mouth covered yours, lips gentle and soft. When your hands slid along his waist. His tongue swept lightly along your lip and was met by your own. He moan, pulling you close, kiss deepening.

‘God, yes, honey.’

BLEEEP! CRASH!

You both jerked away from each other in shock.    

‘No! Not now!’

It took a second for the realization to hit you that you heard a car crash. Somewhere close by.  

‘No. No. No. Dammit. Not now.’  

Steve looked at you, “I should see what happened.”

“Yeah,” You breathed.

‘No. We should go inside, forget we heard anything. Want to feel you again.’

“It’s okay.” He covered your hand with his own when you touched his chest. “I’ll be here when you get back.” You gave him a warm smile.

‘No. I don’t want to go anywhere. Not missing out again.’

“Okay.” Steve nodded, stepping away from you. “I’ll be back soon.”

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[kingofdirtandnothing]

@polyfacetious big ass Christmas Drabble Extravagaza: Day Nine

Frank spent a good five minutes down the decoration aisle, the last time that he was at the store. Most of the time, it was easy. He got whatever kind of sprinkles went with the season. Or he’d get something that was color coded to match the season. Reds and greens for the winter time, pine trees and snowflakes. Pastels for the spring, easter eggs and flowers. Browns and yellows for the fall, pumpkins and leaves. 

It was the summer now. He didn’t need anything holiday specific. Bright, primary colors were what he focused on. They didn’t do the Fourth of July out here, it wasn’t like he needed red, white and blue. 

But that didn’t stop him from spending minutes of his life standing in front of canisters of sprinkles, trying to find the one he wanted to use for Matt’s donut. Because it’s become a Thing, now. A way for him to say something he was too chickenshit to say out loud. And it’s not like Matt was looking at the sprinkles. 

It was the easiest way to air his feelings out, the way the therapist said he was supposed to, without having to actually do anything about it. Frank got lucky when he fell ass over teakettle for a blind guy, though he was smart enough not to say any of that shit out loud. 

In the end, Frank comes back with four containers of sprinkles, and a half assed idea about what to try next. There were mermaid sprinkles, all done up in shades of pink, purple and seafoam green. Those would sell well, especially this close to the ocean. Tourists like shit like that, and Frank had a feeling Aerith would get a kick out of it too. 

Two others were basic summer colors, one in bright reds and yellows and blues that looked like shattered sea glass, and the other an old school mix that reminded Frank briefly of the way his ma used to decorate cakes back in the seventies, a wild mix of jimmies, nonpareils, and quins in about every color under the sun. 

The last bottle, the one Frank was currently holding in his hand, was the one he bought for Matt, and Matt alone. “You’re a damn idiot.” It’s a murmur to himself, but it doesn’t stop Frank from putting the bottle down so that he can start working on the small batch of donuts that have been on his mind all day. 

The cabinet out front was ready to go, bright lights and variety. There was usually something new in there every few weeks, but Frank knew what sold. Blueberry cake donuts for the boys in the bookshop, old school chocolate glazed for Peter and Eddie down at the bar. The kids at the florist shop were always down to try anything he made, the more wild the better. (He’d candied tulip petals once and put them on iced yeast donuts, and the two of them bought a dozen just for themselves.) 

A little bit of each of those things meant he rarely had stuff go to waste. And when he did have a little bit of leftover, he could usually get Stark to buy them, because he liked to throw bread pudding on the menu at his place now and then. 

The shop wouldn’t open for another few hours. It was still dark outside. That would hopefully give Frank enough time to get this damn thing figured out and fully frosted, so that by the time that Matt came in, Foggy under his feet and morning coffee from Magnus’ place in tow, he could actually like the damn things were out on display for everyone, and not just a sad sack’s attempt to put a little love in his baking. 

Frank wasn’t stupid. Yeah, Matt was a looker, and yeah Frank had spent more than a few showers thinking about him. But it wasn’t that pretty mouth or those long fingered hands or the column of his throat that kept Frank up at night. It was the smokey glass sound of his laughter, and how quick he always was with a comeback. It was the way he said Frank’s name like he knew a secret. 

This wasn’t lust that was making him dumb enough to buy special sprinkles just for a six pack batch of donuts. It was longing. And guys like Frank, they didn’t get happy endings. Not after what he did overseas. (Funny how he still thinks of it as ‘overseas’, like he was sitting back home in the city and not on a pretty little street corner near a beach somewhere in paradise.)

But damned if Matt didn’t make him think about it. What it’d be like to wake up in bed next to somebody that you cared about. And who didn’t fuck your next door neighbor when you were doing a tour of duty in the desert. 

Sharing dinner with somebody. Sharing your silence with somebody. 

The metal mixing bowl comes down from it’s spot on the shelf, and Frank starts with the dry ingredients. He sifts the flower, watching it float down into the bowl like a hard winter’s snow, coating the reflective surface inside. Next comes the baking powder and the salt, through the same sifter. 

Then comes the eggs. The milk. The butter. The dough comes together easy, even with the flat whisk in hand instead of using the stand mixer. Frank wanted these to come out perfect, and he wasn’t fucking that up with a machine. Last is the bloomed yeast in warm water. 

He turns the dough out to rise, and looks down at Misty, where she’s curled up on her bed by the back door. “You ready to go out?” Her ears shoot up, and by the time Frank has the leash in his hand, Misty is dancing from foot to foot. “Yeah, yeah, I know.”

They take their walk nice and slow. The streets are quiet, in that time between when the bars close down and the breakfast places open up. The streetlights are globes of gold between pockets of darkness, and the only sound is Misty’s nails on the cobblestones. 

Once Misty is back snuggled up in her bed, Frank turns his attention back to the dough. He rolls it out, getting his biscuit cutter out to get them to the right size, and leaves them to rise again while he works on the fillings. 

See, this is where he got hung up. Frank wanted to do something special for Matt, without it being obvious he was doing something special. And Matt, God bless him, didn’t have the most refined palette. He’d eat Boston cream donuts every day if Frank let him. 

So Berliners it was. Six fried yeast donuts, with six different fillings, because Frank was a glutton for punishment. Two sweet cream, because that was what Matt liked best. Two lemon cream, because the lemons were fresh and in season and you couldn’t throw a stone without somebody trying to sell them to you on a street corner and two with a dark chocolate ganache. 

It was too damn rich, and real Berliners called for a jam filling, but this was Frank’s dumbass idea and he was going to do it his way. 

Three bowls of filling lined up on the counter, with taste tests from him and Misty, and Frank gets his donuts in the oil. He’d do the rest of this morning’s batch once these were done. He wanted these done in fresh oil. 

It gives the Berliners time to cool while he gets the rest of the morning’s display set up, and then Frank takes the six smaller donuts and cuts into them with a paring knife, filling them each to the brim with their filling. When they’re done, he dusts them with powdered sugar and moves them into a cardboard pastry box. 

It’s only then that he stops, looks to the shelf, looks to the box, and then looks to Misty, who’s watching him with one eye open. “Misty.” Her tail thuds against the wall in a slow rhythm. “Why the hell did you let me buy sprinkles for a goddamn donut that isn’t iced, and you don’t put sprinkles on?”

The dog doesn’t lift her head. Frank is pretty sure she’s calling him a dumbass in her head, but she’s too polite to make it obvious. 

Well there it was, the definition of how damn stupid he was for Matt Murdock. Stupid enough to spend ten dollars on sprinkles in pinks and yellows and blues, that he wasn’t even going to use on these donuts. 

The bell over the door tinkles, and Frank looks up to see Matt, backlit by the soft pinks, yellows and blues of the rising sun that looked an awful damn lot like the sprinkles sitting useless in Frank’s kitchen right now. 

“Black coffee. Two sugars.” Matt shifts the cardboard container holding both of their drinks to his other hand so that he can feel out the counter before he runs his fingers along the sleeve on the cups. Magnus must have done something to tell them apart, because Matt feels something and offers the cup over to Frank, smiling.

“Thanks, Red. Have a seat, I’ll get you something out.” He hears a wry ‘sir, yes sir’ behind him, though how the hell he hears it over the beating of his heart is beyond him. Just like he knows that the pain in his ass is flipping a sarcastic little salute behind his back. A bad one, too. He’s shown the son of a bitch how to do it right before, now Matt was just doing it to get on his nerves. “I saw that!” He calls behind him, not bothering to fight his smile. Frank flips his judgemental dog the bird where she lays, watching him and grabs the small pastry box. Now or never. And he put hours into these damn things. It was now. 

“I’m trying something new.” The swinging door to the kitchen catches him on the ass on the way out. Frank puts the pastry box down on the table he’s come to think of as Matt’s, and drops to a crouch so that he can offer a leftover piece of fried dough to Foggy. Even working dogs needed breakfast. 

“Berliners. They’re real popular in…” Berlin, you damn fool. The name got the point across pretty clearly. “Chile.” They were, actually. But it’s pretty fucking obvious by the quirk of Matt’s mouth that he knows that Frank wasn’t thinking about Chile when he started talking. “Thought you might give them a try and see if they’re worth putting on the menu.”

They’re not actually that much work, compared to the hours he already puts in during the early morning. But it’s not about that. It’s about getting some kind of reaction out of Matt, and Frank is man enough to admit it. 

“The two on the right are sweet cream filled. Two in the middle are lemon cream. The two on the right are a dark chocolate ganache.” Frank has to resist the itch in his legs to squirm, or move foot to foot. Matt makes a pleased sound low in his throat just at the mention of what was in the donuts and Frank feels it all the way down into his marrow. And other places a man didn’t talk about in polite company.

“And I want your honest damn opinion, Red. Not what you’d say to a friend who you’re trying to salvage their feelings. I want the review you’d give to somebody else if you never had to face me again. I wanna know if the filling is too sweet, or not sweet enough. If I cooked the damn things too long. I want ‘em to be perfect.”

I want them to be perfect for you, Matty. That’s the words he doesn’t say.

I want them to be perfect for you.

[peachyteabuck]

saints can’t help me now

summary:  I will tell you the mystery of the woman and of the beast that carries her, whose name has not been written in the book of life from the foundation of the world. Kings give their power and authority to the beast, and those who are with him are the called and chosen and faithful. 

pairing: forest god!thor x reader

words: 4,642

trigger warnings: dub con, attempted sexual assault, vague biblical allusions that seem quite out of place in such a pagan context

notes/other: this was done for @darkficsyouneveraskedfor ‘s in the dark challenge + my prompt was “shh, it’s okay. it’ll only hurt a little.” this is also a part of @spacelabrathor‘s forest god anthology bc te amo forest god thor.

ask box / masterlist / commission info / ko-fi

There are drops of truth in every legend, however flimsy or warped. A lie doesn’t come from nowhere, lore isn’t rolled off tongues without pretext. Little children don’t lie in their sleep, in the middle of the night; they don’t lie without purpose (or the illusion of one). Behind every threat is certainty, behind every falseness a reality.

You’re smart enough to understand this, to trace the oaks back to their roots. When a villager begged for refuge from a storm and whispered to you to heed warning about some deity that had been cast away from his throne, you listened – and never traveled too deep into the deep woods. Gods are never meant to roam such an unholy place as this, which its ravenous terrain and its isolating nature and its punishing climate. Gods prefer the busy cities, the lovelier farms, perhaps even their own homes on a planet you don’t know of. An almighty being? In a space such as this? You merely laugh at the thought. Such an image is not one that inspires hope or wisdom or rebirth, rather one of a spirit thrown from its rightful place, rightful palace. Such a spirit would be vengeful, vindictive, deceitful, despiteful, unprincipled, unforgiving.

When a merchant took your money and told you of a divine man who hunted without care, you listened – and kept your cat in whenever the sun was not at her highest. Woodland creatures you rehabilitated and travelers looking for rest were sequestered within your walls until you felt it was safe. If you had to leave your home (as you often did) you refused to travel alone, preferring to starve than die at the hands of some ruthless beast. The light of day, the heat from a fire, the illumination from a torch – you trusted it all to keep you from a harm you felt was preventable.

When a fortune teller read your cards and spoke of a demiurge who threatened the peace of your home, you listened – and used every moment of every step as a way to prevent conflict. You gave what you could of whichever soul asked for it, you never disturbed the ground, you kept to yourself. Your voice remained undersized, your movements diminutive. A camp four miles away called you wee, the fortune teller called you cautious, you called it survival.

But none of that, nothing you had done or prepared or pushed to the forefront of your mind seemed to matter as you were being chased through the thickest set of trees you’d ever seen by a pack of wolves (werewolves, no less) who had spotted a way to broaden their gene pool and stalked you til dusk. Each press of your bare feet to the hardened ground forced bits of bark and bone into the callous flesh; normally you’d wail at such anguish, but the blood pumping in your ears drowns out any of your nerve’s attempts at reaching your bran. While you wince at each point of contact, the pain never seems to come.

From behind you their howls of laughter hit the trees and then your eardrums, a reminder that for them this is a game. Their idea of said game going poorly is if they do not catch you, if they cannot drag you back to their settlement as a token of their hard work.

It seems as quickly as your hunt for food had gone sour you’re plucked from the freezing ground and tossed into a barren field, slammed into the ground as your shoulders continue to rise and while your heart continues to beat at a rabbit’s pace, your eyes moving faster than the organ as they take in the scene in front of them.

Your thoughts are quick, like the blood in your veins.

Rolling hills. Crops. Yellow Crops. Deep yellow crops. Corn? Dead crops. Still cold. No snow. Yes ice. Stones, under you. Small stones. Broken stones. Bad dirt. Bad crops. Bad yield. No settlements. Sky dark. Feet hurt. Still cold. Feet really hurt.

The distinct sound of a boot digging into the ground makes you turn around, knife in your corset drawn with a shaking, aching hand.

In front of you, a man. A man in shoes meant for winter. A man dressed in dark clothes. A man with a large chest that rises slowly, slowling, slower. A man with golden skin, as deep as the flora around you. long, dirty beard. A man with long, dirty hair. A man with a set of horns that curl like a ram but peak like the blade in your palm. A man who towers over you. A man who looks less like a man as your eyes focus, but his form doesn’t become clearer.

The man is the first to speak, his lips thick and turned up into a sinister looking smile.

“What’s a little thing like you strolling alone in these woods?” His voice flows like honey with each step of gravel as he circles you. You’ve seen vultures spot prey with less purpose as his gruff laughs bring thick clouds of condensation, which fill the air between you and him. “Big, mean wolves prowl these very woods, looking for cute little things like you to prey on.”

You try to swallow what little spit remains in your dry mouth, but it seems the only thing in your throat is a thick knot of fear. Stuck in place from terror alone, each cell that makes up your body is more frozen than the ice hanging from the bare branches above you.

“I- “you’re momentarily distracted by a twig snapping in the distance. “I’m not that small!” The man (if he even is a man) laughs, loud enough to make you flinch (of course that’s all I can do, you curse yourself. Can’t run away, but can flinch at some fucking laughter.) “In these forests you are. You’re a pretty little toy for all the packs that try to stake their claim here. It’s useless, they’ll never succeed, but that sure doesn’t stop them from trying.”

Your heart beats faster than you’ve ever felt before, each painful expansion of your ribcage syncing with the blood pounding in your ears. “Wh-what happened to them?” He cocks an eyebrow. “What happened to who?”

You speak again, a little louder. “What happened to the packs, why haven’t they laid claim to this territory?”

His broad chest shakes as he chuckles at your insolence. “Because I already have.”

Your heart quickens again. “But you’re only one man,” another twig snap, another sound ignored as a different kind of fear rises in your abdomen. “How can you overpower those powerful packs, they’ve formed a coalition – the village hasn’t stopped talking about it – there’s at least a hundred of them altogether, I-”

An answer comes after a beat of heavy silence, though the tension of waiting seems better than the truth that comes all too quickly. “Because yappy puppies can’t usurp a god,” he hisses.

Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck. Fuck.

Thor, the god you’ve been petrified of since you were a child, has been the guard of this forest and everything in it for a millennium. In like fashion to other sprawling hills and tall trees, he beckons in the seasons and calms the bears into hibernation and tells the snow when to melt. Thor is the life of the forest, attuned to the air every living breathes day in and day out. Yet he’s incomparable to his benevolent siblings, hungrier and more desperate and willing to throw away his duties to sink his jowls into anything unpardonable. This god is jaded, exhausted of the mind-numbing monotonous work of running the home of so many creatures; like knife dropped in the dirt, he threatens even the ones who step careful as marksmen watch their targets.

For a few moments you think your mouth will release a quip, a sarcastic response that would get you killed, or worse. Somehow your lips stay still, warming as each pant releases hot, white puffs into the cold night air.

There’s fear in your eyes and it permeates the air around you. The god’s nostrils flare as the pheromones hit his nose.  In a far corner of your brain you wonder what it smells like – such a strong emotion. Is it thick and sweet? Does it coat his tongue the same of when you bake fresh bread? Or is it deep and revolting – the smell of one’s soul decomposing before the corresponding body’s gone cold.

He steps closer.

You wince. “Please- “

He laughs like he’s watched a child fall to the ground in a field. “What? Are you scared?”

The word leaves his lips much slower than the others, like thick syrup in his mouth. Guess your fear is a much sweeter scent than expected.

“Should I not be?” The defiance in your voice comes like the wolf that bursts through the thinning trees behind you.

With the air knocked out of your lungs and each muscle stunned into inertness, there’s not much you can do but watch the god as you’re dragged away while two wolves trail behind you.

The grey sunlight fades as the flora becomes thicker, and for a hundred or so yards you feel as if your life is crumbling around you. But soon with the shadows from the trees comes the realization of familiarity.

Their faces – their snouts, eyes, ears, fur – they’re one you’d seen before. They’re the same ones from the small fairy circle down the way from your cabin, where you’d been trying to find something to eat besides dry mint leaves and crunchy bread.

These aren’t the wolves from the coalition near the village, these aren’t those nasty wolves who steal and plunder and take without end, these aren’t the wolves who chased you into the arms of the god who previously stood before you.

This is something worse…so much worse.

You’ve housed some of them, their yellow eyes and pink snouts have been fixtures of your spare room – you’ve stitched their paws and rubbed salve into their poison ivy rashes and brushed matts from their thick fur.

As one of them jumps on top of you – one you recognize from the scar you’d helped heal after a hawk had attempted to take out his eye – you can feel another pry your arms flat above you and two others hold your legs apart.

His long, wet tongue traces from your shoulder to your temple, his snout breathing hot air onto your feverish skin.

“I’ve been waiting to do this,” his voice is muffled, as if you’re talking to a person resting at the bottom of the sea. “Oh, I’ve been waiting to do this since I saw you and your brow furrowed with worry at that wound the wicked bird left upon me.”

He nudges under your jaw, grazing his sharp teeth across the fragile skin above your jugular as he pants.

If your hands were free, if your lips could move, you’d push him away and call him some mutt in heat, spit in his face and kick him away and run until you could not see the wretched creatures and they could not see you and the distance would make you forget everything that had and would happen and you never would have to think of their paws clawing at your body again and…

And…

“Stay the fuck away from her,” the god from before snarls from behind his teeth. The wolves, now thrown more than a hundred yards away from you, are nearly frozen in fear and realization that their plan has taken a toll for the worst. Your hands dig into the earth in an attempt to gain footing, but you can barely hold yourself up on your elbow as your vision spins. “If I find you again I will rip your heart from your thoracic cavity and leave you all to be found by the rest of your pitiful kind, do you understand?”

The wolves do not nod, but they also do not stay. Within an instant, you find yourself blessedly alone and then cursedly close to the very thing you fear the most.

“Why don’t I take you back home?” Thor whispers, watchful as you finally pick yourself up from the mud and moss. Bits of twigs and leaves and crushed bugs litter the light fabric, but you make no effort to remove it from your person – none of that matters when he locks eyes with you, blown pupils glittering with something you can’t place.

Still, with chest heaving and hands shaking, you lead him back to your homestead.

It’s not a long trek through the woods, yet Thor’s breath is audible like a deer sprinting from a pack of canids. You question nothing, though, absolutely nothing as you lead him on the winding, invisible path that leads you less than a stone’s throw away from the entrance.

You don’t say anything as you pull away, not a promise nor gratitude nor acknowledgement of his actions. The silence from you is met with Thor tugging your back to his front and wrapping your arms around you.

“I think you should thank me,” he coos. In the window of your dwelling is your cat, eyes wide in fear as she paces. She knows something is wrong, something bad is happening. But she doesn’t know how to fix it. “For protecting you.”

Some parts of you – maybe a few ribs, the bottom of your spine, your dry mouth – know what he wants. Behind your eyes you see images of you, him, your large bed. Of your small, begotten frame under his large form as he takes what he desires.

Some part of your brain, the logical side, knows you should feel fearful at this massive beast laying you down onto your worn, soft sheets. The other part, though, feels a particular heat flood your center and between your legs.

“And what is it that comprises such appreciation?” you ask, still facing your home as the god lingers behind you. Your breath – already shaky and shallow – hitches as one of his clawed fingers pushes aside your thick hair to expose the smooth skin of your neck. He places such small, light kisses there that for a moment you believe it was simply whispers of wind from the night, but once sharpened teeth graze your heartbeat you’re aware of the affections being his.

“Oh, little pet,” at his words your eyes shut on their own accord, and your bottom lip finds itself between your top and bottom teeth in the same fashion. “We both know what I want.”

You gulp, trying to find verbal footing as he begins to kiss down the back of your neck to the top of your spine. For a moment you try to speak, but it seems with each attempted sentence his hands move closer and closer to undoing the ties that keep your shift from falling off of you.

The god leads you into your home with a large hand pressed into the small of your back, and into your bedroom as if he had been there before, as if he had memorized the hallways in your home from years of spending time there; as if he was some constant fixture of your household.

The yards and yards worth of fabric from blankets and pillows alike have only ever smelled like you; pockets of your pesky familiar here and there maybe, but nothing that cannot be overpowered by a good night’s rest. It’s a comfort after a long day, something familiar and comforting.

As Thor lowers himself onto the edge of your bed you fear the stench of him will never leave you. A candle of doubt in you wonders if this is a bad thing.

With no hardship he pulls you to him, like a suitor inviting a debutante to be a partner in a waltz – though, this feels less like a dance as each second passes, your heavy breathing akin to a kidnapping than some public displays unadulterated affection.

“It’s cold out here in these woods,” he whispers to you. His hot breath sends shivers down your spine as his hands pet over your shaking form. “I must admit, it would be nice to have a toasty little thing like you to help keep me warm in such a chill.”

You shiver, hoping this behemoth does not mean what you think he means. Alas, as he pushes your long, wild hair to the side to expose the tender skin of your neck – your wildest fears bubble to the surface of your flesh. It’s his hands, so calloused they feel like bark, that manhandle you in the gentlest way possible into a position that makes your face burn hotter than a bonfire.

You’re in his lap now, spine pressed to sternum with him towering over you. For a moment you feel safe in his embrace, his larger-than-life stature making you feel like some protected child. It isn’t until he’s tearing at your clothes with a loud rrrrrrrip that you understand how little this creature truly cares for you. Still, it’s hard not to feel like some fragile, blown-glass vase from the village beyond the mountains, where boys with similarly rough, burnt hands create the most beautiful little sculptures you wish you could afford; an object of which is revered and magnificent, but an object of which holds neither agency nor uniqueness to the rest of the pretty things surrounding it.

It doesn’t occur, in that very moment, that there is no way this god would be cold in the thick of winter – not with heat radiating from him akin to your cat’s fur after being warmed by a particularly warm beam of sunlight. But the deity doesn’t have much need for the truth, not when he’s got your soaked cunt free from its increasingly uncomfortable confines and is tracing the slick up and down the lips between your trembling thighs.

“Shh, it’s okay,” he coos like a mother lying to her child while pulling a rose thorn from a tiny, smooth foot. “It’ll only hurt a little"

Thor’s hands are huge already, but now they seem omnipresent as he pets over your form. Part of you – the sensible part, the part that guided you through being banished from your family and made you carve out a piece of this expansive, soul-crushing forest – that wants to, or at least wants to try to, push him away; tell him no, stop, please, I’ll do anything.

But nothing, nothing but desperate whimpers, ones you wish were from displeasure, leave your lips.

“You know, gods can still starve,” you gulp as the short, wiry hair that patterns his jaw rubs against the skin of your neck and shoulders. “The fish from rivers and boars from the deeper parts of my forest quiet the growling in my gut, but there is another hunger I need satiated.”

You remain silent as before, fearful a protest would make your periled situation that much worse for pitiful little you.

He grips between your legs, palm flat against the hottest part of you, his own hand rough against your own silky folds. As you squeak from the contact Thor laughs deep in his broad chest, leaning down to nibble at the edge of your hot ear. “This piece of fruit will do,” you gasp as a single, thick finger enters your dripping heat. “I love a good juicy peach. You’re absolutely dripping for me, aren’t you?”

Again, he is met with silence. Never one to be deterred, he slips another finger into you. “Humans are so cute,” he purrs. “You all think you’re so strong, always fighting wars that never end and death that always comes. It seems the things you can never resist are a good fight, a good fuck,” a pregnant pause fills your bedroom as he crooks his fingers just right, soliciting the desperate whimper he’s wanted since he spotted you in the woods all those hours ago. “And me.”

He fucks his digits in and out you with slow motions, ones that drive you to the brink of madness. You’ve never been one to coo and moan so unabashedly, to let yourself fall apart so easily for someone who holds so much pure power over you. If you weren’t already vulnerable, you would be now – for as assuredly that the sun rises in the East and you wake up soaked in blood every some thirty days, this man, this god will look down on you and understand how little you can do to fend him, his advances, his charm, from your trembling body.

Thor lays down on your sea of blankets, leaving you feeling empty without his touch. A smug look paints his face as he waits for you to climb up his chest, but you do not move, simply peering at him with a heaving chest and feverish cheeks. Your mind wavers, wondering if his horns will tear into the fabric that paints your bed – but you do not have much time for such frivolous thoughts before they are interrupted once again.

“I wasn’t asking,” he tells you pointedly. “Now, come provide me with the sustenance I so desire.”

Sans your dress, moving up the length of his body is relatively easy. As he grips your hips and lowers you down to his mouth you wish you had some sort of obstruction, some reason to resist the god below you.

No such luck. As before, you are unimaginably vulnerable to Thor and his ways.

He begins with light kisses on the inside of your thighs, still tense and desperate to run away. Thor seems to notice this but does nothing to soothe you and your resistance – he understands much better than you how much he holds above your foolish head.

It doesn’t take long for you to forget your plan of escape, the path of freedom dissipating in the pleasure pooling from your scalp to the nailbeds of your toes. This god is nothing if not skilled, wide strokes of his tongue and nips at your innermost thigh and kisses on your sensitive nub soon having you rutting against his face like a dog in heat, like the wolves from before. Your hands try to find purchase in his wild hair, but with the horns in the way it’s easier to wrap your own fingers around the keratin masses than dig your fingernails into the scalp of the man below you.

You wonder if you’d have considered them less such wild beasts if you knew this was the pleasure they were chasing. Would have not run so quickly if you, too, understood the magic building in your core as you balance yourself against the wall your bed leans against. When Thor leaves you, would the animals accept your contrition and give you the same pleasure this god is? Or would you be left to chase a high no mortal could gift you?

It’s trail of thought cut short by him bullying three of his fingers into you as his lips suck at you, your screams filling every empty bit of air in your homestead. As your own yelps of pleasure fill your ears you cannot sort what is babble and what is tongues, what are incoherent syllables and what are pleas to celestial beings to never leave you.

These, too, are soon muffled, Thor making quick work of your mute state to flip you onto your stomach and propping your ass up toward him. “You know,” he says mostly to himself, knowing his words will fall on ears deaf from ringing. “The Christians who pass through my forest often speak of how the original woman was tempted with an apple and I never believed their silly tales.”

He pauses a moment to trace his fingertips up the ridges of your spine before grabbing at the base of your hair. You yelp, but he ignores you.

“But now…” his unoccupied hand comes down to SMACK at your ass, eliciting another squeak. “Now I feel able to comprehend how such a person could be tempted by the prospect of such delicious sin.”

Too far gone to be ashamed now, you push back against him in hopes of reprieve from your suffering. Without much further wait Thor enters you slow and steady, the one hand still in your hair while the other grips your hip. Thor’s bigger, much bigger than your fingers or the occasional drifter, and your walls and scream the unfamiliar girth.

The man behind you does nothing to soothe you, merely hissing into the cold night air. “God, you little witch,” he grunts behind grit teeth. “Maybe it was worthwhile saving you from those wretched wolves.”

Your mouth hangs open and your lips remain mute, your hands grasping at the sheets until they become impossible to open up again. Nothing, not a single sound of yours, bounces form the walls – merely Thor’s loud grunts and the sound of his skin slapping against yours. It isn’t until his fingers release your hair and move to your neglected clit that you begin to sing for him, screams out of tune and sharp but still smooth music to his ears.

“Yes,” he moans, feeling you contract around him. “Yes you temptress, cum on my cock, fuck let me bring you to your peak.”

How could anyone refuse that? Certainly not you, the spell-caster who was saved by this magnificent, sympathetic creature with a heart of gold and pure intentions. The tight coil in your organs releases with a shout from you and a deep groan from Thor, who continues to fuck into you as you collapse and become limp under his touch. He reaches he peak quickly, stilling for a moment before flipping you over again.

You move easily under his touch, dead weight instead of some feisty, feral little lamb with too much fight in her. On your back, he spreads your legs once again, moving to revere your swollen cunt and his thick seed dripping out of you.

It reminds you of when the artists in the villages step back when they’re finished with their works, admiring their handiwork and talent. You recognize that same affection of progress and of a finished piece in Thor’s eyes, the focused, blown pupils trained on the white trailing down to your sheets and the corners of his mouth turning up into a small, satiated smile. He’s some paragon of silent pride, one hand moving up and down your folds before pushing his seed back into you.

“Beautiful,” Thor whispers, kissing where you are most sensitive once more before moving to lay beside you. The world spins around you as he pulls you into his broad chest, his heart thumping dull in the ear pressed to his heaving ribs.

You say nothing to the contrary, succumbing to sleep like a babe after a long feeding.

orThor disappears just as he entered, confidently and without much fuss. You wake up alone, more alone than you did that morning, surrounded by the very scent of him. Somehow, as the sun comes over the horizon, it’s enough.

Over the next few weeks, everything mostly returns to normal. You go through the ebb and flow of your routine; watching over your territory, eyeing the dark of the night each time the wind made the trees move like children listening to songs around a bonfire. Sometimes the swaying calms you as you clutch a cup of mint tea in your trembling hands, but others it mirrors the churning of your stomach.

Tonight, it feels like both. And tonight, you bury your face in the last of him left with you while hoping you never have to see the god again.

[eeveedel]

so now i’m gonna need a sequel to that previous chubby drabble after harry’s last movie where louis chubs him up again

ask and you shall receive, my friend ;)

sequel to this drabble from last week. this is mostly fluff but be aware this does lead into chubby kink and feeding kink quite a bit, so if that bothers you this may be one to skip

--

On the night of the LA premiere of the last Sun Knight movie, Harry and Louis snuck out half way through the film.

 Harry had watched it ten different times at the various European premieres, and Louis had suffered through it once at the London premiere and that was enough for him. So they downed several glasses of complimentary white wine, and then got an Uber Black home while Louis complained.

 “God I love you so much but I’m so happy I don’t have to watch any more of those movies,” Louis groaned as he finally trudged through their bedroom door, “Like…they’re bad, babe.”

 “I know, the CG is a little much,” Harry agreed from behind him.

 “And the characters, what the fuck are they!” Louis continued, “Like, it’s been three years and I still don’t know what your fucking character’s powers are.”

 “He can harness the power of the sun in his magical crystal staff, Louis. It’s very straight forward.”

 “But that’s so stupid!” Louis insisted, “And why can he fly?”

 “He just can,” Harry said, “Can we go to bed?”

 “Yes please,” Louis huffed.

 He launched himself onto the bed, then immediately flipped onto his back and spread out his arms and legs wide. Harry chuckled and leaned down to give him a peck on the lips.

“You have to take your suit off, babe.”

 “Don’t tell me what to do,” Louis said, even as he sat up to take off his shoes and pants.

 He shucked off his clothes quickly and then went back to sprawling on the bed, this time in just his boxers. Louis watched as Harry stood near the edge of the bed and unlaced his shoes and toed off his loafers. He unbuttoned his shirt next, and then undid his belt to loosen his pants. Louis sat up on his elbows to watch closer, and Harry gave him a smile as he caught Louis’s eyes.

 “Thought you were tired,” he teased.

 “I am,” Louis said, “Just watching.”

 Harry grinned and smiled, and Louis just watched as his husband took off all his clothes. For the last three filming years, Harry had kept up closely with the studio’s expectations for his work out routine, and he was still in great shape, his body sharp and chiseled.

 But Louis still missed pre-superhero-movie Harry, in all his chubby glory, and now that the films had wrapped up, he maybe had a shot at getting him back.

 Harry got down to his underwear and then joined Louis in bed, crawling under the covers next to him. Louis quickly snuggled into his side, and smiled as Harry wrapped an arm around him.

 “Hey, you know,” Louis said slowly, “Your contract is officially up now.”

 “Don’t I know it,” Harry sighed, “No more Comic Con, no more press junkets, no more fan boys in my twitter correcting my knowledge of the comics…”

 “Yeah, yeah, I know,” Louis said with a wave of his hand, “I’m more excited about this.”

 He settled a hand on Harry’s flat stomach and gave it a pat, and Harry gave him a blank look before his eyes sparked.

 “Oh,” he said.

 “Yeah,” Louis smiled, “No more fucking work out regime and no more plain chicken breasts in our fridge.”

 “Oh, thank God,” Harry sighed.

 “I’m going to start baking again,” Louis cooed, snuggling into Harry’s shoulder, “My husband is finally going to return to me.”

 “I’m still your husband.”

 “Shh, hush,” Louis said, pressing a finger to Harry’s lips. Harry rolled his eyes and kissed Louis’s fingertip.

 “For the past three years you’ve told me you loved me, and you’ve just been bidding your time waiting for me to get chubby again?”

 “Um, excuse you, I have loved you for the past three years, as I have every year of our marriage, but for the past three years I have put up with you waking up at 5 in the morning to go to the gym, you doing yoga in our living room every afternoon, and keeping up with whatever keto gluten free plant based nightmare your trainer has put you on that week, so I did my time. I deserve to see you chubby again.”

 “Okay, babe,” Harry laughed and kissed the top of Louis’s head, “Let’s get some sleep and then you can make me chubby in the morning.”

 “Hell yeah I can,” Louis said, “You lost sixty pounds and I’m going to help you find all of them.”

 Harry snorted and waved his hand.

 “Go to sleep, angel.”

 --

 “I think I’m losing my abs.”

 It was a Tuesday morning and Harry was standing in front of the bedroom mirror, shirtless, eating a bowl of Coco pops. Louis was still half-asleep, and was scrolling aimlessly through Instagram. He tucked a hand under his glasses and rubbed at his blurry eyes, not taking his gaze off his phone.

 “What makes you say that?” he asked sleepily, like he hadn’t taken very careful inventory of Harry’s body every day for the past month.

 “I just am,” Harry said. Louis glanced up to see his husband shrug and eat another spoonful of his cereal.

 Over the past several weeks, Harry had enjoyed an extended vacation from script readings and auditions and just focused on being at home and indulging in a few of his random, off-duty hobbies. Recently he had taken origami back up again, and Louis kept finding colorful paper frogs of varying sizes all over the house.

 And Harry had been eating. A lot.

 Harry was true to his word that he was going to start cooking and baking again once Harry was off his strict work outs and diets. Harry still went to the gym every now and again, but it wasn’t every day, and his work outs were far shorter now. And Louis had accumulated three years’ worth of recipes he wanted to try, so he always had something new in the oven for Harry to try. He had forgotten how much he had missed the simple joys of Harry wrapping his arms around him and stealing a cookie or brownie off the plate Harry had pulled out of the oven, and then how he kissed Louis on the cheek right after he shoved it into his mouth, complimenting Louis endlessly.

 He was still pretty lean, to Louis’s annoyance, but he was a bit softer now. His stomach was flat, still, but it was soft. If Harry sucked in, like he was doing on and off now, the outline of his muscles was still clear, but there was a definite layer of softness dusted over it. It was there all over his body; on his hips, his thighs, his arms, his face.

 He could still work it all off in a few weeks if he wanted to, and the thought made Louis’s stomach swoop a little bit. He wasn’t sure what kind of body his husband wanted any more.

 “Does that bother you?” Louis asked, trying and failing to sound nonchalant.

 “You know, I feel like it should bother me way more,” Harry said. He turned away from the mirror and then went to sit on the bed, folding his legs as he looked at Louis and ate his cereal.

 “What are you going to try to make for lunch?” Harry asked, even though he was still plowing through his breakfast.

 “Um,” Louis said, not missing the glint in Harry’s eyes, “Shrimp scampi?”

 “Mm, sounds good,” Harry hummed, “Can’t wait.”

 “Yeah,” Louis said, and let his stupid, stupid eyes flick down to where Harry’s stomach was just barely starting to fold and crease over the top of his boxers, “Me neither.”

 --

 Louis was standing at a hot stove on a summer afternoon, trying to wipe his forehead with his arm as he cooked up the latest series of recipes he wanted to make. He was nearly down, but the effort he was putting in made him feel like he was losing it. The only thing that pulled him out of his own stress was the sound of the screen door sliding open. Louis heard the sound of flip flops smacking on the floor a second later.

 “Are you dripping water on my floor?” he called, and he heard Harry snort.

 “You haven’t cleaned this house by yourself in six years,” Harry called.

 “Doesn’t answer my question, smart ass.”

 “Only a little water, honey.”

 Louis groaned a bit too loudly, and a few seconds later he heard louder footsteps, and then felt a big body hugging him from behind and kissing him on the cheek.

 “Smells good,” Harry said, and planted another firm kiss on Louis’s neck. Louis squirmed but grinned, and then when he felt Harry move away, he turned around to take Harry in.

 He had been in the pool for hours, and he looked pink from the sun and drenched, his dark hair wet and flat against his head and temples. He had his hands on his hips, and he was wearing one of his older swimsuits, dark purple and patterned with turtles. His thick thighs filled out the trunks well, clinging to him tightly due to the water. His love handles spilled over the edges, and his big belly pooled proudly over the waistband.

 In the past few weeks, Louis had finally felt like he had gotten his husband back.

 Harry was now only within a few pounds of what he had been before his grueling training started three years ago, and Louis nearly wanted to cry every time he looked at him. He was just so handsome, so sexy, so Louis’s Harry. Not the man that was on horrifically photoshopped block buster posters and was Twitter’s thirst crush of the week every other month, but the man he had met at a shitty acting class years ago and whose bed he had fallen into immediately after that class.

 And Harry had been on board for everything. He was tired of the diets that left him hungry and the work outs that always put him in knee braces or on the couch icing his back. He wasn’t exactly chasing another block buster any time soon, so he was content to return to his old habits and enjoy himself again.

 He was also perfectly aware of how Louis felt about his body, which didn’t hurt. He always made a big deal of telling Louis when he started having trouble buttoning his jeans, and then his button downs, and then when he needed to dig out his old clothes from years ago. And from often he grinned and winked at Louis when he was eating, the bastard knew exactly what he was doing.  

 “What’d you make me?” Harry asked, and Louis had to shake his head to make his thoughts somewhat proper again.

 “Spaghetti and meatballs,” Louis said, “I made the meatballs myself, and the sauce. And garlic bread! Lots of garlic bread. And cinnamon rolls with honey and almonds!”

 He tilted his head, frowning.

 “Also I have a salad in the fridge but that’s boring.”

 “That sounds great, babe,” Harry said, “Let me go rinse off and then I’ll be down, okay?”

 Louis nodded, and Harry went off upstairs. Louis went back to the food, and pulled everything out. He got out plates, serving dishes, a couple cold beers from the fridge. He made several trips putting it all on the table, and by the time he was done Harry had come back downstairs, dressed in a white t-shirt and a pair of sweatpants.

 “Can’t we just eat on the couch?” he asked when he saw Louis setting everything up.

 “Fuck off, do you know how much we paid for this table?” Louis scoffed, “Sit down, we’re having a real sit down lunch like adults.”

 Harry just chuckled and tipped his head.

 “Yes, sir, Mr. Tomlinson-Styles.”

 Louis scrunched his nose and then sat down with Harry, filling up his own plate while he watched Harry take things for his own. He served up a full plate of spaghetti, and then two small separate plates for his garlic bread and cinnamon rolls. He still had a small dish of salad, but Louis could forgive him for that.

 Louis was still staring when Harry started twirling his fork through his pasta, and Harry lifted a brow at him.

 “What?” he asked.

 “Can I…” Louis said cautiously, “Can I feed you?”

 Harry smiled, his eyes crinkling and his padded cheeks folding up.

 “Sure, baby.”

 Louis smiled and scooted his chair forward. He took the fork from Harry and lifted it up, and Harry opened his mouth for Louis to tuck the pasta and meatballs inside. He hummed when his mouth was closed, nodding.

 “S’good, baby. Really good,” Harry said, “I like what you did to the sauce.”

 “Yeah, it’s fresh basil,” Louis said absentmindedly, already loading up another forkful for Harry.

 He loved doing this, whenever Harry let him. He just wanted to take care of Harry, and know that Harry loved what he had made, and if Harry overindulged a bit more when Louis was physically putting food into his mouth, that helped, too.

 Louis fed Harry his pasta, and then a bit of salad, and then the bread. He was ignoring his own food, but he didn’t even care. Harry so willingly ate what Louis had prepared him and swallowed down every bite with a smile on his face, moaning and smacking his lips. If anyone else did that while they were eating Louis would lose it, but with Harry…God, he already felt his belly heating up.

 Louis fed Harry two of the cinnamon rolls he had made, and then delicately helped Harry wipe his mouth with a napkin when Harry waved his hand, officially tapping out. Harry slouched on his chair and patted his belly, making a loud smacking noise as he did so.

 “Christ, baby, I feel like I’m gonna burst,” he moaned, “You outdid yourself.”

 Harry rubbed his belly, rucking up his shirt to reveal more of his soft, pale skin, and Louis could just stand and stare, his throat going dry.

 “What are you thinking?” Harry asked, and Louis blurted it out before he could think it through.

 “I did this,” Louis said, and then poked at Harry’s belly, “I did this to you.”

 Harry hummed, looking at Louis with sparkling eyes.

 “You sure did,” Harry said, his smile growing.

 Harry smacked his belly again, and Louis gripped the table hard.

 “You know I can’t say no to you,” Harry continued, “I know you like a belly. And it helps you know your way around a kitchen.”

 “I really, really missed you,” Louis blurted, and Harry lifted a brow.

 “I’ve been right here.”

 “I missed this you,” Louis said.

 Harry lifted a brow.

 “Someone’s letting their kink flag fly tonight,” Harry teased.

 “You love my kink,” Louis insisted.

 “I do,” Harry smiled.

 Harry looked down, rubbing his belly again, and he tilted his head.  

 “You know, I’m just about to my old weight, but,” Harry shrugged, “I don’t think an extra ten pounds can hurt, don’t you think?”

 Louis leaned forward, gripping the table so hard his knuckles went white.

 “I’m going to ride you so fucking hard after this your dick will fall off.”

 Harry chuckled, his smile still wide and bright.

 “Why don’t you finish your lunch, first,” Harry said, “And I’m going you to give me a little rub down after this. I seriously feel like I’m gonna pop.”

“Shut your whore mouth,” Louis snapped, and then scooted his chair back, begrudgingly picking up his fork to dig into his now-cold pasta. Harry just laughed again, and Louis rolled his eyes as he ate food he longer wanted.  

 His husband was officially back; he didn’t have reason to be interested in much else.

[carmintros]

@emeryfm​     /     ❛   。   ✩   ﾟ my eyes are probably playing tricks on me again, but is that really  kristine froseth?  oh, wait, it’s just  emery roe. yes, that  twenty-two  year old  bookstore clerk, who i am pretty sure is a  local. according to the talk of the town, she is incredibly  blithe & facetious, yet undeniably  piquant & vivacious. that is precisely why  drunken karaoke, wine stained lips, laughs that make your ribs hurt, & kissing under the moon  remind me of them so much, but then again you know what they say about aries, we’ll see how that one turns out !   penned by m  /  pst & she / her

◜        ♡       𝚋𝚒𝚘𝚐𝚛𝚊𝚙𝚑𝚢      !

tw    :    death,    illness,    &    alcoholism.

𝐄𝐌𝐄𝐑𝐘    was    born    and    raised    in    carmel.    her    mother    was    a    successful    doctor    and    her    father    owned    his    own    construction    company.    the    two    had    three    children,    each    of    which    were    the    golden    child    in    their    own    right.    their    first    son    a    football    star    in    the    making,    their    second    son    academic    decathlon    captain,    and    their    daughter    a    merit    scholar.    emery’s    childhood    was   cookie-cutter   on    the    surface;    plenty    of    presents    under    the   tree    during    christmas,    meals    always    on    the    table,    new    outfits    for    each   back    to    school    day —    the    roes    had    it    all.

things    took    a    turn    when    emery    was    fourteen.    one    night    during    dinner,    their    mother    collapsed.    many    said    it    was    ironic    —    the    doctor    who  didn’t  know    she    had    advanced    stage    pancreatic    cancer.    by    the    time    she  was  diagnosed,    it    was    too    late    for    treatment.    she    passed    away    the  summer  after    emery’s    first    year    of    high    school.

after    their    mother’s    death,    the    roes    seemed    to    be    the    talk    of    the  town.  when    someone    dies    unexpectedly    out    of    nowhere    in    a    small    town,  it’s    gonna    be    on    everyone’s    lips,    no    matter    how    tragic    it    was.    this  caused    emery’s    father    to    spiral.    he    began    to    drink    and    soon    enough,  stopped    showing    up    to    work    and    stopped    picking    the    kids    up    from  school.    the    constant    pitiful    looks    and    baked    dishes    from    the    neighbors  caused    him    to    snap.    one    night,    he    packed    up    his    things    and    left.

emery,    still    somewhat    young    at    the    time,    had    a    difficult    time    processing   the    downfall    of    her    family.    the    responsibility    fell    on    her    older    brothers.    her    oldest    brother,    eighteen    at    the    time,    had    to    give    up    his    football    scholarship    from    ohio    state    and    take    care    of    his    younger    siblings.    it    was    them    against    the    world,    and    unfortunately    everyone    knew   about    it.    emery    noticed    the    way    her    peers    looked    at    her    began    to    change;    she    went    from    normal    emery    to    the    girl    whose    family    was   gone    in    the    blink    of    an    eye.

naturally,    she    began    to    act    out.    she    started    hanging    out    with    the   wrong    crowd,    doing    her    makeup    a    little    darker    than    usual,    coming    home    later,    drinking    more.    she    traded    her    books    in    for    boys,    her    sat    tutoring    for    house    parties.

eventually,    she    began    to    feel    guilty    for    her    brothers,    who    had    to    drop  everything    to    make    sure    she    was    alright.    when    the    end    of    high    school    came,    she    finally    got    her    act    together    and    got    into    a    good    college.    she    graduated    last    summer    with    her    degree    in    literature,    and    now    she    lives    back    in    carmel    and    works    at    the    bookstore    while    she    applies    for    masters    programs.

◜        ♡       𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚝𝚜      !

𝐍𝐀𝐌𝐄:  emery   maxine   roe.

𝐀𝐆𝐄:    twenty    one.

𝐎𝐂𝐂𝐔𝐏𝐀𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍:    bookstore    clerk.

𝐆𝐄𝐍𝐃𝐄𝐑:    cisfemale.

𝐇𝐎𝐌𝐄𝐓𝐎𝐖𝐍:    carmel,  california.

𝐙𝐎𝐃𝐈𝐀𝐂:    aries    sun    /    gemini    moon    /    aquarius    rising.

𝐀𝐄𝐒𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐓𝐈𝐂:    drunken   karaoke,   wine   stained   lips,   laughs   that   make   your   ribs   hurt,   and   kissing   under   the   moon

◜        ♡       𝚙𝚎𝚛𝚜𝚘𝚗𝚊𝚕𝚒𝚝𝚢      !

emery    is    a    pistol.    

she’s    got    a    mouth    that    would    put    a    sailor    to    shame.  

she’s    really    witty   and  sarcastic,    which    can    come    across    as   facetious    at    times.  

she    slips    up    constantly    and    her    humor    can    be    considered   inappropriate    or    disrespectful   in    different    situations.    

sarcasm    is    her    defense     which,    once    again,    can    make    her    seem   mean   as    shit.    but    she’s    always    laughing   or    making    others    laugh.  

she’s    a    smart    ass,  which    she    hasn’t    decided    if    it’s    a    good    or    bad   attribute    yet.  

jaded    at    the    ripe    age    of    twenty    one.    

will    have    it    be    known    if    she    doesn’t    fuck    with    you   !  

she    would    die   for    the    people    who    are    close    to    her    but   hardly    anybody    knows    her    past    a    superficial    level,    besides    her    brothers.  

her    behavior    stems    from    the    fact    that    she    lives    a    very    damaged    life,    but    she’s    too    damn    stubborn    to    admit    that.

she    doesn’t    really    think    about    how    her    actions    may    affect    those    around    her.  

but    she’s    still    quite    the    reveler,    always    down    to    be    the    life    of    any    party.    which    can    seem    very    reckless    at    times,    but    she’s    still    devoted    to    her    alone    time.

◜        ♡       𝚙𝚕𝚘𝚝𝚜      !

on    the    fourth    tab   of    my    blog    there’s    a connections page   !   but   go   ahead   and   like    this   and  i’ll   come   to   you   and   we   can   brainstorm   <3   pls   plot   w   me   MXMXMM

pt. three

two   older   brothers. ages   25-30.   emery   is   the   youngest   sibling   and   only   girl.   they   three   are   very   close   and   tended   to   look   after   each   other   after   their   mother’s   passing.

childhood   best   friend.   that   she   is   sure   she’ll   marry   someday.   these   two   have   been   tight   knit   since   they   were   in   kindergarten.   there   parents   were   close  friends   so   they   were   practically   together   24/7.   everyone   teased   them   about   how   they’d   end   up   married   one   day.   of   course,   they   had   to   go   separate   ways   for   college,   but   now   that   they’re   back   in   carmel   who   knows   what   will   happen.

best    friends.    open    to    multiple!  the    ying    to    her    yang.    they’re   are    trouble,   no    matter    the    circumstances.    they    are    virtually    attached    at    the    hip   and    couldn’t    live    without    each    other

flirtationship. they’ve    gotten    close    to    hooking    up    on    more    than  one    occasion,   but    nothing    ever    happens.    there’s    always    tension  during    every    single   one    of    their    interactions.

exes. open    to    any    gender    !   we    can    discuss    the    terms.

sibling    like    relationship.   this    person    reminds    her    of    her    bond   with    her    brothers    and    is    hellbent    on    protecting    them    at    all    costs.

[lillaxtrigger]

Young Hope: Chapter 27

The twinkling night sky glistens over the metropolis of Townsville, the Spicer manor lighting through the darkness as the sound of applause escapes its walls. Within the living room of the abode itself, a small crowd of friends and family applaud and cheer surrounding the oldest son of the estate; Kingsley holding what looked to be a gold medal in the palms of his hands. The cheers of the small crowd dying down, the boy genius reads the words engraved in the medals reflective gold; saying: “1st place in the Townsville national gadgeteers competition.” After reading the engraving aloud, Kingsley turns back to the welcoming crowd behind him, announcing to them all that: “An award that I couldn’t have begun to imagine winning these past few days. I can’t thank everyone enough for their love, their smart thinking, and their endless support. I sincerely mean it when I say I couldn’t have won this without all of you. Thank you.” “I was all you, Kingsley. You earned that reward.” Persi compliments. “You did such a fantastic job sweetie.” his mother applauds. “Way to go, Spicer.” Cayenne simply cheers.

Despite the almost overwhelming ovation the boy genius gets, only one among the cheering circle outright refuses to join in; Kingsley younger sister glaring through the crowd with her bleak and contemptuous gaze. Chloe’s sour mood only worsens when she witnesses their father approach her smiling brother take the golden medal from him and claim that: “Beating out the entire gadgeteers expo on the first try ain’t something any genius can do. How bout we put this somewhere everyone can see.” Venturing out to the bookshelf on the side of the living room, the father perches the golden reward right in the middle of the shelf; taking center stage next to a collection of various other award owned by his son. “Aw dad, that hunk of gold ain’t nothing. Its the people that helped me along the way that matter more.” Kingsley’s cheesy line causes the crowd to erupt in a whale of applause and laughter, the cheering proving to be the last straw that his red headed sister can take before taking her leave in a bitter huff; her mother being the only one to notices her departure.

In her stomping huff through the living room, Chloe fails to catch the emergency news broadcast playing on their television; the reporter warning that: “-advise everyone to stay inside their homes for the night. The coma epidemic that has been plaguing the entire city this past week is still ongoing and a plausible source has not been identified. Again, our station advises everyone listening to stay in their homes and lock any and all ways in.”

Reaching the front door of their home, Chloe readies to head out; her hand on the knob right when she hears her mom grab her attention with: “Where are you going, honey?” “I’m...I’m going over to Serena’s for a bit. I promised to help her out with her potions.” “Alright, sweetie. Are you going to be okay?” “I’ll be fine mom. I just need to go.” the red head states before making her exit. As she watches her only daughter close their door behind her, the mother can’t help but let out a worrying groan; knowing full well that Chloe is not as fine as she claims to be.

Strolling down the lonesome darkened streets of Townsville, the young red head can’t help but rant aloud to herself about on: “Stupid Kingsley and his stupid rewards and his stupid accomplishments. Its not like I don’t have any kind of rewards that I earned over the years, no. It’s always just about Kingsley, isn’t it. Of course everything I do just winds up getting swept out of the spotlight. I win the national spelling bee, he wins the science fair project. I take home the gold in the school athletic olympics, Kingsley gets all the praise for his portable fusion reactor. I get an actual A+ on my science test, my brother gets rewards on teaching the whole damn class on fission experiments! It’s not fair! It’s just not fair!” Despite her self pitying cries ringing through the entire block, not a single soul around is there to hear her plea; her screaming eventually dying down into apathetic silence. “You’re right. It certainly isn’t fair.”

The unexpected voice echoing nearby suddenly makes the young girl jump, Chloe’s gaze swiftly scanning through the immediate streets in attempting to find who has shared their sympathy; alas finding nobody else around. “Just keep it together, Chloe. You’re probably just hearing things. Nothing but your own imagination.” “Oh contraire, my young budding rose; I’m no mere illusion conjured by your young adolescent mind. Nay, you’ve been humbly graced by a being from the very heavens themselves; here to free you from your woes and ease your mind.” Despite shaking in her shoes, the young lady stands still in the midst of this new disembodied voice; questioning on with: “Why are you so worried about me?” “Because, dear Chloe; your brother isn’t the only special one in the family. You boast so much more potential than you realize. So much so that it could surpass your own brothers feats, leaving you the shining star in everyone eyes.” “Really...how?” “All that you need is already is already around your little neck.” The voice in her head revealing such, Chloe pulls out the amazon crystal tucked underneath her dress; its pink glow permeating through the surrounding darkness. “My crystal?” “Indeed. That little trinket you have holds underneath its silky smooth shell the awesome power of the gods, awaiting for you to unleash its raw energy into this world.” “It has that much?...I was only able to fly and make such small things with it.” “It can do far more than just that. That stone can do far more than you can possibly imagine. Such potential around your neck could surpass even gods, much less, your own brother. I can show the kind of woman you could truly be with such power under your control, all you have do is open your heart...to me...” Such a golden promise echoing in her head, the red heads entire body ceases to tremble as she stares upon the glimmering sheen of her amazon crystal; the consuming shadows around her fleeing from its growing pink light.

As the afternoon sun bakes down the rooftop of the blue boys abode, both Tore and Mally stand at their mothers own bedside underneath; their eyes locked to her motionless, sleeping body. The dark purple dressed witch doctor slides her hands across the moms body, gliding her finger towards her eyes to open them; the mothers pupils bleak and soulless. “Hmm...this definitely isn’t good. How long has she been like this?” Serena questions. “Mom’s been in bed for a day and half straight. I thought she was just tired, but she been out cold this morning too. We tried everything to snap her awake; shake her, cold water, smelling salt, nothing worked.” Mally explains. “We thought she might’ve been hurt on the inside or something; but no matter how much I heal her, she just won’t wake up.” Tore adds. “We tried phoning for every hospital in town, but they’re too busy to even tell us to fuck off.” “I doubt any of them would be much help anyway. Her body isn’t the problem here.” the witch doctor informs. “Its her soul, isn’t it?” all of them hear from behind.

All in the room glance to the door to find the purple merc leaning against the doorway, Roy staring to the mothers unconscious body. “Roy! You’re back!” Mally exclaims. “How’d your date with Roxy go?” Tore asks. To his blue brothers question, the merc can’t bare to make direct eye contact with either of them; his gaze drifting to the corner of the room. “Oh...that bad huh?”

Fixing his eyes back to the three, the purple merc continues to asses the situation at hand by claiming that: “Her souls isn’t there, is it?” “That’s right on the mark. Even with her body at its healthiest; without her soul dwelling within her, she’ll never wake up.” “No problem then, we just find her soul and put it back in. Should be easy enough.” Tore simply states. “If only it were. You say a day and a half has passed since her souls been taken. If it doesn’t get back to her with two more, then her physical body shall become malnourished and she’ll eventually… she’ll eventually die.” The witch doctors harrowing warning sends the trio in a frightening scare; all three of them gazing upon the comatose body of their literally soulless mother. “Roy, can you tell where mom’s soul flew off to?” the blue boy questions his purple brother. “I might. A few sweeps around the city might give us the clues we need.” “The hell are we standing here like idiotic asshats here? Let’s get lookin!” Mally declares. “First, we need to contend with a couple of migraines ready to bust through our door.” Roy warns. “What migraines?” Right on questioning such, all of them hear a loud crash echoing out from the living room; the sound of wood breaking filling the house before somebody scream: “Knock knock, fuckers! We in the house!” “Cayenne! Why’d you break the door down!? We could’ve just knocked!” “Those migraines.”

Racing into the living room, everyone discovers both Kingsley and Cayenne standing before them; chunks of the front door scattered beneath their feet. “Hey guys, you couldn’t have come at a better time.” the blue angel greets. “Mind if I kindly ask what kind of drugged enchilada dipping sauce you ate urged you two to reduce our front door into an example of cheap wood craftsman ship?” the merc question. “It was me.” Serena points out. The trio glancing to the witch doctor behind them, they find Serena with her phone out; claiming that: “I told them to meet me here.” “This is perfect. We could really use your help, I-” Before the blue boy could finish asking for their aid, Cayenne pushes Tore aside as she approaches Serena; soon questioning her if: “Chloe said she was crashing at your place last night. You seen her?” “What? I’ve just been sorting through potions in my basement the other night. I didn’t hear her say anything about coming over.” “Did something happen to her?” Mally asks. “She went out during a little party we had last night and hasn’t come back home since.” Kingsley informs. “You try reaching her through her cell?” Tore wonders as he rises, dusting off the splinters stuck to his clothes. “We’ve tried everything. Phone, voicemails, e-mail, social media accounts; nothing comes up. She’s never been off the radar on her social for this long before, my parents are going insane; they launched a full blown police investigation just to find her.” “And you sure she’s just not passed out in a ditch crying somewhere, cause a full night toiling in your own overblown teenage drama bullshit can do that to a kid?” Roy wonders. “It doesn’t matter what happened to her now. All that matters now is that you hustle your asses outta here and help us find her. Got it?” the spice queen demands. “Yeah, not to sound like a veiny throbbing cock here; but fuck that. We got our own problems to deal with.” the merc turns down. “Sorry guys, but Roy is right. We don’t have the time. We gotta save our mom before she withers away.” Mally adds. “Its alright guys. We get it. Hope you guys can save her in time.”

Out the broken down doorway, Tore, Roy, and Mally all glide out towards the west side of the city; leaving behind them their three visitors. As they stroll away from the broken down door frame, the witch doctor turns her attention to the boy genius and asks if: “Now Kingsley, do you happen to have anything on you that your sister might’ve worn before she disappeared.” “Uh, yeah. Gimme a sec...” After confirming such, Kingsley digs through his jean pockets to pull out a lone diamond earring; claiming that: “This is what she was wearing the night before the party. Its one of her favorite earrings.” “Kingsley, why did you bring that with us?” Cayenne wonders. “I figured bringing it to police could help them track her down. Couple of sniffs from their German shepherds noses would’ve gotten them running after her trail in no time.” “I can assure you that my magic is far more efficient then any dogs the police may use.”

Taking the small accessory from the genius, Serena clasps the earring in the soft palms of her hands; a soft pink glow leaking out from the cracks of her fingers. This enchanting glow soon ventures ahead through the suburban air, the trio witnessing the pink trail drifting towards the city ahead; the witch doctor declaring that: “This aura trail should reveal to us the path Chloe had taken in the last 24 hours. Hopefully, she hasn’t strayed into a bad part of town and-” Before Serena could explain any further, she feels herself rising from the concrete pavement; glancing to her side to witness the spice queen sweeping her off her feet. Ascending from the roadway herself, Cayenne grabs hold of the boy genius beside her; tossing both him and the witch doctor on her back as she declares that: “The hell we standing around like a couple of jack offs here for then? Lets getting moving!” All three of them left on the clock, the spice queen whisks both of them away from the calm suburban neighborhood and towards the deep urban jungle of downtown Townsville.

The trio flying past the countless towering skyscrapers, the boy genius is left stuck on his phone; quelling the incoherent blubbering sounding out on the other end with: “Mom...mom...mom…please calm down. I’m sure if the police are too busy to help us, then I’m sure we can handle it ourselves. We already have Chloe’s trail and are following it as we speak...Yeah...Yeah...love you too...Bye.” As Kingsley puts his phone away, the spice queen underneath him grabs his attention with: “Think that might take more time then you think.” “Why?” the boy genius questions as he gazes to the skyline ahead of them. Before the airborne trio, they discover another of the red heads aura trail venturing out in a different direction; Kingsley questioning the witch doctor with them if: “Uh Serena, this wouldn’t happen to be part of your spell, would it?” “It certainly looks that way. Maybe Chloe took a little detour.” “Doesn’t matter what the hell she’s doin; we just gotta pick one. Thinkin that the new trail can get us to her faster?” “I don’t think so. For all we know, it could be a route she took before hand. Lets stay on the one were following just to be on the safe side.” Kingsley claims. “Whatev.” Their course fixed, all of them keep to the aura trail they were following; the trio continuing to glide deeper into the urban jungle.

Following the red heads pink aura eventually has them reach Townsville’s city square; Cayenne stops in the middle of the air right before the square, causing her two passengers to nearly fall. “Ah, Cayenne! What happened? Why’d you stop?” her best friend questions. Once getting their grips back on the spice queens back, both Kingsley and Serena gaze out to the site that caused her to halt in her tracks; their collective jaws going agap. Woven throughout the entire city square like a bright pink spiders web, Chloe’s trail venture in and out its countless twist and turns; rising and falling across both its streets and skyline. “Chloe flew this much in just one night? That-That’s insane. What was she even doing going through here like this?” “The fuck is this clusterfuck? How the hell are we supposed to figure out where she went with this horseshit?” Cayenne barks. “This is quite the troubling predicament! I’m not sure any spells I can do right now can sort through this mess.” Serena admits. “You got any that might?” the boy genius questions. “I could whip up a concoction that would be more than up for the job, though it may take some time for me to brew.” “Just give us a call when its ready.” The boy genius suggesting such, the witch doctor leaps off the spice queens backside; dissipating in a wave of sparkles. After Serena leaves them, both Kingsley and Cayenne continue forth with their search; following one of the many aura trails woven through the city square.

Flying out from around the neighboring corner, Tore, Roy, and Mally continue their own search through the depths of the urban jungle; the purple merc concentrating as they glide across the city skyline. “You getting any kind of read yet, bro?” Mally questions. “Nrr...Still nothing…I’m starting to think whoever took moms soul might’ve dragged it outta town by now.” A frustrated growl escapes from their orange haired sisters teeth; the skater claiming on how: “We don’t have that kinda time! If they really did ditch town, then we’ll never find them like this. We need a lead or something to give us an edge in this investigation.” “More like a whole damn police report.”

While both of his siblings continue flying forth, Tore breaks right in front of the massive TV screen beside them, the screen broadcasting the news network as its reporter states how: “The coma epidemic plaguing the city this past week has exploded last night. Cases of over 6 dozen people left comatose in their homes coming in from every corner of the city.” Before straying too far ahead, Mally glances back to discover their blue brother left staring to the city square television; grabbing her purple brother with: “Roy, hol up. Think Tore might be falling behind.” “Dammit, again? Swear to Hera, if he thinks he sees a crack in the road that looks like a third world country again; I’m gonna smack him into it.” The duo retreat back towards their brother’s side, finding him captivated by the massive monitor perched over the town square; the black winged merc claiming that: “Christ sake, man; we’re on the job. Get yer sorry blue ass in gear and-” “Hang on, Roy. Look.” their sister implores; pointing to the oversized TV itself. As all of them gaze upon the ongoing news report, they hear the reporter herself continue her story with: “Hospitals all over town are crowded with all the countless comatose victims coming in, and the increasing numbers not giving them a single break. Even as the police are unfortunately still at a loss on who might be behind these escalating attacks, the boys in blue vow to not to rest until they catch the culprit responsible. I’m Jessie Blankman, signing off.” After the news broadcast comes to a close, a commercial for pine scented baking soda comes on; Mally talking over the commercial by questioning if: “You think all that might be related to our moms soul getting snatched?” “Could be a good place to get a lead at least.” the blue angel claims. “It ain’t like we got anything else to go off of.” the purple merc reminds them. A destination in mind, the trio rocket away from the jumbo sized monitor and further above the skyline; gliding north away from the city square.

“Yeah, no. You guys ain’t getting in.” Out at the front entrance of the hospital itself, a lone police officer prevents the trio from barging inside; standing against the entrance doors. “What!?” Tore shouts. “Fuck off!” Roy bark. “Why not!?” Mally questions. “Its cause the staff and police in there are way too busy taking care of all the comatose patients coming from all over the city. So unless any of you have sustained any life threatening injuries or know any victims inside for visiting hours, I’m afraid I can’t let you all in.” “As a matter of fact, officer, we do know somebody inside and we oh so desperately want to see them in their hour of need.” the blue angel dramatically feigns. “Oh really, mind giving a last name?” “Of course, dear police woman of the law. Its...uh...” While attempting to conjure from the bowls of his mind a plausible last name, the blue boy gazes around for whatever he could for reference; first catching a passing truck with buttered corn on a kob. “Corn...” The next to enter is field of vision be an open manhole, several worker attempting to redirect traffic as one of them accidently falls in. “hole...a...” He manages to craft the final piece of his faux last name by glancing to a sign on the wayside, finishing with: “Sign...” Turning back to the officer with a smile, the blue angel takes in a deep breath and claims to her that: “You’re not really buying this, are you?” “Obviously not.”

“Even if you don’t believe that bullshit, we actually do have somebody that has medical treatment.” Roy suddenly protest. “And that would be-” Before the police woman could finish questioning the merc, everyone proves shocked to witness the young purple teenager slug himself right in the kidney; the self inflicted punch causing Roy to double over in pain. After coughing out pint of blood from his mouth, the merc looks up to the officer as he moans and wheezes if: “Now you mind letting us in.” The officers shock swiftly deflates before the downed purple merc, the police woman dead face demanding that: “Please leave before I have you all arrested.”

Along the opposite side of the hospital behind the dumpster, Tore has his hand firmly placed along his purple brother’s side; a soft white glow enveloping the part of his waist as he screams: “What a big blue bitch! Practically spilling out my own insides on the hot concrete and she won’t ask if I was alright. Outta have her sorry sexy ass fired for turning down somebody in need like that. Fuck her with a barbed cattle prod.” “Since just busting through the front door is obviously not an option, how else are we supposed to get inside?” Mally ponders. “I don’t get it. Can’t we just sneak inside through the roof?” the blue angel wonders. “And have a ton of people wonder who we are. And why we’re there? Face it. There’s way too many staff on hand right now to sneak inside reliably.” “Not to mentions it would eat too much of our time up.  Unless we happen to have a police uniform on hand, getting through would be next to impossible.” Right in that moment does the sharp sound of a brief siren horn penetrate their ears; all of their eyes drawn to the nearby corner. Peeking beyond the hospitals brick corner, all three of them find the back of a lone cop car parked along the side of the building; housing only a single police officer inside. “Guess we found our uniform. Now we just have to find a way to get it.” Tore claims. “I think I might know how.” Roy claims with a devious grin. “Does it involve beating the crap outta that cop?” Mally questions. “Yees.”

From the comfort of his heated cop car, the lone policeman peels back the paper lid of his steaming cup of noodles; the aroma of vegetables and pork filling the inside of the vehicle. He digs his fork into a bit of the soft noodles dwelling within the cup, pulling them up towards his mouth as the steam escapes from within. Mere seconds before he could savor their flavor, a desperate plead for help penetrates the shell of his cop car; the officer hearing somebody cry out: “Officer, help!” Glancing to the side, the policemen discovers an orange haired girl right outside his window; hearing her further plead on how: “My brothers bleeding out behind the hospital. I can’t carry him by myself.” Hearing this, the upstanding officer swiftly puts his cup of noodles away and rushes out the door; promising the girl that: “Don’t worry. I’ll help you carry your brother inside. Where is he?” “He’s around the corner! Hurry!” Claiming such, the kind officer follows the young girl out beyond the corner of the hospital; rushing out to the other side as he informs how: “Hang on, son. The docs inside will patch you right...uh...” Perplexing the policeman, he finds not a single soul awaiting behind the corner; not even so much as a body to discover. “Hold on, where is you broth-” Just before the officer could finish questioning the girl, he soon feels the brunt of the purple angels knuckles punch him square in the face; the blunt strike proving more than enough to knock the man in blue clean out.

Hog tied and stripe of his uniform, the unconscious officer is tossed right in the dumpster; the blue angel shutting the lid and turning to his siblings to ask if: “So, you think he’s gonna be okay in their while we “Borrow” his clothes.” “Ah don’t worry. I’m sure the dozens of diseased ridden rats and cockroaches’ll keep him plenty busy.” Roy claims as he dusts off their freshly pilfered uniform. The merc then tosses the blue uniform over to his blue brother and demands that he: “Now get dressed, you’re sneakin in.” Catching the uniform in his arms, Tore wonders: “Me? Why can’t either of you do it.” “Reason Mally can’t do it is cause nobody’s gonna reliably believe that a cop would be that damn short.” This passive aggressive comment gets the purple merc a hockey stick to the head, alongside his sister claiming that: “I’m still growing, asshole!” “And the reason you can’t?” Tore persists. “Agh! Cause strolling around as an officer with one arm is just asking to get ya stopped constantly with: “Oh, how did you lose your arm?” or “You must have been some hero willing to sacrifice your limb to save someone else.” Like “Bitch, I ain’t got any of yo time for your curious bullshit! I’m on the fuckin clock! Move yo sexy ass’s aside; I got shit to do.” I’d just be that kinda Saturday night show on repeat the entire god damn time.” “Alright, fine. Just gimme a couple minutes to get dressed and get in there.” Requesting this, the blue angel ascends to the roof of the hospital with the uniform in hand; parts of his clothes fluttering down to his awaiting siblings.

Coming out from the doorway leading to the rooftop, the blue angel enters the polished white halls of the city’s hospital; tucking in his blue hair underneath the signature police cap. Passing by a hallway mirror, the officer impersonator stops to take a good look at himself in uniform; realizing that he pulls off blue like a beast. Still, that ain’t much of a surprise. We’re talking about the guy that combos with a blazer pretty damn well. Wonder if this uniform comes in white. Interrupting his self reflecting be the harsh sound of a child’s cry; the disguised angel’s eyes drifting off to the nearby door. Glancing through the doors window, he discovers a woman and her child at the beside of a comatose patient; the little boy left sobbing in tears from his fathers unconscious body. A saddening site that further drives the blue boys determination, though urges him to look somewhere else to let his siblings inside.

While venturing away from the occupied patients room, the disguised boy in blue hears a sudden voice underneath him filtered by static; Tore glancing to his belt to find the police radio going off and broadcasting another officer that says: “Officer Barbrady, come in. Do you copy?” Despite his initial nervousness, the indigo angel detaches the radio from his pilfered belt and opens communications with: “Uh...Y-yes ma’am. Just stationed at the Northwest hospital; attempting to interview the families visiting the comatose patients.” “Good. Stay stationed there to keep us updated on how many vacancies are left. Lord know’s there are only so many they can take.”

“Right, I’ll keep you updated with all that. B-Barbrady out.” With her fellow officer hanging up, the police woman puts her radio away as she gazes to the site of the break in before her and her crew; a pair of paramedics carrying an unconscious man out of their home via a stretcher from the broken doorway. Passing the pair of medics carrying the poor man away, the officer takes a good look at the door lying on the porch; taking note the untouched hinges along its side. A peculiar site indeed, especially counting no signs of blunt force or evidence of tools; almost as if somebody was inside and slide the hinges right off and put them back on. The question in mind being why exactly somebody would go through this much trouble just for a break in. As the police woman ponders such, she turns her attention to the other officers exiting the home; questioning them if: “You guys find any else to report? Any prints inside yet?” “Aside from the victims prints, we got nothing. You think with a seamless break in like this, they’d at least steal some loose change from the couch cushions; but absolutely nothing was stolen. No money, no tech, no jewels, no valuables; not even a single cent.” Hearing all this, a small growl escapes from between the police woman's teeth; the officer then claiming how: “That’s over the 50th case like that this week. We practically got the entire city’s force spread thin over this epidemic. Worse off, the docs back at the hospitals ain’t reporting anything wrong with them. It’s just not making any sense.”

Watching their investigation from along the roof of the building across the street, both the spice queen and her boy genius bitch witness something that the police fail to see; the site of their red headed sisters trail leading inside the very home they stand in. “And that would be the forth broken in house her trail has lead us towards. You wanna start assuming the worst or should I?” Cayenne questions. “It’s just not making any sense. What’s Chloe doing breaking into random people’s houses like this?” “You mean more than usual?” “Cayenne, I’m being serious here. We haven’t got a clue what she’s doing flying around town like this to people houses owned by people who’ve been rendered comatose; not to mention the site of police wherever we follow the trail not leaving the best impression.” “Kingsley, chill. I’m sure she’ll pop up on our radar sooner or later. Serena’s already workin on something that can trace her out.” “I’m not even sure we have that kinda time.” “The hell else are we supposed to do beside fuck off with dicks in our mouths?” “Hmm...We might have better luck if we go back home and get better equip. A couple of gadgets in the basement might help us out.” Claiming such, the boy genius rides upon the spice queens backside and take off into the city skies; both of them gliding out back towards the direction of the Spicer manor.

Back inside the white halls of the hospital, the boy disguised in lawful blue peeks inside another patient room; finally discovering one with a patient with no visitors. A rather pitiable site seeing this poor man rendered unconscious without so much as a single visitor by his bedside; but nonetheless making his room the perfect point of entry for his siblings to fly right on inside. The lone mans room proving the perfect entry point; Tore checks around to see if the coast is clear; darting his eyes around the halls for any unwanted witnesses. Finding the halls clear of anyone, the boy in blue rushes inside and shuts the door behind him; soon passing by the bedridden patient and right to the window. Looking beyond its glass, the blue angel glances down to find both of his siblings in waiting; unlocking the frame and sliding the window up.

On the ground floor underneath, both Mally and Roy patiently await for their blue brother to give them a way inside; all the while the orange girl persist on asking her purple brother on how: “So you not even gonna tell me how you lost Roxanne so fast? Cause last I heard, you guys were doing alright at the least. What the hell happened between you that night?” “And I keep having to mention that I don’t wanna talk about it. Seriously, can you at least give me the courtesy of a week to let the scars heal before prying right back in?” “I’m just wanting to figure out how it all fell apart. You were so excited to see her when you left and when you got back, you looked so dead inside. Why?” “What part of “I don’t wanna talk about it.” can I not get through your fucking helmeted skull!?” the merc aggressively questions, his tone taking the young girl back a bit. “Al-Alright, fine. You win. We’ll drop it.” “Egh...Sorry about that. It’s just been a little hard on me to get past; especially since it was about her-” Before the merc could continue to explain, both of them hear their blue brother overhead, announcing to them that: “Hey there kids. Wanna break into a hospital? Get yer 99 cent asses in here pronto.” Flying up to the floor their brother stands with the skater at his back, Roy and Mally climb through the open window; soon finding the comatose patient whose room they broke into. “Nice work, bro.” As the merc passes by his police disguise brother, Roy can’t help but correct him on how: “And my sweet ass is definitely worth more then a fuckin dollar, asshole...Its at least a hundred.”

Coming to the slumbering gentlemen’s bedside, the purple angel takes a quick scan through the man’s comatose body; repeatedly poking and slapping the poor guys face. “You think its like how mom was left?” Mally asks. “Yep, this poor bastard is just like how she was. Dead asleep and without a soul to speak of.” After inspecting the slumbering patient, the merc takes a glancing out the door’s window; his senses picking up a good few people inside the neighboring room gathered over what he finds to be an empty bed. Its probably a safe bet that its a family weeping over the condition of their loved ones; it be pretty damn stupid to believe them to be crying over literally nothing; a pattern that the merc can sense all through parts of the entire buildings. “And if the rest of the patients are anything like this guy, then we might have ourselves a good lead.” Turning back towards his two siblings, Roy goes on to explain how: “Whoever is flying around reapin souls outta people in the middle of the night like some vampiric asshole fresh of the cusp off discovering his crazed soul fetish is the same mofo that ganked our moms very own soul.” “Great, have any idea who it might be?” the skater questions. “Eh, not sure. Only really know a handful of people that can casually pluck souls outta people like a picking fermented apples from the orchard of a drunken fruit farmer.” Taking a turn to peek outside himself, the boy in blue witnesses staff roll in another comatose man through the white halls; a family of a woman and two children tailing the mans bed. A small smile forms between his cheeks as he declares that: “We might be able to find out. Time for this uniform to work its magic.”

Inside the room that the slumbering man had been left within, the doctor tending to the patient turns away from the comatose victim; gazing to the wife and claiming to the family how: “We have no idea what kind of ailment is troubling your husband, ma’am. All the tests we’ve done on the other patients like him have come up completely negative. I hate to say this, but I can’t accurately tell how long your husband may be in this coma for.” Hearing this news causes the wife to look to her two children, streams of tears welling in their eyes. “I’ll give all of you some privacy.” the doctor offers as she leaves the room. The door behind them shutting, the daughter of the two children gazes up to their mother and asks: “Mommy, will dad be okay?” “Oh, daddy will be alright. We just need to give him time to sleep.” “How long will it be until he wakes up?” the brother of the two kids question. “I’m...sure that it won’t be long until he gets right back up and gives us all a big hug.” the mom claims with trembling breath.

From giving her two children this false hope, she hears the door behind them open once more; the family glancing to the doorway to witness a lone blue haired officer coming inside to greet them all with: “Afternoon there, ladies and gents. How are ya’ll holdin up?” “Wait, who are you?” the woman questions. “I’m...with the Townsvilles police department, here under investigation on what’s been causing this comatose epidemic sweeping this fair city’s citizen. You think you’d be comfortable answering a couple questions?” “Oh...yeah, of course.” Once wiping away the tears in her eyes, she looks down to her two children and asks them if: “Kids, can you go to the cafeteria to get some snack so mommy can talk to the nice policeman?” “Yeah, mom.” Upon their mothers orders, the two stroll out the patients room; leaving the woman and the faux officer alone with their unconscious father. “I know how hard it must be talking about all this so soon, but-” “It’s fine, really. Maybe talking about this with somebody like you can at least give my family a little piece of mind. To know that someone out there is at least doing something to fix all this.”

Claiming such, the woman pulls a seat from the edge of the room as the false officer does the same; both taking their seats as the blue hair policeman first starts off with: “Obvious question outta the way: What were you and your spouse doing the night he was struck with a coma?” “M-My husband and I were in bed around 3 in the morning. I was feeling parched and my husband happened to have gotten out of bed to go to the bathroom; so I asked him to grab me a glass of water while he was up. While I was trying to drift off back to bed, I hear the sound of a strong wind blowing across my house; followed by the sound of breaking glass. I thought that maybe the windows broke, so I got myself up to find my husband so we could fix it. When I raced into the kitchen to go grab him however, I found him passed out onto the floor with bits of water and glass. As I looked through my kitchen for what might’ve happened, I look over to the door and I find it pried right off its frame with the hinges still screwed on. It still perplexes me how he wound up like this last night.” After retelling the events that transpired the night her husband was struck with a coma, a harrowing sigh escapes from her lips; further claiming on how: “The kids haven’t been taking it well either. I just don’t know what else to tell them. They love their dad so much, he means the world to them.” Despite his eyes drifting away from the woman’s last comment, the faux officer gazes back to the wife and presses further with: “I don’t wanna cause you any further distress then you must be already going through, but did you happen to notice anything peculiar when you checked on your husband? Something leaving the scene perhapes?” “You mean aside from the door being taken off?” “Clearly.” “Well, there was one thing that I caught the minute I found my husband. When I saw him on the ground, I notices something shining just outside my window. I go outside, thinking that somebodies out there; call the police and get a give them a good description. But the moment I get out, the light was already too far in the sky to see who it might be. All I could make out was a bright pink glow.”

From within the dark corridors of the Spicer abode, a bright pink glow reflects off the kitchen tile as it escapes into the black recesses of the manor; the darkened halls swiftly filling with light as the front doors crack open. Behind the wooden door stood both the boy genius and the Spice queen, Cayenne gazing to the shadowy halls ahead and wondering aloud: “The hell are your lights out for?” As both of them stroll further through the darkened halls of the manor, the son of the abode calls out to his parents with: “Mom, Dad. Any of you home? Did the police call yet?” The young boys call falls on deaf ears however, Kingsley’s voice echoing through the shadowy halls of the manor. “Think they might’ve just fucked off?” Cayenne wonders. Pulling out his phone, the boy genius takes a quick glance to his messages, claiming on how: “I didn’t get any texts. Maybe Dad’s in the basement.” As the duo venture further through the darkness of the manor, both of them turn on whatever lights they can; all the while repeatedly calling for both of the boy geniuses parents. “Mom, Dad! Where are you?” “Mr and Mrs. Spicer? You can put the explosives away, its just us.” In hopes of covering more house, the duo split apart, the spice queen heading towards the kitchen while the boy genius heads for the basement. Cayenne finally glides inside the darkened corners of the manors kitchen, gazing into its shadows to attempt and find a light switch; her eyes drawn to a lone hand breaking from the void. Curious of whose hand it is, the spice queen enters further in the kitchen; a horrified glare forming the further she comes in.

Creaking open the basement door, the light from the hallway above leaks into shadows below; the boy genius standing in the doorframe as he stares down into the black void of his underground lab. “Dad...you in here?” Kingsley calls out to his father, his voice ringing down the steps. With his call baiting no response. The boy genius prepares to descend the steps into the darkness below, carefully climbing down each step at a time. He doesn’t even get to a quarter of the way down before his ears catch the call of his friend crying: “K-Kingsley!” Hearing such, the boy genius himself swiftly climbs back up the bright hallway; soon sprinting across the halls as he shouts: “Cayenne, what’s wrong!”

His urgent question yielding no response, Kingsley hurries through the halls of his manor; following the source of the spice queens call towards the kitchen. The young man finally reach his rough and tough friends side, finding Cayenne left completely paralyzed in horror as her gaze is locked to the shadows of the tiled floor. Gazing into the kitchen himself, the young man is meet with a nightmare of his becoming a reality; a deep and primal glare of incredible dread forming across his face. Before the two teenagers lie Kingsleys own mother, struck motionless upon the kitchen tile and rendered completely unconscious. This dreadful site fresh before him, the young man sprints back towards the basement; Cayenne glancing to her departing friend as he retreats from her side. Rushing through the basement door, the boy genius jumps down the darkened steps in a single bound; landing right at the very bottom. “Dad!” he cries out as he flips the light switch. The lights above flood the entire basement with their glow; illuminating the underground lab and revealing yet another site that conjures the young mans horrible nightmares before him. Kingsley’s own father lying motionless across the workbench; the tools at his side falling to the polished marble floor.

Along the back of the hospital, the blue angel tosses his pilfered police uniform inside the very dumpster they left the hog tied officer in; glancing to his purple brother as he review that: “So all the info we managed to cope outta the victims families all say the same damn thing. That somebody shining a bright pink light around is going around and harvesting souls as fast as a farmer on the cusp of a nuclear winter.” “So we just gotta find and beat the shit outta this bitch and we’ll get everyone’s souls back; even our mom’s.” Tore claims. “If only it were that simple. We still don’t got any clue whose behind this soul stealing spree. All we have to go by is that the thief likes bright pink. Not exactly the best lead to go off of.” Mally reminds them. “Actually, I think I might have a hunch of who our culprit might be.” the merc testifies. “Really?” his sister questions. “Who you think it is?” his blue brother wonders. Just before their purple brother could answer them, the trio hear somebody’s phone go off; the orange skater pulling out her mobile device and checking her messages; claiming that: “Got a texts from Kingsley. Saying we need to come to his place ASAP.” “What for? Don’t they know we’re busy?” Roy questions. “He doesn’t say. Must be important enough enough to type in all caps though.” “The hell are we waiting around for. Let’s move!” Tore declares. Just as the trio take off towards the direction of their friends manor, a dump truck turns the hospital corner and pulls up to the dumpster; the truck grabbing hold of the dumpsters side and pouring its contents in the back, the unfortunate tied policeman tumbling right alongside the miscellaneous garbage.

Resting upon the Spicer’s living room couch, both Kingsley’s mother and father lie peacefully next to each other; all the while their son beside them gazes upon them with a mix of wayward panic and fear. “So, both of them were like this when you came in?” Mally asks. “Yep. Completely out when we got here. Tried everything to wake them up. Even smacking Mr.Spicers face around a couple times. Not even a wink.” Cayenne confirms. “I..I just-I...I don’t know how all this could happen so fast… Just last night, everything was going so well. Surround by friends and family after winning the biggest inventors show in town, I was the happiest I could ever be… Now...and now...my family is practically falling apart before my eyes. And I don’t know how to make it all better. I don’t know how to fix any of it!” In the midst of the boy genius’s panicking episode; his best friend grasps the boys backside; urging him to: “Kingsley, relax. I’m sure we can get through this.” “Who-Why would someone do all this!?”

Approaching the comatose couple, the blue angel gazes upon their still, motionless bodies; opening the fathers eye to find his pupil bleak and lifeless. Once taking a look at the two, Tore turns to his purple brother and questions if he: “Think its the same?” “Exactly the same. Like our mom and all those other patients at the hospital, both of their bodies are completely devoid of any trace of a soul left.” Pulling away from the boy genius, Cayenne turns over to the merc himself, questioning the purple bastard if: “Hold the hell on here people. You tellin me you three know what the fucks going on with this comatose bull?” “Sure do. Whoever stole our mom’s and everyone else’s souls just paid both of Kingsley parents a little visit here.” the skater explains. “And we might have a pretty good guess who might be behind it.” the blue angel adds. “Who you think it is?” Hearing Cayenne question them such, the trio gaze upon one another with worry in their eyes; Mally breaking from their stare and warning that: “You guy might not like hearing who we think it is.” “Please...just tell us.” Kingsley pleads as he pulls himself away from his parents bedside. The spice queen can’t help but look to the boy genius with concern, asking him if: “Kingsley, you sure your up for this.” “All I know is that there isn’t enough time for me to be sure. We need to act now if we wanna start fixing all this. Even if it may seem impossible, we need to keep going.” Her friends little speech makes the spice queen crack a small smile, Cayenne turning to the trio and demanding that: “You heard the man. Lay it on us.” When pressed to continue, a small hiss escapes from between the purple mercs teeth; finally claiming to the two of them that: “We...We think that the culprit might be your little sister.”

This shocking speculation reaching their ears, their determination is swiftly cut short in but an instant; their pupils shrinking to the size of peas. “What?...” “That...That’s….That’s fucking horseshit! Don’t fucking joke like that!” the spice queen screams, seemingly on the verge of lashing out at them at any moment. “Were...being serious here, Cayenne. All the friends and family of the patients I’ve talked to at the hospital gave almost the same story; that shortly after finding their loved ones comatose, they saw a bright pink light leaving the scene.” Tore explains. “I can’t make any sense of this. What would drive her to suddenly go around and take peoples souls, especially from our own parents?” “You two notice anything off about her before she went MIA?” the merc questions. “Well, mom did say Chloe was acting strange before she left, like she was trying to hide the fact that she was upset about something. She didn’t say anything that night cause of the party and thought she needed some time to herself. God, why didn’t I notice anything? I was so busy celebrating with my friends and family that I didn’t even realize she wasn’t with us! What kind of big brother am I!?” the boy genius self deprecates, tears welling in his eyes. In the midst of the boy genius’s potential breakdown, Cayenne grasp his side and urges him to: “Kingsley, relax. I’m sure we’ll find her. There’s still time to salvage all this.” “She’s right Kingsley, we don’t got time to break down and cry here. All of us need to work together if we wanna sort all this out.” Tore explains.

“Mind if I cut in this little moment to remind everyone that we still don’t got a way to tell where our little cherry coke culprit is at and we basically still have next to nothing to go off of?” Roy interupts. “Aren’t you the one with the senses and social decency of a dirty bloodhound? Why can’t you just sniff them out yourself?” the spice queen rudely counters. “That usually be the case, especially with how much power that little necklace of hers is carrying. And yet despite that, I can’t feel a thing. Can really only think of two reasons why; either she got the hell outta dodge and fucked off outta town.” “Or?” Tore wonders. “She found some a way to cover her tracks. And judging from the little soul harvest that happened last night, it’s probably more of the latter than the former.” “So what does all that mean?” the boy genius questioning. “He’s full of shit is what it means.” Cayenne rudely claims. “Still, even with all the people she’s been reaping, I doubt she can carry them all on her at once; especially given the rapid rate she’s collecting them.” the merc continues. “You think Chloe might be stockpiling them somewhere?” Tore wonders. “If that’s true, then how come you can’t find where they’re all that?” Mally adds. “Could be cloaking them all the same way she’s cloaking herself. Don’t know how though.”

“Alright, I had just enough of this bag of prepackage zebrashit. What the hell makes all of you so sure that Chloe doing all this instead of being in the hands of child trafficking psychopath?” “Oh, I’m sorry. You happen to know anybody else that can glow a bright shade of neon pink...No? Well then, may I courteously invite your spicy mouth to taste the jalapeno chili sliding out of my rectum?” “How bout I make you taste something else, you purple prick!?” Before the spice queen could throw a single punch to the merc’s smug ass face, the blue angel gets between the two of them; Tore confessing to the spice queen that: “Look, we don’t know if its Chloe for sure. But given the increase in coma cases since last night, it just something we should keep in mind.” “Imma about serve both of ya’ll a fresh hot can of whoop ass stew if you don’t shut yer damn mouths.” Its then that the entire confrontation is put to a sudden stop when all three of them hear the orange skater go off on them; screaming to them that: “All of you just shut up! We’re all on the clock here and we can’t waist the minutes giving each other piles of crap. If any of you wanna help us get everyone’s souls back and save potential hundreds of live, then can all of you kindly stop flinging yer shit like a bunch of fuckin monkeys!” Hearing such a booming outburst come from the orange skater causes everyone to grow completely silent; the spice queen can’t help but give her a little applause.

To his guest’s loud outburst, the boy genius takes a glance back to both of his comatose parents lying upon the felt of their couch; affirming to all of them that: “She’s right.” Kingsley gazes back to the rest of them with a determined glare, continuing to back Mally’s statement with: “If were actually gonna get anywhere in this mess, we need to stop fighting with each other and combine both of our investigations into one. We won’t rest until we find Chloe and who’s been taking everyone’s soul.” “Guess we know who’s callin the shots here. What you think we should do?” the blue angel wonders. “First thing we should do is try and gather more info on all this. A clue or two to point us in the right direction.” “Didn’t you say something earlier about the police investigating Chloe’s disappearance?” the skater reminds. “The boys in blue are workin on it, but I doubt they’d be much help. And I doubt they’ll be so ready to hand over their confidentials to a bunch of random ass kids.” Cayenne confirms. “Not unless you pull in a couple of favors from the inside.” the purple merc corrects. “From a merc job of yours?” Tore guesses. “Somethin like that. Caught wind of a little scandle involving Townsville’s boys in blue a couple weeks back. They might help us if they don’t want their shit to get leaked. The kinda shit that makes people wanna punch you in the throat and beat the juicy red organs outta you while gasping for air. Calling in a couple of those kinds of favors should get us hooked up with all the info we need on both cases.” “Sorry but, are we really gonna go so far as to blackmail the police to get what we want?” the boy genius questions. “Yes.” the spice queen bluntly states. “I-...Tsk, alright then. Guess I’ll stay here and read what I can from it all. It might be best for the rest of you guys to go around and ask our friends for anything they might’ve saw.” “Sounds like a plan.” Mally claims. “Gotcha, Captain.” Tore salutes. “Right behind ya.” Cayenne states. “Hopefully we can muster enough clues out’ve it all to fix this whole mess before it all comes tumbling down on us.”

Throughout the entire police station, the few officers within scramble through the insides in efforts to manage the oncoming calls and reports; the sound of footsteps and voices ringing inside the entirety of the station as they man the phone lines and carry in new documents. Taking the brunt of all this stress be the very captain of the force himself, glued to his private desk as he looks over the constant cases coming in; taking a couple of ibuprofen pills with his coffee in between his hefty breath. Come on, Captain Blanks; get a hold of yourself. Everyone in the city is hauling in coma reports and counting on you to get to the cause of this epidemic. Hopefully, we can find whose behind all this; for the sake of the city’s sanity...and ours.

In the midst of his constant work on the tablet, the intercom beside him sounds off; somebody on the other end informing the chief that: “Captain Blanks. There’s a private call directed to your office that’s attempting to get through. He says he’s a friend of yours.” “Are you kidding me, Jackson? Do we look like we got time for any kind of prank these teenagers have up their asses? Turn them down!” “Uh, the caller’s saying he want to talk to you about something called, uh...The Strawberry Jamboree of Mildreds farm.” Hearing this bizarrely specific phrase is all it takes to instantly send a freezing chill up the captains spine; the man left standing stiffly silent as the tablet in his hands drops to the floor. “Uh...Sir…Are you still there?” the receptionist questions. “Put him through.” “What?” “Now Jackson, and close the other lines!.” “Y-Yes captain!”

Once the captains receptionist hangs up, the cap’s own trembling hands grasps the neck of the private phone beside him; putting the phone up to his ear and hearing the caller greet the captain with: “Hi, Blanky babyyyy!” “What the fuck are you doing calling me at a time like this, Roy? You realize how busy we all are?” “Chillaz, big guy. I’m just calling in to cash in a little favor we settled on, that’s all.” “I seriously don’t have a single second to spare for you to fling your bullshit at me. The entire police force is up to their necks in constant comatose cases coming in from all over the city and we’re spread out thinly enough as is. I sure as hell don’t need another headache on me to worry about right now.” “Well ain’t that just a big coinkydinky for us all, ain’t it. A couple of my pallies and I are busy looking in the same exact thing; comatose people and all. You know we all have loved ones going through this shit, so you can probably understand. Which is why I’ll be needing to cash in that favor we agreed on a couple weeks ago on the farm; preferably in the form of whatever documents and evidence you guys managed to gather on the whole case. Sound cool?” “Are you being real with me? You’re just expecting me to drop everything we’re working on to sneak out confidential reports and documents with our ongoing case just to hand it all over to some random asshole on the phone? You know what that’ll make me look like?” “Can’t make you look any worse if the news outlets hear about all your little “guests” you took over at the strawberry farm.” “How the hell do you think I can haul out countless documents and reports from a hot ongoing case without getting my blue ass caught?” “I don’t fuckin know. Just copy a bunch and send it my way; it ain’t my problem. But it will be your’s if the entire state catches on with what kind of fertilizer their grocery bought strawberries are grown with.” “Nrrgh! Fine, just gimme a little time to work, kay.” “Thanks, blanky babyyy! Tell yer girl I said hi!” Their little negotiations ending with the purple merc giving a little smooch, the captain hears the line disconnect; the line ringing in his ears as a cold shutter runs down his spine. The captain slams the phone back on his desk as he waltzes out behind his desk; opening his door to face the sectritary on the other side and demanding: “Jackson, grab all the documented files we have on the comatose case, pronto.”

Standing to the face of a house stationed along the suburbs, the orange skater roughly knocks upon the front door; hearing from the other side a familiar voice urging her that: “Hang on a second!” After hearing this, Mally witnesses the door fling wide open to reveal the ice dragon herself; a slightly offput glare forming upon the skaters face when finding her snacking on a lone strawberry. “Oh uh, you. Nnn...Maylord, right?” “That-that’s not even a...” After stammering this, a small sigh escapes from the skaters lungs; continuing past the ice benders excuse to guess her name with: “Just look, I’m tryin to get around a little problem I have going on here. You happen to have heard anything from Chloe in the last 24 hours or so.” “Mind I ask why you wanna stalk her that badly? You that thirsty for cherry red coke?” The icy manipulators accusing questions causes the skater face to glow beat red; defensively flustering aloud that: “No-I-wh-Ju-It’s-it’s just for business reasons, okay!?” “Yuh huh. Sure.” Opal sarcastically agrees as she readies to shut her front door. Before the ice bender could slam the door shut, the orange skater jams her foot in the door frame; admitting to Opal that: “Fine. It’s cause Chloe went missing! She didn’t come home last night and Kingsley and the others are trying to find her.”

The ice bender hearing her sudden visitor claim such, she opens her door for the skater once more; letting out a little sigh before answering her with: “Alright. I might have seen something up with her.” “Like what?” “Well, I was walking back home from the mall last night after getting a pair of cute shoes for only half off last night; figured since I had most of my winter gear on, I might as well take a little stroll along the scenic route cause I haven’t had a good walk in forever.” “Is this gonna take long?” “I’m getting to it. Anyway, I take a little stop over to this small part of downtown; the place with the cute little ramen shop that do the chocolate fortune cookie. I figured why not grab something to eat since I mom wouldn’t be home until ten.” “So where does Chloe come in?” “Patients dammit. Before I could go right in, I look over and see her right across the street all by herself. I figured that she might just been lost or going home so I thought why not grab a bite with her; it’ll give us some time to catch up. As I was walking towards her however, I notices that she was talking to herself; all while holding out that little pink gem of hers from around her neck. And as soon as I found her, the red head just flew off without so much as another word. I’ll be honest, it kinda creeped me out a bit.” “You happen to catch which way she was going?” “If I remember correctly, I saw her heading out towards the east side of town. Don’t really know why’d she want to go there really. I hear its kind of a mess over there.” “Alright, thanks a bunch Opal.” the orange skater claims. Having finished questioning the ice bender, she starts to take her leave from Opal’s home; but not before glancing back to point at her strawberry and warn her that: “By the way, don’t eat those strawberries; they’re made out of dead people.” The sudden warning causes the ice girl to cough up whatever pieces of strawberry she has in her mouth; the pieces falling to her front step as she panics with: “Pffth, ah, cak! What!?”

In front of another home far deeper in the bowls of the city, the spice queen herself gives the door a less than gentle knock; a little green eyed girl cracking its wood open as she gazes to her bigger cousin. “La prima? I didn’t expect you to pay us a visit. Usually its the other way around when our papa needs a babysitter. May I invite you in.” “Hate to rush ya, Bianca; but I don’t got a lotta time on my hands. You all happen to know what’s going down to coma epidemic around here?” “I don’t know about-” “Yo Cayenne, I got somethin! Get yo ass in here!” they hear echoing from inside. “Ty, me hermano! What did I say about shouting in the house!?” A nervous giggle escaping the young girl, she glances back to her older cousin and offers how: “May I offer you some pizza while your here. It came just this momento.”

As Bianca invites the spice queen inside, Cayenne’s eyes venture upwards as she walks into the living room; an impressed whistle leaving her lips. “Holy shit, Ty. I figured you were all over this shit, but god damn.” Standing before the spice queen be an entire wall covered in, documents, notes, records, statements, and plenty and plenty of photo’s; all weaved in a web of countless strings. “Hell yeah, bitches! I’ve been lookin all this from top to bottom like some cracker browsin the wine section at Wal-Mart. I got me some juicy conspiracies here on how all this a ploy by the government for testing some kind of new military weapon on their hands like a bunch of damn guinea pigs.” “Yeah, that’s great Ty, but-” “In fact, the only reason they though of settin it off here is cause they wantin to see how many homies get hit with it. They seein if they can get anyone with super power to fall fo it too, hoping to snuff us out if we catch on to them.” “Ty, I need you to-” “But I’ve been on to those motherfucka’s since this shit started. Right behind them trackin every move they do, takin pic, doc, notes, whateva I got my hands on.” Once realizing she could get her little cousin to stop his indulgent theory ranting anytime soon, the spice queen takes a seat right on their cousins couch; a frustrated sigh leaving her lips as she sits down. Her littler cousin, Lequan soon comes in the living room with a whole box full of steaming pizza and takes a slice as he sits next to his older cousin; the spice queen soon taking a slice of her own as she waits how the storm of verbal diarrhea gushing from Ty’s mouth. Might as well, it ain’t like he’s gonna be stopping anytime soon.

A massive stack of countless files slams itself down upon a wooden desk; the impact of which makes the entire table tremble to its legs. The boy genius is left utterly bewildered by how tall the collection of police reports and documents that the purple merc had promised. “Uhn...not to sound ungrateful for this frightening amount of information to work with here, but mind if I ask which strings you had to pull to get all this?” “Mind if I ask you if your sexy twink ass really wants to know what dark secrets bellow underneath your city’s police forces that they’d kill to keep outta the public eye, or do ya wanna close those cute little blowjob lips of yours and get started on going through all these reports and documents that your precious purple pal got for ya?” It takes the boy genius a good few seconds to think of a response to the merc’s lewd question; constantly opening and closing his mouth until he finally requests that: “Heya, how bout you take the time to search through the city with the others a couple times. I’m betting they could use someone like you to help out.” “Alright, I get it. But just so you know, I’ll be waiting.” the merc claims as he leaves the boy genius with the huge stack of reports. As soon he hears the sound of his front door shutting, Kingsley lets out a spine curdling shutter; quaking in his shoes as he wonders aloud: “It must be a real story on how Mally wound up getting a guy like that as her brother.”

Facing another house nesting in the suburbs, the blue angel frantically beats the face of the homes front door; Tore watching as a small orange haired demon cracks the door open with a less than patient glare. “Heyo Alex! How ya doing, ya little demon? I was wanting to ask you if-” Before even hearing whatever nonsense the blue angel has to spew out from his mouth, the little demon slams the front door right in his visitors face, walking back toward his living room as an annoyed growl leaves his lungs. Seriously, there’s only so much irritating bullshit that a demon can handle at once; and that big pile of it just outside is something no demon should have to deal with. Better off digging through actual manure than delving into whatever kind of migraine inducing nonsense that blue idiot wants subjugate all of us through.

Before Alex could put that potential headache behind him, the sound of breaking glass soon reaches his ears; turning back to find the blue nuisance delving straight through the window. Witnessing his indigo intruder arise from the carpet in a mess of glass shards and blood, the orange haired demon backs away against the wall as the blue angel lumbers over; hearing the bloody blue dumbass ask: “Think I could I could ask ya a couple questions, buddy?” With his blue intruder slowly approaching, Alex forms a sharp blade from his trembling arm and warns him to: “St-stay back, you dimwitted oaf! I’m sharply armed.” “Oh, guessin your two busy to help Kingsley out, huh?” As soon as the demons ears catch the sound of the boy genius’s name, Alex’s frightened demeanor takes a complete one eighty; a sharp gasp escaping his mouth as his blade arm returns to normal. “My Kingsley needs me?” “Um...well, he’s trying to find-” Before the angel could finish explaining, he feels his demonic host grasp the collar of his glass coated blazer; exclaiming that: “What in burning depths of Satans own boiling bathhouse are we standing around like some brain dead urchins here for? If my Kingsley needs me, then there’s no time for us to gawk around! To the manor we go forth!” Declaring such, the little demon races out his front door faster than the angel’s eye could catch up; Tore watching as Alex takes off towards the setting sun in the horizon. Glancing back inside, the blue boy discovers the demons own mother sitting in the living room; staring upon the angel that crashed through her window. “Hi, Ms Utonium. Nice to see your son eager to help! Bye!” Once giving his short greeting, Tore charges towards the neighboring window leaps right through its fragile glass; crashing through as he yells out: “Yeet!” After witnessing the young man casually break through both of her front windows, all that Alex’s mother could muster was a frustrated sigh; pinching her forehead as her gaze drops to her glass shard covered carpet.

Back within the Spicer abode itself, Kingsley continues studying through the dozens upon dozens of police reports and document scattered across his desk space; the constant noise of paper sounding through the house as he scans through the files. The boy genius suddenly stops filing through the reports when inspecting two of them at once; noticing an odd and sudden change in the case reports. This doesn’t make any sense. According to the documents filed before the other night, the reports that came in had the witnesses describe something else leaving the scene; something leaving behind a rainbow like trail while fleeing. Why the change in color? Maybe to throw people off? The suspect might be changing, but something in most of the reports have been consistent all the way through. The vast number of comatose victims that have been coming up from all this have been primarily men, very rarely do any woman seem to have been effected. A rather specifically bizarre demographic to target; could be something to keep in mind when sussing out a suspect. Something else to note is which direction the culprit escapes towards; most of the witness reports claiming that they see them escaping out towards the east. Roy did say something about how they might be stockpiling them somewhere; a likely place they’d store them all in the east side of town. Even if given little clues on whose going around and reaping out people souls, there could still be a way to figure out where the culprit might be keeping them all. With all this, at least we all can wake everyone from their coma’s; hopefully we can do it in time before those not on life support don’t… This thought dwelling in his head, Kingsley takes a glance back towards the living room; both of his comatose parents lying peacefully on the couch next to eachother. No...It won’t come to that. We will wake everyone before they die. Even if it takes every ounce of effort that all of us can spare. This motivation ringing in his head, the boy genius turns back to his report littered desk and pulls out his laptop; bringing up an entire detailed map of Townsville right on screen.

The twilight lit sun shining at his side, the purple merc glides across the sunset kissed skyline; all the while pondering aloud on how: “It just don’t add up here. How can this soul reaping shit stain even hide from my senses. Hadn’t had much trouble tracking people down before. Think you can quit with the “thou must not interfere with the holy plan” bull of an excuse and actually help us out for once, Hera?” “I’ve told you countless time that there are rules that a goddess like myself must abide by. Though that doesn’t mean I can’t relay helpful advice to my messenger.” “And?” “As embarrassing it is for me to admit, I’ve had just as much luck as you have attempting to find this soul snatching suspect...or Chloe for that matter.” “You too, huh? Think they might be some kind of undead robbing people of their lives and eating them like screaming chunky beef stew.” “Believe me when I say that I’d notice somebody like that roaming around. Raising the dead is practically a steep taboo. Shouldn’t be much of a surprise to say how it doesn’t work out as well as people wish. No, I’d wager it be somebody whose capable of high level concealment magic. How else could they hide themselves from us?” The goddess in his head claiming all this, the merc’s gaze drifts towards the streets below; a discomforting groan escaping from his line. “A bit nervous, are we?” Hera wonders. “It’s just the small bits that are getting to me. The fact that I can’t tell where the culprit or the victims are, the sudden and unexplained abductions, the mentions of powerful magic; all if its just screaming to me in loud and weird profanity on how all of this feels eerily familiar.” “You think you have an idea on who might be behind all of this?” These familiar patterns ringing in his head, it quickly dawns on him who exactly fits the bill for it all; Roy’s purple eyes suddenly shrinking as a chill runs down his spine. “Roy?” Before the goddess in his head could speak any further, the purple merc turns a complete one eighty and rockets straight back towards the manor he flew from.

Slumped on the couch at her cousins place, Cayenne is about on her last straw having with Ty’s constantly spewing conspiracy bullshit; hearing the young boy continue on and on with: “That’s why they hopin to use these weapon to take over the African government to line their pockets, the crackers up top tryin to cut my brotha’s from right underneath them.” “Come on...” the spice queen utters. “And once they done with my homies, they gonna go for the Chinese next. Hoping to get their hands on the market and squeeze out as much as they can from their hoods.” “I really don’t give a shi-” “The last part of their plan involves finally makin this whole thing public and reveal what they been doin the whole time. Scarin everyone to do as they say and finally take over the-” “Ty!” His cousins sudden outburst finally gets him to stop rambling on, at last giving the spice queen the time to say that: “I ain’t here to listen to your constant conspiracy ranting. I’m being serious when I say I need actual tangible evidence on this case. Not one of your overblown theories; practical facts.” “Oh ho, you say my conspiracy game is bullshit; but I manage to snag me a couple a good pics. Including one with the bitch behind all this. Saw her sorry ass leavin a scene of the crime just last night.” “Wait, “Her”? Ty, what did you see?”

“Right so check it. I was going around town under one of my investigations into this shit. Trackin the patterns of which homes she was hittin.” “You mean you just stumbled on it?” “While going through one of the neighborhoods, caught myself a little pink light landin nearby, went to check it out. Wind up flying to the next street over and found the glowing girl leaving just as fast from one of the homes. As the pink bitch was flyin off, I pull out my phone and got me a pic of her.”

Gazing upon her cousins phone, Cayenne finds on the screen a sort of blurry photo of a shadowy figure surrounded in glowing pink trail through the night sky. “This it?” she wonders. “I...Well...Th-the hell did you expect in the midst of the action. This line of work ain’t about quality. Lucky I wound up getting what I did before the bitch flew off. Took off faster than a damn Lamborgini going down the hood at night, just racin to get outta there.” Inspecting the photo closely, Cayenne is able to make out some specifics of the runaway culprit; looking around to be a young teenage girl with long hair reaching her mid waist. Though she can’t make out much else from the womans figure underneath the shadows; she can tell that the source of the bright pink glow seems to be emanating from around her neck. These details fail to paint a hopeful picture for the spice queen, the voices of the merc and his two siblings claiming who the culprit may be ringing in her head. “Ty. Could you make out anything else? Like something about her hair?” Cayenne seriously question. “Well, seein as I got your attention. I was think that we could figure out what those CIA bitches be up to-” Interupting her cousins words, Cayenne grabs hold of Ty shoulders and brings him face to face; firmly questioning him: “What color was the hair, Tyquell?” “Damn girl, chill! It was red, kay. The hell’s the big deal for?” Having confirmed a wavering fear in head, Cayenne puts her cousin down and almost immediately sprints for the door; breaking down the door just as Bianca heads inside. “Aw, prima Cayenne leaving already. I was just finished making churro’s for us.”

As the spice queen speeds through the sunset kissed skies, she pulls out her phone and quickly attempts to call her best friend; hearing the dial go off on the other end. “Come on. Pick up, pick up, pick up, pick up, pick up.” Unfortunately for her, Kingsley fails to answer; his phone going straight to voicemail. “God dammit, Kingsley! Why won’t you answer!? This is something you need to hear.”

Dwelling within the dimly lit recesses of the Spicer abode, the young boy genius’s phone is left on silent as he peruses through the dozens of documents littering his desk. On the screen of his laptop lay the map of Townsville, with several lines and points decorating the east side of the city. “It has to be somewhere around there. The reports all mention what direction the suspect is going, all them pointing towards a general direction. But where are they putting the souls, they have to hold them somewhere big enough to fit all of them; somewhere nobody would bat an eye to...Wait...” Its in pondering such that he glances to the papers once more, taking another look at the report to read on the exact directions the witnesses claimed the suspect was heading. It all then dawns on him; rapidly sliding over to his laptop and gliding the mouse to the east part of the map as he claims that: “I know where they are.”

Just before he could circle the location he has in mind, the side of his bedroom wall suddenly busts inward; enveloping the entire room in a thick cloud of wall dust. As he coughs up the puffs of dust, the boy genius races out towards the direction of his door; reaching his arm out to its handle as he sprint. Just inches from the doorknob, a wayward pink beam blasts off the handle; keeping Kingsley from escaping. With nowhere to run, the boy genius gazes towards the light permeating from the dissipating clouds; witnessing a single floating figure slowly glide in. “No...No…Why?” Kingsley utters as he backs against the face of his shut door, the approaching figures bright pink light blanketing his own. Above the brightly lit stone hanging around the intruders neck formed a sinister grin; her red lock flowing along the sides of the young girls pink dress.

[unsettlingshortstories]

Premium Harmony

Stephen King (2009)

They’ve been married for ten years and for a long time everything was O.K.—swell—but now they argue. Now they argue quite a lot. It’s really all the same argument. It has circularity. It is, Ray thinks, like a dog track. When they argue, they’re like greyhounds chasing the mechanical rabbit. You go past the same scenery time after time, but you don’t see it. You see the rabbit.

He thinks it might be different if they’d had kids, but she couldn’t. They finally got tested, and that’s what the doctor said. It was her problem. A year or so after that, he bought her a dog, a Jack Russell she named Biznezz. She’d spell it for people who asked. She loves that dog, but now they argue anyway.

They’re going to Wal-Mart for grass seed. They’ve decided to sell the house—they can’t afford to keep it—but Mary says they won’t get far until they do something about the plumbing and get the lawn fixed. She says those bald patches make it look shanty Irish. It’s because of the drought. It’s been a hot summer and there’s been no rain to speak of. Ray tells her grass seed won’t grow without rain no matter how good it is. He says they should wait.

“Then another year goes by and we’re still there,” she says. “We can’t wait another year, Ray. We’ll be bankrupts.”

When she talks, Biz looks at her from his place in the back seat. Sometimes he looks at Ray when Ray talks, but not always. Mostly he looks at Mary.

“What do you think?” he says. “It’s going to rain just so you don’t have to worry about going bankrupt?”

“We’re in it together, in case you forgot,” she says. They’re driving through Castle Rock now. It’s pretty dead. What Ray calls “the economy” has disappeared from this part of Maine. The Wal-Mart is on the other side of town, near the high school where Ray is a janitor. The Wal-Mart has its own stoplight. People joke about it.

“Penny wise and pound foolish,” he says. “You ever hear that one?”

“A million times, from you.”

He grunts. He can see the dog in the rearview mirror, watching her. He sort of hates the way Biz does that. It occurs to him that neither of them knows what they are talking about.

“And pull in at the Quik-Pik,” she says. “I want to get a kickball for Tallie’s birthday.” Tallie is her brother’s little girl. Ray supposes that makes her his niece, although he’s not sure that’s right, since all the blood is on Mary’s side.

“They have balls at Wal-Mart,” Ray says. “And everything’s cheaper at Wally World.”

“The ones at Quik-Pik are purple. Purple is her favorite color. I can’t be sure there’ll be purple at Wal-Mart.”

“If there aren’t, we’ll stop at the Quik-Pik on the way back.” He feels a great weight pressing down on his head. She’ll get her way. She always does on things like this. He sometimes thinks marriage is like a football game and he’s quarterbacking the underdog team. He has to pick his spots. Make short passes.

“It’ll be on the wrong side coming back,” she says—as if they are caught in a torrent of city traffic instead of rolling through an almost deserted little town where most of the stores are for sale. “I’ll just dash in and get the ball and dash right back out.”

At two hundred pounds, Ray thinks, your dashing days are over.

“They’re only ninety-nine cents,” she says. “Don’t be such a pinchpenny.”

Don’t be so pound foolish, he thinks, but what he says is “Buy me a pack of smokes while you’re in there. I’m out.”

“If you quit, we’d have an extra forty dollars a week. Maybe more.”

He saves up and pays a friend in South Carolina to ship him a dozen cartons at a time. They’re twenty dollars a carton cheaper in South Carolina. That’s a lot of money, even in this day and age. It’s not like he doesn’t try to economize. He has told her this before and will again, but what’s the point? In one ear, out the other.

“I used to smoke two packs a day,” he says. “Now I smoke less than half a pack.” Actually, most days he smokes more. She knows it, and Ray knows she knows it. That’s marriage after a while. The weight on his head gets a little heavier. Also, he can see Biz still looking at her. He feeds the damn dog, and he makes the money that pays for the food, but it’s her he’s looking at. And Jack Russells are supposed to be smart.

He turns into the Quik-Pik.

“You ought to buy them on Indian Island if you’ve got to have them,” she says.

“They haven’t sold tax-free smokes on the rez for ten years,” he says. “I’ve told you that, too. You don’t listen.” He pulls past the gas pumps and parks beside the store. There’s no shade. The sun is directly overhead. The car’s air-conditioner only works a little. They are both sweating. In the back seat, Biz is panting. It makes him look like he’s grinning.

“Well, you ought to quit,” Mary says.

“And you ought to quit those Little Debbies,” he says. He doesn’t want to say this—he knows how sensitive she is about her weight—but out it comes. He can’t hold it back. It’s a mystery.

“I don’t eat those no more,” she says. “Any, I mean. Anymore.”

“Mary, the box is on the top shelf. A twenty-four-pack. Behind the flour.”

“Were you snooping?” A flush rises in her cheeks, and he sees how she looked when she was still beautiful. Good-looking, anyway. Everybody said she was good-looking, even his mother, who didn’t like her otherwise.

“I was hunting for the bottle opener,” he says. “I had a bottle of cream soda. The kind with the old-fashioned cap.”

“Looking for it on the top shelf of the goddam cupboard!”

“Go in and get the ball,” he says. “And get me some smokes. Be a sport.”

“Can’t you wait until we get home? Can’t you even wait that long?”

“You can get the cheap ones,” he says. “That off-brand. Premium Harmony, they’re called.” They taste like homemade shit, but all right. If she’ll only shut up about it.

“Where are you going to smoke, anyway? In the car, I suppose, so I have to breathe it.”

“I’ll open the window. I always do.”

“I’ll get the ball. Then I’ll come back. If you still feel you have to spend four dollars and fifty cents to poison your lungs, you can go in. I’ll sit with the baby.”

Ray hates it when she calls Biz the baby. He’s a dog, and he may be as bright as Mary likes to boast when they have company, but he still shits outside and licks where his balls used to be.

“Buy a few Twinkies while you’re at it,” he tells her. “Or maybe they’re having a special on Ho Hos.”

“You’re so mean,” she says. She gets out of the car and slams the door. He’s parked too close to the concrete cube of a building and she has to sidle until she’s past the trunk of the car, and he knows she knows he’s looking at her, seeing how she’s now so big she has to sidle. He knows she thinks he parked close to the building on purpose, to make her sidle, and maybe he did.

“Well, Biz, old buddy, it’s just you and me.”

Biz lies down on the back seat and closes his eyes. He may stand up on his back paws and shuffle around for a few seconds when Mary puts on a record and tells him to dance, and if she tells him (in a jolly voice) that he’s a bad boy he may go into the corner and sit facing the wall, but he still shits outside.

He sits there and she doesn’t come out. Ray opens the glove compartment. He paws through the rat’s nest of papers, looking for some cigarettes he might have forgotten, but there aren’t any. He does find a Hostess Sno Ball still in its wrapper. He pokes it. It’s as stiff as a corpse. It’s got to be a thousand years old. Maybe older. Maybe it came over on the Ark.

“Everybody has his poison,” he says. He unwraps the Sno Ball and tosses it into the back seat. “Want that, Biz?”

Biz snarks the Sno Ball in two bites. Then he sets to work licking up bits of coconut off the seat. Mary would pitch a bitch, but Mary’s not here.

Ray looks at the gas gauge and sees it’s down to half. He could turn off the motor and roll down the windows, but then he’d really bake. Sitting here in the sun, waiting for her to buy a purple plastic kickball for ninety-nine cents when he knows they could get one for seventy-nine cents at Wal-Mart. Only that one might be yellow or red. Not good enough for Tallie. Only purple for the princess.

He sits there and Mary doesn’t come back. “Christ on a pony!” he says. Cool air trickles from the vents. He thinks again about turning off the engine, saving some gas, then thinks, Fuck it. She won’t weaken and bring him the smokes, either. Not even the cheap off-brand. This he knows. He had to make that remark about the Little Debbies.

He sees a young woman in the rearview mirror. She’s jogging toward the car. She’s even heavier than Mary; great big tits shuffle back and forth under her blue smock. Biz sees her coming and starts to bark.

Ray cracks the window an inch or two.

“Are you with the blond-haired woman who just came in? She your wife?” She puffs the words. Her face shines with sweat.

“Yes. She wanted a ball for our niece.”

“Well, something’s wrong with her. She fell down. She’s unconscious. Mr. Ghosh thinks she might have had a heart attack. He called 911. You better come.”

Ray locks the car and follows her into the store. It’s cold inside. Mary is lying on the floor with her legs spread and her arms at her sides. She’s next to a wire cylinder full of kickballs. The sign over the wire cylinder says “Hot Fun in the Summertime.” Her eyes are closed. She might be sleeping there on the linoleum. Three people are standing over her. One is a dark-skinned man in khaki pants and a white shirt. A nametag on the pocket of his shirt says “mr. ghosh manager.” The other two are customers. One is a thin old man without much hair. He’s in his seventies at least. The other is a fat woman. She’s fatter than Mary. Fatter than the girl in the blue smock, too. Ray thinks by rights she’s the one who should be lying on the floor.

“Sir, are you this lady’s husband?” Mr. Ghosh asks.

“Yes,” Ray says. That doesn’t seem to be enough. “Yes, I am.”

“I am sorry to say, but I think she might be dead,” Mr. Ghosh says. “I gave the artificial respiration and the mouth-to-mouth, but . . .”

Ray thinks of the dark-skinned man putting his mouth on Mary’s. French-kissing her, sort of. Breathing down her throat right next to the wire cylinder full of plastic kickballs. Then he kneels down.

“Mary,” he says. “Mary!” Like he’s trying to wake her up after a hard night.

She doesn’t appear to be breathing, but you can’t always tell. He puts his ear by her mouth and hears nothing. He feels air on his skin, but that’s probably just the air-conditioning.

“This gentleman called 911,” the fat woman says. She’s holding a bag of Bugles.

“Mary!” Ray says. Louder this time, but he can’t quite bring himself to shout, not down on his knees with people standing around. He looks up and says, apologetically, “She never gets sick. She’s healthy as a horse.”

“You never know,” the old man says. He shakes his head.

“She just fell down,” the young woman in the blue smock says. “Not a word.”

“Did she grab her chest?” the fat woman with the Bugles asks.

“I don’t know,” the young woman says. “I guess not. Not that I saw. She just fell down.”

There’s a rack of souvenir T-shirts near the kickballs. They say things like “My Parents Were Treated Like Royalty in Castle Rock and All I Got Was This Lousy Tee-Shirt.” Mr. Ghosh takes one and says, “Would you like me to cover her face, sir?”

“God, no!” Ray says, startled. “She might only be unconscious. We’re not doctors.” Past Mr. Ghosh, he sees three kids, teen-agers, looking in the window. One has a cell phone. He’s using it to take a picture.

Mr. Ghosh follows Ray’s look and rushes at the door, flapping his hands. “You kids get out of here! You kids get out!”

Laughing, the teen-agers shuffle backward, then turn and jog past the gas pumps to the sidewalk. Beyond them, the nearly deserted downtown shimmers. A car goes by pulsing rap. To Ray, the bass sounds like Mary’s stolen heartbeat.

“Where’s the ambulance?” the old man says. “How come it’s not here yet?”

Ray kneels by his wife while the time goes by. His back hurts and his knees hurt, but if he gets up he’ll look like a spectator.

The ambulance turns out to be a Chevy Suburban painted white with orange stripes. The red jackpot lights are flashing. “castle county rescue” is printed across the front, only backward, so you can read it in your rearview mirror.

The two men who come in are dressed in white. They look like waiters. One pushes an oxygen tank on a dolly. It’s a green tank with an American-flag decal on it. “Sorry,” he says. “Just cleared a car accident over in Oxford.”

The other one sees Mary lying on the floor. “Aw, gee,” he says.

Ray can’t believe it. “Is she still alive?” he asks. “Is she just unconscious? If she is, you better give her oxygen or she’ll have brain damage.”

Mr. Ghosh shakes his head. The young woman in the blue smock starts to cry. Ray wants to ask her what she’s crying about, then knows. She has made up a whole story about him from what he just said. Why, if he came back in a week or so and played his cards right, she might toss him a mercy fuck. Not that he would, but he sees that maybe he could. If he wanted to.

Mary’s eyes don’t react to the ophthalmoscope. One E.M.T. listens to her nonexistent heartbeat, and the other takes her nonexistent blood pressure. It goes on like that for a while. The teen-agers come back with some of their friends. Other people, too. Ray guesses they’re being drawn by the flashing red lights on top of the Suburban the way bugs are drawn to a porch light. Mr. Ghosh takes another run at them, flapping his arms. They back away again. Then, when Mr. Ghosh returns to the circle around Mary and Ray, they come back.

One of the E.M.T.s says to Ray, “She was your wife?”

“Right.”

“Well, sir, I’m sorry to say that she’s dead.”

“Mary, Mother of God,” the fat lady with the Bugles says. She crosses herself.

“Oh.” Ray stands up. His knees crack. “They told me she was.”

Mr. Ghosh offers one of the E.M.T.s the souvenir T-shirt to put over Mary’s face, but the E.M.T. shakes his head and goes outside. He tells the little crowd that there’s nothing to see, as if anyone’s going to believe a dead woman on the Quik-Pik floor isn’t interesting.

The E.M.T. yanks a gurney from the back of the rescue vehicle. He does it with a single flip of the wrist. The legs fold down all by themselves. The old man with the thinning hair holds the door open and the E.M.T. pulls his rolling deathbed inside.

“Whoo, hot,” the E.M.T. says, wiping his forehead.

“You may want to turn away for this part, sir,” the other one says, but Ray watches as they lift her onto the gurney. A sheet has been tucked down at the end of it. They pull it up all the way, until it’s over her face. Now Mary looks like a corpse in a movie. They roll her out into the heat. This time, the fat woman with the Bugles holds the door for them. The crowd has retreated to the sidewalk. There must be three dozen people standing in the unrelieved August sunshine.

When Mary is stored, the E.M.T.s come back. One is holding a clipboard. He asks Ray about twenty-five questions. Ray can answer all but the one about her age. Then he remembers she’s three years younger than he is and tells them thirty-five.

“We’re going to take her to St. Stevie’s,” the E.M.T. with the clipboard says. “You can follow us if you don’t know where that is.”

“I know,” Ray says. “What? Do you want to do an autopsy? Cut her up?”

The girl in the blue smock gives a gasp. Mr. Ghosh puts his arm around her, and she puts her face against his white shirt. Ray wonders if Mr. Ghosh is fucking her. He hopes not. Not because of Mr. Ghosh’s brown skin but because he’s got to be twice her age.

“Well, that’s not our decision,” the E.M.T. says, “but probably not. She didn’t die unattended��”

“I’ll say,” the woman with the Bugles interjects.

“—and it’s pretty clearly a heart attack. You can probably have her released to the mortuary almost immediately.”

Mortuary? An hour ago they were in the car, arguing. “I don’t have a mortuary,” Ray says. “Not a mortuary, a burial plot, nothing. What the hell? She’s thirty-five.”

The two E.M.T.s exchange a look. “Mr. Burkett, there’ll be someone to help you with all that at St. Stevie’s. Don’t worry about it.”

The E.M.T. wagon pulls out with the lights still flashing but the siren off. The crowd on the sidewalk starts to break up. The countergirl, the old man, the fat woman, and Mr. Ghosh look at Ray as though he’s someone special. A celebrity.

“She wanted a purple kickball for our niece,” he says. “She’s having a birthday. She’ll be eight. Her name is Talia. Tallie for short. She was named for an actress.”

Mr. Ghosh takes a purple kickball from the wire rack and holds it out to Ray in both hands. “On the house,” he says.

“Thank you, sir,” Ray says, trying to sound equally solemn, and the woman with the Bugles bursts into tears. “Mary, Mother of God,” she says. She likes that one.

They stand around for a while, talking. Mr. Ghosh gets sodas from the cooler. These are also on the house. They drink their sodas and Ray tells them a few things about Mary. He tells them how she made a quilt that took third prize at the Castle County fair. That was in ’02. Or maybe ’03.

“That’s so sad,” the woman with the Bugles says. She has opened them and shared them around. They eat and drink.

“My wife went in her sleep,” the old man with the thinning hair says. “She just laid down on the sofa and never woke up. We were married thirty-seven years. I always expected I’d go first, but that’s not the way the good Lord wanted it. I can still see her laying there on the sofa.”

Finally, Ray runs out of things to tell them, and they run out of things to tell him. Customers are coming in again. Mr. Ghosh waits on some, and the woman in the blue smock waits on others. Then the fat woman says she really has to go. She gives Ray a kiss on the cheek before she does.

“Now you need to see to your business, Mr. Burkett,” she tells him. Her tone is both reprimanding and flirtatious.

He looks at the clock over the counter. It’s the kind with a beer advertisement on it. Almost two hours have gone by since Mary went sidling between the car and the cinder-block side of the Quik-Pik. And for the first time he thinks of Biz.

When he opens the door, heat rushes out at him, and when he puts his hand on the steering wheel to lean in he pulls it back with a cry. It’s got to be a hundred and thirty in there. Biz is dead on his back. His eyes are milky. His tongue is protruding from the side of his mouth. Ray can see the wink of his teeth. There are little bits of coconut caught in his whiskers. That shouldn’t be funny, but it is. Not funny enough to laugh at, but funny.

“Biz, old buddy,” he says. “I’m sorry. I forgot you were in here.”

Great sadness and amusement sweep over him as he looks at the baked Jack Russell. That anything so sad should be funny is just a crying shame.

“Well, you’re with her now, ain’t you?” he says, and this is so sad that he begins to cry. It’s a hard storm. While he’s crying, it comes to him that now he can smoke all he wants, and anywhere in the house. He can smoke right there at her dining-room table.

“You’re with her now, Biz,” he says again through his tears. His voice is clogged and thick. It’s a relief to sound just right for the situation. “Poor old Mary, poor old Biz. Damn it all!”

Still crying, and with the purple kickball still tucked under his arm, he goes back into the Quik-Pik. He tells Mr. Ghosh he forgot to get cigarettes. He thinks maybe Mr. Ghosh will give him a pack of Premium Harmonys on the house as well, but Mr. Ghosh’s generosity doesn’t stretch that far. Ray smokes all the way to the hospital with the windows shut and the air-conditioning on. 

[pinkshrubs]

South City Cats (Short Story)

I had just finished a fourteen-hour shift at Los Cerritos Elementary School. I remembered that day very vividly because I had to be there at six in the morning to set up the voting machines. Normally I wouldn’t get up before six but I thought this could be an exceptional way to” give back to my community” even though they were the ones paying me to work this junior election. I had never payed much attention to the politics around me or even on the news. To be honest I just found them amusing, not to be rude or anything but it’s sort of comical in a way. What the news and politics have in common is the fact that they would inform their audience about a particular story but they would never reveal the truth behind it, sort of like a mystery. And that could be fun for you but I didn’t necessarily have the time for that. I’m simple. I don’t pay attention to anything that’s not going to help me in the future, you know what I’m saying? How is any of that going to benefit me later in life? Not stubborn just realistic. But anyway, I get off from work and it's around three in the afternoon. I’m walking to my house on West Orange Avenue and I noticed that the sun was out and when I mean out I mean it was really out. I could literally feel the sun beaming hard on my back and I was shocked by the sun’s behavior that day. I lived in South San Francisco and the Bay Area is not known for its wondrous sunny days, it will never be known for that and if so I am waiting for that day because believe me it gets chilly over there. At this point all I want to do is lay on my twin mattress and listen to Ray LaMontagne. As soon as the music starts playing I received a text from Sita. On my way with Tea and Joplin, let’s hang out. Believe me I did not want to go. I was exhausted but it was a slow day and I had breaks so I thought why not hang out with them. I replied saying okay. I quickly gathered cash, debit card, and both identification cards. Sita drove a 2001 maroon Honda civic with an orange lining around her license plate because her family were huge Giants fans. It gets kind of annoying at times, the yelling and screaming but I came to the conclusion that all baseball fans were crazy and a little too excited to watch a team either score or not score a homerun. As you can clearly see baseball is not my thing. Two honks and I’m out the door. I lived in a four-bedroom yellow house with the most down to earth roommates I have ever had. We were four independent young women putting ourselves through life. Every time I walked out of my house I felt liberated, free to do anything that I wanted and I did. I was nineteen at the time and shit I lived my life my way one day a time. Opened and closed doors of her car and we all just smiled to each other. There weren’t any HI’s with us four just smiles and always smiles because we knew what we were going to do. “You guys wanna go to mission?” Joplin asked. “Yeah I go there all the time and the people there are super chill.” Tea showed so much excitement in her smile, it was pleasant. It amazed me how excited we all get just to pick up. By the way the term “pick up” refers to buying marijuana not just from dispensaries but from plugs as well which are drug dealers. Being from the Bay Area you can’t help but pick up the lingo so I apologize in advance if you can’t quite understand the terminology. Sita parks her car in a small parking lot near Las Brisas seafood restaurant which was right next to Cookies the dispensary. We each picked up a dub (2 grams) so a total of 8 grams. It wasn’t “fat” but it was enough for the day believe me. After that we headed towards Haight street because Tea wanted to buy a new bong and I thought I should get a new bong too. I always wanted a bong but not a tall one just a small piece because you can’t carry big bongs with you everywhere it’s just not smart you know. I believe that tall bongs or much larger pieces should stay at home where they belong. I remembered that I had to convince Tea to buy a small piece since we were going to Dolores Park anyway. “If we get caught dude or even robbed you’re gonna regret buying an expensive and beautiful piece, trust.” “Yeah you’re right next time though for sure.” she said sadly but waiting on the day she was going to come back for that bong. Both Tea and I bought small bongs for about twenty dollars, the smoke shop was having a sale that day. I liked to believe that we were lucky that day because let’s face it bongs can be expensive but when they’re cheap and workable it's oh so sweet. We had this thing where we would name our pieces because we felt like they were much more than just objects that we smoked out of. There’s a reason people threw blunts and joints away when they were done, they had no meaning, no ties to the person that was smoking it but pieces are a different story. You keep them forever and for as long as you want, naming them is just the icing on top. I have three now, Stacy, Judy, and Z. Simple but interesting at the same time. Tea named her’s Haightie, I wonder why. We parked at the very top of Dolores Park and walked down to the stairs near where the J train passed by. That bus stop had to be one of my favorites in all of San Francisco. There was just something about the route going towards downtown and the adolescent conversations in the air. It reminded me of my friends and how young we were. Life is beautiful, isn’t it? We sat on the stairs. I sat next to Tea and both Sita and Joplin sat one step below us. We smoked and talked about our lives and what was going on at the time. A group of freshman and sophomores approached us asking if they could use our lighter to light their blunt. It was so skinny that I felt bad because that was all they had to smoke. It was not a pretty scene. I offered to smoke them out and they were pretty high from what I remembered. I asked, “Where do you guys usually buy your dro from?” The short chubby guy with curly hair responded very quickly, “I have a plug in the city.” Joplin jumped in and said, “Is it dank? Is it sticky? Does it get you high?” The tall one nodded yes for the whole group. We looked at each other and we all thought the same thing. New customers for our growing business. “Aye if you guys want anything fresh just let us know.” Sita handing them our contact information. It was a text app number and a house number to a warehouse in Sacramento. I still remembered how thrilled they were that day. I would be too if I was 16 and without a rec (Marijuana card). We had forgotten that we parked the car all the way at the top so the walk up the hill was not pleasant for someone who was lit, stoned, blazed, baked, or whatever you guys call it nowadays. Sita didn’t like driving in the city under the influence because she had already been in two accidents while driving high. She wasn’t paranoid, she just played it smart. Tea however was always excited to drive in the city, it didn’t matter what state she was in, she just enjoyed driving in general. We drove to Serramonte Mall because they wanted to eat, I preferred real food when I’m high, never had the munchies for snacks and fast food. I wanted to live a long healthy life. During the ride home we discussed the raids that were going on in Sacramento. Somehow cops got word of illegal distribution of marijuana in their county but we weren’t worried. We trusted Pac. Everyone trusted Pac, but everyone knew to never cross him or else. He didn’t play any games. He was the type that didn’t waste time on anyone, he had no problem cutting you off from his list completely but if you made trouble you wouldn’t even exist on that list. A couple nights ago, Joplin and I were working real late around two in the morning. Pac had just finished selling two ounces to a wealthy client in San Diego. He had customers all over California. He only shared his wealthy client list to Dirty his long-time business partner. He found out that Dirty had been selling blow to some of his clients on the low. Pac was furious. He didn’t like being around that stuff, it reminded him of his mother. She was an addict until she overdosed in a cheap motel, turns out she was selling her body for that stuff. It made sense to why he didn’t want that stuff around his business but I didn’t expect him to take Dirty for a night ride into god knows where. Joplin and I left because we knew shit just went down. After that nothing was ever the same. We talked about that night in the car and chills were beginning to form on my body. I didn’t witness it but I knew. They had dropped me off around midnight and I just wanted to knock out. “What time are you guys coming in the morning?” I yawned. “Ten cause we have to be at work at twelve.” Sita explained. I nodded yes and carried on. I had dinner and dreamt all night. I woke up to the sounds of my roommate Kenzi fucking her boyfriend loud and apparently, he was pleasing her right since she was moaning pretty loud. All the roommates were comfortable around each other so pure fucking in the bedroom was normal on West Orange Ave. I blast the Return of 36 Chambers: The Dirty Version album by Ol’ Dirty Bastard while I was getting ready. ODB is awesome, I have so much respect for him, he changed rap music for me. I received a group message: Sita: Jules says we have to come in work ASAP, it’s an emergency. Tea: What happened? Sita: Idk. but we have to go soon. Joplin: I’m here, Franco gave me a ride. Jules is crying. Luna: I’m ready. Sita: On my way. Tea: meet you in front of Luna’s It took us about two hours without traffic so just imagine what we did on the way there. We were curious to what Jules must have been crying about. Maybe Pac and Jules had a fight or maybe he finally figured out that she was cheating on him. Everyone knew but no one wanted tell him. Only one would be dumb enough to put their nose where it didn’t belong. We arrived at the warehouse on G street near 19th and 20th street. Security checked us in and we were escorted into Jule’s office along with Joplin. Jules was sobbing so hard that the snot from her nose just kept running and running. I don’t think I’ve ever seen someone cry that hard over something. She had to pull herself together to tell us what was going on. Jules was the type to tell a person what the situation was even if it made others uncomfortable to hear it. She began, “Pac was found in the bathtub one shot to head. I called some people over to clean the house. I don’t want his murder in the papers. Whoever did this left a bag of coke on his body. Coke dealers are assholes. Anyway, I’m closing the warehouse as soon as we sell all of our plants. I don’t know how long that would take but I suggest you four start looking for depressing jobs at the mall or something.” I couldn’t believe it myself. Pac was dead. He was a good man to the four of us, he treated us like one of the homies. People were always afraid of him because he was your typical pants sagging thug looking black male. But he was sweet. He listened to a lot of Jill Scott whenever he was alone in his office. As soon as you walked in his office you would see a quote hanging on the wall and it says, “Your background ain’t squeaky clean shit, sometimes we all go to swim upstream, you ain’t no saint, we all are sinners but you put your good foot down and make your soul a winner.” Imagine reading that every day. I respected that. I like to think that he had an old soul. We didn’t know what to do. Should we stay or leave but we finished our shift instead. We were just trimmers and watched over the plants. We made sure that the correct lights were being used correctly and that each plant was getting enough sunlight for the plants grow properly. Sounds great but it was a lot of work. Joplin had pulled me aside and it seemed as if she wanted to tell me a secret, the kind that Tea and Sita knew nothing about. She had a concerned look on her face and it worried me. She explained to me that she might know what had happened to Pac. Her boyfriend Franco bought blow from Dirty from time to time only because he sold to him cheap. She didn’t even know that her own boyfriend was doing coke right under her nose. He told her that right after Dirty “disappeared” he noticed that a black 1965 Pontiac GTO was following him. He was wondering why but then it clicked to him. Franco had gone with Dirty to Beverly Hills to sell a kilo of coke to some rich white guy. Franco saw how much money Dirty was making and he was easily convinced. Show a guy some cash and they’ll pretty much do anything. They get to this Walter Springs house real late around two thirty, and he was having a coke party in his mansion. I didn’t know people actually partied hard like that, a party specifically for coke? That’s insane. They walked in the house and the place is packed with coke heads. Typical suburban cats everywhere. Walter signals Dirty to come upstairs. “Just be cool man, these cokeheads will look at you the wrong way if you look sus.” “I’m straight man.” “Good.” Walter was a son of some Hollywood producer so he had money to blow. “Wassup fellas, wanna do a line?” He didn’t even introduce himself just offered a line of coke for hospitality he probably thought. Dirty didn’t want to stay there for long so it was a quick exchange. Sixty-six thousand for a kilo of coke. Somehow Dirty had the idea that he could skimp Walter because he was from Beverly Hills. Turns out he sold Walter half a kilo for the same price and walked out of the mansion a happy man. He told Franco that was going to be his last drop. Franco didn’t question it until he saw the other half of coke in his glove compartment. He knew that Dirty had just played the worst move you could ever do with selling drugs on the streets. It’s one thing to skimp a dime for twenty dollars but to skimp someone of sixty-six thousand dollars is crossing the line. Shit like that just doesn’t exist in the Bay Area is just doesn’t. “That’s when he figured that the guy in the Pontiac was Walter Springs. He said that he followed him from San Francisco to Davis where he lives.” Joplin explained. Franco had gotten out of the car and the look on Walter’s face scared the shit out of him. He held a gun to his head and said, “You think you and your buddy could play me in my own town?” He was so high off of coke that he couldn’t stop sticking his tongue out at Franco. “Hey man I had no idea he was gonna do that to you I swear.” Franco cried. “So where is he?” “I haven’t seen him since that day.” He knew that Dirty was nowhere to be found but he felt that Walter didn’t need to know that sort of information. “Who’s his boss?!” Pressing the gun hard on the side of his forehead. “Wait wait wait wait wait! His name is Pac. He has a warehouse in Sacramento on G street very easy to find.” He was so scared that he was going to piss his pants but that’s understandable, being held at gunpoint for no reason is one the most frightening thing a person could ever experience. Walter removed the gun from Franco’s face and licked his face goodbye. Creepy and disgusting, coke heads I guess. As Joplin is telling me the story I’m thinking maybe Walter killed Pac. “You wanna take a trip to Beverly Hills tonight?” I asked Joplin. “Doesn’t that Walter guy lives in Beverly Hills? Oh my gosh you wanna go there huh?” “Dude why not find out if he killed Pac or not. We’re not detectives dude we’re just two girls looking for a party. Don’t you wanna find out who did it?” “Okay fine. I’ll ask Franco if I can borrow his car tonight but if he asks I’m sleeping over at your place, okay?” “Yeah no problem.” I went home with Sita and Tea. The car ride was extremely awkward for me. I felt weird about not telling them what Joplin told me but the less people who knew the better it’ll be. “What’s up dude what did Joplin tell you?” Sita asked. “Nothing she thinks Franco is cheating on her but I told her not to stress about it.” “Dang what if he was though, that would be crazy huh.” Tea wondered. Caress me down was playing on the radio and I slowly turned it up leaving the conversation hushed. I said hi to my roommates and packed a bag for the road. Joplin texted. I’ll be there at 8 ok. I replied quickly. Luna: I’m gonna take a nap so honk really loud. Joplin: Loud enough for the neighbors to hear? Luna: Fuck it. I think that was one of the best naps I have ever taken. I slept good. I heard the intensity of the honks and I thought wow she really didn’t give any fucks. I said bye to my roommates and Twyla said, “You’re always going somewhere. Where are, you going tonight?” “I’m going to a party in Beverly Hills.” “You better be careful there, those people don’t give a damn what happens to you.” “Gotchu. Don’t worry I’m going with Joplin.” Little did she know. I sat in the passenger seat and Joplin pointed to the two nine-millimeter pistol silencers in the back seat. And all she said was, “Let’s pray that we won’t have to use these tonight.” I didn’t know what to say. I had never used a gun before in my life but I didn’t know that she had any experience either. Clearly Joplin was not the person to fuck with. It took us about six hours to get there without traffic. Joplin found the address in Franco’s phone. It took two glances to realize where I recognized that address from. “Hey, remember when we were in Jules office today?” I asked. “Yeah why?” “Did you see this exact address written on her whiteboard? She made a note to herself to be there tonight.” “You know I think I saw it too but I’m not sure.” “Change of plans. We should be ghost tonight.” “No one knows our name or where we’re from. If anything, we’re a bunch a groupies tonight, nothing more.” It was the perfect plan. We were going to scope the place out without being seen by Walter or Jules. Joplin parked the car two blocks away from the house. We changed into our groupie outfits and we were instantly Lola and Joy from the Valley. It was so hard walking those two blocks wearing pumps. The struggles of a female. We get to the house and the place is packed with once again coke heads but now I see it with my own eyes. We stood out for real. The only nonwhites at the party. We couldn't help but stand out. Not my fault that this Walter guy didn’t have any friends outside of his race. But hey it is Beverly Hills, gotta remember that. The plan was to enter the mansion together and leave together no matter what. We did not waste any time at all but the thing was we didn’t know what Walter looked like just Jules. We each took down a martini but eating the olive was my favorite part. We socialized and a met a guy named Adrian. He was coming on to Joplin but she didn’t even bother to acknowledge him. I told her to be nice because we were there for one reason only, Pac’s shooter. “You know where we could find some…” Joplin tapping her nose. “Yeah you guys wanna have a couple lines with me? We could go to a private room upstairs.” We nodded yes and followed him up the stairs. He took both our hands and guided us to a room that was awfully close to a darkroom. Red lights were everywhere. The darkroom led to several rooms and soon we were in the same room as Jules and a man we believed to be Walter. She didn’t recognize us. She didn’t even bother to look at us. I assumed she didn’t pay any attention to Valley type girls. While Joplin did a couple lines in the background I asked Adrian how Jules knew Walter. He said that they were cousins from the area. I had no idea that they were even related. Jules told us that she was from the Bay, born and raised. It was one of the main reasons why Pac fell in love with her in the first place. I wondered why she lied about where she came from, perhaps she thought that we would all judge her but who knows at this point. She leaves the room and I make my way towards Walter. He saw what he liked and he didn’t waste any time. “I love chocolate.” That's what he said to me. I laughed in my head but I just smiled and sat right next to him. I didn’t know how much time I had before Jules would walk back in the room. “You wanna go somewhere quiet?” I flirtingly asked him. I guess he was shocked that I was somewhat “interested” but I just wanted answers. He quickly grabbed my hand and his hands were so warm, I never wanted him to let go. As we leave the room I signaled Joplin a peace sign to let her know that I was leaving. He takes me to the pool house behind the mansion. Joplin carefully follows us out back. He opens the door and takes me to the bed. His slow kisses on my neck felt gratifying. He smelled like Pina colada. He gently moves his hands up my dress and before he could proceed I saw Joplin’s face in the window. I burst out a giggle and he gave me a strange look. Next thing I knew Joplin busts open the door and immediately points the pistol at him. I get up and quickly close the door behind her. “Oh so you guys wanna play rough? Okay I can dig it.” Excitement shooting through his pants. “No we want to know if you came to see Pac or not? You know your cousin’s boytoy.” It was the high taking over Joplin. But she seemed rational enough to handle a weapon. “I have no idea what you’re talking about baby.” I surprised myself by clocking the gun to his head and I asked the question again. “Did you or did you not shoot Pac in his home?” “Why you guys wanna know? Where are you guys from?” “Don’t worry about it rich kid. Just tell us. A simple yes or no.” “No.” “Then who because we all know you were in town the day he died so what’s up. Beverly Hills cat driving to the city for the weather? I don’t think so mister.” Joplin stated, and she was right. She was annoyed by his presence and his lack of cooperation. She decided to shoot him in the foot and he screamed “You bitch!” I had to laugh but shit just got serious. Joplin shot someone. “Are you gonna tell us what went down or not man?” I asked. “Fine. I told Jules that Dirty tried to skimp me out of a kilo. I knew that he worked for Pac because he sold me bud from time to time. He came with some short guy with a hairy face.” “That guy is my boyfriend” “Nice one. Anyway, I follow this guy to his house and I’m acting all badass waving my gun around. He immediately sells out Pac. I go to his warehouse and I find Jules there. She tells me that Pac found coke in her car and blames it on Dirty. She tells him that he’s been slangin that yayo to his wealthy clients like me. Somehow Dirty miraculously disappears into thin air and no one sees him.” At this point all I wanna do is tape his mouth shut. I asked for one thing and he gives a play by play. “Get on with it dude!” We both shouted. “After we leave the warehouse we drive back to the city to her place. She confessed to me that Dirty was her lover and that he gave her aids. She got her test results earlier that day. I walked inside with her and there’s Pac sitting in the kitchen waiting for her.” “So you gave me aids? Who the fuck have you been sleeping with?” She had to tell him there was no point to keeping it a secret anymore. Too late for that. “It doesn’t matter anymore, he’s dead.” She started sobbing. “Who Dirty? I just told him that he couldn’t cross California state lines or else.” “But but.” “You stupid bitch!” He rushed towards her but before he could even lay a finger on her, Dirty took one shoot to the head through the back door. I forgot that he was good with guns. “So Dirty shot Pac?” Joplin asked “Yes.” he answered. “And you and Jules cleaned the house and dumped the body?” “Yes” “Where?” “I can’t say.” “Fair enough.” “Are you guys gonna take me to the hospital now?” We looked each other then looked back at him. Threw him a pair of some keys that were laying on the table. “Drive yourself rich kid.” Joplin said “How can you live with yourself knowing that you shot a person in the foot?” I said, “The exact same way you witness a murder and not tell anyone about it.” As we walked out the door exiting the back of the Mansion, we see Dirty and Jules staring hard into each other’s eyes. I didn’t know how I felt about it but I knew that I did not want to be involved. We walk towards the car passing the jay back and forth. An elderly white lady was walking her dog and she looked at our skanky outfits with such animosity and says, “How can you girls live with yourself dressing like that?” I laughed and said, “One day at a time lady.”

[gabe-wallace]

Dust & Rattling Bones || Self Para

SCCU Fall Festival Task (Baking Contest & Cornhole Tournament) (if you squint... fuck u I’m counting it anyway) Words: 1,659 Summary: Gabe goes to visit his mother for the first time in awhile.

Gabe's careful steps were accompanied by the faintest crunching of brown grass as he picked his way carefully through headstones. He took large, hesitant steps over people's graves and looked around him warily as he made his way towards an unassuming, pinkish stone. He had never found cemeteries scary or creepy, but there were other ghosts that lingered here.

He'd already taken his accustomed pause in the car, where he closed his eyes and let a fantasy play behind his closed eyes. He might cross the graveyard gate, take the bend in the road and notice a young woman standing in front of his parent's stone. She would be facing away from him, but her hair would be just as brown and wild as his own, and the unguarded stoop of her shoulder would speak to the same ragged edge of sadness he felt here in this lonely place. His heart would begin to pound, and he would pause, find the courage to call "Bekah?" and when he did she would turn, see him. Maybe she'd call "Gabe?" back, maybe she'd just recognize him after all these years. Someone would scream with joy, Gabe would feel tears on his cheeks. They'd run towards each other, heedless of the stones and years between them, and he'd wrap his long lost finally found sister in his arms, and then, and then, and then...

It hadn't happened. It was heartbreaking in the way most of his past was, an aching, bleeding wound square in his chest. But he poked at this particular wound enough that small jabs at it didn't hurt anymore. If he ignored it (or convinced himself that he was able to ignore it) it wasn't too hard to keep going about his life.

He took his second accustomed pause. The stone was made for two people- couples or siblings or parents and their child. Gabe always made sure to approach it from the back, to give himself time to examine how he might feel if he came around the side of it and found not one but two set of dates staring at him. Let down. Disappointed. He decided after a moment. It would be discouraging to have never found his father alive, and to never be able to tell him that he was a giant asshole to his face. 

As they'd been every time he'd visited so far, he fears were completely unfounded. It was only the one date that he would never, could never, forget. January 7th, 2005. He settled into the grass straight in the middle of the double stone, bunching his backpack under his head as a makeshift pillow and shoving his knock off aviators higher up on his nose. He had lived in Southern California his entire life, but he still loathed the heat- he was sure he could live here his entire life and never grow used to it.

He laid his hands gently on his chest, staring up at the cloudless blue sky and letting the relentless sun beat down on him. He hadn't been out here since this summer, when most of his roommates had headed home for weeks if not months at a time, and there had been no one to question where he was going. He'd have a farmer's tan by the time all was said and done, and everyone would assume he'd been out at the Carnival, or doing yard work for people with more money than motivation, and that was how he wanted things. He didn't talk about his past for a reason, and he certainly didn't talk about this.

It felt a little bit like regressing, honestly. He wondered if it was healthy, to curl up on his mother's grave, to run his fingers over the date and name on her stone in lieu of a face to touch or hand to hold, or tell her about his life as if she could listen and understand. That was a question for some far off future where he had enough money for a therapist. And the therapist could wait until he hired a private investigator to find the missing members of his family, bought a more reliable car and a better computer to code on, and treated all of his friends and foster family who had helped him along the way to a big fancy party. Until then.

"Hey Mom." Gabe murmured to the sky, eyes closed and he pictured Gloria Wallace as he had last seen her- brown curls a messy halo around her head, smiling from the driver's seat of the family's Volkswagen, blowing a kiss at her children as Gabe walked Bekah up the stairs of their school. (Gabe didn’t count her funeral, of course.) It was easy to picture her now, or how she might have been. A tiny woman, smaller than him now, leaning over their worn kitchen counter with paint smeared on her cheek and clay under her nails, exhausted from dealing with teenagers all day, peering at Gabe over the rim of a tea mug filled with orange juice- How’s college baby? Still liking your roommates? And your classmates? Not partying too hard now that’s you’re twenty one and making your mother feel older by the minute? I don’t have to ask about your grades, you’ve always been so smart- don’t know where you got that from. 

Another prod to the gaping hole in his chest, this one a little harder than the last. He was fine, he was fine. Another two years, then maybe he’d have time to break down over all of these small hurts.

“Hi Mom.” He said again, his voice slightly rougher. "I miss you, same as usual, you’re probably getting tired of hearing it every time. Tough, because I still do. It's Fall Festival time again, and I thought I'd pay you a visit. I remember how much you used to love it. I remember every year you'd sign up to enter the baking contest, and every year you got to run and you lost you'd complain about the wasted money, and dad would say it wasn't wasted if you enjoyed yourself, and you would say you'd enjoy it more if you had won. I heavily identify because I too hate wasting money, no matter how much enjoyment I might get out of wasting it. That’s why I hate strip clubs... You know, I know you know I’m kidding and would have laughed if you were here, and that still felt way too awkward. Anyway."

Gabe shook his head as much as he could with the book bag shoved under his head, grinning. "Bekah and I liked it when you entered the baking contest. We got to eat all your practice batches and accidents. We were accidents too, so we identified. Ba dum tssk. (Jesus Mom, this hiding my trauma through humor thing gets exhausting.) But I still miss those maple-apple-pumpkin cupcakes with that cinnamon cream cheese frosting- the ones you made the Fall Festival before- all of that. Bekah and I tried to make them for dad after. We thought maybe they'd cheer dad up. Bekah had this idea in her head that if we could just make him laugh he'd suddenly get better, and I was just desperate for him to not drink so much that night that I was willing to try.

We made just the biggest mess of the kitchen, and we didn't make the right of course. The frosting was basically just pure cream cheese with powdered sugar and about half a jar of cinnamon added. The batter was running and wouldn't sit up, and I had dumped so much vanilla extract into it was was nigh on inedible, but we still got so excited when dad came home, we ran to show him... I think I had this naive idea that it would be like the movies, where the parent is still sad, but seeing the kids had tried to cheer them up made an impression on them, and they at least tried to fake it better for them... Of course that's not what happened, but you know." Matthew Wallace had barely blinked at the food, had instead sighed, told them to clean up the mess and clean the dishes, and stumbled to his recliner with a bottle of Jack Daniel's already in his fist. Bekah had thrown the cupcake pan on the floor sobbing and ran to her room, and Gabe had spent the next two hours quietly cleaning the kitchen and biting his lip so his own cries weren't audible.

Rubbing his eyes under his sunglasses, Gabe sighed, letting his arms flop back to the ground and shaking his head again. "Whatever Mom. I know you have some things to say him, when it comes time. Kick him in the balls once or twice for me if you see him before I do. I didn't mean to go on a tangent. I just wanted to say that I saw the ads for the baking contest and it made me think of you."

"Did I tell you that this year they're importing corn for a corn maze? It's wild Mom, and there's some game called 'Cornholes' or something that's a big Midwestern thing. It just sounds dirty to me, but while someday I'm sure the Fall Festival will be dying for Gabe Wallace to show up as some kind of celebrity judge or wealthy alumni, in the here and now they don't give a shiiii-uck. Shuck. They just don’t give a shuck. That sounds even worse. Sorry Mom. Anyway. I thought about signing up for the tournament, it's this big competitive thing and some of the people on my Quidditch team wanted to do it, but in the immortal words of an exploited person of color 'ain't nobody got time for that'. Oh- You know mom, I wish more than anything you were still around so I could show you memes, because I know for a fact you would find them hilarious."