in reference to that post abt hands i just rbed can u imagine putting kakucho's fingers in ur mouth. like. he would not know what to do with himself im afraid

[this one seems written on a typewriter, it smells faintly of cigarettes and bourbon, and the petrichor of an old brick building in the turn-of-equinnox rain. You decide it's best not to question how it got typed onto the page, or how it's fitting into a single page at all]

Day 39 of Tourdust:

The smell of burning tobacco in the wind, chasing the direction of long lost loves and triumphs, reached the office from outside. We had agreed on a policy of no smoking in here, but it added to the atmosphere. Knowledge of recent secrets we would take to our grave weighed heavy on us, feeling like an anchor, or like a curse.

He walked into the offices of the Foblr Agency of Noir Sleuthing, all flowing blonde hair and tight leather hugging his legs. But that didn't matter much to us, not tonight. We could immediately tell his face spelled trouble for the upcoming concert. He fell onto the chair opposite our desk, arm covering those red, teary eyes, devoid in this era of the eyeliner streaks that would surely have covered his cheeks decades prior; roses draped across his chest and shoulders, peeking over the hoodie he carelessly shrugged on. We will never forget the way he wept "The man on my daydreams and nightmares, my cuddly teddy bear, my semi-sweet full time problem, my Patrick has been murdered!", it was mournful like the call of a loon. They say your mind's a safe, and if you keep it then we all get rich. But perhaps loons is what would become of us, for accepting this case.

The drizzle and clouds painted a gloomy mood as we accompanied Pete back to the scene to start our investigation. Despite our best attempts at using this opportunity to get more information on what had happened all we gained were extensive diatribes about how special and talented Patrick was, the tiniest details about him enough to bring a warm smile of reminiscence that soon turned into a frown and tears as he remembered why he was speaking to us and leading us to the venue. Every time one of us would have to take the moment to pat his back and gently get him to calm down before we could carry on, not that many of us minded lending him our handkerchief to dry his tears with. The worst was when in the middle of an anecdote he realized he could not remember, and would not have those good old days again. If home is where the heart is then he was just fucked. Before long we decided it was best to leave well enough alone lest the waterworks broke open again, we were not getting anything out of him anyway.

Our arrival at the venue was interrupted by an altercation as we approached, two security guards denying entry to who we'd come to realize was Joe. The man was waving his arms around, trying to explain he'd just come back and was part of the performing acts, that he should be allowed back in, but it wasn't until Pete broke from the almost Victorian mournful stance he had adopted ever since he’d given up on talking and we’d given up on pressing, and presented his ID to assure security both Joe and us were with him that we'd all be allowed through.

Joe turned to us wild eyed when he realized the state Pete was in and him being accompanied by us. Pete was unable to explain himself, he got as far as telling us he "couldn't bear to-" and then brought one hand to wipe away a tear as he completely changed his train of thought into "Oh, bear. Patrick was a bear.", this past tense was enough to clue Joe in, on what was going on, or perhaps on what was known. After dragging a confirmation out of Pete he made his excuses and left "To process this shit" he'd said.

We were led through the venue's corridors directly backstage, where Pete waved off this tall, delicate man he had apparently trusted enough with securing the scene and dramatically crumbled to the floor on his knees in front of something he immediately picked up, clutching it so tight to his chest we could not at first make out what it was, it was only as he raised it to his face to wipe a tear that we saw it was a green baseball cap, with a dark red, almost black splatter onto one side. Blood. Not too much of it, but the pieces were starting to fall down into place.

"This! This is where it happened! And now this is all I have left of him!" our blonde cried, but every time we asked him to explain he just mumbled to the hat and what little we could make out he had already told us, or was lost in his grief muttering to this hat that he'd do lines of dust and sweat off last night's stage just to feel like it, or himself.

Not knowing what else to do, we used this time to look around. We had expected a corpse to be there, or something, anything more than a single hat. Upon further inspection we did find some more blood, it looked like a short name was written in it, but one of our shoes smudged it as we passed. Some instrument cases and cabling were strewn around. We examined those but nothing was out of the ordinary; flamethrower bass in its place, mic stand completely devoid of blood, although we did not brave turning on a UV lamp around this place. There were a couple of branches off to the side among the drumsticks, which we took note of as being out of place, but for all we knew drumming with branches instead of sticks was going to be a fun new twist in their never-ending series of new and exciting ways to be unhinged.

More pressing than all that was, maybe, the giant shark, that was for some reason just lying backstage, not far from where the lead singer had been murdered and from whom apparently the only thing left of was a baseball cap covered in blood.

The commotion drew Andy's attention, we didn't know where he came from but what we did know was that upon meeting eyes with us he startled for a moment, like he was expecting his existence to go unnoticed, before regaining composure and looking for all the world like he was just as lost about what had happened to Patrick as everyone else. But a moment is all it took for us to take note, we said nothing of the way his quiet seemed usual yet his demeanor did not, but deep down our suspicions started to take root, for as much as the situation called for seriousness, a man like him would not have passed up the opportunity to incite or set up even a single joke, if nothing else to lighten up the mood.

He noticed we were staring at this giant shark, the one that was, again, for some reason just lying backstage, not far from where the lead singer had been murdered and from whom apparently the only thing left of was a baseball cap covered in blood; and said, all smiles like it was only natural that the most pressing question in our minds would be the well-being of this sea creature "The shark is fine. It is a vegan land shark, don't worry about it. He's a friend of mine."

That, however, did prove useful to our line of thinking.

"So, it doesn't eat meat? Aren't sharks obligate carnivores?" we asked, to clarify the elephant, or rather, shark, in the room.

"Nope, not land sharks. They're good with veggies, this one really likes pumpkins!"

To say we didn't trust this statement would be putting it lightly. But they both looked so polite. We couldn't just accuse him of bullshitting us. We certainly couldn't just accuse him of having killed Patrick with a shark.

Having finished our investigation of the scene, and I refuse to waste ink with details about how the presence of a (step)ladder sparked a brief but passionate argument between us, we turned our attention back to Pete, who seemed to have calmed down enough that we could lend him a hand to stand up so we could hopefully continue this investigation.

He accepted the proffered hand, murmuring something about how he should have bought those knee pads months ago and led us towards the rest of the venue to take a look, never loosening his grip on the hat.

We were running out of ideas, we were running out of time. There was very little new in the way of clues we'd gathered outside the scene of the crime other than a few more dramatically tearful anecdotes, the internet service was shit with no way of contacting the outside, and to make matters worse things had taken a turn ever since Bubbles spotted us and decided to growl at us.

"I heard you were not against using unconventional methods to get results." Pete said. For a second we thought he wanted us to, let's just say, bend the law to get to the bottom of this. We'd have been willing to, albeit largely unfamiliar with the Dutch legal system. But of course it was never this simple with him. He quickly produced a beautiful Ouija board, all dark wood and with a planchette that looked like it was meant to fit with Joe's incredibly sexy guitar, and all but begged to let us try this method to contact Patrick.

Devoid of any further clues or options, we agreed. Might as well put some of the candles to good use for things other than shrines to the Malibu MILF Jesus For Gay People. We let Pete conduct the session, and he brought Andy and Joe along to it, but they resolutely refused to join in. We thought they would have, for the sake of humouring Pete or for the sake of hiding what they knew. Or perhaps they didn't join to dissuade any accusations of messing with the board to clear themselves.

The board was set right where Pete found the hat, which he reluctantly had to stop clutching to his heart and set aside to actually conduct the session. The candles were lit and we all held hand with him before he started.

"Patrick, please, if you're here, give me a sign, I'm looking for your name on the Ouija board, not like, hit me baby one more time. Or, actually, like, if you want to hit me to let me know you're here that would also be fucking okay."

Now, not to discount the existence of anything beyond the veil or anything, but hopes were not exactly high for anything to come out of this. We thought we were just doing a kindness to a very distressed man. We did not think the planchette would move at all, let alone be pulled with quite the intent to, somewhat clumsily, spell P-A-T-R-I-C-K. Our eyes were trained on Pete, certain he had to be fucking with us, moving this himself. But his expression was too genuine, he couldn't fake this. He's too shitty an actor for that and we knew that.

Before he could ask a second question, the planchette started moving again. For a moment there we held our breath as it slowed near the S, but it moved a little further to the G and thus continued spelling G-O-L-D-E-N-C-A-T-C-H before very resolutely going towards the goodbye sign and staying there, no matter what else was asked of it.

Dejected at having lost this last line of contact, Pete led the closing goodbyes, snuffed out the candles and picked the hat again clutching it with both hands over his chest once more, sobbing quietly.

Despite our instincts to not take too much stock on the answers of an Ouija board, we found ourselves mulling over the message. Golden catch. Our minds turned to Donnie, the catcher. To Andy, who seemed to be having the same idea and was suddenly the picture of shy adorable nerd who has sworn off violence and would never hurt a fly, much less his beloved friend. But maybe these friends, rather than being golden, rather than being stars, they had turned out to be black holes. After all, the stars that burn the brightest end up turning into them, in the end.

What we all had confused as another wave of thankfully quieter and less theatrical crying, however, turned out to be Pete thinking. When he spoke up, his voice was strained.

"Joe. What was your favourite song in the current album?"

"Huh, what? Kintsugi Kid, you know this. You asked me the other night again when we were deciding on 8 balls"

"Shh, I don't know what you're talking about, The Magic 8 Ball decides on what we're playing itself, we have no power over it. But you know, the kintsugi thing? they do that with like, gold to fill in the cracks. Like Golden."

That's when we understood where he was going with this, he understood the message with a logic we could never comprehend, the cryptophasia working seemingly even from beyond the grave. It dawned on Joe too. He paled first, then winced with grief, finally settling on a sigh of relief.

"Fuck, you will really believe me if I admit it now. You won't think I'm just trying to protect Andy or I'm just saying it because somebody should please take me to solitary confinement so I can finally rest." His head hung low, and he took a pause to try and compose himself before speaking again "It is true. I killed him. It was a stupid accident I swear, I was fucking around with Andy's drumsticks and- and I thought it would be funny to chuck one to Patrick's head and act like it was Andy who did that." at this he had to pause, voice increasingly trembling "I- I didn't think i threw it that hard but then when I came back you were a mess and you had brought backup to investigate and you kept talking about Patrick in the past tense-"

It was then that a voice echoed from the hall "Okay, no. We're not leaving Joe to forever rest in an Amsterdam jail. He's not even a drummer, he would not even get to enjoy the acoustic-"

Whatever Patrick was going to say next was interrupted by Pete launching himself to the man and clinging with a kind of desperation that seemed 14 years too old and putting the hat back where it belonged amidst half coherent mumblings of being glad he was okay. A few of us swore he sneaked in a kiss to the temple as he did so, but the rest us remain unconvinced chalking it up to wishful thinking, or maybe tinfoil thinking, or maybe we were still reeling trying to understand how this seemingly physical apparition, no, this seemingly *alive* Patrick had shown up out of nowhere.

Besides, in line with all we had been suspecting and in contrast to Pete's joyful disbelief, the other two seemed stuck in a frozen state. Staring at a scene that in itself we were sure should not have incited that much shock.

After what seemed to be some time of just letting Pete have his moment, Patrick managed to wrestle himself out of the cuddle he was being held in enough to point at Joe and throw, thankfully metaphorical, daggers at him "I'm still pissed that you threw the drumsticks at me! It's been more than twenty years will you ever stop cutting my face open with instruments? and you!" he pointed at Andy "What the hell did you throw your shark next to me for!?"

"He got stuck on top of my tree and I felt guilty so I tried to help him down. Then I heard you scream and I panicked, assumed you were now a pile of goo under my friend and if I have to miss my wedding because of manslaughter Mere would make sure I'd be the man slaughtered, and I couldn't have that" he shrugged "I felt really bad about it though."

Pete pulled him and Joe to join the hug, and after thinking about it hummed "Patrick, if you weren't horrifically murdered by a series of crazy accidents that, really, could not happen to any other band, where were you? where were you even hiding?"

Patrick sighed with the weary expression of someone whose job description has unofficially included the title of Pete Wentz wrangler for over twenty years and considered him for a moment, as if wandering at the mystery that is the Wentzian logic "Everything was too chaotic and I kept getting almost horrifically murdered" he paused to give him a meaningful look and add air quotes at that "So I went below the stage to play Pokemon. You know there's space there, remember that time you shot me out of a cannon from below the stage? If you really needed me you could have looked for me. Maybe instead of assuming I was dead."

Pete suddenly tore away from basking in finally having gotten the hug he'd been spending months begging for, startled by a realization "Wait a fucking second! If you are alive and here, what did I contact with the Ouija board?!"

Patrick merely chuckled, he didn't answer but he sneakily flashed a magnet into our field of vision and winked. It was perhaps the deadliest weapon all day.

At long last we were accompanied out by all four of them, we let out a long sigh as we walked away from the venue, ready to go back to our office and rest after this chaotic evening. But when Pete called out to us and waved, what he said next would leave a chill down our spine:

"Hope we see you all again soon, bye! Hey, and Spi? Don't even think to try and kill my dear honey boo boo again okay?"

All this time. He knew everything.

aAAA the joy of seeing an update on your current favorite fanfic is just aAAA

I always felt that kiwami 1s Nishiki was just a bit too,, I dont know how to describe it; but essentially he just felt off, granted yakuza 1 is a product of its time and therefore the plot is a bit dated and whack as all hell

The way you write Nishiki just feels so much better and realistic; in the original he just seems so uncaring towards Kiryu? which just feels kinda OOC? You'd think he still cares about Kiryu despite it all, especially when you take Yakuza 0 into consideration; and i feel like you portray Nishiki much more accurately

I never thought much about Yumi, because honestly, in the original she was kinda just, there? You actually made her a very interesting person! like I'm actually invested in her in your story! (side note you ever think about her clone who got tortued and died? yeah who WAS that???? thats never brought up is it??)

Theres so much more to talk about but in short; This is the best fix it/rewrite of a game plot I have read to date and it brings me joy in my current stressful school life. and no I will not stop praising it or the author, because this work has made me very happy. ;)

I just have a gift for picking favorites that end up dying,,aand another favorite of mine is Mine

imo theres a lack of soft, reassuring Minedai, i just feel like he'd need a reminder that people love him as a person and not just for the money he can provide, even if its obvious

I'd love to see how you'd write them, but I understand if theres more interesting/appealing drabble requests!

- Carp

CARP, thank you for this <3 this is so sweet!!!!! I’m so happy you enjoy my Nishiki! I had fun playing with what Yakuza 0/the Kiwami additions gave us about Nishiki’s personality and outlook on the world, and trying to reconcile that with the plot that Yakuza 1 initially had. Ultimately, I fell on the side that you did: even if Nishiki’s ambition took him down a monstrous path, I don’t think he’s the sort of person who neglects to pay back his debts. And he’s aware of the huge debt he owes Kiryu. Not to mention, their bonds of trust and love vanishing completely because of jealousy felt unreal to me. Their relationship becoming twisted or strange? Yes, but vanishing entirely felt unsatsifying to me. 

And Yumi!! I had so much fun excavating her character from the clues we get of her in canon. I worry sometimes, that she’s unrecognizable, because you know, I’ve given her a college education, and a whole bunch of interests beyond hostessing alone, but people seem to like it and like her, which is great!! I hate fridging women characters, so keeping her and Reina alive was important to me, hahaha. (RE: fake!Mizuki, there’s this substory in Kiwami that actually addresses who she was, BUT IT’S EVEN MORE HORRIFYING. So that’s why Yumi in my fic is the one captured and tortured by Nishiki’s men, because the thought of this poor innocent woman getting dragged into the mess was just untenable to me.)  

Anyway, thank you for your support and kind words, and I hope you’ll continue to read and that my fic can continue to relieve stress. I--tried to write this about Mine, but Daigo kind of stole the spotlight a little??? I hope you still like it--if not, I will try a ficlet from Mine’s perspective too. I enjoy minedai a lot, but I haven’t had room to think out their dynamic yet, so this took me a while. 

Daigo’s no stranger to being desired. He’s attractive, he knows this—his mother’s beauty lives in his veins, and he’s always had the money to look after himself. Fancy soaps to wash his face, the invisible retainers to keep his teeth straight, fancy suits and skin-tight shirts to show off his frame. For all that Kiryu insists his charisma is something that comes from the soul, Daigo knows it wouldn’t be able to draw the sort of attention he does without being attractive.

Which is to say that Daigo’s not especially thrown off by the intensity of Mine’s gaze. It’s happened before, and it’ll happen again. The thing that surprises him is how much he relishes in being seen by Mine.

Maybe it’s because Mine’s an island in a stormy sea, one of the only yakuza his age who’s sensible and level-headed enough to make it big. Maybe it’s because Mine’s gaze is always so reserved, polite, never overly lusty or overstaying its welcome, and Daigo has so rarely been desired so quietly. Or maybe it’s because Majima and Kashiwagi so clearly disapprove of him—Daigo’s always been something of a rebel, and he hasn’t shaken that off, even now he’s in his thirties and is the arbiter of rules for the Tojo Clan.

Daigo can’t quite put a pin on why he’s so comfortable with Mine’s yearning looks, but he’s never been one to hold back when he wants to indulge in something good. Not exactly a hedonist, not by yakuza standards, but Daigo has never kept himself from enjoying life, in the name of some dubious ‘honour.’

Which is why, in an after-hours meeting with Mine, as they eat cheap takeout sushi together, Daigo takes his chance. A momentary slip, the slightest hint of wasabi left at the corners of Mine’s lips and Daigo swoops in, rubs a thumb over the corner of Mine’s lips. Mine stutters to a stop, mid-sentence through a rundown of the real-estate that the Hakuho Clan’s been purchasing up, and stares at Daigo, eyes bewildered.

“Sixth Chairman?” he asks, his voice still remarkably composed.

“Wasabi.” Daigo says, nonchalantly, as if it’s nothing, and sticks his thumb into his mouth, slowly licking it off with a lingering lave of his tongue. He feels a sharp stab of satisfaction as Mine’s eyes turn darker, and his gaze follows Daigo’s hand down.  

Daigo straightens up, languidly, and cracks his neck, casually. At this point in the day, he’s untucked his shirt, and he knows that a slight strip of his stomach will be visible when he stretches out his arms towards the ceiling. And as predictably as clockwork, Mine’s gaze darts downwards, to that pale expanse, to catch that brief second of skin. Daigo can’t help but feel warm. Something about being watched by Mine is exhilarating.

“Smoke?” offers Daigo, but as usual, Mine refuses, with a polite shake of his head.

Daigo knows from hearsay that Mine’s something a health-freak, so he’s not entirely surprised. It’s already too late for Daigo to preserve his health—he knows that his liver’s already been pretty ruined from long nights of binge-drinking as a youth, and this job’s too stressful to withhold from vices like smoking and drinking, without an optimal end-goal. So he walks over to the window, cracks it open a little, and lights up.

The breath of nicotine curls over his body, a tender caress, and Daigo feels his shoulders drop, as the relaxation hits. He pulls off his cufflinks, tosses them into his pockets and rolls up his sleeves. He takes it slow, runs his fingers over his skin a little more than strictly necessary. Surreptitiously checking the reflection in the window, Daigo watches Mine watch him, and smirks at how intense that gaze is, how Mine’s mouth has opened, and Daigo can just see the soft pink of his tongue.

“Dojima’s just fine, you know. When it’s just us two.” Daigo says, turning over his shoulder. He smiles, one of those charming smiles that had always gotten him whatever he wanted as a child, “We’re same-aged friends, after all.”

“Dojima-san.” Mine acknowledges, after a brief pause.

Daigo turns around, to properly look at Mine and lifts an eyebrow. “Dojima. Or Daigo, preferably. Dojima-san’s always my father in my head.”

Mine nods, face impassive. Daigo can’t read him like this. Maybe that’s why he likes when Mine stares at him, filled with longing. At least then, Daigo feels like he knows him. In moments like these, his implacable gazes might as well be a brick wall. “Right. Your Father was also in the Tojo Clan.”

Daigo smiles, wryly, and blows out a puff of smoke. “One of the most horrible men I’ve ever had the misfortune of meeting—and I had to call him Father. But damn if he wasn’t good at the job.” He sighs and stubs the cigarette out against the ashtray. “...sometimes feel like I’m competing with his dead spirit. Everybody’s looking at me and wondering if this is what my Father would do. Or what Kiryu-san would do.”

“You’re doing better than any of them.” Mine says, immediately, with a vicious ferocity that Daigo wasn’t expecting. He can’t quite stop his eyebrows rising in surprise, and Mine straightens upwards, looking self-conscious immediately. Daigo regrets his instinctual reaction, immediately. “That is to say, Dojima, that I think that you’ve pulled this Clan into somewhere far more respectable. From what I’ve heard of your Father, he didn’t have the temperament to do proper business on this level—too insistent on formal obeisance and unable to be flexible as the times require. And Kiryu-san might be very honourable, but we are yakuza. There are certain things you have to do as a Chairman, that he couldn’t bring himself to do. But you are practical and do what is necessary, while also not overstepping into excessive violence. You are uniquely suited for this job, Dojima.”

...he’s taken aback a little, he can’t deny it. Daigo wonders if his cheeks are colouring, wonders if his obvious shock is offputting, wonders if this is how Mine feels every time Daigo teases him lightly about his obvious attraction. A startling warmth spreads through his chest, and Daigo can’t stop the slight smile that touches his face. Has anybody ever said something so unreservedly kind and measured about Daigo before?

Maybe this is the difference between everybody else’s gazes on him, and Mine’s gaze. It’s based on something more than desire alone. Respect.

Daigo runs a hand over his slicked-back hair and ruffles it free, with a rueful smile, a smile that he couldn’t take away from his face, even if he tried. “I appreciate that. You know I couldn’t do it without you, right?”

He’d never really believed himself capable of attraction to a man like Mine. All of his previous childhood crushes had been on bright, cheerful conversational, pure-hearted people. Daigo had always figured they would balance out his sardonic cynicism. He’d never thought someone as reserved and principled as Mine would ever make his heart flutter. But then, there was something about that deep hunger and passion that Daigo craved. Perhaps it was because he was no longer the gloomy punk of his youth. Maybe his tastes have changed towards tall, dark and handsome. Maybe Mine’s just that special.

“Dojima—” Mine says, clearly trying to refute it, but Daigo cuts him off.

“I mean it. Everybody in this fucking Clan wants me to do something or be somebody else. Kashiwagi-san wants me to be my mother. Majima-san wants me to be Kiryu-san. Everybody else expects my Father. But not you. You deal with me honestly, and with candour, and never hold any expectations against me except success. I appreciate your faith in me.” Daigo takes a couple of steps forward, until his shoes almost brush up against Mine’s own. He leans down over Mine’s chair. “I could not do this without your backing and help. Truly. I don’t think I’ve ever had someone like you in my life. A true friend.”

Mine tilts his chin up to meet Daigo’s gaze, a hungry devotion in his eyes, and Daigo, for a moment, wonders if this is wrong. If he should hold back, like Kiryu would. But Daigo is Daigo, and Mine clearly wants him anyway, so he leans down and kisses him.

Mine’s mouth is velvety smooth and wet and hot and it is oh-so satisfying a feeling to put his hand against Mine’s broad neck and feel his warmth up against Daigo. He pulls back, with a satisfied sigh, and feels the burn of wasabi across his lips, a final parting kick.

Whatever It Takes

Alex relives the old days as he single-handedly embarks on a mission to help local German Militia regain their village from the hands of Augustus. But he seemed a little distracted. I wonder why.

Previous Chapter : Roach - A Walk to Remember

Chapter 7 to another story made by Ray (echo-three-one) Comments and Reviews appreciated! I hope you enjoy! Love you all ❤️

"Just Like Old Times"

"Alex"

Task Force 141

1 km East of A Local Militia Settlement, Germany

"Guten Morgen. Hallo." Alex muttered as the plane slowly descended toward his drop off area. He was readying his accent for the negotiation. A few more walks and he'll be on potential enemy territory or ally territory, depending how well he seals the deal. For the whole duration of the flight, he cleared his head on Samantha, how she has no clue about him, and focused on his new task. He was confident he'd get this one right, as this was his playing field. The CIA days were almost nostalgic as he plopped his metal foot on the ground and signaled the chopper goodbye.

Leading small armies to help create forces to counter terrorism. That was his role in the Special Activities Division of the CIA. He was Kate Laswell's favorite when it comes to these kinds of activities and he's confident enough that he could convince them to fight.

The walk was long and quiet, no one was around, most of Alex's trails were just forest upon forest upon forest. He started heading to the sound of the water, and immediately spotted four men, armed and possibly his ticket inside the settlement. Taking a deep breath he emerged from the forest and greeted the gentlemen.

"Hello. Does anyone here know anyone named Blitz?" Alex asked in fluent german. The four of them pointed their guns directly at him and he quickly dropped his bag and raised his hands showing surrender.

"No no. I'm here to help." He kicked the bag as it started to pour out heavy grenadier weapons and bullets. One of them grabbed a radio and called the base.

"What is your name?" he asked.

"Call me Alex." he replied with a grin. The next thing he knew is that he was being tied and escorted to the village. He didn't mind, it's always normal for them to be cautious, especially when facing an unknown person.

They trod the dense forestry until they got to a small settlement buzzing with activity.

Alex found himself seated on a small wooden table, his bag of weapons in front of him while Blitz slowly stepped out of the shadows. Blitz was the leader of the said settlement. He has a pale white skin and almost bald hair, his brethren surrounded him, guns pointed at Alex.

"What brings you to this little town, Alex?" he asked. 

"Augustus." he replied confidently, all the other brothers whispered with each other.

"Shhh!" he silenced the group. "What about him?"

"I want answers from him and I need your help." 

~

Alex took a sip of their popular soup recipe, they were all gathered by the campfire outside but Blitz wanted to talk to him in private.

"Augustus, has done a lot of bad things in our village. He has slaughtered our animals, stolen some of our men and worst of all, he took away our village." he frowned.

"My wife and kids, they are still there… He's using them as shields so your heavy weapons have no use to win them back." he pushed the bag back to him.

"I still have friends who can help. If you're willing to lend us your strength." Blitz looked concerned at Alex's eagerness.

"Tell me, why do you want this Augustus man so bad?" he asked, his eyes reflected the little burn they had on their campfire.

"He's our only hope to save a lot of people," he replied.

"Good. Join us later for our plans. If we are able to evacuate my people, we can have time to play with your toys." he smiled and Alex nodded. Tomorrow, the 141 is going to have Augustus for interrogation.

~

"Don't get your hopes too high, Alex. I don't want to live waiting for uncertainty. I'm done with that." Samantha's words hit him like a brick. Alex peeked at the scope and took a general sweep of the view looking for possible hostiles. It's been months since they last met and if she's true to her word and lives a normal life, she must have someone else looking for her right now, someone else she currently loves and he just had to suck it up when his suspicions were to be true.

He had his chance to tell her everything back at the infirmary but seeing her smile like that made him hesitate. Bringing back memories of him would just cause him pain, like what Maxine felt when she heard her name. And he didn't want her hurt, he just wanted her back.

He started to crumple her letter as he fished it from his pocket. It was inside the ziploc he had to protect from the rain, but now he just wanted to forget. He had been hurt many times in the past days that he couldn't handle facing her anymore. The feeling that he isn't reciprocated the way he expected was pushing him down.

'Don't you dare forget about me.' he sighed. 

He wished it would be the same as last time. She rejected him at first but convinced herself to give him a chance the next day, but even with Maxine badgering her about him, it didn't seem to work.

"There they go Alex. The 6 am supply drop." Blitz whispered over comms. The plan was easy: Augustus supplies a lot of boxes to the base. They contain food and weapons stolen from farms or delivered to them from their higher leaders. This is the opening where most of their forces carry boxes, Anja, Blitz's wife, would lead all their members to a small tunnel they built in cases of invasion. Once everyone is out and accounted for, we will barge in and surround them, taking back what's rightfully theirs.

It's also important that most forces will focus on the northern ridge as that was the place where they came from before they invaded, and Blitz believes that a bigger base is situated there. Alex quickly relays this intel to the Task Force and reconnaissance has since begun.

"Ready, Alex?" Blitz asked one last time, holding their guns.

"Let's go." he said as they slowly creeped towards the entrance.

Alex's fingers gently felt the trigger through his gloves, he was alone with new found friends and he's not going to let Augustus slide past his hands. This has to end now. For Samantha.

For Samantha, who doesn't recognize him anymore, those days in Brazil were Alex's best days as a normal person. He got to experience living full of love for a while and he got into it. He liked the idea.

One huge explosion on an open area inside the settlement. They were smart, they're reclaiming the base so they didn't destroy anything in there. They just set out a warning.

"Alex! These weapons are top-notch!" One of the soldiers he's with roared, dashing across the field and started firing rounds. 

Alex quickly covered himself by an empty barrel, peeking with his sights and firing at the tangos who were defending, slowly pressing themselves inward onto the base.

"Brothers! Let's take back what's rightfully ours!" Blitz yelled in their language, followed by a collective "Ja!" from the men.

Enemies scattered, those with weapons slung on their shoulders immediately retaliated while some of them retreated far back into the village. Alex took note of this and shot runners when he could.

"Brothers, they're going to reinforce themselves with weapons!" Blitz yelled, commanding the rest of the forces to flank, putting pressure on the back exit where most of them could retreat.

"Alex, come with me. Let's get Augustus." The leader commanded and Alex nodded, fighting their way inside the central tent. It was heavily guarded and the duo cautiously made their way in shooting hostiles one barrage of bullets at a time. By the time they made it in a huge chunk of metal caught their attention, it had some sort of satellite components and it hummed dangerously.

Alex and Blitz successfully entered the base but it was Augustus-less, more bad news were reported as their weapons cache was already empty.

"Scheisse!!" Blitz cursed loudly as the village fell quiet. They had won their fight back, but at what cost? Alex consoled the leader and turned to the machine which hummed louder.

"We gotta get out of here!" he yelled, escorting Blitz to the door. But it was too late, the machine whirred and released some sort of small scale EMP blast, forcing their comms to ring in static followed by a loud side effect of ear ringing and minor dizziness.

Alex felt himself drop on the floor, trying his hardest to remove his earpiece. The feeling was mind bending, the ringing didn't stop and it felt piercing straight to the brain, unlike standard military EMP grenades, these lasted longer and rang louder. Whatever this contraption was, he needed it to be destroyed.

With the last of his strength, Alex covered his already bleeding ears and dragged Blitz outside the tent, threw a grenade and hid to safety. It was a slow and steady action but as soon as the machine blasted into pieces, the ringing stopped and everyone started to recover.

The group slowly recovered and got up. Some of Blitz's men began puking as their minds were assaulted by the big machine. If this is one of Nero's big plans, then the team must prepare. Alex still pondered how these blasts weren't familiar on his previous mission and how they could potentially tie to the missing person cases that continued to spread across America.

Alex was afraid of what this thing is capable of and he must report this immediately to the rest of the squad, who he thinks is making their way inside Augustus' base just beyond the mountains behind them.

Next Chapter : Experiment 001

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NOTIFICATION SQUAD, MY BELOVED

Stupid For You (3) -Johnlock

← ←← MAIN MASTERLIST

←← PART ONE

← PART TWO

!¡Trigger Warning¡! DO NOT IGNORE!: mentions to drugs and addiction, alcohol use, vomiting, hints to declining/poor mental health.

John felt guilty as he stared into the ceiling. He always felt guilty lately. He wanted comfort. He wanted Sherlock again. Sherlock made him feel comfortable, most of the time.

Sherlock came into their bedroom and laid down next to John. John had that guilty feeling nagging in his stomach. He wanted normal. He wanted this all to go away.

"Rosie is asleep," Sherlock mumbled.

John turned to stare at the wall. It had the ugliest wallpaper that John had wanted to change for ages. Looking at the wallpaper almost made him forget until he felt Sherlock's arm over him, and then Sherlock's body. Was Sherlock cuddling him?

"Sherlock," John questioned,

"John." Sherlock sounded incredibly groggy.

"Are you cuddling me?",

"Do you mind?" John felt a heat in his cheeks. He couldn't be blushing. Maybe he was blushing.

"No." Sherlock wrapped his arms tighter around John and pulled him closer. John moved his arm to be over Sherlock's. Their fingers gently brushed together, but neither moved. John loved this moment. It felt right. He wanted this.

John had woken up without Sherlock. He felt cold. John couldn't deny it anymore. Even if he tried the thought would resurface. John loved Sherlock. He wanted to deny it. He wanted to deny it badly because Sherlock would never like him. He knew this would be one-sided, and it hurt, but he couldn't deny it anymore. His feelings existed and he had to accept them. He had to accept all of them.

John exited their bedroom to see Sherlock pulling apart their bookshelf for Jane Eyre while Rosie watched intently.

"What's Sherly doing?" She looked at Sherlock attentively.

"I'm not sure." John came up close to Sherlock and quietly mumbled, "what the fuck are you doing?",

"Jane Eyre. The objects and Jane Eyre. There were clues the objects and there has to be in this. By the way, the password on your computer needs to be stronger. Found it out very easily.",

"You looked on my computer?"  John whispered aggressively.

"It was necessary for the case. I'm sure you'll forgive me." Sherlock was right, John would forgive him. Though at the moment he was incredibly annoyed.

"You went on to my computer without my permission and now you're tearing apart our bookshelf." John wasn't sure where his point was trying to go, but he was just angry. Angry at everything. "Remind me why we have seven copies of Jane Eyre spread across the bookshelf?",

"I've accumulated them. Mostly gag gifts from Mycroft." Sherlock pulled out one copy to shake it and have a paper fall on the floor. He picked it up and ran to his desk, placing it with the other papers.

"What's that?" Rosie asked,

"Important papers for daddy's work," Sherlock responded immediately. John was always shocked by how well Sherlock was becoming with Rosie. Rather than being extremely blunt, Sherlock had worked on dialling it down. John was also shocked that Sherlock considered himself Rosie's dad.

"Why don't you go play in your room for a bit, okay?" John added.

Rosie scurried into her room and John went over to Sherlock. He had felt this strange anger after he realized his interest in Sherlock. He was angry Sherlock didn't realize. He could read people so easily, so why didn't he realize? Why didn't he call John out? Did Sherlock already know and that's why he's always been distant? Does he hate John? John began reaching at possible scenarios without noticing the tears building in his eyes. He didn't cry, but then again, he's been doing things that he never expected to do a lot these past few years.

"It seems that they're another set of coordinates. I'm going to need your laptop to check where they are or just some form of access to google maps." John gritted his teeth together. Sherlock could read people, but it seems he forgot that emotions exist. Sometimes, John felt like he was talking to a brick wall. A brick wall that responds, but can't acknowledge.

"Are you oblivious or just extremely insensitive? Because I feel like it's the latter." John gripped the edges of the table as Sherlock gave him a strange glance.

"I'm not oblivious, though I've been told I'm insensitive," Sherlock responded nonchalantly. He responded in a way that made John feel like steam was coming out of his ears.

"People who tell you that are right. You are insensitive. How do you think I feel when you disappear? Or go off on a bender? There are times I worry if you're going to die! You don't realize how you're actions are going to affect people." Sherlock stared back at John.

"I understand you're angry.",

"That's all? No apology?" John didn't care if he was being rational. He knew he wasn't.

"I'm sorry, John." Sherlock seemed genuine, but at the same time, it seemed so false.

John couldn't take it. He needed a drink, which wasn't the healthiest coping mechanism, but it was the only thing he had unless he let down his pride and started seeing a therapist again. He grabbed his coat, and this time grabbed his wallet as well. John slammed the door, hoping Sherlock would maybe come after him, but he didn't.

John was sitting in a cab. The driver gave him strange looks every once in a while that was beginning to get to John. He felt trapped. He felt stupid as well. Going to a pub at barely eleven. John saw a bookstore approaching in the corner of his eye.

"Stop here,"

The cabbie pulled over to the side and John handed him a twenty.

John walked to the bookstore and noticed it was near the building covered in vines. The building John remembered clinging on to. John would not be doing that again.

A faint ring was heard as he entered the bookstore. It was relatively quaint and packed to the brim with novels. He saw a copy of Jane Eyre leaning off the shelf and thought of Sherlock. He felt guilt while looking at the book. He had treated Sherlock so terribly and left without considering how Sherlock may feel, but then John felt anger again. Sherlock didn't care how John felt, so why should John care how Sherlock felt. John didn't feel the buzzing in his pocket of Sherlock texting him frantically. It was, John? I'm sorry. Respond SH. repeating over again with slight variations every time.

John brushed his fingers over the books, and his mind still went to ones Sherlock would like. There was a book on unsolved criminal cases that John could see Sherlock flipping through. There was another book of violin compositions. John found these books a strange combination, but he didn't question it, assuming this was a second-hand book shop. He couldn't help himself as he pulled both books off the shelf and placed them into his hands. He checked the prices and felt relieved to see they were only a total of £25 together.

The cashier smiled at him, "Interesting combination.",

"For an interesting person," John responded. He felt the anger towards Sherlock lessen. Even if Sherlock did piss him off, he still cared about him.

"Mm, would you like a gift receipt with that?",

"No, thank you." John took the books in his hands, ignoring the extra 15 cents he could have spent on an easier carry.

John placed the books down on the ground and opened the flat. He hoped the books would make for an adequate apology.

"I texted you," Sherlock said as John entered.

"I didn't realize. I got you things." John placed the books on Sherlock's desk.

Sherlock looked at the titles of them and smiled. "Thank you." He muttered.

It seemed so unnatural for Sherlock to thankful for something, but it made John feel giddy.

"I asked Mrs. Hudson to watch Rosie. The coordinates lead to a park in central London." Sherlock grabbed his coat off the coat rack and his hat. The paparazzi had calmed down a little, but Sherlock still insisted on bringing his hat places. "Mrs. Hudson should be here," Sherlock placed his cap on his head, "now."

Mrs. Hudson smiled at them as she walked into the flat. "On a date?",

"No, simply a case." Sherlock grabbed John's coat and threw it at him. John barely caught it.

"Well, have fun boys." Mrs. Hudson called from the flat as they left.

John's hand rested near Sherlock's in the cab. Sherlock moved his hand slightly so it rested on John's. John felt his heart beat out of his chest. Sherlock meant it in a friendly way, but John couldn't stop thinking about what this meant. He felt the butterflies again, and heat on his face.

Sherlock didn't move his hand, nor did John. They sat without admitting the hand holding. They had done it before, but this was different. As the last time they did it they were also in handcuffs. Or maybe it wasn't different and John was just reaching.

John was just as close to Sherlock on a train. Their hands touching again. John leaned on to Sherlock, testing the waters. Sherlock moved his hand to put his arm over John and John felt like he did in the cab. He felt like he had just had his first kiss all over again. John wasn't one for PDA, but he could ignore it for this. This was his one exception.

John knew they wouldn't talk about this once they had gotten to the park. They would never talk about this. It was like the cuddling or that thing that one time. John hoped they didn't talk about this. He'd end up admitting things he wanted to keep secret. He'd spill his feelings like one would with a glass of wine then they're a little too tipsy.

Sherlock looked at down at John and moved on to looking at his lips. It seemed as if Sherlock was studying them. He studied the soft curves, and John thought Sherlock might kiss him right there on the train. Sherlock glanced away though. He looked at the posters and people. Almost like he was trying to ignore John. John slumped down and Sherlock lowered his arm to catch John. John felt strange. Sherlock was being strange, which was odd. Sherlock wasn't usually one to be like this, but there were times when Sherlock would spiral. He would spiral off into a bender, that would cause John to panic because he knew one day it would kill him. He didn't want to have one day where he finds Sherlock dead with a needle in his arm. It terrified him. His terror always turned into anger. He tried to control it, but he wanted to scream at Sherlock when he does things like that. Sometimes he does. Sometimes he'll yell until his voice is hoarse, but it doesn't make him feel any better and it doesn't fix things. This moment on the train made all those bad moments so prominent. Instead of John's brain going to Sherlock doesn't like him, it went to Sherlock deserves better. He didn't want to think about this, especially not like this, but he couldn't stop himself. His brain went into a spiral. It was an uncontrollable waterfall of negative thoughts until the train came to a stop.

The park had lush green grass and multiple playsets. It didn't seem like the place to meet up with someone shady and who knew if they were even there? Rather than questioning Sherlock's motives to come here at this time, he followed him to a secluded area.

There was a man in a black coat standing there with his back facing towards them.

"Brother, dear." Mycroft spun around.

Sherlock had a look of complete confusion on his face.

"I expected you." He approached them, "Now, I'd assume you'd have figured it was me and not wasted your time to come here, but I was wrong. You were always the slow one, so I shouldn't have expected much." ,

"Why are you here?" Sherlock had an angry edge to his voice.

"You seemed quite bored in that little flat of yours, so I set up a fake case.",

"How did you manage to get things in our flat?" John asked,

"Well, for one, giving little gifts is an easy way to infiltrate into your flat, and then I just placed all the clues. By the way John, you should use a stronger password."

"So you placed things in our flat without permission and managed to have us not notice until the woman came?" Sherlock smiled, "Quite genius, I have to say.",

"Genius? Sherlock, he went through my computer!" John glared at Mycroft.

"You have some quite interesting files." John's eyes went wide. "Work is also a quite obvious porn file name, so I'd recommend changing that," Mycroft added. John felt a little calmer knowing Mycroft hadn't found the file on Johnlock articles.

Sherlock laughed and looked down at John. John felt small under Sherlock's stare. Sherlock glanced at John's lips again, and Mycroft coughed.

"I'd rather not see what you do in private, please take the PDA somewhere else.",

"There's nothing going on between us," John responded automatically. Sherlock shook his head in agreement.

"Nothing at all," Sherlock said.

Mycroft smiled at them, "of course."

There was a heavy tension between them as they left the park. John wanted to say something, but all he would say would raise the tension.

They both walked next to each other and John accepted Sherlock not flagging down a cab. There was a heavy silence that said everything.

"Sorry about Mycroft. He can be a little much sometimes.",

"For someone who's supposed to be a genius you're incredibly stupid." John covered his mouth in a panic. Why did he say that? He wanted to take back the words. Fall back in time and disappear.

"What?"

There was no going back. John was all in. He could either make something up or admit. John needed to admit things. The weight was taking up his life. He wanted to admit things, but he needed a better time.

"We should go to that restaurant." John pointed down the street to a random building.

"That's a bookstore, John." Sherlock deadpanned,

"Let's find a restaurant." John walked down the block looking at names of stores until he found a small cafe. Amour Cafe was printed in bold letters on a wooden sign. John brought Sherlock into the cafe. The interior had plush leather booths and small tables. The cash had food items on the shelf. Each one with a price John couldn't read out underneath.

They walked up to the cash and a person with a friendly smile greeted them. "Welcome to Amour Cafe, what can I get 'ya?",

John looked over the options, but Sherlock spoke before him. "We'll have two teas. Room at the top for milk.",

"I'll get right on that, sir. Your order number is 12."

Sherlock brought John to one of the booths and patted the spot next to him.

"Why did you order for me?",

"I know what you usually want." Sherlock looked at the table. "They have a very interesting type of wood. It seems that multiple people have sat here and some even carved in their initials. Do you see it?",

"Sherlock," John hissed, "why are you acting like this?",

"Acting like what?" Sherlock continued to pick at the table.

"Like something is wrong.",

"Mycroft can be a bit much." Sherlock tried to seem calm, but there was a bitter tone in his voice. "Sometimes he knows too much."

John looked at Sherlock. Sherlock returned the look and his gaze went down to John's lips again. John wanted to shy away, but he didn't. He kept his eyes locked with Sherlock as if they were in some strange staring contest. A staring contest where you were able to cut the tension with a knife. Sherlock leaned down at went to cup John's face but a bell ringing made Sherlock jump back.

"Number 11." The person at the counter called.

Sherlock and John watched as two people went up, their hands interlocked. They looked so happy. Sherlock glanced back at John and quickly looked away. John wanted that. He wanted it to be like that with Sherlock. He couldn't have that, though. Sherlock didn't like him. Earlier was just John's brain. He was thinking about it so he imagined it was real. Sherlock wouldn't kiss John.

John's tea was subpar, but he couldn't blame the cafe. He felt tense and anxious next to Sherlock. He wanted something to happen, but he didn't. The feeling wasn't a calm before the storm, it was more the opposite. These feelings were a storm without calm. It was the bottom of the ocean. Mostly unexplored, and confusing. Oddly, this was the most human John had seen Sherlock. He could read Sherlock this time. Sherlock was uncomfortable. He looked lost.

Sherlock turned abruptly down an alley. John wondered if this was where Sherlock was going to end up murdering him. Instead, Sherlock grabbed John's hand and pulled him further down the alley. John was shocked at the touch but accepted it nonetheless.

At the other end of the alley were rows of shops and a smaller park. Sherlock led John to the park, which was rather secluded.

Sherlock didn't let go of John as he led him through the park. John started to dislike this layout. There was a park just through that alley, yet they had to build another one. John couldn't hate this park, though, so he directed his hate towards the other park. This park was gentle. It called John, telling him it would be okay, whereas the other park was pushing John, telling him he needed to grow up. The other park also had Mycroft Holmes.

Sherlock seemed to not know where they were going, but he pulled John to a tree and stopped.

"What did you mean earlier?" Sherlock questioned,

"Well, I, uhm, Sherlock," John fumbled over his words while Sherlock watched intently. Sherlock tried to figure John out. Sherlock studied John again. This time there was realization in Sherlock's eyes. The realization became confusion and the cycle started over again. John wanted to show Sherlock. He wanted to tell him. He wanted to get what he meant out somehow. John knew he loved Sherlock. There. He had admitted it. He loved Sherlock. He wanted Sherlock. He was infatuated. Stupid, even.

John couldn't take this anymore. He looked at Sherlock, starting the staring game again. This time, John focused on Sherlock's lips more than his eyes. He wanted to do something. He wanted to make the move. He feared rejection. He feared what Sherlock would say or do.

The tree was a weeping willow. It had gorgeous long branches that nearly touched the ground, though it had small openings, most likely from people entering the small enclosure underneath. The tree had an aura of comfort. It didn't need explanation; it was just there. It existed without explanation.

They were still holding hands. Sherlock glanced back at John's lips and kept his gaze there. John looked back into Sherlock's eyes. Sherlock had these beautiful brown eyes that had so much meaning. Sherlock was beautiful as a whole. He was beautiful and confusing. He was a person who was hard to like, but John managed to fall for him. John Watson, who told himself he strictly liked women, fell for a man who was the hardest to fall for. He had fallen hard. He let go of Sherlock's hand and reached up. He brushed Sherlock's jaw with his hands and pulled him down. Sherlock placed his hands on John's waist as they kissed. The butterflies were there again, but this time John didn't mind. This felt right to him. He felt confirmed. Sherlock pulled John closer and put more pressure into the kiss. The kiss was like the tree; it existed. Rather than existing without needed explanation, it existed as an explanation. Sherlock had gotten the answer to his question. Because you haven't realized I'm stupid for you.

John sat at his computer with Sherlock working behind him. The blog post for this case would be interesting, to say the least. John began typing and deleting. It repeated until he had found what he was looking for.

THE FAKE WOMAN This case that was incredibly fascinating, turned out fake. A setup. Not to say it wasn't interesting. This case was revealing. It was naked. My boyfriend, Sherlock Holmes, had stayed focused on this case for days, even when it seemed nothing was to come of it.

John stared at the words written down with a smile. Boyfriend. His boyfriend, Sherlock Holmes.

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Rio & Buster

Rio: *Even if he wouldn't laugh her out of here for it, (which he would), the commiseration of 'shit timing' wouldn't pass her lips. 'Cos both old enough to know better, even if she was a few months shy of his new number. Old enough to know that it was always going to be like this. Yeah, the first was usually the worst, and it would become normal as the years passed, but she was always not going to be here from now. Could get rid of a person but not their absence, standard. That was life. Not kidding anyone with that nonchalant approach though, couldn't even lean against the brick 'cos of the fucking wings. What a joke. And it wasn't JUST 'life'. It was her lack of. And all the reasons why. And how much they didn't fucking matter now. Nothing did. If Rio could make herself believe that, proper, then maybe she could feel alright about the fucked up shit she was feeling and the fucked up things she'd been doing, namely for and with Buster McKenna. Christ. As it stood though, she didn't. But feeling not alright, feeling wrong, fit the tone of tonight so fuck it, yeah? Yeah. Never mind how good he looked, and how she shouldn't even notice that but it was all she could, an unbelievably welcome distraction from the shit in her head, torturous as it was to only be looking and not touching. Whatever. They both knew they would. 'Til one of 'em came to their senses and realized what the fuck they were doing. That would be fun. But that weren't tonight. Certainly not there herself and highly doubting he was, if this getaway was anything to go by. And that was just the tip of the friggin' shitshow. So yeah, she'd put money on it. Throw money at it, if he wanted, she knew some places with low enough lighting and standards that'd fit the bill. Even get in in their costumes, fit right in, frankly...* Took your time, boy. Buster: *He'd been going through the motions, recycling behavior from nights past where he could. Taking a shot for this or getting dragged onto the dance floor they'd made for that, feeling no burn on the swallow how he should've (not even a year closer to properly walking in his dad's shoes yet like, never mind the old alkie's down his grandad's boozer) nor any awareness of his body paint being slightly sweat streaked now, as if to call out the obvious flaws deep in his chest, when really that was just more of the same bullshit and nobody here needed a sign anyfuckingway. Then again, none of them could see Buster watching Rio, waiting for the slightest indication that she was about to give into him and maintain eye contact that lasted longer than a second. What a fucking joke. He saw red in every moment she got close to somebody else, or just stayed away from where he and his friends were, playing the tease again, like he was that cunt of a kid and she could in any way go back to who she was before either. Christ's sake. But of course there wasn't a single guest at this party about to address what was missing or they couldn't have. Only the first elephant in the room, that. So there. All he could do was what was expected of him and loudly take everything that was offered, declaring it birthday's boy prerogative or some shit. Fuck it. Bonus points if in cracking open another bottle of Champagne it let him return to being numb in a gulp. After all, he'd been trained not to show any of his rage when it came to fighting for access to Jay, what was some more, yeah? No need to be a pussy. Nance was in NYC as good as alone and by all accounts she weren't crying into her cocktail. Handle it. Come on, how long had it taken him to break into a run, to show all his cards in one text? To get weak. And, honestly, how long had he been waiting for that too, not even mad it was coming, 'cause there was no blaming him for how Rio looked. Or how good it felt when they touched. The power was hers, to bring him to the point furthest from anesthetized, let her own it all. Why should he care if it was wrong, what the fuck did another mistake added to the list, matter? It was Halloween not New Years. Tonight he wasn't looking to try his best at anything new unless it made her as needy as he was, and twice as bad at least.* Could've taken longer. *Such a lie, but might as well start as they mean to go on, like. There was too much painful truth in his head as it was and this was meant to be the escape he practically needed to beg for, so whatever.* Rio: *She shrugs. The 'but you didn't' barely needing to pass through her head, nevermind be said out loud. They both knew. But they both knew the less they spoke about it the better. 'Cos let's face it, if they addressed this, then there was a whole parade of the pink fuckers, (making every day a circus!), that they'd have to and all- and fuck that. Yeah, it was messed up but at least this one felt good in the moment. All that other shit was just pain, all day, all night, pure and simple, black and white. And there was no denying the fun they were having playing in the grey. Front as he was now, and she did too. But not now. Make of it what you will, boy. SO thirsty for you or just sick and tired of not getting what she wants, anything that she needs, ever. It didn't matter what he thought, really. Just that he was here. And he was. In all his glory. Literally. Catching a bead of sweat as it dripped just below his navel, tracing the runnel it had made in his golden sheen, touch light over every muscle she encountered, bringing said finger up to her mouth to taste.* Sweet. *It was the opposite, of course, salty, but still, good. Too fucking good. As much as it was meant for him, to get him on the level, a taster of what was to come; It had made her want more too. To taste every part of him, and let him taste her until they smashed into one...being, devouring each other with mutual ferocity and want and reckless abandon. Reckless was the right word. This was literally his family home and some of hers were still inside. Not to mention plenty of others who knew they were cousins. How they didn't ALSO know how badly they wanted to fuck each other senseless all the time was another matter entirely. It felt ridiculously obvious. On her part, but also his, (not sorry about it, McKenna). As if the constant eye-fucking wasn't a dead giveaway, get a clue, people. Apparently, they were so far gone, (all the way to Hell?), that they were beyond detection. Suited her in this moment. And many more, if they were being real. Still, some space needed to be made between them and the shit party. For their sake, if no one else's. Taking his hand, beginning to walk, nowhere in mind yet just the goal of being alone.* Come on. Buster: *There was no response needed to his piss poor retort, everything that needed to be said was as soon as their eyes met properly. Both lingered over it, brazen, 'cause they didn't have to steal timed glances out here in the pooled half-light, the most alone they'd been allowed to be so far tonight. Still, every thump of his heart in his ears was another tease, mocking the distance that didn't let him hear hers and he was about to do something - frankly ANYTHING - to stop the anger from taking over what senses he'd managed to keep a hold on somehow when Rio reacted first. FUCK. Whatever move he'd reckoned on her making, this wasn't it. Jesus. Buster knew that if any other girl had tried going in for this they'd have only made a twat of themselves and he'd be bent double laughing, but the sound that escaped him then wasn't. And worse, he didn't care. Let her have it. He was gonna have her first proper chance he got. 'Course the temptation (nothing like the right word for how deep the desire went to go with this specific urge immediately, but whatever) was there to pull her into what shadows he could find against the brick and fuck her right there, in an almost parallel to the first time they'd managed to go through with it, the same desperation fueling him as that fucked up day they were all refusing to think about. He was ready to pull her into him even as the muted bass put itself in competition with the girl's rapid heart, reminding Buster that he basically still had his back to the party he'd tried to turn it away from. Fuck's sake. He forced out a shaky breath, letting her take the lead the way she'd typed out she would, all the while saying a little prayer that his legs hadn't given way before carrying him to whatever destination they were gonna end up at. Had he ever wanted anyone this bad? Christ, the answer couldn't be a louder no if he shouted it out, like. Did that mean he had to lose his shit over a fingertip, though? Apparently fucking so. There was no shaking his head to clear it of these thoughts, there were too many to do anything but welcome. This here was the party for exactly that.* Where do you want me? Rio: *Rio grinned, and it actually managed to reach her eyes, headlights of cars passing doing a disservice in comparison, only twinkle found there in the green being the metaphorical kind. She almost laughed, too. Christ. That ached almost as much as it did between her legs for him. Had only been 18 days since. Wasn't that long to go without feeling, let alone expressing, any kind of joy; Calm down, like. The nasty voice in her head that had (so helpfully) morphed into Edie's, mocked that it had been a lot longer than that, hadn't it? Fuck off. Focus, don't lose this feeling. They didn't have to go far. Can't even last that long? Whore. Shut up, shut up! God, she was, would be, (happily), if it meant she could have him now. Right now. Get lost in him and how he felt and how he could make her feel, get so far out of her head it was better than any high she'd ever had- fuck. She needed that. No need to psychoanalyze it now or the morning after, like. Who cares if it was just because or because X, Y and Z? It still would be. Still was. She couldn't deny it anymore, didn't want to, especially not tonight, not now. Barely conscious of their surroundings but knowing they were about out of his nice little neighbourhood. Only seeing the world in potential places he could take her. Cutting across the dead road, so quiet and still, no traffic at this hour, opening the park gate, holding it open for him in a 'here will do' way. Her breathing was as erratic as she was behaving, frenzied, but she didn't care and he better fucking not, either, like.* Please? Buster: *Any stupid cunt looking to pull a last trick tonight would still be able to see them, but Buster couldn't have stopped himself, eager to go further in the only way that mattered, if the Garda had been dragged along into the bushes along with the two of them. Not now that he was finally able to do more than look and he knew she was craving it same as he was. 'Course with each step he'd taken from home that lead up to this one he'd convinced himself he was gonna do her exactly as she had him at first, aiming to make her beg harder, voice cracking on the rest of her words, forced out with pure need. He had form with all the other girls after all. And Rio'd be no different, like he always said, she wasn't special.* Say it again. *He'd never sounded that desperate himself though, had he? Fucking hell. Focus, come on. He stayed committed the idea of this game until his fingers had actually gone lower than hers, roughly pulling the lower half of the costume aside. Hours before he'd wanted nothing more than to touch, taste and tease, however hurried he'd have had to be, but once he was inside her, the thought of quickly pulling his hand out to put to his mouth with a smirk lost any previous appeal. No games, yeah? He'd agreed to it then, and her every reaction reinforced what a fucking great promise that'd been to make.* Jesus. *He fingerfucked her not so she'd cum hard at least once before he did (a bonus to remember in the morning that he'd been powerless at the party, yeah, but wasn't any more, not the real goal if it had ever been.) 'cause she'd never looked as fucking good as she did right now. And after how the night had been going he'd not reckoned on feeling so fucking good himself by the end. It could be that simple if he wanted, and Christ, he wanted nothing else. Nothing more either.* Rio: *As tempting as it proved to deny him in the everyday scenarios, always impossible to resist the urge to disagree with McKenna, just for the sake of half the time; now was so far beyond the time. Pleas, begging him to touch her, to fuck her here and now, hoping people heard and saw, telling him how bad she wanted it, him. All tumbling out as if it was natural; What else would she be saying, asking, when they both knew this was ALL she ever wanted? She had no problem relinquishing that naysayer role, that game they played where they didn't want each other or this, when it came down to it. Rio found it easy, too easy if she were to think about it (which she didn't, often), easier with him than anyone else, somehow. Whatever, he could call her a whore before, during and after if it made him feel better about it. Not like she had any more satisfying answer for him as to why him, and why it kept happening. She knew it wasn't that, herself, but it'd be better if it was, so he could believe it all he liked (if only she could). Have that one for free, boy, on the house, on me. The answer seemed so obvious when he was finally inside her, dragging her out of her head, all thoughts turning into a haze of pure pleasure, only concern keeping this feeling going for as long as possible. Nothing but the feeling of it, of him, and the only thing she needed to do, her only concern, was making sure he felt as good in return.* Fuck, Buster! I need you. *About as much to tug down as she had, a nice change to unbuttoning in the dark. Keeping it simple, that's what they were doing, primal, nothing more but nothing less than fucking incredible. Sliding into position, into each other, hip bone crashing into hip bone, in one move, one moment. The hiss of sharp intakes of breath at the same time, moans matching moans and groans and grunts and praises and curses being exclaimed on the same thrust.* Don't stop. Don't. Stop. God- you're good, you're SO fucking good- *Holding onto him like her life depended on it, arms wrapped tight around his neck, pulling his head down so it was level with hers, so he could see, look straight into her eyes and see what he was doing to her. Fuck, she wanted to kiss him. Had they? Her head was swimming. Did they? Surely not, that was too much, too personal. Would make it too real. But how hadn't they, when they'd done all this, how was that the step too far? Christ, she wanted it so bad now she was watching his lips, even more than she had wanted his dick deep inside her. Wet like he'd just licked them on purpose, pink tongue poking out so fucking cute with concentration, they were full but she wanted to kiss them 'til they were swollen with her desire, bite them and pull them into her own mouth- Jesus fucking Christ...* Fuck it... *She murmured, tilting her head up to his, pulling him somehow closer still, 'til there was contact where she needed it most, moaning into his mouth, finding rhythm here to match the one below.* Buster: *It should have shocked some sense into him when their mouths collided too, that he was kissing her back as forcefully for one thing, like it was a normal thing to do never mind want from Rio Cavante. In reality, (wherein nights were spent with girls that weren't, but were instead fake from bottle blonde roots to bottle bought tan, of course) if they tried to initiate more than a playful lip bite he'd break it off with the promise of his mouth somewhere better. And when he followed through, Buster told himself he loved it, same as they did. Such bullshit. Never proved harder than now, living in a hardcore fantasy, like. But he should've learned his lesson from Chlo and yet here he was, fucking again without a condom or any intention of pulling out. Without a single thought of stopping, at any point, only the opposite. And he didn't care. God, he'd keep this going all night if he could, moan after muffled moan shamelessly letting her know it. Reminding him every second of this was actually happening, unreal as it seemed. And felt. 'Course, there was no way he could stay in their rhythm forever, but they finished together, he wouldn't let himself forget once he'd sobered up. Whatever he was, she was just as bad. Had to take what he could get the morning after, didn't he? Fuck. Don't start thinking about that already. Soft cunt. To pull the focus he concentrated on attempting to find, or at least think, of a way to clean himself off when he didn't even have a pair of socks on him. Fuck's sake. There was no time to get properly moody though, in looking around their immediate surroundings (for the first time, obviously) he had to fucking laugh. Did. Every bit of her skin that had pressed against his was streaked in gold to match his, glittering in the moonlight.* Rio: *About to ask what he was laughing at, with a bemused chuckle, when she looked down and saw the damage (or the joke) herself. All over her, like. At least she COULD see the funny side too, distance between the party and them achieved, glad she hadn't dragged him away for a mid-party quickie like she had wanted to many times over the course of the tense evening. That would NOT have been good, or a fucking laugh.* Fucking hell, McKenna! *Rubbing at the paint, to no avail, quickly giving up on that idea with a shrug.* No more paint, alright? Or, at least warn a bitch next time and I'll coordinate, yeah? Such an amateur. *She winks, fluffing her hair back up and straightening her (lack of) clothes as she walks away.* Buster: *He was tempted to fall back into familiar territory now that she didn't have her legs wrapped around him, blaming her, all bravado and 'well if you could only stay away, like' blah blah blah etc but the bullshit couldn't get past the laughter and he didn't want it to really. Not tonight. It was reaffirmed to him how much he didn't or want any of this to end yet, though it technically already had. Should've. He'd got what he wanted, hadn't he? The expectations for his birthday party had been more than exceeded, no denying it, so what? Why the fuck couldn't he play along and let her walk away? Christ, Rio was right about how amateur he was playing this now and in itself he should've fucking hated that, like. Been angry enough to turn away himself. Go home, 'cause he wasn't the one wearing the sin openly, it was her who had it pinned to her like a gold medal awarded for being some kind of sick fuck. Or whatever. But none of that happened. Buster did the opposite (becoming a habit of its own, this) keeping in step with her as she moved away from the scene of the crime as if distance made any difference to what would have to be owned. Buster shook his head, trying not to laugh again, ('cause yeah, everything was less funny when he was his own target, so try and sue him.)* Where do you think you're going? Rio: *Rio turned back to face Buster, carrying on walking, despite the darkness and despite the heels (just to show how much of a pro SHE was; it was any small victory you could grab when you were fucking up your life on such a monumental scale, yeah?), smirking, feigned innocence in the 'who me?' hand to chest mime. Standard. Had to go back to acting immediately, didn't they? Or face the consequences, and neither of them was ready to deal with salvaging from that level of fucked up wreckage, she more than reckoned.* I said I was taking you somewhere good, baby. You think that was it? *Shaking her head.* I'm just getting started, boy. *Finally turning back so she could direct them with purpose but throwing him back a coy look for good measure, making sure he was still up for it, hoping the spell didn't have to be broken yet.* It is your Birthday, after-all. Let me treat you. Keep up, though, yeah?