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flufferdust · 4 years

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Under the right wing 1/3

Characters: Apollo Justice, Kristoph Gavin, Clay Terran

Words: 1780

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[Apollo sniffled, wiping a bead of sweat from his forehead as he twisted the key into the lock. He was used to opening the office during the week, but this morning forcing himself out of bed was much harder than usual. He cleared his throat, opening the door and resetting the alarm when it started it to beep before flicking the lights on.

His head throbbed and he reached into his pocket for his tissue packet already dwindling in number to blow his nose with a thick honk before he let himself settle into the clients chair.

Maybe the day would be short. He couldn't remember a day aside from one that the office closed early, but surely if there weren't any big clients or much paperwork he could leave after just a few hours.

A steamy, hot shower with a vapor rub ice cube sounded heavenly and the idea of a nap, even a short one, seemed almost too good to be true.

I’m fine, Apollo told himself tiredly, muffling a loud, harsh sneeze into his elbow and feeling his head throb once more. I’ll be fine.

He let his head lull back tiredly until he heard the handle and leapt up despite his dizziness.

“Good morning,” Kristoph said, shedding his coat and hanging it on the coat rack.

“Good bordi’g, Bister Gavid. How are you?”

Yikes. Was that his voice? His boss seemed almost as surprised as he did.

“Well, you sound pleasant this morning.”

Apollo resisted the urge to sniffle. “I thigk I caught a cold.”

Kristoph smiled lightly, settling down at his desk.

“That’s a shame,” he replied. “You biked here, didn't you? Glad to see you made it.”

Apollo swallowed thickly. He’d been part of this agency for almost half a year now, but he still couldn't read his boss. Hopefully he wasn't angry? He sounded fine, mildly surprised, but only as surprised as Apollo had ever seen.

“Be too,” Apollo said lamely, clearing his throat to try and fight off the tickle growing in the back of his sinuses. It quickly backfired and he buried his face into his elbow with another harsh “HUH’JRSHHHOO!”

Goosebumps lined his arms immediately, his face heating up from the echo of his sneeze reverberating off of the walls.

Kristoph didn't reply, opening a folder on his desk and flipping through it. Apollo reached for the last tissue in his pocket, wiping the base of his sore nose gingerly.

“Justice.”

“Y-Yes sir?”

“I need you to do a follow up on the Sheffield case. The next trial is tomorrow.”

Apollo blinked. “Uh…”

Sheffield case… It sounded familiar but he couldn’t put his finger on it….

“Call theb?”

Kristoph lifted his head, adjusting his glasses.

“Yes. Unless they are in the office already, that's how follow ups work.”

“R-Right, suh-sorr-sorre- EH’DDJEWWW! HAP’JSHIEWWW! Ugh… 'scuse be…”

Kristoph pursed his lips ever-so-slightly before offering him a fake smile that Apollo could see for miles.

“And Justice?”

Apollo blew his nose into the soaked tissue, sniffling miserably as he glanced around to find that as he thought, there wasn't a box of them anywhere.

"Don't do that into the phone. I'm relying heavily on this case."

Apollo felt his face heat up once more, a careful hand extending a finger under his chapped nose.

"R-Right. Sorry, sir."

The morning took a lot longer than he’d hoped it would. He sniffled and held back powerful sneezes as he tried his best to keep his voice as professional as possible despite the croak setting in.

By lunch, he’d opted into taking a dreamless nap at his desk, waking a half hour later in a puddle of drool. He mopped it up tiredly with his sleeve, trying to force himself back into working order for the rest of his shift.

Kristoph didn't speak much, aside from orders and Apollo swallowed back his sore throat trying his best to keep it together as best he could. His head was throbbing, his throat growing more and more raw with every sneeze and he felt increasingly dizzy as the congestion plugged up his sinuses and ears.

“B-Bister Gavid…” he asked quietly, as the clock reached 5:15 p.m. “I really dod't feel well… If it's dot a probleb, cad I go hobe early?”

Kristoph slid his glasses back up the bridge of his nose into place and looked up from his page with a sigh that didn't sound frustrated or sympathetic.

“We always lock up at six. You can't make it 45 minutes longer?”

Apollo clenched his jaw guiltily. The way his boss asked, sounding genuinely confused, almost hurt more than if he’d been yelled at. It toyed with his thoughts and he lowered his head slightly. Maybe he was being a baby. If he didn't seem sick enough to Kristoph, maybe it really was just a touch of manflu.

He suffered through the last 45 minutes in somewhat of a daze, sniffling back his runny nose and trying not to count the seconds until he could home and blow it. When 6 p.m. finally arrived, he gathered his things without looking as though he was in hurry and waited for Kristoph to make his exit before locking the door.

***

Apollo stumbled into his apartment almost a half hour later, ripping off his coat and tossing his bag against the wall as he kicked off his shoes. He dragged his feet into the kitchen, filling a glass from the counter with cold water and gulped it back before grabbing the ice cube tray from the freezer and trudging down the hall with it to the bathroom.

It seemed almost too good to be true, he thought in a daze. To finally be home, to finally get some relief. He turned the shower head on, cranking the faucet to the hottest setting before twisting the tray and letting all twelve ice cubes gather over the drain. He swallowed as they began to steam up, pulling the hem of his shirt up over his head and snatching a handful of tissues from the box on the back of the toilet and settling down onto the covered seat to blow his nose with a thick gurgle that filled the tissues immediately.

He crumpled them, tossing them away before grabbing a fresh batch and continuing to blow with a soft cough as he got used to idea of breathing even a little through his nose again.

He sucked in a deep breath, flaring his nostrils as the strong scent of menthol hit him like a brick wall and he hurriedly took his pants off, sliding into the shower to welcome it.

Apollo's mouth fell open, despite the horrid taste of the steam as he felt his nose being to stream freely, the potent steam breaking away at his congestion way faster than he’d expected.

“hh...hih-ihh…” he moaned desperately, impatiently as the tickle grew and faded on repeat, taunting him until he braced himself against the tile and stared out at the light on the ceiling.

“HHHR’DJISHOO! D’JSHHOO-IJ’SHOOO! HUH-R’DJJJJISHHH! HEH’JOOO!”

He sniffled wetly, feeling the immediate effects of the disaster on his face before he titled it into the stream of water to rinse off. He swallowed, glancing around through streaming eyes to find a washcloth.

He finally spotted one in the corner, pressing his nose to the inside of his elbow as he reached for it.

“AH’JISHIIIEEE! JUH'SHOOO! HhhH-! huhh...hihhh… ddgh…”

He tightened his grip on the washcloth, leaning all of his weight against the wall as he continued to hitch and wait for the next wave. When it failed to come, he cupped the cloth over his nose and mouth, giving it a good rub before exploding into it instantly.

“HRHH’PFFOO! HEHJ’PFFF!! EH’PRFFF! Ih.. ihhh… Ih’DJPFFOO-HE’PFFF-D’HPFFF!”

He sniffled, his mouth agape once again as he leaned forward to rinse his face and the cloth in his hands before he noticed that his eyes has stopped burning and watering. The steam was mostly water now, the Vicks cubes that had been covering the drain completely melted away.

He cleared his throat, noticing how little of a voice he had left after such a long fit and lowered himself onto his bottom, letting the hot water pelt him for another twenty minutes.

When he finally made his way out of the bathroom, he collapsed onto his bed in his boxers, sniffling thickly and glancing as his phone started to buzz next to his head.

“H-Hello?” He croaked.

“Dude! What's wrong with you?!” A voice boomed. “How can you send your best friend a text saying you feel awful and then ignore their calls and texts all day? You’d better tell me you were asleep.”

Apollo swallowed.

“C-Clay,” he said softly, glancing at his missed calls to find that there were 17, 14 text messages to accompany them. He’d been in such haze the entire day he hadn't even thought about looking at his phone. “D-Doh, Sorry, I was at worgk.”

“Work?” Clay replied. “Are you kidding me? Gavin didn't give you the day off?”

Apollo sniffled, turning his head away from the receiver to sneeze at his wrist.

“HUH’JISHHOO! D-Doh… Oped to close.”

Clay sighed.

“And not a second earlier, right? Jeez, Apollo, I don't know why you stay there.”

Apollo lowered his arm to wipe it on his boxers before clearing his throat.

“Bodey. Reputatiod,” he muttered. “Bister Gavid did’t seeb codcerded, so baybe-”

Clay groaned audibly, and Apollo could imagine the guy running a hand through his thick black hair and down his face like he always did when he was exasperated.

“Dude, Gavin didn't notice because he's got a black hole for a heart. Take it from me, you sound bad. He should’ve sent you home when you got there.”

Apollo sniffled, twitching his nose again as he felt his chest tighten.

“O-oh.. hih-hh...gkay…” he muttered. “hihh-huh-”

“Bless you.”

“HR’UHJSHHH! Thaggyou…”

“Is there anything I can get for you?” Clay sighed. “Besides a new job?”

“I’m f-fide,” Apollo croaked, reaching for his water bottle and taking two pills with a swig. “Just godda take sobe cold bedicide a’d sleep… I have worgk toborrow…”

“Y-Yeah… Okay, if you need anything I'm just a call away,” Clay replied softly. “Don't be a stranger, Pollo.”

His only reply was a congested snore.

#long post #trying to move my old sff fics over #hopefully the readmore is working

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semicolonthefifth · 4 years

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CROSS ch.1 - No Mercy

It’s barely past sundown over the red cliffs of Aurora, and the only lights to see for miles on end come from a bar a little off the Black Road. It ain’t the kind of place you come to stay and socialize, and it doesn’t possess the room to allow such in the first place. It’s a come-and-go sort of place, something the owners are quite proud of in fact

Sitting in the middle of some empty lot of dirt, the building is small enough enough to get in a good short walk around without feeling the least bit troubled. It’s a tight-fitting establishment. One third of the bar is used to store the stock; another third to serve it; and the rest for drinking. On the outside from its wooden walls hand all sorts of junk covering from inch to inch. Every single item hung there was savanged off the Road, left by the patrons to add their own little signature whenever the come to drink. Car rims; busted/shot signs; bottles hung on strings, and dozens of spent cartridges and shells. How it got started, nobody knows - yet it keeps going on and on.

The inside is much cleaner though, giving a more professional appearance. Despite the tight space, there’s some respectability in how empty the walls are of the junk that litter the outside. The only features that really decorate the bar is a small radio, and a shelf full of old magazines. A small part of the building houses all the drinkards that come, enough to house and serve maybe 10 to 13 men at the most. They’re separated from the rest of the building thanks to a long bartender’s table stretching from wall to wall - cutting a large portion off away from the front door.

From behind the bartender, the owner of this dive cleans a glass for the fifth time. A bit of an aged man, with sags of skin and a chin built like a brick; his black hair is oiled more from work than anything fancy, and his bartending uniform hangs off what meat is left in his body. He cleans the glass more so out of a reflex, with nothing else to do except to wait. It’s boring so far, with servings come by a long time away from each other. Meanwhile nothing else plays on the radio; the song, “No Mercy” by an Old Earth band once called The Stranglers, plays once more. It was recently recovered and brought to a station, and in celebration has been playing on repeat throughout the day, yesterday, and days since.

The current patrons don’t do much to liven up the place. Three men lay sprawled about, either against the bar or on the floor.

One man is on his fourth glass, his eyes all glazed and tired enough they show past through the bushiness of his brow and beard.

The other two men, much younger and livelier, keep on laughing at each other about a joke they can’t quite remember telling.

Towards the other end of the bar sits another man - far away from either the bartender or his patrons, his body up against a wall. He sits by the bar, with one hand on a glass and another tapping onto the table to tune of the song playing on the radio. He smiles, not as much as the livelier of the bunch on the other side, but he has vastly more energy than the drunkard.

He was a giant of a man, hard to miss were he not in his lonesome. The man measured a high 6 feet, closing in on 7. He was tanned a light dirty red, with a body that was muscular, with arms thicker than a man’s neck and with a broad chest that could dwarf most others; the stranger’s hands could wrap another man’s, and he looked enough like a wrestler that he’d likely break it with a grip. He dressed fairly casually: blue jean pants, lightly dirtied with red sand; a worn white shirt; and a dark blue vest with cut, tattered sleeves. His boots were large and black, and his belt possessed a worn out buckle. Wrapped around his long blonde hair was a bright red bandana, neatly tied with a knot facing back. Lastly, across his face were a set of black-tinted goggles, barely concealing a relaxed set of eyes which had a nice green hue.

All the man does is tap his fingers to the song, with 6 empty glasses of beer neatly standing around. He nods his head to the radio’s tune, showing no sign of stopping.

When the song ends, it eventually repeats once more. Then once that song comes on again, the man starts to sing the lyrics.

“Every day you’re working like a slave-- Sweating buckets hoping that you get it right.” He casually muses, singing softly and completely off memory at this point. For a man of his size, his voice is more youthful and chipper than what most would expect.

“Will it be as tough tomorrow-- Have to wait and see-- Life shows no mercy…”

He takes another sip of his drink, sapping it dry before sliding it with the rest. He doesn’t say a word, but the message is clear for the bartender. Without any provocation, the owner of the bar quickly knocks the bottle cap off a new bottle of beer and slides the newly opened drink towards the stranger. It’s grabbed, and no time is wasted before that too is being drunk - only difference being that the bartender finally has something to say.

“Oi friend”, he begins, with a dry and low voice. “That be your 8th now. Ain’t ya uh… feeling it by now?”

The man in the red bandana shakes his head a bit, partially out of synch to the radio’s tune. He takes a swig, and not once does his movement lose its energy; he neither goes off the beat or show even an inch of a drunken sway.

The bartender continues, “Well, you mind switching up the channels then? Looks to me that they ain’t changing the tunes for awhile. Better we listen to something different every now and then, don’t you think?”

Once more the man shakes his head, though he is polite to speak this time around.

“Sorry, no can do.” He replies, calm and casual, “Gonna be listening to this while I’m here. Besides, it won’t be too long now. Give me about… two, maybe three more plays, I think I’ll be leaving around that time.”

“Bah!” The bartender mutters as he turns to his glass cleaning. ‘Doesn’t matter much anyhow’, he thinks to himself. So long as the man keeps paying for his drinks, he’s free to listen to the radio for as much as he wants. By now the song had gotten a bit annoying for the owner, maybe not as strongly for the other patrons, but it’s still better than having it be utterly silent.

Eventually this same song reaches its conclusion, and once more it repeats. No one says a word about it then. Most are too lazy or uncaring, meanwhile the bartender is content in getting his dues. Meanwhile the only guy really giving it a listen isn’t too interested in singing it from beginning to end. He continues to drink and drink, often times casting a glance towards the front door. Every moment he side-eyes the door, enough to make the bartender think. Still, the way he just casually waits the day doesn’t draw anything work getting suspicious over. For the time being, all the stranger does is sit, drink, wait, and listen to his tunes.

Soon enough the last repetition starts to end - getting in on its final chorus.

Right then a new patron comes walking through the door all of a sudden. It was a punk-looking fellow, with pale-white skin, bald on the head and with very little fat on his bones save for the tight musculature of his body. His chest was bare except for black leather jacket, left open to show off a set of tattoos blaring the sign and writing of the numbers “66”. Hung under his loose, dirty leggings was a pistol shoved barrel down his pants line - it appears custom-made, with a silver colored bodey and black trimmings cut into it. It gave a slight noticeable rattle as he moved, likely from his exaggerated motions.

He gives a thuggish advance towards the bar, immediately grabbing a seat and giving the table a strong smack against its surface. He shouts out, with a crude tone and a set of yellowed teeth,

“Hey yo bar’man! Gimme one ‘em black bottles in the back there! One with tha’ green label!” He shows a toothy, mouth-breathing scowl. Bottom lip hanging, his browless eyes lazily directed at the owner.

Greatly annoyed but calm, the bartender reaches for the bottle, all the while the punk gives off wet coughs and mutters of crude cussing. Short of simply handing it over, the owner instead grabs hold of the bottle and stops right before the new bar patron. It takes a moment for the punk to register what’s going on, blinking slowly at the owner. He leans close to the table, bringing his hand up as he groans, “Ya stupid or somethin’?”

A short pause of silence occurs between them both, with the bar owner casting a casual glare down at the punk. Meanwhile the punk gives a light, arrogant chuckle, getting nothing still. The situation escalates when the punk then brings his other hand over towards his gun, letting his fingers jokingly hover in place around the pistol’s grip. Still the bartender doesn’t flinch, having been through this same song and dance far too many times in his life.

Eventually the punk finally gets what’s going on, and so he brings his gun hand towards his pockets. After some rummaging about he produces some creds - bills proudly blaring the green, blue and gold colored Earth on front. They are dirty and worn out, but they suffice.

Slowly he brings the currency up over the bar, only to then lunge his hand forward and throw it all onto the floor behind the table. He lets off an obnoxiously sharp and breathy cackle, shooting a cocky grin all the while. Yet again the bartender doesn’t reach. Instead, the bartender takes the bottle and - with masterful action - pries the bottle cap off with a hard swing against the table before then slamming down onto the top. Bits of froth and dark-green liquid spray around, spraying onto the punk and his jacket.

The punk jumps back a bit, coughing harshly from catching the cackling in his throat from surprise. He shouts out some profanity as he shakes the bits of beer dribbling over his attire. His eyes shoot an angered glare at the owner, only to be met with a more intense, stonier stare in return. Outmatched, the punk slinks back into his seat and proceeds to take a drink, having already lost an 8th of its contents.

Everyone else in the bar had watched the entire exchange, though largely done nothing. The trio of drunkards awoke a bit, but had enough trust in the barkeep to go back to their usual business. The only man to really take notice of it all was the stranger in the red bandana, who was sporting a cheery smile upon seeing the punk. The stranger just kept looking right at that man, the smile of his coming off much brighter than he’s been this entire time. Then, to compound this change in his emotion, the song repeats once more on the radio.

The opening guitar comes in, and when it does so it perks the punk’s ears almost instantly. He doesn’t react more until about the song is about 10 seconds in, as the instrumentals pick up to a catching beat. The punk starts to bob his head slowly, nodding relatively faster by each passing second as the song proceeds. He smiles, almost genuinely in fact. 30 seconds in and his body has already begun to sway to tunes excitedly. Then, finally, the lyrics come up - and right then he matches up with them better than the stranger in the red bandana ever could after repeated listenings.

Loudly he sings, though still quite poorly,

“Every day you’re workin’ like a slave”

“Sweatin’ buckets hoping that ya’ get it right…”

“Will it be as tough tomorrow; have to wait and see.”

“Life shows no mercy!”

Then as if on queue the stranger rises from his seat, taking his half-drunken bottle with him. Slowly he walks, moving right behind the punk, all the while he girates his hips and shoulders to the song’s groove. He almost matches the newcomer’s enthusiasm, with both men seemingly having the time of their lives with this one song. All the while the bartender rolls his eyes at them both, as his hands keep to their own work.

By the time the stranger gets close, the two are in synch with each other’s singing.

“Every day your love is getting warmer.”

“Just look at her and love her did ya’ get it right.”

“Will she soothe your brow with kisses; only meant for thee…”

“She’ll show no mercy… she’ll show no mercy.”

The stranger slows down once he’s perfectly in place, standing right behind the punk. While the punk’s absorbed into the music, the stranger lifts his drink and takes a long swig - downing every last drop in one shot. Meanwhile the punk doesn’t notice one bit, as at that point he’s entirely too into the song to be aware of what’s happening. At this point he sings more proudly then, bellowing the lyrics louder than the radio itself. He sings, all while the stranger drinks one final drop.

“And when you hold her close to you!”

The last drop falls to the stranger’s tongue.

“Just when you’re feeling good it’s true!”

He inspects the glass, making sure it’s truly empty.

“Life shows no mercy!”

He raises it…

“Life shows no mercy!”

Higher up the air than he possibly can.

“LIFE SHOWS NO MERCY!”

His muscles tense up!

“LIFE SHOWS NO MERCYYYYY--”

CLASH! Glass shatters all around! Hundreds of pointed, twinkling shards rain across the bar, with some sticking into the punk’s head. Blood starts to drip from freshly cut wounds, with droplets sprinkling onto the ground from the impact. He recoils fiercely in pain, twisting his body around from every which way - his mind and mouth screaming to register where the attack came from. His arms flail wildly until they make contact with the nearest person, and right after he throws his body at them.

The stranger is taken a bit by surprise, but grabs at the bloodied man as best he could. The two slam into a wall opposite to the bar - the punk’s chair scraping onto the floor as it’s knocked aside. As the two fight, the punk develops enough of an awareness of the situation to grab and claw at his attacker’s face. Meanwhile the stranger tries to stop him, knocking his grabs from left to right. With his attempts showing no success, the punk tries to move one hand down - the pain going away enough for him to remember the gun down his pants. This puts the stranger into a panic, as he tries to stop the grab amid their fighting.

Right then the bar becomes a chaotic mess. The radio keeps loudly playing its music as the pair fight each other. From his station, the bartender takes notice and starts yelling for the two to stop. He screams aloud, all the while slapping a palm heavily against the bar surface. The once sleeping patrons all wake in unison - some start to hurriedly move away from the fight so as not to get caught in the conflict.

The two men wrestle each other, with the leaner punk being the more violent and crazed of them both. In one bad move, the stranger fails to catch a swing from all the arm flailing, as the punk puts a pointed grip against the man’s neck. He flinches, letting out a pained gasp as the punk’s crude, long nails dig into the stranger’s thick neck. In response, the stranger tries to pry the hand off as quickly as he can with one free hand - all while the other grips the punk’s wrist as he manages to finally grab the gun. They struggle and pull at one another, each man groaning from the intensity before, all of a sudden, the punk wedges his finger into the trigger and pulls.

BANG! A loud, piercing sound rings across the bar!

The bartender ducks before crawling away to the back. The other patrons get frightened by the shot, diving away and trying to find cover as best they could. The gun shot pierces into the floorboards by the stranger’s feet, shocking him enough to make him trip over himself.

He falls, bringing the punk down with him onto the hardwood floor. When they hit the ground, both of their grips let loose - and the two are let go from one another. The stranger coughs and quickly inspects his neck wounds, as small as they are. Meanwhile the punk crawls away and tries to get up; he slips onto the floor a couple times before only managing to sit up from the floor. The stranger hears a click and looks up, seeing the punk - laid against the floor, with a pistol ready to fire.

The punk cackles, with blood dribbling down over his face from his head wounds. His expression is maniacal, with his yellowed teeth shown clear in his grin. “FUCK YOU… YA PRICK!” He growls and spits, his maddened eyes glaring down at the stranger.

Without a second thought, the stranger reers his leg back and quickly gives a kick to the gun! He hits it right as the punk pulls the trigger.

It is forced downward!

BANG!

Blood splatters across the floor!

A shrill scream drowns out all other sound, as the punk is utterly red-faced from how much he’s crying out from the pain. He brings his hands down to his groin, shaking in pain as the blood seemed to have come from a fresh gunshot to the groin.

He keeps screaming, louder and louder, as the stranger stares in absolute shock from what just happened. Without hesitation, he goes for the punk’s bottle from the bar and, with a tremendous swing, slams it down upon the punk’s face. With one strong smack, the bottle shatters, cutting into the punk’s cheeks and brow - and with that he is knocked out, and the screaming stops.

The stranger pants with soft yet pained breathing. Everyone else looks traumatized, with all eyes on the stranger and the knocked out, bloodied punk across from him. The radio was still playing, with the song nearing its end. Slowly, the stranger get up off the ground to collect his wits. He moves away enough to reach for the radio so that he may finally turn it off.

Once the music stops, the stranger lets out a tremendous sigh of relief. However the calm doesn’t last long, as the bartender returns from his hideaway, bringing with him a shotgun pointed right at the stranger who started all this. His hands are shaky, his aim uneasy, but he is close enough to get a good shot if he did so.

“Alright friend…” He begins, as calmly as he could. The tension was obvious in the slight graveling of his voice. “Hands up, and tell me - right now - what the fuck was that all about.

The stranger with the red bandana doesn’t turn his head to look at the bartender, instead first doing as commanded. With a hand slowly raised up, the other moves towards his vest pocket to produce a folded up piece of paper. He very carefully moves up further from the ground, standing up as best he could so that he may walk. With a gentle turn of his body, he faces the bar owner - eye to eye, only made possible by the stranger bending down slightly to his level. With as straight a face he could pull, the stranger moves closer to the bar before laying the paper onto the surface and then sliding it with a light push of his fingers.

Finally, the stranger answers, “Just a job is all…”

Not wanting to take a risk, the owner gives a not to a nearby patron to reach over and read the paper while he keeps his aim onto the stranger. The most able-minded and awake of his guests takes the job of reading it aloud. His voice gives off how dull the patron was, but he gave enough of a clear pronunciation to get the message across.

“This uh…” He begins, giving each word some emphasis, “This doc-u-ment, declares the official all-ow-ence and agreements between the parties of the… United Re-pub-lic of Earth and the holder of the contract. Said holder is free, within the laws of the state, to pursue the bounty target of one… Sid Leibers, AKA ‘Sid Sixty-Six’. Wanted for 7 counts of murder, 2 counts of arson, and the destruction of a village storage depot with stock. Bounty is armed and e-xtrem-ley dangerous. Bringing the target alive to an off-ic-ia-ted bounty office will grant the holder…”

The reader takes a pause, double-checking the paper before resuming, “...will grant the holder a reward of 850 creds.”

Immediately the bar-owner snatches the paper, quickly stepping back so he may safely confirm it while keeping the gun at the ready. He gives it a twice-over before finally lowering his gun down. Right then the stranger moves over to check on the man now confirmed to be Sid, making sure he was still breathing. With the man alive but knocked out, the stranger hauls him up off the ground and over his shoulder, before collecting the gun by shoving it under his belt. As he gets up, the owner shouts aloud a question.

“No hold on, wait a minute. This here paper ain’t go no picture or description, so how the hell you this is your guy?”

The stranger with the red bandana reaches out for the contract, all the while he explains as calmly as he could.

“They gave me enough to work with: bald; thin; the tattoos were a big clue. I’ll admit, it really didn’t click until he started listening to the music. On my way over I checked the places where the attacks happened, and nearly everyone there said he was listening to that one song a lot. Sung it too. All I had to do was give a tip to the station to play it enough times, and wait him out at the nearest bar on his path. Then I just to see how reacted to the radio, and right there I knew it was the guy.”

With the answer provided, the bar owner hesitently returns the paper back to its owner. The man starts leaving, but not before the owner chimes in with a final note.

He speaks more calmly, all of a sudden, and says to the man, “Guess I outta owe ya, next time. Capturin’ a wanted man and all that. Just want to know though, if you don’t mind… what’re your name?”

A smile appears on the stranger’s face, as he looks back towards the owner. Then, proudly, he answers back,

“Jason. Jason Cross, sir.”

Pleased, the owner retrieved a piece of paper from under the bar and, with a pen, begins to write down the name. All the while he says, “J-A-S-O-N C-R-O-S-S… Yup, that’ll do it. Thank you very much.”

He then adds, “and now you’re banned.”

Jason’s smile shrinks almost instantly, and at that point he just turns away and starts heading out from the bad. As he’s walking hurriedly, he hears the bar owner yell out furiously, “and don’t let me catch you in this bar again, ya hear?! Next time, it’ll be YOUR fucking head I smash a glass over, ya damn jackass!”

No time is wasted as Jason rushes over to his car - a busted up, old rusted piece of junk that’s seen more than its fair share of time on the road. He opens the trunk and throws Sid inside before slamming it shut. Frustrated, he gets into the driver’s seat and slams his foot to the pedal, quickly rushing on over the dirt and towards the grand stretch that is the Black Road - and as well, leaving the bar for good.

On the drive Jason thinks to himself. ‘Shame, really. That place had the best drinks for miles - lots and lots of miles’. All Jason could do was drive, in the dark cold night along the Black Road.

#original work #my writing #CROSS #KRONOS #original story #eyeofsemicolon #semicolonthefifth #the5thsemicolon #science fiction #western #writing #short story #Jason Cross

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lenin-it-to-win-it · 6 years

Text

“this isnt a herem anime u fucken weebs”

summary: toshi gets injured and drama ensues when nighteye, naomasa, hizashi, and aizawa all show up to fuck him! who shall win his affections (and 8 foot thundercock) in the end? find out on this episode of “its almost 2 in the fucking morning i have class in 6 hours what the fuck am i doing”

notes: i decided to write this bc i thought naomasa and nighteye arguing over all might would be a Dank Meme and then i added mic and aizawa to make it a proper HaremTM, im dedicating this to @motojirou-kajii bc rose is literally the only reason i have the slightest interest in nighteye so congrats u are INDIRECTLY RESPONSIBLE FOR THIS HEAP OF SIN HOPE U LIKE IT FUCKO

***************************************************************************************all mite had broekn much of his limbs and ruptured all 3 of the orgens he had left so it was basically like any other day in his miserble life.

he was sad and loenly and even tho his arms were 8 feet long neither could reach his mightey montser cock that wuz also 8 feet long ;)).

“what a sad day this is for me, ALL MIGHT TM” he saed sadly. he coffed up blood and sighed sighfully. “if only ther was a nubile young man who could bring me confort,,”

sir niteeye crawled out from underneath the couch where he had been hiding for totally legitiemet, not secretly jacking his dick to all mights despare, reasons.

“sir nite ey” said toshinori weakly.

nihteye gently slapped toshinorys ass. “good nighteye. sleep tighteye.”

toshinori laghed. “dont let the bedbugs,,, biteeye?”

“nice fuckin going dr. genius u ruined the joke u stupid idiot” nighteye snapped angrely. “it was perfect but u pushed it 3 far and now its ruined 5ever. ur beating that dead horse harder than i beat my meat when i think of your grate jiggling jugs in that slutty little spandex onesie u run around in”

“not aneymor” toshinori cried as teers ran down his face. “my slutty dayz are over. now im just a sad old man. no mor spandex onsesies for me- only” his face scrunched up as he wept mournfully. “TASTEFUL TROUSERS AND LOOSE TURTLENECKS OH NGHTEYE WHAT IS MY LIEF BECONE??? I WISH I WER THE DED!!1”

nightey wipped out his two inch dick and bithc-slapped the sympol of peace across his fuckin face iwth it. “TOSHi YYou INgoRENT SlUT stop being EMO this isnt 2004 that shits not cute anymore fam”

toshi kept rcrying but now they were happey teers. “relly bro?? u think wer fam???”

nighteyey started wackin his ween. “o fuck ye dude, ur like my fuckably non-blood related older brother that id 10/10 would bang”

all mite opened his moth like he mIGHT (GET IT?!!??!1?) say words but befor that cold hapdlen, the door SLAMMED OPEN and nowmasa walked in.

“helo toshi my bff forever with whom i am best friends forever” he said, friendily. “i hav come to take care of u, my friEND!”

“NAO-NAO-CHAN!” toshi exclamed happely, his cockanoodledoo swellign up to the size of 3 lebron jameses with joy and knocking kniteey out the fuckin window. “MY BEST FRIEND FOREVER!!!!1! YOURE MY FRIEND AND I LOV U!!!”

“I LOV U TOO!!1” naomasa replied with much gaynes on his ordinary face.

“um E XC USUEE uuU!” niteeye saed angrielty as he crowled in thru the window, picking sticks out of his hare (sadly he left the stick up his ass). “TOshI who is this?!???”

“i could ask the SAME QUESTION!!” naomasma yelled with his boring eyes narrowing suspeciously. “toshi, who is this OTHER MAN??? is ther somethign u would liek to ExpLAnE?”

t0shi sweated nervsouly. “nao nao chan this is., um,, he,s,”

“IM NITEEYE” nighteye snapped, doing the anime glasses thing with his glasses. “his sidekiCk”

“ex sidekick” toshi added

“well iMM naomasa, his CURRENT best friend!” naomasa replied crossing his unremarkable arms.

“well ur currently abotu to get ur ass beAT u fuCKEN NORMIE” nighteye shouted threateningly as he flexed he collectiv 2 miligrams of muscle he had on his entire bodey.

“NORMIES REEE” shreiekd a fmailiar voice from the door which was still oepn.

“HIBACHI YAMDADDY???” nighteye roared, territorially draping his penis across toshinorys eyeball. “what teh abosulte Fuc K are u doign here you cheap hore???”

“excus u fucko im am NOt chEEP!” hizashy yelled igdignatly. “u can ask showta, it costs at LEAST three dollers to insrert ping pong balls up my ass! FOUR dolers if u wanna snort cockaeine off my stank tiddys.” hizashi lowered his voice shamefully. “the cokane isnt reel tho, its the powedery suger thing from like, pixy sticks. i cut open and shitlod of pixy sticks and sprinkle the sugar on my tiddys and predent its cocaine. MY LIFE IS A LIE!!!!”

“take ur fake tits and ur fake cocaein and your FAKE ASS KMART WEAVE AND GET YOUR SKANK ASS GONE, BITCH!” naomasa shrieked, taking out a fucking glock that he had bc he was a PolicemenTM and shoting hizasy in the dickhole.

hizashy bled 2 death on the flor but other than that he wuz fine. ‘wat are all u beta cucks doing her?? i thot this was all mitgh-senpais house not an incel convention”

“IM here taking care of super dady so he’ll repay me with the secks!” nighetye proclaimed proudly. “idk wat HES doing heer” he added pointing at naowmasa.

“Im supoorting my best friend you nutless heap of used scrotumz!” naomasa replied upsettedly. “bc im a GOOd PERson and I c ARE”

“how du u even KNOw ur best friends?” niteye asked snottily. “mayebe IM hi best friend!1”

“fat chance bozo!” naomaasa laffed as he tore off his plain white shirt revealign his chest wich was totally unremarkable except the tatto ritten in comick sanz that sed “ALL MIGHTES BEST FRIEND FORVER, LUV ALL MITE PS. SIR NITEEYE CAN LICK A CHODE”

nighteye gasped, infurieted and only slightly aroused. “ya well wateVER” he snapped pissily. “its not like some piece of shit tattoo is legaly binding”

naomasa turned around. “THIS TATOO IS LEGALY BINDING, SIGNED THE FUCKIGN GOVERNMENT OF JAPANESE???” nigtheye yelled loudly, reading the rest of the tatoo. “wel maybe i dont CARE about the law! im a bad bitch FUCK THA POLICE!!!”

naomasa smirked “all might sure is”

toshinori paused what he was doing- chewing off his own arm to escape- long enuff ot nod and conferm this fact so the fact was almost as firm as nighteyes salty rage boner.

be4 nightey could kik naomasa in the eyebal, aizawa walked in. he wasnt werring clothes but his nakeed body was covered in hair and appelsauce so it was basicaly hthe same thign.

“sup toshy” he said unceremonsioulsly faceplanting onto toshis bony ass. “i herd u got injured. want som simpathy secks?”

“Not from YUO, u BIG DUM DOODOOHEAD!” hizashi shrieked, thrusting angriyl against aizawa. he tenderly inserted his weenie hut jr into aizawas mouth. “from us.”

“wher did this walking bag of stray pubes come from?” noamasa asked confusedly.

“straight from ur moms house, pissbaby!” azawa roared sexily. “ya, thats rite, idk who ur mom even is and i fucked her.”

“but rnt u gay??” naomasa asked confusedly

“nowmasa ur denser than a bowling ball made of other, heavier bowling balls” nighteye snapped frustratedly. “ thats the JOKE!!”

“ur sex lifes a joke” aizawa sed, flipping his slimy hare over his sholder. thre ded flies fell out.

“OH SHIT SON GET DUNKED ON” hizashi yelled proudly hi-5ving aizawa with his dick.

“WHY DONT U GO FUCK A CAT YOU GREASY CUMSOCK” nighteye screamed enragedly as all the vains in his silly time sexin snake popped open.

“been ther don that” aizawa sed flatly “wy dont u shov ur hand up ur ass and c if u can find anymore shit comebacks”

“oh snap” naomasa whispered quietly

“YOU SINGLE PEACE OF STALE WHITE BREAD I WIL KIL U WERHE U STAND” nigheye SHREKED as allstar by smashmouth stared playing on hziashys neck speeker.

“pls comrades do not fite over me” said toshinory sadly “violenc dosnt turn me on, im not endeovor”

“endevor is literally the fuckign worst thign to excist ever” naomasa agreed

“iv sen the minion porn hizashy jacks off to but i still agree” aizawa also aggred

“MINIONS WITH FAT TITS ARE HOTTER THAN NEDEVORS STEAMING NIPPLES WILL EVER BE!” mic agreedded impassionetly!

“it seems like we all agree” said nighteye agreebly.

every1 agred.

“c were not so differnt are we?” said toshinoriy, putting down his half gnawed arm “cant we all b firends?”

“or we coudl all FUCK” hizashi suggested eagerly

“yes, share my body for the glory of cummunism!” all mighte was happey to say

“this isnt a herem anime u sack of shit weebs” ngihteye replied disgustedly

“wat about,,.” hizashy pulled down his pants reveelign the sord art online tato of kiritows face he got on his asscheek in the 4th grade “NOW”

nighteyse night eyes welled up with teers. “oh ddady,,” he tore off his shrit to show the tato of asunas face he had on his left boob “TAKE ME NOW”

they all fukced and toshinory coghed up blod multiple times, hizashy was mssing at least 40 percent of his penis, nighteye kept calling toshy “daddy”, naomasa responded to 3 calls from the polece station mid-nut, and they all got rugburn from aizawas big ol donkey dick the end

#bnha #here come dat fic o shit waddup #i spent like #two hours on this

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