aeyros

avid writer of anything

[aeyros]

Why is comm so hard?!!! I do not have five fucking people that are willing to be PHYSICALLY present for my piece of shit last minute speech. I'm gonna fail the class.

[aeyros]

Sinners' Day Off: Part Twelve

[Creator note: Sorry for the long waiting time, I lost passion for a moment but I came back.]

Previous parts:

Part one

Part Two

Part three

Part four

Part five

Part six

Part seven

Part eight

Part nine

Part ten

Part eleven

"Even in the midst of holdin’ back wet bullets from your eyes, you can't help but think… ‘Least he’s the one makin’ me feel this type'a way."

-reader

Part twelve:

After a couple minutes, the Honda’s stopped to a halt. 

—!

You go flyin’ forward but catch yourself mid-air. Any thoughts you were thinkin’ were thrown out’cher head and the window.

Unbuckling, you twist your head to face the girl. She’s starin’ back at you, eyes full of a humanity that reminds you of someone’s lack of.

She sucks air through her teeth and looks at you like a kid who’s scratched yer’ car. 

“Um—sorry? Hard driving in wedges.”

“...Mhm.”

You nod rigidly, though you can’t relate at all.

There's silence. 

You don’t know what expression to play or what words to say. You’ve talked to plenty of city folk alike, but never been too good at keepin’ up with them. It’s like they live on a different planet.

Her lips are forced into a thin and uncomfortable lookin’ smile and she’s sittin’ somewhat expectantly. After longer moments of silence, she clears her throat.

“Anyway—s…”

Her jaw crushes the piece of gum from earlier.

“Your stop.”

Took you long ‘nuff.

“Alright then. Take care.”

“Oh—um, you too?”

You hesitate before openin’ the door.

Leavin’ just now don’t seem right. She’s headed for Hollywood alone, ended up in West Texas somehow, and gave a stranger a free ride. If you leave her as is, she may never even make it past the state border. 

And as you’ve assumed the life-long duty of restorin’ the earth’s balance, this ain’t gettin’ past you.

“Best watch yourself, miss. Hollywood’s no more a joke than the south be.”

“...Okay.”

You reach into your pocket and grip your Smith.

“Busted, but still shoots. Aim with a straight eye, bent arm, and don't let anybody buy it off you.”

You hand it to her and she stares down at it, eyes gaping.

“Oh my god.”

“Don’t mention it.”

“Uhm—thank you?”

“And I ain’t talkin’ just to talk, don’t mention it or me to anyone.”

“Oh.”

A shiny row of white tile spreads awkwardly across her face and sits there almost fearfully. With her free hand, she fidgets with a strand of her sand colored hair. 

Odd girl. Maybe that’s just how they are ‘cross the coast.

…Or maybe she’s just odd.

Forcin’ your best smile, you exit the vehicle and step onto the sidewalk. It takes a moment until she slowly drives off. 

The outside heat hits immediately. Like rum poured over your body, it stings and lingers on your skin. One step was all it took to break a sweat.

You turn around and assess your surroundings.

A pawn shop.

In the window, a sign flipped on its “open” side sits still. You can see a person behind a glass counter filled with cheap jewelry. 

This place again.

You sigh and take a moment to think.

From your memory, you know that there’s a bowlin’ alley around the corner and a couple o’ blocks down. But you ain’t feelin’ it, not like you used to. 

It's too risky goin’ back anyway. That clerk boy’ll probably ask you questions about that night. And if a certain someone comes looking, that’ll be the first place they check.

Big if.

You remember that there's a bar a few blocks down the sidewalk. The sky’s a darker blue and the sun’s startin’ to hide behind clouds, so you know it’s early evening.

‘Bar should be open.

Watchin’ for cars, you head for the bar. The new pair of llamas thump against the messed up concrete and crush the small pebbles in your way.

You try your best to ignore the heat, but it’s particularly scorchin’ this evening.

After what feels like three minutes, you stop in front of a dingy glassdoor. It seems to be quite full today, you can hear a ruckus just from outside.

Opening the door, you slip inside and make your way to the bartendin’ counter. 

Only a couple stools are open, so you choose the one closest to the exit and sit. The people beside you are semi-shrouded in darkness, but you can make out their silhouettes. They all seem to be drinkin’ away, chuggin’ drink after drink.

Someone behind the counter clears their throat.

“What can I get’chu?”

You can barely see ‘em. He looks to be a young man, brown hair, and you can only see one eye—green as a leaf. Skin’s quite melanated, givin’ him a reddish-brown color. His face is well structured. ‘Could be hispanic; you’d tell better if all the lights were on.

He’s starin’ at you for an answer.

Immediately, a song gets thrusted through your head.

One bourbon,

One—

“Scotch. One scotch.”

The words flow out before you can think against it. The bartender nods his head and moves to fix your drink. 

In about a minute, he slides you the drink and you catch it.

You pour a bit of it into your mouth. It stabs your tongue and scorches the back of your throat, as if it was a smoother drink of rubbing alcohol. 

How do y’all drink this shit?

Takin’ in the atmosphere, you ruminate on what’s transpired. 

It’s not like you’ve never fought with the man called Chigurh. In fact, a good portion of your time together is spent fighting. But, you’ve never fought with the man beneath the name. 

They’re two different entities, you’ve lingered long enough to know that. ‘Why you don’t really call him by that name, not unless you’re in public or something.

You might’ve been the only person to know him past the pseudonym—or whatever it is. At least that’s what his face told you the first time he noticed, all those years ago. He responded better that way, but now he won’t respond at all.

No matter how much you tell yourself that you’ve fought like this before, you can’t stop your hurt and worry. The last fight you had was of this caliber and it ended with the same silence. 

You can’t remember the exact year, only that it was near seventy-eight. 

Y’all were drivin’ along an empty highway in Del Rio. You’d been workin’ under Joscar for half a decade together. You’d practically become a whole unit, functionin’ on the same wavelength and such.

‘Both had finally finished the job he gave. 

Wasn’t easy workin’ for an ex-narco, helpin’ him get rid of the people after him, y’know. It was worth the time and injury, it opened up new horizons for your work and validated your purpose in doing so. For Chigurh, just another job done. But for the man underneath the name, you knew he felt somethin’ similar.

‘Shame he was such a goddamn lunatic, we could’a have somethin’ for a little longer.

‘Brings you back to the motel.

Would it have turned out any different if we held out just a little longer…

You take another sip of your scotch and it goes down smoother. It brings an unfamiliar heat to your face, but you don’t pay it no mind. He would’ve done the same. ‘Leads you to wonder how he’s manage intoxication, how he’d act like.

Bet he’d hate it.

The thought brings some warmth to your core, but melancholy takes over quickly. You can’t wrap your head around it. No matter what you do, you can’t seem to stop hurtin’ and findin’ any reason to bring him up.

Even in the midst of holdin’ back wet bullets from your eyes, you can't help but think…

‘Least he’s the one makin’ me feel this type’a way.

You know that it took years for you to see him again and this time may be no different. But you pray the weirdest prayer, one to the very chance he believes in, that he may find you soon again. Hopin’ to resolve whatever it is between y’all.

But it’s all in vain, you know it is. The chance he believes in ain’t real.

And you can’t stop remindin’ yourself, the only reason for anythin’ being resolved in the past had everythin’ to do with chance. That chance may never find you again.

So, all you can do now is reminisce.

You take a long drag of your drink and finish it. Heat rushes to your face and makes your head feel heavier between yer’ shoulders. You stay on the stool and watch the bartender interact with his patrons.

And all you do now is reminisce.

[aeyros]

I've gotten better! I'll be posting soon, sorry for the wait.

[aeyros]

Sinners' Day Off: Part Eleven

[Creator note: Hustled to push out this part. Sorry for any grammatical errors.]

Previous parts:

Part one

Part Two

Part three

Part four

Part five

Part six

Part seven

Part eight

Part nine

Part ten

"An abrupt display of cream colored teeth and pale gums flashes across his face." -reader

His irises keep on you, still yet in motion—like slow rollin’ dice. It was a loaded question, from a place deeper than you’d anticipated. If he’d asked you, you probably wouldn’t have even answered, let alone given it some thought.

As he seems to contemplate the question, you get on your knees and grab his pair of Lamas. You pat your shoulder. Still out of it, he places a hand there and raises a leg—almost instinctively.

You slide the boot onto his foot and wait for the other. Suddenly, the grip on your shoulder becomes a tight clench. It relaxes in a second, but you look up anyway.

He’s just starin’ at you, lips parted and dry again.

“Next...”

You shift your gaze back to his other foot and slide his last boot on it.

“The destination is already determined.”

He pauses to swallow saliva, voice slightly hoarse. His eyes are just as parched. When he glares at you, you aren’t sure if it’s to take in yer’ profile or moisture.

Ain’t ever givin’ him no Percodan again.

He clears his throat quietly and twists the water bottle open again.

“We…”

There’s a small pause, he seems to be hung up on the word—alarmed by it even.

“We…will follow the path that brought upon this transaction.”

You watch as he drinks what’s left of water in that bottle. He stares straight ahead, not at you—not at anythin’ really. ‘Pupils blanker than a pastor’s smile.

And the emphasis on the pronoun “we” ain’t slippin’ your mind, it sounded almost hesitant. That might’ve been the first time you’d even heard him acknowledge your shared reality, if you can call it that. It’ll probably be the last.

Ya’ spend some time processin’ his words. He do speak english, it’s just a riddled kind most don’t understand. ‘Takes you some time to translate, but you get there.

Gradually, you rise and straighten out your back.

“Well, if we gone’ stay, we gone’ stay here or what exactly?”

He closes the empty bottle and keeps it in his hand. 

An abrupt display of cream colored teeth and pale gums flashes across his face. As the hollowed smile plays out, his eyes look up, to the side, then roll back to you.

“We gon’.”

An audible puff of air exits the row of cream.

You take a pause.

“What?”

“Do you ask to know—to truly understand? Or do you…ask to be heard?”

His throat bobs with the last word and the smile starts to fade. His lips close like curtains over the rows of discolored pearls and lifeless flesh.

The question hits your resolve harder than a fall off a bull ride. You’ve known he ain’t ever been fond of questions, but jesus. Just like you know how ta’ push his buttons, guess he knows how to push yours.

You take a deep inhale.

“I could ask you the same thing.”

“Why didn’t you?”

“Ain’t an asshole, that’s why. Now, you answer me.”

“Do you ask to be heard?”

You close your eyes and take another deep breath.

“Stop. M’not in the mood to wrestle.”

“Do you ask to be heard?”

“Stop, I ain’t playin’ wit’chu no more.”

“Do you ask to be heard?”

“Never givin’ you shit again…”

“Do you ask to be heard?”

Your fingers cusp your nose bridge as you try to piece together the fragments of your composure.

“Do you—”

Like a blacksmith to a horse shoe, your palm hits his face with iron—you don’t even give him the dignity of a punch. The slap pushes him two steps to the side, not much for many but much for him.

Not allowin’ him time to react, words fly out your mouth.

“What’d I tell you, huh?”

His face stays still—unaltered, as if he had frozen when you struck him.

You roll your wrist, vaguely impacted by strikin’ his face of stone.

“Know what your problem is? Everythin’ but you apparently.”

A silence. His body very slowly goes back into place.

The sight don’t matter to you though, nothin’ do right now.

Ya’ take an uneven huff of air and continue.

“You can’t enjoy the moment—can’t deal with a second of peace. You can’t handle not bein’ in control for more than one–fuckin–second. Or bein’ treated like the human that you are. And you, you, you.”

Rigidly, he positions himself to face you. His irises are wider than half-dollars and his brows lower than an ocean’s tide in the winter. The strike left a red bruise on his cheek, but he don’t seem to acknowledge it.

The very air in your lungs feels like steam. If you’d raise your voice, you’d sound like a kettle with a grudge. You find yourself wishin’ you would raise it, that you could raise it. But, the hammer he threw ain’t hit your fuse—it hit your ego. It took as much as it could’ve up until now.

You both stare at each other. 

There’s an intensity boilin’ in your retinas and scorchin’ the rest of yer’ eyes, you can see it in his too. A hatred so repressed, one that's been culminatin’ throughout the time y’all known each other, manipulates your mouth before your brain can stop it. 

Like a puppet under the will of its puppeteer, you start again.

“Know some shy’t else?”

A seed of dread’s planted in yer’ chest. Y’know what’s comin’ and you still can’t stop it. The words come out like vomit.

“You ain’t nothin’ more than me. You do what I do, just worse.”

Your breathin’ staggers as the wretch pours out’cha. A small leer attempts to play at your lips, but dies before it gets there.

“I’m an agent of reality, I do my shy’t for a reason. Youse an agent of bullshit and somethin’ that don’t exist. Ya’ don’t got no reason.”

A low, dragged breath leaves his mouth as it parts only slightly. Some small moisture brings itself to his eyes and clings to his lower eyelids.

“No.”

“Oh yes.”

His head slowly drags from side to side and there’s a hysteria to the cadence of his breathin’ now.

“You don’t know what you ar—”

“So now let me ask you a question.”

“—No.”

The heavin’ of his chest should’ve been warnin’ enough, but your system pushes you to keep on pushin’ it. 

“Do you believe that you kill for some higher callin’ ‘cause it’s true?”

“Stop.”

“Or ‘cause you can’t justify dirtyin’ the world like the rest of ‘dem ‘lowly’ peoples?”

A silence.

He don’t even fight back, only stands there with his mouth ajar. His eyes—that once looked at you with curiosity—look at you with denial and delirium. 

Your mouth fixes shut. It clenches so hard your jaw reverbs and shakes your whole head wit’ it. 

You ain’t regretful—you ain’t never regretful, but somethin’ like it creeps into you and burns the back of your throat. 

The quiet strangles you with a knee on your chest. As you keep your eyes on his, you can see death fill his pupils. A kind of remorse is communicated through your irises as your words fail you. His eyes read yours but leave ya’ with no answer.

You take a rocky breath.

“I—I’m…”

No matter what you do, you can’t force any other word out your mouth. This ain’t like you, you’ve never felt like this before. Not a single thought can be formed. You can’t even stare at him without feelin’ a kick to your stomach.

Suddenly, a thin, translucent bullet’s shot through his eye. It emerges from the moisture in his lower lid, hits his chin, and your animus.

You freeze. A cold wrings your heart of all its blood, leavin’ you with about as much life-force as a corpse.

“I’m–I should’a…”

You take another rugged breath.

“I—I’ll stop.”

He only stares at you but you feel drowned. 

Too much.

This here’s too much.

Instinctively, your body moves toward him. His eyes follow you, but his body stays in place. Your hand reaches out to him and wipes his chin. With your free hand, you grab one of his. 

You squeeze his hand, then press it on your cheek.

“Hit me.”

His hand just rests there as he continues to stare. 

“I was out of line. Hit me.”

You wait for a longer moment, but let go once you realize he ain’t gone’ do anything. His hand falls with yours. 

You slide your fingers between his.

Barely able to breathe, you rest your forehead against his—knockin’ against it like youse crackin’ eggs. He don’t give you a reaction, but an eyebrow twitches. 

It sends a small wave of relief, but only temporarily. 

“You…”

With a short hesitance, you close your eyes.

“Y’know that—that I…”

The words die in your throat and the last of your breath’s gone. His fingers twitch against yours, makin’ you grip his hand tighter.

Your tongue’s too hard to handle, makin’ it difficult to speak. 

“There’s no difference between us. What I said to you…I said to myself.”

Another long silence, you use it to collect your thoughts. There’s a whole herd of feelin’s in ya’ that you can’t describe, let alone address. 

Abruptly, he pulls away. His hand goes limp and he glares at you but there’s a fence of barbed wire in his gaze. It don’t let you invade his eyes no more. Then slowly, he frees his hand and steps back.

For once in your life, you flinch.

You pause for a beat to try and catch your breath. Not much fills your lungs, yet you continue anyway.

“Not everythin’ happens for a reason, but we did.”

That’s all, that’s it. You have nothin’ more to say. 

There’s only quiet now, save for the low sounds of y’all takin’ air. His breathin’ is the only thing that puts you at ease, nothin’ else could. And even that fades away from you. 

You find yourself fixin’ to reach out, though you don’t let it happen. Instead, you reach for your face and hold it for a moment. 

Takin’ a deep breath, you let go and look up at the ceiling. Somethin’ creeps into your eyes and shakes the foundation of yer’ voice.

“...What more do ya’ want me to say?”

You close your eyes and keep ‘em shut tightly.

“I didn’t mean it, you know I didn’t. You were pushin’ me, did you get the reaction you wanted?”

You carefully put your face back into your hands and take another breath.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean it. I didn’t. Sorry, sorry, sorry. I’m sorry. I was out of line, hit me. Do you want me to beg for ya’ as well?  I’ll even do it on my knees, if that’s what you fuckin’ want. After all, youse all that matters right?” 

A confusion collides with the hatred coursin’ through you. You can’t wrap yer’ head around how strongly this is makin’ you feel and that adds more fuel to the fire.

“Go to hell.”

Suddenly, there’s a quiet breath.

“...Okay.”

Your chest begins to heave, but you ignore it. You’re wise enough to keep your face down though. A burnin’ liquid threatens to stream out an eye, so you pinch your nose bridge and choke it back.

“Settled then.”

With a sharp breath, you pull yourself together and look straight ahead. He’s starin’ at you with a coldness you haven’t felt in a while. It hits you deeper than a bullet would.

Your eyes fall like limp lassos as you push through your hurt and begin to walk. You rush toward the door and your shoulder shoves him out the way. 

Hurriedly, you unbolt the door and leave through it, slammin’ it on your way out. 

You waste no time marchin’ your way to the elevator, boots thumpin’ against the hallway carpet. Everythin’ is blurred and you can feel a hot, runny substance leak from your eyes. 

At the elevator, you press the button and wait for it to open.

Your chest rumbles like a faulty engine and twists enough to hurt. Once the elevator opens, you head inside and press the lobby button. 

The doors close and now you’re left by yourself. 

You force the leakin’ to stop and wipe your face with your sleeve. You take a couple o’ breaths until the doors open again. 

You leave the elevator and quickly make your way to the exit. Your boots clack against the tile and your eyes threaten to drizzle again. You swallow the feelin’ back and push through the exit. 

You’re met with nothin’ but desert and a semi-empty road. 

Fuck. Where am I goin’?

Usually, you’d get the Cutlass, but this ain’t a “usual” situation. It’s steamin’ out, so you don’t want to stay here too long. 

Town’s around a mile or two from ‘ere.

You step a few feet away from the motel, stick out your thumb, and wait. The sun roasts you like youse a sunday brisket until a Honda Accord approaches you. It’s in blue skin and seems to be this year’s model.

It slows down and someone rolls down their window. 

A young lady, one with red sunglasses on her head. Her hair’s the color of lemonade and her eyes the color of water. Judgin’ by the bronze of her peachy skin and the colorful polo she’s wearing, she ain’t from here. 

“Where are you going?”

“Uhh—Odessa. Y’know where that’s at, don’t you?”

She pauses, then nods.

“Yeah, totally. You mean the town a little over there, right?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“I’m passing by there anyway. Get in.”

You forge your best smile, pull open the door, then buckle up. 

She hits the gas and chews gum.

“I’m headed for Hollywood.”

“That where you live?”

“Ugh, no. I wish—I’m from Calabasas.”

Where the hell is that?

“I see... So, why you headin’ there?”

“Well, it’s kinda a long story. I’m from California, but I wanted to escape my bitching family—”

Her words fade into the background of your thoughts. You’re processin’ what just went down. You left him. And you don’t know when you’ll see him or if you’ll ever see him again.

At least you left him with the Cutlass. He won’t have an excuse to come lookin’ for you this time.

‘Should put you at ease, but it don’t.

[aeyros]

Sorry for the lack of uploads. I got sick recently and it sucks very badly.

[aeyros]

Sinners' Day Off: Part Ten

Previous parts:

Part one

Part Two

Part three

Part four

Part five

Part six

Part seven

Part eight

Part nine

"You both stare at each other for a while. He begins to button up his shirt, so you watch for a short moment." -reader

The warm afternoon air clings onto you like mud does a horseshoe. 

Steppin' past the sidewalk and around a corner, a ball of bright yellow blinds you for a second or two. The sun’s rays dance on your skin and make the clothes off your back feel freshly ironed.

Ain’t that some shy’t.

It was just pourin’ yesterday.

A subtle note of copper and old-attic rolls off your shirt. The smell don’t bother you. It ain’t yours anyway, it’s Chigurh’s. Your original shirt was a mangled mess of red and cotton, this was all you had left.

He didn’t seem to mind, not that it would’ve mattered if he did. He’d calmed down since yesternight, but his eyes were a little heavy. 

Good thing for the Percodan. ‘Made him rest easy before you left this morning, though he’ll probably wake up worse than before. 

You enter a buildin’ of red, stacked brick with a sign that reads [Circle M Western Wear]. 

Pushin’ through its glass door, you’re hit with a meager, artificial cold. You scan the room, hardly anyone’s there. Some aged lookin’ feller sits behind a counter, half-asleep.

There’s display cases of cheap watches, country boots, and ranch hats. You approach the racks of clothin’ and flip through its contents.

You come across a shirt with Jimmy Carter’s face on it. 

‘Owner’s lucky this ain’t in Monahans.

Funny. 

You flip past it and pull out two long-sleeve, cotton work shirts. You got one in blue denim and one in khaki, then ya’ grab some jean jackets. 

Slingin’ them over an arm, you head on over to a stack of folded Levi’s. You pick up two five-o-ones, sling ‘em over your arm, then make your way to the checkout. You grab a small pack of men’s underwear from a small rack under the counter.

The man jolts and his cheeks jump with him. He’s a portly feller, bald with grey stubble. His hat nearly falls, but he catches it.

He chuckles, straightenin’ out.

“Startled me. Bag?”

Although you find humor in the situation, you don’t feel the natural urge to express it. ‘Hard feelin’ with strangers, you’ve never been able to do it.

You force your best chuckle and nod.

The man smiles in return as he reaches for a bag. While he does that, you place your stuff down, head toward a rack of country boots, and grab two pairs of Tony Lamas.

You head back to the counter and place the pairs down. 

The man’s already put yer’ stuff in the bag, so he just grabs the shoes and shoves them in.

“That’ll be forty-seven and twenty-nine cents.”

You dig into your pocket and pull out a hundred dollar bill. Holdin’ it out to him, you grab the bag with your free hand.

“Don’t give me no change.”

His eyelids pull back for a moment, then he nods and takes the paper. 

You tip your head.

“Take care now.”

He nods his with a smile.

“Will do.”

You forge your best smile back and head on over to the door.

Upon exiting, sharp bullets comin’ from the sky pierce through your skin and make you break a sweat. The rain water on the sidewalk’s been long evaporated. 

You quickly make your way to the Cutlass, toss the bag onto the passenger’s seat, and hop in. Startin’ the vehicle, the engine roars and you get moving.

The motel ain’t too far from you, it’s only about a mile away. 

As the Cutlass jogs, you glance beside you. In the empty passenger’s seat there’s a mahogany cane and a plastic bag of items buckled up. The bag you threw sits on top of both things.

You fix your eyes back onto the road, it’s still a bit empty. You’ve only really seen two or three cars pass by, but that’s just Odessa for you.

A familiar tall buildin’ and a sign that reads [Motel - Open 24/7] appears on your right and gets closer with every second. Once it’s fully into picture, you pull into the driveway and park. 

Reachin’ over the passenger’s seat, you unbuckle the stuff. You grab the bags first, slidin’ them down into the fold of an arm. Then you grab the cane, unbuckle, and exit the Cutlass.

The sun spits at you immediately, burnin’ through your face. So you hustle your way to the motel, boots crunchin’ on the messed up asphalt and gravel. 

Inside, the air’s a bit cooler. There’s a shiny, well melanated woman behind the counter. She smiles at you, revealin’ gums the color of dark yams and teeth like white ears of corn. A presence like hers makes it feel like the sun’s managed to get inside the motel.

You muster up a small smile and nod your head, then head for the elevator. You press the button and in a minute, it opens. 

Entering, you press the floor-two button and wait. The reverb don’t make you bounce this time.

Once the doors open, you walk over to the area that reads [Rooms two-forty to two-fifty] and make your way down the hallway.

A strange heat flows from your chest into your stomach, makin’ you feel like one of ‘dem lava lamps. And with the heat, an urge to mess around pokes through your self-preservation.

You stop in front of your door, pull the brass key from your pocket, then unlock it. Steppin’ inside, you close the door behind you, twist the lock, and bolt it.

Your jaw clenches in an absurd anticipation.

“Honey, I’m home.”

An instant, subtle grunt sounds loud enough to reach across the room. You choke back a chuckle, pushin’ his buttons once is enough for now. The Percodan might’ve worn off so it’s best not to push your luck.

You walk over to your bed and lay the stuff down, then sit beside it. 

He’s on his bed, sittin’ up in his blanket just starin’ at you. He don’t look too rough, but judgin’ by the excitement in his response to your comment—he ain’t feelin’ it right now. 

You reach into a bag, pull out a bottle of water and a bottle of Ampicillin, then toss it at him. They both land on his lap.

You huff.

“Looks like you slept well.” 

He twists open the bottle of Ampicillin, ignorin’ you.

“Y’know, most people say thank you when given somethin’ they begged for.”

An eyebrow of his twitches. His eyes invade yours as he takes a pill and flushes it down with water, not once lookin’ away.

That Percodan’s no joke, jesus.

Glad I ain’t given him a Percocet.

A small chuckle escapes you as you return eye contact, you definitely pushed it there.

“Ll leave you ‘lone then.”

Better fix his face ‘for I fix it for him.

Ungrateful bastard.

You sigh and observe the way his Adam's apple bobs when he swallows. He places the items on the nightstand, then gazes at you.

“...Begged?”

“Lord, here we go. I said—”

“You said ‘begged.’ Did I be—”

“Shut yer’ trap and come get your clothes.”

His lips stay apart, then slowly shut as his eyelids peel back slightly. 

You pat the bag beside you. His eyes linger on you for a few moments, then shift onto the bag.

You watch as he methodically gets off the bed.

Suddenly, he shoves you out of the way and reaches for the bag. 

A loud thud echoes through the room as your left side hits the bedframe. Most of the impact’s on your bad arm and causes you to grit your teeth. It ain’t due to the pain however.

With the bag, he walks off to a mirror in the corner of the room. He grabs the pack of underwear, opens it, and puts some on—without a single glance back at you.

Patience lord…

Gimme’ patience.

You take a deep breath, then undress. Afterward, you get up and approach the bag. As you get closer, you can see his eyes focus on you in the reflection of the mirror.

Stoppin’ next to the bag of clothing, you grab the underwear and put some on.

“You best behave yourself.”

Hearin’ him pause, you grab some pants and pull them on. 

A huff.

“Behave…”

“Mhm.” 

You grab the blue-denim shirt and slide your arms through the sleeves. He resumes gettin’ dressed as well. 

“How so?”

Buttonin’ up your shirt, you scoff.

“Smart mouth ‘til I tell ya’ to do somethin’ simple, huh?”

“Hm.”

He stills again. Done gettin’ dressed, you stare at him. His shirt’s unbuttoned, but everythin’ else is proper. He keeps his body facin’ forward, but his narrowed eyes glance at you from the side.

“Okay…”

A silence.

His eyes shift back onto the mirror, lookin’ at his body but not his face. He stares at the top of his slacks. You watch him for a bit. 

“Didn’t think you needed a belt.”

Another silence.

“—Then you will behave with me.”

You pause. The gall of his words forces a chuckle out of you.

“Just got ta’ have the last word, don’t you?”

“Mm.”

You both stare at each other for a while. He begins to button up his shirt, so you watch for a short moment. Then you get behind him and start tuckin’ his shirt into his pants. 

Your fingers slide under his slacks.

“Hittin’ the road after this?”

Done with his shirt, he retires his arms to his sides and peers into your eyes. You peer into his, restin’ your head on his shoulder. He tenses, but slowly eases into it. 

“...What business of yours is it if I do or do not?”

Through the reflection of the mirror, you can see a hand of his flex. His eyes dart to the floor and stay there, he don’t push you off though. You understand it, a similar sentiment strangles your mind. There’s no heat from his body at all, yet you feel a sickly warmth spread across your forehead. 

“All of the business it is to you.”

His eyes stay glued to the floor as he stares blankly. You can feel the uneven huff and puff of his chest. The Percodan don’t seem to be sittin’ well, neither does this moment. 

Slowly, you remove your head from his shoulder.

“It’s like you said, ‘there is no difference between us.’ ”

He gazes right back at you, pupils joggin’ around in small circles only you could notice. He watches as you walk back to the nightstand and grab his bottle of water.

You watch his eyes trace your movement as you walk back and hand him the water. As soon as the bottle’s in his hands, he twists it open and takes a long sip. He nearly gulps down the entire thing before closin’ it.

The water gave his lips a small shine, the moisture gave ‘em a gloss. It seems his chest stopped heavin’ a bit. Now there’s only silence and eye contact. 

After a long quiet, his throat bobs as he fixes to speak.

“No.”

His eyes keep on you, no longer joggin’ but sittin’ straight with an occasional jitter instead. As you process the word, a short yet deep wave of ecstasy washes over you, coolin’ the fever on your forehead.

“Well then.”

You bend forward and pull out your pair of cowboy boots. 

“Where to next?”

[aeyros]

Sinners' Day Off: Part Nine

[Creator note: Suggestive and bordering NSFW.]

Previous parts:

Part one

Part Two

Part three

Part four

Part five

Part six

Part seven

Part eight

"Your legs wrap around his waist and you pull him flush against you.  He falls silent, then fixes his lips to speak. 'Are you done?' " -reader

Part nine:

You lay naked under the cheap sheets of your bed, starin’ blankly at the ceiling. 

The room’s dark—light’s been off for an hour now. You’ve been up for thirty minutes because you can’t sleep. 

The man in the other bed hit the hay a while ago, but you haven’t heard any snorin’ yet. His body’s enveloped in darkness so all you can see is the outline of his figure, layin’ upright with arms tucked over his blanket.

He’s just like you remember—exactly the same man you left him to be all those years ago. 

You were the lone grifter you always had been, takin’ any job available. 

Money was never the reason, you earned a’plenty with every little thing ya’ did. Griftin’ was just somethin’ you were used to, it was all you knew how to do. And it was easy, still got a real knack for it now.

The world looked down on your profession—on people like yourself. But it didn’t matter to you, it wasn’t your fault. If you didn’t take care of the world’s mess, it’d be smothered by its own filth. 

You’re only the world’s cleaner, a handler of nature restorin’ the world’s balance. And that’s all that mattered.

But the day you met him, your entire purpose was challenged. 

You can’t recall the year—only that it was an early nineteen-seventy-something. It was pitch black out and you were at some bar. 

You were makin’ a contract with a handler named Joscar. 

He was a short, tan feller with a Mexican face and a smoker’s voice. Each time he spoke or laughed, a tooth of bright gold would blind you.

‘Was an ex-narco, had some big guys on him and wanted them gone. ‘Offered a briefcase full of cash in exchange. He said you would have help as he contracted some other “fixer.”

After you took the job, you remember leavin’ the bar and steppin’ into the night. Someone was followin’ you, someone with the most careful footsteps.

You stopped a yard away from the bar, turned around and there he was, five feet away. A tall, pale man who mirrored the average West Texan in every aspect ‘cept two. 

The first was his expression. Most would say that almost any country hoss ain’t smile at strangers, that they got a cold look to them. But this was different, you could see it in his eye that cold was all the look he could muster. 

The second was his haircut. It was like he’d been jailed in the sixties and just got out. It was a dark brown, slightly overgrown, executive cut. The kind ya’ would’ve seen Chuck Connors parade around years ago. 

He was just standin’ there, staring straight at you. All you remember doin’ was asking a singular question.

Somethin’ along the lines of: “Buck Owens, that you?”

You chuckled right after, just once though. His eyes flickered with somethin’ you couldn’t name back then.

After a silence, you remember he responded with: “Your partner.”

His voice was an eclectic monotone. It reverbed with an indistinctly-accented baritone, and lingered well after he spoke.

You nodded and asked somethin’ like: “H’what they call you?”

 He glared at you through a longer silence, then fixed his lips to speak. 

And all you recall him sayin’ was: “Anton [Sehgueer].”

The last part shot right through your ears, unintelligible until you saw it in writin’ a long time after. He was—or rather—went by Anton Chigurh. 

‘Least that’s what his contract read.

You sigh. 

You’ve got a long day ahead, but still can’t sleep. The sky hasn’t lightened up yet, so there’s still some time left for rest.

Movin’ to roll onto your side, you freeze. There’s a dark figure at the side of your bed, loomin’ over you.

“Shouldn’t be standin’ with that leg of yours.”

The figure stays still, so you sit up.

“What’chu want?”

You reach across the nightstand and turn on the lamp. The view’s blurred at first but gradually comes into focus.

He’s still naked, just as you are, and bleedin’ from the forehead. The skin under his eyes has darkened to a grey color. His right leg’s bent as he leans on his left.

“I kept my word.”

He glares down at you while you process his words.

You tilt your head.

“...Still goin’ on about that?”

He only continues to glare. You glance back at his right leg, it ain’t gone’ heal quick if he keeps this up.

You pat the side of your bed.

“Si’down.”

A silence.

Carefully, he lowers himself onto the bed and sits right beside you.

You grab a small, dark bottle of hydrogen peroxide off the nightstand, twist it open then tear the seal. You rip open a clear plastic bag of cotton pads, take one, and pour the liquid onto it. You raise the wet pad to his forehead and begin cleaning, he only watches. 

You peer into his eyes, clear but clouded with darkness. 

“If by keepin’ your word you mean nearly killin’ me, then I’d agree that you did.”

He stays silent for a moment, then…

“Are you dead?”

The question makes you pause.

“Haven’t you had enough fight for today? Quit bein’ such an asshole.”

“I kept my word.”

“Enough.”

You stop lookin’ at him, shiftin’ your gaze onto his forehead. But he grabs your wrist and leans in closer, forcin’ you to look at him.

“I kept my word.”

“Enough.”

“I kept my word.”

Grabbin’ the sides of his head, you pull his face right against yours.

“Enough.”

He pauses for a few beats, then pushes his face closer.

“I kept my word.”

Your nose tips touch and his breath hits your lips.

“Don’t you speak English? I said en—ough.”

“I kept my wor—”

Forcin’ his head slightly upward, your mouth strikes his. Your teeth collide as you steal his breath. He freezes, lips still parted.

Then, a hand grips your wrist and attempts to yank you off. Ya’ don’t budge. 

Instead you deepen the kiss, quickly slidin’ out the sheets and standin’ on your knees. Your lips wrestle his with a vehemence only he could drive out of you.

Only once you run out of air do you stop, nippin’ his bottom lip hard enough to tear it. Then you pull away. His blood stains your lips and you leave it there.

“Enough.”

He just sits there, eyes wider than the moon. 

Slowly, he leans his whole body closer, pushin’ himself between your legs. You keep your grip on his face as he continues.

“Do you think…this changes the outcome?”

His voice rings low and quiet, brushin’ on your lips.

You close your legs around his waist.

“I ain’t gone’ tell you what you want to hear. Luck kept your word, not’chu.”

Suddenly, you lay down and pull him over. His cold, dense body smashes against yours. He keeps himself up with his hands, they’re placed on either side of you.

His eyebrows touch each other as he stares at you blankly. You know it ain’t what you did that threw him off, it’s what you said.

“Go to sleep, I got shy’t to do tomorrow.”

As he keeps frozen, you sit up and reach past him to turn off the light.

He rolls himself off to the side and just lays there, upright.

With a sigh, you lay down, pull the blanket over ya’ll, and close your eyes.

“Sleep.”

“What was meant to happen happened. That isn’t luck.”

Flippin’ your eyelids open, you roll over and hold your head up with your arm. 

You huff, amused by his audacity.

“What the fuck did I tell you?”

You can hear his body roll over.

“Your opinions aren’t fact. You weren’t meant for death by my hand, therefore you did not die.”

“Who could guess that you of all people got a mouth bigger than your head?”

“That isn’t luck.”

You sigh.

“Say what you want, still won’t change my mind. I already told you, I ain’t gone’ tell you what you want to hear.”

“If I had left you there, would you have survived?”

“If I had left you there, would you have survived?”

He falls silent for a moment.

“What was meant to happen happened.”

You scoff.

“Because you made it happen.”

“There is no difference between us.”

With your free hand, you hold the bridge of your nose.

“Shush, go to sleep.”

A puff of air hits your face.

“Your opinion is not fact.”

“Keep runnin’ that mouth.”

“Your opinion ain—t fact.”

A low chuckle escapes you.

“Think you're so funny, huh?”

You release your nose bridge and feel his face, slidin’ your fingers down to grip his chin.

“You like botherin’ me?”

Your thumb glides along his bottom lip. He lets you do as you please.

“There is no difference between us.”

With your thumb, you pull down his lip and he continues to let you.

“I should’ve killed you when I had the chance.”

A grunt vibrates through his chest and against yours. Lettin’ go of his lip, you slither your fingers to the back of his head and clutch his hair.

You press your mouth against his. He pauses at first, then eases into it.

A small simper plays on your lips.

“Haven’t changed, the last I saw you.”

“Mm…”

With the tip of your tongue, you feel the cut on his bottom lip and clean it up. When you put it away, he does the same to yours. Before he can put it back in his mouth, you suck on it. He tastes like somethin’ metallic, nothin’ more than blood. You aren’t sure whether it’s yours or his that you’re tasting.

He huffs through his nose, so do you.

“To sleep.”

His hand grips your jaw abruptly and he steals your breath, mouth against yours. 

As you try to pull him off and counter his subversion, he parts your lips with his tongue and deepens the kiss arbitrarily. Once you run out of air, he pulls away.

You catch your breath.

“...Really?”

You scoff.

“Okay, let's go then.”

Placin’ a leg onto his hip, you pull yourself over him and straddle his lap. Before he can react, you hold his arms down and return the kiss.

His mouth fights back, returnin’ the vehemence you had shown him. An arm of his breaks free and grips the back of your head. As he attempts to pull you off, a stiff mass slowly rises against you.

You break the kiss and take a breath, you feel his quiet pantin’ against your mouth. 

“Got it all out of your system?”

He pushes the back of your head and forces you into another kiss, slidin’ his tongue against yours. 

As a small gasp escapes you, you grind against his pelvis. His breath stills momentarily. 

Then he lets go of your head and sits up. With his free hand, he pushes you down. As you’ve kept your grip on his other wrist, he falls down with you. 

He pins you by your wrist while you hold his.

“You would have died if you were meant to die.”

“And if I was meant to die, would you have killed me?”

Your legs wrap around his waist and you pull him flush against you. 

He falls silent, then fixes his lips to speak.

“Are you done?”

“With this conversation or with you?”

A silence.

Then slowly, he just rests against you and you just let him. You’re used to sleepin’ in uncomfortable situations so this is fine. You close your eyes, let go of his wrist, and retire your hands on his back.

As you drift, you think of what tomorrow’ll bring you two. Whether he’ll stay or go.

He’s the only person that’s been able to mess with your stables. You think that means something, you just don’t know what.

[aeyros]

Sinners' Day Off: Part Eight

[Creator note: NSFW, just a warning.]

Previous parts:

Part one

Part Two

Part three

Part four

Part five

Part six

Part seven

"He even has the same scar—the one you made all that time ago—down his right side." -reader

Part eight:

Enterin’ the dark room, you flip the light on and head for the toilet. He follows.

You stop in front of it. 

The man moves to sit, holdin’ onto your shoulder for support. His weight hits the porcelain seat, makin’ it creak like an old bench. 

His eyes stick onto you as you approach the shower.

You turn the handle, leavin’ it between the hot and cold setting. 

Turnin’ back around, you face the man. He’s still starin’ at you.

‘Wonder if he only looks at me that way.

Lookin’ down at your slacks, you unzip ‘em. You kick them off and reach down to grab ‘em. Foldin’ the fabric, you place it on a towel rack.

You slide off your underwear, then your socks, and grab them. You place them all on top of your slacks.

Lookin’ back up, not only are you met with his gaze, but with his fully naked body. 

It’s almost exactly like you remember: Plump but defined, muscular with a firm pair of pectorals and limbs. 

His pale flesh makes the hair runnin’ down his chest seem darker than it is. He even has the same scar—the one you made all that time ago—down his right side. The only thing different is his abdomen—slightly more defined than the last time you’d seen it. 

Your eyes drop down, but the view’s blocked by a folded pile of his clothes restin’ on his lap.

…Very funny.

Your focus shifts back to his face. 

His shifts too, like he’s been tracin’ your gaze up until now.

Tearin’ your eyes off him, you grab a box of soap from the sink counter and open it. 

You head over to the shower and place it on a small soap holder. 

Headin’ back, you stand in front of him and hold your arm out. He puts his stack of clothin’ off to the side. 

Slowly, he grips your palm and rises. 

You wait until he has a steady grip on your shoulder to turn to the shower. 

You step over the thin stack of waterblockin’ tile and he follows. 

Carefully, you take a few steps backward towards the shower head. He grips both of your shoulders and follows in front of you. 

As the warm water rains over you both, you reach for the soap.

You lather it in your palms as he stares deep into your eyes. The water slicks down his dark, weird haircut no better than the rain did. 

Puttin’ the soap back on its holder, you drop your eyes and place your hands on his chest. He’s tense, probably watchin’ you like a hawk.

You begin to wash him.  

Cautious as to not move too quickly near his side, your hands move in slow, circular motions. 

You glance up at him, he’s starin’ straight through you. His eyes are narrowed and his brows are practically touching.

Oh, quit.

Wasn’t starin’ at me all crazy when you was the one doin’ the washin’ way back when.

Slidin’ your palm down to his abdomen, you can feel his grip tighten. 

His eyes drop down to your hands, watchin’ them closely. You scrub his abdomen, then his sides—carefully. With every touch, his body becomes more tense.

You stop, restin’ a hand on his hip. Grabbin’ the soap with your other, you hold it out to him.

“Should clean that yourself.”

A silence.

His eyes peer into yours as he stays still. 

Slowly, a hand ungrips your shoulder and snatches the bar from your hands. He lathers it in his palm, places it on the holder, then reaches past his stomach.

Your gaze falls. 

His hand scrubs a trail of short, coarse hairs that run below his hips. Then he slides it lower, meticulously latherin’ an area hidden behind his palm. 

Suddenly, his fingers dig into your shoulder.

Your eyes fly back up to his face. 

He ain’t lookin’ at you, but his head’s still upright.

A tad bit amused, you dig your thumb into his hip. The skin underneath your finger pulls downward.

His eyes immediately meet yours, pupils slightly dilated but searin’ through your cranium. He glares at you for a moment. 

Then…

“What?”

A silence.

You glare back, keepin’ a firm grip on him.

“Well shy’t, real strict nowadays. Ain’t never cared before, why now?”

He keeps a firm grip as well, eyes still invadin’ yours. Nothin’ but the singular tip of an eyebrow moves.

You step closer, leavin’ only a few inches between you two. 

His grip tightens, but so does yours. 

“Chasin’ me down an alley and shootin’ my fucken arm… ‘What,’ I should be askin’ you the damn question.”

Slowly, you release his hip and run your palm up his scarred side.

“Fixin’ for another one of these, is that it—”

In one quick step, he slams you against the shower tile. The air leaps out of your lungs, and you barely miss the shower handle. The back of your head bangs the tile and begins to throb.

His hands are pinnin’ you to the wall as he attempts to support himself. Now your faces are even closer, lettin’ you see the venom pools of his irises clearly.

Catchin’ a rigged breath, you take a handful of his hair. 

You pull him closer, leavin’ no space left between your faces. Your nose and lips hit his, smashin’ against them like a punch. 

You take a deeper, rugged breath.

“You said you’d leave me alone, you gave me your word.”

His eyelids pull back and a lone eyebrow furrows. 

He makes no effort to shake you off. Instead, he tilts his head.

“You approached me.”

The low, monotone whisper rumbles in your ears. His lips move against yours, makin’ his breath easier to feel. 

You process his words.

“A week ago. You was hidin’ in the shadows.”

His lips part, but he don’t say anything. He stares at you, eyes gaping. 

“No.”

He pauses.

“You concealed yourself.”

Small puffs of his breath land on your mouth as his teeth graze your lips. They nip at your bottom lip, slightly bitin’ on the busted bits of it as he enunciates that last part. 

He makes no effort to let go, makin’ the sting fade into numbness after a while of silence.

A sharp exhale exits your nose as you move your mouth to the best of your ability.

“A person shrouded in darkness startles you intentionally, what would you have done?”

His eyebrow twitches and he stays quiet, invadin’ your eyes like it’s his right to. 

You can feel your lip start to bleed as you wait for him to let go. He doesn’t so you clutch his hair tighter. All it does is make him breathe harder.

He lets go, but his teeth still graze you.

“You did the same thing.”

Immediately after, he bites back down. 

Blood rolls down your lip as you process his words.

You scoff and double down.

“Who provoked who, you know the answer better than any—”

Out of nowhere, he clamps your shoulders tighter and crushes your lip with his teeth. Instinctively, you yank his head back and swing your knee up between his legs.

His head resists the movement, causin’ a small part of his scalp to tear. Though, he does let go of your mouth. 

His right leg folds only slightly. 

Your knee doesn’t do much more than that. You drop it between his legs, lettin’ your thigh rest against a stiff mass of his flesh. 

While a thin stream of red runs down his forehead, you lick your bottom lip, lapin’ up the blood that drips. 

There’s no space between you two now, you’re both pressed together—closer than a saddle on a horse. 

As you lick, your tongue slides against his lip. You don’t care enough to stop it and he don’t either. He only stares at you, eyes as wide as burnt pies. 

You huff.

“Gone’ kill me now?”

He stays silent, pupils still dilated and eyelids blown back. 

He blinks just once.

Suddenly, the flesh against your thigh shifts. His skin tightens gradually as he continues to analyze you.

The subtle movement catches you off guard, makin’ you let go of his hair. You move your hand to his shoulder and try to push him off. 

He don’t budge.

You stare back at him. His audacity makes a small smile tug at your lips, you suppress it though.

“...You’re sick.”

A sharp exhale exits his nose and lands on your skin. He stays still, completely silent.

You scoff.

“Ya’ think that’s funny?”

He doesn’t respond, only narrows his eyes. 

You slide your hand up from his shoulder and onto his face. You cup his cheek, grippin’ it so that he’s forced to look at you.

“Well then. Don’t blame me for bein’ rough.”

With your thigh, you begin to rub his area in a slow, side to side motion.

His eyes crash down and his head attempts to follow, but you force it still. His focus shifts back to you. His breath catches as you continue.

He remains unresponsive for about a minute.

Then he blinks. 

He digs his nails into your shoulders, claspin’ them hard enough to bruise.

You grit your teeth and increase the pace of your teasing. Against your thigh, you can feel his stiff mass grow. 

Your eyes invade his.

“Let go.”

He only digs his fingers deeper. So you lift your leg, pressin’ your knee against what feels like his scrotum.

Instantly, his teeth come crashin’ onto your mouth again. This time, he chomps down on your bottom lip. 

Immediately, you uncup his face, shove it to the side, then push him off of you. His back slams onto the shower tile and he attempts to hold himself up. 

You lick your bleedin’ lip, now torn and probably bruised. His lip’s stained with your blood and his pupils are blown wide, tracin’ your every movement.

Grabbin’ the soap from its holder, you lather it in your palm, then place it back.

In one swift step, you pin his shoulder against the wall with one hand and resume cleanin’ him with the other. He grasps your shoulders and watches.

You scrub his back and make your way down to his hide. His body tenses as it anticipates friction.

Scrubbin’ his backside, you slide your fingers through his crevice and it makes him squeeze your shoulders.

With an open-hand, you smack his rear.

“That’ll be enough, thank you.”

He narrows his eyes at you. A low, lifeless grunt leaves him, vibratin’ against your chest. 

“Mm…”

You make your way down to his legs, crouchin’ down to clean ‘em. He keeps his grip on you but he ain’t squeezin’ any harder.

A familiar, stiff mass pokes your face as you scrub. 

You look up at it. 

It’s half-erect, his length blunt, around four to five inches, but thick. The pale, hooded edge of his foreskin stretches back slightly to reveal bits of his light brown tip. A full, heavy sack of flesh hangs right beneath, flushin’ dark.

The sight isn’t enough to stop your scrubbing. You continue, brushin’ against it with every movement.

You chuckle.

“Someone’s happy.”

A quiet puff exits his nostrils.

Once you’re done scrubbing, you move to get up. You ignore the position of your lips, which are underneath his shaft. You’re almost curious to see how it’d react to the friction. 

Then lookin’ up at him, you rise. Your lips glide against his tightened skin, causin’ it to grow a bit more. 

He watches you stand with narrowed eyes, still holdin’ onto your shoulders. 

You grasp his lower back for support.

“My turn.”

Slowly, he retracts a hand and reaches for the soap. He lathers it in his palm, then places it back onto the holder.

Placin’ his hand on your arm, he begins to scrub firmly. 

You trace his movement.

He moves from that arm to the next, patiently workin’ his way down. He washes your back, makin’ sure to clean every crevice. When his hand comes back around, you expect him to stop at your hips. 

He don’t.

One hand clasps you tightly, while the other scrubs your pelvic area. Your hips twitch as you fight the initial shock and arousal. Your hand flies down and grips his, but he whips it off. 

Out of nowhere, his hand finds your rear and smacks it.

“ ‘That—ll be enough…’ ”

You freeze as his hand moves to finish cleanin’ the area.

Did he just?

As he finishes cleanin’ the area, he retires his hand back to your shoulder and analyzes you.

Gradually, you bend over and scrub your legs.

“You keep talkin’ and I’ll clean that mouth out with soap.”

A small grunt rumbles through his chest.

Water runs down your back as you rise up. 

You’re met with his cold gaze. His face has reverted back to its usual expression, though his pupils are still slightly dilated.

Smug bastard.

Holdin’ his lower back with a hand, you carefully back up and reach for the shower handle. You shut off the water and step over the water-blockin’ tile. He follows, still grippin’ onto your shoulders.

You guide him out the bathroom and to the bedroom, the carpet soaks the water rollin’ off your bodies. The air feels fresh against your skin. After a few steps, you plop him onto his bed. 

You head back to the bathroom. 

Grabbin’ the clothes and some towels, you walk back to the bedroom. 

Stoppin’ at your bed, you sit down. You toss him a towel and his pile of clothes.

“I’ll get you a new set of garbs and a crutch ta’morrow.”

You dry your body with a towel, he just watches. 

Then he starts dryin’ himself.

You unwrap the bubblewrap over your gauze and place it on the nightstand. He does the same.

[aeyros]

Sinners' Day Off: Part Seven

Previous parts:

Part one

Part two

Part three

Part four

Part five

Part six

" 'Don’t go dancin’ ‘round a fire if ya’ don’t want ta’ get burned.' He continues to study you." -reader

Part seven:

Your eyes follow his. He’s starin’ out the clouded window, watching the few feet of road.

“You can’t see like that.” Reachin’ across his lap, you move toward a rectangular slider.

It’s directly on the dashboard face—on the left side of the steering wheel. You slide it to the high settin’ and the windshield wipers pop up. 

Out of nowhere, the man’s right elbow immediately comes down and hits your wrist. It wasn’t hard enough to hurt, but you definitely felt it. His left arm stays still and the wheel hasn’t moved once. 

Slowly retractin’ your hand, you analyze him; he’s unbothered. You take a breath and lean into your seat.

“The windshield washer.”

He doesn’t respond. 

You close your eyes and exhale. “The windshield washer…”

Again, he’s unresponsive. 

Openin’ your eyes, you stare straight ahead. The windshield wipers do clear the rain, but blur the glass without the cleaner. It makes nearly every buildin’ look like a blob. All you can see is the rainin’ desert and cracked asphalt. 

Abruptly, you reach across his lap once more. 

Before he can react, you press on the face of the slider switch. The windshield washer squirts as you retract your hand, then focus straight ahead.

From your upper-peripheral vision, you can see his eyes glance at you through the rearview mirror.

A tall, lit-up buildin’ appears on the right side of the desert. There appears to be a sign. As the Cutlass walks closer, you can read the contents. It’s a motel.

The vehicle pulls into the driveway and slows at the front parkin’ lot.

The brakes slam once again. It was anticipated this time, you grip the seat with your right hand. Though you do fall forward and hit the seat—slightly. 

Immediately, the man unbuckles and exits. The bottle of pain-killers rolls off his lap and under the dash. He’s instantly drenched in rain and limps over to the lobby without you. 

Ridiculous…

Takin’ a deep breath, you unbuckle. 

Makin’ sure to grab the bag of medical supplies and the pills from under the dashboard, you follow him.

You scan your surroundings, drownin’ in rain until you get inside. 

Upon entrance, you’re greeted with a weak, artificial warmth. It does just enough to heat you up. 

The man’s already receivin’ a brass key, leaned over the counter—practically grippin’ it.

Instead of askin’ for a room next, you wait beside him. 

In the past, gettin’ your own room did nothing but cause problems.

You read the number engraved on the key.

Two-forty-two.

Better be an elevator up in ‘ere.

You sigh and scan the lobby. There’s an elevator right past the corner—near the stairs. 

Instinctively, you look over your shoulder. The man’s glarin’ at you like you’ve killed his entire family.

Gettin’ sick of you too. Don’t worry.

He lets go of the counter and leans on his left side. 

With your right arm, you reach out to him.

“Elevator’s ‘round the corner, amigo.”

He briefly looks down at your arm, then slowly limps past it. 

You watch him for a short minute, he can barely even move. It only takes you a few steps to catch up with him.

Takin’ a sharp breath, you pull him by his right shoulder and ram him against you. The bag—still in your hand—slaps him. He instinctively wraps his arm around your neck to stabilize himself. 

His eyes flip open and brows smash into each other, though the rest of his face remains the same.

Keepin’ your grip on his shoulder, you hustle to the elevator. You give him no time to adjust, his legs fight to keep up. The heels of his boots squeak, wrestlin’ with the tile. It’s almost like he was runnin’ in some tennis shoes. 

As you round the corner, the man fixes his posture and holds your neck with his hand. He presses his fingers into your neck. 

His nails, though short, dig into your skin. You take careful breaths through your nose, grit your teeth, and keep moving.

You make it past the corner, and stop in front of the elevator. 

The man’s fingers press deeper into your neck, makin’ your eyes well. That don’t stop you from keepin’ a grip on him and pressin’ the elevator button.

In a few seconds, the elevator opens. You tighten your grip and drag him inside. The doors close. His fingers are still pressin’ into your throat. You glare at him, he stares straight ahead. 

You take a rugged breath.

“Press…the button.”

He stands still.

You let go of his shoulder and press the floor-two button. He releases your throat, leanin’ against the elevator wall. You take a long breath through your nose and suppress a cough.

The elevator causes both of your bodies to reverb as it goes up. There’s only silence until it dings.

Immediately after it opens, you hold him by the same shoulder and push him out. You know that if you attempt to drag him again, he’d fight it.

He stares at you with the same face as earlier, except his pupils are slightly dilated now. You stare back at him.

“Move it.”

He pauses for a few, then slowly turns.

You watch as he limps away, approachin’ an open wall area labeled “rooms two-forty to two-fifty.” 

You follow behind.

He can’t move all that quick, he can barely even move. His limp is honestly more like a hobble. Your injuries are just as grave—you ain’t got time to waste before worse damage is done.

“We don’t got time for this, I shouldn’t have to tell you.”

He continues hobbling, his boots thump against the carpet.

Processin’ his willful ignorance, you kick the back of his good leg.

He stumbles, bendin’ his knees slightly. 

By his arm, you don’t spare a single second in draggin’ him until you see room two-forty-two. It’s only six feet away.

However, he rises and headbutts your chin. 

Stunned, you throw him against a wall.  

He didn’t cause much damage, though he definitely could have. He only made you bust your bottom lip. He leans against the wall unharmed. 

You wipe your lip, slide the pharmacy bag into the fold of your arm, and approach him. His dilated pupils trace your every move.

Suddenly, you take a hold of his hair and drag him to the door. 

He don’t get much time to react. All he can do is grip your hand and try to keep up. 

In a couple of steps, you stop right in front of the room. 

“You have the key.”

As you stop, he finds equal footin’ and straightens out. You clutch his hair tighter.

He pauses, starin’ straight into nothing. Then he unlocks the door. 

You waste no time in draggin’ him into the room. 

Unlike the last time sharin’ a room with him, there’s two beds instead of one.

You let go of him and close the door. He staggers toward a bed.

You scan the room. 

There’s a small bathroom, the door’s left open. The toilet’s only a foot or two away from the sink and shower. It isn’t the best place to tend to your injury.

There’s an even smaller closet with extra sheets and an iron. You don’t need that right now.

There’s a wooden nightstand between the two beds. Though the cashmere carpet of the room can be easily stained, you decide that’s where you’ll treat yourself.

Immediately, you slide off your boots and approach the nightstand. 

You hear the man slide his off too. The sheets underneath him rustle as he moves. His boots make a faint thud against the floor. 

Near the other bed, you place the bag of medical supplies on the nightstand's wooden surface.

You sit down and are met with the man’s gaze. He analyzes you, his face even paler than before.

You grab the bottom of the bag and carefully pour out the supplies onto the wood. 

“Get what'chu need.”

He instantly complies, snatchin’ a bottle of betadine [disinfectant] and a small, square alcohol wipe.

You reach for another bottle of the same thing.

You twist the cap, tear the protective seal, and pour the betadine in your wound. The syrupy liquid pools, stainin’ your skin a dirty rust color. It boils and slowly starts to throb.

Tearin’ the wipe open with your teeth, you place it on the nightstand and pour some betadine on it.

You quickly grab the wipe and clean around the injury. It stains the skin a similar rust color. Then you put the items down.

You grab a vial of lidocaine [anesthetic], then place it standin’ up. You grasp a thin syringe and stick it into the vial.

Your fingers push and pull the syringe's plastic pump. The anesthetic fills the syringe, leavin’ small air bubbles. You lay the syringe down and flick it with your fingers until there aren’t any bubbles.

Grabbin’ it again, you position it over the numbing zone. Meticulously, you stick it into the area and shoot the substance in a circle around the injury. Then you place the syringe down.

You know the anesthetic takes time to kick in, so you wait. 

As you wait, you watch the man treat his wound. He’s just finished injectin’ himself with a different vial of lidocaine. You watch as he places his syringe down an inch away from yours. 

After which, his eyes meet your gaze.

You both stare at each other for a couple of minutes. Some color comes back to his face, not a ton though. 

Then you grab a pair of shears and a wad of cotton gauze. 

You pack the gauze into the wound. 

Then, you gently slide the shears under the belt and thin piece of fabric tied around your bicep—snippin’ through them. 

A spurt of hot, deep red rushes down your bicep and quickly stains the gauze.

You cut through the sleeve of your jacket next, exposin’ your full arm. Slidin’ off the jacket, you place it over your lap.

The wound pulses as the spurtin’ continues, so you grab a thicker wad of gauze and pack it into the injury.

You pack in a couple yards, pressin’ it against your bone. 

Soon after, you reach for a thin IV tube and stick it into a glass bottle of saline. You watch the tube gradually fill with the liquid. Makin’ sure there aren’t any bubbles, you stick the IV into a clear vein.

You can feel the blood rush faster, though the gauze absorbs it better now.

A gradual, agonizin’ pain stabs under the impacted area—in your left forearm and fingers.

Takin’ a deep breath, you grasp a pair of artery forceps. You search for a torn vessel before the blood spills out of the gauze.

As soon as you find it, you waste no time in clampin’ the forceps down on it.

You keep your hand on it and glance at the man.

A leg of his slacks has been cut off and he’s already wrappin’ his injury with gauze. You wait until he finishes and looks at you.

He peers at your arm, the forceps, then back at you.

You stare at him. 

“Can you sew?”

Silence. 

His pupils fall back onto your wound; they stay there for a short while. 

After a couple beats, he tears his eyes off you and searches the nightstand.

He unpacks a small content of needles, then reaches for a twine of braided nylon. Grippin’ a thin needle, he loops the thread through.

As he does that, you slide off the bed and approach him. The jacket falls off your lap.

Kneelin’ on the carpet, you gently place your left arm in his lap. Makin’ sure the forceps are secure, you let go. 

Immediately after, he wraps a loop of the thread around the clamped artery and under the metal jaws. He then pulls it into a tight, heavy knot. A rough, rackin’ sting runs down your forearm, a tear rolls down your cheek. 

You grit your teeth and remove the forceps. The knot holds. 

He glares at the injury, then places the needle down. His eyes linger momentarily. 

The pain in your lower arm’s intense, gettin’ worse by every minute. So, you grab a box that reads “surgical staples,” and toss it at him.

He pauses. 

After a short silence, he grabs the box and opens it. 

You pull the stapler out yourself, he just watches.

Clenchin’ your jaw, you push the affected tissue together and press the stapler against your skin. 

It quickly punctures the area and holds it together, so you continue. You staple down a vertical line until your injury is completely closed up. 

You place the stapler on the nightstand. Immediately after, you screw open a tincture of Benzoin [stitch glue]. 

Pullin’ the cap open, you reveal a thin brush attached to it. With it, you paint around the staples in your arm. Then you dip it back into the bottle and screw it shut.

There’s an opened box of Telfa pads [anti-gauze stickin' pads] that you reach into. You place a pad directly over the staples. 

Afterward, you unbutton your shirt and remove it. You then grab a wad of Kling gauze. 

You tightly wrap the gauze from your elbow to your armpit.

“Gone’ shower tonight?”

Once you finish wrappin’ your arm, you place the excess gauze on the nightstand and face him.

He blinks once, it barely brings any moisture to his eyes. Seems he's been watchin' you for a while now.

Should’a snagged him some eyedrops.

Then…

“Can I stand?”

The deep, monotone of his voice emphasizes the impertinence in his question.

You huff, slightly amused by the sarcasm.

“That ‘poused to be my fault?”

He just studies you, almost like he’s lettin’ the silence answer your question.

In the silence, an urge to mess with him pops up.

“Oh, don’t you start. You provoked me.”

You get up and stand in front of him. He looks up at you, his face unmoving.

“Don’t go dancin’ ‘round a fire if ya’ don’t want ta’ get burned.”

He continues to study you. A puff of air exits his nose. 

“Are you…the fire?”

You pause. His guff makes a small smile play at your lips.

“Watch yer’ mouth, hoss.”

Without sayin’ another word, you both glare at each other. 

The quiet spans across a long moment.

Then, abruptly…

“Neither one of us can shower alone.”

You know your injury would make it difficult to clean yourself effectively. And with his, he wouldn’t even be able to make it to the bathroom. Besides, It wouldn’t be the first time you’ve had to share a shower.

He stares at you blankly. 

You pull a thin piece of bubble wrap from an opened box of medical supplies, then wrap it around your gauze. 

Pullin’ another sheet from a different box, you hand it to him. He carefully loops it around his gauze.

After a moment passes, he slowly stands up and grips your shoulder.

Holdin’ onto his lower back, you walk him to the bathroom at a snail's pace. He staggers, but the carpet gives him some grip to keep straight.

[aeyros]

Sinners' Day Off: Part Six

Previous parts:

Part one

Part two

Part three

Part four

Part five

"Now his thigh’s all blown ‘ta kingdom come. ‘Kind of looks like a piece of pulled taffy." -reader

Part six:

Reluctantly, you lower your steel. He does the same.

Your adrenaline crashes with the rain, causin’ the pain in your arm to rise back up to the surface. A sharp stingin’ sensation crawls around your heels and there’s an ache all over your body. 

Despite all that, you manage to stand—slightly hunched. 

Blood rushes down your leg, from a pulsatin’ part of your knee. Bruised and tattered, you straighten yourself out and face the person. 

You scan them to make sure they’re who you think they are.

 Gots to be him.

Just what was he tryin’ to do anyway? 

Your eyes follow a trail of thick, red liquid flowin’ from his upper thigh.

Now his thigh’s all blown ‘ta kingdom come. ‘Kind of looks like a piece of pulled taffy.

…Least I’m not the only fucked up one. 

“There’s a pharmacy a mile from here, got a car?”

He slowly turns and steadily limps away. 

Yep, that’s him alright.

You follow after, hobblin’ to your best ability.

Leavin’ the alley, you catch a glimpse of the blood trail you both left on the floor. It isn’t large, but it's there. The rain washes it down a drain nearby, only bits of it though.

Your eyes catch the way the back of his leg twitches and shakes, all that does is make you feel better about your arm. It's completely busted.

Only he’d be able to do me like this…

Thunder claps from the ash clouds in the night sky. No lightnin’, but the rain falls harder. In terms of cats and dogs, it’s rainin’ bulls and horses. 

You can’t do much to cover yourself, neither can the man.

The asphalt burns against the raw skin under your feet, though the rain soothes it. Both of y’all continue like nothin’s going on—as if you both aren’t close to losin’ a limb—roundin’ the corner. 

You observe the bullets shot from the clouds. They fall hard onto the top of his head. 

The water slicks down his hair, and dulls the odd shape of his haircut. His head’s like a dangerously strikin’ puddle of used motor oil. You can almost see your reflection in it. It pronounces his lack of melanin to the point where he looks like he’s made of milk.

You can see the street from the alley as you both continue staggerin’. Your feet feel the sidewalk before you realize you’re out of there. 

…I left my boots.

Your eyes drop to your feet.

Oh, what’s it matter?

‘Was time I got me a new pair anyway.

Thunder claps as your eyes wander, landin' on the man.

So did he.

He’s barefoot just as you are, but his feet are less damaged. You watch as they step along the sidewalk in medium, patient strides. 

It's like nothin' ever happened. 'Like you two didn't nearly kill each other. Lookin' back on his provocation at the bowling alley, you think out loud again. Intentionally, this time.

“What was that?”

You shift your gaze back to the sidewalk. A couple feet away, you can see some car—last year’s Cutlass in red skin. 

There's a momentary silence, it seems he's askin' himself the same question.

Then...

“Thunder.” A deep, rugged monotone quakes the tunnels of your ears. It rings with a thick, unplaceable accent. 

A pause.

You huff, amused by the deliberate—almost shameless deflection.

“Is that right?”

The car’s closer now, only ten feet away from you both. You can feel your feet grow heavy and your arm grow heavier as you continue walking. Your ears pop, curin’ most of that tinnitus from earlier. You still can’t see all too well though. 

The Cutlass’ finally within arms reach—well, an arm’s reach. 

The man steps a little off the road to get to the driver’s side as you enter the passenger’s. Your drenched clothin’ squelches once you hit the cold leather seat and buckle up. The ache in your body subsides a bit, just enough for you to ignore it. 

In silence, you wait for the engine to start. For some reason, it don’t. 

All you can hear is the raindrops droppin’ like bombs on the Cutlass’ hood.

You shift your focus to the man beside you, he’s already starin’ at you.

His face’s the same blank you remember it to be, though his eyelids are lower and his brows are closer together.

The feelin’ in your arm’s going numb with each second, and his right leg has completely stopped moving. 

You know you can’t wait any longer. 

Gently, you reach for his lap and slide your palm against his right, upper thigh. It’s cold, wet with blood. It doesn’t even twitch anymore.

“Drive.”

He still faces you, but his pupils fix onto your hand. They linger as he grips the wheel and until he starts the car. 

The roar of the engine gets lost in the sound of harsh rain.

You remove your hand and shift your gaze on his hands. 

Perfect ten and two. 

‘Hasn’t suffered too much damage then.

When the Cutlass walks, you look straight ahead. The windshield wipers only fog the window, only lettin’ you see some feet ahead of you.

You flex the fingers of your left hand and bend the arm repeatedly. 

Thunderclaps once you lower it.

“There wasn’t a landline in that place. And the nearest payphone’s around highway eighty, a couple yards away. ‘Boy won’t call the cops.”

Your focus falls back onto his thigh as you continue. 

“I’ll swing by the alley once we’ve gotten ourselves handled.”

‘Should rest that chunk’a pulled pork there.

The Cutlass slows to a stop. You can’t see much, yet you get out anyway. The man stays behind.

You’re immediately hit by the harsh, freezin’ downpour. The pharmacy is closed, all you see is darkness through the two glass doors. Reachin’ for your hip, you pull your scratched up Smith and grip it by the snout. 

Stoppin’ only a half-foot away, you whip the glass with the gun handle and it shatters instantly. You reach through the open space and push the door open, then enter.

There are shelves of supplements, medicines, and beauty products. The aisles are hard to map out, and their labels are shrouded in darkness. But, you don’t mind, you’re headed for the check-out.

The cool tile floor soothes the burnin’ of your feet as you tread deeper.

Pushin’ through a small wooden gate, you make it behind the check-out. There’s racks of what you presume to be strong medicines, medical equipment, and chemicals. 

You reach into your backpocket and pull out a lighter. It’s even more messed up than your Smith is. But when you use it, it works.

As you prepare your makeshift med-kit, you look outside the door. The man’s watchin’ you, paler than usual.

Shit.

You snatch a bag from underneath the counter, toss all of your items there, and rush through the small wooden gate. 

On your way out, you hold your lighter up and look for a first-aid. 

You find it in an aisle near the entrance, snag it, then push through the broken glass door.

As you hustle to the Cutlass, the man’s eyes are still on you, unblinkin’ and unbothered. 

You whip open the driver’s side and your eyes land on his thigh. 

Still bleedin’.

You plop the bag onto the wet sidewalk and hand him the first-aid. He loosely grips it.

“Try sittin’ facing me.”

Slowly, he unbuckles and shifts to make his body face you. He scoots to the edge of the seat like he knows what you’re gone’ do.

You grab the first-aid and open it, pullin’ out a tourniquet and a thick wad of gauze. 

“Don’t move.”

Crouchin’ down, you pack some gauze into his wound. With the rest of the gauze, you place it below his hip—into his innerthigh. His face doesn’t contort at all, all he does is clench his jaw and breathe. 

Pressin’ the gauze with all your body weight, you wrap the tourniquet directly over his inner thigh. It's a flat canvas strap with a metal friction buckle, so it’ll be difficult to pull it usin’ just one arm. 

Since that’s the case, you hand the strap to the man. You know that if he holds it, that’ll allow you to focus your strength on tightnin’ it, not pulling.

Liquid red begins to rush, so you waste no time in tighnin’ the strap. Utilizin’ all the body weight you can, you continue pressin’ into his inner thigh. You harshly tighten the strap until it compresses the thigh enough. Before lettin’ go, you check if it stays in place. 

Buckle works.

You pull a bottle of behind-the-counter painkillers from the bag and hand them to him. 

Risin’ you reach for your Smith and throw it at the passenger’s seat. After which, you unbuckle your belt and wrap it around your left arm—above your bicep. With your teeth, you pull it as tightly as you can and buckle it into place with your right hand.

Your arm’s too numb to feel the pain, but your shoulder isn’t. It’s agonizin’ enough to make you tear up, you can barely stand straight. Though the harsh rain helps soothe it, surprisingly.

You take a deep breath and lower your left arm. 

Grabbin’ the bag of goods, you head on over to the passenger’s side and get in. The Smith rolls off the seat and under the dashboard.

Thunder claps.

The man’s irises are burnin’ a hole through you as his gaze invades yours. 

Keepin’ your pupils in his, you reach for the lid of the pain-killers. You twist it open, remove the seal and cotton protectin’ it, and grab two pills. 

You twist the lid shut and slide the small, white cylinder past your lips. Crushin’ it with your teeth, you then force his palm open and place the other there.

“The bowlin’ alley’s closed. They gots an entrance at the back, it's closer to concessions than the one at the front. No glass either.”

His palm stays open and he continues to glare. 

Out of nowhere, a rumble of emotionless baritone shakes your core. 

“ ‘They got—s.’ ”

A shadow of amusement flashes across his lips, at the corners of his mouth. Then, nothin’ as he remains focused on you.

For a moment, no one but the rain speaks.

A small huff exits your nose. “Gots, yes.”

He sounds again.

“I was there.”

Another rainy silence. This time, thunder claps.

“I know. I was tellin’ you where to drive.”

An exhale leaves his nostrils. He blinks for the first time in a while.

“No, you told me where an entrance was.”

A pause.

“Do you even know what you’re say—in’?”

A deep hum vibrates in your throat. You lean against the seat.

Quiet stretches out for about a minute.

“Open your mouth.”

You keep your eyes on him, he does the same. His eyes open a tad bit wider, and his jaw softens. 

Without waitin’ for a response, you reach into his palm and grab the pain-killer. Within the span of seconds, you pry his mouth open, force a finger inside, and push the pill down his throat. 

His jaw immediately closes down on your finger as his hand wraps tightly around your wrist. 

His eyes are even wider—waterin’ and twitchin’ like crazy. At the same time, his brows furrow, jumpin’ with every movement his esophagus makes. By your wrist, he pulls your finger out.

He glares at you intensely. You glare back, watchin’ the way his face and the skin around his neck shifts. He chokes very silently, quietly coughin’ and clearin’ his throat until it stops. Not once does he take his eyes off you. 

Thunder claps, but it fades into the background.

When he finally stops choking, you watch his throat move as he swallows the pill. Then you stare straight ahead, the window’s still fogged. 

His saliva’s still on your finger, though you aren’t too bothered by it. 

“If you’re done, hit the road—would you?”

You buckle up. 

A few beats after, the engine roars and the Cutlass walks.

The drive’s devoid of any conversation for a while. The only noise bein’ from the rain pulverizing the car’s hood. 

You know the bowlin’ alley ain’t that far, at most it’s around three minutes away. So, the foggy window don’t bother you.

Feelin’ the Cutlass round a corner, you know that you’re close. But abruptly, the brakes slam. Your entire upper half jives forward and then slams backward into the wet, leather seat. 

You glare at him. 

The man doesn’t react and keeps his eyes on the road.

Figures.

You unbuckle, then exit. Before you slam the door, you reach under the dash, pick up your Smith, and go on over. The rain drums on your head.

Judgin’ by how far he parked earlier tonight, you know that he’s tryin’ to keep a safe distance from the place. 

You’re only a couple blocks away, so it doesn’t take long. When you arrive, the darkness through the doors confirms that the bowlin’ alley is indeed closed. 

You make your way to the back of the building, stoppin’ about a half-foot away. There’s no knob, only a rusted, cylindrical lockset.

Holdin’ the Smith by the snout, you pistol whip the lockset until it falls. You carefully open the door and enter. 

You pull out your busted lighter and make your way through the building. The carpet tingles and stings against your raw heels. 

Only a foot or two in front of you is visible, so you feel the wall. It stops, your palm rests atop a sticky countertop. You slide over it and approach a dimly lit, heap of wood. You stop a foot away.

It's the cubby, two familiar pairs of boots lie there. You shine the lighter to the right—there’s a shelf of bowlin’ equipment and socks. You place the lighter on an empty cubby.

Snaggin’ a bright green pair of socks, you put them on and grab your boots. The snakeskin makes it easy for your feet to slide in. 

Then you snag another pair of socks, put them in your pocket and grab the other pair of boots. You carry them on your forearm and grab the lighter with your hand. 

Now, you can only really see below you. After a couple steps, you see the lower-half of the counter. 

Carefully, you place a knee on the countertop and push the rest of yourself on top of it. You slide off. You close the lighter as you approach the open door, then exit. The rain crashes down on you and the boots on your forearm.

He’ll get a new pair anyway.

You walk through the puddles of rain at a medium pace. The ground’s slippery, especially when you make it to the sidewalk. You can see the red vehicle in the short distance. 

It only takes about three minutes for you to get back. You place the boots on the floor, slide the lighter into your backpocket, then open the passenger’s side. Grabbin’ the boots, you flip them over to drain them of any water and hand them to the man. Then you hand him the socks—an orange pair.

His still, soulless eyes trace your every movement. You get in and buckle up. 

Slowly, he slides on the socks and boots. 

This time, the engine coughs and he drives without you tellin’ him to.

[aeyros]

Sinners' Day Off: Part Five

[Creator note: Playin' with gifs and dividers for the first time, sorry if it looks weird.]

Previous parts:

Part one

Part two

Part three

Part four

"…You again? He don’t say a word back, but his eyes ask you the same question." -reader

Part five:

As you tread through the shadows of the concourse, your eyes scan the dark, desolate area. 

You can’t see anyone through the dark corners of the room, so you go down the steps. You stop right before the carpet meets the barewood floor and slip the shoes on.

Then you continue to the bowlin’ area, stopping at the middle lane. It isn’t too close or too far from the exit and gives you a good view of the steps. 

You take one last look behind you and then start bowling. 

The activity stretches for what seems like an hour. You don’t stop until you get sick of the sound of pins bein’ struck. When you do, you take a seat right on the floor. Your fingers are all cramped up, your palm feels rough, and yet you feel as though a small break’s enough for you. 

After sittin’ there for a minute or two, you hear somethin’ from the other end of the aisle. A loud, chaotic clash of solid materials. 

You don’t move right away. An action so loud, done in an environment so silent, it's deliberate. They want a reaction, they’re toyin’ with you. 

Slowly, you rise. You pause to track any movement, but there’s none. 

Keepin’ your eyes straight, you gradually recede into the darkness behind you. You stick to the wall, feelin’ your way to the concourse. It's the least lit place in the buildin’ and contains the outlets to all of the lights in the aisle. 

However, the person in the shadows moves as well, patiently approachin’ you. 

Before they take another step, you slide off your shoes and abandon them in a barely-lit corner. The light only shines on the tip of the shoes. 

Shitty, but it’ll buy me some time.

You carefully mount the steps to the concourse and feel for any wall pillars. When you feel one, you glide your palm against it until you feel a rubbery string. 

Immediately, you pull it. The light goes out, makin’ the neon signs at the concession area beam as bright as stars. And now, only the exit sign is left glowin’ in your direction, highlightin’ the path to your closest escape. 

Tryin’ to make the least noise possible, you feel for a table close by. Once you feel the familiar, sticky wood, you climb onto it. Then standin’, you reach into your slacks. You pull out a pocket knife and aim at the exit sign. 

It shatters, instantly shroudin’ you both in the bowling area’s complete darkness.

You could leave, but whoever’s lurkin’ in the shadows was waiting for you. That isn’t somethin’ just anyone would do. And most importantly, they could’ve gone completely unnoticed if you didn’t find their shoes in the cubby. That right there ain’t normal…

Still on the table, you close your eyes and listen. 

You can hear light, airy stamps on the concourse carpet moving up the steps. They stop there. 

You know the exit’s somewhere near your right, about five feet away from the steps and the person. You just aren’t sure whether they’ll move or not.

A minute passes and there’s still no footsteps. Then you hear the ruffle of a jacket.

Denim…

Carefully, you reach for your hip and pull a Smith from your belt.  

They’s a good five feet away from me. And I figure ‘round three feet shorter.

A snub-nose like this one here’ll hit ‘em hard.

You stay planted in the middle of the table and lower your arm by a few inches. 

If I aim straight, I’ll hit an arm at least.

The rustlin’ stops, replaced by the sound of iron scrapin’ a fingernail.

Now.

You jam your finger on the trigger.

An ear-splittin’ crack, then followed by a boom as loud as a thunderclap, tears through the alley. But it’s louder than you remember it should sound.

Before you can think, a blindin’ flash of fire lights up your face as you’re thrown off the table, backwards. The circular fan of orange and yellow sends a pressure wave that punches the air out your chest and ripples through your clothes. 

You hit the floor and the sound of the room vanishes, though you can hear a faint thud through the sudden tinnitus. Pullin’ yourself up, you feel a thick, wet substance trickle down your upper arm. The limb limply hangs on your left side. Instinctively you cradle it, pushin’ through the hot-flash of excruciatin’ pain.

Without wastin’ any more time, you hustle to the right side of the room. As soon as you feel a door, you shove your right-side through it. You’re instantly hit by the sharp, cold wind and harsh rain. You can barely hear, but your sight is partially back so you search for the sidewalk. 

A clear twelve feet ahead.

No one’s out, go.

Utilizin’ your adrenaline, you power through the pain and bolt towards the wet cement path.

Through the crunchin’ of gravel underneath your feet, you feel a strange thump against your soles. It’s then followed by quick, staggered stamps on the asphalt. 

Fuck me, I thought I killed ‘em.

Just who the hell is this?

You pick up the pace, roundin’ a corner and bookin’ it down the street.

The socks on your feet make the task nearly impossible, but you don’t have time to stop and take them off. You make it past the pawn shop that’s still closed. There’s a wide alley between the pawn and the next buildin’ that you’ve passed through before, so you throw yourself into it.

Takin’ a short break to catch your breath, you kick off your shredded, soakin’ wet socks. You tear a piece from the bottom of your shirt and tie it tightly around your wound.

If I pass through the alley, I’ll shave a couple blocks and get to the bar. It should still be open.

And if memory serves me right, the fence’s easy to climb.

…‘Long as he ain’t right on my hide.

You gently lower your left arm to your side. Pullin’ out the Smith with your right, you stick it out the alley slightly. Through the gleam of its buffed steel and occasional raindrop, you can see someone come from around the corner just a few feet away. 

You slip it back under your belt and move along the alley walls. The tough, slippery terrain beneath your feet cuts you up, but you power through it. 

As you sprint through the alley, a pair of familiar, staggered footsteps quickly follow. 

You turn a corner and there it is, the fence. It’s wooden and about seven feet tall. Immediately, you dash toward it. 

A foot away, you leap forward, jumpin’ onto it.

You can barely hold on, but that doesn’t stop you. As quickly as you can, you pull yourself up with your right arm. Now, your chest rests against it and your arms are over, leavin’ your lower half danglin’ like a loose noose. 

You can feel the blood rushin’ to your arms, painfully down your left. Still, through the agony, you attempt to push yourself over.

Just as you begin to fall forward, somethin’ stops you.

You can feel a hand wrap ‘round your ankle. And before you can kick it off, you’re yanked back.

Your arms fly forward as you stick your knee out to cushion part of the fall. It smashes against the floor along with the rest of your limbs. Even through the adrenaline, you feel the rough, wet asphalt punch your wounded arm. Involuntarily, your eyes tear up and you clench your jaw. 

The Smith flies from the belt and slides three feet away from you.

Before the person behind you can make another move, you swing your scrapped up leg back and hit their knee. Their grip loosens but not enough for you to break free. You flip yourself around, twistin’ your ankle slightly, and reach for the gun.

The person attempts to stomp on your hand, but you manage to avoid it.

With a grip on the Smith, you point it at the person.

To your misfortune, they’re pointin’ a similar piece of iron back at you. You both keep still. However, the stalemate isn’t the reason why.

Your agony fades into the background, and the rain you’re drownin’ in does too. Through the pain, you manage to muster a single thought, blurtin’ it without hesitation.

“...You again?”

He don’t say a word back, but his eyes ask you the same question.

[aeyros]

Sinners' Day Off: Part Four

[Creator note: Sorry for the late upload, I got a crazy schedule. Double sorry for how short it is, I was rushin' to upload another part per my last post. Writing is very time consuming and frustrating, especially when burnt out.]

Previous parts:

Part one

Part two

Part three

"No real quote, this is just aesthetic filler..." -author

Part four: You fly past sudden rain, getting poured on like the clouds thought you were on fire. 

Only after crossin’ a few blocks you arrive at the alley. The white building and its painted sign stares back at you. There’s nothin’ but a single, dim streetlight in front of it. It’s barely enough to light up the sidewalk, yet you head over there anyway.

You cross the street, hustle through the empty parkin’ lot, and bust through the door. 

Empty again.

Jesus, how they make money over here?

You make your way to the concession area, same kid’s behind the counter. When you get there he’s restin’ his head in his hand, asleep. 

You wait to see if he’ll wake up and he doesn’t, so you knock on the polished, wooden slab. He doesn’t rise immediately, instead he stirs slowly. His face grows into an irritated one and then he finally opens his eyes.

They practically shoot at you as he clears his throat. 

“What’chu want?” His speech’s slightly slurred and hoarse.

Well damn.

“Socks, any color. Shoes, size—”

The boy finally rises and rolls his eyes. “I know, wasn’t too long since your last visit.”

Watchin’ as he rummages through the cubby behind him, you notice something strange. The same pair of boots as last week, but in a different cubby. 

To most, this is just a common occurrence. People leave shoes behind all the time and perhaps the attendant moved them when cleaning. However, the cubby hasn’t changed a bit, and it doesn’t reek of the typical chemical cleaner they’d use. But, most importantly…

This lazy thing would never clean.

You glance at the countertop and it has the exact same grime stainin’ it as it did the week before. 

When the attendant slides you the socks and shoes, you take care not to act out of the ordinary. You carefully slide off your boots, revealing your soppin’ wet socks. You slide those off and replace them with the purple, anklecut ones you were given. 

Knowin’ that the stiff, faux leather non-slips could hinder your movement, you head toward the concourse with them in hand.

[aeyros]

Sinners' Day Off: Part Three

[Creator Note: Do y'all like the keep reading thing or should I stop doing that? Also, if I post longer, more detailed versions of fics on ao3, would you read them? Sorry, small revision.]

Previous parts:

Part one

Part two

"Eventually, you stop at the corner of a closed pawnshop. For the last couple of blocks, a heavy pair of feet have been followin’ you." -reader

Part three: 

A week’s passed since then. 

Your life’s been slow, dried of its usual fillin’. So you decided to stick around the area for a little longer. 

You’re at a bar well into the night, just passin’ time. The sky outside the windows is its usual shade of black, the moon its usual dark shade of cream and the stars like bright spurs atop ink. The view from your seat almost makes the pungent smell of wretch puddles and body odor worth it. 

A group of drunkards play darts in a dark corner. You’d join but you can hardly see, the only real lights bein’ from the bartender’s counter and a window near the door. They seem to be arguin’ about a missed shot. You don’t mind the conflict, but dealin’ with drunks is somethin’ you know you wouldn’t stand. 

The same song’s been playin’ out of an old jukebox for thirty minutes straight, yet no one seems to care. You’re probably the only person sober enough to notice, you haven’t had a drink since you got here. The song starts again.

One bourbon, 

one scotch,

and one beer…

The tune’s jammed in your head, you take that as a cue to leave. You push through a sweaty, gamblin’ crowd near the door and get out of there. 

As you walk along the tattered sidewalk, the night air lingers on you like a mist of summer rain. The sky’s a richer shade of black, lettin’ the moon and spurs in the sky do all the shining. Cars have stopped passin’ by and hardly anyone’s out, allowin’ the crickets and cicadas to play their music. 

Eventually, you stop at the corner of a closed pawnshop. For the last couple of blocks, a heavy pair of feet have been followin’ you. Just by the sturdy clackin’ of the heel and occasional squelchin’ of leather, you know they don’t belong to someone important. 

Them's a pair of work boots—Justins judgin’ by the heel.

A tired pair.

The pair catches up, stoppin’ beside you. You keep still, but drag your eyes to meet theirs. 

A pair of faintly familiar mud colored eyes stare back at you. It's the western goatee and forehead mustache that wrings the memory out of your brain.

Oh. 

You again?

The man chuckles. "You're a hard person to find… Took me three blocks just to catch up."

You watch as he digs into his pocket and pulls out three dollars. He holds it out to you.

“Take it. My wife won’t let me back home if you don’t.” 

You nod and take the paper. Immediately, he tips his hat and walks down the street. His footsteps are slow and more tired than before. 

You go your own way soon after, wanderin’ aimlessly for a while. 

The sky’s darker than a raven’s coat without the shine. The moon’s covered by a thick puff of clouds, like the stars blew smoke its way. The bright spurs twinkle stronger, like barbed wire under the sun. 

The unwelcomin’ cold, harsh air sends chills through your skin and down your spine. You’re lost inside your mind, too focused on your thoughts to acknowledge anythin’ else.

I should leave soon, this ain’t no place for me. ‘Too peaceful. And small. 

If somethin’ should happen, it should happen on the road. Not here.

I should leave soon…

Then, like the crack of a whip, the sky thunders. 

Seriously?

When the sky cracks again, you shield your head with your arms.  

Not much is open and you don’t want to waste time searchin’ for what is. Instead, you rush to the only establishment you know’s open and nearby, the bowlin’ alley. 

[aeyros]

DUDE THE WAY MY HEART SPIKED. THE SCENE WITH ANTONS BOOTS IS SO OMINOUS. I LOVEDD IT. YOU’RE SO CREATIVE I LOVED THE WAY YOU DESCRIBED THE SCENERY OF THE BOWLING ALLEY. IT WAS AN AMAZING TOUCH ESPECIALLY HOW IT WAS A PERFECT COVER FOR ANTON TO TAKE OFF HIS BOOTS

Thank you, I'll try to double upload tomorrow. \(# ´◡` #)/

[aeyros]

Sinners' Day Off: Part Two

[Creator note: Sorry for the bad scheduling, life's been gettin' in the way of my writing time. Also, I have an ao3 account by the same name, but I only have the same fics uploaded.]

Previous parts:

Part one

"Her deep brown eyes wrinkle at the sides like old bible pages.  Like a doe. His eyes match his wife’s, a rich brown.  And he’s her buck." -reader

Part two:

Her smile widens, revealin’ teeth that match the pearls around her neck and gums like smooth mountains on the horizon. Her deep brown eyes wrinkle at the sides like old bible pages. 

Like a doe.

Her man snatches the nachos before she can respond. 

When he reaches forward, you get a whiff of old cigarette smoke and cheap cologne. His full, messy eyebrows knit together, almost lookin’ like a mustache on his wrinkled forehead. His eyes match his wife’s, a rich brown. 

And he’s her buck.

You watch him drag her off to another booth. They’re huddled over that paper tray, whispering and cuttin’ up together like they’re the only two people left in the building. 

Bondin’ over my dinner. 

You stare at your empty table.

Well, shy’t. 

Even snatched the damn shadow.

Swallowin’ the fact that you’re left with an empty stomach, you scoot off your booth and head back to bowl. The area’s practically empty, only occupied by bowlin’ equipment. 

You bowl for another hour or two, tired but not yet fulfilled. The couple’s long gone, the attendant’s probably closin’ shop by now, even your hunger’s left you. Only the smells lingerin’ from the waxed floors and filled ashtrays accompany you now.  

After a while, you decide to return your rented non-slip shoes back to the attendant. The steps are across the aisle, almost at the very end. 

When you get closer, you realize that there's a big shadow near the steps, bigger than you remember. Instinctively, you scan the area, starin’ at the last lane of the aisle.

‘Wonder how this place stays in business.

 You stare into the nothingness of that lane as you mount the steps. However, somethin’ rubbery causes you to trip forward. 

“Man, what in the…”

A single non-slip shoe, a half-foot away from the shadows of the concourse. You sigh and keep moving.

People be gettin’ lazier and lazier.

As you return the shoes, you notice a lone pair of leather boots in a cubby. 

Those’d sell nice at the pawn ‘round the corner.

The attendant slides you your shoes, roughed up snakeskin boots. You slide ‘em on and walk towards the exit. 

Halfway out the door, your eyes land on the last aisle. Somethin’ in the shadows moves, and there’s no shoe in sight.

[aeyros]

Sinners' Day Off: Part One

[Creator note: This may not be long, depends on how I feel. It also probably ain’t gone’ be too serious either, I kind of want to be a bit silly. Still playin’ around with ideas though. I took some inspiration from @chigurhscemeterygirl.]

"It is West Texas after all, even sinners go to church. That’s just how it is." -reader

Part One:

Holdin’ an orange bowling ball, you get a sudden craving. 

Could use some nachos right ‘bout now. 

Hours on empty roads and endless ponderin’ had you bored out of your mind. So, after gettin’ gas at some Phillips 66, you drove on down to your nearest bowlin’ alley. 

Hardly anyone was around, perhaps they were restin’ for church the next morning? It is West Texas after all, even sinners go to church. That’s just how it is.

The alley was occupied mostly by air and the occasional person, and hadn't filled since you got there. It was unusually silent for a Rock-n-Bowl, the only noise being from quiet conversations, pins gettin’ pulverised by balls, and faint country music playin’ from some cheap speaker. 

Didn’t bother you though, you’ve been playin’ alone for an hour or so. Your stomach’s the thing that ended up havin’ to pull you away for a break, givin’ you the random cravin’ for nachos.

‘Think I see an attendant at the counter there…

You drop the bowlin’ ball wherever. Ignorin’ the people who glare at you when it hits the floor, you head on over to the concession area. 

The scent of floor wax and mop water get choked out by the stench of oil and plastic cheese.  One of the only lights—a wide, blinkin’ neon menu—illuminates your path as you approach.

‘Case I don’t already know where the damn food’s at.

You stop in front of a lanky, teenage boy. 

“We don’t got cigarettes, we don’t sell ‘em either…” The boy stares at you blankly, blinkin’ like a drunk turtle.

You sigh. “Wasn’t plannin’ on asking for any, son. Y’all still got the nacho machine runnin’?” 

The boy rolls his eyes at you. “Sure.” Then he huffs. "Are you gone’ order somethin’, hoss?”

Lord give me strength, give me patience…

“Nachos, extra cheese, hold them jalapenos.” You slide him a five dollar bill, two dollars more than what you owe. 

A small smile plays at the kid’s lips before he turns to make you the processed slop you paid for. You don’t even get time to people-watch before he comes out with a steamin’ paper tray.

You immediately grab them and book it to an empty booth before the cheese can harden, you’re not takin’ any chances. 

You pick a nacho from the tray, watchin’ the cheese pull apart.

This the best batch of cardboard chips I may have ever seen.

Almost brings me to the lord.

Almost.

As you move to take a bite, a waft of rose fragrance invades your entire olfactory. It’s followed by the sound of someone clearin’ their throat.

“Excuse me?” A sweetly assertive voice attempts to grab your attention. 

You drop the nacho and whip your head around. A peach-tinted, young woman stands beside your booth with a smile. A neon yellow Budweiser sign from the concession area highlights her blonde hair and kind eyes.

“Yes, ma’am?” 

She holds out three dollars. “My husband and I went to order nachos from concessions. But the boy said that he ain’t got anymore, that he sold the last bunch to you.”

She nods her head to a gruff lookin’ man beside her. His skin’s a tanner peach, hair’s a dark brown, and he's got a goatee. Well, what Texans consider to be a goatee. 

He just narrows his eyes at you.

“My husband came from a hard day of weldin’ to celebrate our anniversary here and hasn’t had anythin’ all day. So, I was wonderin’ if I could buy them off you? I gots the money.” 

She anxiously smiles at you like a deer tryin’ to buy grass off a bison. It nearly makes you chuckle outloud. 

You hand her the nachos. “That’s okay, miss. You don’t got to pay me.”

[aeyros]

Should I make another Chigurh x Reader fic? I'm contemplatin' it, but I don't want to tire y'all.