Title; Slender Fingers
Warnings; Language, dark themes, OOC, OCs, suicide attempts, abuse, death,
in parts a wet, topless Brennan... Yummy.....
Disclaimer; Sadly, I own nothing. I just like to play with Mutant X, and
promise to return them in good condition when I'm done...
Key; "Blah"-talking, 'Blah'-thinking, ~ ~-change of scene, * *-shift
between Brennan's present and his past.
Brennan sat, staring at his hands. He had perfect hands, everyone said so. His thoughts drifted through everyone who had ever told him his hands were beautiful. One of his buddies back from his con days had often admired them. Having good hands was a crucial part of pick-pocketing and Brennan had them. That's what everyone thought he did with his hands; steal.
He had never told any of his friends that he played the piano. He was quite good actually, but then he was good at everything he did with his hands. He painted and sculpted, or had, once upon a time. He still wrote poetry now and again, had even sold a few when he was on the streets and times had been especially hard. But they were just pretty words from slender fingers.
He didn't do any of it anymore. He fought until his knuckles bled, and he hacked and typed until his fingers were raw and stiff. He had pursued none of his talents. He didn't have the time or the desire. His step father would have thought him a total failure. Brennan smirked.
He wasn't particularly concerned with what his father thought.
Brennan sat in the middle of a park, with children playing and laughing. He watched as a mother called a child that had strayed a little too far from her side for her comfort.
He had never had a mother.
* * * * * *
A three-year-old looked up at his step father. The two looked a bit alike, both with dark hair and handsome features. To anyone looking it wasn't immediately recognizable that the two weren't father and son. The only difference seemed to be in the eyes.
Brennan had deep chocolate eyes, wide and curious, almost never blinking, refusing to miss a mill-second of the life going on around him. The eyes were laughing and mischievous, practically glowing with his child-like energy.
His step father had blue eyes. It gave Brennan the shivers when he looked into them, and, young though he was, the boy realized that those eyes were dead. They had died three years ago on the day he had killed his mother.
No one had ever told him this to his face, but he knew that it was true. He had killed his mother and he was killing his father.
Brennan called his step father just that- father. He and his step father were the only ones that knew that Brennan was not his real son, and it was going to stay that way. And so, Brennan called the man father. In his mind there was no other way to call him, though he knew most other kids didn't call their fathers that. Other kids called their fathers 'Dad' or 'Papa' or 'Daddy'.
But those were names of affection.
Brennan knew that he did not deserve his father's affection.
Murderers aren't supposed to be loved, he figured.
* * * * *
Brennan's lips quirked upwards. It wasn't a smile. He couldn't remember the last time he had really and truly smiled. It wasn't even a smirk. He smirked a lot. Or a cocky, good natured grin. That was another favorite.
All part of The Mask.
The women, the parties, the clubs, the wise-acre jokes... all of it.
Fake.
He didn't know if he could do 'real' anymore. But then, who was to say what was 'real'? Sometimes he felt like he had been wearing The Mask for so long it had become him. Maybe it had. He wasn't sure anymore.
Except..
The Mask cracked once in awhile. When he almost kissed Shalimar in the safe house, before Gabriel interrupted them. When he almost kissed Shalimar in Sanctuary, before Gabriel interrupted them. When he had almost kissed Shalimar in the woods before her feral senses interrupted them.
Which brings us back to the park, where he was sitting staring at his hands.
And avoiding Shalimar.
If he hung around her long enough, sooner or later there wasn't going to be an interruption when they went to kiss. He knew if he kissed Shalimar, his mask would shatter into a hundred thousand pieces. He couldn't let that happen.
No matter how much he wanted it. No matter how much he NEEDED it.
Sighing he stood up and started slowly home. No, not home. Just to Sanctuary. He had never really had a home; they were all just places to stay. He continued slowly towards the entrance to the park. He spotted a young girl, probably just sixteen painting a scene of the park. He wandered by, and saw that it was actually quite good. Not excellent, but not half bad. The woman was concentrating, frowning as the sky color she was mixing wasn't coming out as well as she had hoped apparently.
"You're not mixing the colors correctly." The words slipped out before he could stop them.
She looked at him, startled. "What?"
Great. Now he had drawn attention to himself. He supposed it couldn't hurt to help her, though. He slipped in next to her. "May I?" he asked as her slipped the pallet from her hands. "You're not mixing the color of the sky correctly," he told her again. He mixed in some more white, and then concentrated on mixing in the exact right amount of blue, until he had an almost exact match to the color of the sky. "See?" he said as he handed it back to her. She was staring at him with her wide green eyes. "I would use a softer green than that; it's drawing away from the rest of the picture."
He turned away, but she stopped him. "Do you paint?" she questioned, a little shyly.
He paused, considering lying. But it didn't really matter. "I used to. Not anymore." And with that, he left the girl staring after him confusedly. She finally simply shrugged and turned back to her painting.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~
Brennan stepped through the door of his room. He was frowning slightly, face clouded. He dropped to his knees before his bed and rummaged under it for a moment, finally bringing forth a battered leather art portfolio. He opened it and rummaged for a fresh piece of sketch paper and some charcoal sketch pencils.
It had been awhile since he had drawn anything, but seeing the teenage girl in the park painting, just painting, for fun, had inspired him. His eyes glazed over and he picked up the pencil and began the smooth pencil strokes over the paper. He worked steadily, focusing completely on his work.
Eventually, almost an hour later, he finished and set the drawing down. Tiredly he stumbled to the bathroom to take a shower.
He left the drawing of Shalimar on his bed.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~
Shalimar walked by Brennan's room. She stopped a goggled.
Brennan, Mr. Neat-freak himself, had stuff COVERING his bed.
Now THIS was an event!
She slipped in, and over to his bed. She blinked when she saw the papers on Brennan's bed were actually drawings. Really GOOD drawings! There were landscapes and portraits, and drawing after drawing of a pair of hands. And there was a drawing of. her? Her, a peaceful look on her face, and eyes closed, her long lashes resting softly on her cheeks.
She cocked her head, confused. She didn't know Brennan was an artist, but at the bottom corner of each sketch, there was his signature, clear as day.
"Hey," came a soft greeting behind her. She turned to see Brennan, hair still damp from his shower, and only a towel slung around his waist. [1] Shal somehow managed to peek at his very nice chest without making it obvious what she was doing.
Brennan made his way over to the dresser and pulled out a ratty T-shirt, ignoring the fact that Shalimar was standing there, still trying to sneak peaks. He pulled the shirt over his head and then turned around and faced Shalimar, who blinked.
Brennan raised an eyebrow at her, waiting expectantly. After a moment of silence he sighed and said, "Do you want to turn around so I can finish getting dressed?"
Shalimar blushed bright red. "Oh...right. Sorry," she managed to stutter out, extremely embarrassed. She turned to face the wall, using a hand as a blinder to make sure that she wouldn't see anything, no matter how tempting it was. She heard the rustling of clothing and tried not to think of Brennan changing.
Although it was a very pleasing image.
Gak! 'Ok, Shalimar, get a hold of yourself,' she chided herself in her mind. She needed a distraction. To pick a safe topic to talk about. Her eyes fell on the picture Brennan had drawn of her. Art seemed safe enough. She picked up the sketch. "How long have you been drawing?" she asked over her shoulder, hoping she didn't sound too nosy.
"You can look now." She turned to see that he was indeed clad in gray sweatpants just as ratty as his T-shirt. To her question he just shrugged. "I dunno. Forever." He started collecting his old drawings, spread out in his search for a clean sheet of paper.
"They're REALLY good."
"Well, good to know all those lessons weren't a COMPLETE waste then," he muttered bitterly.
"What?"
"Nothing."
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~
Jesse wasn't the only one 'born with a silver spoon in his mouth' as he had once put it. As a matter of fact, Brennan had been born with a GOLD spoon in HIS mouth. Who would have guessed it, right?
Brennan Mulwray; rich kid.
A miserable rich kid. His life was an endless round of restrictions and lessons. There were art lessons and piano lessons, tutoring sessions, though he didn't need them. His life had been an endless refrain of boring cotillions and private schools. Endless orders from his father, his teachers, everyone!
He put up with it. Put up with it all. But it wasn't enough.
* * * * * *
"Father?" Brennan said, almost in a whisper. There was no answer from the man in the chair, drinking from a wineglass. Brennan stood there, in his pajamas, uncertain. He was taking a HUGE risk here, especially when his father had been drinking. He wouldn't have been here, but he was so scared.
It was storming horribly outside, a terrible lightning storm.
Brennan wasn't afraid of the storm.
Which is what scared him.
Ever since he could remember he had been drawn by lightning, by any form of electricity in its pure form. It drew him like a moth to a flame.
And that scared him. Especially when he found out he could make sparks come out of his fingers. He had to be careful at all times now, no one could know about this.
He refused to give his father another reason to hate him.
"Father?" he ventured again, even more timidly. His step father turned his dead blue eyes on his 'son', acknowledging his presence, but still not speaking. Brennnan was beginning to wonder if this was such a good idea. "Can I stay here with you? I... I'm scared of the storm," he stuttered, unsure of himself.
His father did not answer, simply went back to brooding. Brennan shifted slightly. "Go back to bed. It's just a storm," his dull reply came from the chair.
Brennan paused. Going back to bed would probably be a good idea, but he really didn't want to.
He took a hesitant step forward. "But..."
With one fluid motion his father was up and grabbed him roughly. "I told you. Go. Back. To. Bed," he said through clenched teeth.
The five-year-old whimpered. "Father, you're hurting me!" he choked out.
Brennan felt his fear surging up. It was all he could do to keep it from overflowing. Fear was a weakness and Brennan knew better than to shoe weakness to his father; it just wasn't done. But he was five! He WAS weak, and scared. He was just a little boy who wanted his mother.
But he didn't have a mother.
Because he had killed her.
When the blow from his father hit his temple, Brennan cried out, but did not fight back. He didn't defend himself. He had committed a horrible crime; he deserved to be punished. His father pushed him roughly to the ground, then sat back down.
"Go back to bed. You have a piano lesson tomorrow," his father's voice came, as cold and dead as his eyes.
"Y-yes Father," Brennan choked out, stumbling out of the room. He gingerly touched the spot where his father had hit him. He did not allow himself to cry until he reached his bedroom.
Crying was a weakness too.
The next day, he arrived at his piano lesson sporting a black eye. His father had not mentioned it, and neither had Brennan. His father had never hit him before and Brennan knew that he had deserved the punishment.
His teacher was Ms. Kerry, a cheerful young woman with curly black hair, who taught Brennan the piano twice a week. She was delighted to have found such a promising young student. Brennan could play the piano by ear, and it was convincing him to read the notes and follow the music that was the hard part. He was a bright little thing, and learned the notes quickly enough, but was stubborn.
When she had been approached by his father, Kerry had not been looking forward to teaching some rich guy's spoiled brat. But the man had looked at her with cold, empty, blue eyes and offered her a shit-load of cash that she couldn't turn down.
Much to her surprise, Brennan was shy and sweet, not spoiled at all. He was very serious, and she kept forgetting that he was only five she found herself falling in love with the little sweetheart.
When he arrived at his lesson with that black eye, she was immediately concerned. But when she questioned him on it, his reply was that he had fallen. She frowned, not entirely believing it but willing to dismiss it. She figured he had gotten into a scuffle with another boy who had managed to land a lucky punch and he was embarrassed about it.
The lesson went well, with Brennan doing exactly what she wanted. He did it without question or comment, which irked Kerry. Usually he would groan through the easy stuff that she made him do for warm-ups and would comment when she let him do some harder pieces. He was distracted today, managing to still play perfectly while his mind was on something else.
Halfway through, they took a break. Their break was always exactly seven minutes long, Kerry timed it. During those seven minutes, Kerry gave Brennan a glass of milk, and the two would talk. And so, for exactly fourteen minutes a week, Brennan felt loved, and like he had a mother. It was too short, but it was more than he felt he deserved.
Years passed, and Brennan started showing up to his practices with black eyes and bruises more and more often. At first Kerry thought that he was getting bullied by neighborhood kids, but soon dismissed that. She suspected the truth, but couldn't pry it out of Brennan. She tried, lord knows, because Brennan's light was dimming more and more each time she saw him. He always looked tired, and she knew that tutoring sessions and art lessons had been added. His smiles were a rare occurrence now, few and far between. She had approached his father, who had coldly informed her that the next time he felt he needed her advice on raising his son, he would ask it.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~
[1] Oooh... Yummy eye candy!
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
Rockergurl: And THAT, my friends, is chapter numero uno. So... what'd you think?
Readers: ...
Kitta Cat: I think you should cease and desist from all fic writing whatsoever from now on. But that's just me.
Rockergurl: Oh... go stuff a chicken!
Brennan sat, staring at his hands. He had perfect hands, everyone said so. His thoughts drifted through everyone who had ever told him his hands were beautiful. One of his buddies back from his con days had often admired them. Having good hands was a crucial part of pick-pocketing and Brennan had them. That's what everyone thought he did with his hands; steal.
He had never told any of his friends that he played the piano. He was quite good actually, but then he was good at everything he did with his hands. He painted and sculpted, or had, once upon a time. He still wrote poetry now and again, had even sold a few when he was on the streets and times had been especially hard. But they were just pretty words from slender fingers.
He didn't do any of it anymore. He fought until his knuckles bled, and he hacked and typed until his fingers were raw and stiff. He had pursued none of his talents. He didn't have the time or the desire. His step father would have thought him a total failure. Brennan smirked.
He wasn't particularly concerned with what his father thought.
Brennan sat in the middle of a park, with children playing and laughing. He watched as a mother called a child that had strayed a little too far from her side for her comfort.
He had never had a mother.
* * * * * *
A three-year-old looked up at his step father. The two looked a bit alike, both with dark hair and handsome features. To anyone looking it wasn't immediately recognizable that the two weren't father and son. The only difference seemed to be in the eyes.
Brennan had deep chocolate eyes, wide and curious, almost never blinking, refusing to miss a mill-second of the life going on around him. The eyes were laughing and mischievous, practically glowing with his child-like energy.
His step father had blue eyes. It gave Brennan the shivers when he looked into them, and, young though he was, the boy realized that those eyes were dead. They had died three years ago on the day he had killed his mother.
No one had ever told him this to his face, but he knew that it was true. He had killed his mother and he was killing his father.
Brennan called his step father just that- father. He and his step father were the only ones that knew that Brennan was not his real son, and it was going to stay that way. And so, Brennan called the man father. In his mind there was no other way to call him, though he knew most other kids didn't call their fathers that. Other kids called their fathers 'Dad' or 'Papa' or 'Daddy'.
But those were names of affection.
Brennan knew that he did not deserve his father's affection.
Murderers aren't supposed to be loved, he figured.
* * * * *
Brennan's lips quirked upwards. It wasn't a smile. He couldn't remember the last time he had really and truly smiled. It wasn't even a smirk. He smirked a lot. Or a cocky, good natured grin. That was another favorite.
All part of The Mask.
The women, the parties, the clubs, the wise-acre jokes... all of it.
Fake.
He didn't know if he could do 'real' anymore. But then, who was to say what was 'real'? Sometimes he felt like he had been wearing The Mask for so long it had become him. Maybe it had. He wasn't sure anymore.
Except..
The Mask cracked once in awhile. When he almost kissed Shalimar in the safe house, before Gabriel interrupted them. When he almost kissed Shalimar in Sanctuary, before Gabriel interrupted them. When he had almost kissed Shalimar in the woods before her feral senses interrupted them.
Which brings us back to the park, where he was sitting staring at his hands.
And avoiding Shalimar.
If he hung around her long enough, sooner or later there wasn't going to be an interruption when they went to kiss. He knew if he kissed Shalimar, his mask would shatter into a hundred thousand pieces. He couldn't let that happen.
No matter how much he wanted it. No matter how much he NEEDED it.
Sighing he stood up and started slowly home. No, not home. Just to Sanctuary. He had never really had a home; they were all just places to stay. He continued slowly towards the entrance to the park. He spotted a young girl, probably just sixteen painting a scene of the park. He wandered by, and saw that it was actually quite good. Not excellent, but not half bad. The woman was concentrating, frowning as the sky color she was mixing wasn't coming out as well as she had hoped apparently.
"You're not mixing the colors correctly." The words slipped out before he could stop them.
She looked at him, startled. "What?"
Great. Now he had drawn attention to himself. He supposed it couldn't hurt to help her, though. He slipped in next to her. "May I?" he asked as her slipped the pallet from her hands. "You're not mixing the color of the sky correctly," he told her again. He mixed in some more white, and then concentrated on mixing in the exact right amount of blue, until he had an almost exact match to the color of the sky. "See?" he said as he handed it back to her. She was staring at him with her wide green eyes. "I would use a softer green than that; it's drawing away from the rest of the picture."
He turned away, but she stopped him. "Do you paint?" she questioned, a little shyly.
He paused, considering lying. But it didn't really matter. "I used to. Not anymore." And with that, he left the girl staring after him confusedly. She finally simply shrugged and turned back to her painting.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~
Brennan stepped through the door of his room. He was frowning slightly, face clouded. He dropped to his knees before his bed and rummaged under it for a moment, finally bringing forth a battered leather art portfolio. He opened it and rummaged for a fresh piece of sketch paper and some charcoal sketch pencils.
It had been awhile since he had drawn anything, but seeing the teenage girl in the park painting, just painting, for fun, had inspired him. His eyes glazed over and he picked up the pencil and began the smooth pencil strokes over the paper. He worked steadily, focusing completely on his work.
Eventually, almost an hour later, he finished and set the drawing down. Tiredly he stumbled to the bathroom to take a shower.
He left the drawing of Shalimar on his bed.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~
Shalimar walked by Brennan's room. She stopped a goggled.
Brennan, Mr. Neat-freak himself, had stuff COVERING his bed.
Now THIS was an event!
She slipped in, and over to his bed. She blinked when she saw the papers on Brennan's bed were actually drawings. Really GOOD drawings! There were landscapes and portraits, and drawing after drawing of a pair of hands. And there was a drawing of. her? Her, a peaceful look on her face, and eyes closed, her long lashes resting softly on her cheeks.
She cocked her head, confused. She didn't know Brennan was an artist, but at the bottom corner of each sketch, there was his signature, clear as day.
"Hey," came a soft greeting behind her. She turned to see Brennan, hair still damp from his shower, and only a towel slung around his waist. [1] Shal somehow managed to peek at his very nice chest without making it obvious what she was doing.
Brennan made his way over to the dresser and pulled out a ratty T-shirt, ignoring the fact that Shalimar was standing there, still trying to sneak peaks. He pulled the shirt over his head and then turned around and faced Shalimar, who blinked.
Brennan raised an eyebrow at her, waiting expectantly. After a moment of silence he sighed and said, "Do you want to turn around so I can finish getting dressed?"
Shalimar blushed bright red. "Oh...right. Sorry," she managed to stutter out, extremely embarrassed. She turned to face the wall, using a hand as a blinder to make sure that she wouldn't see anything, no matter how tempting it was. She heard the rustling of clothing and tried not to think of Brennan changing.
Although it was a very pleasing image.
Gak! 'Ok, Shalimar, get a hold of yourself,' she chided herself in her mind. She needed a distraction. To pick a safe topic to talk about. Her eyes fell on the picture Brennan had drawn of her. Art seemed safe enough. She picked up the sketch. "How long have you been drawing?" she asked over her shoulder, hoping she didn't sound too nosy.
"You can look now." She turned to see that he was indeed clad in gray sweatpants just as ratty as his T-shirt. To her question he just shrugged. "I dunno. Forever." He started collecting his old drawings, spread out in his search for a clean sheet of paper.
"They're REALLY good."
"Well, good to know all those lessons weren't a COMPLETE waste then," he muttered bitterly.
"What?"
"Nothing."
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~
Jesse wasn't the only one 'born with a silver spoon in his mouth' as he had once put it. As a matter of fact, Brennan had been born with a GOLD spoon in HIS mouth. Who would have guessed it, right?
Brennan Mulwray; rich kid.
A miserable rich kid. His life was an endless round of restrictions and lessons. There were art lessons and piano lessons, tutoring sessions, though he didn't need them. His life had been an endless refrain of boring cotillions and private schools. Endless orders from his father, his teachers, everyone!
He put up with it. Put up with it all. But it wasn't enough.
* * * * * *
"Father?" Brennan said, almost in a whisper. There was no answer from the man in the chair, drinking from a wineglass. Brennan stood there, in his pajamas, uncertain. He was taking a HUGE risk here, especially when his father had been drinking. He wouldn't have been here, but he was so scared.
It was storming horribly outside, a terrible lightning storm.
Brennan wasn't afraid of the storm.
Which is what scared him.
Ever since he could remember he had been drawn by lightning, by any form of electricity in its pure form. It drew him like a moth to a flame.
And that scared him. Especially when he found out he could make sparks come out of his fingers. He had to be careful at all times now, no one could know about this.
He refused to give his father another reason to hate him.
"Father?" he ventured again, even more timidly. His step father turned his dead blue eyes on his 'son', acknowledging his presence, but still not speaking. Brennnan was beginning to wonder if this was such a good idea. "Can I stay here with you? I... I'm scared of the storm," he stuttered, unsure of himself.
His father did not answer, simply went back to brooding. Brennan shifted slightly. "Go back to bed. It's just a storm," his dull reply came from the chair.
Brennan paused. Going back to bed would probably be a good idea, but he really didn't want to.
He took a hesitant step forward. "But..."
With one fluid motion his father was up and grabbed him roughly. "I told you. Go. Back. To. Bed," he said through clenched teeth.
The five-year-old whimpered. "Father, you're hurting me!" he choked out.
Brennan felt his fear surging up. It was all he could do to keep it from overflowing. Fear was a weakness and Brennan knew better than to shoe weakness to his father; it just wasn't done. But he was five! He WAS weak, and scared. He was just a little boy who wanted his mother.
But he didn't have a mother.
Because he had killed her.
When the blow from his father hit his temple, Brennan cried out, but did not fight back. He didn't defend himself. He had committed a horrible crime; he deserved to be punished. His father pushed him roughly to the ground, then sat back down.
"Go back to bed. You have a piano lesson tomorrow," his father's voice came, as cold and dead as his eyes.
"Y-yes Father," Brennan choked out, stumbling out of the room. He gingerly touched the spot where his father had hit him. He did not allow himself to cry until he reached his bedroom.
Crying was a weakness too.
The next day, he arrived at his piano lesson sporting a black eye. His father had not mentioned it, and neither had Brennan. His father had never hit him before and Brennan knew that he had deserved the punishment.
His teacher was Ms. Kerry, a cheerful young woman with curly black hair, who taught Brennan the piano twice a week. She was delighted to have found such a promising young student. Brennan could play the piano by ear, and it was convincing him to read the notes and follow the music that was the hard part. He was a bright little thing, and learned the notes quickly enough, but was stubborn.
When she had been approached by his father, Kerry had not been looking forward to teaching some rich guy's spoiled brat. But the man had looked at her with cold, empty, blue eyes and offered her a shit-load of cash that she couldn't turn down.
Much to her surprise, Brennan was shy and sweet, not spoiled at all. He was very serious, and she kept forgetting that he was only five she found herself falling in love with the little sweetheart.
When he arrived at his lesson with that black eye, she was immediately concerned. But when she questioned him on it, his reply was that he had fallen. She frowned, not entirely believing it but willing to dismiss it. She figured he had gotten into a scuffle with another boy who had managed to land a lucky punch and he was embarrassed about it.
The lesson went well, with Brennan doing exactly what she wanted. He did it without question or comment, which irked Kerry. Usually he would groan through the easy stuff that she made him do for warm-ups and would comment when she let him do some harder pieces. He was distracted today, managing to still play perfectly while his mind was on something else.
Halfway through, they took a break. Their break was always exactly seven minutes long, Kerry timed it. During those seven minutes, Kerry gave Brennan a glass of milk, and the two would talk. And so, for exactly fourteen minutes a week, Brennan felt loved, and like he had a mother. It was too short, but it was more than he felt he deserved.
Years passed, and Brennan started showing up to his practices with black eyes and bruises more and more often. At first Kerry thought that he was getting bullied by neighborhood kids, but soon dismissed that. She suspected the truth, but couldn't pry it out of Brennan. She tried, lord knows, because Brennan's light was dimming more and more each time she saw him. He always looked tired, and she knew that tutoring sessions and art lessons had been added. His smiles were a rare occurrence now, few and far between. She had approached his father, who had coldly informed her that the next time he felt he needed her advice on raising his son, he would ask it.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~
[1] Oooh... Yummy eye candy!
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
Rockergurl: And THAT, my friends, is chapter numero uno. So... what'd you think?
Readers: ...
Kitta Cat: I think you should cease and desist from all fic writing whatsoever from now on. But that's just me.
Rockergurl: Oh... go stuff a chicken!