COMFORT CHARACTER ONE-SHOTS

Benny Watts / Writer's Block

NSFW Rating: 🔥

Word Count: 2,174

My hand is cramping like hell and my eyes are sore even after I took off my glasses. The pencil clutched in my hand feels like a numb rod as I scribble more notes and headers for my newest article on George Thomason, the newest coming 'chess player' in the community. My manager wants my rough draft on Monday night and then the final typed next Friday. I still have dribbles and notes and drafts of the article in my portfolio; unfinished, unedited, and not even typed. At least I have the photos Darlene took when I drove to Ohio developed and ready to send - at least that's ready to go.

The front door jingles and I don't bother looking up when a skinny figure enters the dungeon basement, hanging his hat and shedding his coat. I double-take on my watch and mutter a silent 'damn' at the time.

"I got dinner!" Benny raises the brown bag of diner take-out and sets it on the table, knocking a few pieces off a chess game he was going over earlier that morning. He says something observant or snarky in the background, probably cursing at himself for dropping the pieces and ruining his game. His hoarse voice blurs into the ambiance of running taxis and scuffing feet by his prison window and I barely hear him calling my name until he shouts it from across the apartment.

"Lia!"

I snap my head up and look at my boyfriend, "What?"

He scoffs, "You haven't even moved since I left this morning."

"I gotta finish this," I turn back to my worn-out journal, adding a few more notes on tone and grammar to the article. (I've always sucked with grammar and punctuation). "Wayne wants the rough draft on his desk by Monday and I haven't even typed this shit up yet."

"I thought your rule was weekends were strictly for relaxing and playing chess with your boyfriend." Benny squats beside the horrible leather chair he owns, and the only comfortable piece of furniture in his 'living room'.

I scowl at his goatee and brown eyes and focus back on my article. "I just have to write a few more notes and--"

"and then fix a few paragraphs and change a few words and I'll be done. I know." He finishes, making me cringe inwards and clutch my pencil. "God, you're as bad as my gambling problem when you get all Journalist on me."

"Hey!" I reach up as Benny snatches my journal and continues plucking my wrinkled papers and amounts of scribbled handwriting. At my horrible attempt in stealing back my work, Benny keeps me behind his skinny figure as he grabs my papers, shoves them in my portfolio, and tosses said portfolio into his pillow-couch corner. "You haven't moved since this morning. I went to a chess tournament today, played four games - won said four games - and got us dinner with the reward money all while you've been sitting on your pretty ass writing your damn article on some 'coming of' chess player that won't even win the tournament in Ohio."

I pout at him from the chair, crossing my arms and glaring at him.

"Glaring won't get your papers back, angel." Benny leans in with a smirk. I don't break my stare even when he leans in close and nips my ear, his whiskers tickling my neck as he whispers, "The only thing you're gonna get with that glare, sweetie, is me ripping off that goddamn shirt and pinning you to my bed so that I can make a few grammatical corrections of my own."